One Last Shot (Pub Fiction #3) (2 page)

How was the pain from never again feeling the warmth of my parents’ hugs ever to be healed?
Hugs that had made me feel so wanted.

The missing “I love you’s” called out every time I left the house to go to school or spend time with friends?
Who was going to wait up to make sure I got home safely?

How was time going to lessen the blow of never again seeing the smile my dad gave to my mom when he’d flirt with her, not realizing I was watching?

Would
time
chase away the boogeyman and check for monsters in my closet and under my bed, in whatever form they returned?

Was
time
going to be there to chase away the boys when they started to like me? Would it stand in my corner and cheer for me, win or lose?

Would
time
love me and be the one to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day?

No! I need my daddy for that.

I’d been left behind.

And the best thing to say to me was: “Time heals all wounds?”

I would never see them again.

You can’t heal that.

The pain doesn’t subside over time; it only gets masked.

I guess it’s one of those clichéd expressions you use when you don’t know what else to say in a terrible situation. It must have been awful for those police officers to have to give a fourteen-year-old girl news like that. I get that it’s tough, but still, there has to be something better to say…doesn’t there?

Since I hate this stupid saying so much, I guess I should admit that I’ve spent way too much time analyzing its meaning, dissecting the root words and their origins—trying to see if it has any relevance. Trying to understand how it’s become like gospel, as if it were a great epiphany that must be shared among the masses.

And think about it…how can
time
heal anything other than a cut, bruise or a broken bone? How can
time
heal you from what makes you feel so damn much?

Time
can’t heal the heart or stop the mind from spinning reels of those memories which impacted us most in our lives, memories and feelings that hit us in the heart like freight trains, ones that steal our breath. They come out of nowhere, can happen anytime. Memories come and go and it’s something that you can’t prepare for or control. You never know when your brain will decide you’ve been
happy
, maybe even
coping,
before it decides:
WHAM!

And it’s all, “Oh, hey, Claire, it’s time for you to remember that time when…” or “Hey, you, do you remember this?” Or better yet, “Remember when
your parents were killed in a head-on collision?”

In my opinion, the saying should actually go: “Time will not heal all wounds, it just makes you move on. Forces you to deal with whatever it is and to cope. And if you’re lucky, maybe the blow will eventually become a little softer.”

So if you’re asking me if time heals all wounds, I’d say I’m still waiting.

While I was waiting though, someone came into my life, someone that started to strip away my cynicism and showed me I didn’t simply have to wait for
time
.

If only I’d trusted him from the start, maybe he and the healing could have been mine all along? Maybe I just needed the right push—from the right person—to make me see the truth.

Claire

W
hen Kat and
I were sixteen, her parents (my adoptive parents) decided that we could officially start dating. Sure, we had gone out with boys before but it was always in a group setting, not actual one-on-one dating. Pretty much immediately, Kat got involved in a serious relationship—well, serious by our sixteen-year-old standards anyway—with a boy named Damon. He was in Grade 12 and all kinds of dreamy.

I, on the other hand, casually dated here and there, never really committing to anyone. I wasn’t interested in being someone’s “girlfriend”, unlike my friends. I guess I just wanted to save myself from the heartache and let down. I didn’t want to experience that broken feeling again. It had taken me two years to adjust to a life without my parents. Well, to
cope
; I learned to cope without them. Why would I want to subject myself to any kind of heartbreaking loss again?

I’d seen the movies, seen Kat cry over guys—especially Damon. God, what a mess. On and off, up and down for almost a year before they finally called it quits for good. In the end, seeing Kat suffering with a broken heart hit too close to home for me. Watching her feeling remotely like I’d felt losing people I cared about was the final straw. I vowed that I’d never let any man affect me like that, never allow them to make me feel like I’d lost something again. So I’d built a moat around my castle, hired a troll to guard the drawbridge, donned my armour and went to battle—me against love.

