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8
Libby
Entitlement
Ground turkey is gross, and anyone who says differently can see me in the streets.
I bought chicken with my groceries, but compelled by our encounter in the store, I cooked the turkey, like havinghisblessing would make it better as though by magic. Perhaps my taste buds matured once I hit thirty, or maybe I’d learned a new recipe.
No, it still sucks, and my stomach now homes a gross concoction of ground turkey, salts and garlic, and a bunch of different sauces in an attempt to make it palatable. Basically, I blew through my calorie count in condiments alone.
Not a good first impression for the tech mogul who thinks I’m going to jump into his bed simply because he asked.
I mean, had he said it in a less demanding way, I might relent.
It’s not that I don’t think he’s handsome. It’s not that I don’t consider him sexy, dark, intriguing as hell, and almost as tempting as a sweet treat. And it’s not like I’m a prude; had we met and simply chatted for three seconds without the weird staring or demands, I’d have fallen into bed with him with the provision nobody gets attached.
But now this is where we are; I have the invitation into his bed, but I also have an invite for Drake’s. I know Drake can deliver, and he never gets weird about it afterwards.
I’m just saying, there are not enough calories in the world to fit Theo Griffin in my life.
Selecting lacy black underwear – my only non-tomboyish crutch – I slide into them and smile at the feel of lace against freshly shaved legs. I’ve showered, shaved, exfoliated, perfumed, painted and blown out my hair. Drake and I are only casual lovers, but I’m not sleeping with any man without taking care of myself at home beforehand.
Drake’s home is only two towns over, forty or so minutes doing the speed limit, so I slide into a pair of jeans from my top shelf, a pair of heels that annoyingly make me think of Theo and his comments on my height, and a loose top of soft, cottony fabric to combat the feel of being squished into jeans. The sleeve hangs off one shoulder, leaving bare skin behind to tempt a man to kiss.
To bite.
My jeans fit like a second skin and support me more than any therapist ever has before, and my hair is soft and perfect. I won’t even have to wash or style it again for work tomorrow. I make a half-assed search for my diamond earrings, but give up after a minute when I check my watch and realize if I don’t move now, I’m going to be late.
Drake won’t care that I’m running behind, but the longer I take, the longer it’ll be before I get home and into bed. I’m back on day shift with Oz tomorrow, and he’s going to push my buttons the way only he can, and after a week of nights, topped by two nights of weird dreams, I’m not exactly working on all cylinders.
I need to get my sleep under control, then I need to report to work tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred.
Awesome.
Grabbing my clutch and stuffing my gun and phone inside, because I never leave home without either, I rush from my bedroom and pass my couch on my way to the door, but then I skid to a stop when something isn’t right. My woman brain fights against the cop brain that tries to slide in and solve the mystery. My body turns toward the door; Iwantto leave, but my heart refuses to release me, until finally, it clicks.
The sweater?
I look over my shoulder, as though expecting it to be right there, then back to the couch where I’m certain I saw it last.
Once upon a time, long, long ago, I met a boy who told me about his favorite sweater, and how mad he was that he forgot it at home. He was cold, so we huddled together in the breeze and shared my coat, and when my bare legs were cold, he tucked them beneath his and returned the favor.
For an hour, I got to snuggle with that boy and talk about all of the plans we had for our futures. When you’re only nine, your future is usually some grand, far-fetched career – there was a short period there that I wanted to be a marine biologist. Why? I have no clue, but it sounded cool. That day, while we sat outside and our parents conducted what they called business, Gunner and I discussed our mutual goals to become police officers.
I wanted to make things safe, and I think he just wanted to call himself a Texas Ranger. I suspect he’d have been just as happy had Chuck Norris walked through the parking lot. Though in the end, of course, neither happened. My father killed that boy, and two days later, we went for a long drive and visited the apartment Gunner spoke of. It was on the poor side of town hidden by overflowing dumpsters and people sitting in the street all day long. I saw his living room, tidy, but bugs skittered once we entered. I saw his kitchen, his empty fridge. I happened across pencils and paper beneath the couch, and above that, the red sweater I was certain wasthesweater.
In the last moments I ever spoke to Gunner, he told me that he liked to steal things sometimes. He said it made him happy to take something that wasn’t his, if that something helped make his and his mom’s life easier.
The sweater was certain to make my life easier, if only to help me grieve the only true friend I had, so I dragged in a breath for bravery, swiped the sweater, and stuffed it inside my coat, then I snuck out to the car and stuffed it in the spare wheel well in the trunk. It stayed there until late that night. Once we got home and my father was asleep, I snuck outside and stole it again. I took it back with me to school, and the one time a bully tried to steal it from me just for the sake of being a jerk, I earned my reputation around school – I would bust a bitch’s face if she wanted to mess with me.
I had something worth defending, something I would die protecting.
It’s become a part of me now, something I’ve kept around like a safety blanket. The white dinosaurs that once decorated the front have mostly worn away. The zipper is broken from the billions of times I’ve done it up and undid it. The string that goes inside the hood is gone, the bottom hem is tattered.
That red sweater was well loved by the boy, and well used by me for two decades longer, and though I tend to sit with it most days and run my fingers over the fabric, I don’t often think of its origins anymore. It’s a part of me, so its absence now is startling.
I do a full three-sixty in my living room, thinking I may have tossed it somewhere, but I’m certain I had it on the couch. That’s where I always have it.
