So while I can’t claim to be a passable parent just yet, I can promise to be a present one.
With renewed determination, I push off the wall and head toward the story time corner, when I’m stopped by that blonde lady with the perfect hair and the asshole kid.
She approaches me with a smile and comes so close that I back up a step. “You need something?” I ask, curious to know why she’s here. Lorie said the ladies’ rooms are at the other end of the library. And since Willa and Lorie clearly recognized this lady, she’s obviously been here before, so I’m guessing she knows where the bathrooms are.
I’m not one of those assholes who’s gonna police what restroom somebody goes in. I couldn’t give a shit, no pun intended. But Tracy or Tammy or whatever the fuck her name is doesn’t look like she’s cornered me to ask directions.
“I need a lot of things,” she says, punctuating that creepy-as-fuck statement with a tingly little laugh. I’m sure someone, somewhere told her it was coy or charming.
They lied.
“Not sure I’m the person to help you with that,” I say, shrugging.
There’s that laugh again. Jesus. I’m gonna hear that grating sound in my nightmares.
“Oh, I think you are,” she takes a step closer, and I respond by taking a step back, which has me up against the wall once again.
The fuck? Am I for real getting propositioned by a cougar at story time? I hope not. Playing it off, I joke, “You need a recommendation for a tattoo artist? I go to Nick. His studio’s called Marked. He does good work.” I push off the wall, intent on sidestepping her and getting the hell out of Crazy Town, but she stops me when she puts a manicured finger on my bicep and traces the tattoos on my arm. “I’m Tess,” she tells me, smiling.
Full disclosure: I get inked because I like it. I like the way it looks, I like the way it makes a lot of people stay away from me, and I like the way it feels. Pain isn’t always a bad thing.
And, typically, I like the way girls react to it.
But not right now. And not Tess. There’s something so fundamentally wrong about her touch on my skin. I didn’t ask for it, and I sure as fuck don’t want it.
I take her hand and move it off my arm. “Yea, that’s a no from me.” I shoot her a look before brushing past her.
“Wait, don’t think—” she calls.
I turn around. “Don’t think what? That you followed me back here to give me a blowie in the men’s room of a children’s library? While your freaking kid is twenty feet away singing ‘Wheels on the Bus’? I mean, I’m no stranger to public sex, and if my girlfriend’s down for that, cool. But not here. And sure as fuck not with you.”
“I—”
“Save it. I’m going back to storytime with my girlfriend and our kid.”
“Your girlfriend?” she says the word on a sneer.
“Yea, my girlfriend. You know, the woman I spend all my time with? The one who’s in my bed every night? The mother of my daughter?” the lies roll off my tongue, but I don’t have time to overthink it. I just need to get the hell out of here.
“Willow, right? She’s…”
At her derisive tone, I take two steps forward. It puts me uncomfortably close to this woman, but that’s a necessary—and temporary—evil. “Willa is none of your fucking business. She’s not someone you talk to, or talk down to, or even think about.” Having made my point, I turn and stalk back to the chaotic circle.
I can still feel her eyes on me, so I do what I have to do. Returning to the group, I situate myself right behind Willa, spreading my legs wide and pulling her in close to me, effectively putting her ass right next to my junk. Jesus.
Immediately, she whips her head around and shoots me a scathing glare. “Knox, what the—”
“Willa,” I plead in a whisper. “Play along, please.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I don’t want to go to prison,” I hiss. “Please. I’ll explain later.”
She sighs in resignation, but she’s still stiff as fuck in my arms.
“Relax. I’m begging you to pretend my touch is less than offensive for the next,” I glance at the clock, “fifteen minutes.”
There’s momentary chaos as Miss Debbie brings out a bucket of what she calls “Shaky Eggs”. The kids go nuts and scramble for these little plastic eggs that shake like maracas. Cole, head and shoulders above the rest of the crew, easily moves to the front of the line, collects some eggs and toddles back to his grandma, stopping to give an egg to Rose on the way. “Baby Rose need a egg,” he tells us, as she giggles happily and sticks it in her mouth. Jesus, I hope this place buys Lysol in bulk.
