The Permanence of Pain Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  It took me over three months to leave the house in a social capacity. It wasn’t that I was so depressed I couldn’t leave, but more so that most of the friends I would go out with were mutual friends with Richard. I just couldn’t bring myself to be around their fake smiles and constantly fend off the “Are you ok?” and “Tell the truth Regina, how have you been?” I certainly didn’t want anyone to talk to Richard about me, so I avoided everyone that was a common tie between us. It was the only way to keep moving forward for me. Hell, I was still sleeping on the couch even these months later; going out socially was going to take baby steps.

  But I got hungry.

  To be specific, I got hungry for the capellini di mare at Affini’s restaurant over on the old west end. The owner had his pasta maker brought in from Italy and made all of his pasta fresh daily. Once you have had fresh made pasta, you can’t go back to the box. Affini’s was a place I had found when I first took the job at Slow Grind and started making the kind of money that allowed me to be choosy about the establishments I frequented. I started going there before I ever met Richard, and I was pretty confident that since he was always more of a burger and fries kind of guy, I wouldn’t be assaulted with memories of him when I walked in the door.

  I called for an e-ride down to the old west end because I had plans to eat a huge plate of pasta and drink an entire bottle of white wine while I was there. I had been down and out the last few months, and a steaming hot plate of capellini with mussels, clams, and calamari was just what the doctor ordered.

  Hell, if I was taking myself on a date I might as well fancy it up. I went through the closet until I found a flowy black skirt, hanging way in the back because it was a little shorter than I would normally wear, and I had bought it in a wave of confidence that deflated as soon as I got home from shopping. Tonight would be a good night to show a little leg, I thought. I even had my eyeliner wings on point, and that never happened. I pulled my light brown hair into a simple low ponytail that somehow looked elegant with my soft pink wrap around shirt, instead of like a founding father. It wasn’t so much that it was low cut, but it clung to my curves in a way that made it look like more cleavage was showing than there actually was. I barely recognized the girl in the bathroom mirror. I had a glow to my skin that normally wasn’t there, and with a couple of swishes of colorless gloss, I had a shiny pout to go with it. I thought that people who went through a messy breakup looked like shit—but I looked awesome. I made a damn fine date, even if I was just taking myself out. I was definitely worth dinner and drinks at Affini’s.

  Almost ready to head out for the evening, I took a last pass through the house to check that the doors were locked when I looked up and the painting caught my eye. Beauty Sleeping. We had a lot in common, her and me. Our lives spent in distracted haze, hers spent dreaming, one hand tucked under her cheek in peaceful slumber while I spent mine in my own world, oblivious to the goings on around me. Well, I was awake now, and as painful as it was I would make the most of it, I was ready now. I'd spent time trying to find the artist who painted Beauty Sleeping but nothing had come up in an online search. The painting wasn't signed and there were no other indicators besides the words Beauty Sleeping scrawled in pencil on the back of the canvas. Maybe I'll try finding the artist again, I thought to myself. She deserved that information. We both deserved a lot of things.

  "Don't wait up for me, girl." I said to the painting on the wall above the couch, knowing full well she couldn’t hear me. "I'll tell you all about my night when I get home."

  A couple of swipes of my favorite rollerball scent on my collarbone and wrists, and I was out the door and meeting my ride. The driver was a young but cute enough guy, maybe in his early twenties, and having him hold the door for me and stammer out a nervous “ma’am” had me feeling like a Grande Madame. Confidence soaring, I sat in the back of his grey Honda like a mob queen being chauffeured around town. Taking myself on a date is fun, I thought, I should do it more often.

  I had a reservation at Affini’s, and the hostess didn’t bat an eye at seating a table of one. I had a small table in a cozy little corner that faced the rest of the restaurant. My little table put a wall at my back, and I could see everyone coming and going in the restaurant. There was no need to make idle chit-chat, I could enjoy my food and wine in blissful silence.

  My meal was divine.

  Cherry tomatoes burst in my mouth, and the pungent tang of just enough garlic curled around my tongue and slid down my throat. I was washing it down with my third glass of wine when the front door opened and I made eye contact with Cindy. The reaction was immediate, the laughter died in her throat, and she stopped abruptly in the doorway causing Richard to bump into her from behind. He hadn’t been prepared for her sudden stop, but the reprimand he was about to give her was cut off when he looked up and saw me.

  What the hell did I do now?

  Everything in me was hovering over fight or flight. My sense of self-preservation was screaming to get up and run. Save me from the embarrassment and the agony of being in the same space and breathing the same oxygen as my betrayers. Normally I would give in to the flight. There was no reason for me to punish myself by enduring the agony of their stares, knowing they didn’t want to be around me any more than I wanted to be around them.

  But something was different this time. The voice of my fight instinct began to sound a little louder than the voice of my flight. Who cares what old Regina would do? This was my restaurant, my place before him, and it would continue to be my place. The voice in my head that was new Regina said, how dare they think to chase me from my comfort zone, after everything else they had done. They have no power over me anymore. None. So the girl who was new Regina did something the old Regina never would have done.

  I ordered dessert.

