SIXTEEN

Mel

 

Dog told me to get my ass downstairs well over two hours ago. Since then the noise penetrating the wooden floor beneath my feet has damn near tripled, the music shaking the old home right to its foundation.

The last fifteen minutes I’ve sat here with a tube of lipstick in my hand, screwing it out, screwing it down, over and over and fucking over.

It took me twenty minutes just to put my goddamn mascara on. To say I’m not all that keen on parading around like a painted doll would be a huge fucking understatement. But deep down I know Dog’s right in his twisted kind of way.

Only way to face my fears is head on. Only way to remember what I used to love about who I am is to be her.

With a sigh, I roll to my knees and peer up over the edge of the set of drawers to the mirror propped up on top. The deep red hue paints my lips in a slick path, completing the transformation from Mel 2.0, back to plain old Mel.

Back to the dense cow who didn’t understand how fragile life was until hers was ripped apart in the blink of an eye. I’ll never forget how that day played out; Daddy had been hibernating in his office for days on end, barely coming out to eat. I knew something went down, just not what. Women aren’t privy to the inner workings, and until they directly affected me, that didn’t bother me in the slightest.

“Hey, sugar. You got some time for your old man?”

He’d stepped out late in the afternoon, his weathered face even more scored with lines of worry than usual.

“Sure, Daddy.”

And like a lamb to the slaughter, I’d followed him, knowing full well I trusted him with my life. My confidence turned out to be pretty damn justified.

“You gotta go away for a while,” he’d said. “It’s the only way I can keep this pretty face smilin’.”

Only I’m not smiling anymore. Yet what a fickle price to pay for having the rest of my life still laid out before me for the taking.

My chest shudders on an exhale as I set the lipstick down on the wooden surface, and smack my moneymakers together. I used to love painting these bastard things, knowing full well my practiced pouts and wide smile drew the men in like moths to a flame.

Now … it all seems so vain.

“You can do this, Mel,” I mutter to the sad wreck that stares back at me. “You’re a badass bitch, made to take names and kick ass. You’re a Coleman.”

The noise is unbelievable as I descend the stairs toward chaos. I forgot how overwhelming the layered sounds could be when you smash people’s voices over top of thumping bass and throw in a healthy dose of clinking glassware to boot.

A couple make-out in the entrance—nothing unusual around here—another making lovey eyes at each other as they no doubt work toward the same end goal. I step through the wide archway that leads into the main living space, and cringe as the first thing I’m met with is the sight of our treasurer, Digits, feasting on his favorite whore, Heather’s, tit.

I’m literally one more inappropriate sight away from turning around and heading back upstairs. How the fuck did I once think this was normal? More to the point, how the fuck did my parents ever see this as an acceptable environment to raise three kids? No wonder we all turned out the way we did.

Look for Dog. He’s the only reason I went through with this, that kiss back at the convenience store the only motivation to put my war paint on and face the masses.

I scan the room, finding Murphy spread out on one of the armchairs while he engages in a heated debate with a lifer, Crackers at the bar with his ass of choice, Beth, and a circle of prospects in the far corner cheering something on.

Yet no Dog.

“Hey! You decided to join us.” Crackers’ girl, Beth, greets me as I step up beside the two of them to get a drink.

I like her. She’s probably the most levelheaded and honest of all the property girls. Sometimes makes me wonder how she ended up in the role; it’s usually only self-depreciating masochists who seek out a life of being used and degraded for others’ pleasure.

“Thought I may as well get back in the saddle,” I muse as I reach for a bottle of vodka.

More like my foot’s stuck in the stirrup and it’s a case of get back on or die from being dragged along with the beast.

“You need anything, you shout out, hey,” Crackers says.

I give him a small nod as I unscrew the bottle. “You know I will.” I take a swig and cough at the burn. Fuck, I’m out of practice.

“Get it!” One of the prospects hollers from the corner.

The rest clap in unison, chanting, “more, more, more.”

“What the fuck’s going on over there?” I ask, thumbing to the small crowd.

Beth looks away, Crackers frowning a little. “You want to head out front and catch me up on what happened after you left?” he asks.

