Chapter 6: Octavia - Pack of Mine

My bare feet walk around my empty apartment. Connor’s things are everywhere – a constant reminder of the fact that he doesn’t come around anymore. He moved back into his own place. I've even thought about driving over to check in on him, but I’m still upset with him.

I glance over at a corkboard in my kitchen full of pictures of my so-called “friends”, the same people who never missed an opportunity to put me down. I never did well with women – whether they found me bitchy or annoying and lied to my face about it, or put me in some competition with them that I didn’t sign up for.

There are old polaroids of Connor and me, along with random bills I still need to pay but keep forgetting about. My fingers trace over a picture of the two of us at a park eating a picnic. We look so happy, the way we used to be before we started arguing all the fucking time.

He used to work at the bar too, which is where we met. His face lit up the minute he saw me and he had so much trouble hiding his feelings. I thought it was so cute – the way his cheeks blushed when I walked into the room and how he couldn’t stop looking down at my cleavage tops like all of the customers do.

One day, he worked up the courage to ask me on a date and invited me to a retro diner to get milkshakes. I thought it was so cheesy, but that was part of his charm. He was always so goofy. He would crack jokes just to make me smile and would look so pleased with himself when one of them actually got me to laugh.

Our first date went well, actually. I could tell he was nervous, but he did a great job at making it fun, flirting a little in between his quips. He was never aggressive, never assertive, never dominant. I liked that about him at the beginning – I felt safe with him, but sexually I needed more.

He was pretty against anything violent in bed, even when I begged him for it. Most of our sexual encounters were disappointingly vanilla and required me to close my eyes and imagine someone else.

I love him… loved. Over the last year, he changed a lot. Jeremiah caught us making out on the clock a few too many times and decided to let him go, not that he could really afford to be paying two bartenders anyway.

Plus I made better tips than him – a cute girl will always outperform a tall, skinny guy.

After he lost his job at the bar, things went downhill. He got lazy, he lost his fun sense of humor and I nagged on him a lot.

I wanted more, I wanted to see him chase a different income source and try to get back on his feet, I wanted him to make me laugh like he used to.

Our sex life took a shit and died not even a month later. He was losing himself to a depression that I couldn’t help with, no matter how hard I tried. I could only watch as our relationship slowly fell apart in front of us, and he didn’t care to try to repair it, which just twisted the knife.

I pull my hand off the polaroid and place my fingers on my cheek right where he slapped me.

There’s no coming back from this, I don’t think. He hasn’t even texted me to apologize and it’s been days since everything went down. Maybe he somehow found out that I went out drinking and ended up at that guy Skyler Vale’s house, and now he’s jealous or something.

Either way, it was already over, we were just delaying the inevitable.

“Piece of shit.”

I rip the picture off the corkboard and throw it in the kitchen trash can.

“I never want to see you again.”

I know he can’t hear me, but it feels good to say it out loud.

My fingers snatch up a pack of Marlboros off the counter and I shake out a square, lighting it up. I scan my eyes around my shitty apartment and I exhale, the cloud of smoke fogging the kitchen.

The crappy vinyl floors are peeling up on some of the edges, my walls need a fresh coat of beige paint and the bathroom is begging for a mold treatment that my complex definitely won’t pay for.

All of my furniture was thrifted or found in a dumpster. I’m pretty sure my couch has bed bugs, so I rarely sit on it. It’s more for decor now.

The carpet in my bedroom is littered with stains from previous residents, the window facing the parking lot only opens half the time, and I fear if I have sex on my bed once more, the frame is going to shatter into a million pieces underneath me. I can’t afford a new one, either.

My mind wanders and I daydream about Skyler, the stunning mansion in the woods he lives in, and the way his strong hands felt around my throat. He is truly dominant to his core, no question about it.

I’ve never actually dated a man like him, and while he freaks me out a little, something is enticing about him. He carries himself with a confidence level I can hardly comprehend, like he knows all the right buttons to push to get exactly what he wants and isn’t afraid to flaunt it.

I take another drag and walk back to my bedroom, scrunching my nose at the smell of mildew coming from my bathroom.

My work outfit rests on the end of the bed, reminding me that I need to leave soon. I find myself imagining Skyler in my sheets having his way with me, pushing me around and treating me like an object. My shorts grow warmer and my heart starts to race as the thoughts of him naked sprint around my skull.

“Skyler Vale… use me. Treat me like nothing, fuck me into the wall, break me in half with that absolute weapon in your jeans.”

