to a new day.
A cloudy day.
A tortuous day.
It’s Monday, so I’ll be home for the duration of the day, alone with Hawke, while Patrick heads off to work at his father’s financial firm.
He and his brother were locked into the family business before they learned how to walk. They are the wealthiest family in this town by far, yet make a point to show just how humble they really are, or pretend to be.
Either way, I’ve got a day of editing ahead of me before I head to my night job, bartending at the local bar in town.
Do I need to do it? No. Patrick tells me all the time to leave the job. That he can provide for me, but I’m just not the type. If I don’t make it on my own, I didn’t make it at all. It doesn’t count.
I also just so happen to love the people I meet. They’re real, down-to-earth souls who sometimes just need a bartender session; like therapy, but it comes with a side of whisky. Some days I’m the teacher, some days I’m the student, but every day, there seems to be a lesson learned.
I wake up early enough before Patrick gets up to go start some much-needed coffee. Putting my silk robe over my tank top and underwear, I tie it loosely, then head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.
Walking around the living room and into the kitchen, I almost jump out of my skin when I see a tall figure behind the counter.
“Oh! My God.” I gasp, standing with my mouth open.
Hawke stands, leaning against the counter, wearing nothing but loose-fitting gray sweatpants with a large imprint of where his infamous member is.
Seriously, does this man not own any other clothing?
He doesn’t say a word as I divert my eyes away awkwardly, biting the corner of my lip again.
“See something you like?” he asks blandly, raising an eyebrow at me while his face remains cold.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think…” I stutter, shaking my head before looking down at my partially open robe, showcasing my hardened nipples straight through my little white tank top.
I clutch it to my chest, sucking in a breath in embarrassment.
His eyes saw it all. I can tell by the way they narrow a bit while his tongue toys with that damn lip ring again.
“I didn’t take you for a morning person,” I comment, using my long hair to hide the blush in my cheeks as I reach for a cup.
He already has the coffee going and I’ve never been more thankful for a roommate at this moment.
“So you think you know me?” he asks coldly, before filling his cup.
He leans back against the counter with a scowl on his face and a cocked head, setting his cup down to cross his arms. The motion somehow accentuates the toned muscles beneath the ink of his forearms and biceps.
I try to look away, but fail miserably. There’s just something about his whole look that draws my eyes to him.
“I mean, yeah…I think I get the gist based on what I’ve seen thus far.” Being honest, I shrug.
If he’s going to be blunt, I’ll be blunt right back. He stands up straight off the counter, grabbing his glass as he walks past me. He pauses, turning his head to look down at me, while his words slice through me in a deep, direct tone. “You don’t know shit.”
I swallow at his sudden closeness and striking words before he walks away, and I can breathe again.
“And I guess I won’t be learning any more today,” I say under my breath, before bringing my cup to my lips.
I smell it before I take a sip.
Yes. Black and strong, just as the devil intended.
He might be an ass, but he makes a mean cup of Joe.
I get settled in my room, sitting at my large oak desk with my little succulent friends surrounding me, and pull out my work for the day. The manuscript in front of me looks promising, and I’m actually looking forward to working through it.
I was lucky enough to find a part-time job as an editor for a small publishing house in a neighboring city. What else do you do with an English major other than teach? I got the job in hopes of one day publishing my own work through the company while simultaneously perfecting my craft.
The gig doesn’t pay well, hence the need for the bartending job, but I truly enjoy it, plus it gives me time to work on my personal material.
Getting lost in this new dystopian love story I’ve been working through, I put the manuscript down, pull my earbuds out, and check the clock.
Jesus, it’s already past lunch.
I stretch, and the aching rumbling in my belly lets me know it’s time for some grub. Remembering the plate of leftover steak and macaroni waiting for me in the fridge, I leave the room to head towards the kitchen.
As soon as I exit, I’m reminded in the worst way that I have a new roommate. There’s Hawke, standing by the front door, shirtless again, making out with some red-headed chick. His tongue is all down her throat, his hand pulling her ponytail back to angle her head up to his.