“There’s really not much to say,” I half laugh. “I sat in the forest and failed miserably at becoming friendly with the woodland creatures like Snow White.”

He fights a smile. “Bet it wasn’t all that dull.” He stands, forcing Beth back from where she’s been standing over his knee. “Come on. Beth can catch you up on things around here, too.”

“Why the rush?” I ask. “I’ve got nothing but time now I’m back, and besides”—I gesture to everyone around us—“it’s not all that quiet around here tonight. Pretty hard to hold a decent conversation, even outside.”

The smile fades from my face as I realize in that moment why Crackers is pushing so hard. He fucks up, glancing over my head to the crowd.

I swear I hear the cavernous echo as my heart hits the floor.

“What are they cheering on, Crackers?” I daren’t turn around.

He flat out ignores me, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a pack of smokes.

“Beth?” I implore her to answer me with my gaze, yet she looks everywhere but at my face, even going so far as to look to Crackers for guidance.

The rational side of me says this has nothing to do with Dog, considering I didn’t exactly broadcast the interest I have in the guy when we arrived. But the frenetic pace of my heart says it has everything to do with him.

I set the bottle of vodka on the bar and turn around, slowly, carefully. Crackers reaches for me, yet his hand slips weakly from my arm as even he gives into the inevitable and lets me go.

I make my way through the people milling about, enjoying their night carefree and unaffected, until I reach the crowd that’s stopped chanting. They erupt into an ear-splitting roar as I reach the outskirts and nudge a prospect aside to see what has their attention glued to the middle of this gathering.

I stare, my eyes glazed at the train wreck before me, yet all I see are trees. Trees and the way the dew would sparkle in the dawn light as I sat on the step of my trailer with a mug of cheap coffee.

I want to go back. Now. So badly, that I’d even forego a fast ride on the back of a nomad’s bike all over again in favor of the unrealistic option to just snap my fingers and be there.

“Mel.” Dog’s eyes go wide-eyed as he wobbles a step to the left, wiping his mouth with his forearm.

I sat upstairs for two hours and used the memory of this man’s words, his touch, to get me to have the courage to come down here like this, and now … Why do I trust people when others warn me not to? Why do I do this to myself?

The crowd falls quiet except for the occasional murmur as I spin on my heel and march from the room. I lash my arm out and snatch up the vodka on my way past, being sure to lay one hell of a hate-filled stare on Crackers.

He knew, and yet he did nothing.

“Mel!”

I glance over my shoulder as Dog crashes into one of the old ladies, his hands reaching out to steady her as much as himself while his gaze stays locked on me.

Well, as best it can when he’s absolutely hammered.

“Just fuckin’ wait up, would you woman?”

The alcohol sloshes to the top of the bottle as I whip around and thrust the vodka-filled hand angrily in his direction. “No, Dog. I won’t.” I stab the drink toward his circus. “Get back to it, huh? Before she gets too cold. I’ve got other things I’d rather be doing.” My eyes coast around the room at the faces turned toward me, at the pitiful eyes. “Fuck it,” I yell. “Probably other people I’d rather do, too.”

He stands shocked as though my words have physically slapped him, his hair a fine mess, making him seem even more gorgeous in this moment of pain.

I hate him for it, for how he can be the biggest jerk there is and still command the room with his effortless charm.

The fornicating couple in the foyer have separated in the chaos, the guy going so far as to open the door for me as I storm toward the exit. The cold night air slaps me as hard as the words that spew from Dog’s mouth as he follows me to the exit.

“Run away again, Mel, since that fixed things so well last time.”

There’s no conscious thought in my next move, only pure agonizing injustice at how out of control I’ve been of my life the past year. I spin around and hurl the bottle at him, vodka spraying in a cartwheel as it flies through the air, narrowly missing him as he twists to one side to avoid the missile.

“Fuck you, you conceited goddamn asshole,” I holler. “Fuck you.” Tears stream down my face, my heart on display for the whole club as he crushes it beneath his dirt-covered boot.

This is why I promised to stay away from him the first time, why I knew we could only be friends. Because how else would it end with a guy carrying a reputation such as his?

