Beautiful Sacrifice Page 7

  "Who?" I asked, my voice higher than I wanted.

  Kirby rolled her eyes. "Taylor, stupid."

  "Yeah. Why is that?" Hannah asked. "What's with the weirdness when it comes to guys?"

  I glowered at her. "Go check your tables."

  "Yes, ma'am," she said, turning on her heels.

  "I'm serious," Kirby said. "I thought you were just pissed at your parents. Until recently, I didn't realize that you also hated men, and then Taylor happened."

  "I don't hate men."

  I stole a glance at Taylor. He did the same to me, so I looked away for a moment. With a small smile lingering on his face, he was talking to his crew again.

  "I like men. I just don't have time for them."

  "No," she said, scratching at a speck on the counter, "it's something else." She grabbed a clean cloth and a spray bottle, and she headed to the main dining area to bus tables.

  "Order up!" Chuck yelled, startling me.

  I brought a round tray to the window before loading it with the hotshot crew's entrees.

  "You okay, kiddo?" Chuck asked.

  "I got it," I said, fitting one edge into the crook of my neck as I centered my palm beneath the tray.

  "That's not what I meant," Chuck said.

  "I know," I called back as I walked away.

  The boys were chatting when I approached them, and three pairs of eyes lit up when they recognized the tray of food was theirs.

  "Wrap," I said, placing it in front of Dalton.

  "Crepe," I said, lowering it to the table before Zeke.

  "Denver omelet with jalapenos."

  Taylor reached out, and I handed his plate to him.

  "The plate is warm," I warned.

  "Doesn't bother me," Taylor said with a half smile. Just as I turned, he touched my elbow. "I am capable of just hanging out as friends, you know."

  I shot him a dubious look. "I'm a waitress in a popular tourist town. You think I haven't heard that before? That I haven't heard it all before? Listen, you're nice. I like you guys. But I don't need any more friends, especially temporary ones."

  I could feel him watching me as I walked away, and I could guess what he was thinking. He'd already proven he enjoyed a challenge, so I was giving him one.

  Once they cleaned their plates and sat back against their chairs, I brought them the check. They wasted no time gathering their things and heading out, but Taylor made sure to wait until he could wave to me before leaving.

  Kirby bussed their table and brought me a handful of ones and fives and some change for a tip that totaled more than their meals. I shook my head and chuckled quietly. It was the best way to tell a waitress good-bye.

  The remainder of my shift was comfortably busy. Hannah and I sat together on the stools near the kitchen end of the bar, counting our tips and listening to Hector's and Chuck's funny stories about their mishaps and near misses throughout the day.

  With one hand on her back, Phaedra trudged up to us from the back room, covered in cream cheese, chocolate, and strawberry smears. "The goddamn pies are done."

  Chuck hugged her. "Well done, my love. Well done."

  He kissed her cheek, and she batted him away.

  "How was it? I meant to come out earlier. I got behind."

  "We survived," I said.

  Kirby smirked. "Taylor came in again today. Left her a big tip."

  I rolled my eyes.

  "What did it say?" Hannah said.

  My nose wrinkled. "Huh?"

  Hannah nodded to my stack of cash. "He wrote on one of the bills. I thought you knew."

  Kirby rushed to stand next to me as I fanned out my money.

  I shook my head. "Nothing."

  "It's on the other side, kiddo," Phaedra said, her eyes targeting one of the singles.

  I flipped over the stack and found the note scribbled in barely legible print.

  COMFORT SLEEP HOTEL

  ROOM 201

  Kirby laughed. "He gets points for persistence. You have to give him that."

  I inhaled, the wheels in my head spinning a hundred miles per hour. Now that I had somewhat of a plan, it was hard to be patient. But being patient was the only way it could work.

  "It's not cute. It's obnoxious. But keep seating them in my section, okay?"

  "You got it," she said, climbing onto a stool and dangling her feet like a child.

  Phaedra patted Chuck's face. "Remember when you were obnoxious, honey?"

  "How could I forget?" he said, waggling an eyebrow.

