Wreck Me

I was glad that my day flew by, but now that I see my parent’s headstones coming into view I am beginning to wish my day had crawled. The lump in my throat is growing with each step nearer to their final resting place. I f*cking hate coming here. I only visit them once a year, on the anniversary of the accident. I can scrap in the streets, I can throw a perfect left hook and when I had it I could turn five bucks into fifty in no time throwing dice in the alley. But damn, I can’t get my shit together enough to visit my dead parents more than once a year. I am a lousy daughter for it, but I tell myself that maybe they would understand my serious lack of intestinal fortitude when it comes to visiting their graves. I damn sure hope they understand wherever they are. I would like to think that they are in heaven, but I just don’t know. I have no way to know if it even exists and the priest at the mission use to say I had to have faith that God and heaven are real. The idea of having faith in anything to a homeless teenager is just asinine.


“Hi,” I mumble as I kneel before the two stones that are the only things other than myself to attest to the existence of two human beings. This is all that’s left of them. Two highly expensive grave markers that took a year’s worth of savings for me to finally buy and of course me; the product of their love. That’s it. Nothing more. It claws at my hardened heart to know that my Maman and Papa are reduced to this; two stones and a lousy daughter who never visits. I shake my head and purse my lips. My head seems to voluntarily hang in shame.

“I’m sorry,” I croak out through welling tears. “I’m so sorry.” My shoulders rock and I let the tears fall unabashed. “I miss you. Oh, I miss you both so much it hurts to breathe. If I could, I would give all I have to bring you back.” Like a real lady, I use the hem of my shirt to wipe at my sodden nose and cheeks. It really makes no difference. The tears still roll freely down my face to gather at the point of my chin before dripping to my lap. I don’t give a shit. I’m hurting and I can’t stop it. I miss them so damn bad some days it takes every ounce of strength to even exist.

Some days the despair I feel threatens to drown me and that is a very dangerous kind of despair for a person to muddle through. It’s that kind of despair that makes people do stupid things just to gain a measure of relief from their suffering. I am ashamed to admit that I have contemplated living versus ending it all. I know it’s the selfish cowardly thing to do, but the only f*cking reason I have refrained from ending my shit life is because I would never want to disappoint my parents. I don’t know if they can see or hear me, but I won’t risk it.

They didn’t choose the way things ended up. The decision was made for them when that car veered into our lane. I could never disgrace them by pissing on the life they gave me. I am all that remains of them besides these two stones and I just can’t end them by ending myself. I brush away the dead and dried grass that has scattered at the base of their markers. I trace my finger tips over the lettering on the heavily engraved stones. First his stone then hers. I bought them once I had saved enough money working at the store. I was eighteen years old and nine years late, but my parents finally got the headstones they deserved instead of the cheap plaque they had before. Most eighteen year old girls save for cars or an apartment of their own. I scrounged to buy my parents decent grave markers. I didn’t give a shit that I ate next to nothing for that year while I stashed every penny I could. Knowing what my money was going towards was sustenance enough.

A growling stomach can be remedied, an ailing broken heart cannot. I wish that somehow there was something you could feed a broken heart to pacify it. Something I could do or have that would somehow lessen or alleviate the constant ache in my chest. I wondered and hoped for such a remedy, but the fact is it does not exist. If it did, I would have already combed the planet for it. I would have sought it out. I would do anything to cure the void in me. So far, the only thing that I find helps my emptiness is frequent, amazing sex. I guess I am one of those text book examples of how a young woman uses sex and promiscuity to distract from her shitty upbringing. I could care less. The sex is good and for a short period of time I forget everything.

“It doesn’t feel any better. If anything it hurts more. I wish I had something great to talk about, but I don’t. I am still at the store. I don’t know how much longer though. We may end up closing. I don’t want to lose my job. It’s all I have felt connected to since the accident.” Tears build, spill over, and flow a little quicker with my talk of another loss. I can’t stand the idea of not working at the store. It would just add to my sorrow. My job is all I have. It is all that I look forward to on a daily basis. I am content there. I spent countless hours in the library when I was on the streets and my love and appreciation for the written word runs deep. The thought of losing my beloved job makes me want to crumble under the weight of my disappointment.

