Running Back to You (The Running Series, #1) (22 page)

I have to get out of here.  I have to move.  Staying still will do no
good.  I know what has to be done.  There really is no choice here.  He’s not
who I thought he was.  He lied and misled me.  I deserve better.

I
drive out to the reservoir about a mile and a half away to go for a
run.  It’s a popular location for walking and running at all times of the day. 
There are shady spots and benches where people can sit and relax.

There is certainly a lot to think about.  It’s probably best to have some
alone time to think, process, and rationalize, so I lock my phone in the car
and head out for a nice long jog. 

I feel like I was lied to, but was I?  Really?  He told me his name is
Evan Thomas.  True.  He just never told me his last name.  Is an omission the
same as a lie?  I’ll come back to that one.

His job.  He told me he works with the Sentinels – true.  He said he
would start training with the team in a few months – true again.  Did he ever
come out and tell me what his job was?  Not exactly.  If I remember correctly,
he said he works with the offensive team.  I don’t have to know much about
football to know that the quarterback does indeed work on the offensive team. 
He let me jump to my own conclusions there.   

Were there other clues that I missed?  I have to admit to myself, there
were.  The girls at the ice cream store recognized him.  Maybe they saw one of
his commercials or television appearances.  If he was on the People Magazine
website, he was probably in their printed magazine, too.  Then there’s the
money.  For someone so young, he spends a lot of money.  That big beautiful
home on the ocean, his Porsche, renting us a yacht.  How could I be so naïve? 
Oh – he said he ‘doesn’t go to public gyms’.  Of course not, how could he?

My next thought is about that strange conversation with Adam.  So much
has happened since that awkward meeting, and I struggle to recall exactly what
was said.  I believe he said that Evan’s had a rough year and he was trying to
protect his friend.  From everything I’ve read, it sounds like Evan had the
type of year that young men dream of!  Yeah, right.  Poor Evan.  All those
beautiful women and Hollywood starlets hanging on his every word.  What a
tragedy. Unfucking believable.

Thoughts come and go at random.  I find myself trying to understand why
Evan would keep so many secrets from me.  On one hand, he didn’t tell me about
his past sexual experiences, but then again, I didn’t tell him about mine,
either.  If I knew he was a pseudo-celebrity and I had his full name, what
would I have done?  I would have told Auggie and he would have Googled it
faster than the blink of an eye.  I guess Evan knows that.  But how long would
he have kept up this charade?  I’m sure that if given the chance, Derek and
Marcus would recognize him immediately.  Shit.  Is that why he didn’t want to
go to Atlantic City with Emmy and Grant?  Must be.

After all that, what would he ever want with me?  He can literally have
anyone in the entire world.  Hell, he nearly has!

So where does that leave me?  I knew he had a shady past, he told me so
himself.  He also told me he wasn’t ready to divulge the details yet.  He knew
the truth would end us.  He was right.

W
hen I get home, I go straight to the bathroom and start running a bath. 
While I wait for the tub to fill, I look through the Google images of Evan
again.  I find one of the more disturbing photos, the one of him in the hot tub
full of young girls in bikinis with their hands all over him.  I send Evan a
text and I attach the photo.

Whatever game you were playing is over.  We’re over.  I hope you got what
you wanted.

I hit ‘send’ and my hand is trembling.  I immediately turn it on silent. 
I don’t want to hear from him.  I’m holding it together, but I know if I hear
his voice, I’m going to lose it. 

The bath is nearly ready, so I put my iPod on.  I crank up all my P!nk
and Kelly Clarkson songs.  Time for girl-power songs.  I sing along and with
each song that passes, my resolve strengthens. 

There’s a brief moment of silence on the iPod as the songs change, and I
swear I hear shouting in the house.  My eyes dart to the bathroom door and it’s
locked.  Thank God.  I know exactly what the shouting is about.  I wonder how
long before –

“Juliette, open the door.  Talk to me.  Let me explain.  Please.”  It’s
Evan.  I guess he got my text.

Kelly Clarkson is singing about “
What doesn’t kill you makes you
stronger,”
and I sing right along with her, giving it all I’ve got.  I’m
certain he can hear me and I hope he gets my not-so-subtle message.

“Sweetheart, please open the door.  Let me in.”  He sounds desperate. 
Good.

The water is starting to get cold.  It’s time to get out of the tub. 
Let’s see who the better actor is.  Showtime.  I grab an elastic and put my wet
hair in a messy bun.  I wrap myself in a towel, turn off the music, grab my
clothes, and prepare to face Evan. 

There’s a knock on the door.  “Juliette, sweetie, please.  Don’t do
this.”

I unceremoniously open the door, step out, and walk over to Auggie,
completely ignoring Evan.  “Auggie, please show our guest out.  I have
absolutely nothing to say to this liar and egocentric narcissist.”  Marching
around in just a towel, I try my best to maintain my pride.  I’ve given him too
much already; he can’t have that, too.

I walk purposefully and directly to my room, but it’s too late.  Evan
darts in with me and shuts the door.  “Now you have to talk to me,” he
announces as he stands as a watchman in front of the door.