  "Please stop," Kirby said, looking ill.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Kirby sighed. "He's actually on time for once."

  When she didn't move and didn't say anything else, I turned to see Taylor standing in a white hat, a gray hoodie, and navy basketball shorts with flip-flops, holding a laundry basket full of clothes.

  "I'll be a son of a bitch," Phaedra said with her gravelly low voice.

  "Should I let him in?" Kirby asked.

  Everyone looked at me.

  "Just ... nobody say a word. Let me handle it."

  "I feel like this is a joke," Hannah said. "Is she playing a joke on us?"

  "No, but it's still funny," Chuck said, trying not to laugh.

  I made my way to the front door, not at all in a hurry, stopping just shy of an arm's length away. "What are you doing here?" I asked, trying to seem exasperated.

  "Laundry day," he said, grinning from one ear to the other.

  "Okay. You still haven't explained why you're here."

  "Do you have a washer and dryer?"

  "Yes."

  "That's why I'm here."

  I shook my head in disbelief. "Do people not know how to ask to borrow things where you're from?"

  "Illinois."

  "I know where you're from!" I growled.

  Taylor's smile faded. "Can I borrow your washer and dryer?"

  "No!"

  He looked both ways, down each direction of the street, and then back at me. "Well ... is there a Laundromat nearby?"

  "On Platte Avenue. Just turn left on Platte, off Tejon. It's just before you get to Institute Street. Right across from the supply store," Phaedra called.

  I spun around to see her pointing in the correct direction. I shot her a look, and she shrugged her shoulders.

  "You wanna come?" he asked. "Laundromats are boring as fuck."

  I pressed my lips together and then pulled them to the side, trying not to smile. This is it. I reached over and turned the key that was already in the lock. "Come in."

  "You sure?"

  "Oh, now, you're worried about overstepping?"

  "Not really," he said, walking past me. "Up the stairs, right?"

  It had to be fate. Taylor was like a stray puppy that I'd fed once, and now, he wouldn't go away. He also happened to be from the exact town I'd been saving money to visit all this time.

  I closed the door and cranked the key before facing four identical smirks from my coworkers.

  "You coming?" Taylor asked from the bottom of the stairs, still hugging his full laundry basket.

  "Well," I said, blowing my bangs from my eyes, "why the hell not?"

  I opened the door for Taylor, watching with a glimmer of amusement while he made a show of glancing around. His shorts sat low on his hips, and he turned his white hat backward, taking in every corner of the room. He was a man I would normally stay far away from, and there he was, beautifully sloppy, standing in my apartment.

  "Is this a satisfactory location to do your laundry?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Monumentally better than the Laundromat." He pushed the door close. "Where's your laundry room?"

  I gestured for him to follow and then slid open a set of doors situated in the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom. The washer and dryer, probably purchased the same year I was born, were just barely set inside the shallow rectangular closet.

  "Still better than the Laundromat?" I asked.

  "Yes, but I c
an go if you want me to."

  "Just turn it to whatever setting and pull the dial to start it."

  Taylor's appreciative smile was actually a little--okay, a lot--cute. He followed my directions, turning the dial on the washer and pulling. The water began to pour out from the back of the drum. He bent down, grabbed several pairs of jeans, and threw them in.

  I retreated to my bedroom, organizing my tips. I added half to the previous day's collection in my wallet and the other half to the shoebox. After stashing both, I changed into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized gray T-shirt.

  "Where are your jeans?" Taylor asked.

  I stopped in my doorway, taken off guard by his strange question. I pointed to my bedroom. "In there on the floor."

  "There's room in the washer," he said, pouring in the laundry soap.

  "My jeans don't know your jeans well enough to be washed together."

  He chuckled and shook his head while he watched the basin fill with water and suds. "Did I do something to make you hate me? Or is this some kind of test?" He faced me. "Because I'm not trying to get into your pants, Ivy League. I'm just asking to wash them."

  I retreated to my bedroom, picking up the wad of denim next to my nightstand. Then I crossed the hall and ducked into the bathroom just long enough to pick through the dirty laundry for the other two pairs somewhere inside the pile.

