Page 25 of The Pucking Wrong Man

I took a deep breath, my tense shoulders settling back. My eyes went steady, determination filling me, replacing the frantic nerves from before.

It was going to be alright. I had always been the type of guy to get what I wanted. If not by talent alone, then by sure force of will. I also had a group of guys, in a certain circle, who’d managed to find their girls.

Anastasia Lennox had no idea what was coming.

CHAPTER 5

CAMDEN

Iwas edgy when I arrived the next day at the community kitchen where I volunteered once a week. For the first time that I could remember, I had no interest in being there. I wanted to be out there, stalking the dance studio, waiting for Anastasia to get there. It wasn’t a want at this point, it was a physical need, a desperation that sat under my skin.

I hadn’t slept last night, or if I’d had, it had felt like a fevered dream, replaying how she’d been on that stage.

Searching for her on the internet had been…disappointing. She didn’t have Facebook, and her Instagram had been a public account with five fucking posts. The five pictures were all black and white shots of her, one of her stretching in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, her shirt oversized and slipping off her shoulder. Another had been her dancing on her tip toes—a move I was really going to have to research because it was fucking impressive.

Unfortunately, the three hundred followers she had were all men. So, I’d spent thirty minutes reporting all of them—and then reporting her account, too, because it was nothing but a thirst trap for horny assholes. We’d be having a discussion about privacy and who to accept as friends at a later date.

I wanted to hunt down whoever had taken her profile picture. She was sipping coffee in a sports bra, both hands holding the plain white mug, squeezing those perfect tits together as she smiled softly at the camera.

I’d saved that picture as my screensaver. I wanted that look. I wanted her to stare at me like that every fucking morning for the rest of our lives.

It was a goal for me.

“Hey, Camden!” Freddie said as I walked through the doors.

I threw up a hand, forcing a smile. Freddie had been an alcoholic for years and had lost his family along the way. He was three years sober now, trying to make penance to the universe for that lost time. I liked the guy, but I didn’t want to give him any reason to try and corner me for a lecture about “having a positive attitude,” or “searching for the good in every day.” I’d endured one of those after a particularly bad game where I’d spent half of it in the sin bin, and I wasn’t looking to repeat the experience.

Pulling on my gloves, I glanced over my station, making sure it was ready. The doors would be opening to the public any minute now, and it was usually a mad rush after that.

This place was one of the nicer ones that I volunteered at. Twenty-five volunteers were scattered all over a spacious room filled with long, stainless steel countertops. A set of double doors behind me held a few industrial-sized stoves and ovens as well as food prep areas. There were cafeteria tables set up to the right and left of the stations where people could eat. Not sure the motivational posters on the walls really did anything, but I was positive that the shelves stacked with neatly organized cans and dry goods did.

Everyone who came today would be able to get a meal and then take some groceries home with them to help get them through the week.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow over everyone as volunteers in aprons hurried to their stations with trays of food. The air was a strange mix of bread and Lysol. Not such a bad smell, actually.

“Heads up, doors unlocking now,” a voice called over the speakers, seconds before security opened the entrance.

I could see the parade of people through the windows, stretching around the block. My stomach clenched uncomfortably as I fought back memories I wished I could forget. My mom had tried to leave my stepdad once, a brief moment of lucidity where she’d realized she deserved more. We’d gone to a place similar to this for a couple of months.

And then she’d gone back to him.

The line shuffled in, a procession of broken dreams and forgotten hopes, many of them regulars that I saw every week.

There was Mrs. Jenkins, her wrinkled hands trembling as she reached for a bag of chips and let me put a sub sandwich on her plate. She worked as a checker at Target, but it wasn’t enough to pay for rent and food with the hours she could handle at her age. Broke my heart every time I saw her.

Behind her came Mr. Thompson. He was polite but never made eye contact with you. His whole persona radiated despair. I was quite confident that his posture came from defeat and not scoliosis. I’d heard he was once some kind of executive, and through some mistakes—or maybe just a lot of unluckiness—he’d lost it all and now had to come here for food once a week to make ends meet.

I always gave him an extra cookie. He looked like he needed it.

“Hi, Mr. James!” an eager voice called out. I glanced down, a smile already on my face when I saw Sean, a nine-year-old that was here every week with his mom.

“What’s up, buddy?” I asked, holding out my fist so he could give me a fist bump. His mom, Stacey, was sporting a black eye, and I instantly frowned as I looked at her.

When she noticed me staring, she self-consciously covered her damaged eye and slowly shook her head, silently urging me to let it go. I bit down on my tongue so I didn’t ask about it in front of Sean.

That was one thing they told us here before every volunteer session. Don’t get involved. They had resources to get help, it was up to them to use them.

But fuck was that a hard rule to follow.

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