Page 61 of Black Roses

chapter twenty-three

piper

In a break between customers, I stare out the window, daydreaming about waking up in Mason’s arms this morning. I didn’t dream at all last night. The nightmares never came, and the reality of waking up with him after my revelation is better than any dream I could have conjured up anyway. Except maybe a dream where I get to live a normal life. Like a normal girl. A girl whose world didn’t come crashing down around her on her seventeenth birthday.

I thought it would ruin me—ruin us—once he found out the worst parts of me. And although I feel lighter than air today, deep down, I still have reservations. After all, can anyone really know all the secrets of another? What if he can never accept what I’ve been through? What I’ve done.

What if I’m not capable of being the kind of woman he needs? Sex is supposed to be good. It isn’t supposed to be this dreaded experience that takes you to the depths of your own fiery hell. Even Charlie seems to like it despite everything that happened to her.

Still, he was right. It did help to talk about it. All those hours I sat on a couch with therapist after therapist, refusing to talk. Maybe if I’d just opened up to them.

You have to tell him, Piper.Charlie’s words echo in my head. Would she approve—or would she scold me for leaving out pertinent details?

The way he held me all night was surreal. As if he accepted all my faults. The ones he knows about anyway. He stayed on top of the covers, keeping the warm fleece sheet between us, strategically bunched up in the space between his groin and my backside, presumably so I wouldn’t freak out over his erection.

My breath hitches just thinking about his penis. He thinks I’m scared of it. I guess in a way, I am. I’m scared of all penises and what they could do to me. What they have already done to me. But, his in particular seems to make my mouth water instead of making my stomach turn. Last night, before my total and complete meltdown, I would steal glances at it. When he wasn’t commanding that my eyes connect with his, and when his stare would inadvertently fall to my breasts—I would look at him.

I wanted to take him in my hand so badly. So badly I thought I could do it. I really thought I could—

“Hey, Piper.”

Jarod startles me, pulling my gaze from the window.

“What’s so interesting out there?”

“Hi, Jarod.” I turn around and tighten the strings of my apron. “Nothing. Just taking a mental break, I guess.”

“Oh. Well, what time do you get off today?” he asks.

“I’m only scheduled to work lunch, so I’m off at two.”

He smiles and I realize what I hadn’t before. He’s attractive. Handsome, even. His dark brown hair, his chocolate eyes and his olive skin all hint at a Latino heritage that gives him a slightly exotic look. The gauges in his ears add an edge to the overall picture, along with his full sleeves of tattoos which are presently covered up by his long-sleeved dress shirt. I’ve never looked at him this way before. I’ve never looked at any man this way. Not until Mason.

“I’m off after lunch, too.” He shifts his feet nervously. “Do you maybe want to catch a movie or something after work?”

Men have asked me out before. Lots of times, even though I try to remain anonymous and unapproachable. And I usually have no problem blowing them off and telling them where to stick it. But this is Jarod.

I look around the restaurant and take in all the men here. Some sit with children; some with a group of men. Most are with what appears to be their significant others. But instead of emphatically assuming that each of them is a rapist—a conclusion my unyielding mind settled on years ago—I try to look past that pre-conceived notion and figure out their story. I realize I’ve changed. Mason has changed me. And not all men are monsters.

Jarod and I are friends, so I feel kind of bad when I have to suppress the smile that’s threatening to curve my lips as I say the words I never thought would pass through them. “I’m sorry, Jarod. Thank you, but I can’t. I’m seeing someone.”

His eyes meet the floor. Then he nods. “It’s Mason Lawrence, isn’t it?”

I nod. I half expect him to rant about how, of course, any girl would choose a famous athlete over a waiter. I’m fully prepared to defend myself and set him straight. But he doesn’t utter a word about it. Instead, he says, “He’s a lucky guy.”

“Thanks, Jarod,” I say as he walks away, swinging a towel over his shoulder in defeat.But, I’m the lucky one.

I look back out the window and watch the busy world rush by, wondering if maybe I could fit in and be a part of it. Maybe I’m ready. Maybe I’m ready to move to New York.

Maybe I already have.

~ ~ ~

I float through the rest of my shift, the usual customer annoyances having little effect on me.

Throwing my dirty apron in the laundry pile, I gather my things and head out the front door, dropping my phone when I collide with someone in my buoyant exit.

Crap. I look down at my phone.I think I broke it.

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