Clarity Page 26
“Have a good one!” he calls out from behind me. “Fuck you,” I mumble to myself as I strut away. I throw my purse over my shoulder and curse myself when a smile appears on my lips. He was an interesting character. It’s not every day I get to meet someone who isn’t a stuck up social climber.
My feet scream in agony with each step, but I refuse to turn around. Well, that is until I make it about two blocks down the road. Only then do I allow myself to stop and peek over my shoulder at him. He’s still standing in the same spot on the sidewalk. His eyes are locked on me, I think. From far away, his hair appears darker, making him seem more mysterious. When he raises his hand to wave, I quickly turn around. My pale skin heats in excitement. I haven’t been this worked up over a man in a long time, not since I first began dating Barrett. I should feel bad for getting so turned on by another guy when I just broke up with my fiancé, but I’m not. Barrett screwed it up. Ergo, I don’t care.
The crosswalk flashes green for me to go, but before I step across the street, I take one last look behind me. Disappointment fills me as I gaze at the empty sidewalk. He must have gone inside. Nashville is a big city, and I’m only visiting for a few more days before I return to LA. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever see him again.
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The Wrong Way
© 2014 Casey Harvell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written consent from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity or resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Edited by Fancy Pants Formatting
Cover by Fancy Pants Formatting
Interior Design and Formatting by Fancy Pants Formatting
Featuring Poetry by Julie Mishler
Dedication . . .
This book is dedicated to my friend Jordan Bault because anyone with that much passion for books deserves a story all her own
Prologue . . .
Jordan
I’m always in the background. I fade away into it, a mute obscure nothing in the huge world around me. In life there are certain moments when the world around you sparks or dims. Everything brightens or dulls. My world has been grey for so very long now. There’s not even the faintest glimmer.
There’s this hope that maybe—just maybe—everything will be okay . . . that I will be okay. Yet somehow that hope scares me more than anything. To try and to fail is expected—but to hope and to fail is just downright soul-crushing. Whether they want it or not, everyone needs to be saved sometimes . . .
Chapter One . . .
Jordan
Anyone who walks through this place on a Friday night that I don’t know is just passing through. Believe me—I know everyone in this town. I have lived here almost all my life. So when something like that walks through the crappy bar doors, I notice. Hell, every damn woman here notices.
What’s the difference between me and the rest of the women that now swoon over Mr. Hottie-pants who leans casually against the bar? I know damn well that I don’t have a chance in hell. Girls like me? We’re meant for the background. Meant to fade into it and go without notice.
I continue on with my job like any other night—a night where some Adonis doesn’t ooze sex appeal that wafts around like a pheromone-filled cologne. I sneak a peek at him while I bring the zillionth tray to my disorderly customers and he catches me. Shit he’s hot.
I grab the final glass to fill the small drink tray in my hand (again). My table is a rowdy bunch of college morons and to say they’re drunk is a gross understatement. They’re so drunk that they begin to worry me. After this round I’ll have to send Danny over to cut them off. I don’t get paid enough to do that shit.
“Hey—” a slurred voice says as an audible slap sounds. He. Did. Not. Yep—he did! This guy seriously just grabs my ass. “Put the pitcher here.” He laughs at his own drunken rudeness.
I know that I shouldn’t do anything, but I can’t really stop myself. “I’m sorry.” I say sweetly. “Where do you want this pitcher?” The fucker points to the table in front of him with a smile on his face . . . a smile that quickly changes to a look of shock when I proceed to pour the entire contents of the pitcher over his head.
“You bitch!” The guy screams and flips the table as he stands with more speed than someone as drunk as him should. I flinch and back away slowly.
Uh-oh. See—this is why I’m not supposed to do this. Danny (aka my boss/bar owner/bouncer) is busy across the bar. The drunken beer-covered fool in front of me is hella-pissed and towers over me. Whoops!
You think that’s enough to give me pause, make me back down or shut the fuck up? Nope, not me. See, that makes sense and I’m not a fan of that at all. “I’m sorry!” I say brashly. “I assumed when you grabbed my ass you wanted to wear your beer.”
The man raises his hand high above him and I know what comes next. I don’t flinch again though—instead I stand my ground. His group of friends behind him splits as half of them try to calm him while the other half eggs him on. Maybe a second before the drunken asshole’s fist crashes into me an even larger more impressive hand shoots out from behind me. I expect to see Danny behind me so I’m quite speechless when I see the gorgeous piece of man from the bar instead.
“I’m not sure how things work around here,” God, even his damn voice is sexy as hell. “But where I come from we don’t raise our hand to a lady.”
