Going through the motions, I prepare dinner in hopes that Ezra will be hungry when he gets in and appreciate my effort. I never get to cook for him. Living at the dorms, I only had a hot plate and a microwave. There was only so much I could do with the two.
I take a sip of wine, not wanting to tell Ezra I was fired today.
Three hours later, my dinner is cold and untouched. I keep watching out the window for headlights or listening for footsteps…anything to alert me to Ezra’s arrival.
The apartment is spacious, it’s the upstairs of an old store. Holden uses the downstairs for his business. My only complaint would be that there is only one bathroom.
It’s definitely outfitted to be a bachelor pad with a black leather sofa and matching recliner serving as the only seating in the living room. A 60-inch television serves as the focal point of the room. Any gaming console you can think of is housed underneath on an entertainment stand, along with several books full of blue-ray movie discs.
Finally, I hear someone coming up the stairs.
Chapter 6
Holden
“Where you running off to?” Cheryl pesters at my side, as I finish my final beer of the night.
“Home. Alone,” I add on, making my intentions clear. She se
rved her purpose, now she needs to move on.
I move to toss my empty bottle in the trash.
“Seriously, alone?”
“What I said,” I say, continuing to brush her off. I nod to Waylon as he wipes down the bar. “I’m out. Lock up for me.”
“Sure thing, man.” He gives me a chin lift.
I really need to see about hiring an extra bartender. Cheryl does okay, but she doesn’t have great tits. Tits and ass attract more men who spend money buying women drinks, trying to get laid. And they like having something pretty to look at. I don’t mind it either.
I leave Cheryl to find some other sorry bastard to take her home. I knew better than to fuck around with her, but I’m a sucker for good head. That’s one thing she does a great job at. She’s a lousy waitress. Missy should be back after she has her six-week checkup, but I’m not counting on it. Waylon said she is loving staying home with the baby.
I make my way to my truck, patting my pockets for my keyring, and then I remember my dumbass gave my keys to Conleigh. Shit, I need to walk anyway with as much as I drank tonight. I only wish it wasn’t so fucking cold outside.
Nearly four hours and six beers after Conleigh left the bar, I make my way home. Ezra’s car is parked in front of our apartment, but I doubt he’s here. If he keeps working like he does, he’ll be bald or gray by thirty.
He doesn’t deserve Conleigh. He’s all wrong for her. So many times, I have wished that the first night I met her, I’d seen her first. I wish like hell that I had never kissed Bailey. I swear fate fucked with me. Conleigh should have been with me that night and Ezra should have picked up Bailey.
Bailey gave me a thank you kiss for getting their shots and she was a little eager. I should have pulled away. I should have told Conleigh that it meant nothing and that I wanted to get to know her, because she was the prettiest fucking girl I had ever seen. I didn’t do that though because I saw the way Ezra kept staring at her. He was just as mesmerized by her as I was.
I never stood a chance all because of one dumb kiss. Conleigh has never looked at me the way I want her to. She only sees me as the jerk who pissed off her best friend.
Trudging up the stairs, my feet are heavy. I should’ve come home when Con showed up. I feel like a dick for forgetting her key. She probably thinks I did it on purpose, but I got on a roll working earlier and it really did slip my mind. I’m working on a hope chest for Waylon’s four-week old daughter.
Before I can knock to be let in, the door flies open and Con’s face falls when she sees that it’s only me.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I mumble as she moves away from the door.
Her dark brown hair rests in a tiny knot on top of her head. She pads across the floor runner to the small dining room that separates the living room and kitchen.
“You hungry?” She says, her tone soft, but sad.
“Sure, I can eat.” I pat my stomach as she takes up a chair, tugging the oversized university sweatshirt over her bare knees. She’s wearing grey tube socks with white and navy stripes, they are sliding down her calves. She keeps adjusting them, but they keep sliding back down her tan legs.
I kick my boots off and follow her to the table. I can hardly tear my eyes away from her silky legs.
The smell of garlic assaults my senses and I look to the table.