Screw It Read online

  Later, when the shards had been arranged in some semblance of my heart, I’d learned from my mistake. The lesson was hard, and it had hurt, but, boy, was that lesson imprinted on every molecule of my body.

  Never lose sight of proving myself. Never get distracted from my path. Always keep control of my emotions.

  I don’t pine for him, and I don’t want him back. But that doesn’t mean seeing the only man I ever loved didn’t bring those cuts to the surface.

  I draw in air through my nose, pull my lip gloss out of my pocket, and finish my makeup. The past is done. It’s over. I doubt I’ll see him again in a city with over fifty thousand people. If I do, then I’ll deal.

  “I don’t know why you wear those pants, Becca. Your ass looks saggy,” Kim says.

  I’ll never understand why she hates me so much.

  I snap my head around to see Kim’s lip curl as she stares down her nose at me. Christ, I don’t need this shit right now, not when I’m emotionally tender. Between Brian and Zach, my emotional reserve is low. Thankfully, I learned how to deal with her venom years ago. I roll my eyes and turn back to the mirror to rub my lips together, spreading the lip gloss.

  “I mean, seriously, shouldn’t you do something about that? It’s going to affect your tips. Your mom was a whore, but at least she was hot.” Her voice echoes through the restroom.

  My jaw clenches, and my eyes narrow at myself in the mirror. I tolerate Kim’s bullshit and ignore it because she’s a gnat. She’s an insignificant insect flying around my head, intent on goading me.

  I clench my fists together, so I don’t give her what she wants—a fight. I might get in a few licks, but at my height and weight, I’d end up bloody and lose a night of tips.

  “And you should do something to your hair. It’s stringy.”

  I screw on the cap to my lip gloss and pop it into the pocket of my awesome black pants. These babies are a staple, and when I wear them, my tips nearly double both here and at Mario’s. Instead of my Mario’s shirt, I pulled on a thrift-store strapless jungle green top that rides just above the hem of my pants to expose a strip of skin.

  Kim can flap her gums all she wants. I’m hot.

  I know I am because I look just like my mom. Besides my shorter height and smattering of freckles, I’m her double. My beauty came from my mom, but my body is from my strict running regimen. I’m tight and toned. Although I wish I were a little bigger than my B cup, my tits haven’t changed since I was sixteen, so they’re high and tight, just like my ass.

  After shaking out my long red curls so that they’re flowing down my back, I turn to Kim. I let my eyes roam over her body, my face blank. She’s beautiful—tall with lush curves, dark hair, and dark eyes—but she’s the definition of skin-deep beauty. With the rigorous way she rides her body, she won’t be beautiful at all before long.

  Without a word, I brush past her, but she grabs my bicep and says, “What? No comeback?”

  I wrench my arm from her grasp and push open the restroom door.

  “Spineless,” she mutters as the door closes behind me.

  Bitch.

  Most chicks would have slapped her or run away, crying. I want to slap her. I want to do an Indian celebration dance on her flaming body. But to control a situation, I have to know the people in it. Kim is easy. She wants to hurt people and pull them down to her level, so she can feel bigger. The way to win against her is to ignore her. When tearing me down doesn’t work, she looks stupid. I walk away the better person, and that hurts her more than Indian dancing ever could. Disregarding her is the ultimate middle finger to Kim.

  I find my spot behind the bar, shoot a customer a smile, and busy myself pouring drinks and making money.

  An hour later, the whistle sounds.

  The owner of Hole, Jenn, is a pure genius. She modeled the bar after the ’90s grunge band Hole, a mostly girl band led by Courtney Love. The bar, tables, chairs, and stools are sturdy but sanded to look worn. The upholstery is ripped denim with black-and-red flannel showing in those rips. The bar’s logo is dark pink lettering that appears to be knifed into the glasses and the sleek black stage. She installed upscale restrooms and offers fruity drinks to attract women.

  We play all kinds of music—from the ’70s to modern—except when the whistle sounds.

  This is where Jenn gears the bar toward men.

