unForgivable (An inCapable World Novel Book 2) (2 page)

“Whiskey and water.”

“Water? That’s a serious drink,” I say.

“What can I say? I’m a serious guy.” He tilts his head up to study me. A hint of a smile crosses his full lips.

I’ll admit I like the way his face looks when he engages me. Like he’s focused on me and no one else. I also like those big brown eyes; they look like they have a story to tell and I’m nothing if not nosy. And the scar that passes over his left cheek that puckers slightly when his cheeks lift has me intrigued. I imagine it’s from the military, but then it could be from something much less glamorous, like falling off a bike when he was a kid.

I make his drink and set it down on the hardwood counter in front of him. “Where are you from?”

“Here. Originally.”

“Never seen you before,” I say without a second thought, but the longer I look at him, the more I have to admit there is something vaguely familiar about him. His hooded eyes? His full lips? That dimple? I don’t know, perhaps he just has one of those faces.

His smile builds. “No, I don’t suspect you would have.”

Whatever that means
. “But you know my aunt?”

He tips his head to the side.

“Mona Bilski?” I offer.

“Yeah, I know Mona. And you’re Beth.”

Not a question. He definitely knows who I am and I wonder how much information Mona has thrown at him. Or how many pictures she’s shown him.

“I’m Damien.” He holds out his hand and I stare at it, noting the roughness and the nicotine stains on his fingers. Hesitating, I take his hand. It’s so big it practically engulfs mine. His grip is firm, confident, and makes me squirm a little.

Could I be intimidated by him? No way.

I have to give it to Mona, there is something very sexy about him, something undeniably raw, because as I stare at him, my hand still locked with his, all I can think about right now is how it’d feel for him to touch me in other nameless places.

“How do you know my aunt?” I demand, not caring if I’m prying or bordering on rude.

“Pen pals.”

Slowly, I slide my hand free from his. What did he just say? I grimace and take a moment to find my voice. “Excuse me?”

He chuckles. “I’m not even kidding. We met a long time ago. She did me a favor and we’ve kind of kept in touch ever since.”

“You must have made an impression on her. She doesn’t like a lot of people, and she likes you enough to think we’re soul mates.”

He chokes on his drink. “Wow, she wasn’t kidding when she said you were bold.”

“Did she tell you that she thinks we’re perfect for each other?” I roll my eyes.

He smirks at me, shaking his head.

“She must have forgotten to put that in her letters, huh?” I raise my eyebrows in challenge. He must think I’m a complete idiot. Pen pals? He has to be pulling my leg.

“Uh…I…I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say right now.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“So why do I feel like you’re standing there passing judgment?” he asks.

I shrug. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just trying to decide if you’d be worth my time.”

He laughs out loud. “That’s if I’m even interested.” He holds up his glass as if to toast me. He takes a small drink and sets it back down, circling the rim of his glass with the tips of his fingers.

“Oh, please,” I say, refusing to lose my nerve. “One kiss. One touch…and you’d be interested.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he says, winking at me before downing the rest of his whiskey.

I like that he’s giving me as much sass as I’m giving him. Guys love confident girls and I try hard to play the role with finesse, even if inside I’m just as self-conscious as the next girl—I’m just a better actress.

“It wouldn’t have worked anyway,” I say matter-of-factly as I stand back to survey his handsome body.

He chuckles, “Yeah, and why is that?”

“You look like a shitty kisser. I wouldn’t have been able to get over that.”

His eyes widen, and though my comment seems to have shocked him, he gets over it quickly. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Perhaps they were stunned into silence.”

He laughs out loud. “Let me prove you wrong.”

I scoff at him. “Sure, show me what you got.”

He stands up, pushing his stool back and out of the way. I never imagined him to be as tall as he is, and I have to admit I like it a lot. He’s got a good foot and a half on me, and when I glance down I see a bulge I’m a little impressed with—unless he stuffs his pants like some other guys I know.

My stomach is in knots and I can’t explain why. Guys don’t make me nervous. Not one bit. But this guy…Mona was right. Like Declan, he’s a little unnerving and perhaps a bit unpredictable. He’s going to follow through. I didn’t expect him to, and now I can’t back down, either.

My stomach aches as unfamiliar butterflies dance wildly inside me to a song that I’ve never heard before. He lifts a hand and with a single finger, he motions for me to come closer. I shrug at him, refusing to be scared.

