Page 37 of Chasing Wildflowers
“Who the hell is that perfect? It’s been over a month, and I haven’t found a single flaw. Everyone has flaws.”
I twirl the straw nervously, watching the ice clinking together like wind chimes. Everything I said is true. Jameson is perfect, andnobodyis that perfect. No man goes on six dates with a woman and refuses her every time she asks to touch him. And I’ve asked. Fuck, I’ve even begged.
He says he wants to take it slow. That if I touch him, there’s no way he’ll be able to stop himself from fucking me. And then there’s the dirty talk. God, his voice in my ear, the low rasp of it. Promises of just how good it’ll be. I’m addicted.
Kam leans forward, mercifully lowering her voice. “You think it’s a fetish? Like, that’s what he gets off on? Just watching women get off?”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I think you read too many smutty books.”
She crosses her arms, nails painted a glossy purple that glint under the overhead lights. “We bothknow there’s no such thing astoo manywhen it comes to smutty books.”
I sigh, the sound lost under the grind of coffee beans. “No, I don’t think he has some secret kink.”
At least I hope not. I’ve never come so often or so hard in my life. But I would actually like to have sex at some point.
Kam sits back, crossing one leg over the other, her perfume, vanilla and something floral, catching the air as she moves. She sips her drink, eyes pinned to me, silently willing me to spill.
“He won’t have sex with me until I tell him I’m all in,” I admit finally, the words tasting like a confession.
I haven’t been able to say the words. They get stuck in my throat every time, the fear of the unknown creeping under my skin, mixing with guilt that sits heavy in my chest.
How can I commit to him when I’m lying about who I really am?
Her voice softens. “I get that you are scared, but do you think maybe you are looking a little too hard for those flaws? I’m not saying he doesn’t have any, because lord knows all men do. With the exception of men written by women, of course,” she corrects. “But maybe it’s something simple like he leaves the toilet seat up or only likes action movies. Not every man is going to hurt you like your ex did. Not every man is a piece of shit.”
She’s right. He’s damn near perfect. Maybe I can learn to live with the lie, like I have with her.
Guilt, hot and heavy curls in my stomach. How would I feel if the scenario were reversed? If he was lyingto me about something of this magnitude? I don’t think I’d be able to forgive him.
The smell of lemon cleaner mixed with cigarettes and beer, assaults my nose when I walk intoThe Broken Bottleafter my coffee date with Kam. It’s the kind of smell that seeps into the wood, no matter how many times I’ve scrubbed the walls, mopped the floors, and steamed the carpet.
My shoes give a pull against the floor with each step as I round the bar. “How was it today?” I ask Maddison, my other coworker.
She glances over her shoulder from the register. “Thank God it’s 6 o'clock,” she groans, counting out her tip money. “I’ve had seven customers all day. And One Dollar Rick was in here for FIVE hours. That’s over half of my shift.” She levels me with a look, one of pure disbelief. “He playedFriends in Low Placesseven times. Who listens to a song seven times? IN. A. ROW.”
One Dollar Rick got his nickname because he tips a single dollar no matter how long he squats at the bar. Cheap bastard.
I wince. “Please tell me you are exaggerating.”
She just stares.
“Damn,” I mutter, laughing as I lean against the bar. “Okay, yeah. I don’t envy you.”
“I wouldn’t envy me either,” she says, grabbing her purse. “I hope your shift is better than mine.”
“Me too,” I chuckle as she slips out the door.
I grab a few cases of beer from the back, taking advantage of the quiet to restock. It won’t stay this way long. Weeknights may start off slow but by nine every seat at the bar will be full. The cold air rushing out eachtime I swing the glass door open, carrying the faint bite of hops and condensation.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, the corners of my lips tugging up when I read the message.
Jameson
How’s work going?
He asks every shift, without fail. Same with the good morning text I wake up to.
Lane
