Filfthy (27 page)

“I don’t know, Dem. I guess I just remember how you freaked out when Royal left years ago.” She turns a page, eyes scanning an ad for rustic furniture. “I mean, you love Brooks enough to spend the rest of your life with him, and you’re just taking it all in stride. Just expected you to be falling apart a little more than you are, that’s all.”

“Freaking out isn’t going to make him wake up. Nothing’s wrong with trying to stay strong, is there?”

Delilah crosses her legs, shuts the magazine, and tosses it aside.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t come here to critique the way you’re acting. I’m sorry.” She places her hand on her heart. “I’m here for you. And Brooks. And I’ll be here when he wakes up, and I’ll be here when he walks you down the aisle.”

“Thanks.” I take the seat by Brooks and slip my hand into his to see if I feel anything. His palm is warm.

That’s all I feel.

Warmth.

And nothing.

“Sometimes, I think Brooks was the universe’s answer to the whole Royal thing,” Delilah muses from the corner. She chews the inside of her lip and leans forward on her knees.

“What are you talking about?”

“We never knew why Royal left. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe you were always supposed to end up with Brooks, and had Royal stuck around, that never would’ve happened.”

“I don’t think that way.”

“I do.” She sits up. “Everything happens for a reason. Life is one giant row of dominoes.”

Her analogy doesn’t satiate me. I need to know what happened. I refuse to settle for some bullshit cliché.

“Anyway, I don’t think the powers that be would take Royal away and give you Brooks if you weren’t meant to spend the rest of your life with Brooks.”

A bouquet of bright pink daisies rests by Brooks’s window. Not sure how I didn’t notice them before, and I’m not sure where they came from since they don’t allow flowers in the ICU rooms. I bet Brenda snuck them in. Flowers are her weakness. She loves them all. She doesn’t discriminate.

Unlike Brooks.

The daisies remind me of the fight we had months ago while picking wedding flowers. I wanted daisies in bright shades of oranges and yellows and pinks. Brooks said they were too basic. And cheap. He insisted on peonies, which I reminded him were out of season in February. He insisted on having some flown in from Israel to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars.

We fought the rest of the day over the flowers.

And the flower fight led to a fight over our wedding cake the following day. He wanted a classic white with raspberry filling, claiming it was Abbott tradition. I wanted German chocolate with coconut filling. Something offbeat and unexpected. My proposal to go every-other-tier went unaccepted.

Looking back, that was always the way Brooks operated. He was incapable of meeting in the middle. The man wanted what he wanted, and he always seemed to get it, one way or another.

The night of the cake fight, he apologized for being a “groomzilla” and insisted it was only because he cared and wanted our day to be perfect. His mother had already invited some five hundred guests, and that didn’t account for the Rosewood side. Brooks kissed the tops of my hands that night, apologized again, pulled me into his embrace, and described the most beautiful winter wedding I’d ever imagined.

And I forgave him for being an ass.

For the hundredth time.

Like a fool.

D
emi

“
T
hanks for coming
with me today.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab the passenger door handle of Delilah’s car before she’s shifted into park. She leaves the car idling in my driveway and turns my way.

“Want me to go with you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to do that. I can get myself there. You’re welcome to stop in and see him anytime you want though.”

Delilah puts her hand on mine. “We’re all worried about you. Mom and Dad. Everyone.”

I’m sure.

I put them all through quite a scare after Royal left.

Don’t have to be in the same room as them to feel them watching, waiting for me to crumble apart again.

“Are you eating?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Why’d you throw up last night? You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“God, no.”
Thank God.
“Probably stress.”

“Mom and Dad are coming by tomorrow, I think. Derek’s coming too. He’s bringing Haven. He’s got her for the weekend.”

There’s a glimmer of something to look forward to in all of this, and her name is Haven. My niece is my world, and I rarely get to see her ever since Derek split from his ex.

“I don’t think they allow kids under twelve into the ICU,” I say.