People say time heals all. I say to those people they are full of shit. Most people who are ignorant enough to say something so dumb have nothing to base that bullshit cliché off of. There is no foundation of loss from which they draw that conclusion. I would not dare tell someone who is grieving that time will heal them. I would be honest and say that time does nothing more than fade the good memories while building the void in your heart. The loss never dulls. I would tell someone grieving that the best they can hope for is that they can find something productive to do that will take the edge off. Any ambition of healing or any other hearts, rainbows and lollipops bullshit is just that; bullshit. When you suffer a loss so tremendous it’s like the sun goes down and never rises again. It sets and leaves you in a perpetual state of twilight. I sniffle and wipe the tears away. “I love you both. Until next year.” I stroke the pads of my fingers across their engraved names once more then pull myself to stand. I walk towards my car and thoughts of Damon Cole flood my mind. I more than want him now. I need him. I need to drown my grief in a sea of lust and Damon is the man for the job.

I don’t even know why the hell I bother with fixing my hair. I plan on screwing it all up just as quick as I can get Damon alone. That man is gorgeous and I need the distraction that I am sure he is capable of providing. That may make me a whore in some people’s opinion but to hell with them. Truth is those same a*sholes who keep up the societal double standard are the people who envy me. They envy my nerve and lack of concern for bullshit stereotypes. All those ridiculous ideas of male promiscuity versus female whorishness carry no weight with me. I say kiss my ass to that. In my opinion, if a woman is being careful and discrete, then who cares how many partners she chooses to take to bed? It should not matter. Jim, Jack, Bill, Bob, and Will can bang the bottom out of one-hundred women each and no one gives a shit about that, but holy hot pants! If I admit to having bedded even a fraction of that, I get shunned as a dirty whore when in fact, I am clean. I am careful. I choose my partners wisely. I am observant and prepared. It’s my body. I will do with it what I choose.

I smooth my wavy brown hair and toss it over my shoulder to hang down my back. I grab my cosmetic bag and dig out the goods. My dark green eyes always look best when I apply some makeup. I line my lids, dust on some shadow, coat my lashes with mascara and pop my lips after smearing on my tinted gloss. “Alright Jo, time to go get your fill of Damon Cole,” I say to my reflection in my tiny bathroom mirror. I grab my purse and walk with initiative to get to my car and on my way to the store. I plop into the driver’s seat of my shitty four-banger to make the ten minute drive.





The moment I turn the corner and the shop comes into view, so does Damon. He is standing out front of the store looking more handsome than I could have imagined. His relaxed fit jeans looked faded and all vintage. That charcoal gray button down is snug across his chest and shoulders. My palms itch to be pressed flush against the fabric. I slip the shifter into park and kill the engine. I step out of my car and smooth my denim skirt then adjust my cotton knit top. I have on my favorite wedge sandals and my best perfume. I took extra care preparing for my evening with Damon. He turns my direction and his eyes catch mine. His attention has honed in on me as I approach. I feel exposed and slightly less confident than just a moment ago. That is f*cking odd. There is nothing special about this guy. He is a man. He is a hot guy who I intend on thoroughly banging tonight. His gaze has yet to leave mine and the air around us suddenly feels leaden and thick.


“Hey.”

“You’re beautiful.” His voice sounds …promising, and I nearly sigh when I hear the lust drip from each syllable. I feel relieved that he wants me as much as I want him. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher the tension between us as sexual. It is purely animalistic attraction and it is involuntary.

“Thank you. What did you have planned for us?” I ask feeling hopeful that it will be short and include me going to his place afterward. He squints his eyes slightly and I can tell that he seems to be thinking.

“I had planned on asking you what you would like to do.” He casually slips one hand into his pocket and I see a fancy ass Rolex clinging to his wrist like some gold digger bait. I see. He is seasoned with this whole thing. No need to p-ssy-foot around. Go in for the kill. Shoot from the hip. Ask for what you want.

