I’ve never believed in the damsel in distress or the white knight scenario. That shit isn’t real. Well, it’s real fake and made up is what it is. But, the minute I felt that woman’s skin under my hands I considered a new set of beliefs. Like the feeling you have when static is in the air, her skin sent little zaps of something through my fingertips. Then, when she looked up at me, eyes blinking to adjust to the bright sun, my dick twitched. My dick twitches anytime I see a beautiful woman but, this one was different. Something about the way she held herself and then the level of sass and attitude she threw at me when I complimented her sweet ass took it to another level. Funny enough, I didn’t even see her ass.
Watching as she walked away, determined and fierce, I allowed myself a few seconds to watch the ass that is, in fact, much more than sweet. She’s wearing a pair of fuck me heels I’d like to see up close and personal. The way that skirt hugs her curves has me thinking far too many dirty thoughts this early in the day. Damn Jameson and his conquests. I wish he’d let the rest of us have a chance and just hook up with Ashton. Those two have been dancing around each other for years. Throwing jabs and insults at every turn it’s like some weird foreplay between them. Twenty minutes in a room with the two of them and each of us needs either a cigarette or shower. The sexual tension is real.
Instead, they’ll allow this ridiculous level of dysfunction to continue and I’ll sit back waiting for them to get it together and the ladies in this town to realize there are other single guys. It’s not like I’m living life like a monk, but when one of your best friends is considered “the catch” you kind of get lost in the shuffle.
Jameson and I have been friends for what feels like forever. Along with our buddies, Landon and Bentley, we have more of a brotherhood than friendship. Ben left town shortly after graduation and we didn’t see much of him for close to a decade. The same decade I managed to waste away not doing much with my life until Jameson finally had enough of me feeling sorry for myself and offered me a job. I’ve never admitted it but I wonder where I’d be if he hadn’t done that.
Friends or not, Jameson has never given me a free pass. Half the time I feel like he’s harder on me than the rest of the guys on the crews. But, once I discovered how much I actually enjoyed hard physical labor we’ve kind of found our stride. He’s been offering me more responsibility, and with each task I take on, my confidence grows.
Offering the hot blonde another look, I see her sitting in her car, head resting back on the seat, probably allowing the air conditioner to do its job. It’s hot as hell today and I’m looking forward to the air in the office myself. I wonder briefly why she was here. It isn’t like Jameson to have one of his conquests stop by the office. If nothing else, he’s a professional and proud of his business. No chaos and no drama are his top priority.
Taking the stairs two steps at a time, I throw open the door to the office and find Jameson at his desk, pen posed over a piece of paper. I drop myself into the chair across from his desk as he raises his head to look at me. Annoyed, per the usual.
“Dude, who was that hot piece of ass?”
“Owen, that woman is our new office manager. Show some respect.”
“She’s hot. Totally your type. Hell, she’s everyone’s type. Did you see that rack?” I hold my hands up to my chest to indicate the handful each of her breasts were.
After a lecture about respect and the new office manager’s drama, not sure exactly what drama because the minute he started talking about how rough she’s had it, I tuned out. I don’t have time for that. I don’t want drama, or stress, or anything else. Nope, I want to have fun and not live life too seriously for a change. I’m sick and tired of trying to find a way to prove my worth.
Jameson fills me in on the week’s jobs and I can tell instantly he is relieved to have some help with the office. His business has grown a lot in the last few months and I’m not sure I could handle that pressure. Before I left to return to the job site, we made plans to hang out tonight at Country Road.
Our town doesn’t have a lot of options for a night life and The Road is as good as it gets. In the old days, when my parents were together and happy, The Road was more of a country dive bar. It reminded me of that old Travolta movie from the eighties with the mechanical bull. Then, over the years it just became more of a dive than anything else. That is, until a few years ago, when Taylor took the reins. He’s managed to turn the place around and it’s less country and more non-descriptive. I like that it’s laid back and you never know what song is going to bump through the speakers.
Thinking of a time when my parents were together and happy brings conflict to my already fucked-up head. My dad, Lee Butler, was a forty-something single man when he met my mom, Karen. And little Karen was a twenty-year-old girl with big dreams and a load of daddy issues.