I imagine what I would say to him if I saw him again and ended up underneath him somehow.

“I’m your little toy, use me however you please.”

I catch my hands slipping down my shorts and snap myself out of it. I just met the fucking guy, but the fear he instills in me really gets me going. It doesn’t help that he looks like a spitting image of one of my favorite book boyfriends, or at least exactly how I pictured him in my mind.

My lungs pull in another hit and I start to strip. I have to get ready for work now, or I’ll get stuck in this falling-apart bedroom fantasizing about things that would make feminists’ hair catch on fire.

I place the lit cigarette into an ashtray on my dresser and pull the fishnets up my legs, then slip on distressed black denim shorts on top of them. I find my best push-up bra and shove my tits into them. My nipples practically spill out the edges of the cups.

A pile of laundry on the floor trips me on my way to the closet and I find a small black tank top to slide on over my bra. My bare feet step onto the tile in the bathroom and it’s cold, goosebumps shoot up my arms.

I look at myself in the mirror and adjust my top. My breasts look three times their size right now, it’s kind of mind-boggling how much free surgery a good bra can do.

“Hot, perfect.”

I blow a kiss to myself in the mirror, my black eyeliner from last night still looks good enough for today. I shake out my hair and spot a pair of platform Converse near the door and force them on, the untied laces dragging all over the floor.

As I walk around my apartment, I snag my still-lit cigarette and place it in my teeth, my keys off the kitchen counter and my mini backpack next to the door.

I’m running slightly behind, but Jeremiah doesn’t really care if I’m a few minutes late. He’s always been a super chill boss. But he’s been even more relaxed with me since I told him about our slowly failing relationship during the last few months.

Sometimes we vent to each other when it’s slow or if we're closing together. He never has anything bad to say about his wife – he’s the only happily married man I know. She even comes in occasionally to see how things are going. I ask them for relationship advice often, they just seem to have it all figured out.

I lock my front door behind me and head down the stairs, unlocking my car as I lightly jog towards it. My fingers slip my phone out of my back pocket and I check the time, 7:46 p.m. stares back at me.

My keys slide into the ignition and I twist them, my music from last night starting to play again. “Dog” by Cobrah blasts out of the speakers and I smile. My feet push on the pedal and I back out of the spot, heading towards work. The windows are rolled down and my black hair goes wild in the wind again.

Freedom. It hits me every time.

* * *

Work is kind of slow, it’s a Wednesday night, so we only expect to see regulars and maybe a random hammered stranger. Jeremiah had some work to do in the back and left me up front with my favorite customer, the beloved Daryl.

He burps and smiles at me, his eyes drifting down towards my tits as usual. A gold wedding band shimmers around his fat ring finger in the low lighting and I ask myself what kind of woman married him. Is she also a fat alcoholic, or did their relationship slowly fall apart over the years and they lost themselves in it, like me and Connor?

My curiosity gets the best of me, plus he’s my only tab still open right now.

“Daryl, what’s your wife like?”

I shine a pint glass with a towel in my belt loop and I feel the movement shaking my chest around a little.

He’s hunched over the barstool and takes another swig of his Coors Light before responding to me.

“Do we have to talk about my wife, Octavia? I was planning on giving you a good tip today.” He pushes out a wet burp again. “I come in here to talk about literally anything else.”

I roll my eyes, and I can’t help but pry further.

“I’m serious, I want to get married one day, but I want to make sure it’s the right guy.” My hand stacks the clean pint glass on top of the others and I lean my elbows on the bar top. “How did you know she was the one?”

He laughs and his beer belly jiggles.

“Well, there’s always divorce, honey, if you fuck it up.”

His lips wrap around the pint again and he shoots the rest of it back in one gulp. “Another one, please.”

I snatch his glass and pour it full before I set it back in front of him and ring up another on his bill.

“Daryl, help a girl out? Pleaseeee?”

I throw on the bimbo voice and push my tits out as I lean on the counter in front of him.

His eyes look down my top again and he adjusts the way he’s sitting on his stool.

“Look, kid, marriage is never perfect. You just pick the best option you have available and go for it. Then you have kids and get your dick wet maybe once a year, on your birthday too if you’re lucky. And then you die.”

Jeez, someone’s not a romantic. He continues to crush my fantasy with every word.

“You think your parents were happy before they died? Do you think they were madly in love, fucking each other like rabbits every day?”

