Surrender (6 page)

I look up to see Garrick leaning against the nearest shelf with his arms crossed over his chest. I can’t help but stare at his massive biceps. Is there anything small on this guy? A surge of heat passes between us while I fantasize about
what
I was holding on to last night. “Are you stalking me?”

His eyes light up. “Do you want me to?”

Macey coughs and I turn toward her. “Are you going to introduce me?” she asks.

I stare at the floor tile and start to count individual squares.

“Sorry,” Macey apologizes to him. “My girl has her head up her ass today. I’m Macey.”

I look up in time to see her extend her hand. Garrick smiles devilishly at me and winks.

“I’m Garrick Dempsey.”

“Dempsey?” Macey repeats. “Can you remember that, Robyn?”

I elbow her in the side. “Yeah.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence and Macey looks at me, then Garrick. “I get it,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I’m going to aisle three.”

I watch her disappear. “How are you?”

He leans in. I can smell his cologne—citrusy spice. “Are you familiar with the laws of physical attraction?” he whispers near my ear.

I quiver. Even if I’m not, I’m a quick study. “What are they?” I’ll play along.

He fingers the silk ribbon on the front of my blouse, then looks me in the eyes. “I’d have to
show
you.”

I wanted him to show me last night. My gaze flicks across the aisle. Mentally, I’m useless around him. Physically . . . I simply cannot keep it together with this guy standing so close. “We’re shopping for Macey’s football party next week,” I announce.

He smiles. “You like football?”

I tilt my head to the side. “I do.”

“Let me guess,” he says as he rubs his chin. “A Cowboys fan?”

Everyone in Texas, with the exception of me, loves the Cowboys. “Nope,” I answer. “I’m an Eagles fan.”

“Eagles?” He looks heartbroken.

“My dad is from Scranton—I grew up screaming obscenities at the television next to my father. Old habits die hard.”

“I won’t hold it against you.” He touches my cheek and I instinctively shut my eyes.

“Maybe I’ll convert you . . .” he adds.

I open my eyes and giggle. “That will
never
happen.”

Something changes in his expression, and I can feel that nervousness creeping in again. “About last night . . .” he starts.

I’m not ready to do this. Maybe I’ll never be. “Can we forget about it?” I ask.

He stares at me with those big brown eyes. God, I’d kill for his eyelashes. “I don’t think we can.” He’s not playing.

We’re frozen in place for what seems forever. He leans in and presses a chaste kiss on my lips. “We can forget about it for now. I’ll see you tonight.”

Without further explanation, Garrick Dempsey struts away.

“He’d make an interesting
lab
partner.” Macey appears from nowhere.

I can’t believe she listened to everything. “Spying?”

“Girl,” she says. “Can you blame me? I felt the heat on the next aisle.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“That wasn’t a kiss?” Her eyebrows furrow. “You’re the master of denial, Robyn. Let’s go or you’ll be late, bookworm.”

We check out and head for the parking lot.

“Twenty minutes,” I remind her.

“Get in the damn car and quit complaining.”

I’m glad I’m wearing a seat belt; otherwise, my pink lips would leave an imprint on her windshield she takes off so fast. We make it to the library in record time. Macey pulls up to the entrance and revs her engine.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask, climbing out.

She rolls her eyes. “All those books would give me a migraine.”

My best friend has mastered the spoken word—not the written. If she’d give education a chance . . . “You want to sit out here in the heat while I’m studying?” The library is perfectly comfortable and private. There are leather couches and computer stations. Hot guys to flirt with. “You can’t leave me here.”

She sighs, then shows me her iPhone. “Entertainment,” she says while flipping her AC off, then back on. “Air-conditioning, and look . . .” She points at a group of guys standing nearby. “Eye candy. Call me when you’re done. I’m not hanging out here while you study, crazy girl—some of your smarts might rub off on me. What would people say?”

“Whatever.” I grab my backpack from the floorboard. “Promise you’ll pick me up?” She smiles. I close the car door, then walk inside.

Jamie and Frederick are already camped out at our usual table. I drop my bag on the floor and sit down.

Jamie doesn’t like me very much, and being one minute late only adds fuel to the fire. “If you can’t keep our schedule . . .”