This gives the drunken asshole pause. Mr. Sexy-pants is a whole lot of man and I doubt the asshole can take him on sober much less in his current inebriated state. “Whatever.” The douchebag says as he throws some cash on the table. “She’s not fucking worth it anyway.”
His group of friends follows suit. A few give me apologetic glances as they pass. Some glare instead. Next week they can be sure to sit in Holly’s section or go to the next town to act like assholes. When the last one leaves through the door I breathe a small sigh of relief . . . until I realize I actually have to talk to the sexy fuck that still stands behind me.
“Um, thanks.” I manage. It’s a good thing I say this before I face him because when I do something in my brain fries and any hope of articulation flies right out the window.
“Not a problem.” He rumbles—actually rumbles. Fuck me six ways ’til Tuesday.
I stand and gape at him like an idiot for a second when an arm wraps around him from behind.
“Don’t mind Jordan here.” A voice purrs. Ugh. Great. Marilyn’s here. “She’s not important enough to worry about. Why don’t you come back over here with me? I can use another drink.” Marilyn tugs on his arm, but he doesn’t budge.
My head drops and I examine my shoes closely. I know way better than to bother arguing with Marilyn. She’s always been hot shit to my complete nothingness—thus my complete shock to the sex God’s reply.
“The bar looks to be in working order to me. If you’re thirsty then go get yourself a drink.”
“What?” She sputters. “You can’t be serious. You’re going to choose this piece of shit over me?” I feel my cheeks warm because I know she’s right. I’m not fit to be the dirt on her boot.
“Listen Miss, I’m not sure how y’all treat people around here, but it doesn’t seem very pleasant.” Something about the calm way he says this makes me look up to see Marilyn blush and actually look at him in embarrassment. That’s definitely a new look for her.
The man’s green eyes bore into mine now. Not once does he look back to Marilyn as she huffs away. My spine tingles under his gaze. This is just a little too awkward for my taste.
“Um, like I said—thanks. I need to get back to work.” I say quickly in a voice that’s two octaves too high. I even manage to stumble when I spin around. Smooth Jordan, really smooth.
The remainder of the night is much more uneventful—with the exception of my savior who parks his fine ass back at the bar and stays there. He does something no one else in this shit town does. He watches me. He notices me. What the fuck’s going on?
I use my time to act like I ignore him, but I feel his gaze follow me. I sneak glances to see how his chocolate brown hair falls messily across his forehead . . . or how taut his navy blue shirt pulls across his muscular chest and clings to his biceps. He has a sinewy look about him, a lean lengthiness that makes me begin to imagine just what lies under those clothes . . .
Bam! That’s the mental slap I have to give myself. I’m not one of those girls. No way, I’m a ridiculous twenty-three year old virgin who never gets noticed by anyone—much less someone like this. All that road can lead down is a world of hurt. I may not have any experience, but I’m not stupid. A man like that is trouble with a capital T. No. Thank. You.
My shift ends at one in the morning. I take my time in the back before I return to the bar to cash out the remainder of my orders and notice my hero isn’t there anymore. A mix of relief and disappointment washes over me. I try to remind myself that it’s better this way.
I pull my 1994 Plymouth Colt down the bumpy road that leads past all of the other shitty trailers to my shitty trailer. Well, not mine—my step-mom’s. Since my Dad went away it’s just been us. She’s no fun to live with, but I don’t exactly have a lot of options. I cut the engine and can hear the music blast inside. It almost makes me turn the car back on and look for a nice parking lot to sleep in for the night. Loud music at this hour means only one thing: Shirley’s drunk . . . again.
This can go one of two ways. Either Shirley will be a happy drunk or a mean one. Happy Shirley will mean lots of dancing about while mean Shirley will throw shit at me and belittle me. I can’t even really say that one is more fun than the other.
It’s inevitable that I’ll find out as I shut the door and move towards the rotting plywood porch. The bottom of it has some time left, but the top leaks. A hole gapes precariously and I always wonder whether it’ll be me or Shirley who catches it when it finally caves.
It appears I’m in luck tonight. The music blasts, but Shirley lays on the couch—down for the count. A wave of relief washes over me. I check to be sure she’s alive (she is) and turn the music down most of the way.
When I make it to my broom closet of a room I notice just how lucky I am that Shirley ran out of steam. Often when she goes into a rage my room is her first target. Tonight’s no different. I scoop up some clothes and jam them in the washer. It takes almost an hour before I’m finally able to go to bed.
It doesn’t bother me that Shirley hates me so much because nobody can possibly ever hate me more than I hate myself.
