Page 51 of Unhinged

“Simone, you’re gawking at Greg. Do you like him or something? Is he an ex? You can tell me.”

I blink, confused for a second, but tears cloud my eyes. Dread and sadness return, and it’s not a place I want to live. Trying to avoid his line of sight, I answer, “I have to pee.”

Doubtful, she says, “Okay, but you don’t need my permission. I think you need a minute, anyway.”

I nod. “I do. I’ll be back.”

Almost as if I’m walking through a library with tap shoes, I carefully make my way through the drunk and disorderly as I go to the empty kitchen. Needing some kind of solitude, I reluctantly go to the restroom. Luckily, when I try the door, it’s open and empty. I lock it and pull on the door to ensure it doesn’t open. Despite the filth, I lean against the wall. I don’t think I can go back out there, constantly under Greg Rodwell’s scrutiny and criticism. I just want to live my life. He can do whatever the hell he wants with his. We only work together. I don’t have to talk to him more than necessary. In fact, I’ll avoid him. Yep. That’ll work in a family-owned dive bar the size of one of my purses.

Risking using the toilet, I then wash my hands, but the reflection staring back at me in the cracked and peeling mirror looks sad. I came here to find myself, but that’s impossible with finding Greg here first. As long as we don’t cross each other’s paths, then… I don’t know what. I’ve apologized to him for telling his mother about his assault. Shit. I can’t help but think maybe his insults about my intellect are the truth.

Running my fingers through my hair, I inhale stale beer, recent piss, and moldy tacos. Gagging, I unlock the door and turn the handle, but the door doesn’t budge. I mutter, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

Putting my foot on the wall, I yank harder, growling in frustration, sounding like Frenchie fighting with a pig ear. But the sneakers my mother bought me from Target originally for softball barely have tread, and my foot slips off the wall.

With the door unmoving, I look up at it and yell, “Anyone out there?” Only whining steel guitar music answers. “Come on!”

Trying again, I put my foot on the wall, and with all the strength I don’t have, I turn and pull. The door jolts violently, swinging open and throwing me to the dirty tile floor. Confused, grossed out, and now bruised, I look at the open doorway, but it’s empty.

“Fuck me to France,” I groan, standing up, but then remember I was sitting on this floor, and I hurriedly smack and sweep my butt, like that will really clean me. I then rewash my hands as the literal pain in my ass dulls somewhat. I smile when I remember Greg sliding into home in the last game of the season and how he complained about his bruised ass. But then I realize I’m thinking about his ass, and my smile slips.

“Get a grip,” I mutter as I wave my hands in the air to dry them. I’m not touching that towel dispenser unless I wear a hazmat suit. It’s bad enough I used the toilet. I guess nobody cleans it. Do I really have to be the one to do it? What a disastrous thought.

Leaving the restroom in a rush, I run into a gray T-shirted chest. I giggle, “I’m sorry,” but then I see the human wall I crashed into.

“That’s accurate, don’t you think?” Greg’s brown eyes flare with anger that never used to be there.

I step back, stuttering, “Um, I didn’t mean to—”

“Save your excuses. I have a few things I want to say to you.”

“You already have. Remember? Now go back to pretending I don’t exist.” I try to eek past him, but he blocks me every time I move. “Let me out.”

Instead, Greg forcibly spins me until I face a dark room. “Walk.”

I plant my feet on the ground as he pushes against me. His cologne puts me in a chokehold. God. I used to love smelling it. His entire apartment smelled like Chrome. A few times while he was at work, I sprayed more on his pillow and blanket since I slept there. Smelling his scent mixed with his cologne in his bed turned me on so hard, and every night, I had to leave again to finger myself in the bathroom, which never took long. Asleep or not, I couldn’t do it with Birdy in the room. Now his scent reminds me of what an idiot I was. “No.”

Since he’s stronger than me, his body easily inches me forward as I hear people and music on the other side of the wall. We war against each other, back to front, with his groin against my ass. It’s hard to miss. Good gravy boats.

I claw the hallway walls, fighting not to go. I chip nails and scratch the paint, but I won’t fucking give in. I seethe, “Cut it out, Gregory Rodwell! I’ll scream!”

Latching onto the locker room doorway, I snag us to a stop. He yells, “Let go!”

“Stop plowing me!”

An unfamiliar voice from behind us asks, “Are you fucking?”

Greg and I instantly separate as we look to see one of the Pudge Brothers heading for the men’s room.

“Jesus, no!” I squeal.

Greg says, “These bathrooms back here are for employees only. Use the other one.”

The stringy-haired, greasy bastard shrugs and slurs, “Honey, if he’s not satisfying you, I can.” Too stunned for words, I can only glare at him.

With his anger still rolling in the air, Greg shouts, “Fuck off, Roy!”

The hobgoblin ignores Greg and continues into the restroom. Realizing I’m not imprisoned, I attempt to storm past Greg but don’t get far when he stoops, trapping me in his arms. Before I know it, he lifts me over his shoulder.

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