That Girl Page 13

  Turning my head, I whisper, “I’m sad you didn’t text me all day.”

  “Sorry, had a shit day. Will never happen again.”

  “Why a shit day?”

  “My parents.”

  “Sorry,” I say kissing his lips again.

  “Okay, I want the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and brown gravy, with a side of fries and an extra thick shake,” Tiny finally speaks up.

  “Jesus, are you sure that’s enough?” I joke.

  “I might order seconds since this chicken shit here ordered a fucking salad.”

  “Off to my next table,” I say with a plastered fake smile.

  “Hey,” comes Tiny’s voice, “Monica probably has a bigger cock than me. She’s always been this obnoxious know-it-all piece of shit, so just take her with a grain of salt.”

  Tiny’s words make me laugh, and I realize Monica is simply some insecure bitch who has fucked up more times than she can count and feels the need to treat me like trash because on the inside that’s all she is. I mean, really, whoever can lose the love of Lincoln is truly a world class fuck up, and I refuse to let a self-righteous bitch like her make me shed one more tear. I’ve decided to stay here and try a relationship with Lincoln, so it’s about time I stand up for myself.

  I do believe it’s time to let this “C U Next Tuesday” know exactly who owns Lincoln Wilks, and I don’t give two fucks if I lose this job, because I’m fighting the biggest fight of my life. The prize: Lincoln Wilks.

  “Ready to order?” I ask the extra-large booth.

  All gazes shoot to Monica, and it’s on. She has no idea how ready I am to take her ass down.

  She starts with a dramatic eye roll. “Really, it’s about time you take our order.”

  “Sorry, was busy serving my boyfriend,” I reply with a smirk.

  Monica sneers right back without skipping a beat. “Please, he’s only with you because he feels sorry for you.”

  Leaning down, I whisper into Monica’s ear, “Want to guess where Lincoln’s fingers were this morning? That’s right, buried deep in me while you were literally miles away. In my bed with me, making me come like a skyrocket.” Standing taller for the rest of the table to hear me, I ask, “Want a salad with that?”

  And in my head, I whisper, “Game over, you rotten bitch.”

  Monica’s face turns a sickly green, and she doesn’t place a food order. The bitch can eat oxygen for dinner for all I care. I’d love to inform her she’ll be a shit mother and her future daughter will despise her, but she doesn’t even deserve that from me. And in all reality, self-righteous bitches like her never get the clue.

  Finishing up the order from the booth, I throw it at the new cook and wish the next waitress the best of luck. I may or may not have told her to spit in the Cobb salad order. Her mischievous grin lets me know she’ll gladly share a little saliva with any deserving customer.

  Quickly I whip off my Jodie shirt as I prepare to join Lincoln. Halfway to his table, I realize I forgot my phone and turn to snag it from under the counter. I notice the lock screen is full of notifications. Sliding it open, I see a dozen texts from my man.

  Lincoln: I love you.

  Lincoln: My day sucked.

  Lincoln: I need a good night. My dad is an ass.

  Lincoln: You sitting on my lap was fucking hot.

  Lincoln: Fuck, you just bitch slapped Monica.

  Lincoln: Okay, I just popped a hard one for you.

  Lincoln: PS- please quit while you’re back there.

  His texts make me laugh and blush at the same time, and they also remind me of something. Making my way back to the kitchen, I call out, “Tell Old Man Boone I quit.”

  The quizzical look on the cook’s face is downright memorable. I know he’s wracking his brain wondering who in the fuck Old Man Boone is. Well, it sounded good in the moment, and I let it fly.

  Leaving the kitchen in my black tank and white shorts, I smile for the first time in a long time. It’s not just any smile, but a genuine one. Lincoln made me realize one very important thing last night, and that is I can feel all the emotions I need to feel, I can ride the roller coaster of shame and come out smiling, and most of all I can feel his love without insecurities blinding me.

  “Hey there, good looking,” I say as I slide into the booth next to Lincoln.

