Authors: Monica Murphy
I know this because she loves to tell me all about her sexual escapades in graphic detail. I think she likes shocking me, which is fine. I actually soak up all those details and wonder exactly what the big deal is about sex.
It sounds kind of horrifying. Awkward. Painful. Demeaning. It makes me happy that I choose to be alone.
Mom hates that I work at the diner and tries as often as possible to convince me to quit, but I can’t. I need the job to pay for the extra expenses my scholarship doesn’t cover. I work two jobs and go to school full time. I’ll be a senior next year and then after that, I want to get my master’s in education. Not here, though.
I can’t wait to leave this town. It’s so not my scene. I can get into a college much closer to home, Walnut Creek. Well, we
used
to live in Walnut Creek, until we lost pretty much everything we had. Mom now lives in an apartment in Concord. She made me stay here so I wouldn’t have to face the scandal every day.
Her words, not mine.
Tonight the diner is quiet, but it’s Wednesday, so that’s normal. I shuffle from table to table, serving up giant plates of fries or nachos to the tables full of students. Breakfast to the two old dudes just off shift from the electrical plant, endless cups of coffee to the two guys who came in earlier to study for some crazy test they have coming up in less than six hours.
The usual.
That’s why I’m shocked when the door swings open approximately sixty minutes before my shift ends and in walks Owen Maguire with two other guys as big as him, though not as good-looking.
Crap
. I hate that I even think like that.
I’ve never noticed him in here before, but who knows if I would have. I’m usually not thinking about hot guys. I’m usually just … working.
But this guy is different. I meet him once and I can’t forget him. His defiance is irritating, but his face … his eyes …
“Well, check you out.” His voice draws my attention and I snap my head up, our gazes locking. He’s smirking at me, a little wobbly on his feet, and I know in an instant he’s drunk.
Must have a fake ID to get into the bars, considering he’s only nineteen.
“Hi.” I flash the three drunk boys a brief smile before letting it fade. “Want a table?”
“Sure do,” Owen says, his smirk growing. I want to slap it off his face.
Or kiss it off.
Ignoring my disturbing thoughts, I lead them to a table, stepping away when Owen seems to get right up into my personal space. “Nice uniform,” he murmurs just before he slides into the booth.
I can smell beer on his breath and I wrinkle my nose. I’m wearing an ugly black polyester waitress uniform that is the dowdiest thing on the planet. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone, so I’ve never really had a problem with it before.
Yet for whatever reason, now I want to shed it like a snake sheds its skin. Just wiggle out of this ugly, unflattering dress and toss it in the trash. I hate that he’s seen me like this.
But I like seeing him.
“Something to drink?” I ask, casting my gaze at all three of them, not letting it linger on Owen. He might get the wrong idea, and I need his respect if I’m really going to be his tutor. I have a strong feeling that’s not going to work out, but a girl can hope.
You are not hoping. You’d rather not deal with him at all.
I’m such a liar.
His friends order Cokes and Owen asks for coffee, which surprises me. I leave the table and go behind the counter, preparing their drinks and ignoring the way my shaky knees want to knock together. I’m overreacting.
I both want him here and need him gone.
Irritation fills me at the way I’m thinking. Boys don’t affect me. I don’t care what he thinks, what he wants. So why is he making me feel all shaky and uneasy? I talked to him for ten minutes tops, and then, as if there’s some sort of magnetic pull between us, he shows up where I work. Smiles at me like he thinks it’s funny that he’s found me. Says rude cute things like
nice uniform
in that deep, rumbly voice of his, the one that sent a shiver down my spine.
I am acting like such a total girl, I’m beginning to hate myself.
Forcing myself to pretend he doesn’t matter, I go about my usual routine. I deliver their drinks, then take their order. Deliver it to the cook, then head back out onto the floor so I can wipe down the empty tables, refill napkin dispensers, and take money from the customers who are leaving one by one by one. Until the restaurant is pretty much empty with the exception of me; the cook; the other waitress, Paula; and Owen and his friends.
I take them their food, noting that Owen likes his coffee with a ton of cream. Why I want to store that bit of info for later like a squirrel stores nuts away for winter, I don’t know. It’s dumb. He makes me feel dumb.
