St. Andrew’s Cross? Been there, done that. Facing forward for a spanking and back for a whole host of other things.
The pulley? That seems like child’s play now.
It’s absolutely crazy to think that a week and a day ago I was a virgin and now here I am some sex addict, or at least practically. Maybe I’m making up for lost time since I didn’t lose my V-card like a lot of girls my age did in high school in the age of social media. Or maybe when you find the one, you just want to mate with them all the time. If I were a gambling girl, which I’m not though, I’d choose the latter.
But Jake swears we’re not mating. No matter how many times I ask him why he’s so sure, he’s deadset and steadfast on his belief that I’m already pregnant. Guess we’ll have our first indicator in a couple of weeks when it’s time for my monthly cycle to hit.
And speaking of two weeks, I’ve already given my notice, ready to go to work for my man. I gave it my first day back on the job and now I only have a week more to go. Jake still says I should have just given them a few days, but that’s not my way. I want to do things right, even if I’m one hundred percent sure I’ll never work here, or anywhere but with him, again. If I even work that is. He’s definitely pushed more than a time or two for barefoot and pregnant, although he says he’ll support me in anything I choose, even if that means trying to find a way to fly to the moon. But who needs that when I’m already on cloud nine with stars in my eyes?
“What can I getcha?” I ask as a customer arrives at the counter just as I’m bending down to grab something out of the cabinet at foot level.
“Some answers. That’s what.”
My back stiffens up immediately and I catch my head on the edge of the counter. “Ouch!” I cry out, rubbing away the pain, but there’s a much bigger pain standing right in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” I finally ask when it’s clear she’s not about to go anytime soon.
“What are you doing not answering your phone or your doorbell?”
“You showed up at my house? I left your house specifically so I wouldn’t share the same doorstep with you ever again.”
“Yeah, well I hear you’ve shacked up with that rich as fuck jeweler pretty damn quick. Way I see it you owe me at least half for having your sorry ass.”
After eighteen years of this, it barely stings, or at least that’s the lie I tell myself.
“Mom, I can’t talk now. I’m working, so unless you want to order something then I’d request that you please leave. We’re busy and we only have seats and time for paying customers.”
“Paying customers! You know how much your ass cost me over the years? You know how much it cost to have you?”
“Yes I know because I finally took up the time to look up the birth records. You didn’t have me in a hospital, choosing to give birth to me in a bathtub. And might I add, the same one you like to lie in when you shoot yourself up with too much heroin,” I snarl through gritted teeth, trying not to lose it in front of the world.
“Why you little bitch!” she screams, grabbing a cup of piping hot coffee that I just prepared for delivery, yanking the top off and cocking her arm back to toss it right in my face.
I bring my hands up to my face and duck, trying to cover myself for the third-degree burns that never come.
Slowly I crawl along the floor, not trusting her. I know she’s probably bluffing and once I make myself visible again I’m going to get the piping hot brown liquid thrown right in my face.
“It’s him again,” I hear from one of our regulars and instinctively I know it can only be one person and one person only.
“You ever try to bring harm to my woman again and that will be the last time you see your daughter again, assuming she ever wants to see you again as it is,” his deep baritone warns as I get back on my feet.
“Jake.”
“I know who this is and I can end it now.”
“Kill my mom?” I mouth.
“No. I don’t have to lay a finger on her,” he says, although he very clearly has his hand wrapped around her wrist as she tries to wiggle free. She lunges to bite him and he grabs the back of her neck with his other hand, holding her at a distance like t
he feral cat she is. “As a jeweler I get a lot of cops coming in, wanting to know things about big cash purchases. Not only that I do pieces for a lot of celebrities. I’m not trying to sound important or name drop, but I have connections. And I know your mom’s record, including her abuse of…” he looks around but doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.
“It’s okay. It was…a long time ago.”
“Something tells me that’s not entirely true.”
“Let me go, asshole.”
“You have the keys to the bathroom?”