That Girl Read online

  “I’m sorry, but…”

  Before I can finish my last sentence, the bigger of the two grabs my wrist and wrenches me down to his face. It just happens to be the wrist with the knot, causing me to squeal in pain from the pressure of his grip.

  “You little fucking bitch, we won’t pay. Now get the fuck out of our faces.”

  A large hand comes down on my shoulder, pulling me in the opposite direction of the huge man. My back collides into a hard chest, and my wrist is jerked away from the assholes with a loud pop and crackle.

  The large hand holding me pushes me to the side to another body, and then I’m pushed behind a line of men. The men act as a barrier between me and the two jackasses.

  “You have a problem?” I hear a voice and immediately recognize it.

  I see the asshole who had me by the wrist rise from the booth and go nose to nose with Layne.

  “You fucking deaf, asshole? I want to know what your problem is with Jodie.”

  “Layne, don’t.”

  This is the last thing I need. I need this job. Two men turn around and stare at me with quizzical looks on their faces.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “His name is Lincoln,” the largest one responds.

  A gasp of horror escapes as I cover my mouth and my face reddens. Holy shit, that was a tad awkward.

  Their voices have escalated to yells, and I finally hear a fist slam down. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lincoln’s fist colliding with the man’s face.

  “Let’s talk a little more outside,” Lincoln says.

  The man holding his face doesn’t look impressed, and his buddy whips out a fifty-dollar bill, lays it on the table, and grabs his friend by the elbow. The whole football crowd follows them, and I collapse on the barstool, relief flowing through my blood. Foul language, hollering, and fistfights bring back way too many memories for me. Something I never want to be around again.

  “Ma’am, can I get another side of ranch, please?” a customer calls.

  “Yep, no problem,” I reply with a trembling smile.

  My legs are rubber and wobble back and forth as I try to get them underneath me. Voices can still be heard from outside. Looking back at their table, most plates still contain food. They will be back.

  I focus on filling up the side of ranch, trying to gather all my thoughts and move forward.

  “Get a move on. Go bus that table and get back to work.”

  Looking up, I see Larry watching me through the cook window. He’s right. Get back to work. The men’s meals only totaled up to twenty-three dollars and fifty cents; guess that’s one hell of a tip.

  The group of men waltz back through the front door like nothing ever happened, settle at their seats, and continue eating. I peek over my left shoulder to see if Lincoln came back in with the rest. I make direct eye contact with him. His plate is still half full, and all of his attention is on me. I watch as he pushes his chair back and begins to rise. Slowly I signal no with my head, giving him the clue – not now.

  Glancing at the clock, I see there are still two and half hours before I can retreat to my tiny room with food and forget about this night. Every single piece of it, from the dickheads who reminded me of everything I despise about my past, to calling Lincoln by the wrong name.

  I check on their table one last time to ask for refills and hand out bills. The first thing I recognize is the blood painting Lincoln’s knuckles. My eyebrows instantly shoot up at the red smears. I notice Lincoln’s reaction when I spot it, and he just shakes his head signaling not now to me, just like I did to him.

  “Anything else I can get you?”

  The table falls to a very awkward silence, and nobody speaks up. All their gazes land on Lincoln.

  “We’re good, thanks, Jodie,” he replies.

  I can’t tell from his response if he’s pissed off at me, or just ready to get the fuck out of here. I don’t blame him for wanting to run, after the circus that just went down.

  “Okay, here are your checks. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  All the men pull out their wallets and lay down their money.

  “We won’t need any change. Every Thursday we come here for bacon cheeseburgers. We have this down to a science,” Lincoln tells me.

  I glance around the table at all the ten-dollar bills lying on top of the checks. My eyes hit the last check where a twenty-dollar bill is sitting, and I look up to see Lincoln sitting right in front of it.

  “No change,” he says.

  I try to argue with him, but he doesn’t give me the chance, rising from the table. Standing like a fool, I watch as they all leave the diner. My heart sinks, and the flashing fool sign proudly plastered to my forehead shines a little brighter.

