The Reason I Stay (7 page)

I’m out of breath after blurting out all of that so quickly. He looks like someone who just got bitch-slapped, which, in a way, he was. Once again, neither of us says anything. We just stare at each other for a while. A while that is so long it allows me to see a bunch of emotions flash in his dark blue eyes, until the only one remaining is sadness. For a moment it tugs at my soft, idiotic heart, but I don’t let it take hold of me. I can’t.

A couple of minutes go by before he nods, takes a deep breath, and walks away from me, all in complete silence. I watch him as he crosses the diner to the front door. When he reaches it, he stops and glances my way for a second, and then he’s gone.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I slide down to the floor, close my eyes, and let my head fall back to the wall behind me. I’m so angry I could cry and that’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction—even though he’ll never know—and I don’t want to give those stupid prying idiots more reason to talk.

There, alone with my thoughts, I remain for a while, until a gentle hand touches my shoulder. The scent of cherry blossoms, so characteristic of Jen, fills my nose a second before her motherly voice reaches my ear. “I say that went as well as blind ol’ Mr. Mills going hunting.”

And that’s one of the reasons I love Jen, she always makes me laugh, even when I don’t feel like it. I open my eyes and look at her face. “I think it went worse.”

“That sucks.” She makes a funny face and sits down beside me. “I take it you knew him before I sent him to that booth?” I nod. “Does he have anything to do with your bad mood?” I nod again. She sighs. “Okay . . . What you wanna do now?”

“Jump off a cliff.”

She slams her shoulder against mine. “Come on . . . you’re Lexington Amelia Fucking Blake. You never want jump off a cliff because of a boy.”

“He’s a really mean boy.”

She shrugs. “All the more reason not to waste your only cliff jumping shot on him. How about we take advantage that this place is about to become a bar and just get you hammered instead?”

I steal a glance her way, smile and nod. “That sounds good. I’ll call Tanie.”

“All right. I’ll save you a place at the bar, and put in a double order of fries.” She kisses the top of my head, stands, and extends her hand out to help me up.

As soon as I’m on my feet, she folds me into a tight hug and runs a hand over my back a few times. “I’m sorry I let him in here,” she whispers.

“You didn’t know.”

She smiles again and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I’m still sorry. Now go get Montana, and I’ll get the margaritas.”

“Okay, Momma.”

She winks and goes back to the front of the house, while I go get my phone and try to make this shitty night better.

R
ude . . . Inconsiderate . . . Annoying . . . Conceited.

You, you, you.

Selfish.

Fuck!

“Pour me another,” I tell the bartender.

He gives me that “Don’t you think you’ve had too many?” look I’m all too familiar with. More often than not the look is well deserved, and the buzzing in my head tells me today is one of those nights. But if I’ve learned anything at all in the past few hours it is that giving a shit is pointless. Trying to be better is pointless. I am who I am. There’s no reason to try to be anything different. I just have to accept myself, the way I always have, and make the best out of my life. And the way I seem to do it best is the Jack Daniels way.

I glare at the know-it-all in a bowtie and repeat, “Pour me another.” There’s a sense of pride in the fact that I didn’t add a please or thank you. There’s even more in seeing him close his mouth, reach for the bottle, and pour a double shot in a new tumbler.

“Your life, man.” He retrieves the money I’ve placed in front of him, shrugs, and moves his attention to another customer.

Despite my already established buzz, my brain just won’t stop thinking about those words and the woman who said them. It’s fucking irritating. Once again, I’m stuck in that place of wanting to knock my head on the table and scream. This time, however, the feeling is ten times stronger than it was yesterday, which is bizarre, because I never thought anything would make me more desperate, angry and hopeless than being robbed of my life.

But Lexie does.

Motherfucking goddamned shit!

There’s this part of me that wants to believe that these feelings are related to having those awful things said to me by a fucking waitress. The rest of me, however, knows that if it had been any other waitress—or person, for that matter—I would’ve just flipped her off and been done with it. But for some bizarre reason, I care what Lexie thinks of me, and I can’t stop. I hate that I continue to give a shit over her seeing those things—the
rude, inconsiderate, annoying, conceited and selfish nature that define me—clearly enough to call me out on them.

To make things worse, I’m also flat out angry that she got me so riled up I drove twenty minutes so I could get away from being in the same town as her, but still I couldn’t get myself to pack my shit and be done with Jolene, Alabama. And most of all, I hate that even in a different city, and with a buzz, she’s still occupying my every thought.

I take the tumbler in my hand, and swirl the amber liquid inside. With a deep breath, I raise the glass to my lips and down it in one go. I don’t even taste it; I just let it slide down my throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. And then my buzz goes up one degree, succumbing me into Head Spinning Land, and all thoughts of a little blond, smart-mouthed woman who can read me like a book are whisked away.

The delicious numbness takes hold of me, giving me a few precious moments of peace that are interrupted by a soft voice asking if the seat beside me is empty.

