The Waterfront Café is off the beaten path, across two bridges that span a marshy preserve that's full of brackish seawater, clumps of grass as tall as I am, and flocks of white herons.
“My dad used to tell me stories about these bridges,” I say to Brooke as we pass over the first one. “That when he was a kid, when they were first built, there were no rails on either side. Just an empty swath of road suspended over the water. One little swerve and bam. Done for.”
“They let people drive on it like that?” Brooke asks, like she doesn't believe me. I shrug my shoulders.
“Guess so.”
“Where does your dad live now?” Brooke asks and my smile gets real tight.
“My parents are both dead.” I don't elaborate because hell, I'm already having trouble with this chick. The last thing I need to do is start sharing personal details. I never do anyway, with the girls I fuck. I like to keep things light and fluffy and fun. Nothin' fluffy and fun about dead parents.
Brooke doesn't say anything, turning her head to stare out the window as we hit a small patch of land between the two bridges. For a few minutes, there's nothing but the sound of pop music in the background.
“My dad has early onset Alzheimer's,” Brooke blurts, turning back to look at me. I keep my eyes on the road as I start over the second bridge, but I can feel her gaze like a laser beam through the side of my head. Boom. Explosion.
I suck in a breath.
“I don't know how I'm going to say good-bye to him. Did you get to say good-bye to your parents?”
“Um.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Brooke's got those doe eyes on again, big and watery and brown and sexy as hell. I want to cup her face in my hand and pull our mouths together. Ahh. I am, like, so seriously screwed it's not even funny. “I didn't actually. It sounds fake as hell, but they actually died in a boating accident when I was … twenty-two.” Same age as Brooke is now. “On Lake Tahoe.”
“I can't even imagine,” Brooke says, reaching over and taking my hand. Crap. Did not expect that. I was hoping for an I'm so sorry to hear that at most. This is … a lot harder to process. I wish her hands weren't so soft, her fingertips so hot. I wish she didn't smell good, like flowers and soap. I need to go home and get mind-fucked by some crazy chick with tattoos on her face. That's what I need to do. Yep.
Brooke lets go of my hand and I feel like I can breathe again. It's bugging me though, how jumpy I'm getting. Like, hello Zayden, you've never gotten this way before. You always make fun of Jude for freaking the fuck out over every girl he sleeps with. If he even catches a glimpse of them again after, he starts panicking that he's going to be stalked or something. I've always thought he was a douche.
Now I'm the douche. Me. I'm acting like the weirdo.
And yet, all I can do right now is hope that Brooke will let me fuck her again when she gets off of work. How messed up is that? But every time I look at her—every time—I see that image of her on the floor, her back pressed to the wall, one foot propped on the step, the other leg open wide. I can see her panting chest, her moist lips, the glitter of liquid on her inner thighs.
“The doctor says the average life expectancy from the onset of symptoms is about eight years. It's been just a few months since he was diagnosed, but that means by the time I'm thirty,” a pause, “by the time I'm your age, he'll be gone.”
Brooke takes a deep breath and threads her fingers through her hair. I see now. It makes sense why she's watching the kids, why her parents haven't stepped in. The whole thing makes her sister, Ingrid, seem like even more of a douche-y bitch.
“Anyway, sorry. My fault. I shouldn't have brought that up,” she says.
“Naw, that was totally me. Hey, relax a little. You made it to the end of the week. Yay.” I pretend to wave a little flag and Brooke smiles. I can see the expression from the corner of my eye. I like the way her lips curve up, giving her this sexy porn star look in the mouth while her big, black glasses look dorky as hell. “One more night of work and you'll be off for a few days. Hey, what do you want to do on Saturday?”
“Saturday?” Brooke echoes, like she's completely lost.
“You know, your aunt's babysitting and all that. You want to hit that art festival in Old Town or something?”
“Arts Alive?” Brooke asks and then starts gathering her hair into a ponytail. It takes her some serious effort because it's all caught up under her ass. I'd sure like to be caught under this chick's ass. “I don't even know if Monica really will show up. She hasn't contacted me since.”
“If she does, you want to go? I could show you some of my favorite haunts down there.” I pause and let a smile tease my lips. “Some of the best places to fuck without getting caught.”
Brooke's mouth drops open as I take a left towards the restaurant, pulling into the parking lot without hearing a response from those pretty lips of hers.
When I park the car and turn to look at her, she's finally closed her mouth and is staring at me like I'm insane.