He puts his hands on the counter, leaning in and I stretch up on my tiptoes, forcing myself to meet him the rest of the way. He reaches up to stroke the side of my face and my eyelids flutter until they fall closed.

What the hell am I doing?

He whispers in my ear, something low and husky. “Is this what you want?”

I nod, unable to stop myself, and my cheek tingles against the rough feel of his fingers. Then, as I wait for him to touch his delicious lips to mine, he presses a kiss to my other cheek. And then…nothing. His fingers leave my face and his breath is no longer a weak wind in my hair. When I open my eyes he’s smirking at me. He leaves me hanging.
Me!
And I want to slap him hard and go masturbate in the bathroom all at the same time.

“Asshole,” I say as I turn from him, ignoring the sound of him chuckling at my back. This is Mona’s idea of a perfect guy? A guy who wants to play games? And who loves every minute of it? Fuck him. Fuck him sideways with a bent spoon.

I storm out back, straight to Mona’s office and when I reach her doorway, I put my middle finger up sky high as I give her a death stare. She laughs riotously at me. “Met your match, Little Bird?”

“Not even close,” I say as I stomp away. “And don’t call me Little Bird.”

Thanks for the not so subtle reminder about why I need to stay the hell away from men
. Perfect match, my ass. No doubt he’s just like all the other guys I’ve known and let myself fall for. And I’m not about to make that mistake again. Not now. And certainly not for him.

W
ith a coffee in hand
, I lock the heavy wooden door to Mona’s Place and turn the sign to
Closed
. I walk back to the bar through the dying fog of smoke to retrieve a cloth for the remaining dirty tables. One of these nights, we’re going to get shut down for letting people smoke in here. Then again, it’s not like the cops are foolish enough to come into Ralph’s widow’s place and start giving Mona shit for inconsequential things.

Tonight, we closed later than normal because one of our regulars passed out at his table. Even when he regained consciousness, we couldn’t get him to walk to the door. We had to call Mickey to come and take him home.

After Claire, Hannah and I finish cleaning up, we put the chairs upside down on the tables and then it’s time to mop. Claire and Hannah look as exhausted as I feel, so I offer to finish up so they can leave.

“Are you sure?” Hannah asks.

“For sure. It won’t take me long.” No point in us all suffering.

“I’ll owe you one,” Claire says, and I know she means it. Everyone here at Mona’s looks out for one another. We all do our part, take our turns, and I know they’d cover for me if I asked.

When I’m done mopping, I kick off my shoes and pad out back with my lukewarm coffee to check in with Mona. She’s in the kitchen—alone. The cooks usually leave shortly after we stop serving food and that’s hours before close. Mona is always back here late at night, baking rolls and bread. If there is one thing I like about this pub, it’s the after-hours scent of yeast and baking bread in the kitchen.

Mona’s eyes flash up at me as she smashes the dough about on the floured countertop. I hop up on the counter opposite her, dangling my legs like I used to as a kid.

Mona likes to be by herself while she bakes, but sometimes she’ll let me keep her company. Sometimes we sit in silence and other times we chat about nothing and everything. Some of my best talks with her happened right here. In fact, my first sex talk was here when I was fourteen.

“So, this Damien guy?” I begin, a bit of an edge to my voice.

She smirks and continues to work the dough, pounding it like a boxer would an opponent.

“He’s not even
interested
in me.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s still shell shocked after a bad deployment and an even worse ex-girlfriend.”

“Oh, well. He’s the perfect guy for me then, isn’t he? Fucked up.”

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

I tap my fingers on the counter and pinch my lips together.

“I told you. He’s perfect for you. Neither of you know it yet, though.”

“Stop playing matchmaker, Mona. You’re not very good at it. If anything, I need to stop focusing on guys for a while and not have one pushed on me.”

“So you’re not interested in him, then?”

Groaning, I hop off the counter and set my coffee down, resolving to stop drinking it. It’s cold now and there’s nothing worse than cold, black coffee. “Nice guys don’t exist, and if they do, they certainly don’t go for girls like me, Mona.”

