Page 7 of Show Me How
The gauzy material of my wedding dress hasn’t dried properly since my whole crying-in-the-rain incident, and I may have been a bit too upset to realize that I’d been dragging the hem through mud. The cream-coloured leather in my car is ruined, pools of water left in the print of my butt as I stand outside of some old bar. I cringe, not bothering to look down at myself again.
What I need is a bathroom and somewhere to sleep tonight. Unfortunately for me, only one of those things is available to me as of right now.
I shut the car door with my hip and lock it twice, taking a long look around the neighbourhood.Cherry Peak. I’ve never heard of it.
As if realizing that I’ve gotten out of the car again, the skies open up and scream along with me. The rain pelts harder and faster than it has the entire drive here. I jog toward the bar, hating the squelching sound of my wet socks in my shoes.
They were the only spare pair I had in my car, and now, they’re ruined.
The wind tries ripping the door off its hinges when I give it a slight tug and freeze in the doorway. My stomach pinches at the rustic aesthetic, this irrational sense of discomfort only making my frustration grow. I’ve been taught to hate places like this at first glance. It looks dirty and smells like cigarettes and the kind of warm beer you find being tossed around at a sports game.
I try to catch my breath while stepping inside, water dripping onto the floor beneath me. There’s nobody in here besides a straight-faced bartender who clearly isn’t impressed by the mess I’m making, and . . .
My cheeks burst into flames.
It would be my luck. Truly, there could not be a more fitting outcome to the day I’ve had than to stumble into a bar to find the most ridiculously good-looking guy in the entire world nursing a beer. And, of course, he’s looking right at me.
How could he not when I look like some woman straight out of a horror film? Splash some fake blood on my chest, and I’m sure I could pull it off.
He’s quite literally everything my parents told me to stay away from. Dressed in full black, he keeps his long hair swept back out of his face and down to the centre of his neck, and thetattoos—every inch of his neck is covered in them. Some are black, but others have pops of colour. And his hands match. Hegrips his beer—the bottled kind, of course—and taps the base to the bar as he flexes his fingers.
I snap my eyes back up and regret it the moment they connect with his. They’re so dark, a rich brown that matches the leather stool beneath him. Unlike the men I’m used to seeing with their perfectly sculpted facial hair, he doesn’t have even one patch of it over his thick, sharp jaw.
Sucking my lips into my mouth, I catch the shine of the tiny black hoop in his nose. A piercing . . . he has a nose piercing?
Completely aware of my staring, he curls the corner of his mouth into a smirk, and I freeze. Mortification swells inside of every inch of me as I choke on a swallow and dive out of sight. My sneakers squeak on the old wood floors with every step I take toward where the bathroom sign leads.
I’m panting by the time I slip through the door and find two empty stalls. I head into the first one and pee for the first time since some filthy rest stop. When I finish up and leave the stall, I realize that the low I’ve hit outside of this bar wasn’t truly the bottom. This is.
“Ah!” I shriek when I find my reflection in the mirror.
I look like a drowned rat.
My hair is ruined, the bun at my nape sagging and coming apart, and the makeup that I sat for hours having done is smeared and crusted. My lips look as dry as they feel. And my dress is simply ruined. Although that doesn’t make me all that upset. I never cared for it in the first place.
I lean over the counter and turn the taps on before grabbing fistfuls of paper towel. Once I’ve soaked them in water, I try and scrub away my makeup, hating the sore, red skin revealed beneath it. The fake lashes are already discarded on the floor mat in my car, but that doesn’t seem to help how raw my eyes feel.
After dumping the wet paper towels, I grab dry ones and start to pat my face. Then, I do the same to my arms and beneath the chest of my dress. The corset is still tight, and as hard as I try, I can’t untie the laces myself. That realization has me growing more anxious.
I don’t know why I stopped here or know where I’m going next, but if I can’t get myself out of this dress, I’m going to freak out. The spare clothes in my trunk are nothing special, but at least they’re dry, and . . .I didn’t grab them.
Gripping onto the counter, I hang my head and sigh.
What am I doing?
Three confident knocks hit the bathroom door. I swipe the back of my hand beneath my eyes and straighten, expecting someone to come inside. Instead, another set of knocks comes a beat later.
I stiffen and keep quiet, waiting.
“I don’t make it a habit of barging into the women’s bathroom, but I will if you don’t let me know you haven’t passed out or something.”
The low, very male voice shocks me. I suck in a breath and lean against the counter, my eyes fixed on the closed door.
“I’m conscious,” I call out, hating how shaky I sound.
“That’s a good sign. You need anything?”
Furrowing my brows, I answer, “No.”