  “Well, hello there, Mrs. Cat Claws,” he responds, shoving a bite of burger in my mouth.

  “Dude, this chicken fried steak is giving me a boner,” Heath announces with his booming voice.

  I’m betting Jewels has had to form a thick skin with his deep voice and obnoxious as hell laugh. God bless her.

  “I’m glad you like it,” I reply before another bite of Lincoln’s burger is forced into my mouth.

  Turning to look at him, I see pride written all over his face.

  “Why are you smirking?” I hiss into his ear.

  “I heard every word you just laid on Monica.”

  “I quit my job.”

  “Can I suggest we go bowling before you two try to make a baby in this booth?” Tiny asks.

  “Bowling? Dude, I kick your ass every time,” Lincoln says.

  “Can’t blame a fool for trying,” Tiny banters back.

  “What do you say, Oakley Ann?” Lincoln asks.

  “I’ve never been bowling,” I admit.

  Jewels pops a slice of cheese from her salad into her mouth, and says, “Yay, I can outscore someone.”

  Chapter 13

  Cheering from 1,014 Miles

  Today is game day, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t practically shitting my panties every thirty minutes. Lincoln has arranged everything from the person picking me up, to my tickets, and the route I physically walk into the stadium.

  Since our double date on Monday, I’ve wanted to tell Lincoln off several times because his over-planning of the event is way extreme. Deep down, I know he only wants the best experience for me, but I prefer to feel it from a raw point of view, and I want all of his attention and energy focused on the game.

  Plan A was for Jewels to pick me up, and then we’d sit together in Lincoln’s family’s season ticket, seats since he knew his parents would be in Dallas for Levi’s game. That was until Jewels texted me.

  Jewels: Hey, my pops is coming in today from a long haul run and I need to tell him about the baby.

  Me: Okay

  Jewels: Oh btw Lincoln gave me your number.

  Jewels: I’ll meet you at our seats.

  Jewels: Are you good with that?

  Jewels: Did you die or something?

  Her texts come in within seconds of each other while I’m trying like hell to simply type out one line back to her. This text shit sucks ass.

  Me: Ok, I’ll just walk to campus. Good luck with your dad.

  Jewels: Fuck, are you sure? I’ll try and find you a ride.

  Me: :-/

  Mentally, I pat myself on the back for using symbols to make a face. Wednesday night, Lincoln and I lay in my bed, and he schooled me on texting, from the way I was holding my phone to all different types of smiley faces. He told me I have a minimum of a five smiley face, three selfies, and two naughty texts quota to fill every day. He even went on to tell me he thinks he’d play better on the field with three naughty texts.

  I think about texting him the change of plans, but decide not to. I don’t want anything to distract him, and my walking across town to campus definitely would. I guarantee if I texted him that I planned on walking, he would come pick me up.

  This game means everything to him. I was also introduced to ESPN this week during our nightly make-out, talk, and cuddle sessions. He brought over one of the defensive linemen, and he hot-wired some cable in my room. Lincoln won’t admit it, but I know he wants to be on the highlight reel desperately. While watching this week, I heard his brother’s name mentioned over twenty times, and I wasn’t even fully paying attention. The comparison of Levi to his father’s quarterback career was alway
s at the center of conversation. Lincoln’s dad was right about one thing, you wouldn’t even know he has another son.

  Lincoln bought me enough college gear to dress me from head to toe. Every night, he brought home something new for me from face tattoos to necklaces and a jersey to wear to the game. I’m going to have to forgo the school color flip-flops he bought and settle for my green Cons to walk across town.

  Looking in the mirror, I give myself a pep talk. “You are worth it, and you, my dear, are going to watch your boyfriend play in a college football game. People are going to stare and whisper, and Monica may even try to start shit, but you are going to go and plant your ass in seat 22, Row E, Section 104.”