  After I finish the drink I’m making, I climb up onto the bar as the music starts. Every hour on the hour, a song plays with the word hole in it, or it’s a song by the band Hole. There isn’t a routine, but at least a few of us need to haul our asses on to the bar. More often than not, patrons slide up and dance right next to us.

  “Supermassive Black Hole” by Muse pounds through the air, and I close my eyes while I rock my hips from side to side. The heavy bass with a steady rock beat thunders through me, urging me to that place of bliss, and I place my palms flat on my thighs. As I sway my hips in a figure eight, I slowly slide my hands up my legs, over my hips, and past my sides until I flip the placement of my hands, so the backs of my hands graze the outside of my tits and up my neck. I pull my long red hair up and hold it in my hands as the rocking of my hips becomes second nature.

  Dropping my hair so it falls all around me, I skim my palms over my abs and down my hips. I lose myself in the beat. The steady boom-chicka-boom-boom drives me to move. Feeling eyes on me, I’m empowered and sexy. I devour this song and this stage. The feeling is a high, and knowing that my little performance will triple my tips is an added bonus. It’s why I’m up here every chance I get.

  Swinging my hair and pushing my chest out in a stripper-like fashion, I catch a familiar voice over the music.

  “Fuck me.”

  My body locks, and my eyes snap open, knowing whom I’ll see.

  Zach.

  When my eyes hit his bourbon-colored ones, my fists ball when I take in his expression. His eyes burn liquid heat, but his soft face and his downturned lips show longing mixed with regret.

  The sight of that look pierces my heart, making an ache flash flood through my system. The flash lasts only a second before I heat so fast that I wouldn’t be surprised if steam shot out of my ears.

  Fuck him. Fuck his fake regret.

  The song ends, so I climb off the bar. I ignore the cockfaced asshole and turn to a guy flagging me down for a drink. He gives his order to my breasts, but I don’t give a shit. With years of practice, I make his order to perfection and slide it to him. He flops down a five-dollar tip that will go right into my business kitty. My mood lightened, I flash him my trademark killer smile.

  After I tuck the bill into my tip jar, I take another order from an overgelled blond, ignoring Zach’s raised hand. I make seven drinks and flash seven killer smiles before Zach clips out my name.

  I take a deep breath, building up my strength, and I square my shoulders. With a fake smile glued to my face, I turn my attention to Zach. “What can I getcha?”

  His eyes narrow, and he runs his tongue along his teeth, causing a memory to flash in my mind.

  “Why don’t we ever go to your place?” I ask, lying on my couch with his weight on me.

  His hands frame my face, and he runs his tongue along his top teeth. I shiver, remembering what that tongue can do to me.

  “Sweets, my place is a shithole. I’m a guy. It’s a bachelor pad. Plus, I don’t have all the stuff to cook good food like you do.”

  I nervously lick my lips. I’m into him—big time. For the first time in forever, my life isn’t consumed with loneliness and the unwavering drive not to become my mother. I don’t want to lose that, but I want more.

  “I get that, but we’ve been together for almost four months, and I see you just about every day. I don’t really know, but it feels like we should be…I don’t know.” My eyes trail to the side.

  “Sweets, look at me.”

  I do. He scans my face, his eyes tight, and my stomach churns with acid, making me nauseous. He opens his mouth and then closes
it again. Then, he grins, and I’m blinded.

  Best. Smile. Ever.

  “Don’t stress. We’re all good. I’ll show you my place soon, I promise.”

  My nausea clears, and I relax, trusting him to keep his word.

  I never saw his place. And I never put the pieces together.

  Ignoring the cramp the memory causes, I keep the smile plastered on my face.

  “Can we talk?” His voice is just barely heard over the clamor of the bar.

  “Sorry, we’re pretty busy tonight. What can I get for you?”

  “What time do you get off?”

  My steadfast control slips, but I work to keep my voice steady. “Zach, we don’t have anything to talk about.” I pull in a breath, seeking patience. “Now, what would you like to drink?”

