“What’s up, Davey?” I ask, jogging into the bedroom and shutting myself in.
I have a feeling I know where this conversation is going. If my suspicion is right, the last thing I want is for Buttercup to overhear that I’m homeless.
“What’s up? Seriously? That’s all you have to say?”
“Dude, I dunno what you want—”
“What I want is to know where the fuck you are, Dean.”
I clench and unclench my free hand twice before answering. His being away for so long made me forget how much I actually hate Davey.
“I told you yesterday. My flight emergency landed and I’m stuck in Vermont.”
“Yeah, but you said you were getting a car. Why are you still in Vermont?”
“There’s no way you forget what New England winters are like, even if it’s been ten years. Snow here isn’t like it is even in other states. It’s not a foot of snow here and there. It’s feet of snow at a time. I can’t control that, just like I can’t control them not having any cars.”
“Sure. But you’re my executive chef. I need you here now. The restaurant opens in a few days. We’ve got a soft opening tomorrow and have food critiques galore coming in. My guys don’t know what to do. I need you to show them.”
“Shit, Davey. You make it seem like I’m the one who made the menu.”
“I don’t wanna hear it. You had the option to say no. At least then I would’ve had time to find someone else. But I should’ve known something like this would’ve happened. Can’t trust a Kennedy, right?”
I bite down so hard on my jaw that I immediately give myself a headache. If there are any lingering feelings other than wanting to beat the shit out of him, they are long gone now. Honestly, getting stuck in Vermont and not making it south is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Seriously dude,” he says while I pace the room, trying my hardest to not punch a hole in the wall, “you’re gonna pull this shit. After everything I’ve done for you? That’s low. Real fucking low.”
Since I’ve got nothing to lose, I refuse to hold back. I might not be able to fuck Davey up, but I can make sure he knows the type of scumbag he is.
“What? It’s low of me to get stuck in a blizzard and not get you to by your timeline? If you needed me that bad, maybe you should’ve reached out months ago when you first started hiring and not waited a week before opening to see if I wanted the job. Seems like no one else wanted to work for your dumbass, and I was your last option. So that part’s on you. Not me.”
On the other end of the phone, Davey sucks in a deep breath, I assume to defend himself. But I’m not having any of it.
“And speaking of low, how about you now making me homeless and unemployed? I gave up my apartment, my job, everything to work for your Asian-Mexican restaurant that’s gonna fail in six months anyway since it sounds like you only hired jackasses who can’t figure out how to put pork fried rice in a tortilla shell.”
“Right, 'cause living in that shithole you called a home is any different from you living on the streets,” he cuts in. “I did you a fucking favor getting you outta there, and this is seriously the thanks I get. You and your old man are one and the same. Bunch of fuckers who deserve nothing.”
“Don’t you ever fucking say anything like that again. You hear me?”
He doesn’t answer. For a second, I think he hung up on me. I don’t care to check.
“I’m nothing like that deadbeat. You and everyone else know that. I’d never do what he did. Fuck you and fuck your restaurant. Give my job to someone else, if they even want it, but I promise you I’ll be down there as soon as I can to laugh in your face as I break your fucking jaw.”
Now I’ve had enough. I pull the phone away, surprised to see he didn’t end the call already, and end it myself. Then, I throw my phone at the wall. Unfortunately, it doesn’t break.
Giving him a verbal ass-kicking isn’t nearly as satisfying as I’d hope. Instead, it just makes me more pissed off knowing I have nowhere to go when my rental’s up in this place. No one’s gonna rent to a grown-ass man who doesn’t have a job. At least with everything I own in that stupid bag, it’ll make living on the streets that much easier.
I hit rock bottom in my hometown. Leaving there should’ve been the start of things getting better. But apparently, that wasn’t rock bottom because, in true Kennedy fashion, I found a way to dig myself deeper into the hole.
Since I told Buttercup I’m not always an asshole, I keep myself locked in the bedroom until I’m relaxed. Go figure, none of my usual tricks work to get me out of my shitty mood after talking to Davey. Not scrolling through Instagram, not listening to music, and not doing whatever cardio I can do in the tiny bedroom.
At noon, the snow changes from small clumps to golf ball-sized flakes. By the end of the hour, it’s a total whiteout. Another few hours pass and there’s easily a couple of feet of snow on the ground.
I completely wasted the day. The blackness outside is proof of that. Since I feel no better, I know there’s no point in staying hidden in this room. So what’s the best way to stop being pissed off? Fucking booze, of course. The two bottles of wine and a six-pack of beer in the kitchen aren’t enough to get me shitfaced, but it’s definitely enough to help ease how I’m feeling.
“Yo, Buttercup. Wanna get drunk?” I ask, finally emerging from the room.
On the other side of the bedroom door, I have a clear view of her leaning on the counter in those tiny shorts of hers. The underside of her ass is on full display just like the night before. I instantly forget my plan to drown my sorrows. One look at her in another one of her teasing positions is enough to pull me outta my funk.
Brushing my fingers through my thick hair, I walk over to her. It’s obvious this has been the only thing on her mind since I first took her bag. How it’ll play out is already clear in my mind. I grab her waist and spin her toward me, finally putting my lips on hers. As I tilt her chin back to deepen the kiss, I’ll release her butterscotch-like blonde hair from its messy bun and run my fingers through it, knowing it’s silky soft since I used her shampoo. From there…well, I have a feeling she’s the type of person who knows exactly what she wants and won’t hold back in the bedroom.