I believed in fairy tales once upon a time. I even thought I could have one of my own, but…seeing my mother abused by her endless stream of greasy boyfriends and then my aunt by her husband, I wondered if they truly existed. When I’d thought I finally found one, he turned out to be an asshole, too. “You’re the kind of girl guys fuck, not the girl guys marry,” he told me after I gave my virginity to him at prom. I’ve never forgotten the way his voice sounded when he delivered those sharp, poison-filled words or how they made me feel the second they hit my ears. Or how he rolled off of me and pulled up his pants and stood to look down on me like I was piece of trash. It was like he’d hauled off and hit me in the face and kicked me in the stomach all at once. Sex, making love, fucking—whatever you want to call it—became less magical after that. It became a tool to satisfy a need. That’s it.

“You only need one guy to prove you wrong.”

Mona’s voice pulls me from my memories. One guy, huh? If only it were that simple. I shake my head at her, refusing to let her hopes build up mine. Disappointment is a bitch I’m all too familiar with. And since it seems we’re going to have to agree to disagree, I decide not to continue this conversation any further. I head to the break room and put on my heels and jacket.

After hours of being on my feet, they throb from the pointed toe. I almost want to take them off and borrow a pair of sneakers from Mona—well, almost. I put on a scarf and some mittens and return to the kitchen. Mona is smoking a cigarette now, leaned over the countertop lost in thought. With her back to me, I wrap my arms around her middle and she stills. As I lean my head on her shoulder, I take a breath and her scent fills me. Cigarettes, vanilla hand crème and bread.

She’s smiling. I know it, even if I can’t see it.

I love you
. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate you, even if you piss me off.” My voice is as quiet as a mouse, but she has ears like a hawk.

“Ditto, Little Bird.”

I take a step back and leave through the back door. It’s late and dark, and after Evie’s recent attack, I decide to take a cab. Whoever grabbed her is still out there and she’s not the only girl who’s been attacked these last few months. The cab ride is quick and I can barely understand the driver when he tells me the fare, so I look over the seat and glance at the display on the meter. I pay him the fare plus tip. I make a living on tips so I’m not stingy when it comes to giving them out to others.

When I walk into my apartment, I’m struck by the silence. Sometimes being alone gets to me, while other times I enjoy it. Tonight it’s the former. My small living space suddenly seems too big and leaves me feeling empty. A cat would help, maybe… Or a dog. Man, would I love to have a dog. But I know it’s not practical. I’m never home. I work a lot of hours at the pub, and on my free days, I’m usually out with my best friend, Carrie. Partying like we’re still teenagers without a care in the world.

Until recently, this suited me just fine. Now? I don’t know. Evie’s attack got me thinking. Here today and gone tomorrow. Do I want to be remembered as the thoughtless girl who partied hard and went through more than her fair share of men? How sad is that? No, not sad, it’s fucking depressing.

Ugh. I shake off my thoughts because they’re just making me feel worse. And I don’t know if I believe people can change. What am I going to do? Go to school? Get a trade? Screw that. I sucked in school. I never could pay attention. Mind you, my dyslexia didn’t help. It was easier to tune out than try to train my brain to work differently.

So I’m twenty-four now and I’m stuck. One day I’ll take over Mona’s pub, but that’s the best I can hope for. And a good guy? In my social circles? Hah! I run with the mob.

But I have to do something. If only I could figure out what that something is...

I take a shower and get in bed, leave my blinds open so I can look out the big window and see the gray moon shining in the midnight blue sky. I toss and turn, unable to fall asleep. My apartment is too hot, it’s too cold; my sheets aren’t tucked in and then they’re wrapped around me too tightly. Just as I’m about to throw off my covers and grab a sleeping pill and a strong drink, I hear a knock at my door. At first, I decide to ignore it, but then, after several knocks it becomes increasingly clear that whoever is here is not going away.

I mutter a curse when I look at the clock and read 3:05 a.m. Who the hell would come knocking at this hour? After kicking off my sheets, I pad to the door wearing nothing more than a tank top and some boxers I stole from an ex. I press my hands against the wood and stretch up on my tiptoes to look through the small peep hole.

It’s Mason—the married guy. I lean my head forward to rest on the door and lightly bang my head a few times.

I shouldn’t open the door…

I should tell him to piss off or just ignore him…

But that’s not what I do.