“Can you cook?”

“No not really.” His admission leaves him appearing a little embarrassed and damn if it isn’t extremely cute seeing this tall, dark and handsome man looking a little flushed. His warm amber eyes go a little askew and for the first time since we saw each other our gaze has broken. I feel the need to solidify our plans for the evening.

“That’s okay. I love to cook. If you are hungry I’ll make you dinner, but it will have to be at your place. Mine is the crappiest apartment in this city.” His eyes land back on me and his confidence has won out over the fleeting moment of self-doubt. A small smile eases across his mouth and his lips slant upward on one side. His honey-colored eyes are winning him all kinds of points with that flirtatious light glinting in them. Damn I want to put my mouth on him. On every single inch of him. I can feel heat growing in my cheeks and I know it’s time to get this show on the road. “So…what do you say? Want me to wow you with my culinary skills or what?” I say with a coaxing smile.

“I definitely want you to wow me, Jo. My car is this way.” Oh for f*ck sake. This man is going to make sure I am begging for him. I can see it now. He knows what he has working in his favor and he is not afraid of showing it.

“No need. I will follow you. Is your kitchen stocked?” I flip my keys once around my index finger and keep right on drinking in the sight in front of me. He still has one hand shoved into a pocket while the other dangles freely at his side. He nods his head in understanding.

“Okay, I get it. You don’t know me really. But I promise, I’ll make sure you’re okay.” Something weird stirs within my subconscious. Something familiar and frightening. My stomach turns sour in an instant and I feel like I should…do something. I don’t know what the hell it is, but shit this is a strange feeling. He must notice my discomfort because he steps forward and his hand is resting on my upper arm.

“Hey, are you okay? Maybe you should let me drive. I promise to bring you back to your car the minute you tell me. Or, I can have it delivered to my place. My assistant won’t mind. It’s why I pay him well.”

“Uh, yeah I’m fine. An assistant? He would bring my car, like right now?” I arch an eyebrow in disbelief and he smiles and nods again. His hand leaves my upper arm and he steps to my side. His hand takes up new residence at the small of my back and he sets us into a comfortable pace towards what I assume is his…pickup truck? He is pointing a key fob at a pickup truck of all things. This thing is lifted a bit so getting into the passenger seat in my short denim skirt should be interesting.

“In you go.” In an instant his hands are at my waist and he lifts me with ease to place me into the passenger seat. I can’t seem to form words. I’m fumbling around in my weary head for an answer. Maybe his car is being fixed. Maybe he’s a serial killer and uses a pickup truck to transport bodies to the desert. Maybe he just likes trucks. Loads of men like trucks. It’s the American man’s vehicle of choice.

“Keys?” He holds out his hand to me while his other lifts his cell phone to his ear. I hand him my keys and listen to him speak. “Brian, yeah, I’ll be back at my place in a few with my date, I need you to get a set of car keys with an address from security downstairs. Then go pick up the car. It’s pale yello-, well… it’s also got a red door, and a gray hood. You know what? I will leave the plate number with the keys, go find the car and bring it to my place. Yeah, thanks.” I can’t help but laugh at his description of my crappy little car that looks more like a Franken-car than anything else.

“Frank. It’s my cars name.”

He looks at me with disbelief written on his face.

“You named your car? Why Frank?” He reaches in as he finishes his question and pulls the seat belt out for me to buckle up.

“You know. Frankenstein car. It’s all mad scientist looking so, I named her Frank.” I shrug and smile. He smiles as he shuts my door and makes his way around to the driver’s side. It is one of those half smiles that seem to melt my panties right off and I have the urge to kiss him right here in his truck. He gets into his seat and buckles his seat belt.

“Are you buckled in?” I give my belt a tug to give him my answer and he starts his big man-toy of a truck.

“Why in the world do you have wrist candy and drive a pickup truck?”

