“It’s still beautiful,” he says. “Great bones.”
“Does he have great bones?” I ask, stoned enough to push.
He lets out a soft laugh. His eyes are hazel-green. “The best,” he says. “His cheekbones look like they were carved by angels. He fractured a metatarsal while we were skiing last winter, and you’ll never believe what happened.”
“Small technical point,” I say, holding up a finger. “But what the fuck is a metatarsal?”
“Foot bone.”
“Ah. Okay. Foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone…”
“…ankle bone’s connected to the leg bone.” Another laugh. God, he’s actually really cute, but sad somehow. And I need to get off this bed, because I’ve got a thing about sad. Busted? Broken? Lonely? Just call me Mr. Fix-It.
“We thought it was a fracture,” he says. “But it turned out that he’d displaced the bone rather than broke it. Turns out that it’s kind of an interesting injury, named after one of Napoleon’s field surgeons or something. Apparently Sebastian wound up with one of the most perfect examples of this thing ever recorded on x-ray. He had medical journals calling to ask if they could use the images.” He gives a small sigh and shakes his head. “Even the inside of his left foot is photogenic.”
“You’re not even bragging, are you?” I say.
“Hmm?”
“Just the way you say it. If you talk to anyone - usually a guy - who’s married to someone hot, they’re all braggy about it. They’re like ‘Oh, I’m totally hitting that. You jealous?’” I give him a sidelong look. Jesus, it’s coming off in him in waves, almost drowning out that nice aftershave. “But not you. You just seem…sad.”
He exhales slowly and stares ahead through the window. “I’m not sad,” he says. “Just…paranoid, I guess.”
“Paranoid about what?”
“You know what. The usual kinds of things people get paranoid about when they’re dating way out of their league.”
Wow. This got heavy. “You think he’s fucking around on you?”
“No. I know he’s not,” he says, but he’s too emphatic. There’s a raw nerve there somewhere. Something he’s trying to tell himself didn’t happen. “But it doesn’t stop me from thinking that everyone wants him.”
“I don’t,” I say. “If that helps.”
“It doesn’t, but thank you for trying.”
“I mean, you’re right - he’s fucking beautiful - but not my type.”
He laughs. “Well, yeah. If you’re into girls...”
“Oh no,” I say. “It’s not like that. It’s not that I’m not into girls, because I am. I’ve just never been...picky. Gay, straight, bi, trans - I don’t care. If they’re into it and I’m into it then we’re doing it. And if it’s more than one person then that’s cool, too, because there’s more than enough of me to go around.”
He blinks. His eyes are gorgeous. “Okay,” he says. “Now that was braggy.”
“It wasn’t. I was just saying. I’ll do anything to anything and I wouldn’t fuck your boyfriend, so you know - you should probably relax.”
“This is your way of trying to make me feel better?”
I shrug. “Well, I’d usually take a more physical approach, but sure.” This is fucked up, even for me, but I’m buzzed enough for my mind to start flying off in a dozen dirty directions all at once. His lips are soft and full, and the light stubble on his jaw makes my fingertips itch. He’s pretty and broken - exactly my type.
“Are you flirting with me?” he says, trying to sound disgusted but not quite making it.
“Maybe. That shit’s medical grade. It’s the perfect excuse for doing something stupid.”
“Excuse? Are you kidding? There’s no excuse. This is my aunt’s funeral, I’m engaged to be married and I don’t even know your name. And you’re flirting with me?”
“What can I say? I’m kind of a slut.”
His expression shifts to something steamy and sullen. “Yes, you are,” he says, and reaches out.
His lips are even softer than they look. At the first brush of his tongue I join the ranks of assholes already swarming all over this house and open my mouth to him. His hand is warm on my neck and I’m instantly hard in the way you only get when you know that something is forbidden. We fall back on the bed and he surges over me like a wave. He’s big and solid and he smells so fucking good, and I’m moaning into his kiss already as his hand slides up under my shirt and pinches my nipple. I can’t stop. I know this is going to feel like hell afterwards, and he’s going to feel even worse than I will, but right now my evil little mind is on fire with the idea of getting crazy and naked right here on his dead aunt’s bed.
