Love Hurts (21 page)

Temptations

Tad Johnson was an average guy. He held an average job, was raised catholic, and played football all through high school. He had one dog. An old beat up pickup truck and the most bothersome laugh, a cross between a cough and a sneeze. Rose hated it.

Rose closed her eyes, resting her hand against her temple. She drug her French fry through the blob of ketchup on her plate.

“
Can you believe that?” Tad asked. He let out one more insufferable guffaw. Rose pursed her lips, slowly opening her eyes and acting alive and in the moment.

“
No, I can’t believe Gary would forget Beth’s birthday. Its nuts,” she muttered, staring out the window of the diner. Tad made horrible slurping sounds with his milkshake and this only grated Rose’s nerves even more.

She was in a bad mood ever since Sam’s brother had visited two days ago. She was still debating on whether she should call Delaney and tell her the odd story she heard or just let it go. She feared for her safety. And she feared Sam’s brother was testing her, trying to see if she would cave and confess to Delaney all that she knew. Maybe it was a trap. She never imagined she could ever go through with telling Delaney about Sam and her connection. As much as it pained her, it opened up to many wounds for her. It wouldn’t just ruin Delaney’s life it would ruin hers too. So she did the only thing she could and that was threatening Sam. It might have been phony threats but he didn’t know that.

“
Well, I must be getting back to work. But I’ll see you tonight for bowling right?” Tad said, dragging himself from the booth, his massive six foot three frame shadowing the table. He waited patiently for Rose to pull her attention away from her cell phone.

Rose looked up. Smiling the instant he smiled at her. It was out of habit anymore. She studied his thick mess of blonde curls that he kept cropped with just enough curl to give him an easy style. One she thought was old fashioned and made him look like a naïve school boy instead of the man he was now. But she preferred to live with it then say anything.

“
Of course, see you at seven.” She closed her eyes, anticipating the sloppy kiss he placed on her lips. She grabbed the back of his head, trying to slow him down. Her head falling back as his tongue practically slid down her throat. She could taste the onions on his breath and the remaining root beer shake in his mouth. Finally when she couldn’t take it any longer, she pushed his face away pretending she needed to fiddle with the barrette in her hair.

Tad wasn’t awful. There were plenty of awful men in their town. He wasn’t one of them. He just failed to pay attention to Rose. He thought being a charming guy with manners was enough. One that respected his girl and took care of her sexual needs was enough to make her happy. But he really knew nothing about Rose. They did the basics: ate together a couple times a week, bowled with the same friends every other week. And occasionally sang karaoke on Fridays. Sundays they shared a movie in her one bedroom apartment. And when Tad was feeling playful he invited her over—usually on Thursdays to have some “special” time as he liked to call it. Special time to Tad was showering, coming into his bedroom in his towel. Turning on some old jazz tunes that only gave Rose a headache and made her feel like she was living in the dark ages. And then Rose would watch from her spot on his bed while he disrobed. She never understood why Tad thought staring at his stark white body naked was a turn on. He wasn’t powerfully built, he was a bit hairy and he always left his socks on.

And after ten minutes of heavy petting, Tad would climb on top of her, his black socks chafing her ankles, his fist gripping the pillow on either side of her head, as he grunted like a wild boar until climax. His sweaty body dropping on top of her before sliding to the side and in about five minutes he was snoring. That was Rose’s life in a nutshell. Why she cared to hold on to it was straightforward. She didn’t like change, she feared change. And the one time she tried to do something out of the ordinary she was attacked and left for dead. Change proved fatal.

Rose stared at her cell phone. She tapped her feet nervously, debating calling Delaney, the only friend that stuck around through everything in her life. All of her other friends went away to College and never lifted a phone to even say hello to Rose.

Rose lifted her phone, texting quickly:
Just wanted to say hello. And see how you’re doing.
She hit send, and climbed out of the booth. She grabbed her red apron heading back into the kitchen. She had to finish her shift.

***

Frankie needed a drink. He pounded his fist on the counter. “Whiskey neat.”

The busty bartender did a sashay to the liquor bottles.

She sat Frankie’s drink down. “You look wore out.”

“
This is what I get for doing favors. Dark circles.” He downed the drink, sliding it back to the bartender. She poured him another sending it back.

“
Rack em’ up, Dylan,” the guy at the pool table said, drawing Frankie’s awareness. The name Dylan struck a chord with him.

His eyes darkened at the sight of her. She stumbled around the pool table, in tattered jean shorts and an olive green camisole. Brown boots to her shins and messy hair. She drew in her bottom lip, concentrating on the balls in front of her, the tall male with her, lounging around in the corner without a care in the world, as if he was superior to all the commotion around him.

Frankie turned in his bar stool. Watching Dylan round the table and take a seat next to him and all his blasphemous tattoos. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, accepting the jack daniels he plied her with. He chalked his stick, and leaned over the table to get a better aim at the balls, another guy joining in on the game. The guy rested several bills on the table, which signaled he was up for a challenge.