“Well, this is one of my vehicles. I like to switch things up. I don’t like getting bored or restless with only one car.” Definitely another ladies man having a good time on the playground known as Vegas. I can’t blame him though. I am on the same damn playground. Of course my scenario is not as nice. I don’t sport a Rolex or a new car. My clothing sure is not designer, but I make out just fine anyway.

“Okay. I get it. You like variety. Nothing wrong with that. Is your kitchen stocked or should we go to the store?”

“I think we can find something in my cabinets.” He looks over to me and sends another panty dissolving smile sailing my way and I soak it in. I could look at that smile all day.

The drive does not take long before we end up at some seriously swank looking high rise. It looks like typical Vegas high class.

“We’re here.” He says as we park and he shuts off his plain pick up at this high class place. I look to him and quirk up an eyebrow.

“You’re kidding right? You live here?” Damon doesn’t respond. He slips out of the truck and walks around to open my door. It’s a nice gesture. Not many men do shit like that. I kind of like it. He reaches in and yet again grabs me about the waist and lifts me from the truck. He pulls me to his rock solid body and slowly lowers me to my feet. Oh damn this man smells and feels amazing. My heart speeds and my breathing becomes rapid.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be too forward.”

“No need to apologize,” I say sounding a little out of sorts and breathy.

“Shall we?” I nod and the alarm on his man-toy chirps as he locks it. His hand finds the small of my back again and I revel in the warmth of his touch. He guides us into the foyer of the high rise building. This place is definitely swanky. What the hell does this guy do for a living? I will piss my pants if he says he owns a casino or some crazy shit like that. He is a little older than me. I can tell. How old is he? Thirties for sure. I’ll ask later.

“How’s it going Howard?”

“Pretty good, boss. What can I do for you?” Damon slides my keys, chintzy rabbit foot keychain and all, across the security desk to Howard.


“I need you to give these to Brian when he gets here and this note.” He grabs a pen and notepad from Howard’s desk area and jot’s down my plate number. I catch the word “multi-color” as he slips it back to the middle aged Howard.

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Excuse me for being rude. Howard this is my friend Jo. Jo, this is Howard. He is head of security here at the towers.” I extend my hand to Howard and we shake.

“Nice to meet you Howard.”

“Likewise ma’am.”

“Please, just Jo. “ He releases my hand and smiles warmly. I like Howard. He seems like a cool guy.

“See you later, Howard,” Damon tosses over his shoulder as he guides me towards a bank of elevators. Four to be exact. Damn this place it fancy. I feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to touch a thing.

“You must be loaded to live in a place like this,” I blurt before thinking better of it. Damon chuckles and nods his head as we step into the elevator. The doors shut and he stamps a code into the control panel. We start to ascend the high rise.

“I’m an entrepreneur. I do well for myself.” It’s a simple, vague explanation that leaves me curious to know more. The elevator has come to a halt and his hand on my back guides us through the elevator doors and into a foyer. He slides a panel open on the door and punches some buttons. I hear the slide of a dead bolt. He opens the door and motions for me to walk ahead. I step into his private home and survey the space. It reeks of an overpriced interior decorator. Geez. This place is as modern bachelor pad as they come. It feels almost clinical with all the clean lines and light color scheme. I can feel his eyes on me and I turn to face him. I nod and do my best to feign approval.

“You have a nice place. You must have had one of those expensive decorators huh?”

“Yeah. I paid her a considerable commission and she did this.” He raises his hands and motions to the whole of our surroundings.

“You don’t like it?”

“No I guess I don’t, but I’m not here much so it’s not that big of a deal.”

“So make her change it! You paid her. You should be getting what you want.” I fold my arms over my chest and scowl a bit. I have no reason to get pissy over his shit, but I guess I have this deep rooted issue with people who f*ck over others. He cocks his head a fraction and studies me for a beat.

“Come with me. I want to show you something.” I plop my purse down on the low profile couch and follow him. He leads us through the penthouse, then up a flight of stairs. He keeps walking past the loft and I pause. Holy shit. Paradise. A loft library. He comes to stand beside me.

