Chapter 9

Haylee

“He kissed me. He put his damn lips against mine, and he kissed me like he never left me and his unborn child in the middle of a barren desert wasteland.”

Dixie sighs the heaving exhale of the long-suffering and gives a little eye roll. “Well, in his defense, that little ole part about the unborn child is still a mystery to him.”

“That we know of,” I snap. “It’s like he can see right into my soul. He probably already has a college fund set up for her so she can attend MIT and become the next Steve Jobs.”

The smell of frying bacon assaults my nostrils and my stomach actually has the audacity to rumble, reminding me that I’ve barely eaten anything since Ford Caldwell waltzed into my house uninvited and took over every emotion I possess. But he’s got the market cornered on inciting my anger. He’s standing on the fringe of my life, demanding entry, and all I want to do is slam the concrete door to my heart right in his smug face. How dare he just walk up the driveway and start knocking like he belongs there?

Maybe he does belong there.

“From what you’ve been tellin’ me, if Ford knew about Atlee, he’d be doin’ more than beatin’ down your door to steal a kiss or two.”

She’s right, but I don’t do anything other than give a slight nod because she’ll get herself going with even the slightest encouragement and I’m exhausted. Our shifts just ended and Dixie and I decide to share a graveyard breakfast entrée. Eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon, and toast. And don’t forget the mixed berry jelly. Toast isn’t toast without jelly. Atlee loves it with peanut butter, too, but I’m a purist. Dixie still pisses and moans every time she eats in Vegas that she can’t get homemade grits like her nana made, but she’ll get over it.

“Haylee, is your shift over for today?”

No. No. No.

Please, Lord, anything but Brad. Not Brad. Not today.

“Hey, Brad. You have to work tonight?”

“Yup.” He gives me his best smile, which always looks a little creepy. “Always down for dinner here before my shift, though. It’s no fun to always sit down to an empty apartment and a frozen dinner.”

“I think I hear Justine calling me from the kitchen,” Dixie says. I stab her with my knife-like glare. She knows how I feel about Brad, and here she is deliberately leaving me alone with him. He’s going to start asking me inappropriate things. He’s going to get handsy, and I’m going to get pissed.

End of story.

Haven’t I dealt with enough lately with Ford’s trying to control me? Pushing me into a corner and forcing me to feel things long dead and buried? The last thing I need is Brad. What is it with guys always wanting something? It’s like they’re nameless, faceless sets of limbs reaching and grabbing. Anything with a penis can just go fuck right off.

“Hmm…maybe you should take a cooking class or something. I’ve heard good things about the community college. I know they offer classes for adults to learn the basics so they can always put a simple but delicious meal together. Then you wouldn’t have to come to Manzo all the time just to get a home-cooked meal.”

He sits down across from me in the seat that’s probably still warm from Dixie’s Benedict Arnold ass cheeks. “I’ve looked into that, but they’re only offering one for couples right now. They say it makes for a really great date activity.”

Fuck me.

The expectant look on his face makes me feel sorry for him, but I want to slap him at the same time. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s not my type. At all. I like my men more confident – and less lonely. With black hair and piercing blue eyes. And glasses. Definitely glasses.

Not that I’ve had a man in the past few years. I’m starting to wonder if my lady parts have gone into hibernation. I’ve only had one boyfriend since Atlee was born. If you could call him that. It was more like a mother/son relationship but with fucking. I took care of him, cooking, cleaning up, paying his rent. All he provided was a cock and the random lukewarm orgasm. After that debacle, I promised myself to swear off men for a while and focus on raising my incredible little girl.

“Really? I guess I never thought about cooking as romantic,” I say, deflecting. Hoping against hope that he’ll get the hint. But I’ve known Brad for years, and he’s not a hint picking up kind of a dude. He’s more of a “Here’s a kick in the nuts. Does it hurt? Do you get it? I’m not having sex with you if you were the only man on earth with a pail of water and my vagina was on fire” kind of a guy.

“No, Haylee. It’s really romantic. It is. Think of all that fruit and stuff.”

Is he hinting at some warped awkward man version of 9 ½ Weeks? Brad is never going to feed either of my sets of lips a chocolate dipped strawberry.

“Yes, well, I already know how to cook so that doesn’t interest me at all.” The moment the words leave my lips, I worry that he’s going to interpret that as an offhand invitation to cook for him. Not gonna happen in his lifetime.

“Really? What’s your favorite dish to cook?”

I falter. I inhale. I want to crawl underneath the Formica table and pretend I never came to work today. “Ah…I don’t know. Things, I guess.”

He leans closer, his eyes falling to my lips. I suck them into my mouth and away from his gaze. “Sweet things or savory things?”

