Trick - By Lori Garrett Page 0,42
fuck you, Gunner,” she hisses, leaning close to me. “You think I don’t know about your little blonde slut?”
I sit up and lean in. “You call her that one more time, and I’m kicking your ass out of this bar and my life for good. You hear me?”
“You don’t scare me, Gunner,” Rochelle says, but she backs up. “And I can’t even believe you’re messing around with that little princess. You’re just wasting your time on a spoiled little daddy’s girl who’s going to drop you the minute she meets her prince charming. I wouldn’t care if it was just some girl you were getting your rocks off with, but there’s this.” She reaches out and grabs my wrist, twisting it around so my tattoo is visible.
“What the hell is it to you, Rochelle?” I ask.
“Like I said, fine if you want to sow your wild oats or whatever. Trust me, I get that people like you and me just aren’t hardwired for monogamy. But if this little bitch gets in the way of my plans for our future—”
“Shut your damn mouth!” I roar, banging my fist on the bar so hard her drink sloshes over the rim.
Her jaw drops open. “Oh my God. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“You still think this whole fairytale is going to work out? You still think your true love is going to turn her back on her daddy’s money and leave her cushy country club life to ride off into the sunset with you?” I force my face to stay blank, but Rochelle’s nasty laugh tells me I haven’t done a good job of hiding what’s in my head.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I grit out.
She stops laughing. “Oh, Gunner. This is actually too pathetic to laugh about. Let me spell it out for you. I know it’s fun as hell to fuck the prom queen, and I bet she’s really loving slumming it. But look around.” She holds her hands out. “This piece of shit bar is your world. You think she’s going to say goodbye to daddy’s palace and move into your farmhouse? Or that she’s going to give up being the wife of some senator or stock broker so she can hang out in your shitty bar? Imagine how she’ll feel when she wants to dress up and go to church on Christmas Eve and finds out your family’s big tradition is to get lit and pass out around a bonfire made of furniture that got broke while you were brawling?”
“I’m not anything like my family,” I insist, but I don’t know why I bother. Rochelle knows me better than I know myself.
She puts a cool hand on my cheek. “You can pretend for now. But you’re tied to them for life. And their world, your world...our world—doesn’t include Harlow Mills. Stringing this thing along is just depressing. Stop kidding yourself, Gunner. And admit it: you and I have chemistry, we get each other, and we come from the same place. We just make sense. So stop fighting it.”
Rochelle leans over and kisses me.
“I can’t—” I begin, but she puts her fingers to my lips.
“Don’t,” she says. “I really do care about you, Gunner. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but I do. And I know you’re hung up on this girl, but I’m telling you as a friend—maybe your only friend—that this will only lead to disaster.”
“You don’t know that,” I bite out.
She throws back the dregs of her drink, slips off the barstool, and shrugs. “I’m not wrong. Maybe it’s been all honeymoon so far, but it won’t last, Gunner. And I’m telling you that it’s because it can’t last. Our world isn’t her world.”
I clench the neck of the bottle of Jack as Rochelle walks out the door.
“And Gunner?” she asks, her back to me. “I know exactly what you’re looking at. Murphy would be glad to ink that over for you anytime you want. Stop torturing yourself.”
She pushes through the door and I continue to stare at the tattoo of Harlow’s name on my wrist.
I slam the bottle of Jack on the counter and consider that maybe Rochelle has a point.
***
Her Jeep pulls up and I push myself off the chair I’ve been sitting in all night. The one by the bed where we made love like we couldn’t stop. Looking at it empty makes me consider how good it would feel to take a damn hatchet to it and make a