“Ew,” I reply as I scoff at him. He takes a sip of his pint and licks the foam off his upper lip.

“I’m serious. At a certain age, you just accept your fate and ride the wave like the rest of us do. Then your kids become your everything and when they grow up and move out, you find joy wherever you can. Affairs, strip clubs, bars, etcetera.”

“Then why didn’t you get a divorce?”

The room falls quiet – the other two customers at the end of the bar let their conversation trail off and lock into ours. They wear wedding rings as well.

He looks at me in a way I’ve never seen before. The scab on his eyebrow is almost healed, but with the current look on his face, it’s about to rip open again. His lips turn into a frown and he looks down at his pint, swirling the liquid around in his hand.

We sit in silence for about thirty seconds and he finally looks up from his glass to meet my eyes again. A face full of sorrow and regret stares back at me and I suddenly feel bad for asking him that.

“I chose to be miserably married rather than miserably single. An old, fat guy like me doesn’t have many options out there. But a girl like you…”

I push down the guilt building in my stomach.

“You probably have guys throwing themselves at you left and right. And if it doesn’t work out with that one guy you’re with, Connor, right?”

I nod.

“You’ll be just fine, kid.”

His hand reaches across the bar top and rests it on mine, his gold wedding band laughing at me as he does it. His skin is wrinkled and has small, hairy moles on it.

“You’ll have options, Octavia. And I know you’ll pick a good one.”

I smile and swallow down a lump in my throat. The patrons at the other end of the bar nod their heads in agreement and return to their conversation.

“Thank you, Daryl.”

I open up to him a little bit about Connor – how he hit me, how I kicked him out, and how our relationship was falling apart anyways. He doesn’t respond much, just nods his head as he tips his beer back up to his mouth. Then, he brings up the stranger from here a few nights ago who punched him.

“Hey, that guy was hot, right? I mean, he seemed right up your alley, besides the fact that he punched your favorite customer.” He winks.

“You remember that?” I giggle and watch him take another swig, spilling a little on his chest as he laughs with me.

“No, Jeremiah told me. But I did watch the way you looked at him before I was too far gone, and that was not a look of disgust.”

I peer down at my untied shoes and smile. He doesn’t even know the best of it.

“You know, I got drunk that night and ended up at his house. We didn’t do anything but… I kind of wish we did.”

He looks up at me with a raised brow and I scoff at him again. He’s never been this interested in talking about Connor, it’s almost as if he likes the idea of Skyler.

“Kid, that freak likes you. I’ve never punched someone for my wife and that guy didn’t even know you. Not yet, at least.”

I hold up a middle finger at him and he chuckles, his words are beginning to slur. I shouldn’t serve him another, but if I want that big tip he talked about, I’ll have to.

My hands wrap around the towel on my belt loop and I dry off the bar top where the condensation from his pint dripped.

“Maybe, we’ll see. He’s kind of weird but… I can’t stop thinking about him.”

He shoots the rest of his drink down the hatch and slams the glass on the counter, pushing it towards the tap. I step over to it and fill it up, watching his eyes start to close as he struggles to keep them open.

Fuck, I need that tip before he passes out.

“Daryl…” I place the full pint in front of him and he springs awake but wobbles in the stool a little.

“Hmm? Oh, thank you.”

I quickly print out his tab and rest it in front of him.

“Do I still get that big tip because you love me soooo much?”

My elbows hit the counter again and I lean forward, showing my breasts off like dangling a treat in front of a dog. He drunkenly stares at them and nods, pulling two Benjamins out of his wallet and slamming them on the receipt.

I blow him a kiss and slide it towards me before turning around and shoving the cash into my front pocket.

“Marry that freakk Octaviaa, whatever his nameee isss.” He burps. “He looks like a fun timeee, more funnn than you’d have here everyyy night.”

His words are so slurred I can hardly understand him.

“Skyler Vale.” Mmm, his name feels good on my tongue. “And maybe I will, Daryl. You gonna be this trashed at our wedding?”

He laughs and takes a large chug of his pint.

“Is heee gonna let youuu keep working hereee?”

I roll my eyes and watch him practically sleep on the bar now. I shoot a text to Jeremiah to let him know he’s about to be dragging 400 pounds out the door.

“When have I ever been a girl that needs permission for anything?”

I wait for a snarky reply, but he snores and saliva pours out of his mouth as his head rests on my countertop. Well, at least I got enough to pay my overdue electric bill on the corkboard.