“Don’t start,” I nearly beg. Too much has happened over the last few days. School is the last sanctuary I have. “I completed my end of the research.” I lean over, dig in my backpack, and then produce three copies of my project notes. “See?” I say. “
A newly discovered stone panel at the Classic Period Maya (
a.d
. 250–900) capital city called La Corona in Guatemala . . .” I read the first three paragraphs out loud.

“Good work, Gonzalez.” Frederick rewards me with a crooked smile.

“Adequate,” Jamie grudgingly admits. “Are you going to make the class trip with us?”

I swallow. Every time I see this girl she’s all over me about the trip our archeology class is making to Guatemala next month. I don’t have $5,000 to spare right now. And it’s not required to pass the class. Believe me, I desperately want to go. “Still considering it.”

“You only have two weeks left to make up your mind, Robyn.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I grind out. I can’t imagine being stuck on an international flight with Jamie Brooks or sharing a hotel room with her for ten days. I’d go either crazy or to jail.

Frederick offers me a copy of a site map he’s been working on in GIS. “I love it.” He’s really good. Our group project is due next week. So far everything looks great—wish I could say the same about my personal life.

I can’t get Garrick Dempsey off my mind.

Chapter Five

By six thirty on Saturday night I’m running late for work. I’m about to open the front door when the phone rings. I drop my backpack and stomp to the kitchen. As soon as I answer, I know who it is. My mother flatly refuses to call my cellphone.

“Robyn,” she says in that stiff voice.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Did I interrupt anything?”

“I was leaving for work, but I have a few minutes.”

She goes quiet, and I hear her take a deep breath. She needs to recover from the four-letter word she considers as vile as an F-bomb:
work.
More specifically,
my
work.

“Marisela wants to see you,” she says.

My little sister knows what I do for a living and whenever my mother feels generous, she grants me visitation rights for my sister’s sake, but always under heavy supervision. I also suspect that deep down, although my mother is still angry at me after all these years, she still needs to know I’m okay. I accept these sporadic, usually tense interludes with my mother because it’s better than no contact at all. So I always make the best of my time with Marisela . . . managing to slip her a stack of ones. It’s an ongoing joke between us. She’s seventeen going on thirty in front of me, and seventeen going on twelve in front of our mom.

“How’s Sunday afternoon?” I ask.

“Won’t work,” she answers curtly.

“Monday between classes?”

“Robyn . . .” I cringe. “The world doesn’t revolve around your schedule. You can come over for dinner next Thursday.”

I sigh. She knows I can’t miss work. “I work on Thursday, Mom.”

Another painful pause.

“Why do you always make everything so difficult?” she asks.

I try to hold in my anger. I can’t. “Why do you always invite me over when you know I have to work?” The line goes dead.

My weekly quota of Mom harassment has been met. I hang the phone up and fight to hold back the tears already stinging my eyes. I’ll never understand why she continues to hold a grudge against me. Kicking me out of the house was the ultimate punishment. Living with the fact that she believed her brother over me, and never even questioned him about the abuse, still kills me inside. It shouldn’t. I’ve had ample time to deal with it. Instead of seeking counseling or joining a support group, I keep my emotions bottled up inside. I’m too ashamed to reveal my past. Macey knows, but she’s the older sister I always wanted. Anyone else—I’d choose a painful death first. That’s what you get when you have a disjointed, judgmental family that cares more about appearances than love. Accomplishment over compassion, respectability over reality.

I go in the half bath off the kitchen and flip the light on. My black eyeliner and mascara are perfect. I turn off the light, pick up my backpack, and head to my car.

I walk through the main entrance of the Devil’s Den and immediately see Craig sitting at the hostess booth. Something tells me he’s waiting for me. I give him a half-smile and start for the dressing room around the corner.

“Robyn,” he barks.

I stop. His angry voice raises gooseflesh on my arms—I’ve been the victim of his temper before. I hear him stomp around the desk; he’s headed my way. The dressing room is only a few feet away. Maybe if I run . . . He takes me by the elbow.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m late, Craig,” I protest. “Can we do this later?”

“No.” He drags me to the small storage room next to the dressing room, kicks open the door, pulls me inside, and slams the door shut.

“What the fuck?” he asks.