  "Here," I said, handing him the jeans.

  "This is it?" he asked, throwing them into the washer.

  "Yes, so if you ruin them, I'm screwed." I backed away from him and fell into the chair.

  "I won't ruin them. I've been doing laundry for a long time."

  "Your mom didn't do it for you?"

  Taylor shook his head.

  "Good. Moms can really screw kids up that way. You're lucky you never ended up crying over the washing machine because you couldn't figure out how to turn it on."

  "Sounds like you know from experience."

  "The help did our laundry." I waited for his reaction.

  He had none.

  "If your parents are so rich, why are you in this shithole?" he asked, pulling off his sweatshirt and throwing it into the washing machine, leaving him in just a thin, too-small T-shirt that read Eakins Football in faded letters.

  I stared at him for a moment, fighting the inevitable smile creeping across my face. "They made bad choices."

  Taylor lumbered to the couch and fell onto it, bouncing a bit, and then he tested the cushions by pushing down on them with his hands. "Like what?"

  "None of your business."

  He leaned back, crossing his arms.

  "What's with all the tattoos?" I asked, letting my eyes glide over the mishmash of colors and shapes that covered his skin down to his wrist.

  "We all have them."

  "Who's we?"

  "My brothers and me. Well, most of us. Tommy doesn't."

  "How many brothers?"

  "Four."

  "Dear God."

  He nodded, staring at whatever memory was playing before his eyes. "You have no idea."

  "Where are they? Your brothers."

  "Here and there."

  I liked this game, all questions and no answers, and he didn't seem to mind. Taylor's white T-shirt crumpled in the middle, thin enough to hint at his tan skin and nicely formed abs. Abs--all the assholes had them. Four to six muscles were like a graph chart to show just how big of a douche bag the guy was.

  "Are you the oldest?" I asked.

  "Yes and no."

  "Any sisters?"

  Taylor made a face. "God, no."

  Either he hated women, or he treated them badly enough not to want to think about them as people. No matter which it was, the longer he was in my apartment, the less I worried about guilt being a problem.

  "Want to watch television?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Good," I said, settling back into my chair. "I don't have cable."

  "Got any movies?"

  "Phaedra has a box of VHS tapes and a VCR in that closet," I said, casually pointing. "But I haven't hooked it up yet."

  "How long have you lived here?"

  "A while."

  Taylor stood up, groaning as he did, and then he ambled over to the closet and opened the door. He was well over six feet tall and could see everything on the top shelf just fine. He pulled the string to turn on the light and then reached for the dusty VCR, pulling it out along with a mess of cables.

  He blew off the dust and then leaned back, looking disgusted. "Pick a movie. I'm going to get this bad boy hooked up."

  "Are you bored with the stimulating conversation?"

  "To death," he said the words without apology.

  Oddly, there was no hint that he was unhappy with the way things were going. He didn't seem annoyed or even put-off, which was a relief. At least he wasn't going to require an exorbitant amount of attention and effort.

  "Aliens," I said, pointing.

  Taylor took the box over to the small television sitting on top of a two-shelf table. He sat the VCR on the bottom shelf and then began unraveling the wires. "Yeah, I like that one."

  I wrinkled my nose. "Like it? It's a classic."

  "I saw Sixteen Candles in there. I figured you'd pick that." He plugged a cable into the back of the VCR and then reached around the back of the television.

  "Clearly, you don't know me at all."

  "I can't decide if you're trying to hate me or trying to make me hate you."

  "Neither."

  Taylor made a face but only because he had to reach further to screw the cable into the proper connection. "So, I don't."

  "You don't what?"

  "Hate you."

  "Damn," I teased.

  Taylor achieved whatever it was he had been trying to do and sat upright before stretching out his legs and crossing them, leaning his back against the wall beside the TV. "I think you hate yourself enough for the both of us."

  I felt my cheeks turn red. He didn't know how close he'd come to the truth.