  “Sweetheart—”

  “Don’t,” I snap. Hearing that endearment makes the cramp squeeze. “What would you like to drink?”

  He doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry.”

  “I just said, don’t.”

  His eyes roam my glare and set jaw before he holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay.” He pauses, searching my eyes for a drawn-out moment, and then he nods once. “Now is not a good time, but we need to talk.”

  I clench my teeth together. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Can I get a Bud on tap?”

  As I pour his drink, my heart beats faster and not entirely because I’m pissed. I don’t have time to sort through my head now, so I plan to work through that later—or not. I don’t want him occupying any part of my life, especially my thoughts.

  I set his drink down. “Five fifty.”

  He slides a twenty in my direction, and without a word, he walks away.

  Does he think a fourteen-dollar tip is going to change my mind about talking to him? Pft.

  Time slips by as I sling drinks and fatten the wad of bills in my jar. I keep a peripheral eye out for a Zach Attack, but he stays out of sight. The longer time goes on, the more it seems like he’s left. I breathe a sigh of relief. Every time I give headspace to him wanting to talk, I knock over a drink or fuck up the one I’m making, so I stay firmly in the present.

  When the whistle sounds, I do a half-second scan of the room. I don’t spot the walking STD, so I climb up onto the bar just as the soft guitar riff of “Down in a Hole” by Alice in Chains starts.

  I freeze.

  Fuck.

  This is the one song I don’t dance to. I love this song almost as much as I love orgasms, but it smacks too close to home. The erotic rhythm paired with the haunting lyrics call to me, envelop me, and make me feel understood.

  Taking two seconds to weigh my options, I decide that since I’m already up here, I’ll look stupid if I climb down. That would affect my tips, and I need every penny I can get for my business. Even if Zach is here, which I doubt, he doesn’t know me enough to see anything that might leak out. Regardless, I blank my face before closing my eyes and swinging my hips from side to side with the smooth seduction the song demands.

  Layne Staley sings about sex and about burying himself inside a woman, and although I’m not burying myself in a womb with my arrangements, it’s the same.

  He sings about physical intimacy being the only thing he can give to his partner.

  My body is the only part I can give to anyone, the only part that can let me live like I need to.

  He sings about being down in a hole and not knowing if he can be saved.

  The bar melts away.

  Deep down inside, down in my hole, I don’t know if I can be saved. That doubt, the what-if that I strangle within an inch of its life, scares me.

  Am I doing the right thing? If I’m not, can I be saved from myself, my control, my drive?

  I don’t know if I want to be.

  I listen to the lyrics about his partner not understanding who others thought he was supposed to be.

  A whore…a worthless, dirty whore—that’s who I’m supposed to be. That’s what drives me. That’s what buries me down in a hole of control and diligence.

  I’m lost in the song.

  The band’s haunting melody paired with the singer’s words about not being allowed to let himself be score deep in my heart.

  I can’t let myself be either. If I let myself be, I lose control. I’ll become the degenerate everyone expects me to be.

  The lyrics about feeling so small and stuck deep down in a hole reverberate everything I control to hold back—loneliness, turbulent emotions, and the yearning for someone to give a shit about me.

  I’m holding on to the monster inside me by my fingertips, but between Brian, my nightmare, and fucking Zach, I’m losing the will to care. My emotion leaks into my movements and my expressions. The struggle radiates off me. I let the words take me there. The only person who knows what’s happening in my head is Matt, and he’s not here. I’m safe exposing myself in plain sight.

  Layne Staley sings like he’s speaking of me. The man in the song wants to fly, but his wings have been denied.

  I want to fly, fly high, and leave my life behind. I want to abandon the judgment, the constant guard, the never-ending need to control, but I can’t. My wings are denied by circumstance. I fight this urge with everything I am. My need to be successful is stronger than my need to fly.

  With only seconds left to the song, I let my eyes drift open. As if a magnetic force is pulling me, I lock eyes on a man sitting in the back, nursing a beer—a Bud on tap.