“Between all of us, we can work something out. Derek really wants to see Brooks though. I think he’s taking it harder than we realize, and that’s why he hasn’t come to visit yet.”

An unlikely friendship spawned between Derek and Brooks the last couple of years. I blame it on a fateful golf game three Memorial Day weekends ago. They’ve been tight ever since.

“Daphne texted me earlier,” Delilah says.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“She feels awful for not being able to come right away.”

“She’ll be back at Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, but if anything happens to Brooks, she’ll never get to say . . .” Delilah blinks and turns away. “I don’t even want to finish that thought.”

My head pounds, and I eye my front door. As soon as I’m behind it, I can shut out the rest of the world for a few hours. Make the day fade away with a hot bath and an Ambien. Tomorrow, I get to do it all over again. Put on my brave face. Pretend I’ve got it all figured out. Allow everyone to think I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. Ignore the flood of guilt coursing my veins every time I look at Brooks and feel resentment. And in the back of my mind, wonder when Royal’s going to show up at my door again.

Because no matter what, that undercurrent remains.

R
oyal

A
s soon as
I get home, I toss Brooks’s pajamas into the garbage, where they belong. It killed me, fucking
killed
me, to wear those pants.

The scent of clean laundry fills my tiny studio above a noisy laundromat. It’s the only good thing about living in this dump. It’s like I live in the inside of a dryer. The place is perpetually warm, which works out nice in the winter, and the place always smells good, even when the floors need cleaning and the bedding’s due for a wash.

Whipping the fridge door open, I grab a carton of milk and chug it straight from the container before putting it back. I can taste the fact that the sell-by date was yesterday.

I grab a shower, scrubbing the scent of Demi’s white-washed house off my skin but refusing to release the image of her from my mind. Watching her from afar has never been a substitution for the real thing, but it was the only option I had. And as painful as it was to stand there and let her shoot daggers my way this morning, I hope someday she’ll understand.

And forgive me.

* * *

“
M
orning
, Royal.” Pandora swipes a credit card and hands a set of Corvette keys to a middle-aged man trying desperately to pull off a cracked-leather bomber jacket. “Twenty minutes early today. What’s gotten into you? Couldn’t wait to see me?”

“You know it.” I don’t look at her, my words dry and flat.

I grab my work shirt from a hook behind the reception desk at Patterson Auto Body. My name is stitched across the breast in royal blue cursive thread. The very same color I’ll be painting my Challenger as soon as I get the funds saved.

The bells on the door jingle when the customer leaves, and our parking lot sits empty.

“We’re getting an Escalade in about an hour.” Pandora smacks a piece of neon pink bubble gum. Probably watermelon. Her tongue always tastes like watermelon. “Real bad shape. Front and back. Thing’s totaled, but the owners want to fix it anyway. Bet it’s got a
huge
backseat.”

She winks.

I punch in and glance toward the back office, where Pandora’s father sits at a computer, his classic rock turned way too loud. The man’s covered in tattoos, he served two tours of duty, and he has a smile filled with gold from one too many bar fights. That old son of a bitch is tough as nails and rough around the edges, but he gave me a job when no one else would.

“Where were you last night?” Pandora hunches over the counter, wiggling her ass and grinning. “Tried texting you. Not like you to pass up a chance with the boss’s daughter.”

My gaze snaps toward Rod in his office, who’s completely oblivious. Fucking the boss’s daughter isn’t my proudest accomplishment, but damn if she doesn’t remind me of a white trash version of my only weakness.

Sometimes, in his most desperate hours, a man has to settle.

“Come on,” she says. “I know it turns you on just as much as it turns me on.”

Pandora Patterson is Demi Rosewood’s cheap alter-ego. Raven hair. Full lips. Big tits. Curves for days. Round, blue eyes. Pandora’s just a little edgier. Less refined. Sleeves of tats. Garish red lips. A throaty laugh. A perpetual perfume of stale cigarettes and spilled drinks. She’s sure as fuck no substitute for the real thing, but I’m a man with limited options, and Pandora never once judged my situation.

