Page 12 of The Trust We Broke
“No, Grudge. Please. Why are you doing this?”
I remember I don’t want her here. I force myself to forget how good her ass felt, how warm my soul felt just from being close to her.
Instead, I grab the bags in both hands.
I don’t tell her I spotted that fancy truck of her father’s, with the even fancier plate that lets the world know who’s driving, when I pulled into the lot.
Nor do I tell her that I took the tracker the club put on my bike and put it onto the truck. And then how, instead of trying to do my grocery shopping, I spied around the aisles like a fucking peeping Tom to get a glance of her.
But, if I can just get her out of my store, out of my town, and out of my state, I’ll be happy.
“What are you doing now?” she asks.
“Just helping a friend,” I say, the words dropping with so much sarcasm, it’s impossible to miss.
I walk out of the store and stride to her father’s truck before putting the bags down by the passenger door.
“You shouldn’t have threatened the store manager,” she says. “You seem to forget you were once a boy who hated spiders and cried the first time he saw the movieWall-E. You aren’t as big and tough to me as you are to them.”
“Go home,” I say as I walk by her.
Her curls dance around her face in the breeze. “Headed there now,” she shouts.
I turn around and nail her with a glare. “Home to New York, Luce. You aren’t welcome around here anymore.”
3
GRUDGE
Afucking sundae.
It’s all I can think about the following evening when I should be reviewing the books with Catfish and Butcher, who’s shown up to help with the transition.
There are numbers, past, present, and future. Things I should be paying attention to. Things I should be making decisions on.
A whole side to being president that I hadn’t considered. Suddenly, I’m meant to be the grown up in the room.
Yet all I can think about is the way she still makes sundaes when she has a lot on her mind. How she used to be able to tie a knot in the stem of a cherry with her tongue when I bought her one at Margie’s Rainbow Diner.
And, fuck, the other things that tongue of hers could do.
Because I’ve known her since we were kids, I knew she was a virgin when our friendship toppled over into more. She wanted to take it slow, and because I wanted the two of us to be together forever, I didn’t rush her. But, God, the things we did before I ever got to dip my dick in her.
And it often centered on that goddamned talented tongue of hers.
Every spoonful she ate of her sundae was a tease. The way I’d get a glance of her sweet pink tongue every time she opened her mouth to take a spoonful.
Can still taste the swirls of cream and sweet cherries on her lips if I think about it hard enough.
She was so pure, she could wash away the most hardened sins of any sinner.
And yet, that tongue of hers ruined me for any other woman.
It’s a good thing I’m seated at the table we use for church, laptop out, like I know what I’m doing with a balance sheet and profit-and-loss table. My dick pushes uncomfortably against the zipper of my jeans, like it has for much of the day when I’ve thought about how good she felt in my arms at the store.
She’s still the girl I used to know, but more of an armful of woman. She hasn’t budged an inch in height. But those tits of hers are a little fuller, the hips a little softer.
“It’s your call if you want to spend it or not. We can always push it through as dividends and pay it out,” Catfish says.