And I don’t even know him. He doesn’t care about me. I’m that pain-in-the-ass girl he’s supposed to go see twice a week for an hour to bring up his grades. The one he tried to pay off so she’ll pretend she’s tutoring him and he won’t have to deal with her.
Jerk.
“Anything else?” I ask them minutes later as I drop the check on their table.
Owen slaps his hand against the piece of paper and drags it toward him. “I think that’s it.”
“Great.” I smile, but it feels brittle. “I can be your cashier or you can pay at the register.”
“Hey, what else can you be for us, huh?” one of Owen’s friends asks, making the other one laugh.
My cheeks are hot again and my mouth is open. I’m gaping at them like a dying fish, and thankfully Owen rushes to my defense. “Shut the hell up, Des.” He glances up at me, all traces of the buzzed foolish boy who first walked in here gone. “He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” drunken Des mumbles, clamping his lips shut when Owen shoots him a deadly stare.
“It’s all right,” I say, backing away from them slowly. “Take your time.”
I turn to flee from their table when I hear someone slide out of the booth, strong fingers curling around my upper arm and stopping me from leaving. He’s standing directly behind me, the warmth from his body seeping into mine, and I go completely still. Willing myself not to react, not to say something stupid and embarrass myself.
Look what he’s doing to me just by touching my arm. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I don’t care about boys. I’ve been kissed a measly three times in my life, once by Cody Curtis the tongue thruster, and he definitely doesn’t count.
So twice. Twice I’ve been kissed, and I’m a virgin. A freaking virgin. Owen Maguire has “player” written all over him. I’m nothing to him.
So why is he touching me? Talking to me in that husky, low murmur of his that slides over me like slow, warm honey?
“… need to talk to you. About this tutoring thing,” he’s saying, and I wrench myself out of his grip, irritated that I didn’t pay attention to what he said at first.
“Just meet me Monday afternoon as scheduled and we should be good to go.” I turn to face him, a fake smile plastered to my face, and he stares at my lips for a long, breath-stealing second before he finally lifts those too-pretty green eyes up to meet mine.
My lips are tingling as if he actually kissed them.
God.
“I don’t even know your name,” he murmurs.
What am I doing? Why do I even care about her name? I don’t know her. I don’t
want
to know her. I’d never seen her in my life before today. We had our brief encounter this afternoon where she told me no and pissed me off. Now here she is again.
Wearing a really fucked-up black uniform that’s shapeless and does nothing for her but make her look bad. Her hair is dark, dark brown and her eyes are a wide, innocent blue. She looks completely untouchable, like no girl I’ve ever been interested in before, and I’m asking for her name like I care or something.
“It’s Chelsea,” she answers, and I turn it over in my head. Over and over. Again and again.
Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.
“I was, uh, hoping I could meet up with you tomorrow so I could get my assignments from you.” Man, this is awkward. We’re standing in the middle of this shitty diner, where Des and Wade can overhear every single thing I’m saying to Chelsea the innocent tutor with the blue, blue eyes and the pink, pink lips. They don’t even know what’s going on. I’m going to hear an endless amount of crap once we leave this place.
“Tomorrow? Friday?” Her delicate brows draw downward and her entire face scrunches up like she’s adorably confused. Which she is. Adorable.
Dude. Cut with the “adorable” shit.
“Tomorrow is Thursday,” I remind her.
“No, today is Thursday, considering it’s almost four in the morning.”
“Right.” She makes me feel like a dumbass. I don’t like it. “Can we meet later this afternoon, then? I need to get those assignments, especially if we’re not going to see each other again until Monday.”
A lot can happen between now and Monday. Shit, I can’t even begin to consider all the possibilities. I feel like I’m walking on a tightrope, weaving this way and that, just waiting for the right amount of wind to send me toppling over and plummeting to my death.
This is what my life has turned into. The push and pull. The wanting to do right and instead falling into the same old habit of doing wrong. I want to tell Fable the truth. I want to tell Mom to leave me alone.