“Told you,” I say. “We can’t do that anymore.”

She pouts and drags a pointed fingernail down her cheek like she’s crying. Slinking over to me, she slips her arm around my shoulders.

“God, Royal, you’re such a fucking tease.” Pandora rubs her breasts against my chest and leans into my ear. “I thought about you last night. Nothing else makes me cum harder than when I think about all those naughty things you do to me in the back of the shop after Daddy leaves . . .”

Pandora’s a kinky little slut. She gets off on the thrill of
almost
getting caught, and she loves fucking the kind of men her daddy would chase with a shotgun. Even grizzly Rod Patterson has standards for his wayward daughter.

She runs her fingers through my hair, helping herself to a handful and jerking my mouth toward hers. Her cigarette breath fills my lungs when she laughs through her nose.

“You’re so tortured,” she says. “You know that? I think that’s why I can’t get you out of my head. I just want to fix you.”

“Don’t need fixing.”

“Everyone needs fixing.”

“Doesn’t mean they want to be.”

“Ugh. You’re so stubborn.” She smacks my chest. “And damaged and guarded.”

Her palm then slides to the front of my pants before she cups my junk. I suppose this would be considered sexual harassment, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve been through worse shit than a big-titted sex-addict feeling on me. Pandora gives my cock a gentle squeeze and stares into my eyes. The sound of her dad tapping his booted foot along to CCR’s
Fortunate Son
in his office just fifteen feet away sends a quick sweat down my back.

I can’t afford to lose this job.

“And I fucking
love
it.” She releases me from her clutches and returns to the reception desk to answer a ringing phone. “Patterson Auto Body.”

Pandora slips a nail between her lips and winks my way.

“Didn’t want to talk to you either.” She slams the phone down, shrugging. When her shoulders move inward, her cleavage spills out of her top. It’s intentional, no question. “No one there.”

A rusting, bumper-less Lincoln pulls up outside. Guessing they need an estimate. I head to the desk to grab a pen and clipboard. Pandora wears a mischievous grin when I stride her way.

“No,” I say.

“What, are you a homo now?” She says it loud enough that her dad could hear if he wasn’t so busy humming along to
Sweet Home Alabama
. Her hand hooks the curve above her left hip. “Stop pretending you don’t want this anymore.”

We had this talk weeks ago. Why she’s all over me now is beyond me.

“You trying to get me in trouble?” My tone is low yet sharp. I shake my head. Don’t have time for this shit. “Don’t, Pandora.”

I really need a new fucking job.

R
oyal

I
t’s
a thirty-minute drive from Patterson Auto Body to my apartment in Glidden, and it just so happens that Rixton Falls is the halfway point.

I take a detour toward Demi’s neighborhood and rest at a stop sign a minute too long. It’s just past dusk. She could still be at the hospital for all I know, but she knows my car now. No more drive-bys. No more watching like some fucking loser creep.

It’s probably all for the best anyway.

I need to move on. Clearly she did.

The honk of a horn behind me prompts my foot to gun the gas, and I charge straight ahead, down Demi’s
Better Homes and Gardens
street.

Her porch lights shine, and her car is parked in the driveway, taillights glowing red then fading to dark.

Fuck.

I stop down the street and wait as she exits her Subaru and heads inside. Forecast is calling for more snow tonight. It’s a shame she can’t park in the garage. Last I knew, it was full of all Brooks’s “toys.”

Part of me wants to leave and come back another time. Give her more space. I shouldn’t have shown up last night out of the blue, but I couldn’t stand back and watch her suffer.

Not again.

Things were tolerable when I thought she was happy. She smiled a lot, at least from what I could tell. I’d check her social media sites from time to time. She seemed to love him enough. I stayed away, figuring she’d moved on long ago.

And then I learned what kind of fucking asshole Brooks Abbott truly is.

Demi deserves better.

I had to intervene.