  My hair has grown out a bit, but is still short enough to funk it up. I have my temporary team tattoo is on my cheek, and the number twenty-two is proudly displayed on my jersey. Turning to the side, I peer at the back of the jersey and the name Wilks printed in bright white letters above his number.

  “I love you, Lincoln Wilks,” I whisper.

  My phone beeps, alerting me to a text. Picking it up, I see his name.

  Lincoln: Selfie and some naughty words, please.

  Giggling out loud, I hold the phone up and snap a selfie, making sure to get his jersey in the picture, and then send it.

  Me: I’m not wearing any underwear.

  Lincoln: oh fuck me.

  Me: Get your head in the game! See you soon.

  Lincoln: Can’t wait to run my hands down those little white shorts.

  Me: Goober! Bye.

  Oh shit, I better take my underwear off now. I was just trying to think of the sexiest thing I could, and I’ve heard that line in a movie before. The shit I get myself into.

  Walking down the street, I feel as if every car passing knows I’m not wearing any underwear. I feel naked as hell and want to stop at the next department store and buy a pair of panties and a new bra. It’s early Fall and roasting-ass hot, and my boobs are dripping with sweat from the blazing sun beating down on this dark green jersey. The only thing saving me is the tiny holes all over it.

  “One hundred feet, turn right onto 3rd Avenue East.”

  The second best feature on my phone is the map app. I’m freely walking to a destination, not worried about a route or which way to turn. I’m simply following the dot and listening for directions. Sounds silly, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever experienced. The screen shows I’m about three city blocks from the stadium.

  Carloads of crazy fans have been screaming past me, blaring on their horns with their game day flags whipping in the wind. I’ve even had several fans holler, “Wilks kicks ass. Go number twenty-two.”

  Each time, like a fool, I look around me to see if they’re talking to me. So far, the sidewalk has been lonely and free from others. The sound of a loud engine pulls up behind, and I can’t tell if they are stopping for traffic or actually stopping for me. Turning around, I see Monica’s face smiling from the passenger window. She’s dressed almost identically to me in team colors. Please keep driving. Please, please, please, just leave me alone.

  The dreaded voice of Monica. “Don’t feel so badass out here on my turf, do you?”

  The truck is now creeping along the sidewalk, matching my pace. I try to speed up and keep my eyes focused on the path ahead.

  She snarls, “You’re trash, and he’ll throw you away soon enough.”

  Turning to make eye contact while still walking, I finally speak up. “Enough. Leave me the fuck alone. I’ve never done anything to you. Just leave me alone.”

  Monica laughs, and I realize she’ll never give up on destroying me. Turning my attention back to the sidewalk, I catch the blur of a flying object heading toward me. I try to duck, but the hard object hits me in the side of the head, causing me to lose my balance and fall to the ground. The pavement tears up my knees when I hit the sidewalk. I feel the blood dribbling down my shins, and roll over to sit upright and look at the mess.

  Just another set of scars to define me. In this moment, I want to run away once again. The urge is building up in my belly, and it will take only one more incident for me to finally cave in. I find a tissue in my purse and start to clean up the blood. The cuts and scrapes don’t want to quit bleeding, so I hold the tissue on them for a couple minutes. Looking at the time, I realize I have fifteen minutes to get to my seat before Lincoln takes the field, and if he doesn’t see me sitting in my seat I’ll ruin everything for him. Pulling out hand sanitizer and cringing like a wuss, I dab some on each knee and clean off the blood the best I can.

  Jewels: Where are you?

  Me: A couple blocks out.

  Jewels: Street name.

  Me: Ram Avenue.

  Jewels: Keep walking toward stadium. Be there in a bit.

  I don’t listen to Jewels, I run instead of walk, and I feel the pain each time my knees bend. The pain drives me to run faster. Nothing will stop me from getting to Lincoln’s game. My gut wants to run, so I will run, but not in the direction it’s indicating.

  “Oakley, it’s me,” Jewels says waving from a lime green Volkswagen Bug.

  I gasp, “We can’t miss kick-off.”

