Fight From The Heart (Heart Collection #4) - L.B. Dunbar Page 0,15

the hot pink or bright red lipsticks, her lips are full, and for the millionth time, I wonder what they would taste like. Right now, I imagine scrambled eggs, and I’ve never been so envious of a food before as I watch it enter her mouth and slide down her throat.

Sweet Jesus, get a grip, man.

I take a seat on my side of the bed. As I pour myself a scotch, Pam watches me before turning her attention back to the start of the movie as if it’s the most interesting part. She’s no longer eating.

“Is everything okay?” I intend to tease her, but my tone turns sour, mocking. Mandi would always tell me I drank too much, which was ironic considering the shit she put up her nose.

Pam shrugs. “Your house. Your rules.”

“What does that mean?” An edge still taints my voice.

“Nothing.” She shrugs again.

“Don’t blow this off. Do you have a problem with me drinking?” Then I reconsider my question. I’m not justifying myself to anyone, not even Pam. Fuck this. No one will make me feel bad for a drink. Without waiting on her answer, I down the glass to prove the point to myself.

A heavy silence falls between us, and I hate the uncomfortableness more than the burn of the scotch.

“What?” I snap, uncertain why I’m barking at her.

“You know my dad died from a drunk driver,” she says under her breath. Her quiet tone is like a sucker punch to my gut. I remember the timing of her father’s death all too well, and I huff, giving off a dismissive sound. I also know Pam’s been known to imbibe on occasion, so I don’t understand what I’m missing.

“It’s one drink,” I mutter. “Maybe you’d like one?”

Pam doesn’t look over at me, keeping her eyes toward the television. “Probably not a good idea, considering the meds and a lack of food.”

I notice she’s placed her plate back on the tray, hardly eating the eggs and only taking one bite of toast.

“You need to finish that.” I nod at the plate, not interested in discussing my drinking.

“You’re kind of bossy, you know that?” she mutters, reaching back for the plate and taking a few more bites.

“So I’ve been told,” I reply as she’s the one who has accused me of such a thing. I’d like to boss you around this bedroom. Instead, I concentrate on eating my pizza, ignoring the sudden buzz of drinking the scotch too fast, and staring at the movie I’ve seen too many times before.

I’m not saying I’m an alcoholic. Which is the first sign I might be one, right? But I don’t dismiss the fact I do enjoy a drink or two, and sometimes too often. Tonight suddenly feels like a time I don’t need it, so why did I bring the bottle up here? Force of habit, I suspect. I’ve used the scotch to dull my thoughts, numb the pain, or just make me forget life in general, but I don’t want to forget this night. I have my Lilac in my bed, doing something outside our norm of work, and I like it. I like her here, and I’m ruining it.

“I always feel sorry for the creature,” Pam blurts out, interrupting my thoughts.

“He’s freaking ugly,” I state, staring at the hideousness of his being.

“He’s misunderstood,” Pam says with compassion. “He’s been rejected from his creator, who is a father figure, albeit a poor one, and all he wants is love. He senses it’s a natural connection in families and between couples.”

Her assessment hits a little too close to home. My father has rejected me. I’ve never been in love.

“You’re familiar with Frankenstein?” I question when I shouldn’t be surprised. Pam is well-read and versed in the gothic genre.

“Yes, even us country bumpkins have read classic literature.”

Cringing, I defend myself. “I didn’t mean you hadn’t read it. I meant you are sympathetic with the plight of the monster.”

“He’s not really a monster, though. He’s called the creature, and he’s only trying to survive. And more notably, survive on his own in a complicated, unforgiving world.” Another evaluation hitting the mark on the monster sitting next to her in bed.

“You know he’s not Frankenstein,” I remind her, annoyed without reason at her remarks about the fated creature.

She guffaws. “Frankenstein is the name of the doctor, not the creation. The story is really about the doctor as a monster, not the creature as one. It’s about how love is innate but needs to