He is not going to get what he wants.  I won’t let him.  I walk over to
my dresser and find clean panties and a bra.  I unabashedly drop the towel and
begin to get dressed.  I will not acknowledge him.  I locate a pair of shorts
and my Wilkinson’s t-shirt.

Evan walks over to me and tries to put his arms around me.  “Get the fuck
off me,” I snarl.  “I know this may be something new for you, so I’ll try to
speak slowly.  I don’t want you.  I want you to leave.  Now.”

He takes a step back and looks at me, shell-shocked. “You’re mad and
upset.  I get it.  But this isn’t over.  I’ll give you some time and some
space, but I’m not going to let you do this to us.”  He turns and walks to the
door, opens it, and steps out.  Before closing the door, he turns to say one
final thing.  “I thought you were a fighter.  I thought you would fight for
us.  I’ll keep fighting until you’re ready.”  He shuts the door and walks away.
 A few minutes later, I hear his car leave. 

That’s when the tears start, and once they do, they don’t stop. 
Eventually, when I have no tears left to shed, Auggie cautiously raps on the
door.  “Can I come in Jepetto?”

When I don’t answer, he takes that for a yes, and he sits on the floor
beside me.  He wraps his arms around me and rocks me until I calm.  With a kiss
on the forehead, he takes me by the hand, helps me to my feet, and simply
states, “Let’s get you ready for work.”

I
arrive at work a few minutes early.  Grabbing some clean bar towels, I
head back to the patio where Derek and Emmy are already setting up for the
night.  Emmy takes one look at me and races over, “Holy shit, Jette.  What the
hell happened?  You look like crap.”

“Evan and I broke up today.  It’s over.  Oh, and I slept with him last
night.  And this morning.”  I try not to look at her while I’m talking; it’s
easier if I talk to the liquor bottles.  I feel a sudden need to make certain
that all the labels are facing the same direction.

“Do you want to talk about it, sweetie?”  Emmy is rubbing my back.

“Not now.  Soon, but not yet.”  Derek is just standing back, watching
without interfering.  The bar is small enough that I know he heard every word. 
“Derek, can I ask you another favor?”

“Sure, Jette.  Name it.”  He’s cleaning the glasses and watching me
cautiously.

“Remember when I told you we should cool it behind the bar?” 

A smile slowly spreads across his face.  “I do.  Why?”

“Change in plans.  You’re going to help me shake this funky mood I’m in. 
You up for the challenge?”

“I’ll do my best.”  For the first time in hours, I smile.

Slowly, the bar begins to fill and I’m grateful for it.  One of the nice
things about working in a nightclub is the music.  There aren’t many love songs
or ballads that play.  Tonight’s music selection is almost entirely high-energy
dance mixes, techno, and hip-hop.

It’s Easter weekend, and all the college kids have come home for the
holiday.  Even though it’s a Thursday, the bar is completely packed by ten. 
The dance we perform behind the bar tonight is one of a hurried Salsa, each of
us moving gracefully around the other.  Occasionally, Derek will grab me by the
hips for a little flirtatious bumping and grinding.  Even Emmy joins the fun
tonight. 

A group of young men saunter over to the bar and I give them the
universal sign to acknowledge their presence, the chin nod.  One of the guys
begins to get impatient and whistles at me to get my attention.  Cardinal rule
number one is never whistle at the bartender.  The only thing worse may be the
snapping of the fingers.  I finish serving a few young girls that just got off
the dance floor and I hurriedly make my way to the pack of young men to get
them their drinks and hopefully away from my bar.  “What can I get for you gentlemen
tonight?”  I start lining up a few bar napkins while I wait for the order.

“Gimme four bottles of Yuengling.”  One of them slaps a ten on the bar. 

I return with the beers.  “That’ll be $14, please.”

“How about you give me one for free, seeing as how you made me wait so
long.  The service here really sucks tonight.”  He’s leering at me and I’m
feeling very uncomfortable.

“Sorry, we’re not allowed to give away the bar.  House rules.  I can put
one back in the cooler if you only want three.  Your call.”  I can feel eyes
watching me from all points around the bar. 

He slams another five on the bar and emphatically adds, “Bitch,” before
grabbing his beers. 

I ignore the snide comment and swipe the cash off the bar when I feel a
chill down my spine.  “You owe the lady here an apology.”  I know that voice. 
Shit.

The asshat turns and walks right into the brick wall that is Evan.  One
look at the intimidating frame of this man, and asshat loses his tough guy
attitude immediately.  He turns to me and mumbles, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

Apparently pleased with his small victory, Evan steps to the side to
allow the jerk to walk away.  He stops dead in his tracks as recognition
ignites in his masculine brain.  “Hey, Evan McGuire.  Big Mac!  Welcome to
Jersey, man.” 

Momentarily, I am frozen in place.  Evan is standing before me in his
dark wash jeans that hang low on his hips and a V-neck t-shirt that hugs his
biceps, biceps that beg to be caressed.  It appears he hasn’t shaved in over a
day, and all I can think about is feeling that scruff all over my bare skin. 
And oh, God, does he smell good.  My mind has to tell my body that he’s not
mine to desire any more.  Fantasy time is over and reality has arrived kicking and
screaming.