You know how the story goes, confirmed bachelor meets beautiful young girl who thinks he hung the moon. They fulfill something in each other nobody else does, hook up, hump like bunnies, get pregnant, and ultimately end up married. As the story goes, neither are in the life they want, primarily taking care of a kid—me. After a few years of conflict and less-than-loving relationship, Dad came home to a Dear John letter and me sitting in front of the television waiting for someone to bring me dinner.
That letter broke my dad. Turns out, Lee Butler actually had a heart at one point and it belonged—belongs—to my mom. The one that didn’t have the heart? My mom. She bailed. Packed her shit while I was at school, picked me up like usual, and then, when she dropped me at home, told me to be good for my dad and left. She didn’t even tell me she loved me.
Dad fulfilled his obligation and provided a roof over my head and food on the table, but as an eleven-year-old boy, I wanted a family. Sure, the one I had was kind of a mess but at least we were a family. Then, my mom left and my dad became a shell of the man he was. He drank too much, he ignored me, and he never once tried to move on. Honestly, I don’t even know if my folks divorced. Dad isn’t much of a talker. But, he’s the only father I have and I still make the effort.
That’s a bit of a stretch. When I moved out, I asked if I could use his basement for my home brewing setup and he reluctantly agreed. After I offered to pay him rent. I can’t wait to buy my own house and no longer have to live in an apartment or rely on my dad’s space for anything.
After a long day of work, I check the clock and make sure I have enough time to stop by my dad’s house to check my newest batch of brew before heading home to eat and get ready to meet up with the guys. As I pull up in front of my dad’s house, I realize my poor timing when I see the man himself walking out of the house. I’m not really in the mood for one of our awkward and forced conversations but joke’s on me. I pull my keys from the ignition and hop out of the Jeep as he stops next to his car.
“Pop, how’s it going?”
“Owen,” he says with a curt nod.
“Lawn’s looking good. How’s that new mower working for you?”
“It’s just fine.” Neither of us speaks, the awkwardness is, well, awkward. “I better go,” he says opening the door to his sedan.
“Have a good night at work.”
And that’s how my conversations with Dad are and how they’ve been for eighteen years. Dressed in his security guard uniform, Dad’s setting out for the night shift like he has for the last ten years. My entire life, he’s been a security guard for various businesses, but working nights started years after my mom left. He began to spiral and, I guess, being around me was too much. I was young but I knew, even then, he blamed me.
Well, my mom had already blamed me in her goodbye letter so his reaction was only natural. The night Dad passed out with the letter in his hand and I read what it said, I was devastated. As a young boy, knowing my mom didn’t want me anymore was life altering. What I didn’t realize as a kid was how much her words hurt him as much as they did me. Now that I’m an adult, I see how the nights were the hardest for him. My dad went from sharing his bed and his life with a woman to not only an empty bed but all the responsibility of caring for me. Which is why he slowly turned to find solace at the bottom of a bottle—or beer can. Dad became a drunk and not necessarily the fun kind. Eventually, he recognized his spiral and chose to fill his nights with something else; he chose to work. The night shift was a strong effort to not getting shit-faced every night.
Life was a little better when he transitioned to the night shift and I was grateful that as much disdain as he showed me, he recognized how his drunken rants hurt me. By my sophomore year of high school, he even tried to act like he cared about what was happening in my life, but the damage to our non-existent relationship was done. Some words you can’t take back and the effects they have are everlasting, regardless if they’re fueled by alcohol or hatred. Sometimes I wasn’t sure which fueled Dad’s. Over the years, we’ve swept it under the rug because as much as we hate to admit it, we’re the only family the other has. I’ll never hear an “I’m sorry” from my dad; he isn’t much of an apologizer. Instead, the words linger in the air between us like dark clouds before a storm.
Without another word, he opens the door to his car and pulls away from the house. I watch him drive away before going inside and down to the basement. After checking the fermentation of my tubs, I make a few notes on my charts and then head back upstairs. I stop for a few minutes in the living room and take in my surroundings. Not much has changed in the last twenty years or so. The furniture is different but in the same spot. The television is upgraded and on the wall but at the end of the day, most of time has stood still in this house.
The same feeling of being the catalyst that broke up my parents’ marriage overcomes me and I quickly walk out of the house. Being here hurts more than I’ll admit to anyone, especially myself.