Chapter Seven

Booker

My head feels like someone smashed it with a sledgehammer. I reek of booze and bad choices. Foggy memories of the previous night flutter through my mind, fading in and out. Cat. Stumbling home. Unable to discern between reality and fantasy, I roll out of bed.

Did I even see Catherine last night?

Was she really here?

Or, like all the other ghosts of my past, was she merely a figment of my own fucked up imagination?

I shower, and like I do every morning, make my way to the kitchen completely nude. It's a primal ritual, telling the dictatorial society who says I have to dress before having my coffee to fuck off.

“Holy shit,” I bark out.

Cat, dressed in a Batgirl tee and tiny denim shorts, stands next to the kitchen counter, scooping coffee into a filter.

“Shiiiiiiiit,” she yells back at me, jumping. Coffee scatters on the countertop like scurrying ants.

Her stricken eyes skirt over every muscle on my body, lingering on my semi-erect cock. It pulses the entire time her eyes are on it. I don’t try to cover him up. Let her see.

She blushes and opens her mouth to speak, then stops.

I’ve left her speechless. “Cat got your tongue?”

She covers her eyes. “Will you put that thing away?”

“Thing?” I grin at her discomfort. “My perfect hard rock, Cat?”

“Yes, please put it away.”

“Not until you tell me why you're standing in my kitchen.”

“We start today,” she explains, “and I wanted to check on you. You were pretty wasted last night. I was worried.”

Her answer surprises me. Worried. She was worried. About someone she doesn't even know. About some dick who threw her rock in the ocean and stole her fucking donut. About some asshole playing god with people’s fate.

I don't want her to be so nice—so pretty. Remaining detached is how I've always operated, and that's how it needs to be.

“Let me get dressed.” I head down the hall, calling out over my shoulder, “And relax, you act like you’ve never seen one before.”

When I return, the mess is cleaned and the strong aroma of coffee permeates the air.

“I'm heading to the nursery,” she informs me, holding out a silver travel mug. “You're coming with me. You can pick out what you like.”

“You do remember I’m selling the place, right? Doesn’t matter what I like.” I grin, leaning against the counter.

“Well, you can still have a say.” Her voice wavers between nice and short. It’s like she doesn’t know how to act around me.

And I don’t blame her one fucking bit.

With the way I have been toward her, I’m surprised she’s being civil at all.

Against my better judgment, I decide to play nice. I take the coffee mug and grab my keys. “Let’s go.”

We hop in my mustang and put the top down. She smiles, not caring the wind is turning her hair into a mini tornado around her head. It's sexy.

She navigates me to the local nursery, and when we step inside, greenery assaults my eyes from every corner of the massive warehouse building.

“They have the best selection of plants around,” she tells me, waving at a girl behind the counter. Another employee waves as we pass, and I feel really out of place.

“You’re quite popular here.”

“I like to shop.”

“Most girls like to shop for clothes not plants.”

“I guess I’m not like most girls, then.”

“No, Catherine, you most definitely are not.”

We weave through the pallets covering the concrete floor. Plants. Plants. Plants. Of every shape and color. Boring. I can’t even pretend to try to be interested. But, anything is better than sitting at home alone.

I get enough of that at night.

Being around Cat today, and out of the house, I have to say, my mood has shifted.

The deep dark despair has lifted a bit, leaving in its wake a soft, shimmering ray of hope. Now I just need to hold onto it. Not let it go.

Because if it leaves me, if it fades out, then I’ll have nothing left but the darkness again. And I don’t like that.

I don’t like where my head is at when the darkness washes over me.

So, instead, I walk around a nursery, glancing at plants. Plants I don’t give two shits about. But, Cat does.

I hope Austin appreciates her love of plants.

Who am I kidding? Of course he does. He thinks he loves her.

I’ve never loved anyone.

And that scares the ever-loving shit out of me. No love. No pain. No feeling whatsoever.

What do they call people who don’t feel?

Exactly.

Psychopath.

And that’s not me.

No, it’s not me.

My shrink would be proud I'm analyzing my inner psyche while looking at fucking potted plants. I should pull over a lawn chair, really have a go at it. She says I feel too much.

She might be right, because I feel that if I stand here next to Cat for a second longer, I may just kiss her. I'm not sure why my mind went there with her. But, she's got these great lips. Her lips are what sonnets are written about. I’m sure Shakespeare had a girl just like her.

One who smiled at flowers.

A girl who smelled even sweeter.

I’m sure he had a girl just like her.

And those lips will be my undoing unless I remember why she's around in the first place.

She’s meant to be with another man.

“What do you think of these?” her sweet voice sounds.

She holds up a potted plant, green leaves with red buds.

I nod. “Ok, sure.”

“Do you really like them?” She arches a brow.

I scrub a hand down my face. “Yeah.”

“Hmm, really?”

“Honestly? They all look the fucking same to me.”

I roll my eyes and turn away.

“You don’t have to be a jerk,” she calls to my back.

“I said I liked them,” I call back over my shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have brought you along,” she mumbles.

“I heard that.”

“Good.”