Maybe it’s because I felt so alone when I came home tonight…or maybe it’s because I want someone to touch me. No matter how hard I try I just can’t seem to get close to people and I guess that when I’m having sex, it feels like I am—if only briefly. I don’t know. But for whatever reason, I open the door, ignoring my decision to stay away from men—and this one in particular. And it’s not that I like him that much either. I just want to be wanted.

“I should have told you,” he begins. Not, “I shouldn’t have lied,” or “I’m sorry I hurt you.” He just wishes he could have kept on lying so he could continue using me. But as I think about all the reasons he needs to leave, I decide that, right now, this relationship suits me as much as it suits him. He can’t hurt me if I’m using him too, right?

So I swallow my convictions and act on instinct, not caring about the consequences or how much it will hurt in the morning when he leaves to go home to his wife. In this moment, he wants me and only me and I desperately need to be wanted. For five minutes? For ten? It doesn’t matter how long; as long as his need consumes him and overwhelms me in the here and now, I could care less. His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans and he licks his lips. There’s something a little desperate about desire, and I suppose I can understand it—in a way.

“You’re the only one I want,” he says.

It’s bullshit. I know it. But I let myself believe him because tonight I can only think about now and how everything will feel better if I let him come inside my apartment and then inside of me.

* * *

W
hen I wake
I am full of self-loathing. I mean, I knew I would be, but the sharp point of the guilt stick is more bothersome this morning than I’d imagined.

He’s married
, I tell myself.
What if he was your husband?
Maybe this is why I can’t find nice guys. Because I do stupid shit like this, and karma’s a bitch.

I get out of bed and head for the shower, still berating myself. “This is why you’ll never get married,” I say out loud. Men cheat. In my experience, they all do. How many guys have I dated that I can say this about? Tony? Adam? Ricky? Greg? Wow. Every single one. Though, to be fair, they didn’t cheat on me in most instances. They cheated on someone else with me—not that I knew I was the other woman when I started dating each of them. That always came later. Was I ever the girlfriend? The real girlfriend? Or just the girl on the side?
Fuck
. How pathetic can I be?

Always the bread and never the main course.

And Mona thinks this Damien guy is different? Fat chance of that. How many women has he cheated on in his lifetime? Ugh. I don’t want to think about this anymore. And I don’t need to continue this negative cycle. No more married guys, I tell myself. Never again. I mean it. I really do. And while I’m at it, no guys at all. I need to just focus on me for a while. Maybe figure out who I am without the distraction of men and the drama that comes with relationships. I all but chant this on my walk to work.
Fuck men
.

The sun is out—mostly. The sky alternates between sunny and overcast as gray clouds pass by overhead. It might rain, but it won’t rain long. I pick up my step and reach Mona’s in record time. She’s in her office, her head tilted back in her chair, her mouth open, quiet snores coming from her red, lipstick-rimmed mouth. I shake my head at her, feeling warmth in my belly, like I often do when I catch her off guard like this, acting like a normal person. Because let’s face it, my aunt is anything but normal. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The cooks—Carey and Henry—arrive and fire up the stoves, warming the cool space. Another waitress, Carla, comes shortly after. She’s pretty new to Mona’s but not new to waitressing. I think I had her follow me for one shift a few weeks ago, but it wasn’t a whole one. She can put me to shame now. She’s fast on her feet and I swear she gets the best tips in the joint. Secretly, I kind of hate her. She makes me look bad. I do a good job—most of the time—but I also get sidetracked, chatting with customers. I can argue that this is important, though. That my customer service ensures customers keep coming back.

I tell myself this, but it’s only a half-truth, because most of the clients that come here, do so because my aunt was married to a Dante. Or, is married to one still, I guess. Until they find his body. Right now, he’s just a face on a milk carton. Sometimes I have to wonder if she had anything to do with it. To the world, she looks like a grieving widow when his name comes up, but privately, she mumbles “fucking bastard.”

Carla has the place set up and the doors open in record time. I get the till ready while she does her thing. Then I make coffee and brew it strong—the way I like it. When she’s done, she comes behind the counter and pours herself a cup. She makes a face after one sip. “Man, Beth, this is rancid.”

“Just the way I like it.”

“You know you’re the only one who’ll drink this shit, right?”

“My Uncle Mickey drinks three or four cups every time he comes in.”

“Then I guess liking awful coffee is genetic,” she says, her face sour.

I fake smile at her and she fake smiles back.