“
Top left, mate. I sink it that hundred is mine,” Mr. Tattoo said with a thick Australian brogue. Frankie smirked, swirling his whiskey. He watched the man sink the ball with ease, pocketing the cash before the loser could object.

Mr. Tattoo rounded the table, sliding a hand around the back of Dylan’s neck. He pecked her lips. Frankie’s blood boiled. He shook his head, turning back to the bar. He wasn’t going to let this guy get under his skin.

“
Another whiskey?” the bartender asked. Frankie rubbed the back of his neck, pleading with his mind to just let it go. Dylan was there at the bar with another man, it was none of his concern. Cheers sounded behind him as the con artist sunk another shot and took another victims cash. Frankie gritted his teeth. He lifted his drink, holding it tightly in his grip. He tried steadying his nerves, throwing his head back and downing his whiskey. He stood up taking the new whiskey with him.

Dylan was accepting another Jack Daniels as Frankie approached the pool table. He lifted the money from the table stuffing it back into the next opponent’s shirt pocket. He took his pool stick without asking permission and rested his whiskey on the edge of the table near the corner pocket. This was enough for everyone to back off that was waiting for their turn.

Dylan eyed Frankie looking a bit nervous. She sucked in her bottom lip, pulling on her little black jacket.

“
Are you a betting man?” Tattoo asked, his dark eyes boring into Frankie and his devilish good looks. It wasn’t that this man was ugly. He just wasn’t on Frankie’s level.

“
I wouldn’t be over here if I wasn’t,” Frankie replied, chalking his stick.

“
The name is Mitchell. Yours?”

Frankie smirked. He pulled a large wad of cash from his pocket. “Frankie.”

Mitchell nodded amiably at the large quantity of cash on Frankie’s end. He could be anything he wanted with that much money.

“
What were you looking for?” Mitchell asked, resting his pool stick on the table. His eyes glazing over at the wad of cash that he was so certain was about to be his. Frankie set the entire chunk down.

“
If I make this next shot I get my cash
and
your girl.” Frankie didn’t bother looking at Dylan as he set the rules for the game. “And if I don’t sink this shot, this will all be yours.”

Mitchell chuckled, looking over at Dylan. “A bets a bet, babe. There’s no way this man is up for the challenge.” He nodded, picking up his pool stick.

Frankie licked his lips. “Heck. I’ll even let you pick the shot. That’s how lucky I’m feeling.”

Mitchell shook his head in disbelief. The bartender stopped what she was doing watching Frankie toy with the new guy.

Frankie pulled his jacket off. Dylan took a seat watching in skepticism.

“
Have you ever heard of a Masse shot?” Mitchell asked. He wasn’t an idiot. He was going to feel Frankie out before he got in over his head.

Frankie walked around the table, eyeing the balls. “Of course. That’s when I spin the cue and miss the rail and all the poor defenseless balls on the table.”

Mitchell agreed. “Then you know that’s absolutely impossible. Well that’s what I got for you.” He pushed the cue into the balls scattering them all across the table. Finally he took the cue ball and set it in the center in a throng of disorder. Knowing fool well this wasn’t any ordinary game. He was making his own rules to get his hands on the money.

Frankie scrubbed his chin, pretending to really be trying to figure it out. He dropped down, judging the shot, but secretly was checking out Dylan’s legs. He turned his head to the left, then the right. And finally took his position. Mitchell stood on the opposite end of the table, arms crossed, a shit eating grin on his face.

Frankie drew back, the stick gliding through his fingers. The ball spun flawlessly like a sphere-shaped cyclone. Mitchell watched closely, waiting for the ball to come in contact with something. Frankie rounded the table.

Dylan anxiously chewed on her nail. She watched Frankie crack the pool stick over his knee.

Frankie wrapped an arm around the Mitchell’s neck, tossing his body over the balls on the table in one quick movement before anyone around him could even think to react. “Well I guess we will never know who won.”

Mitchell sat up. Stunned Frankie had the courage to challenge him. He wasn’t your average everyday guy.

“
Do you know who I am?” Mitchell asked, climbing down off the table, the bar silent at this point. Everyone’s eyes were on Frankie and Mitchell.

“
Yeah, you’re the man who just lost a bet,” Frankie said. “We’ll be leaving now.”

Dylan dropped down from the bar stool, happy to be leaving with Frankie.

“
I don’t think you want to do that,” Mitchell said from behind them. Frankie slipped his jacket on calm and composed.

“
What’s that? Taking my money and your girl and hitting the road?”

Frankie brushed past him and pocketed his cash. He grabbed the end of the broken pool stick just in the nick of time. Mitchell tried to grab a hold of him, Frankie spun around, hitting him in the forearm with the jagged edge of the stick before Mitchell could get a hand on him. Mitchell yelped, pulling back in pain. In total shock that Frankie had just impaled him with the sharp wood.

Dylan’s eyes were huge.

Mitchell told his men to back off. He didn’t travel alone. But now he was having a hard time choosing whether to make an example out of Frankie or to figure out what caused this man to have such valor to want to take him on. Did he think he could just get away with slighting him in front of god and everyone?