I look at him like he has two ugly heads. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“You’ve earned it,” he says. “Why’d you leave with Garrick last night? Are you fucking him?”

“Maybe,” I shoot back. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, I think it is.” He grabs my arm and gives me a shake.

Craig is easily six foot five and nearly 260 pounds of gladiator muscle. “Let me go.”

“Answer me.” His eyes are bloodshot. “Are you screwing this guy?”

“No,” I assure him, just to get him to leave me alone. “Satisfied?”

His nostrils flare as he growls. He reminds me of a raging bull preparing to gore the matador. I
am
wearing a red dress. He still hasn’t let go.
Crack.
I slap his face. It’s gratifying to see the outline of my tiny handprint on his right cheek. Surprised, he lets go. I do a 180 and slip out the door before he can stop me.

Once I’m in the dressing room, I open my locker and grab a costume. I think I’ll wear virginal white tonight. After all, I feel like a goddamned emotional sacrifice for my mother, and now for Craig Hanson, who cannot seem to accept that I’ll never give him a second chance. I hate cheaters. I despise men and women who double-dip. It’s disgusting. I hope Craig’s giant prick rots off.

Desire and Sapphire are getting ready, too.

“Hey, girl,” Desire acknowledges me. She must be drunk. That girl has never liked me.

“Hey,” I say with a tight smile.

I watch her reach inside her cocktail purse and pull out a small brown vial. She uncaps it and taps a line of coke out on a compact mirror. She takes a mixing straw from a shelf above the vanity and snorts a line. Sapphire follows.

“Want some?” Desire calls over her shoulder.

“No thanks,” I say. I want to get out of here.

I dress quickly, then secure my locker. Without looking in their direction, I grab my backpack and leave the dressing room. The club is only half full. I drag my feet on my way to the DJ booth. Craig is standing by the main bar. He scowls as I walk by. I bob my head, acting as carefree as I can. I won’t let him ruin my night. Only my mom gets that honor.

David is spinning tunes tonight. He stands up to give me a hug as soon as I open the door. “Hey, baby,” he croons. “Bring it in.” He sweeps me into his arms.

I linger in his grasp and I’m sure he knows I’m suffering. Dave and I went to high school together and he’s always known my family situation.

“Is the old lady at it again?” he asks.

I pull away, then nod.

“Forget it.” He kisses my hand. “Pick your poison, girl.”

“You do it,” I say. “Give me something that would drive me to self-mutilation.” I peck his cheek and leave.

Twenty minutes later, I’m dancing to Alanis Morissette’s whiny voice onstage. Yep—I want a razor blade.

The first half of the night drags on. By eleven, I’ve already counted my tips three times and refused five table dances. Sometimes it’s not about the money. This place gets under my skin. It’s my sanctuary. When I’m up onstage I block everything out—people and places. It’s me and the music in perfect synchronicity. It cleanses my soul in some sick, twisted way. It’s nothing I expect anyone outside the business to understand. That stage is my weapon three nights a week, and I can either embrace it or resent it. Most of the time I dominate it—the way my mother did me.

I’m sitting alone near the ’57 pickup when Morgan the waitress informs me someone is waiting for me in VIP.

“What’s he look like?” I ask.

Morgan holds up a finger. “Do you need the talk?”

Whenever we get lazy, Morgan gives a motivational speech. “No thanks.” I smile and stand. “I’m going.”

She walks me to the VIP to make sure I go in.

Garrick is sitting at the same table we occupied last night. As I approach, he stands. “Good evening.” He grins like an idiot and bows at the waist.

I can’t figure him out. One minute he’s dark and brooding; the next, Mr. Congeniality.

I drop into the thick-cushioned chair opposite his. Candlelight casts shadows across his unshaven face. He’s beautiful; imagine Michelangelo perfectly blended Chris Hemsworth and Tom Brady. Very intimidating.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I could eat.” The club serves steaks and salads on the weekends.

He gestures for the waitress. “Two rib eyes, medium rare . . .” He studies me. “And dinner salads with vinegar and oil.”

“I’m not a big meat eater,” I inform him.

“Something we’ll have to remedy.” He grins.

I don’t know whether I should laugh or resent his sexual innuendo. I don’t mean to be a stick-in-the-mud, but I’m incapable of having a good time tonight.