  The rest of the night goes smoothly compared to the beginning. Several more tables, lots more burgers, no more fights or demanding orders from Larry. Counting my tips while waiting for the last minutes to tick by and the graveyard waitress to come in, my jaw almost drops to the ground. The highest night yet while waitressing. Ideas of some new home décor flash through my mind. I’ve been itching to spruce up my room a bit. Maybe get that vacation-type getaway chair I wanted in Junior’s hotel, or some color splashed on the walls.

  “Okay, get out of here,” comes a voice.

  Like I said, no one here is overly friendly. It the same gal who has relieved me the last two nights, and she’s spoken the same exact five words.

  “Have a nice night,” I carelessly say, hoping someone hears me.

  I use the front door to walk home for a couple different reasons. There’s not a light in the back, and it’s a clear shot to the empty lot and apartment from the front door of Boone’s. Before exiting the diner, I forgot to locate my keychain with the pepper spray on it. It’s probably because I was distracted by bagging up some ice to take home for my wrist. I’ve been in throbbing pain ever since the man grabbed me. I was hoping like hell Larry or the other waitress didn’t see me take the ice, but then again I’m sure they wouldn’t give a fuck. All of a sudden, I notice a dark figure walk from the shadows, causing me to scream and toss the bag of stolen ice up into the air.

  “It’s okay. It’s me,” Lincoln says, walking out into the streetlight.

  “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” I repeat trying to catch my breath.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m known to be a little jumpy from time to time.”

  “I just had to wait to see if you were all right. I could tell you didn’t want me to come to you in the restaurant.”

  “I thought you were pissed off when you left,” I respond, bending over to pick up my bag of ice.

  I’m so scatterbrained I try to pick it up with my injured wrist and immediately writhe in pain.

  “Here, sit down,” Lincoln says.

  He gently grabs my upper arm and guides me to the edge of the sidewalk. He sits down right next to me, laying my arm on the top of his leg, and then placing the ice on it. Accidentally, I let out a little grunt when the piercing cold bag hits my throbbing wrist.

  “That bad?” he asks.

  “It’s an old injury. Never healed right, and when that guy…” I trail off trying not to bring up the incident.

  “Well, that guy will never be bothering you again, I can assure you.”

  “You didn’t have to do any of that.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he growls.

  I instantly tense at the tone of his voice. Call it a natural reaction. The visible blood on his knuckles haunts me too. When I flinch, the ice falls to the ground.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just can’t believe he had the balls to treat you like that,” he says, picking up the ice and placing it on my now numb wrist.

  “It’s fine, really.”

  “Well, let’s not spend our time arguing over something we will never agree on,” Lincoln says.

  “You didn’t have to tip me so much
tonight,” I say, not able to look him in the eyes.

  “Another topic we won’t agree on,” he says.

  Awkward silence fills the street for a few minutes. Using my other hand, I rub his knuckles and feel the crusted blood on them. Everything inside me wants to thank him and kiss him on the cheek, but I don’t.

  “So,” he says, catching my attention.

  Looking up at him, I see a smirk spread across his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Did you really call me by the wrong name while I was defending your honor and beating the shit out of a scum bag?”

  I feel my cheeks redden, remembering that very embarrassing moment. Thank goodness some of his teammates corrected me before I called it to his face.

  “Yes,” I say, staring down at the paved road between my feet.

  “Look at me.” Lincoln pulls his hand from my roaming fingers and lifts my chin to look up at him. “Why are you sitting on the curb talking to a complete stranger?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging.

  “What if I’m a bad guy?”

  “It wouldn’t matter. I’m nobody,” I reply, without thinking through my words.

  “All I know is you are either Oakley or Jodie. Each time I’ve seen you, you’ve had two different name badges on. The day at the coffee shop I asked your name, and you were a smartass, but before driving I noticed your name badge.”

  “It’s Oakley, but my name has never really defined me. You could call me Stacey tomorrow.”

