Wreck Me (3 page)

“You know… someone who is married or someone who is older, or someone who has stature or some type of title. Someone who deserves respect. I’m none of that so call me Jo.” Why the fuck am I explaining my preference to this guy? His voice. Now that I think about it, it seems familiar for some reason. I’m sure I don’t know this guy. It isn’t possible. I don’t have any friends whatsoever. I never have really. Well, I had one friend once upon a time. Michelle was my friend when I was a kid but I haven’t had anyone since her.

“Okay. Jo.”

“And you are?” I don’t really give a shit who he is beyond the need to appease my own confusing sense of familiarity. I stop picking things up and look at him. His face seems familiar. Who the hell is this guy?

“Damon. Damon Cole.” He extends his big paw and takes my hand in his. The moment we touch something floods through me and I have not the slightest idea what the hell that is. Recognition? Arousal? I’m no stranger to a good looking man and this man is for sure good looking. Most people would call me a slut or promiscuous at the very least. But, I think my sex life is the type of sex life that most woman wish they could indulge in, but refuse to since society as a whole frowns upon my type. I am looking at this man curiously while our hands stay locked in a friendly shake.

“Do I know you?” Handsome and mysterious cocks his head to the side and surveys me speculatively. A tinge of pink has surfaced on his cheeks. Ah-ha! He is attracted to me too. I think I could live with a casual one night stand with this particular male specimen.

“No, Jo. I don’t think so.” The way he says my preferred name has me thinking all kinds of naughty that I could do to him if given the chance at a hook up. I don’t do the relationship thing, but I like sex just as much as the next person. Despite my aversion to lasting relationships of any sort, I get laid plenty.

“Did you come in here to buy something Damon Cole or was it the damsel in distress thing that lured you in?”

I smile at the handsome man before me and wait to see if he takes the bait.

He does.

“I didn’t intend on purchasing a book but if you’d like me to, I will.”

I smile a devilish smile that I pray communicates what I’m thinking. I am glad to help out Damon, but not with a book. He narrows his eyes slightly as if he is contemplating my subliminal offer.

“Listen, I was headed to get some coffee, could you escape work for a few minutes to join me?”

I peek at my mother’s watch on my wrist and smile. I can sneak an early lunch break. Sutton won’t know and even if he did he would likely not give a shit. Besides, what’s he going to do? Fire me?

“Okay, let’s go.”

The strange man smiles and it sets my insides into a feeding frenzy of sorts. I can just imagine those lips of his pressed against my skin. I haven’t had a man in weeks and this man is going to be the perfect distraction to the anniversary of the accident and my looming unemployment. Yeah, I think I’ll have him tonight. We set out down the side walk to the café just down the block. I thank God that it isn’t too hot out yet. June in Vegas is hellish. We stroll casually and we alternate taking quizzical glances at each other. I take in the full view of him.

He wears those dress slacks like they were made for him. His dress shirt is rolled up his forearms, the top buttons are undone and he is without a tie. I bet he hates wearing those stuffy clothes simply based on how casual he has made them. He is easily six feet tall, maybe more. His hair is slightly long on top but short on the sides and is the darkest of brown. It’s edging closer to black but not quite. He has a short, perfectly groomed beard across his angular jaw that I am dying to feel against my cheek. His eyes glow in the sunlight like amber. His lips look soft and inviting and tilt up on just one side when he smiles. I can only imagine what is hidden beneath his clothes. I intend on finding out later.

He starts up the small talk as we take our coffee to a small bistro table.

“So, you work at that book store alone?”

I give my coffee swirl and set the wooden stirrer aside. I look up at the man across from me. God he is gorgeous. I can’t wait until tonight. I cut to the chase and go in for the kill.

“Do you want to hang out tonight?”

His brows rocket up his forehead and I swear they met his hairline for a count.

“Isn’t that my line?”

I shrug.

“I don’t know, is it?”

He smiles back at me and his pearly whites make me melt for him.

“It is. What time suits you?”

He is absentmindedly stirring his coffee in a slow constant rhythm and I watch the flick and swish of his wrist. I wonder if he moves that fluidly in bed.

“Sutton, the store owner is coming in after lunch so that I can leave. I have somewhere to be later, but I will be free afterward. Want to meet me in front of the store around six?”

“Where do you have to be?”

Wow he is pretty forward isn’t he? It’s no damn business of his, but I will teach him a quick lesson in foot-in-mouth-itis. It’s a lesson I love handing out to people who pry.

“I’m going to the cemetery to visit my dead family,” I say flatly.

Ha! There it is. Concern has filled his amber colored eyes.

“I apolog-”

This should be good. I hold up my hand to stop him. I have zero interest in apologies. They peeve me, in fact. They are almost never sincere. It‘s a part of the human condition and it is one that I have never understood. What the hell is with the need to apologize? This man doesn’t possibly feel sorry for my tragic scenario. I have no doubt that he feels sorry, but it isn’t for me. It is for the utter embarrassment that he feels for opening his mouth. He is sorry for himself not for me.

“Don’t. Don’t apologize.”

He snaps his lips shut and looks confused. It’s actually a tad endearing. Hmm, that’s an odd thing to feel. I kind of feel bad for tossing him under the bus. I actually feel a bit bitchy. This is so out of character for me. Well, what the hell do I say now? I didn’t anticipate feeling like an asshole.

“Don’t look at me like that. I just don’t care for apologies. They’re never sincere. I can vouch for this since I have the urge at this very moment to say I am sorry for being so rude. But honestly, my impulse to apologize is only because I feel uncomfortable with the guilt I feel and my stupid human brain associates an apology with mollifying my own discomfort. Apologies are just a reminder of how selfish people are.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. I chance a quick glance up at Damon and his eyes are glued to me.

“That is the most honest thing I think I have ever heard.”

“I have to get back to the store. I’ll meet you there at six?”

I need to get away from this guy and forget about my own human conditions for the time being.

“Tonight at six,” he affirms.

“Okay. Before I go…”

I grab a napkin and dig a pen out of my bag.

“Here is my number and email address in case you want to get in touch with me.”

I hand him the napkin and pause for a moment while he surveys the chicken scratch.

“jojo.geroux?”

He looks confused. So I explain.

“Josephine Geroux. That’s my name. jo.geroux wasn’t available so I went with jojo.geroux.”

He just looks at me with the most peculiar look on his face and that deep feeling of familiarity surfaces again.

“See you tonight, Damon.”

His focus remains on the stupid napkin in his hand as he mumbles his goodbyes.

“Bye, Jo.”

I stand and turn in my strappy sandals. I point my frustrated self in the direction of the store and allow my jean clad legs to carry me back to work as fast as they can.

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 fucking 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 fucking 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.