And the thing about Kayla? Yeah, Cherry has been crushing on her since the moment Kayla stepped foot into my parlor. It was hilarious to see how Cherry tried to sway her, but Kayla was too in love with her dickhead of a now fiancé and didn’t pay her much romantic attention.
Good fucking thing Cherry moved on because she lost her sleep over it. She legit had cartoon eyes every time Kayla walked in, and I need this woman because she’s the only thing that’s holding my business together at this point ever since I lost all interest in it.
Since Cherry is doing everything, there was no need for me to come home, but I couldn’t stay in Little Hope any longer during their pre-Christmas chaos. Everyone has a family, and I don’t belong there. I belong here, in this empty, cold house, with a bottle in my hand. And when, if not the holidays, does a lonely person feel the loneliest? Never.
I rise from the chair I’m sitting on, and the dog tags click under my shirt. I grab them with my hands, remembering why I’m still here and why I do what I do, so I go to my laptop and initiate another wire transfer to the organization that supports fallen vets’ families. It makes me feel better. Well, not better, but less shitty.
Then I pick up my phone and browse the names of women I hook up with when the mood strikes.
Well, maybe this one. She is a feisty redhead. Nope. This one. Redhead too. I browse two more before I realize I’m stopping on redheads only. I didn’t know I even knew so many. But every time my finger hovers over the ‘send’ button, I pause.
I don’t want just any redhead. I want one redhead who radiates fuckin’ sunshine that pisses me off. I want to swallow and absorb all that light, hoping it will make me see in color too. I want to drink her purity, hoping it will free me of my darkness.
And then a wave of hate sweeps over me for the thoughts I’m having. Everything that pops into my mind is selfish and aims to makemefeel better, with not a thought about howshe’dfeel with such a shithead like myself around. Alex was right to warn me off. He was so right.
I throw my phone on the couch and lean my head against the back of it, looking at the ceiling. How long can I go like this? Why do I need to go on like this?
These questions are not new to me, and as usual, they don’t come with answers, so I take the bottle I brought with me and don’t bother with a glass anymore.
Chapter Eight
LEILA
It’s been four days since the dinner at my parents’, and I still can’t stop thinking about it. My brother finally pulling his head out of his ass and getting married before Freya changes her mind came unexpectedly.
As a family who likes to make bets because life in a small town is boring, we made a bet about when Alex would finally man up, and my vote was on him asking her before Halloween. He seriously let me down by waiting longer, so Kenneth won. Bummer for me since Kenneth never wins any bets, and here he came out victorious with that smug look of a big brother who’s always right.
I don’t know if her being pregnant had something to do with the decision, but it didn’t come as a surprise. Well, to most of us. Kenneth and I talked about it; he noticed little signs way before Freya did. It’s part of his job that’s engraved so deep into his bones he can probably deduct anything in his sleep.
I still got a surprise at the dinner, though—officially meeting Archie.Stephan, my ass.Now I want to know what his real name is. Is it Stephan? Is it Archie?
Those are two completely different men. Completely. I like Stephan more, and I got a glimpse of him in the corridor. No mask on—a real person with real feelings, not that artificial shit he puts on for show. No. He showed a bit of the real him I connected with on the bridge.
But he also has another side—a scary one. Intense. Fearless. Crazy. He evokes fear deep inside my belly. The type of fear that excites and grades on your nerves in a good way, making you tingle in all the right places, like the anticipation of unfolding his layers and seeing what else he’s got. It excited me on some primitive level I didn’t even know existed.
Don’t get me wrong, I love good sex; I just never had itthatgood that I forgot about everything, including my family in the dining room. And when he pressed me into that wall…that moment woke something in me, and I suddenly remembered that I’ve dreamt about having a night with a man like that. Something new has awakened. I wanted to push him back and aggravate him just so I could see how far he’d go.
I’m one hundred percent positive sex with him would be unforgettable. That bad-boy slash tortured-man vibe he has going is my kryptonite. I didn’t expect him to rip my clothes off and press me into the wall in the corridor of my parents’ house, of course, but the anticipation was so delicious, I couldn’t help myself from poking the bear.
Okay, fine.Maybe Iwashoping for the ripping of clothes part a little. Just a tiny bit.
So, that was an interesting find for me, and now I crave the feeling he caused. Did I do the right thing by leaving? Did I look immature in his eyes? He probably got used to other types of women: self-confident and sophisticated, who followed the plan they started—everything I am not.
But that night was just full of different sorts of surprises, and what didn’t come as a good one was him beingtheArchie, the very same friend my brother adores. Well, as much as Alex can adore, you know. They served together for many years in the Navy.
To be honest, I don’t even know how long since Alex never talks about his time there. He enlisted after high school when I had just entered the teen stage, and I assume the same happened with Archie. They both got caught in that explosion that damaged about thirty percent of my brother’s body. And while my brother’s self-hatred is somewhat understandable to regular folks with his burns all over his face, Archie doesn’t wear visible scars. Maybe he has some too—I don’t know—but his whole presence is dark, screaming of a different sort of damage. His scars are on the inside; I feel that.
Also, Alex has a lot of survivor’s guilt. I don’t see Archie being any different. Especially considering he’s the only one who got away alive and unscarred, at least on the outside.
Enigma indeed.
I sigh loudly and look toward the entrance door of my house. Since that dinner, I get more and more uncomfortable with every passing hour. The messages keep coming, and they’ve turned threatening. I rake my mind, trying to figure out who it might be, but I’m drawing a blank. The texts have made me paranoid, though—I check all doors and windows ten timesbefore I go to bed. When I come home, I check all the rooms, ensuring there are no hidden guests in any of them.
I glance at the door again before opening the fridge to grab a bottle of apple juice and instantly bang my forehead—very lightly, because I still have two brain cells left to rub together, which may come as a big surprise—on the stainless steel.
What have I become?A paranoid, timid creature, constantly checking the entrance door as if a SWAT team is about to burst through it. What’s next? Getting a security system in our small town? I mentally roll my eyes, imagining the looks from my neighbors when men in black come to install cameras on my property (well, my rented property).
Mrs. Ludwig, the lady living to the left of me, will have to stop throwing her dog’s shit into my backyard, and Mr. Crocks to my right will have to stop stealing the newspaper I’m paying a subscription for. He drops it back off a day later with coffee stains all over it.