I wish I could say it’s the thought of the boyfriend that stops me, but it’s not. In reality it’s the bed. I’m trying to arch up to meet him but my ass is somehow receding deeper and deeper into the mattress and it’s then I realize I’m lying right across that mushy spot in the middle. And it’s folding me up like a letter V. It’s like quicksand. The more I struggle the more my ass sinks towards the floor.
“Shit,” he says, scrambling out of the flytrap bed before it can close on him. “Oh shit.”
I hold out a hand, hoping he’s at least going to pull me out of the bed, but he shakes his head and backs away. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry. I never meant that to happen.”
“Um, a little help here, maybe?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. Please don’t tell him. Please. We only just got things back to normal after…” He covers his mouth and looks at me like I’m a disaster. An earthquake. A landslide in the middle of the bedroom. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.”
And then he just leaves. Leaves me being eaten by Becky’s now carnivorous bed.
Christ, what an asshole.
*
In the night the roof leaks.
It drips into my dream until I can no longer remember what it was I was dreaming about, because everything is cold and wet. I wake up to find that the bed is drenched and there’s a massive swollen bulge in the ceiling above me. It looks like something you’d see on one of those Dr Pimple Popper videos on YouTube, and calls to the same gross instincts. Part of me wants to stand on the bed and poke it with a finger, just to see what kind of gnarly shit pours out.
I move the mattress to the side of the room, but the thing is fucked. There’s going to be no drying that out until spring, and it’s November. I’m going to spend the winter on the couch, such as it is.
And the bathroom is not much better, either. In order to piss I have to straddle a huge hole that’s threatened to open up in front of the toilet, and when I get in the shower the lukewarm water has a brownish tinge and tastes of rust.
The biggest joke? I’m paying for this. I am paying for the privilege of living in this shithole, and the landlord acts like he’s doing me a favor because I’m two months behind on the rent.
There has to be a check today. There has to be. Even if it’s only from the college.
I put on my coat and boots and stomp out to the mailbox. The rain has slowed down from last night, but now it’s that annoying as hell drizzle that the wind blows directly in your face, like it’s trying to remind you that you will never again feel warm or dry. It’s the weather version of a raised middle finger, and I hate it like poison. The ground is muddy and as I pass by the trailers I see the bright blue and yellow handlebars of a toddler’s toy tricycle, sticking up out of a huge puddle that has swallowed the rest. The future of America, ladies and gentlemen. These poor little shits are being dragged up in mud puddles that look like those old photographs of the fucking Somme.
Even the mailbox key sticks. It’s like everything is conspiring to piss me off today. And of course there’s no college check. Instead there’s a brown A4 envelope. It feels chunky and official, and I check the address twice to make sure it’s definitely for me. I open the flap and take a peek, meaning to satisfy my curiosity just enough until I can get back to
my trailer and read it in relative dryness.
Except I keep reading. It’s only when the ink begins to run that I realize this thing is official and I probably shouldn’t be letting it get wet. I stuff the thing under my coat and hurry back across the trailer park, hopping over puddles. Dawn’s drapes are drawn, but I need her right now.
I smack on the door with my fist. Once. Twice.
She’s in there. I can hear her groaning, probably pulling the pillow over her head to blot me out. I hammer again.
“Go away!”
“It’s me. Open up.”
There’s a scuffling sound inside and she opens the door. She’s wearing that tiny black kimono thing that barely covers her butt and she shivers, screwing up her face against the rain. “Get in,” she says. “You dick. You know I can never get back to sleep after I’m awake for more than two minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But it’s an emergency.”
Dawn gathers her pink hair back at her nape. When she raises her arms the hemline of the kimono sneaks up, and – lucky me – I was bending to put my coat down at just the right moment. No panties.