I keep walking away from her, down the aisle, the reds, yellows, and purples of each flower catching my eyes as I pass by. I wander into an area filled with garden statues and gnomes. Creepy little fuckers.

“Can I help you?” a lady with a short grey bob, asks.

“Just browsing.”

She slides her hands in the pockets of her red smock. “You’re here with Cat?”

“That I am.” I pick up a small stone statue of two turtles humping, inscribed with ‘Faster. Faster.” This definitely needs to be in the garden.

“She’s great.”

So I've heard.

“She said she's working for you, fixing up the backyard because you’re selling.” I snap my eyes over at her. “Always loved that house. Your parents were good people. How's your mom?”

“Dead,” I tell her.

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” she sympathizes, her thin pink lips tilted down.

Well, that's enough of this.

It makes me moody and broody. Bothered and twitchy. A headache works its way into my temples, squeezing, and I no longer want to be here.

“Thanks.” I take my turtle and walk away.

Unable to find Cat in this maze of green, I spot one of those phone paging things on a pillar.

Aggravated, I pick it up. “Attention, please,” my deep voice sounds across the space, “Catherine Wells, wherever you are, tear yourself away and report to the tiki torch aisle. Stat.”

Two minutes later, she rounds the corner, an invoice in her hand.

“Seriously?” she says, her tits bouncing beneath her tee. “I was placing an order.”

“Didn't your mom ever tell you not to wander off?”

She stops in her tracks, a shadow of hurt passing over her features. “Actually, no. But maybe someone should've told her, considering she left a little girl and never came back.”

“Shit, I'm sorry.”

She shakes her head. “It's ok,” she says, trying to make me feel better. “I'm not bitter, even though I may sound it.”

I can't help it, I smile. And then she smiles back, slow and easy, and just like that the tension in my head eases.

“I picked something out,” I tell her, holding out the turtles.

She steps closer and laughs. “That's probably the slowest sex there is.”

Suddenly, it's a thousand degrees in here—a hothouse rather than a nursery. Man is one of life’s simplest creatures, letting the one thing we know for certain drive us in everything we do...sex.

It’s true. Research says men think about sex on average about nineteen times a day. Some even say they think about it every seven seconds. If that’s the case, it’s over eight-thousand times a day in sixteen waking hours. And now, thanks to her innocent remark, her sweet smell, slow, unhurried sex with Cat rushes through my mind. Her begging me to go faster.

She looks up at me, her eyes drifting across my face, dropping to my lips. Instinctively, I lick them.

“Cash register is up front,” she says, turning away.

***

When we return to the house, I help her unload potting soil and mulch. This shit is heavy, and I'm not sure how a petite girl like Cat manages this stuff by herself.

“First thing I need to do is clear the area,” she states, hands on hips, surveying the yard.

“Clear the area?” She looks over at me. “That sounds very ominous.”

“Don't be scared. I'm a professional,” she reassures me, with a twinkle in her eye. “A stick of dynamite and we’re good to go.”

“Actually, that's not a bad idea,” I say. “Blow the whole place up. Then I won't have to feel guilty.”

She tilts her head, and the quizzical look on her face tells me I should've kept my mouth shut. I've spent years constructing these walls, and in one day, Catherine Wells knocked a hole in one.

I slap my hands together. “Let's get started.”

“Well no,” she says. “The client doesn't help me.”

“Well I'm not the normal client.”

“I'll say,” she murmurs.

And for the remainder of the day that’s what we do. Together. Silent. Working, sweating, moving as one to clear every last bush, weed, and dying shrub from the yard. Ripping the clinging roots from their home.

A good first day. A good distraction.

“I'll be back tomorrow,” she says, removing her work gloves.

A smidge of dirt streaks her cheekbone. Without thinking, I thumb it away. Her skin is soft, tempting.

“I promise I’ll be dressed,” I say, dropping my hand. Then I let the asshole out. “Unless you don't want me to be.”

She gives me nothing in return. “Be dressed, please.”

Please. Again with the please instead of telling me to choke on my own dick. After she leaves, I head to my computer. Google.

A quick search on Catherine Wells shows me everything I want to know.

But I don’t care about any of that. One goal. I have one goal. I click on images and am relieved when I see her face.

Breathing heavily, I unzip my jeans and pull my already hard cock out and jerk off to thoughts of her.

There’s nothing gentle about how I handle myself.

Fuck her for turning me on with her niceness.

Fuck her delicate curves and soft skin.

I stroke my cock imagining kissing her rosy lips, massaging those round, plump breasts, squeezing her ass and making her moan in pleasure.

My cock grows painfully hard, and there’s only one thing that will ease the torture: release. I want to touch her, run my fingers through her slippery heat.

Ah, it feels so good.

My cock throbs. My balls tighten.

My mind races.

Once I come so hard I can barely breathe, I grab the bottle of bourbon. Fuck a glass.

I clean myself up, and then down as much as I can in one giant gulp.

I keep drinking until I can’t see straight. Until the image of Catherine is erased from my head. Until the smell of her sweet perfume is gone.

Until I can’t physically stand up and function.

And then I drink a little more as I curse out loud.

Fuck this house.

Fuck this life that was handed to me.

And fuck Austin for bringing this girl to me.