  "Is that a rage coming on?" Taylor said, mistaking my embarrassment for anger.

  My arm pressed against the side of the chair as I leaned forward. "You don't have that kind of effect on me."

  He blinked. "What do you mean?"

  "I'd have to give a shit about you to get angry."

  "Oh, are you analyzing now, Ivy League? I thought you said you weren't a psych major."

  "Now, you're just being rude."

  "Saying you're shit at conversation and that I have a feeling you're a judgmental bitch is rude, but I wasn't going to take it that far. But you are ... and you are."

  "Ouch." I purposely kept my features smooth.

  He shook his head, confused. "One minute, you're reactive, and the next, I can't get a reaction. You're all over the place. I cannot figure you out--like, at all. And I minored in women."

  "That must get you so much ass and so many high fives from your friends. But that doesn't impress me."

  He paused for a moment. "Do you want me to leave?"

  "I don't think so. But you can if you want."

  "I don't want. And that's weird for me that I have an opinion, one way or the other."

  "I'm intrigued. Continue."

  "First of all, I like that you're awkward as fuck and that you're a raging bitch. Girls tend to giggle and run their hands through their hair a lot when I'm around. You've all but told me to fuck off."

  "Fuck off."

  "See? I like you."

  "Maybe I don't want you to like me."

  "I know. And I don't, not like that. And I think that's what surprises me the most."

  His revelation caught me off guard, but the twinge in the pit of my stomach surprised me even more.

  "Listen, Ivy League, I'm here until October. I work my ass off all day. If I'm lucky, I work first shift, so I can eat lunch at the cafe. You and your hateful-ass mouth have been the highlight of this job. I think you're just being hostile because you think I'm trying to
bag you, and clearly, I'm not capable of taming the shrew in this story. So, let's turn the volume up on Aliens, so we can't hear that piece-of-shit washer of yours and hang out."

  I blinked.

  He shrugged. "I don't care about whatever problem you have with your parents. I don't care that you have some sort of fucked-up issue with men. I don't want within five feet of your pussy, and you've gotta know that now because I'd never use the P word if I'm looking to get laid. Girls hate that. I just want to be around someone cool who also owns a washer and dryer and the best collection of VHS tapes I've seen since the nineties."

  "Five feet, huh?" I said. I crawled off my chair, across the scratchy carpet, and over to where Taylor was sitting.

  He stiffened as I planted my hands on each side of his legs and leaned in, stopping inches from his lips.

  "You sure about that?" I whispered.

  He swallowed and then opened his mouth, speaking quietly, "Get the fuck away from me. I know full well that touching you would be like putting my finger on a loaded gun."

  "Then don't pull the trigger," I dared him, my lips almost grazing his.

  He didn't move forward, but he didn't retreat. His body was relaxed, comfortable, with being that close to mine. "I won't."

  I sat back on my heels and rested my hands on my knees, thinking about what he'd said. "You sound awfully confident for a guy who keeps coming to see me day after day."

  "You're fucking weird--like, weirder than I thought. Did I pass the test?"

  "Yes," I said matter-of-factly.

  "I might like being around you, but that doesn't mean I'm a fucking fool. And that's a ridiculous test. Any guy is going to go for it if a girl is begging for it like that."

  "You didn't."

  "I keep telling you, I'm not an idiot. I know what you're trying to do. I just don't know why."

  I narrowed my eyes. "You say we can be friends, but you don't keep your word."

  "Okay then. I promise to make relentless attempts to bag your ass. How's that?"

  I tilted my head, seeing beyond the hint of his smile, his dimple, and his late-night stubble splashed across his defined jawline. I wouldn't find what I was looking for in his words or even in his eyes. Taylor's truth was just out of reach, like my own, so I knew where to look and how to find it. The only way to see into someone's soul was with your own.

  "You promise?" I repeated.

  "Swear."

  "Are you scared of me?" I asked, only half-joking.

  Taylor didn't hesitate. "Not even a little. I know exactly what to expect from you."

  "And how is that?"

  "Because I'm fairly certain that we're the same person."