He must’ve been screwing her brains out while I was in the other room with my eloquent classical music bursting through my ears. How fitting.
Rolling my eyes, I huff and head towards the fridge, opening it and slamming it shut. It must cause some attention because I hear them say their goodbyes with the promises of another good time, then hear the door close.
I place my food in the microwave, staring at it like it’s my saving grace. Only a few more minutes and I’m back in my room.
As my unfortunate luck would have it, the timer on the microwave slows to a snail’s pace just as I hear Hawke approaching the kitchen.
He comes to the fridge beside me, grabbing what sounds like another beer. I’m refusing to turn away from the microwave to see.
“Do you have a problem with me having guests over?” he asks behind me.
He sounds genuine enough, but who knows, he’s probably being a dick.
“Nope,” I reply plainly, still staring at the food slowly rotating before me.
“Seems like you do,” he says, walking past me and leaning back against the counter, directly in front of the microwave. Directly in front of me.
I take a deep breath with my arms crossed and look at the ceiling, letting it out. “As long as you don’t disrupt my work, you can fuck whoever you need to fuck, snort whatever you need to snort, drink whatever you need to drink. Do you, homeboy.”
He lets out a dry chuckle, looking down to the floor, then licks his lips and looks back at me with that stare again. His ocean eyes are sending waves through me, pulling me out into his treacherous water. I need an iceberg to sink this ship.
“You should try it sometime.” His eyes scour my body as his tongue flicks against his lip ring.
“I don’t do drugs,” I snap, attempting to look anywhere but at him.
I fail the attempt miserably as my eyes flutter back to him.
He tightens his jaw, tilting his head with his eyes narrowed, looking directly at me. “I mean get fucked.”
My eyes grow wide as I finally turn my body towards him. I can’t tell if he means it sexually or if he’s literally just using the opportunity to tell me to get fucked. I choose sexually demeaning for 200, Alex.
“I get fucked. I get fucked often, and hard. Happens when you’re in a serious relationship with someone you love.”
Even saying the word fucked in front of him makes me feel like a blushing, babbling amateur. I apply a thick layer of brave face, like a broke drag queen in need of a job.
He stands there with humor dancing in his eyes as he toys with that damn lip ring again.
I wince my face slightly after saying it. It sounded better in my head, but now that the words are out in the open, floating around in the kitchen between us, I can’t help but feel the effects of sounding like a total prude who has no idea what it is to be fucked.
“Trust me, by looking at you, I can tell you’ve never been properly fucked.” He scoffs, brushing past me. “Oh, and next time you wanna play Harriet the Spy and watch me mess around, let me know. I’ll give you a better view.”
I hate that he knows I saw him. I hate that he thinks I was gazing at them mid-kiss. I hate that I was.
He looks like an experienced lover, probably because he is. He’s been with hundreds of women. I’m not doubting it. I’ve already seen two of them and I’ve known him for less than forty-eight hours.
I can’t wait until Patrick gets home and I don’t have to worry about the awkward moments between Hawke and I. Until then, I work.
A little later, around dinner, I text Patrick to see where he is. When he answers, he informs me he’s running late and probably won’t see me until after I’m done with work at the bar.
It’s so frustrating when the only time slot we have to enjoy one another gets filled with work from his father. He could walk away from it, he could tell his dad he’s done for the day, but he never stands up to him. He always feels the need to do the right thing, even when that means putting our relationship, and me, last.
Seven o’clock rolls around and I’m finishing getting ready for work. I enjoy looking somewhat cute at my job, so I curl my hair and let the loose dirty blond hair fall down my back. Jeff, my boss at the bar, has a pretty relaxed policy on what we choose to wear, so I wear some comfortable chucks with some ripped jeans and a black halter top.
I’m ready to make some tips, have some friendly conversations with my type of people, while getting the hell out of this house for a few hours.
Time to work the dive bar.
