by Hamel, B. B.
I smirk at her, lean across the table. “Is that what you like? You like that I get angry and want to take you?”
She hesitates a second. “Maybe,” she says. “It’s weird, isn’t it? But I like it.”
“I know you do. I don’t think you could hide it, even if you wanted.”
“I don’t think I want to,” she whispers.
We stare at each other for a long, long moment, the tension fucking palpable. The room disappears around me and there’s only her, only Grace. I want to pull her up from her chair, push her against that wall, and fuck her rough and hard. I want to take her, take her hard and fast, pull her hair, make it hurt.
Maybe that’s why the sex is so good. A little bit of hate makes the fucking that much better. If I stop hating her, maybe we’ll lose that intensity.
But no, I doubt it. Even if I stop hating her, I think I can still take her and fuck her like my little doll. Those pretty eyes, beautiful mouth, it’s all begging to be taken again and again.
Shit, I’m riling myself up. I can’t help it, around her, I’m at a total loss.
The waitress comes though, breaking the moment. Of course she does, the girl’s got perfect timing.
She clears our plates, asks about dessert, which we both decline. We sip the last of the wine and lean back in our chairs.
“I’m stuffed,” Grace says. “That was amazing.”
“I’m glad you liked it. My mom found this place. Used to bring clients here.”
“Really? I bet that’s why she was so successful.”
I laugh a little. “That and she was funny. People liked her, you know?”
“What else was she like?”
I hesitate a second. Normally, talking about my mother only pisses me off, but this feels good. Strangely good. Maybe it’s time I started talking about her again. Maybe I need to get it off my chest.
“Smart,” I say. “Stupidly smart. She was awesome at Jeopardy, way better than the contestants. She should’ve gone on the show, I was always badgering her to do it but she always refused.”
“Yeah? I bet she would’ve been great.”
“People just were drawn to her. I think that’s why we made a good team. She brought in clients, kept everyone happy, and I did their damn taxes. I was the brains, she was the brawn. Or maybe the other way around, I don’t know. But we worked well together. You’d think a mother and a son would clash more, but nope. It was just easy. We had our own, separate lives, but we were still close.”
“That sounds really nice,” she says. “I wish I could have that with my parents.”
“Why can’t you?”
She hesitates. “You met them. They’re very… conservative. They doted on Patrick, and when he started using, things got all messed up. They didn’t know how to handle it. They gave him money, a place to stay, over and over again. Kept trying to get him into rehab, but he kept going and then leaving. He used and abused them, and I got resentful of it, we fought about it, things got bad for a while.” She stares down at her wine glass, swirling it a little bit. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk about this. I know you don’t care.”
“It’s okay,” I say. Strangely, I don’t feel angry. “I bet it was hard, having him in your life.”
“Harder than hard. He was such a good manipulator. Still is, probably. He crashed at my place all the time, even when I didn’t want him to, he always had some story that made me feel bad. He’s my brother, you know? We should’ve cut him out a long time ago, but it’s hard, and he’s a damn worm. Just kept getting back in.”
I’m quiet, watching her face. I can see the pain in her expression, and for the first time it occurs to me that she actually did try to stop him. Probably tried more than once.
Her parents probably did too.
But imagine having a son or a daughter or a sibling that was an addict… and needed help. I could see myself giving them money over and over again, hoping they’d change, and being miserable when they didn’t.
Then again, that did happen to me. And I didn’t handle it any better. Granted, I was a kid, but we stayed with my father for way longer than we should have. And now that he’s back in my life, I can’t seem to make him go away completely. Even though I hate him for what he did to me when I was a kid, I still can’t just make him vanish.
He’s still my father. And he still has something I want.
I clench my jaw and release it. I can’t let myself get angry with her, not now. Things are going good and I’m starting to see a little bit of her perspective.
“Anyway,” she says after a pause. “I’m stuffed. That was really good.” She smiles at me, so pure and innocent. “Thanks, Nathan.”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
I settle the bill, leave a decent tip, and we head back home. We don’t talk much on the walk. I want to hold her hand but I can’t seem to bring myself to take it. We’re in such an odd liminal space, married but strangers, fucking but hating each other, and I don’t know how to break through.
Finally though, we get to the house. I walk up the stoop first, unlock the door, then turn to her.
“Thanks for a good night,” I say.
“Yeah. Thanks to you, too.”
I grab her by the waist and pull her against me. She’s surprised, but I kiss her fast before she can say anything.
The kiss lingers. She returns it with feeling and I stay there, not wanting the moment to end, but it always ends.
“I’m heading to bed,” I say softly, then let her go. “See you in the morning.”
“Right. Yeah.”
I go inside. She follows. I glance at her then go right up into my room, leaving her in the living room alone.
Fuck, I want her. I want to take her, fuck her, taste her. I want to take out all my aggression on her gorgeous, tight little pussy. I want to make her sweat and beg and come over and over again.
Instead, I hide myself in my room, refusing to explore my feeling further.