I was a fool to believe anything would have changed around here in the time I’ve been gone. Men still take what they want, women still get treated like commodities, and I’m still stuck somewhere in the middle, too precious to touch, and yet not coveted enough to risk the consequences for.

I’m in the no-man’s land between the men at the table and the women who serve them.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots—at least I had the sense to choose my flat soled ones over the less practical heeled pair. I hotshot it across the yard toward the garage, only to change my mind at the last moment and veer right toward the small stand of trees. Something about their darkness, the shadows that promise respite from the world, call to me.

My shoes hit the grass, and yet, still gravel crunches. Fucker. My foot slips as I hasten to get away from him. Nothing he could say right now would soothe this anger in my heart.

Nothing.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he calls through the darkness, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know how to be serious with someone. But you make me want to learn, Mel. You’d be worth giving this up for.”

Except, maybe that.

I turn in time to see him wrench his cut off, dropping it to the ground. My breath stutters in my chest at the sight of him so blatantly disrespecting the club, and I lean right to make sure nobody else has followed or might have seen.

“Don’t be angry at me, babe.” He staggers right, jamming a boot out awkwardly to regain his balance. “I’m a jerk when I’m him.” He points to the cut, groaning as he sinks to his knees. “He’s an idiot,” he says, slurring his words a little. “A fuckin’ idiot. But this guy,” he pounds his chest twice with closed fists, “he only wanted to see you smile.” His words die off, his voice weakening as he sags on his knees, his head almost touching the ground. “He loves your smile,” Dog whispers.

No, scratch that. Koen whispers.

The man doubled before me isn’t the jerk I just witnessed doing body shots off a mostly naked whore. The guy palming the damp grass beneath his hands as though its texture can sober him up, bring him back to reality, is the man I sat upstairs thinking about.

This is why living two lives can never work. This is why he needs to understand the importance behind finding out which Mel I am and running with it.

If balancing two lives destroys him, then what the hell would it do to someone already weakened like me?

“Stand up,” I say softly, approaching him with caution.

He groans; his T-shirt bunched up over his back so that his tanned flesh stands out against his black clothing like a beacon in the dark. His hands walk a path back toward his torso, and yet his head stays firmly planted on the grass.

“Are you okay?” I stop right before him and squat down. “Hey, look at me.”

I don’t know how many shots they got him to do, but the guy’s absolutely roasted. He pushes, his forearms twisting and cording as he heaves his dead weight upright.

“You came back?” he murmurs, his voice breaking on the last word promptly before he hunches over and vomits.

“Oh! Dude!” I scramble back, sure my boots are wearing some of it. “Jesus, Dog. How many did you have?”

He flops onto his back, rolling to the side. “Koen,” he scratches out.

“Dog, Koen, whoever,” I say, doing my damnedest to wipe my boots off on the grass. “You still drank too much.”

I stare down at him, my hands on my hips as I evaluate the sorry mess before me. I’m still mad at the asshole, so much so that I’m worried if I reach out to help him up, the physical contact will prompt me to kick him instead.

But still—my daddy raised me better than to leave a man this skunk-drunk alone on his own.

I pick his cut up off the ground and move it between my hands. I can’t carry it and help him, yet I can’t get it back on him either given he’s flat out. Plus, if I left it out here in the grass to be ruined, he, I, or both of us would get raked over the coals for it.

Glancing back to the distant clubhouse, I sigh, and wrench it on over my own. The armholes hang to the bottom of my ribs, and the length is more like a mini dress, but at least it’s out of the way.

Taking a hold of his T-shirt in both hands, I bunch the fabric at his shoulders and heave. He budges slightly, his head hung back as he moans, and then promptly hits the ground with a whompf as I drop him.

Bastard’s heavier than I gave him credit for.

I re-plant my feet on either side of his hips and throw my back into it. He lolls a little, but I manage to set him upright against my knees while I work out how to get him to his feet.

It’s almost comical, the way his head hangs between my thighs, his hair brushing against the apex of my leather pants. Good for a little teasing later.

“Honey, you’re gonna have to help me.” I tap him on the back between his shoulders.

“You came back,” he mumbles, the words barely coherent.

“I never went anywhere.” I place both hands under his shoulders and jerk. “Can you help me?”