“It had fucking better be,” she says. “I was up all night sitting on a vibrating eggplant.”
“That’s hot.”
She looks me up and down. Her face is bare of make-up except for a smudge of liner under one eye. “You wanna have sex?”
Tempting, but no. I hold out the envelope. “Actually I need legal advice.”
She takes the letter but doesn’t open it. “You do know I haven’t passed the bar yet, right?”
“No, but you take it seriously enough to sit on an eggplant all night,” I say, and take a seat. The view is something else.
Dawn reaches for her glasses. “Only way to pay the fucking fees,” she says, putting them on. She does the sexy librarian thing from time to time, but I’ve seen that. I’m more curious about the eggplant. “It’s that or sell heroin, and who needs to get into that mess?” She slides the document out. “So what’s the story, morning glory?”
“That,” I say.
She scans the page. The kimono – which was never very good at its job in the first place – slides part of the way open. Talk about morning glory. When she rests her butt against the counter her thighs relax, and the pink edge of one inner lip pokes out like a sassy little tongue.
“What the fuck?” she says. “Mrs. Robinson left you half of a house?”
“Apparently.” I shift on the banquette seat. My jeans are getting tight.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but as long as my half has a roof then I’m going to be doing better than I was before. So what do you think? Is this legit?”
“Looks like. Give me a minute.”
Suits me. I’m enjoying the show. I feel something hard underneath me, reach to move it and realize that this must be the eggplant. It’s not exactly emoji sized, although it is purple, shading green at the base. Jesus, the thing is as wide as a fist. A man’s fist. I stare back at Dawn’s pussy, trying to fathom the logistics of it.
“You had this inside you?” I said.
She nods and keeps reading.
“How the hell did it even fit?”
Dawn sighs. “It’s a cunt, Jody. It stretches. I know your upbringing was hardly stellar, but did your mom seriously never explain to you where babies come from?” She turns the page. “Okay, so this looks legal. You have to file it now to start the probate process.”
“The what now?” This is not going to be easy. Legal blah blah is hard enough to understand at the best of times. Doubly so with a headful of eggplant.
“Probate. It’s from the Latin – to test. Same root as prove, I think. If there’s anyone who’s going to contest the will then they have to apply through probate, but you’re legally home and dry with this, at least while it’s still going through probate…” She catches me staring and sighs. “What the fuck, Jody? I thought you wanted legal advice.”
“I do,” I say. “But I’m also a man. And I’m gross.”
She peers down over her glasses. “Yes, you are.”
I want to lick her. I want to spread her legs and see what damage that thing did to her last night. The most disgusting thing about the funeral incident was how horny it’s left me. Somehow my conscience yelling dirtywrongbad all the time has kicked my libido into psycho mode, and I’m really not sure what that says about me. Nothing good, I’m sure. “Okay,” I say, trying to keep my mind on business. “So how do I file this thing?”
Clearly I’m not convincing, because Dawn sighs again and takes off her glasses. “You want me to tell you, or are you just going to stare up my snatch all day?”
“In my defense,” I say, “It’s kind of right in front of me. And that…that thing is huge. I can’t help thinking about it. It’s not like you’re…you know…like you’re big in there or anything.”
She shakes her head, but cracks a smile. “Fuck you,” she says. “You woke me up to talk about a will? I’ll never get back to sleep now.”
I get up from the seat. “Maybe I can help you out with that,” I say. She shifts her feet apart, letting me between her legs. I tug on the kimono and the slippery fabric falls away from her round pink tits. “We’ll just have to tire you out somehow.”
Dawn nibbles my lower lip. I reach down and find her wet; she’s not an exhibitionist for nothing.
“Go gentle,” she says. “I’m still kinda sore.”
I kneel. “I’ll be so gentle.” I tease with the very tip of my tongue. She tastes slightly sweaty and there’s a hint of something artificially fruity, like flavored lube. And that just yanks my crank even harder. I lick her wide open and she moans.