  “And what if I’m the bad guy?”

  “I have pepper spray on my keychain.”

  A prideful smile covers his face, “Good girl.”

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Because I want to be. I went back to the coffee shop a couple of times, but you weren’t working. I didn’t want them to think I was a stalker.”

  I giggle at his explanation.

  “Plus that crazy blonde spotted me once, and she scares me a bit.”

  “Me too. That’s Jenni, Danielle’s niece; Danielle is the one I work for. I work at the bakery and coffee shop.”

  “So, if you’re not at the coffee shop, I can come buy a doughnut?” he asks.

  “I guess.”

  “Wow, that was convincing.”

  “Sorry, I just...I just don’t know how to do this…talk to you.”

  “Let me show you,” he whispers into my ear.

  My whole body wants to melt into him, let him hold me and tell me everything will be okay, but I can’t and won’t. “I can’t.”

  “Can I walk you to your car?”

  I snort at his insinuation of me owning a car, much less having a driver’s license. I wonder how long it would take him to run if he knew that little fact. I never want to see the look on his beautiful face when he learns where I’m from and what I’ve been through, and the only way to guarantee it will never happen is to never get close.

  I start to speak and realize he is rubbing the burn scars on my palm, and I instantly cringe.

  “I gotta go,” I say, standing and trying to gather all my belongings, steadying my feet to run.

  My feet along with my legs have been trained to run. They find the pace of a beating heart and go, fleeing from all emotions.

  “Jodie, I mean Oakley, your wrist needs to be looked at. My uncle is a doctor.”

  “No. Bye, Lincoln.”

  Taking the first step into the lit-up lot, I look back and see Lincoln standing on the sidewalk with his hands perched on the back of his head, just watching me. I quicken my pace to erase the sight of him. Vanish the feel of his hand on mine, make the sight of his bloody knuckles disappear, and most of all to make all my feelings for him evaporate into thin air.

  Chapter 7

  Really lost at 1,014 Miles

  I throw my burger on the dented dresser in my room, flop down on the bed, and beat myself up. I scold myself for feeling what I felt tonight, for reacting to his touch, for feeling proud as hell when he stood up for me. Only two people have ever stood up for me, Jazzy and Old Man.

  His smell. Dear lord, the scent turned me on. When we were sitting on the sidewalk, I couldn’t help but smell him. It took everything inside me to not lean down and straight out sniff his bare shoulder.

  Looking back, everything was a complete clusterfuck tonight. From the fight, to Lincoln’s bloody knuckles, our reactions to each other, his admission to trying to find me, and the awkward touching on the curb. Any normal girl would have leaned on him, asked about his day, maybe asked what position he played, his last name, where he’s from, or any normal fucking question. Nope, not me. I played it completely awkward and a little cowardly.

  Hell, if it had been Jenni, she probably would’ve been spread-eagle on that curb trying to make babies with him already. I guarantee a sexy-ass football player like Lincoln wants just that, a girl to spread for him and be his little arm candy. At least, that’s what I’ll try like hell to convince myself. It may take days or weeks to imprint it in my mind. His actions and scent may be two things I’ll never get over.

  No energy or motivation to shower tonight, I will myself to drift off with a certain blue-eyed brunette on my mind.

  ***

  I work all morning at the coffee shop, praying the next customer would be that blue-eyed brunette who dominated my dreams and every thought since waking up. It’s not that I want a relationship, but the fact he stood up for me has replayed over and over in my brain and heart. That single act meant more to me than anything else. The man didn’t even know me and stood up for me. Then when he was waiting for me outside, it made me hopeful. He wanted to walk me to my car, and that’s when reality struck. I’m not his type, but still every engine I hear pull up to the hut, I hope it’s a truck with a certain somebody smiling back at me.

  No special coffee customer. Then my obsession turned into a doughnut customer. He did mention stopping in for a doughnut if I wasn’t at the coffee shop, but Jenni is working a couple hours to fill in there. I’m sure if he came by, she’d probably trample the poor man.