He slams a hand down to his left, and then promptly falls on his back again.

We repeat the same process, more or less, five more times before he finally manages to get to his feet. My side strains, my shoulders protesting at his dead weight, as I guide him across the yard.

He stumbles a few times, but we manage to get up the steps before he completely hits the floor again.

Crackers hesitates mid-step as he crosses the entrance on the other side of the doors. He leans back, head twisted to the side as he looks us over.

“What the hell? I wondered where you two went.”

“A little help?” I nudge Dog with my foot, and he groans.

Crackers chuckles and then runs a palm over his face to wipe the humor clear. “Those prospects sure know how to get their own back.”

“It’s not funny.” I frown. “What if he’d collapsed somewhere and choked on his vomit?”

“Wouldn’t be a first around here.”

“Unless he died from it.”

Crackers steps out onto the porch and gives me a firm slap on the shoulder. “Never mind, fair maiden.”

I roll my eyes. “Just help me get him into bed, would you?”

Crackers bends his knees and tucks both hands under Dog. “Which one?”

“Mine.”

He pauses, Dog suspended in his arms. “Are you sure?”

“Somebody’s going to have to watch him, right?”

“I guess.” He shrugs, making Dog bob in the process, and then heaves him to his feet. “Come on, trooper. Time for nigh-nighs.”

I follow as Crackers damn near carries Dog to bed; the sinking pit in my stomach telling me this probably isn’t such a good idea. As mad as I am at the jerk, there’s a definite flutter that tells me I also still care enough to want to hear his excuse.

A wise woman would leave him to suffer in solitude and walk away.

A foolish woman would nurse him until he felt better, trying to win his heart by playing the perfect girlfriend.

Me? I’m going the same old route I’m used to: straight up the middle. I’ll watch him, make sure he recovers, but he’ll also have a lot to answer for if he expects me to stay on good terms with him.

“You want help undressing him?” Crackers asks as he heaves Dog’s legs onto the bed.

I shake my head, placing my hand to Crackers’ arm. “Nope, I’m okay. Thank you.”

His eyes say it all before he even opens his mouth. “I hope you know what you’re doin’, Mel.”

“Do any of us?” I ask with a small smile.

I know how he is with Beth. Everyone can see how much he loves her, but it seems that even after a year he’s still denying the truth to himself. He’s hardly in a position to comment on the mess I’ve got going on here.

“I guess not,” he answers, stepping back. “Call out if you need any more help.”

“Yeah, I will.”

He leaves the room, pulling the door slightly as he does. I cross over to where Dog lies fast asleep, at least it seems as though he is. Just as much of a chance that he’s simply too messed up to move.

“I’m going to turn the light on, okay?” I was told once that having the light helps fight the spins because your mind has visual anchors to ground you, objects to focus on. Never worked for me, but hey, worth a try for him I guess.

He grumbles in response as I cross over and hit the switch, the bulb taking a few seconds to warm up to its full strength.

“How’s that?”

He flops an arm off the side of the bed and then manages to lift it with one thumb stuck high.

Winning, then.

“Be back in a minute.”

Certain he’ll be okay on his own, I skim downstairs and around the back of the late night revelers to retrieve a couple of bottles of water and a packet of Advil. I double back and step into the washhouse, retrieve a bucket, and then make my way back upstairs.

His head lifts from where he’s now seated on the floor as I enter, his back against the side of the bed. “Needed to be upright.”

His brow pinches, flattens, and then sets in a deep frown as he tilts forward.

The water and Advil hit the floor, and I barely manage to scrape the bucket underneath him before he lets loose again. The stench hits my nose hard, even my arm covering my face does fuck all to stop it from permeating the air I breathe.

“What the fuck did you drink?”

He shrugs, cradling the bucket. “It burned at the start.” He wretches. “But was okay once my tongue went numb.”

Fucking idiots. I guess a lot hasn’t changed then. The men still drink like they have iron guts and the constitution of a seventeen-year-old.

“Ever thought of giving it up? The heavy drinking?” I ask.

His bloodshot eyes find mine, and a smile spreads over his lips before he chuckles. “You’re funny.”

Yeah.

Hilarious.