Page 15 of Craving the Player

He blinks afew times, mouth unmoving. His shoulders vibrate, most likely from shaking along leg underneath the table. Ilift my brows and clear my throat, growing impatient. “Do you, Dad?”

“No. But it’salways good to take precau—”

Istop him mid-sentence. "Well then. I’mglad that that’ssettled. But as much as Iwould love to eat whatever is in front of us, Iactually think that Ileft my fridge open." Iclick my tongue, planting adisappointed smile on my face. It'sclear nobody buys the quickly thought up excuse, but Ihonestly could care less. "Clayton would kill me if Ilet his yogurt spoil. You know how he is, right, Dad? Just crazy about that yogurt."

"Don'tyou dare leave me here alone," Tyler threatens in alow voice, turning to watch me stand up from my chair with narrowed eyes.

"Sorry, Ty.” Imean it. “Ididn'tsign up for this."

"Neither did I!" he replies, voice raising an octave.

"Braden Christopher Lowry," Dad growls, standing up, his chair sliding across the tile before smacking against the wall with adecent amount of force. "Sit back down. Now.”

"Don'tuse your ‘dad voice’ on me," Ichuckle, brushing away his red faced anger like it’snothing. "It doesn'twork anymore."

It'snot hard to imagine the lengthy list of colourful words that he'sthinking about yelling at me from across the table as Iroughly push my chair in and lift my glass of water, finishing it in asingle gulp. He chooses to keep them all to himself, for Lana, Isuppose.

"It was lovely to see you, Lana. Maybe pizza next time, though?"

Her glossy lips open like she’sgoing to say something before she nods her head instead, not muttering asingle word.

"Awesome. I'll leave you guys to it then." Ishoot my dad adimpled grin before walking away from them, not stopping until Ifeel the cool breeze on my skin.

I’ve once again found myself stuck in the shittiest bar in town, adewy long-neck bottle cool against my warm palm.

Idon'twander my way over to Jim'sfor the expensive beer or the rude bikers smoking their joints in the back-corner booths—but for the silence. It'san odd place to go in search of silence, but that'sexactly what Ifind here every single time. It'sfar from abusy place, which means that Ican come here to think without anyone breathing down my neck asking me if I'mokay. If Ineed to talk. I'mpositive that Idon'thave half as much shit going on in my life as most of these other fuckers trying to drown their feelings with overpriced whiskey, but we all have one remarkably simple personality trait in common.

We're all selfish, unapologetic pricks in need of some place to relax. Everyone here has astory, one that they don’tever plan on sharing with anyone. Maybe they lost everything in adivorce because they were too prideful to apologize after every fight with their ex. Maybe they’re losing at some sort of internal battle that could have easily been won by afew trips to atherapist. Or, just maybe, they could be struggling with the realization that their life means nothing past boxing matches and pussy, yet not have the want or fire under their ass to do anything more. Wait, that one’sjust me.

Nobody cares what your story is once you cross the threshold and breathe in the old wood smell that paints the air of Jim’s. You’re just another faceless figure here. Just how Ilike it.

"Want another?" Afamiliar voice asks. Isimply nod and meet Jade’svacant stare with my own.

Jade is one of the only two bartenders in this dump. She'sasingle mom recovering from years of cocaine addiction while working every night at aplace full of other addicts. Ones who are either in the middle of recovering, pretending to be recovering from something, or boldly refusing to recover. Ifeel for her, Ireally do.

"How'syour baby girl?" Islide my empty bottle of beer across the counter before grabbing the new one, raising it to my lips and taking along swig. Jade slings her small white towel over her shoulder before cracking open her own beer and copying my movements.

"Excited to be starting preschool next month," she replies with asmall, rare smile that Ionly see when she’stalking about her daughter, Samantha.

Ireturn the smile before taking another sip. "And her dad?" Igrind my teeth together when my skin flares with unspoken, unreleased anger.

The skinny prick used to show up here every night, blown out of his mind and just itching for afight. Most of the guys, myself included, used to love giving him areason to throw his fists around so that Jade didn'thave to be on the receiving end once she got home. Finally, after ahard long year of seeing her show up to work covered in more colours than acolour wheel, she kicked him to the curb.

"Hasn'tshown up since. You don'thave to keep worrying, Braden," she teases, but Ican see the appreciation pass through her green eyes.

Ishrug. "As long as you and Smartie are safe."

Her smile is genuine—warm even, as she sighs and pulls the towel off of her shoulder, opting to wipe the counter. Our conversation ends when Isee her turn her attention to the shadow walking up to the bar, stopping afew feet away from me.

"Could Iget two Margaritas?"

"Sure," Jade replies, the amusement in her tone puts asmirk on my lips. Idon'tmiss the barely there noise of disbelief she makes while moving down the bar to mix the drinks. Turning to look at the oblivious woman beside me, the one who ordered agirly mixed drink in abar full of old men and doped up bikers, Ishake my head.

"Ithink you stumbled into the wrong place, Barbie."

With her fancy designer bag, platinum blonde hair, and glossy pink lips, the girl looks like she was meant to be at Sinner's, not this hole in the wall dumpster fire.

"My name'snot Barbie, asshat," she shoots back with an angry scoff. There’salook in her eyes that Ican’texactly pinpoint. Alook that says, Ithink Iknow you, but Ican’tbe too sure. It confuses yet intrigues me.

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