  It tasted like cardboard, and my nerves were running on high anxiety octane, but I ate every last bite of that mascarpone cake and swallowed the dregs of that last glass of wine. Then I left a large bill on the table to cover my dinner and a generous tip, and walked out the door with my head high, the swing of my ponytail only slightly less than the swing of my hips.

  Forget that. I didn’t walk out, I fucking sashayed out that door.

  It was once I was out the door of the restaurant and in front of the large glass windows when I was sure I could feel the stares of both Richard and Cindy following me, that I realized I didn’t know what to do next. I had been so stressed out about making it through dinner with my dignity intact that I had forgotten to schedule my ride home. The idea of fumbling with my phone to schedule a ride through the app in front of the windows with people watching me did not appeal, so I looked around to see where else I could go, at least to get out of view of Richard and Cindy. I didn’t want them to see me uncertain of anything, they only got to see confident new Regina—the facade that I let them see.

  The air had a bit of a chill for being late May in Northwest Ohio, but I’d already had a full meal and an entire bottle of wine, so the air felt good on my flushed cheeks. Across the street from Affini’s was a tattoo shop, Gallery B, and a tiny little brick building with a neon open sign in the window. It looked like a bar, and if I squinted in the dark, I could see by the poorly lit sign out front it was called Nasta’s. It looked a little sketchy, but I was a brave girl in that moment, and I just needed a place where I could go in, sit at the bar to have one drink, and schedule my ride.

  The inside of the bar was pleasantly comfortable. It was clean and only moderately dim, as bars ought to be. There was a pool table on one end of the room, several tables and booths scattered across the middle and down one wall, and a large rectangle bar that stuck out through the center of the space. It was actually quite welcoming, so I went to the middle of the bar where there were three open barstools and slid into the center seat. It was a bit of a dick move, but if I left the spots on either side of me empty, I figured people were less likely to sit next to me since people normally
went to the bar in groups.

  The bartender was a very handsome man with a bright smile full of white, even teeth. I would imagine after six or ten drinks he would be the type of person you could tell your life story to—a perfect bartender.

  “Hi, what can I get for you?” He said with a smile. I wasn’t planning on staying, so I ordered a generic domestic and paid in cash. No need for a tab.

  Pulling the phone from my purse, I was surprised to hear it ding in my hand—a text message. Normally not a big deal but the name that scrolled across the tiny screen made my blood turn cold.

  Richard. What the hell did he want?

  Against my better judgment, I clicked on the little rectangle that opened his message and read,

  Hey

  Was he fucking kidding me with that nonsense?

  Hey what? I replied, and immediately regretted even answering him. I took a long pull from the Bud Light, it didn’t taste like anything, but it felt good sliding down my throat. My skin was suddenly itchy and overheated.

  You looked beautiful tonight.

  “Oh, hell no you don’t get to say shit to me you creep.” I’d meant to say the words under my breath, but they came out as more of an angry exclamation. As I washed the words down with a large gulp from the neck of my bottle I was overcome with a sour taste.

  “Oh God, what in the hell?” It could not have tasted stronger if I had been sitting in front of Belgian monks and they were spooning dry hops directly into my mouth. What in the shit had I just swallowed?

  I looked more closely at the bottle in my hands and realized that it most certainly was not the Bud Light I had been drinking previously. This bottle had a colorful label and the words “Hop Juju” plastered on the front. Hop Juju, well no shit.

  I lifted my gaze to try and figure out how I might have made such a mix-up and looked right into the eyes of the slack-jawed bartender, who was looking not at me, but at the space directly to my left. I followed his gaze to a pair of wide shoulders, and had to look up and up some more to see the very bemused face of the largest man I had ever seen up close.

  I don’t mean he was just tall, I mean he was big. He had an imposing air about him that wasn’t even dimmed by the twitching corners of his mouth, and I couldn’t figure out how I didn’t even feel him sliding into the barstool next to me. Surely the floorboards should have been shaking or something.

  Broad shoulders, and what could only be described as an extremely muscular body by the way his black t-shirt was strung so tightly across his chest, took up most of the space in front of my eyes. Color exploded from his short sleeves and down both of his arms, and continued into tattoos that dusted his knuckles. My thighs clenched for some reason, looking at those large hands. I assumed it was from the wine.

  As my gaze traveled upward, I could see a splash of color that extended across his collarbone, stopping just short of his thick neck. Dark wavy hair fell over his ears and slightly down his neck and holy shit those eyes. Those deep brown eyes may have been laughing at me and my predicament, but the look on his face was panty-melting, to say the least.

  I had definitely had enough to drink.

  He didn’t look mad, and I was already feeling a buzz, so I felt confident in my apology. “I am really sorry,” I said sorrowfully, “but that beer tastes like shit.”

  The sexy giant in front of me crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at me for a moment, possibly trying to read my mind. There was nothing to read though, I had just said exactly what was on it. Old Regina might have been tongue-tied in front of the sexy beast, but new Regina, the girl who had a bottle of wine and a guzzle of hoppy nastiness, had no such reservations. She said exactly what she was thinking, no hesitations.

