Page 10 of Silver Player

[Roxanne]

When Billy hands my book back to me, I take it with the tips of my fingers near the edge of the spine. I don’t want to touch anything that has been near his dick, and Lord knows, there have been plenty of things near it.

His bare ass exposed, him thrusting up into a woman against a brick wall, is burned in my memory, and I try not to recall such things, especially when deep down, in a place I keep locked up tight, I wish it had been me. Just once. Him and me and a wall at my back.

“What is that anyway?” he asks after he passes the book to me. I don’t know why he doesn’t just read the cover for himself.

“The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.”

“The prophet, huh? Because it’s a miracle you got in my pants.” Billy winks at me.

“Well, I wasn’t in your pants,” I snap.

“Not yet.” And with that, he turns on his booted feet and leaves.

He’s so full of himself, I think as I step up to the front door and flip the sign to closed. I’ll never be in his pants because here’s the thing, he never hits on me. Not in earnest. I’ve watched him flirt and tease and obviously have sex with someone against an exterior wall, but he’s never acted remotely interested in me. He jokes. He pokes. But he does it to get to me, not get me.

Twisting the lock at the door, I recall the sympathy in his eyes when I mentioned Theresa’s death and the determination once he agreed to take a paternity test. I have no doubt in my mind Billy is the father, mainly because Trixie was adamant it was him, but as we later learned, you can’t just add a paternal name to a birth certificate without the father’s admission or DNA proof, of which Theresa had neither.

“He’ll never need to know,” my sister said to me while peering down at the new baby in her arms. “We don’t need him.”

One reason my sister didn’t need Billy is because she had me, ever the helper—generous and easygoing. My sister, on the other hand, was principled, self-controlled, and a perfectionist, which makes the irony of her unplanned pregnancy even sweeter. She thought she could do it all on her own, but that had never been the case. Single motherhood was the opposite of her practical lifestyle, but then again, so was the motorcycle she owned—a sliver of rebel streak remaining from her younger years. She had been confidently outgoing while I was excessively introverted. I liked to read. She liked to socialize. Her extroverted personality kept her always trying to move forward on the corporate ladder without appreciating what was immediately before her. My sister was strong-willed and determined, hard-working and stubborn for a reason. She constantly worried about Sadie and her future.

The right kindergarten. The right elementary school. The right high school all led to the right college. Theresa wanted no risk of Sadie repeating her history. However, I wasn’t convinced all the education in the world could prevent such a thing. In the case of my sister, an unplanned pregnancy was the result of a momentary lapse in judgment and had nothing to do with her smarts.

When Sadie was thirteen, I told my sister about my vision to own my own bookstore. I’d worked for a big chain for years, moving from floor sales to management. I loved being around books, but the large-scale store didn’t provide the intimacy I wanted in a shop, and when the Atlanta location closed its doors, it was a sign to move on.

My hardest decision was where to locate a small business. After living near a big city for almost fifteen years, I recalled my love for the simpler feel of Blue Ridge, so opening my store in a town working to build its economy was the obvious choice. However, it meant leaving Sadie behind, and my sister wasn’t pleased. This disrupted her plan of me always being present to pick up the slack of raising Sadie.

“You won’t be able to do this on your own.” It was a projection of my sister’s fears. She’d have to step up and be a mother for Sadie as she reached her teen years. It was a difficult decision, but it had been time for me to do something for myself.

“You okay?” Grace questions as I remain before the front door staring at the pub across the street.

He might have married Theresa, I think before turning to face Grace.

“It’s been a long day.” I exhale, having no idea where thoughts of Billy and marriage to my sister came from. Grace smiles in response, and a comforting hand comes to my arm. Billy had reached for me earlier, but I pulled away. I didn’t trust his touch. Getting so many women to sleep with him made him a master manipulator, and I shiver with the thought.

“It will all work out,” Grace assures me. I’d unleashed the basic details to my co-worker and friend after leaving Sadie to stew in her room.

“I don’t even know what that means.” What do I want his responsibility to be? I didn’t plan on Billy being part of Sadie’s story yet. She came to me after Theresa’s death, and that was all the fairy tale I needed. I didn’t want to tell her anything about her father until she was older, but in hindsight, I see the trouble this could have led to, and the trouble it’s already been. Sadie needs the truth, and like ripping off a Band-Aid, she has it. I just wish so many changes weren’t happening all at once for her.

“Billy Harrington is a good man,” Grace assures me, and I snort.

“Depends on what kind of good we are discussing.” I lift a brow. Good in bed, perhaps.

“Well, he’s good to look at.” She giggles. “But I mean he’s a decent person. He’ll do the right thing.”

Again, I question what I want the right thing to be from him. Billy has questions, just like Sadie, and I’m caught in the crossfire without all the answers. I just want what’s best for Sadie. She’s my only concern.

+ + +

Two days later, I’m surprised to see Billy standing in my store again, looking sheepish with his hands in his pockets. His jeans hug him just right, and he’s wearing a Pub T-shirt with the long sleeves pressed above his elbows. His eyes scan the various shelves and fall decorations in the window, but it’s obvious he isn’t focused on any one thing.

“Can I help you?” I offer, keeping my tone professional. I must admit, seeing him standing in my bookstore for the second time in less than a week does seem like a miracle. It’s also doing things to my girlie parts when it shouldn’t be. I don’t think he’s ever been in here other than after I called the police and he nearly tore off my front door, rushing in here to verbally assault me with his displeasure.

“It was a concert. We had a permit.”

“It was loud and late, and I needed sleep.” I’d opened the store only a week or so prior, and I remember the exhaustion of doing everything on my own. The issue with being a helper is it isn’t always a personality people reciprocate. No one steps up to help me. Theresa was so bitter I left her that she didn’t bother to visit the store for three months.