As the years passed, I was able to maintain the façade I’d put in place. I was always the fun, happy, flirty girl with the ability to take what I wanted from the opposite sex and move on. Like many of my male counterparts, as I got older I was the love ’em-and-leave ’em kind of girl, rivalling the greatest players and manwhores. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t a floozy by any means, I was just a free spirit who liked to play the proverbial field. And, for some reason, I was able to stay friends with most of the guys I dated or slept with after we’d parted ways.

Even today, I still speak to a handful of the men I’d dated over the years. It’s always been a part of my charm, I guess. I mean, I am a pretty kick-ass buddy to have around. I’ve also been known to turn into one hell of a wing-woman when needed, as well. I’m like a chameleon in a relationship—I can be both lover and friend.

As long as all parties follow my rules, everything in my world is as good as it can get. My number one rule when it comes to relationships with the opposite sex is to never get attached, never develop feelings, and most of all, never let that warm fuzzy glow take over my heart. For me, allowing myself to fall in love with someone would be comparable to a death sentence, a full-blown guarantee to end up with nothing but pain and suffering.

Never love and never get left behind.
This little saying became the mantra I adopted as my heart’s guide after my parents died, which I then set in stone after witnessing the whole Kat and Damon fiasco. I put a lot of stock in this mantra to help me remember what it felt like to lose what you love most.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete emotional freak. I just need to protect myself. I love my friends and my adoptive family, but made my rules so I’d never lose my heart in that intimate type of love. The kind of love that people say is found among soulmates and in cheesy love songs, love so strong that when it leaves, it leaves you feeling empty and breathless. That fucked up, all consuming, “I won’t be able to live without you” kind of love. The love that leads to marriage and babies, giving you people who can hurt you and whom you can hurt in return. I never wanted to experience
that
kind of love. And it worked, too. All through high school until my final year of university, I had managed to stick to my rules, until I met
him
. He showed me that my heart wasn’t as impenetrable as I had thought.

We dated and I fell in love.

I fell in love, and I freaked.

It’s because of
him
, now two years later, that this 24-year-old sticks to some new rules like a lifeline—three dates then done.

Unfortunately, tonight’s date just doesn’t get it.

Claire

“C
ome on, Claire
baby. Why you gotta be mean? Let Zack have you one more time,” Zack—tonight’s coital transaction—pleads, despite my blatant efforts to usher him the hell out my front door.

I say “transaction” because Mr. Zack Hastings was not a fuck, not an amusing intercourse, not even an interaction, so much as an unimpressive transaction that I never want to experience again. My poor vagina concurs as memories of the Penis Poke Shuffle (a name I’ve coined for his apparent signature move, the one he attacked us with) begins to play as a nightmare in my mind, the sudden images causing both me and my clitoris to cringe.

“Oh, Christ, you feel so good.” Poke, poke, jab
his stubby little penis went, over and over in some sort of odd asymmetric rhythm, a move which resulted in his nubbin hitting…
nothing!
No G-spot, no orgasm. Nada, zip, zilch. For me, anyway.

How can it be a hit-it-and-quit-it, if it can’t hit it?

Standing in my front hall listening to him plead his case, I can’t help but zone out…

“Tap, tap, tap…is this on?” I take the microphone as I make my way to centre stage. “Attention men of the world, please listen carefully…size does fucking matter. But so does how you use whatever you’ve got, and, yes—practice really does make perfect. Figure out your shortcomings and make up for them. I mean seriously, master the art of cunnilingus; become such an expert at peach nibbling that we become putty in your hands. And guess what? It won’t matter if the sex is good or not ’cause we’ll be so grateful for your mad oral skills we won’t even notice other areas where you’re lacking. We’ll be too busy in Nirvana to care. And maybe learn how to make us come with some hot tit play—again, the sex won’t necessarily matter. Google how to find that coveted G-spot quickly and efficiently. Strive to be known as ‘G-Spot guy’ versus ‘Stubby Dick Dude’. Whatever you choose, please do something to make up for what you lack. I mean, jeez, we do Kegels and have been practicing our oral skills on bananas since our high school slumber party days. All’s fair in the orgasm war. I mean, it is the point after all.

Am I right? Yeah, I fucking am.

Claire Knox out.”