I hate her. My life is fucked because of her and her family. That’s all I need to know.
Except I don’t hate her, and it’s not her fault.
I’m struggling. I know it, and I think she knows it, too. I’m trying to come to grips with what I want and how I feel, even if the two things are contrasting.
Sooner or later though, I have to choose.
19
Grace
The dog barks, jumps up, and licks my face.
“Oh, god, Tina,” her owner says, pulling her down.
“It’s okay,” I say, petting the overeager pup. “You’re a good girl, good girl.”
I go through my routine with the dog, weighing it, giving it treats, a quick examination. When I’m done, I head out and let the vet know that he can go in whenever.
“You’ve got dog slobber on you,” Teresa says casually.
“Ugh.” I wipe it off the best I can. “Dogs.”
“Gross, but we love them.”
I lean against the wall and smile at her. “That’s how I feel about you.”
She laughs and flips me off. “Don’t be a dick. Anyway, how’s your husband?”
“Fine,” I say, thinking back to the other night. “Complicated.”
“Yeah. I hear marriage always is complicated.”
I snort. “I wish this were only complicated. He has this insane father, and it’s all tangled up with his mom’s business. And we sort of also hate each other? It’s confusing.”
She looks at me and blinks once or twice. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. And you’re married?”
I laugh and feel like I’m cracking up inside. “Yep! I’m just being dramatic.”
“Sure, right. You okay, Grace? You’ve been looking tired lately.”
“Now you’re the one being a dick.”
She doesn’t smile. “Seriously. If you’re not okay, you can tell me.”
I hesitate a long moment but shake my head. “No, I’m fine. Honestly.”
“Yeah, well, okay.” She
sighs a little bit. “Your whole thing is weird. You know that, right?”
I grin at her and shrug. “I know.”
I head off to my next room and my next round of jumpy dogs, but my phone starts to buzz before I can make it. I pull it out and check the screen.
Nathan: Have you seriously been lying to me this whole time?
I stare at it for a long moment, not sure what the heck it means.
Me: What are you talking about?
Nathan: I found your little stash. Don’t come back home tonight. I’d rather get deported than spend another second with you.
Me: What are you talking about??
Me: Nathan??
He doesn’t respond. I lean up against the wall, not sure what to think.
What does he mean, my stash? I don’t know what he could be talking about. I don’t have anything hidden in my apartment, nothing incriminating or that he’d get upset about. I have a vibrator in the back of my closet, but that’s pretty much it.
Unless…
“Teresa,” I say, walking back over. “I have to go.”
She frowns at me. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry. Tell them I got sick. Can you cover for me? Please?”
“Of course.” She stands up. “Do you need help? Is it him?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. I just have to go. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t wait for her reply. I hurry to the back room, grab my stuff, throw my helmet on my head, and run out the back door. I find my bike, rip off the lock, and pedal hard.
I’m out of breath as I weave in and out of traffic. I’m being a little reckless but I can’t help myself. My heart’s racing in my chest and I know what he found, I just know it. I can only imagine how he’s reacting right now.
I ride hard to my old apartment. I still have a key, tucked away in my backpack. I pull it out, head inside, and step into my old home.
Right away, I can tell something’s off. It looks like things have been gone through. Drawers are open, the refrigerator door is hanging open. I push it shut, and that’s when I find the little baggie sitting on the counter.
My mouth drops open. My heart sinks.
It’s a baggie of heroin.
I know enough to know what it is. And I know how it got into my apartment.
Patrick.
That bastard. That fucking bastard.
I’ve let him stay with me, but I always make him swear he doesn’t have anything on him. Clearly, he was lying every time. He’s been stashing stuff in my apartment without me even knowing.
And somehow, Nathan found it.
I don’t know how this happened. I really can’t understand it. But I can only imagine how he’s freaking out right now.
Me: It’s not mine. I swear. I’m coming to see you.
Nathan: I’m not joking, Grace. If you show up, I won’t let you in.
Me: I don’t care. I’m coming anyway.
I run outside, get on my bike again, and pedal hard toward Nathan. Maybe he’ll yell at me, try to throw me out, but I don’t care.
The drugs aren’t mine. God, I’ve never touched the stuff and I hate Patrick for putting it there.
But of course he did. And of course Nathan would find it. The one time he’s in my apartment, doing me a favor, he finds fucking drugs.
Bastard, Patrick. You freaking bastard.
I ride harder, sweat on my skin.
20
Nathan
I sit on the couch, a glass of whiskey in my lap, and close my eyes.
I wasn’t snooping. I’m sure she thinks I was, but I fucking wasn’t. I went into her closet, found the clothes she mentioned, and decided to grab an extra pair of boots for her since it was supposed to rain for the next few days. I found a pair on the floor, tucked in a corner, and grabbed them.
The heroin fell out when I accidentally dropped the right one. It tumbled out onto the ground and I just stood there in her room, staring at it.
It took me a long moment to realize I was staring at a little bag of drugs.