I manage to wake up before Shirley which rocks because the less time we spend together the better. I take a shower and begin to put my clean clothes away (again) when I hear movement. Shit. This won’t be good. Cranky hung-over Shirley is almost worse than drunken Shirley . . . almost.
“Jordan! Why didn’t you make any damn coffee?” Shirley screeches. “Shit, why didn’t you buy any coffee?”
I know I better get out of here quick and jam the rest of the clothes into the drawer. Chances are I’ll just have to put them away or wash them again later anyhow. I throw a few things into my ancient fraying messenger bag and shut off my light before I carefully slip into the hallway and out the back door of the trailer. I feel like an idiot while I crouch down and run around to the front, but I make it to my car without further incident.
Two dollars and change buys me a medium coffee and a bagel at the gas station. I sit in the car and eat before I turn the engine over. Almost every day I sit here and contemplate driving my car as far as it will take me before it dies. The only thing that holds me back is that there’s no way to run from my past. I know I deserve this life so why bother?
I don’t have to work until four so I have a few hours to kill. The options for entertainment are few and far between in this town. I drive down to a local trail and grab my latest library paperback and a blanket I keep for times like these. It doesn’t take long to park and to hike down my favorite trail. It’s chilly—fall begins to take hold of our Northeast town, but I have faith in the warm sun overhead so I plop down on the blanket rather than wrap myself in it. It doesn’t take long for the sun to come through and burn off the last of the fog. After a while the sun hangs high above me and I finish the paperback. It’s warmer now so I tie my hoodie around my waist for the walk back to the car. At least I can hit the library and grab a quick bite before work.
I park in town and take my time as I walk to the library. It doesn’t take long to swap out my books for new ones. The billboard catches my eye on my way out the door. I see an ad for a part-time cleaning person during the day. It’s not like I can’t use the extra money or the distraction so I grab the little tab with the phone number and tear it off.
After a quick lunch I pull out my flip phone and dial the number. I leave a brief message and wonder what the hell I should do for the next hour and a half. I just settle into my driver’s seat with the intention to read until work when I hear my phone go off.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hi, I’m looking for Jordan?” A male voice responds. “I’m returning a call about her interest in a cleaning position.”
“Yes, hi—I’m Jordan.” I answer quickly.
“Hi. I guess the first step is to ask your experience.” The man sounds unsure.
“Well, when it comes to cleaning I only have domestic experience, but I do cleanup at my night job as a server too.” I explain.
“Hmmm. Are you sure you’re able to work more than one job?” The man asks me.
“I’m sure.” I quickly assure him. “Both would be part-time and manageable.”
“Alright. I suppose we should set up an interview. When are you available?”
“I could come now,” I say after a quick glance at the time. “Or any time before four during the week.”
“Now could work.” The man says and rattles off an address.
“Great. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.” I tell him and disconnect.
It’s a short drive to the other side of town. The address leads to an older Victorian house—one that appears to be in the process of restoration. An older man sits on the porch and stands as I approach.
“Jordan?” He calls out.
“Yes, sir.” I answer with a smile. It’s odd because he seems familiar, but I know I’ve never seen him in town before. He’s definitely a new resident.
“Welcome. I’m Jesse. Thanks for coming by so quickly.”
I shake the hand he offers before I answer. “Not a problem.” My eyes inadvertently move to the house behind him. Through the window I see box after box. The idea of cleaning that overwhelms me slightly.
Jesse must notice this because he glances behind him and laughs. “Don’t worry, that’s my mess to
worry about, not yours. We just moved in three days ago. I’ll have some sense of order in place before you start.” He holds open the front door. “Please, come in—take a look around.”
I follow him through the door. “Is it just you?” I ask in an attempt to make conversation. It’s an awful large house for one person.
“It’s me and my son. You’ll see him here and there but he mostly does his own thing.” Jesse laughs. “He’s not too happy with me for moving him up here, but he came with just the same.”
“He’ll like it here—the schools are really great.” I comment.
“Oh, no! He’s way beyond school aged. He’s old enough to go off on his own, but he decided to help out his old man instead.” Jesse says proudly.
“That’s nice.” I say and take in the big space. Even underneath all of the boxes its size impresses me.
“Okay, down to business.” Jesse says. “I need someone to handle the basic domestic stuff around here. See me and Binx, we’re not all that tidy. We can gussy the place up—sure, but keeping it that way not so much. Kitchen, bathroom, dusting, vacuuming . . . maybe some light laundry and cooking . . .”
Nothing he says sounds like anything I can’t handle. “I draw the line at windows and gutters.” I smile when I say it. I like Jesse already.