“And I thought legal shit was boring,” I say, pushing a finger inside.
“Yeah, well…you’re gonna have to file as soon as possible to get the probate process started…” She shudders. “Oh, yes. Right there…but seriously, you don’t want to be dragging your heels on that.”
I look up from between her thighs. “So how do I file the will?”
“Well, the first stage is making me come,” she says, pushing my head back down. I can do that. “But that’s the easy part, because the next part involves…oh, yes…oh God…accessories.”
“Eggplant?” I mumble.
“I don’t think your pretty little pink butthole’s ready for that, but there’s no reason Mr. Sparkles can’t come out to play.”
Oh hell, yeah. “So after the oral and the strap-on…what then? We take the will to the courthouse?”
“No. You missed a step. Between the oral and the strap-on there’s a rim-job stage. That’s very complicated. Can take a whi…oh God. Yeah, there. Eat me, fuck me…oh God. I’m coming, I’m coming, baby.”
I have the best fucking attorneys.
4
Chris
Everybody loves cake. I love cake, but there’s a limit. The box that comes to my door is almost three feet wide, wrapped in blue ribbon. “That’s all cake?” I say.
“No idea,” says the delivery guy. “Oh, and this was on the stairs, too. Is this yours?”
He holds out a brown A4 envelope. It looks full and I wrack my brains, trying to remember if I did anything rash at work, like promising to check anyone’s proofs. “Yeah, I guess,” I say. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Enjoy your cake.”
I carry the box through to the kitchen, where my mom and my sister are sipping their drinks – mimosa for mom, straight OJ for Josephine – and awaiting the main event. Artemis is in my bedroom, sleeping off her last boobful. The baby monitor blinks beside the microwave.
“Holy shit,” says Jo. “Did they send you one of each cake? I thought they were samples.”
We lift off the lid. Little silver helium balloons float up to the ceiling, trailing blue ribbons and silver foil horseshoes. Mom coos in a way I didn’t even know she knew how to coo until she had her first grandchild. “I can’t believe Sebastian’s missing out on this.�
��
I can’t either, but apparently the shoot he’s on is so lucrative that he can’t miss out. There was an even more expensive model who was supposed to be on set, but he came down with a herpes sore the size of Massachusetts and Sebastian got lucky. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to be eating any of this cake. Like most runway models he’s allergic to food, and if he has to confront the prospect of carbs, fat and sugar in a single mouthful he skitters away in a panic and does deep breathing exercises until the desire to eat it goes away. He’s good at resisting that form of temptation, if nothing else.
The cake samples nestle in compartments lined with ruffled white paper. There’s a card for each of them, detailing ingredients and allergy advice. Mom pours me another mimosa and hands me a fork. “Well, here you are. Only fair that you should draw first blood. It’s your wedding cake.”
“I think I’m coming down with choice paralysis already. It’s like Netflix all over again.”
“Belgian chocolate,” says Jo. “Start with the obvious.”
I take a piece from the side of the miniature chocolate cake. It’s rich and delicious, but my head is still spinning. How am I ever going to make a decision? And yes, it’s nice that my fiancé is off picking up a chunk of change that’s going to help pay for all this shit, but I would much rather he was here with me. We can make money – or not – at any point in our marriage, but this is our cake tasting. In an ideal world we’re only supposed to do this once.
“Good?” says Jo.
“Insanely,” I say. “Now you try. I need input. Like, badly.”
There are a couple of raised eyebrows at the idea that – after all these years – I’m actually asking for their opinions, but it’s not like they’ve ever struggled to deliver on that front. And it turns out that the two most important women in my life have a lot of opinions about cake.
“Oh, the red velvet is good.”
“Really? I always thought that was just shitty chocolate cake dyed red.”
“Yeah, that’s bad red velvet cake. This is good red velvet cake, made with buttermilk. It’s the acid in the buttermilk that reacts with the alkaline in the baking soda that gives you that texture.”
The Other Half Page 4