That came out of Grace’s boot.
I just saw red. I texted her and came home without thinking, so angry I could barely breathe. If she was doing the stuff, or if she was just holding it for her brother…
I can’t even begin to imagine.
I’m so angry. I drink my whiskey, seething with rage. Damn her to hell. I can’t believe she’d do that, let her brother stay with her and hide his fucking dope in her stuff. Or worse, I keep seeing her shooting up with him, and it makes me fucking sick.
I hear her show up outside the house. Her keys slide into the lock and she comes inside, shutting the door behind her. She’s in her vet clothes, her boring scrubs, and she looks exhausted. She’s sweating, eyes wide, nervous.
“Nathan,” she says.
“Go away.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“I said, go away.” I don’t get up though. I’m too tired and too angry to get up. I take a long swig of the whiskey. “I’m not interested. I don’t want to be involved with your fucking druggie family anymore.”
“Nathan—”
“Was all that shit last night a lie? About how hard it was for you, with your brother? Were you shooting up with him all that time, getting high, having fun? It wasn’t hard at all, only when he hid the dope, then things got hard, and I bet—”
“Nathan, you fucking asshole.”
She yells at me with such force that it actually surprises me. I know she has some fight in her but I’ve never heard her sound so angry and so damn loud.
I blink, surprised.
“You fucking piece of shit,” she says, seething with anger now, maybe enough to match my own. “What is wrong with you? Did you stop to think that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t even know that was in there?”
“No,” I say.
“No, you didn’t,” she says. “I told you last night that I used to let Patrick crash with me, and that’s true. I’d always make him swear he’d never bring drugs into my apartment, and he said he wouldn’t, but he clearly lied. And you know what? I’m pissed as hell at him for that. But right now, I’m way more pissed at you.”
I sit there and stare right back at her. “How am I supposed to believe that?”
She throws her hands up. “Why the heck would I send you to my apartment, send you into my closet, if I had drugs in there? Do you think I’m that stupid? And, okay, maybe you do. But have you ever seen me do drugs? You’ve been living with me, if I were an addict, you would’ve seen.”
I stare back at her. “Maybe you’re good at hiding it.”
She throws her hands up. “Great, now I’m some masterful fucking addict junkie that can keep my addiction hidden. Even when I hate drugs and hate what it did to my brother. I hate what my brother did to you and your family. I hate it all, Nathan. And now you’re accusing me of actually doing drugs?”
She stares at me wildly, and for a second, my resolve flags.
“Prove it.”
I stare back at her. She just shakes her head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Prove it. You want me to believe you? Prove it.”
“You’re such an asshole.” She laughs, like I’m being unreasonable. “Okay. Fine. Let’s go. I bet we can find some more.”
“What will that prove? That you just hid more drugs in your house?”
She groans. “No, you idiot. It’ll prove that my brother was stashing it in my apartment.”
“I don’t see—”
“Come on,” she snaps. “Get your ass up. Let’s go. You can comb through my whole apartment if you want, I don’t care. Go through my bedroom, go through it all. You won’t find any needles.”
Slowly, I stand. I put the whiskey down. I stare at her. “Okay. Fine. I’ll call your bluff. Let’s go.”
And so we do. We head outside, find my car, and drive over to her apartment. We drive, park, and head inside in complete, intense silence.
We
go into her apartment again and instantly start combing through the place.
I hate that I’m doing this. I know I’m wrong. I can feel it all over my body. I know this is so stupid and way past the line, but I can’t stop now. I can’t bring myself to stop. It’s like I’ve lost my mind.
I’m the one who finds it. It’s in the most cliché place possible. I reach into the top of the toilet tank and pull up a tightly wrapped plastic package, the heroin inside, clear as day.
And written in black permanent marker down the side of the bag is one word: Patrick.
I carry it out into the kitchen and drop the sopping wet baggie down onto the counter. I wash my hands twice, compulsively. Grace stops what she’s doing in the living room and comes over.
We stand there, staring at it for a long moment.
“Asshole,” she whispers.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Both of you.” She shakes her head. “He wrote his name on it. What a fucking idiot.”
“Seems like a bad idea.”
“Addicts do stupid stuff all the time. I bet he thought he was making sure I didn’t touch the stuff if I found it. God, what a moron. I hate him so much, Nathan.”
“I know.” I tense my fists and release them. “I’m sorry, Grace. About what I said. About accusing you.”
She looks at me, tears in her eyes. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d… you really thought…”
I look away. I can’t stand her expression right now.
I think I might hate myself just as much as she hates me.
I’m being so pathetic and stupid and fucked up. I act like I hate her, but I know I really don’t. All this stuff is just making me insane, and the more I let it get to me, the worse it all becomes.
Finding the drugs drove me insane. I know it, I can look back over the last few hours and see it. I lost my mind a little bit and accused Grace of doing drugs, which is totally wild and dumb and horrible.
“I fucked up,” I whisper.
“You really did.”
