Example. Just now, I was minding my own business, pouring a pitcher of beer. When I finished, I turned around and ran smack-dab into Chris, causing me to drop the pitcher and get us both completely drenched in beer. Chris is laughing it off, but Luke is livid.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Quinn?” he shouts. “Clean that shit up.”
So I start to pull up the rubber mats we have behind the bar when he yells, “No, Jesus. Get the people their beer, for fuck’s sake. Then clean it up.” Then he literally growls, “On second thought, Chris, get their beer. Quinn, clean that shit up before you fall and break that Kardashian ass of yours and sue me.”
I’m bent over and have started to lift the rubber floor mat when the words float out into the air above me.
No.
He.
Didn’t.
My face heats, and that fucking burn behind my eyes starts, but I’m not doing it. I’m not going to cry because of something some asshole says to me. Not anymore.
Shame. I was even starting to like Luke. I rise slowly, leaving that stupid mat right where it was. My eyes meet his.
He knows.
I can tell by his expression that he knows he said the wrong thing. And, for once, I’m not going to put up with it. “You know what, Luke?” I’m not waiting for him to say anything, and I think he knows it, because he keeps his stupid, insensitive mouth shut. “You can go fuck yourself.”
I toss the rag into the sink, something he’ll be super pissed about, and start to stomp away, but the fucking mat is wet and slick, so I slip. I don’t fall, though. I’m able to keep my balance at the expense of my groin muscles, but who the hell cares. With my head held high, I stomp past the customers at the bar and stop right in front of Luke.
“Luke Green, you’re no better than those assholes that you yelled at about the same damn thing, and frankly, I deserve better.” I’m pointing at myself when I say that last bit. “It’s not okay what you just said to me. And you know what else?”
This time he answers. Clearing his throat, he says, “What?”
“I’mtelling Tayler.”
He winces. I saw it. I knew he’d react to that, because the guy has been working overtime to get her to go out with him. According to Tay, he’s called her almost every night. At first it was for a booty call, so when she told him that wasn’t her style, he switched gears. Now he’s wooing her—Tayler’s words. He even sent her flowers one day, but she still hasn’t given in yet. So yeah, I knew my words were going to hit him where they hurt. In his dick. Ha!
I grab my purse from just inside the kitchen door, and I’m out of there. But not before I shout, “Kiss my Kardashian ass, Luke Green.”
* * *
I blubberall the way home. Crying is cathartic, right? If that’s the case, I should be cleansed as fuck. No matter. As far as days go, the horrible, terrible, worst fucking day ever is still numero uno, but this one is right up there. I mean, apparently Cooke broke up with me this morning. I found out I used to live with a spider the size of a rodent, that our house can’t sustain six roommates, and since I was the last one in, I’m the logical one to go. Also, I think I quit my job. Granted, I didn’t saythosewords exactly, but by telling my boss and the owner of the bar to “kiss my Kardashian ass” is pretty much quitting. I’m boyfriendless, homeless, and jobless.
“God, my life sucks.”
When I slow to a stop at a light, I look down at my pretty blue scooter. Petting the handlebars, I coo, “At least I’ve got you, Bluebelle.” Yeah, I named her Bluebelle. What can I say? It fits.
As soon as the light turns green, I slowly pull away from my spot into the intersection and continue my ride home just as a large SUV in the lane next to me begins to merge into my lane. “Hey!” I yell, then press my thumb on the horn button, but the car’s windows are closed and the horn isn’t loud. Hell, it’s not even a horn. It’s more of a beep-beep sound. Whoever is driving the SUV is still moving into my lane. My only option is to swerve over to the lane to my right—into oncoming traffic. Headlights practically blind me, but I maneuver over into the other lane. The car heading my way is far enough back that I’m able to jump the curb onto the sidewalk, where I lay down my scooter into a skid. I hear the metal scrape and even see sparks. It’s too bad my skin is doing the same.
When we both come to a stop, me and Bluebelle, the pain hits me like the SUV was about to. I take deep breaths to get myself under control, because I need to assess the damage and get out from beneath Bluebelle. I’m about to push her off me when I hear sirens. I look up and see an Ames police cruiser with its lights on chasing down the SUV that just about killed me. They must have been close enough to see what happened.
“Shit,” I hiss. My face, left arm, left side, and left leg burn like they’ve been set on fire. I’m able to move some, so it doesn’t seem as though I’ve broken anything, but I suspect I’ve lost skin, at the very least. Bluebelle is still resting on my leg, and I do my best to lift her enough for me to scoot out from beneath her. As soon as I do, I hear another set of sirens.
“Don’t move,” shouts a gruff voice.
No. Please don’t tell me I’m under arrest.
I look up and see Gage running toward me. “Jesus, Quinn.” When he gets to me, he slides onto his hands and knees. “I heard a call on the scanner that a motorcycle was run off the road.”
“It was me.”
Gage is checking me for injuries. We both gasp when we see the wound on my forearm. My sweatshirt is shredded enough to see that I’ve lost skin—alotof skin. Blood has seeped through the fabric. Not only is there blood, but the wound is also covered with rocks and dirt.
“What happened?” he asks, looking at my leg next.