Zack’s voice still nattering on bursts through my thoughts as the sound of my imaginary microphone drops from my hand and hits the stage floor with a
thud
.

He moves closer to me and rubs my nipple, licking his lips as if he thinks this is the art of seduction at its best.

“I can’t, Zack. It’s late and I’ve got an early day tomorrow.” I shove his hand off my boob, stepping around him, hoping my shift in position will force him closer to the door.

“Come on, Claire, you know you really want me to stay. No need to play hard to get, doll. I’m all in.”

Whoa? Did we just reach DEFCON 1? Did this dude forget the rules?

“I’m not nearly done with you,” he smiles, and the dimples I once found sexy are full on, but unlike before, they do nothing. “We could go again and again all night. God, your pussy felt so good around my cock.” He grabs his dick with his free hand and I swear my vagina goes on lockdown at his offer. I can hear the gates clanging shut and the
whoop whoop
of the alarm.

“Sorry, Zack. We had our fun, but it’s time for you to go. Besides, I was clear with my intentions from the start and you told me you were looking for the same thing. No take backs, mister.” I tap his chest semi-playfully.

“Yeah, but that was before. Now that I’ve tasted you, I want more of—”

I raise my hand to stop him from going on and embarrassing himself. “Listen. I have rules, and reasons for them. I know what I want and it’s not this.” I gesture between us. “Again, we had fun, but it’s over. I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear enough about what this was. I’m not looking for more.”

“Come on, baby doll, you know I gave you a good ride, ate that pussy like I owned it. More would be so good between us.” He gyrates while holding his junk, and I have to stifle a laugh. This dude is unreal.
It’d been months since I had sex, and I chose
him
?

My brain is shouting at me to get rid of this guy before he scars us for life. He needs to go ASAP, so we can watch some really hot porn before bed to erase any memory of him, replacing it with one of happier times: just me, my clitoris, my porn hub and my trusty purple LELO.

Unfortunately, Zack Hastings is the worst sex I’ve ever had, and the sad part? He doesn’t seem to get it. This man is gonna make me be mean if he doesn’t get to steppin’.

“Come on, you know it was the best ride you’ve had.”

I bite my tongue. Hard.

I stand face-to-face with him trying to figure out what to say.

What I really
want
to say is this: “Zack, your skills in bed are comparable to painting your living room—all kinds of fun and exciting choosing the colour and shade and buying the paint, but then you get home and start, and you realize not only is it a shit ton of work, but it’s a bit of a mess and fucking boring, too. Waiting for you to get either of us off was like watching mother-fucking paint dry. Boring! Your dick only speaks missionary, and it’s so tiny I swear my vagina rejoiced and shouted out in prayer when the stubby fucker finally came. Lastly, don’t even get me started on your attempts at dominance; I mean who the hell are you to tell me when to rub my clit? I mean, if you wanna play with her, by all means, please do. But, fucker, it’s my clit, and me and her, we go way back so I know when my girl needs
my
attention. Now leave before I scar your manhood for life.” I want nothing more to snap my fingers in his face and shout “
Booyah!”

But I don’t.

Instead I take a deep breath, swallow a laugh, and take the high road.

“Again, Zack, as nice as that all sounds, I can’t. We’ve hit our three-date threshold. It’s late and I’m done. Thank you again for a nice night.” I hand him his baseball hat and keys from the small wooden table, hoping this will finally be goodbye.

“I remember,” he scowls, but still tries to pull me closer. “Sorry for being relentless, I thought…I was hoping, maybe, I was different. I felt we connec—”

Just then my cell phone blares and it’s the one ring tone that always seems to sound at the perfect time.

“Oh, shit, but I need to grab this. It’s my sister,” I say reaching for the phone as Kat’s Wonder Woman ringtone bleats again.

I slide my finger to the left, answering the call.

“Hey, sis…Oh, no! What? Okay, just hang on…okay…yep…yep…Oh, honey, no…” I say into the phone, knowing she’ll play along. “Okay, give me one minute,” I finally say, covering the phone before looking to Zack.