  I talked to her a little bit when she came into the bakery before her short stint at the coffee shop. You’d think it was killing her to work for two whole hours. She complained on and on about her back hurting, and then how she tried a new hair color and it didn’t quite “pop” like her last one. She wasn’t even sure if she could go out in public with it, and that’s why she had it pulled up under a bandana.

  While half listening to her endless diarrhea of the mouth, it hit me why I was so skeptical and gun-shy of her at our first meeting. She’s the typical snobby know-it-all bitch from high school. There was a little gang of them where I went to school. After freshman year, they finally realized whatever torture they would deal out, I just sat back and took it. They could never embarrass me, make me cry, or even anger me. Yes, all their pranks and mean jokes stung like a bitch, but they had no concept of knowing you can’t hurt someone who is already broken in every which way possible.

  Jazzy, on the other hand, gave those bitches every fight they asked for. She screamed, cried, and bullied their asses right back. She was never willing to give in to anyone. I always knew it was because she had Old Man to go back home to. So many nights she made me stand in front of the mirror and practice cussing out Elizabeth, the head bitch at our school. As Jazzy liked to call her, the cunt of all cunts who ever walked the earth. She had me memorize so many comebacks and jabs to send her way the next time Elizabeth pointed out how inferior I was. Each and every time, I lowered my head and continued with my day.

  Judging Jenni and comparing her to those bitches and the cunt of all cunts was definitely a mistake on my end. My conclusion upon chatting with her for the second time is she has a heart of gold, fewer brain cells than most, and really, really digs all things make-up, hair, and clothes. And football players. Apparently they’re high on her list, so I’m sure if Lincoln stopped in we would’ve seen smoke signals coming from the coffee shop. This hasn�
��t stopped me from looking up every so often to check.

  I finish out my bakery shift with mindless tasks. This type of work only leads to more thinking, analyzing, and dreaming about Lincoln. How in the hell has this man done this to me? Never in my life have I been so taken in by a person. The last time I obsessed on something, it was my plan to leave when I turned eighteen. To leave, no matter the circumstance, and to never, ever look back was the goal at hand. I was completely engrossed in the plan. Not listening to one thing a teacher said at school, or the screaming from my mom. My mind was only focused on one thing, and that was leaving.

  In a very similar fashion, my mind has been consumed with Lincoln. His eyes haunted me in my dreams the first night I saw him. His scent now lingers in my soul from just spending a few minutes with him last night. Completely obsessed, but not able to reach out to him. Lost in my own thoughts and drowning in my own fears is the reality I face.

  My Boone’s shift goes even faster and is easier on my thoughts because the work isn’t so mindless. The gal running out the back door asked me to cover her shift tomorrow. I’m only scheduled to work four days a week there, but I never turn down extra shifts. It’s an added bonus that Lincoln will be less likely to invade my mind since the work is at a quicker pace.

  Every time the door opened, my eyes gravitated toward the door, and each time my heart deflated a little bit because Lincoln never walked through those doors. The man had three chances today to see me for coffee, a doughnut, or a burger. My heart wanted all three, but my brain knew he’d be having none today. I’ve convinced myself he stuck up for me because he’s a good guy. In the world there have to be several good guys, and I was lucky to be graced by the presence of one. That’s that. I wipe the tears from my cheeks, glance at the name Jodie on my chest, and let it go.

  I grab another pack of ice, because my wrist is really swollen from the twist last night and all the work today. You have no idea how much you actually use your wrists until one is majorly fucked up. I’m now fully aware of how much I use mine. Upon exiting the bathroom I notice my to-go box is ready in the window. I snag it and head for the door. The diner is packed, and nobody notices me exit through the front. Tonight I’m definitely showering, and over the weekend I have to find a Laundromat. I smell like a walking fried nacho, and I’d bet if you licked my shirt it would be tasty as a cheeseburger. I’m saturated in Boone’s.