I just didn’t know Brooks would be paying for his mistakes with his life.

I punch the steering wheel, drag my hands through my hair, and pull up to her house. By the time I’m knocking on her door, everything’s a blur and I can’t breathe.

“I figured you’d stop by again,” she says when she answers the door. I catch my breath when I see her face and those calming blue eyes of hers. “Didn’t know it’d be so soon.”

I stand at her front door in gray work pants, greasy boots, and a plain white t-shirt. I smell like oil and paint thinner. I look like shit.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

Demi’s cheek presses against the door, and her shoulders rise and fall.

“Yeah.” She swings the door wide. “But only because I want some answers.”

“Expectations can be dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as letting you back into my life, Royal.”

I smirk. I deserved that.

Removing my shoes, I glance into her pristine living room. No way in hell I’m stepping foot in there in my work clothes.

“You bring Brooks’s pants back?” She lifts a brow.

“Nope. Threw ‘em away.”

Her jaw falls. “W-why would you do that?”

“Have my reasons.”

Demi’s arms fold, her hips angled as we stand across from one another in her foyer.

“We can go to the kitchen, I guess.” She shuffles toward the table in the breakfast nook, the one piece of furniture in that entire room not covered in white. “I don’t know if it’s a territorial thing or what, but you can’t just throw people’s things away.”

“Territorial? What am I, a junkyard dog?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

We sit across from each other, separated by some frilly little centerpiece filled with fresh flowers in bright shades that contrast everything around us. I move them aside so I can see her face unobstructed.

“Okay.” Demi sighs. “You have my attention. Now tell me, Royal. Why the hell did you walk out seven years ago and never come back?”

I’ve replayed the events of that weekend a thousand times, each time asking myself how I’d do it differently.

I thought I was doing the right thing at the time.

I thought I was helping someone who desperately needed my help.

I never expected it all to blow up in my face, to create some kind of butterfly effect, to completely change the trajectory of our futures.

“We would’ve been married by now,” I muse, raking my nails across the wood tabletop.

“Excuse me?”

“I bet we would’ve been married by now,” I say.

Demi rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well. You left. You decided not to be with me, so—”

I shake my head.

“Not at all, Demi. I always wanted to be with you.”

Still do.

Her eyes glass over. She looks over my shoulder, refusing to give me eye contact.

“Yeah, well, that’s not going to work on me,” she says. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Your word is shit.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Demi’s fist pounds the table. “Yes, it is. It
is
that simple. God damn it, Royal.”

“You sure don’t talk like a kindergarten teacher.”

Her gaze narrows. “I never told you what I did for a living.”

“Not hard to find out around here.”

“What else do you know about me, huh?”

I could tell her I know how she goes to the Overlook sometimes, stargazing by herself, like we used to do. I could tell her I see her pull through the drive-up of the Highland coffee shop and order a caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream every Saturday morning. I could tell her I’ve seen her drive aimlessly around Rixton Falls, down the very same streets that remind me of us. And I could name them in order: Freeman Avenue, Ellery Drive, Hayes Boulevard, First Street, Violet Road . . .

“Not much,” I say.

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Not long,” I lie.

Demi rises.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“I’m done here,” she says. “If you’re not going to be honest, I’m not going to let you waste my time.”

She walks away.

Just like that.

I follow, reaching for her hand and taking her by the wrist. She gulps a lungful of air when I take her by surprise and pull her toward me.

“I want to tell you, Demi. I want to tell you so fucking bad. I want to tell you everything.” I stare into her crystal baby blues, missing the way she used to look at me back when we were happy. Before everything turned to shit. When we were just a couple of kids with our whole lives ahead of us.

“Then tell me.” Her chest rises and falls. She smells like a hospital room, a sobering reminder that she spent her day by
his
side.

“I need more time.”

Her jaw hangs, and then she scoffs. “More time? Are you kidding me, Royal? Seven years wasn’t enough?” Demi yanks her wrist from my hand. “Please go. We’re done here.”