Page 5 of Fighting for You
I’d told myself the whole way over this would happen, but I’d also let myself have the smallest bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, I was wrong. And that’s the problem with hope, it always convinces me of shit that isn’t true. It twists my logical thoughts into whimsical dreams that aren’t real or possible. That’s why I haven’t fucked with hope in too many years to count.
“I knew it was a long shot. Can you keep me in mind in case anything changes?” I ask, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
I turn to walk away, but he speaks up again, eyes still on his canvas, “You look like shit.”
The laugh that comes out of me seems to surprise him as I say, “Thanks. See ya, man.”
I walk past the counter and wave at Kori, who’s manning the receptionist desk, before opening the door to Mark of Mason, leaving the remnants of my dream behind me. The moment the door shuts, I pull a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from my pocket, in desperate need of a nicotine fix.
The first pull of the smoke into my lungs calms my nerves. I hold it in as long as I can before exhaling and letting go of the sinking feeling in my chest. As I start walking down the sidewalk of the town square, I see a curly haired brunette come around the corner. She’s looking down at her phone, not paying attention.
When she gets a few steps away from me, I speak up, “Hey, Doc.”
She jumps a bit then puts her hand to her heart like I caused it to leap out of her chest.
“Didn’t take you for a jumpy one.”
“You caught me by surprise,” she retorts, and I realize I was slightly off with the memory of her voice last night. The way I replayed it in my head was a tad too high. I blame the bourbon. I won’t forget its perfect pitch next time I need a distraction and she comes to mind.
“Clearly. Sorry about that,” I say with as much sincerity as I can conjure. I can’t say I’m sorry I’m running into her though. I haven’t been able to get this pocket-sized woman out of my head since I formally met her. Her lilac-cherry smell is more intoxicating than the nicotine I’m inhaling. I pull the cigarette back to my mouth, taking another long draw.
“You look terrible…” she says as her eyes finally meet mine. She takes longer than necessary roaming over my visible wounds. Her nose scrunches, bringing my gaze to her freckle covered face, there’s almost no patch of skin where one doesn’t exist. Staring at her is like being entranced by a car crash you can’t look away from. It’s intoxicating, addicting. As I exhale the smoke, I make sure to turn my face and the toxic fumes away from her.
“So, I’ve heard.” I don’t mean for it to come out clipped, but I can’t help the tinge of annoyance in my voice after having it brought up a second time in a matter of minutes.
“Your umm… your cheek reopened, and your chin is black and blue. Do you—”
“Oh, no,” I cut her off. “It’ll be fine. Besides, I hear scars are sexy,” I say, trying to play it off to remove the look on her face and so she doesn’t feel the need to rush me to the hospital.
“Oh? And who told you that?” A bit of a smirk crosses her face, and a stupid sliver of hope creeps back into my heart.
“I was hopingyou’dthink that.”
The shameless flirting makes her laugh to the point of snorting. “Sorry,” she laughs again. “Sorry, I just… does that usually work?”
Confused, I scratch my head with my free hand, my cigarette almost forgotten at this point. “Does what usually work?”
Her laughter calms down enough for her to reply, “The whole bad boy routine and look.” She waggles her finger up and down my body to make her point crystal clear. “I’m assuming you think that’s also sexy?”
Well fuck.
“I have a bad boy routine?” I ask, genuinely curious. I definitely wouldn’t call myself that, but clearly, she thinks otherwise.
“You get into… altercations. You drive a motorcycle. You smoke. You have tattoos.”
I scoff. “Tattoos make me a bad boy?”
A blush covers her cheeks, and I lose any sense of the annoyance I was feeling.
“Sometimes.”
“And you… don’t like that? So, I shouldn’t ask for your number and if you’re free Friday night?”
The blush deepens before she answers, “Oh, no. Please don’t. I am not your type.”
