Wreck Me (4 page)

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 assholes 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 fucking 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 pussy-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 fuck 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.