I know, deep in my heart, I will do none of that. I will keep going. Keep up the pretense of right and wrong. Of living two lives. One where I’m the good brother who does what Drew and Fable want me to do. And then there’s the other, where I’m the “good” son who slips his mom some money when she comes around asking for it, which is all the time. Then smokes a joint with her and begs her to buy him some beer.
Sometimes, I really hate myself.
“I have class all afternoon.” She sniffs and lifts her chin, all haughty virginal princess. I have no idea if she really is a virgin, but she just screams untouchable to me. “And I have a tutoring appointment at five.”
“How about after?” I chance a glance over my shoulder to find my friends watching me, curiosity written all over their drunk, tired faces. I turn back to face Chelsea to find her studying me, like she’s trying to figure me out.
Good luck with that.
I
can’t even figure me out.
She heaves out a big sigh, which expands her chest, making me notice her tits. They seem decent enough, but I can’t really tell with that ugly uniform she has on. And I hadn’t really checked them out when I first met her, though I had scoped out her ass.
It was nice. Looked real good in those tight jeans she wore, too.
“If you can make it quick, I’ll meet you then. Say around six fifteen? Same room we met in before?”
Relief floods me, making me feel like a pussy. I don’t give a shit about my grades, but Fable is gonna kill me if I don’t get my act together. “I can do that.”
“Okay.” She takes a step backward, her foot poised to turn around. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“See ya,” I say to her retreating back, not moving at all as I watch her walk away, pushing through the swinging door that leads into the kitchen.
I hear my friends snicker behind me and I turn to see Wade and Des climbing out of the booth, stumbling over their feet. The food in their bellies did nothing to calm their drunken asses down and for whatever stupid reason, that pisses me off. I wasn’t as wasted as they were when we first got here and my buzz is pretty much gone. Finding Chelsea working here helped take it away.
My
drunken
buzz. Seeing her, touching her arm even for that brief moment, gave me another sort of buzz I’d rather ignore.
“So who is this chick?” Wade approaches me first, followed by Des.
I shoot them both a look that says shut the hell up, and we exit the diner into the cold, early fall night. The house I share with Wade isn’t too far from the downtown area since we live pretty close to campus, and we start our trek down the side street that leads to our neighborhood. Des will crash on our couch like he always does.
“Remember how I said my counselor wanted to meet with me?” I ask, stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets. I blow out a breath that I can see and hunch my neck lower in my hoodie to ward off the chill.
“Yeah.” Des makes a skeptical noise. “What the hell was that all about? Like, whose counselor ever wants to meet with a student?”
“Is she hot?” Wade asks. “Don’t tell me the sexy little waitress is your counselor, dude. ’Cos she’s hot.”
Irritation fills my veins, making my blood ignite. “No, the waitress is not my counselor, you dumbass. My counselor’s name is Dolores, and I’m pretty sure she’s two hundred years old.”
“That waitress was nowhere near hot,” Des says, kicking at a rock. It skitters across the broken sidewalk and lands on the side of the road. “Did you see what she was wearing? Black polyester sucks.”
“How the hell do you know that she’s wearing polyester? What, are you in fashion design now?” Wade sneers.
Fuck
. These two love to go round and round. Wade is my oldest friend. Des is one of my newer friends. They claim to like each other, but sometimes …
I wonder.
“Knock it off,” I tell them both, not in the mood. When am I ever in the mood to hear them fight?
“So who is she?” Des asks. “The not-hot waitress wearing polyester.”
I wouldn’t call her hot. But she’s definitely not ugly. She’s … sweet. All clean, wholesome innocence. I bet if I looked close enough, she’d have a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “I met with my counselor, and Coach and Drew and Fable were there.”
“Your brother-in-law was there?” Des’s mouth hangs open. He’s in awe of Drew. Wade’s not, because he’s known him forever, but Des and I only became friends early in our freshman year of college. The fact that my brother-in-law plays for the 49ers sends most guys into a dumbstruck stupor.
“I’m failing a few classes,” I say, my voice grim. “They got me a tutor. The waitress?”
“Is your tutor,” Wade finishes for me, shaking his head. “Man, you need to keep clean. No more dope for a while.”