Page 22 of Pieces Into Place

“So what do you do for a living?” he asks.

Olivia flashes a practiced smile and pauses, taking a moment to assemble her story. “I’m a traveling nurse,” she answers smoothly, her voice like honey. I watch as she surveys the room, sizing up the other patrons in an instant and coming up with contingency plans of escape if needed.

“That’s great,” he says. “So you don’t live around here?”

Her eyes dart away from his gaze and she shakes her head slightly. “No, I’m just here for a short time.”

I sip my whiskey and can’t help but smile at how easily the lies are rolling off her tongue.

He leans forward with an eagerness that hadn’t been there before and asks, “So, do you want to get out of here?”

Olivia slinks off the bar stool, bag already in hand, prepared to make her exit. “I’d love to,” she replies.

“Lucille,” I say, firmly grabbing her elbow and spinning her to face me. Her blue eyes meet mine, and I can see the shock in them as they widen. Her confusion is palpable, her mouth trying to form a question, but I continue. “You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille, four hungry children and a crop in the field,” I say, with a barely contained smile, as I realize the lyrics to the Kenny Roger’s song my dad always sings to my mom just sprang from my mouth. “The kids need you. I need you.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, a look of shock spread across her face.

I soften my grip on her arm, my fingers still tracing circles around her wrist. “What I’m saying is… I’ve had some bad times, lived through some sad times…but this time your hurting won’t heal. You can’t walk away like this. Please,” I beg, my voice growing quiet at the end.

A flush creeps up from her collarbone to her cheeks, and anger flashes across her features like lightning in an angry stormy sky. When Tom speaks up, she doesn’t break eye contact with me for even a second. “Wait. I thought you said you didn’t know this guy, and why does everything he says rhyme?”

She grits her teeth and hisses through them, “I don’t know.”

I nearly lose it as I watched Tom take a few steps backwards, his hands raised defensively.

“Yeah, so, this is more than I want to get involved with. Sorry Stacy, er Lucille,” he says, glancing around the bar before quickly turning and leaving. His shoulders are tense and his gait is hurried as if he’s fleeing from an unseen danger.

I exhale and took another sip of whiskey before turning to face Olivia. Her eyes are ablaze.

“What the actual fuck, Kane? Why would you do that? Lucille? Really?!” She places her small hands on my chest and pushes me as hard as she can.

With lightning-fast reflexes, I grabbed her wrists as she tried to push me away. My face is inches from hers as I growl my warning, “I’d be very careful if I were you, Princess. I’m not the kind of man you lay your hands on. If you do it again, you will regret it.” Her face drains of color and she immediately withdraws her hands.

“I was just trying to save you from a bad night,” I reply casually as I shrug my shoulders, my stance suddenly relaxing. I begin to sing “Lucille” under my breath as I turn back to the bar. Olivia’s mouth drops open in disbelief.

“Hey, Kenny Rogers, this one’s on the house,” the bartender puts another shot of whiskey in front of me before walking away chuckling.

Olivia

“I saved you,” he repeats. “That guy doesn’t know shit about pleasing a woman. He was here to get himself off. Technically, you should thank me.”

I can feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment and anger, the seconds passing by like hours in the crowded bar. I have to fight the urge to clench my fists at his arrogance and instead gesture wildly with my arms as I yell, “You don’t even know what you’re talking about! It’s possible he was here to get us both off. You wouldn’t know anything about that!”

Kane scoffs, leaning in closer so that his breath fans my face as he speaks softly, almost conspiratorially. His words send a shiver down my spine and my heart races in anticipation of what’s coming next. My mind fills with possibility as he says, “If it were a different place and time, I’d take you home and pleasure you until you begged me to stop.”

He seems so sure of himself, but I’m flustered and confused, surprised by his words and confidence. Still trying to make sense of this unexpected turn of events, I stammer out, “I just – I mean – I don’t understand.” Before asking him point-blank, “Why are you even here?”

He steps back and looks at me passively as if we didn’t just have the most intimate exchange of our short association. “I was having a drink with a buddy, minding my own business, when you walked in here incognito and caught my attention.” He reaches out and grabs my wig, his hand ghosting my cheek softly as he does, causing my skin to prickle under the heat of his touch. “Why are you wearing this?” he asks.

For a split second I consider telling him. I consider telling him that I’m lonely. That I’m bored. That the only relationships I’m capable of having are brief sexual encounters with strangers, and he’s right. Most of the time, I don’t even get off. But it’s human contact, and sometimes we all need that. Then I come to my senses and remember that this is Kane, and he doesn’t deserve to know anything about my personal life.

Instead, I recoil from his touch, my skin burning at the contact. Anger and hurt boil within me, turning my vision red. I want to scream at him and hit him until he releases the tension that’s coiling around my chest like a vise. Instead, I turn and storm away from him, my purse clutched tightly in hand.

But no matter how far I run, his words follow me like a specter. Princess. His insult had been so unexpected and unnecessary – what right does he have to talk to me like that? To invade my evening with his presence and then imply that I’m not independent enough to sort out my own dating life? He has no idea who I am or what I’ve been through, yet here he is, criticizing me for it.

My fury sticks with me throughout the weekend as I hole up in my apartment, determined to avoid any possibility of running into him again. The more I stew on it, the angrier I become. I oscillate between wanting to scream and googling “how to make a body disappear.”

I can feel anger simmering inside of me as I open the heavy school doors Monday morning, my canvas bag slung over one shoulder. When I see Kane rounding the corner, my jaw tightens and my fists curl into balls. I am determined to make sure he doesn’t forget that I am not someone to be messed with.