“Thanks, Darren.” I give him a chin lift. “See ya next week.”
I’m walking across the parking lot to my car when I hear him call my name.
“Consider what I said.” There’s a smile in his voice.
He’s talking about going out with Mac. I’m reminded of our kiss last night and the desire to work harder to overcome all my shit if it means being able to spend more time around her. And even though having Mac inside my house makes me dizzy, it might be a first step to getting better.
I’m a fighter. I’ve never backed down from anything in my life. Why should this be any different?
Simple. It shouldn’t.
*
Mac
It’s seven p.m. when I finally venture out of my room. After I got home from work last night, I couldn’t stop replaying my night. Stuck in the storage room only to have Rex come and save me. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was struck with the same déjà vu as I was: the way his fingers froze on mine and his face paled when I repeated the very words he said to me fourteen years ago.
As if our moment of connection wasn’t enough, when I finally got the courage to apologize for last week, he flirted with me. He touched my injured cheek and playfully asked me to kiss him again.
I grin and bite my lip, remembering the arousing scrape of his piercing against my mouth. The desire to run the tip of my tongue along it and taste him was overwhelming. The only thing I could do to keep from jumping him was walk away. I’d hoped he’d chase after me, turn me around, and throw me up against the wall in a passionate kiss. He didn’t.
Rex. Always keeping me guessing.
Halfway to the kitchen I hear classic rock coming from the backyard. Leave it to Trix to have a fucking party on a Monday. I shake my head and move through the living room to the sliding glass door.
“Holy crap.”
Hatch and four of his biker buddies are draped over our patio furniture, each one with a girl on his lap. The table is littered with beer bottles, empty liquor bottles, and a variety of different smoking paraphernalia, both legal and illegal.
Trix and her stripper friends hang on the bikers, the manifestation of drunk and desperate.
“Awesome.” I slide open the back door and immediately get their attention.
Hatchet’s eyes narrow. “Snow White. You come out here to get your revenge?” The tick of his lips tells me he’s kidding, but he’s obviously too drunk to pull off the inappropriate joke.
“Maybe. Depends on how well you mind your manners.” I set my eyes on Trix. “How long have you guys been drinking?”
She throws her hands to the side, accidentally whopping Hatch in the head. She cradles her hand to her stomach. “Ow, Hatch. Your head is rock hard.”
“You should know, babe. You’re sitting on my lap.” He rubs his head in a delayed reaction to her accidental hit. “You getting me back for poppin’ Snow White?”
Her gaze is slow and lazy as it moves between him and me. “Oh yeah.” She smacks him upside the head. “There. Now I am.”
I curl my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing. The truth is I’m not mad at Hatch. He didn’t hit me on purpose. That was my fault. Thinking back, Rex didn’t even lift his fists when he saw that he was going to get punched. He was going to take it. How can I be pissed when taking that punch meant Rex didn’t have to? Besides, Rex delivered the punishing payback well enough that Hatch is still sporting two black eyes.
“Pull up a beer and a chair.” One of Hatch’s motorcycle buddies pulls an empty chair to his side, his eyes moving from my neck to my hips and back.
Gross. “No.” I look back to Trix. “You guys going out?”
“Yeah, there’s a party we’re going to later. You want to come with?” Her eyes are glazed over, and I hope it’s only from the alcohol and not whatever else these fuckfaces are using.
“I’d rather get a pap smear from Freddie Krueger.” I step back into the house, and the sound of their snorted laughter and curses goes silent when I shut the door behind me. I head to the kitchen in search of anything that could be considered dinner.
My mind wanders back to Rex, and I picture him at his place doing the same thing, making himself dinner alone in his apartment. I crack open a can of Spaghetti O’s, dump it into a bowl, and pop it into the microwave. I’m antsy with the need to see him, if not him, then at least his car or his apartment. Just to set eyes on something of his soothes my anxiety and placates the obsessive beast within.
The beeping grabs my attention. The bowl burns my fingers as I race to the table to sit. I’m on my second bite of O’s when I hear the sliding glass door open.
“Great,” I mumble into my bowl and hope that it’s not the drunk long-haired biker who stripped me with his eyes. Ick.
“You get the job done?” One of the bikers says in a whisper that would probably be a lot softer if he weren’t shitfaced.