Patchwhore(10)By: Kim Jones
Jeannie’s laughter breaks through my thoughts and has me craning my neck to find her flirting with Mr. Delicious. He’s standing at the register—his food now boxed up next to the grill.
“Carmen! I need a ticket for table six!” He’s leaving? Why? Better yet, why do I care?
Jeannie is called away to another table while I make my way over, leaving me alone with the star of my fantasies. I can feel his eyes on me as I ring up the order. He’s on the phone, telling whoever is on the other end, “I’m on my way.”
I show him the total on the ticket, and my hand trembles when his cool fingers brush mine as he hands me a hundred-dollar bill and a slip of paper. As if the friction causes some sort of magnetic pull, I lift my gaze to meet his piercing, blue eyes.
They’re touching me.
Making love to me. Right here. In Waffle House.
“I thought we were gonna be seeing a lot more of you at the bar.” He grins, crossing his arms and bringing my attention to the cords of muscle there.
“Things didn’t go as planned.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“I thought it would really bother him.” Could I sound any more pathetic?
“Oh, it bothered him. Still does.” He seems to be fighting a laugh, and I have a feeling he knows something he’s not telling me.
“Well, he never called or texted.”
“That’s because he wants you to think he doesn’t give shit. Trust me, babe. He gives a shit.” Stepping forward, he drops his head. He’s so close, I can feel the heat of his mouth on my face. “A girl like you walks in a bar. The piece of shit who cheated on her is there. He watches as she sways those sexy fuckin’ hips right around another man’s waist. Then she’s screaming…” His voice becomes a whisper. “While a man tongue fucks her pussy.”
I squeeze my thighs together. I’m silently begging him to ask for a repeat of that night. We don’t have to go to the bar. He can do what he said right here. On top of the counter—I don’t care.
When he pulls back, his eyes are stormy. “Sounds like something that would bother me. Just sayin’.”
“Sounds like a Lori Morgan song to me.” I cut my eyes to Jeannie who’s been eavesdropping on our conversation. Unashamed, she offers a shrug. “Just sayin’.”
I look back to Mr. Delicious who winks. The gesture erases the anger from his face. “Dinner’s on me, gorgeous.”
I watch as he strolls out. The loose fitting, faded jeans he wears have to be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen on a man. Well, second to that PROSPECT patch that looks a little more worn today than it did three weeks ago. I make a mental note to Google what it means.
I’m still holding the hundred-dollar bill, eighteen-dollar ticket and slip of paper in my hand. I ring up the order, pay for the food, then tuck the large tip in my apron. While Jeannie busies herself with her customers, I quickly disappear into the bathroom—making myself wait until I’m behind the locked stall before I open the paper and read the note.
A phone number.
A couple hours later, I’m pacing the small hall leading to the bathrooms—phone in one hand, Cook’s number in the other. I do a mental countdown about a hundred times before finally punching in his number and hitting send. I squeeze my eyes shut, silently praying he won’t pick up.
“Yeah?” Shit. He picked up. And he sounds delicious. Delicious? I’ve got to find another word.
“Um, hi. Cook?”
“Who is this.” He doesn’t ask. He demands.
“Yeah, hey. So. Um, this is—” the swinging door to the lobby opens, and without thinking, I end the call. I greet the customer with a nervous laugh while holding open the door to the women’s room.
Noise from the dining area draws my attention as a huge crowd piles in. Slipping my phone in my back pocket, I walk out with a smile—thankful for the distraction. But while I busy myself with drink and food orders, high chairs, extra napkins and ketchup, I can feel my ass vibrating from the constant ringing in my pants. When I get a second to check it, I have three missed calls. From him.