Page 84 of Bad For A Weekend

“The alarm will sound, which is a good deterrent, but two more things happen simultaneously. The cops will be called, and because of the package you purchased, a call will go out to our team too. We typically get here long before the cops and will do a full walk-through to make sure everything is sound.”

“You’llshow up?” She traces a hand over her exposed cleavage. Her tits are obviously fake. Not something I’m into.

You’re only into teenagers with red and pink hair.

“No, not me. I only install. But I assure you, the guys we hire are perfectly capable.”

“Oh.” Her glossy lower lip pops out.

“Any other questions for me before I head out?” I pick up my toolbox.

“Are you in a rush? My cook is almost done with lunch, and I’d love your company.”

I wish I could say this is a unique experience, but I’ve been on the job for a month now, and this is the fifth time it’s happened. This is the type of woman who will marry a man for money. But men like that are always busy earning that money, leaving their trophy wife home alone and desperate for attention.

I could say yes, bend her over her kitchen island, and make her see stars. I could use her to forget about Baylor, even for a moment, and get my rocks off. But my dick would never get hard for her.

The only time I can get it to show any reaction is when I recall memories of Tulum. Maybe someday it’ll get over her, but as of now, my mind, body, and soul belong to Baylor.

“I’m sorry. I have another job I’m already late for.”

“Let me at least pack you up something to go.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I have lunch in my truck.”

“Oh, okay. Do you have a card, so I can call with any future questions?” she asks.

I pull a card out of my back pocket. “Here you go.”

“This is your personal line?”

“No, that connects to customer service, but they should be able to answer whatever question you have.” I rush out the front door. “Thank you for choosing SafeBond.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as I get in my truck and pull away. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my life but installing security systems isn’t it. I’m thankful Hudson didn’t leave me jobless, but I can’t do this much longer, or I’ll lose my fucking mind.

I lied when I said I had a job to get to. But it is my lunch break, so I drive to a local park I know of that has a small pond and a picnic table. After parking, I grab my lunch pail and sit at the table.

I’m thirty-two, working at the company my brother owns, eating a lunch my mom packed. My self-loathing is at an all-time high. My therapist, who I came clean to about the whole thing just so I had someone to talk to about it who wouldn’t judge me, told me it’s not forever; it’s just for right now.

But I can’t see the end of this tunnel. Maybe it’d be easier if I knew what I wanted to do with my life.

After taking a bite of my sandwich, I pull out my new cell. More out of habit than anything else because the only people who have this number are my family, but also to punish myself more by pulling up Baylor’s contact and typing out a message I know I’ll never send.

Me: I know you don’t understand why I haven’t reached out and I hope someday you’ll forgive me for that. Just know that keeping away from you is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I think about you all day and all night, wondering what you’re doing and if you’re being safe.

I press the delete button until the message is gone.

Me: I miss watching you dance around in that tiny cheerleader skirt. I miss our morning conversations on the way to school. I miss that brief moment before I know you’re about to say something snarky. Your nose scrunches and one side of your upper lip curls. It’s adorable. I miss our conversations at The Grove. I can’t even go back there anymore because it reminds me too much of you.

I toss my phone on the table and take another bite of my lunch. It goes down like sandpaper.

Going from being right by her side every day to this is pure torture. I feel like an addict who quit cold turkey. My drug of choice is just a phone call away, and each second of the day I’m forced to deny myself. How long can I go before I give in to the urge?

My phone rings, stopping me from choosing today to be the day I hit send.

“Hello?”

“How’s it going?” Hudson asks.

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