  I know it’s a Bud on tap because I poured that beer to the man with the bourbon-colored eyes—eyes I thought left the bar.

  And his expression, even across the room, tells me that I was wrong. Matt isn’t the only one who can read the emotions spilling out of me.

  Fuck.

  “Do you know her?” my brother asks from the spot next to me.

  With my body held tight, I don’t say a word. I can’t say anything because my jaw is locked as hard as my muscles.

  Shit, fuck, shit.

  I don’t have a clue if that anguish is new or old. The look on her as she moved her body, leaving her heart bleeding for everyone to see, shifted something colossal in me.

  Was that there before, and I was too selfish to notice?

  Not knowing makes my neck grow tight, and the guilt is directed at myself. I know I’m a dick, but with Becca, I was an asshole. I was young and stupid, and I didn’t get what was happening inside of me, so I didn’t do right by her. It’s becoming clear that I didn’t do right by her in a big way.

  And six years later, she’s dancing on a stage, reeking resignation and loneliness.

  With my head buried in her neck after I fucked her soft and sweet, she whispers, “I don’t feel alone with you.”

  I hoist my head to stare down at her.

  God, I love her freckles.

  Every time I get this close to her, I have the ridiculous urge to snatch up a marker and try to connect those little brown dots into a constellation. “Good to know, sweetheart, since I’m not only with you, but also in you. If you felt alone, I’m doing something wrong.”

  She giggles.

  I love her giggle, too. It’s sweet and soft.

  I bring my mouth to hers, and I go about making sure she still doesn’t feel lonely.

  Becca jumps off the bar and dives right back into her job, snatching me out of my memories. I drop my head.

  Shit.

  I’m a moron through and through.

  “Where do you know her from?” Jed asks.

  I lift my head, take a pull of my beer, and set it on the high table. When I look at my brother, that snake feeling I haven’t felt in a long goddamn time uncurls in my gut. I like disappointing him about as much as I like disappointing my dad. I’d rather gouge out an eyeball than disappoint my dad.

  Before I open my mouth, he says, “By the look on your face, I’m thinking she knew Zach the Dickhead.”

  I lean back in my chair and stare at my beer. I do this for a while, gathering th
e sweat from my glass with my thumb.

  Standing in front of her apartment, I’m bent at the waist and breathing hard. “Christ, woman. That wasn’t a fuckin’ run. That was a goddamn marathon.”

  Becca isn’t bent over, but she is breathing hard. “Quit being a baby. Come up with me, and I’ll grab you some water.”

  I straighten, the air still rushing in and out. She doesn’t look like she just ran hard for forty minutes, but she is flushed. Her chest is moving up and down, and she is sweaty. I concentrate on a drop trailing down her temple, her jaw, her chin before it drips onto her chest.

  “What are you staring at? You want some water or what?”

  I decide that the drop shouldn’t get all the fun, so I reach over and catch it in her cleavage. I lift my eyes to hers and suck the sweat off my finger.

  “Ew! Don’t lick my sweat. That’s gross.” She scrunches her face and sticks her tongue out between her teeth.

  “Nothing about you is gross, only sweet.”

  Her eyes go soft, and I feel that look in my chest.

  The memory of what I let go fades.

  “I shouldn’t have let her go.” When I don’t get anything from Jed, I lift my head.

  He’s in the process of setting his beer down. “How long has it been?”

  “Right before you were shot.”

  He runs his teeth on his bottom lip. “You’re a different man now. How do you know she’s the same woman?”

  I sigh and run a hand over my short hair. “I don’t, but I wanna find out. We had a good thing…a fucking great thing.”

  His eyes narrow. “If she meant that much to you, why didn’t we meet her or even hear about her?”

  I shake my head. “You know how I was.”

  He tilts his head to the side and lifts his eyebrows in a touché motion. “You gonna rectify that fuck-up?”

  Seeking out Becca, I spot the top of her curly red hair. My eyes skip down to see that her work face is on. Her expression is polite while making the drink, but she puts on a cock-stirring smile when she’s in front of the customer.