  “I don’t trust the taste buds of someone who would willingly purchase and drink that pisswater you have in front of you.”

  Yeah okay, he had a point.

  “Okay, yes, it’s pisswater. But in my defense, I already had an entire bottle of wine over at Affini’s before I came over here. I was feeling full,” I said primly, as if that should have been explanation enough on its own.

  The bartender, relieved that, at least in this instance, he wasn’t going to have to break up a bar fight, went back to the other end of the bar to take someone else’s order. That left me alone to converse with the dangerous behemoth, who instead of ordering another beer, drank out of the one I had just put my mouth on like he had zero concerns about germs or mouth herpes or anything.

  “You just had dinner at Affini’s? What did you eat?” He looked impressed and a bit jealous so I replied smugly, “Capellini di Mare.”

  “Yes! The good stuff.” One giant meaty paw was held up in front of me, and I had no choice but to fist bump or ignore the gesture. It would have been rude to leave him hanging and I giggled a little as my small fist bounced off his massive knuckles.

  “I ate the whole damn plate, too,” I said proudly, rubbing my hand in small circles over my slightly rounded stomach that probably couldn’t hold another bite of food if it was surgically implanted there. “See my little food baby?” I pursed my lips and made little kissy noises at my belly. It was just a little joke, and probably couldn’t have been unsexier if I had belched at the bar, but I still didn’t expect the reaction I got.

  The big man on the stool next to me laughed.

  But he didn’t just laugh, no, his voice was deep as rolling thunder as it boomed off the walls of the bar. Louder than the popular top forties song playing on the bar speakers, loud enough that it scared a clearly intoxicated woman as she came out of the restroom, and almost toppled over on her skinny sky-high heels. And so loud that the young bartender with the perfect teeth dropped the pint glass he was drying behind the bar. He fumbled, almost caught it, and fumbled it again only to miss on the rebound, the glass shattering as it hit the floor.

  “Goddamnit Beck! You laugh like fuckin’ Santa Claus!” But the blond bartender was smiling as he reached around the corner and grabbed a broom and dustpan.

  Santa Clause? I thought. Yeah, maybe, if Santa was a six foot four bodybuilder type with tattoos and luxurious black hair. Steel bands for arms and thighs like tree trunks—yeah, Santa Clause. The entire chain of events was too funny so I started laughing. Real laughter, like I hadn’t done since Richard left—no—longer than that even. The giant apparently named Beck slapped his hand on his denim-clad thigh and hooted again, and we both laughed until tears came out of our eyes and my stomach started to cramp.

  “Another beer? I’ll buy one to wash the taste of mine out of your mouth. Actually, let’s do wine so you don’t offend me with another tasteless domestic.”

  “No, thank you,” I laughed, but the disappointment showed plainly on his face. He thought I was turning him down. That sexy bear of a man, who could probably crush a skull between his hands, was bummed because he could not buy me a drink.

  “This is going to make me sound like a serious grandma, but do you know what always tops off a kick-ass meal for me? A coffee. If I can trade my wine for coffee I will take you up on your offer.”

  “Jesse, a coffee for the granny lady,” he said with a smile. He didn’t seem to be making fun of me, so I took no offense to his words. Actually, if that dimple always showed up when he smiled I would change my damn name to Grandma if he thought it was funny.

  “Sure thing, Beck. Ma’am, do you want me to Irish it up for you?”

  The ma’am had me grimacing. I was having fun conversing with these guys, no strings, no expectations, but the ma’am had me slamming back to reality. Plain, boring Regina. Ugh, no way was I ready to be her again.

  “As long as you don’t call me ma’am again, holy hell, my name is Regina. And my answer to your question depends on what you consider Irish coffee.”

  Jesse had already turned his back to me, arm extended and reaching for a bottle of Bailey’s on the shelf to his left. Meeting my gaze in the mirror behind the bar he narrowed his eye. I stood my ground and said nothing, just arched one
eyebrow in challenge. Would he do it right? Or would he reach for the Bailey’s and disappoint me?

  “Regina, huh?” Beck’s voice was rumbly and warm, and three octaves lower than it ought to be for friendly conversation. The kind of sexy that happens just because, and not because, he chose to do it on purpose. The man cast a shadow like a blanket, and the thought of him whispering sexy words into my ear with that sinful voice had me clenching my thighs together once again under the shadows of the bar ledge.

  He was just talking to me, nothing more, but his voice was a weapon. What would it be like if he were trying to be seductive on purpose? I couldn’t even turn to look at him or I would lose my composure.

  Maintaining eye contact with Jesse through the mirror I added, “Yes. My name is Regina. Regina O’Shea.”

  At the mention of my last name Jesse’s fingers flexed, paused in front of the Bailey’s bottle and then he grinned, turned and grabbed the Jameson bottle that was shelved to the right.

  Good boy.

  “Okay, Okay, Irish.” He said as he laughed and grabbed a small grinder from behind the bar. “I always have to check, you know? Half the time I get excited to make something fun and people just expect me to pour a shot of Bailey’s into their cup and call it a day.”