  “Oh, honey, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ll have your ass in the stadium in five minutes.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask, remembering why plan A got all screwed up.

  “No, but I will be.”

  An awkward silence takes over the tiny interior of the car, and I’m not quite sure what to say, so I say nothing. Jewels is right and has us parked within minutes. We both exit the car and take off for the stadium.

  In a steady jog, Jewels finally gives in. “My dad told me to get an abortion or never come back home. He said he hasn’t driven long haul truck for the last twenty-eight years to raise a daughter who gets knocked up and drops out of college.”

  This time I definitely have nothing to say, besides, “I’m so sorry, Jewels.”

  She brushes one knuckle to catch moisture at the corner of her eye. “Thank God I have Heath.”

  A few minutes later, I point and say, “Lincoln said to use gate B.”

  Jewels is veering in a different direction. We are both now in a complete sprint.

  “How many times has Lincoln watched a game?”

  I can admit when I’m wrong. “Point well taken.”

  We finally come to a stop underneath an enormous set of bleachers. It looks like it goes up at least twenty stories.

  “Hey, Jewels,” a tall security guard says.

  “Hey, Hank. We’re running late. Can you let us in, please?”

  “You got tickets, then I’ll let you in.”

  “Yep, we have Lincoln Wilks’ season tickets.”

  “Hell, those seats have been empty forever, and they’re probably the best in the house. Go on in,” he says, swinging open the chain-link gate.

  “We have one minute and thirty-two seconds to get to our seats before the team takes the field for introductions,” Jewels hollers over shoulder.

  I hear the words, but I’m unable to process the meaning while dodging through the sea of people who have swarmed the stadium. Green and white everywhere, crazy wigs, face paintings, and shirtless men fill the area. Never in my life have I been around so many people, and I’m not talking hundreds, I’m saying thousands and thousands, from infants to grandpas.

  All of a sudden, I feel a tug on my wrist and the sharp paint that always accompanies it.

  “Oakley, let’s go,” Jewels yells while she holds my wrist.

  Snapping out of my wonderment, I keep pace with Jewels as we weave and dart through the crowd. I finally see our section number and start putting together that each row is labeled with a letter, and then each seat is labeled with a number.

  “We made it. Bam, baby!” Jewels cheers, throwing her hands up in the air.

  Looking down at the seat, I see my name spelled out in thick Sharpie marker with Lincoln’s number under it and immediately recognize his writing. Next to my name is a large ba
g of blue cotton candy, my favorite food on the planet. I asked him the other day if a circus or carnival ever came to town, because I love, love cotton candy.

  Cannons fire off, scaring the shit out of me. Looking up, I see white fog streaming up into the air, then the announcer takes over, and the crowd goes wild. A thumping song slams through the speakers, and I recognize it from Lincoln’s pregame tunes. Let’s Go.

  Streams of players run out onto the field. Frantically, I scramble to find twenty-two, but my nerves and excitement take over, and I find myself jumping up and down with Jewels, screaming and cheering along with the fans.

  “There he is,” I scream over the cheers when I finally spot Lincoln.

  Lose Yourself by Eminem is pouring from the speakers, and I watch as the football players jump around, pounding on each other’s helmets and dancing in a circle. I know Lincoln is with his boys.

  The coaches start to usher the players to the sidelines, while three players from each team go out to center field for the coin toss. As this is happening, I hear Lincoln’s voice explaining every single part of the game to me. I know exactly what’s going to happen next. The other team will call it, and depending who wins the toss, they get to pick whether they want to start on offense or defense. I know if Lincoln’s team wins the toss they will defer and let the defense take the field first.

  “Damn, I know a lot about football,” I blurt out.

  Jewel gives me a strange look and focuses on the field. Heath is on the sidelines grabbing a drink when they make eye contact, and she frantically waves at him. Heath, being the forever smartass, looks over his shoulder to see at whom she’s waving, then turns around and winks at her.