Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(16)
“His cholesterol?” I nearly choke on my spit. My head spins in my Dad’s direction now, my eyes flaring with unspoken anger. “Do you have high cholesterol?”
He blinks a few times, mouth unmoving. His shoulders vibrate, most likely from shaking a long leg underneath the table. I lift my brows and clear my throat, growing impatient. “Do you, Dad?”
“No. But it’s always good to take precau—”
I stop him mid-sentence. "Well then. I’m glad that that’s settled. But as much as I would love to eat whatever is in front of us, I actually think that I left my fridge open." I click my tongue, planting a disappointed smile on my face. It's clear nobody buys the quickly thought up excuse, but I honestly could care less. "Clayton would kill me if I let his yogurt spoil. You know how he is, right, Dad? Just crazy about that yogurt."
"Don't you dare leave me here alone," Tyler threatens in a low voice, turning to watch me stand up from my chair with narrowed eyes.
"Sorry, Ty.” I mean it. “I didn't sign up for this."
"Neither did I!" he replies, voice raising an octave.
"Braden Christopher Lowry," Dad growls, standing up, his chair sliding across the tile before smacking against the wall with a decent amount of force. "Sit back down. Now.”
"Don't use your ‘dad voice’ on me," I chuckle, brushing away his red faced anger like it’s nothing. "It doesn't work anymore."
It's not hard to imagine the lengthy list of colourful words that he's thinking about yelling at me from across the table as I roughly push my chair in and lift my glass of water, finishing it in a single gulp. He chooses to keep them all to himself, for Lana, I suppose.
"It was lovely to see you, Lana. Maybe pizza next time, though?"
Her glossy lips open like she’s going to say something before she nods her head instead, not muttering a single word.
"Awesome. I'll leave you guys to it then." I shoot my dad a dimpled grin before walking away from them, not stopping until I feel the cool breeze on my skin.
I’ve once again found myself stuck in the shittiest bar in town, a dewy long-neck bottle cool against my warm palm.
I don't wander my way over to Jim's for the expensive beer or the rude bikers smoking their joints in the back-corner booths—but for the silence. It's an odd place to go in search of silence, but that's exactly what I find here every single time. It's far from a busy place, which means that I can come here to think without anyone breathing down my neck asking me if I'm okay. If I need to talk. I'm positive that I don't have half as much shit going on in my life as most of these other fuckers trying to drown their feelings with overpriced whiskey, but we all have one remarkably simple personality trait in common.
We're all selfish, unapologetic pricks in need of some place to relax. Everyone here has a story, one that they don’t ever plan on sharing with anyone. Maybe they lost everything in a divorce because they were too prideful to apologize after every fight with their ex. Maybe they’re losing at some sort of internal battle that could have easily been won by a few trips to a therapist. Or, just maybe, they could be struggling with the realization that their life means nothing past boxing matches and pussy, yet not have the want or fire under their ass to do anything more. Wait, that one’s just me.
Nobody cares what your story is once you cross the threshold and breathe in the old wood smell that paints the air of Jim’s. You’re just another faceless figure here. Just how I like it.
"Want another?" A familiar voice asks. I simply nod and meet Jade’s vacant stare with my own.
Jade is one of the only two bartenders in this dump. She's a single mom recovering from years of cocaine addiction while working every night at a place full of other addicts. Ones who are either in the middle of recovering, pretending to be recovering from something, or boldly refusing to recover. I feel for her, I really do.
"How's your baby girl?" I slide my empty bottle of beer across the counter before grabbing the new one, raising it to my lips and taking a long swig. Jade slings her small white towel over her shoulder before cracking open her own beer and copying my movements.
"Excited to be starting preschool next month," she replies with a small, rare smile that I only see when she’s talking about her daughter, Samantha.
I return the smile before taking another sip. "And her dad?" I grind my teeth together when my skin flares with unspoken, unreleased anger.
The skinny prick used to show up here every night, blown out of his mind and just itching for a fight. Most of the guys, myself included, used to love giving him a reason to throw his fists around so that Jade didn't have to be on the receiving end once she got home. Finally, after a hard long year of seeing her show up to work covered in more colours than a colour wheel, she kicked him to the curb.
"Hasn't shown up since. You don't have to keep worrying, Braden," she teases, but I can see the appreciation pass through her green eyes.
I shrug. "As long as you and Smartie are safe."
Her smile is genuine—warm even, as she sighs and pulls the towel off of her shoulder, opting to wipe the counter. Our conversation ends when I see her turn her attention to the shadow walking up to the bar, stopping a few feet away from me.