Dammit, he just won’t quit, and there’s no way in hell I’m punting him any kind of hard object that he could interpret as a bone. My brain fires on all cylinders trying to come up with a neutral response. I always used to make beef liver and onions with my mom. One of the only kids in my social circle that would actually eat it. The meal reminds me of her, and sometimes Dixie still makes it for me when I’m feeling extra down and lonely. I miss my mom so much.

“Liver. And onions. Smothered in onions.”

The disgusted look on his face causes a streak of delight to race up my spine. I think I’ve finally managed to get him to back off. He probably imagines me in an apron and nothing else, whipping up a huge batch of organ meat just for him. Had I said cupcakes, it would have completed his perverted fantasy. No such luck, meathead.

“Ah, that sounds…delic…interesting.” He’s got his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, and he’s rocking back and forth on his sneakers. Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. But in this case, I wish a stiff desert breeze would whip through the casino so we’d have a man down situation. I’ve had enough of men. Even if they’re ninety, if they have a twig and berries, no matter how shriveled, I’m over it.

“It’s my favorite meal,” I lie. “I make it every week. And it has to be beef liver. Atlee has a pet pig, and she’s on a pork strike in his honor.”

He wrinkles his nose, but is clearly not put off by my food preferences. “You know,” he says, looking me up and down like I’ve developed a skin of sugar and he wants to lick me like a lollipop. “I don’t like animals. They don’t belong in the house. If we start seeing each other, you’re going to have to give him away.”

I stiffen. Give away Gerald Ford, my daughter’s best friend and confidante. Douche bag Brad did not just say that.

“Sweetie pie,” Dixie’s voice cuts through my white-hot rage. I fist my hands to keep them from shaking and reaching across the expanse of the table to throat punch a man who’s such an idiot. He’s not ill-intentioned. He’s just that socially inept. “I’m worn slap out. Can you get your pretty little behind in gear so we can go home?”

Our dinner hasn’t even arrived yet, so I know Dixie’s only saying that so I don’t commit a felony murder in the third degree and force Atlee into the piss-poor Vegas foster system.

“Got to go, Brad,” I manage to spit out. He doesn’t even notice my barely controlled ire directed straight at him. “See you next week.”

“Er…bye.” His mouth stays open for several seconds as if he’s a human Venus Fly Trap. I almost want to grab an olive from the server station and see if I can make a bucket in one shot. After staring like a doofus, he finally turns and creeps away.

“Well, bless his lil’ ole heart,” Dixie says, sinking down into her seat.

I scowl at her. “Let’s not and say we did.”

I don’t want to bless any of Brad’s organs. Not his heart or anything else. And especially, not that one. I’d probably have to use a microscope to find it.

Justine peeks around the corner with a platter in one hand and an empty plate in the other. “Is he gone?”

“Yup, it’s safe to deliver our food.”

“He’s such a dumbass,” Justine says, sliding the platter before Dixie, who scoops out half of the delicious looking breakfast on my plate. “Why is he always hitting on you, Haylee? He probably only has sex with his right hand, and if he does get naked with a woman, I’d wager a cool million he’s a two-pump Chuck.”

My sentiments exactly.

“You’re right, Justine. That Brad, why, he’s no bigger than a minnow in a fishing pond. All of his parts.”

I can’t help but laugh at Dixie as I take a bite of my hash browns. They’re crispy and buttery bits of carbohydrate heaven. Juan, the sous chef, knows just how I like them and he’s fried them to perfection.

After Justine leaves, Dixie takes a piece of toast and proceeds to slather an entire tiny package of grape jam on the half slice.

“After dealing with Ford, I just can’t deal with Brad on top of it. Was I uber bitchy to him? I felt like crossing the line, but at the end of the day, I’m not the girl who’s mean to men just because she can be.”

“No, you didn’t cross the line. Brad’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer anyway. Even if you walked up to him, slapped him across the face and told him to get bent, he’d still think he had a sliver of hope. Kind of like that Jim Carrey in Dumb & Dumber. Poor, poor Brad. He’s never going to get his slice of Haylee-berry pie, is he?”

My lip curls up into an Elvis snarl. “The devil will buy a heater before that happens.”

“So, back to our friend, Ford,” she says, suspending her fork in mid-air. The smell of the bacon calls to me, so I take a bite off the crispy side. I don’t like my meat flopping around like a wet noodle. “He’s swoon-worthy. Is he a good kisser?”

I shake my head as I chew. I can’t believe she’s jumping into the deep end of the pool without her life preserver. If she keeps talking about Ford’s skills, I might have to drown her in her eggs over easy.

“I don’t think I should–”

“Let’s see what the cards say, shall we?” The Tarot cards seem to be ever present in her apron pocket. Dixie whips them out and holds them in front of me. I take the one that calls to me most, and she flips it over. “Knight of wands. He’s hung like a horse and able to bring a woman to her knees. Trouble is…when he’s done, he’s gone.”

I don’t know what pisses me off more, that she’s right or that the Tarot told the tale.