I turn my head toward the source. It takes a couple of seconds for my eyes to focus, but then I see long, curly blond hair, gray eyes, pink lips, a white tank top with the words
Fun Times
written across a vast chest, and a denim skirt short enough to make me interested.

And just like that, all my worries are replaced by a routine that is as natural to me as breathing.

“It’s not anymore,” I tell her with a smirk on my lips.

Most guys would start off with a smile, but not me. Smiles mean “I’m a good guy, and one day you may take me home to meet Grandma,” both of which are absolutely false. But a smirk says, “I’m bad, but this will be so good you’ll forget you even have a grandma,” which is a very accurate assessment of my intentions. I also pull out her chair for her, which, in most circumstances, would place me in “good guy” territory, but in this instance it’s only to assure the woman that despite my devilish side, I can be attentive.

Her beaming smile widens as she takes the seat, like I knew she would. “Hi, I’m Sofia,” she greets, looking down at her hands for a second before returning her gaze to me.

I pretend to believe her shyness, and lean my body toward her. “What am I buying you, gorgeous Sofia?”

She bats her lashes and gently runs a hand across her cleavage as she replies, “A glass slipper.”

Inside, I’m making a disgusted face and wondering what the fuck a glass slipper is, but on the outside, I smile and order the drink, along with a serving of cheesy nachos, and a water to help me sober up. Only then do I devote all of my attention back to . . .
oh, fuck. What’s her name again?

Inconsiderate.
The word, said in
her
voice, fills my mind, and I vehemently tell it to shut the fuck up as I gaze into the pair of gray eyes that don’t seem to want to decapitate me.

“What is someone like you doing all alone on a Saturday night?” I ask. See . . . I bought her a drink and I’m asking about her. That’s the definition of considerate.

Her eyes twinkle, and her lips spread in a smile. “I was having drinks with my friends, but they went home early.”

She touches a silver locket hanging just above her cleavage. Not bothering to ask for permission, I reach my hand forward and touch it. She takes a deep breath and flutters her lashes when my fingers touch her skin. It’s wonderful to see a woman respond to my touch in a favorable way and not glare at me for it. The world finally starts making sense again.

I turn the pendant in my hand. The word “Jujube” is written in a fancy script. I look up at her with a raised brow. “Do you have a jujube fetish?”

She giggles. “No, it’s a family thing.”

I nod and don’t let go of the necklace, not because I care for it, but because it’s putting my hand in the optimum position to graze her breasts. She steals a peek at it and her smile widens.

“And why’d you stay behind after your friends left?”

She blushes and shrugs. “Because I saw you drinking alone, and I thought we could drink together.”

“That’s a brilliant idea.”

The bartender places her drink—a baby blue concoction in a martini glass—and my water in front of us. I reluctantly let go of the necklace to pick up my glass, and I bring it up for a toast. “To drinking together and . . . fun times,” I say, staring smack bang at the words on her shirt.

She giggles again, picks up her drink, and clinks it with mine. “Hear, hear.”

We sip, never breaking eye contact, and once our glasses touch the bar again, I say, “Tell me about you.” My request is more of a command, one she takes all too willingly.

She starts babbling about working at a hardware store, and living with her cousin and another friend, the ones who left her alone at the bar. She continues by saying how over small towns she is, a sentiment that bonds us, and how glad she is that she got to meet a “big city fella” like me.

By the time our nachos arrive and we dig in, I’ve practically tuned out of the conversation. I try not to let it show, laughing, nodding, and asking general and sporadic questions. I’m sure, however, that she can see when my eyes glaze over and my mind drifts, which makes the word “rude” belt into my mind.

I’m not going to lie—the knowledge that I’m being rude is uncomfortable. Regardless, I bet she feels like every single person who stays alone at a bar: glad for having a pair of ears beside you, even if you don’t have their undivided attention. The company and the illusion that you’re not alone usually is more than enough. That brings me some comfort.

The plate is nearly empty, and we’ve gotten two refills of our respective dinks—though I’m now adding a lot of Coke to my Jack to avoid getting too drunk—when she shifts the direction of the conversation. “I’ve been talking and talking.” She laughs. “And I know nothing about you. Where are you from?”

“Not from around here,” I reply, as vaguely as I can. I don’t even remember her name, and I never told her mine. What’s the point in going into my personal details?

She smiles, and holds my hand. “My daddy used to travel a lot for work. I reckon you must get pretty lonely.”

BINGO!
We’re at the point of the night that I’ve—and most likely her as well—been waiting for. “Oh, baby . . . you have no idea.”

Another smile and she stands, moves toward me, and presses her breasts against my arm. She brings her face close to my ear and whispers in a childish coo—the least sexy voice ever, “I’m pretty lonely too. How ‘bout we get out of here?”

Without saying a word, I stand, grab a few bills from my wallet, and throw them over the counter. The bartender smiles and shakes his head as he collects the bills. I give him that
guy
nod and a smirk that has “conceited” written all over it. This time, however, I don’t pay any attention to
her
voice saying the word in my mind, because I’m about to get the best distraction there is.