I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait to shave my legs so long as it means finally feeling her body pressed up against mine, exploring and tasting her skin.
“You are so sexy,” I say, whispering into her ear in a low, breathy sort of way.
Buttercup moans. Her skin is already radiating heat. I know she’s hot for me. The second she saw me, she made that clear. She may have tried to fight off her attraction to me, but the dewiness of the skin behind her ear against my lips tells me she’s been waiting for me since breakfast to hook up. When I turn her toward me, her pasty face stops me dead in my tracks. There’s no trace of her glowing skin that has a hint of pink in her cheeks. In its place is a ghost of the woman I’m shacking up with while beads of sweat form along her hairline and upper lip.
She looks like she’s about to pass out. Panic courses through my veins. Is she allergic to something and needs one of those EpiPen things? Does she have epilepsy or something that would make her faint? I don’t know what to do or what’s wrong with her. Then I see it. A can of Chef Boyardee mini ravioli with a broken pull tab. A boning knife with a wicked sharp tip, and a steady flow of blood oozing to the floor coming from her left hand.
“Jesus Christ!” I grab a hand towel off the counter and wrap it around her wound. Buttercup winces. Within seconds, the blood seeps through the gray towel. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to make dinner.”
Her words stick together like her mouth is dry. Where saliva should be instead is glue.
I’ve seen enough kitchen injuries in my life to know that I need to get her to the hospital. No car and probably a foot and a half of snow outside make a simple task near impossible. Wait. Does this town even have a hospital? If they do, it could be hours before an ambulance gets to us. I have some first aid experience. Not nearly enough, though. Usually, I do what I can to slow or stop the bleeding and wait for the paramedics, but that might not be an option now.
“I need to see your hand.” I grab her wrist and pull the cut hand toward me, but she resists. There’s no time to play around, so I grab it tighter and pull it toward me. “I need to see your hand,” I repeat, emphasizing my words.
She resists less now and lets me unwrap the towel from her hand. I dab the blood off her palm to get a better look at it, but Buttercup’s arm goes limp in my hand.
“Help me, Dean.”
I look up just in time to see her eyes and head roll back.
There have been several occasions throughout my life where time seems to slow. The first was when Holly left. Then when Olivia did. The third is happening right now. I couldn’t do anything when they left me. Being here with Buttercup and seeing her head inch toward the countertop, I can make sure nothing happens to this woman who seems to have crawled her way into my life.
The second her legs give out, I loop my arms under her armpits and pull her against me to help guide her to the ground. With her safe from a concussion or…something I don’t want to think about, I scoop her into my arms. Even unconscious, she’s light as a feather and fits perfectly against me, her neck cradling just below my shoulder. I bring her to the couch just to make future cleanup easier.
A knot forms in my stomach as I glance at her hand. I’ve seen tendons and even bone once while working in the kitchen. I didn’t see it, but my shift started right after someone cut part of their finger off. That was a mess, but it doesn’t seem to match the amount of blood tonight. She had to have cut her hand open. Maybe she even cut that tendon between her thumb and index finger. Then what would I do? How can I help her then?
Stop being a bitch, Dean. She asked for your help. She trusted you. Don’t let her down.
As much as I don’t wanna look at her hand, I know I have to. That’s the only way to know how much damage she did.
“What the hell?”
Amazingly, there’s hardly anything wrong with her hand. The bleeding takes no time at all to stop now that she’s laying down. The blood coating her hand was just smeared around from the towel. Yes, there’s a lot of blood, but the cut is only a few inches long across her palm. Not that deep, either. Must’ve just hit it the right way to make it seem like she cut her hand open.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve dealt with knife cuts and burns at least three dozen times in my career, both with myself and co-workers. It makes no sense why it bothers me so much tonight.
Then all at once, it does.
Somehow, whether or not I like it, Buttercup is so much more than a possible hookup. I’m completely infatuated with this girl. From her out-of-nowhere sassiness to her complete and utter faith in me, she has me rethinking my whole life. No matter how hard I try to fight the feelings I’ve had for her from the second I laid eyes on her, there’s no use. No amount of sex or flirting can mask the fact that I feel something.
In less than twenty-four hours, she’s left me wanting to not be such an asshole for sake of possibly being half the man she deserves.
Is that the stupidest thing I’ve ever said? Probably not, but it’s up there.
The dumbest thing about this situation thing is that for years, even just last week, I heckled my drinking buddies about them living up the douchebag-bachelor lifestyle and then completely abandoning it after meeting a girl. One day, it’s all casual sex and no numbers, and the next is Sunday brunch. I swore I’d never be that guy. I’d never think about sleeping with the same girl twice or even spending a full night with someone. Falling for a girl? Completely outta the question.
They told me it was just a matter of time before I felt differently. One day I’d meet the girl who would change everything. At the time, I just laughed it off and told them I’m going out Hugh Hefner style.
But here I am. In a matter of less than twenty-four hours, I broke my two rules: I shared a bed with a girl and am still here the next day. Two days and a bed still aren’t enough. With Buttercup, I want so much more than that. I want to be the person she can trust…the person she feels safe with. And, if I wasn’t so fucked up, the person who would make her happy forever.