“Looks like your over-priced decorator either got something right or has multiple personalities.” I stand perfectly still and admire the cozy library. It is a huge contrast against the cold, modern theme that the rest of the penthouse is bathed in. This space is large by any ones standard, but just not on the same scale as the rest of his home. This loft feels smaller and cozier. It feels like a place I could sit in for hours reading book after book. It’s amazing. There are only two walls in the loft. Both of which are outfitted with floor to ceiling dark wood shelving. There must be thousands of books here. It’s impressive. There are two oversized chairs that could easily be loveseats. They are upholstered in some type of fabric that reminds me of corduroy. They aren’t leather and cold like the slim line furniture downstairs. The floor is carpeted not tiled. It feels plush even through my sandals. I bet it feels great under bare feet. There is a coffee table and two end tables with small reading lamps on them. I notice that one of the walls have a few empty shelves. Why are they empty? I would fill those suckers up with my favorites. I make my way further into the loft and walk a slow path in front of one of the large bookshelves. I raise my fingers and allow them to lazily graze the spine of each book as I pass. The ink and paper smells like home to me.

“She didn’t do the library or my bedroom. I handled both of them.” I turn away from the shelf and gape at him.

“Wow.” It’s all I can force out. Damn he just got way hotter in my opinion and it’s only because he has an obvious appreciation for books like I do. Maybe his appreciation is not quite like mine but still. He shows no clear response to my reaction. He makes his way towards me and stops just in front of where I stand. His right hand lands on my shoulder and slips down the length of my arm until my fingers are tangled with his.

“Come on.” I don’t utter a f*cking word because my heart is racing in my chest. Damn the way he said that was sexy. He leads us from the loft. I look over my shoulder one more time at the most amazing private library I could ever imagine. Then keep right on walking behind him. He swings open a door and walks me through it. I step into a room that is a world away from all things cold and clinical. This room feels plush. The walls are painted a neutral earth tone with one accent wall the color of sea water. His bed has a huge headboard that reminds me of one of those wingback chairs. It’s upholstered and tufted. The fabric is the shade of champagne. He has two nightstands with lamps. There is a gas fireplace on the wall adjacent the bed. On the wall above the fireplace is a gorgeous abstract painting of who knows what. It’s probably done by one of those whacked out hippies. His bed looks like heaven. I have a rock hard piece of shit mattress, but his looks like a cloud. I don’t even want to see his f*cking bathroom. If his bedroom is any indication, his bathroom is likely modeled after a spa or some shit. Damn.

“Your room is impressive. Maybe you should get your money back from that chick and just decorate the place yourself.” I laugh but he doesn’t. Ah shit, don’t get all serious on me. His fingers tighten around mine and he pulls me towards him. He turns away from me and leads the way back downstairs. He walks us into his kitchen and I am not shocked to see that the damn thing matches the cold theme. Slick granite countertops and dark wood cabinetry flank the walls. The cabinetry has an opaque glass center. Each one has a thin brushed nickel handle. The appliances are all top of the line and cost more than I make in 6 months I bet. It should be fun cooking in this kitchen. It’s better than my electric hotplate, toaster oven, and microwave.

“So, is it okay if I just get to it?” He lets my hand go and rounds the center island to sit atop a stool on the opposite side.

“Have at it,” he says with another panty incinerating smile cast in my direction. It smacks me square on and I can swear for just a second I feel those butterflies. Butterflies? What is that shit? That is a no go zone. I don’t do the emotionally attached thing. It has never been a good idea for me. I have only ever loved three. My Maman, my Papa, and my job. I have already lost two of the three and the third is a hairs breadth from being ripped from me. I shoo away those thoughts. I can’t deal with that right now. That shit is the whole reason I am seeking out a night of hot sex and distraction. I start digging through his cabinets and drawers. All my depressing thoughts are soon on their way out as I throw together one of my signature dishes in Damon’s cold kitchen.