Sexy Jerk(9)By: Kim Karr
And for the last three and a half years I’ve let her believe that. Never bothered to correct her because honestly . . . I just didn’t give a big enough shit.
Sure, she is smoking hot.
And yes she is funny, smart, and dare I say witty. And if that isn’t almost a perfect match to my bullshit, then I don’t know what is.
But she is also judgmental.
And up until yesterday, I never cared that she saw me as nothing more than an irresponsible playboy. Yet the simple fact that she was appalled she had to co-babysit Max with me, that she was skeptical that I could even take care of him, now that pissed me off.
Who is she to judge me in that way?
And seriously, why am I actually giving a shit now? Because what she sees, what she believes to be true, isn’t who I really am?
I’m not a playboy. Not by the true definition. Or at least I don’t see myself that way.
I don’t have a different woman in my bed every morning and every night. I’m happy with their bed once or twice during the week, but as soon as they start wanting more, it’s time to move on.
I might not be a playboy, but shit, I am a hot-blooded man who likes women.
As in plural.
Not multiples, not together, don’t get me wrong.
Just not any single one for too long.
It isn’t that I don’t care about them . . . it’s just I prefer not to get attached.
Hence the many that have been in my life.
Let’s be real . . . attachments to women only bring heartache. I saw what happened to my old man firsthand when my mother left us to go back to her previous life—left me, my father, and my baby brother. He was a broken man. Sure, he did the best he could to raise his two boys, but he was never the same after she left. He was somehow absent even when he was around. Then again, he was always tired. And I got it. He worked two construction jobs to support us.
When I was younger I helped raise Lucas. When I was old enough, I helped my old man on job sites, and helped raise Lucas. Even after I left for college, I still helped raise Lucas by coming home on weekends.
Things were tough back then.
I was an eleven-year-old raising a one-year-old.
A twelve-year-old raising a two-year-old.
A fifteen-year-old raising a five-year-old.
You get the picture.
I had no childhood so to speak of.
Sing me a song.
Feel sorry for me.
I did what had to be done.
Besides, the past is just that, the past. Everyone gets over it. My father retired two years ago and now lives in sunny Florida where he scouts property for me. He’s happy, and as far as I know, never gives my mother a second thought.
Lucas, on the other hand, is a sophomore in college at Notre Dame. He’s the quarterback for their football team, and has way too many women on speed dial. Then again, he, like me, has mommy issues. And I guess, he, not unlike me at his age, thinks he’s hot stuff.
But who am I to say anything, especially since he is content, for now, anyway. He lives with me when he’s not attending college, and wants to move far away from where we grew up after he graduates.
Sometimes bad turns to good.
And sometimes good turns to shit.
You just never know.
The only thing you can count on is that everything changes. Apparently, even my attitude, because I’m trying to justify myself to myself.
What the fuck?
Moving past the bullshit in my head, I open my email and compose a quick message to my buddy Ethan.
* * *
To: Ethan Miller
From: Nick Carrington
Subject: You Suck
Nice one man. Next time how about a heads up before you send me into the lion’s den? By the way, Max is fine, and you suck.
* * *
After hitting send, I read a few incoming work emails.
Unable to concentrate for long, I minimize the window and stare at my computer screen. It’s two in the afternoon, and on any normal day I would have slayed a few dragons and climbed a couple of mountains by now. Instead, I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs, unable to get my head in the game.
Just then my intercom buzzes. It’s my assistant and she’s probably going to ask me if I’ve signed the contracts Ethan sent over before he left yesterday for the Miami land deal. The ones that are on my desk and I’ve only glanced at. Fuck. “Yes, Carrie?” I answer.