Yeah, it’s extreme, I guess, but I’ve got my reasons. People talk of shades of grey, but sometimes, there’s black and there’s white and that’s it.
Kit’s close enough that I could lean down and kiss her right now. Wouldn’t have to take a step. It’d be so fucking easy. She’s watching me, her expression serious, wary. One touch and I could get that look to slide right off her face, replace it with the expression I imagined both times we did it in the dark.
She moves, which I don’t expect. Reaches out and grips my hand. Just that, with a low, quiet, “Thank you.”
And fuck if that doesn’t mess me up more than anything else she could’ve done.
Thank you.Goddamn thank you. Again. Thank you for your service, Jake.
I look down at my knuckles. They’re scraped raw.
With a nod, I gently disentangle my hand from hers and step back. “Any time,” I manage with a cheesy smirk as I set off, ironically saluting our audience at the door. “Better close up.” I head back inside to clean up and finish off my shift.
Thank you, thank you thank you.
It’s a drumbeat in my head.
Good work, Jake.
Work.Work?
Yep. That’s exactly what it is.
Fucking work.
Blood, sweat, tears. Semen.
All just part of the job here at Parlor.
Suddenly, I’m real fucking tired of her contract, her rules.
The woman wants to get knocked up and that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Except starting right now, it’ll have to be on my terms.
15
Kit
The staff’s gone except for Jake. I’m jittery and weird after everything. With the asshole at the bar going after me in the parking lot. With Jake.
I took a photo of the creep’s license plate. I could call the police.
But the last thing I want to do is get Jake into trouble, which is a real risk given his past.
I watched him walk back inside earlier, saw the way his back stiffened when the few remaining diners stared. Taylor said something to him which he ignored.
Right now, he’s in the kitchen, scrubbing the place like it’s punishment. I’m behind the bar, washing a rack of martini glasses that looked streaked in the low light.
If he doesn’t quit soon, I’ll go and tell him it’s time to take off. Knowing he’s back there—feeling his presence—the antsiness is killing me.
The song I’ve got blasting through the speakers comes to an end. It’s a slow anthem of lost love, sung by a deep-voiced woman who knows what she’s talking about.
The first few notes of the next sad love song slide into the air. The kitchen door creaks open.
Every cell in my body goes on alert and somehow I can’t move. Can’t turn or look.
“Mind if I grab a drink?” He’s a few feet away.
