Temper for You

by Genna Rulon

  I stopped in the driveway and threw the car in park, needing to get the show on the road. When I exited, I noticed she made no move to join me. Rolling my eyes, I walked around the car and opened her door. As she stepped out, whatever-the-hell-her-name-was rubbed against me like a bitch in heat before grabbing my head and shoving her tongue in my mouth with less finesse than the dog to which I’d just compared her. I could only assume she intended for the kiss to be provocative, but instead it was desperate and sloppy.

  With no clue how I was going to pull this off, I distracted myself from her exaggerated moans, trying to find a solution. My plan was to get Betty-Lou-Screw off with my fingers and then take her doggy-style, in hopes that shoving her face into the mattress would allow me to forget who I was with. I could fake it if needed, but a little cooperation from Wes, Jr. was necessary for my plan to succeed and thus far he was being a temperamental little shit.

  The never-ending kiss finally ended when a car door slammed very nearby.

  Against my better judgment, I opened my eyes and immediately wished I’d been born blind. Ten feet away, devastation written across her beautiful face and tears cascading from her empress-green eyes, stood the only woman I’d ever truly cared for. Like a car accident on the side of the highway, I couldn’t look away from the wreckage.

  Feelings of guilt and remorse surged through me, but I beat them back, unwilling to allow her that power over me. I’d done nothing wrong. I was a single man choosing to enjoy the company of a woman in the privacy of my own…driveway. I owed no explanation or apology for my behavior. Frankly, she should feel guilty for watching us like some creepy Peeping Tom. Unwilling to back down, I held my ground until she finally broke eye contact and ran inside like the hounds of hell were in pursuit.

  “Who was that?” seriously-what-is-this-chick’s-name asked.

  “Just some girl who’s staying with my neighbor,” I answered coarsely.

  “She looked really upset.” God, this woman was the anti-wood. The Viagra counter-pill.

  “Didn’t notice,” I said as I grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the front door.

  “Really? You were looking right at her. How did you not see she was crying?”

  Was this woman completely oblivious? Hello, earth to whoever-the-hell-you-are, I don’t want to talk about her!

  “I was too disturbed that she was watching us in a private moment to notice much else. If I was staring, it was in shock, and because I was expecting an apology for her voyeurism.”

  “Poor baby, did the weirdo neighbor scare you? Don’t worry, Raquel will make it all better.”

  Raquel! That was her name— it was just on the tip of my tongue.

  “Why don’t we go to your bedroom and enjoy the nightcap you promised. You can show me what you’re hiding in your pocket,” she said, slipping her hand into said pocket. “I’m hoping it’s a sucker…I have a bit of an oral fixation.”

  Come on! Was she kidding me with this routine? This made porn movies look like Oscar contenders. To make matters worse, she was now attempting to work my flaccid cock through my pocket, which was doing little other than chafing me.

  “Does this big boy need some extra special attention to come out and play with Miss Raquel?”

  She dropped to her knees and reached to unzip my fly. Oh hell no. I trapped her hands in mine and hauled her to her feet.

  “Look, Raquel, you are a special woman, but it isn’t going to work. It’s not you…whiskey dick, you know how it is,” I said in my best ‘aw, shucks’ voice. Clearly, she was buying my line of crap because she nodded with a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t I drive you back to your car and we can pick up where we left off another time?”

  After an awkward thirty-minute drive in which I was forced to hold Rhianna’s hand to prevent her wandering paws, I was finally rid of her. I even managed to avoid her Labrador tongue with a well-timed cough directly in her face that would have made me feel bad if her hand had not once again been cupping my balls.

  Women! I swear they only had one thing in mind.

  I thought the drive back from the bar was the longest of my life, but the return trip home proved to be infinitely worse. Without the distraction of Peggy Sue I-grab-you to divert my attention, my mind was left to its own devices, which doggedly returned to the desolation I’d unwillingly witnessed earlier. Each tear coursing down her beautiful, stricken face replayed in mental IMAX, clawing at my resistant heart.

  But why should her devastation be my cross to bear? She was paying the price for her own sins…if she couldn’t handle the cost, it wasn’t my problem. I did nothing but play the fool. Despite my lack of experience, I’d performed admirably as her…boyfriend, an admission I may not enjoy but it was the truth.

  I’d spent the past six weeks as someone’s boyfriend. I shuddered at the thought. Yes, I might have enjoyed the position courtesy of my ignorance—ignorance is bliss, after all—but the blinders were now off, and all that remained was the harsh reality of betrayal.

  In spite of the betrayal, seeing her pain caused a visceral response to shield her—even from myself. And wasn’t that a kick in the balls. She’d used me, forcing me to violate my principles and making me into the person I most despised, and still the instinct to protect her roared inside me.

  Ry’s admonishments replayed for the hundredth time. Was he right? Had I been too hasty in my anger, not allowing her to offer any explanation? Was there any explanation that would lessen her treachery? I couldn’t conceive of any reason that would justify her duplicity…but what if—?

  No, I wouldn’t let Ry’s compassionate nature or Meg’s too-little-too-late admissions sway me from the facts. It didn’t matter that my guileless heart still believed in us, nor would I consider the shrieking protests of my gullible soul. My only ally was my intellect—the only one I could trust to be logical and objective.

  Finally home—again—I parked in the garage and headed to my office, where a fresh bottle of Jim awaited me, ready to replace Ruby as my companion for the night.

  A fifth down and even my mind turned on me. Flashes of memories plagued me, forcing me to relive every second of happiness with Meg. Soon there were so many seconds they became minutes, then hours—time filled with tenderness, amusement, warmth, and peace that I would never have again. Each recollection brought me one step closer to madness, my psyche overwrought with all I’d lost…or perhaps never really had.

  On the brink of insanity—and possibly alcohol poisoning—a melody played, evoking a forgettable conversation from several weeks ago. Unable to place the song, I focused on the conversation, trying desperately to remember in my compromised state. The song had come on the radio and I recalled Meg telling me it was her most and least favorite song ever. I must have asked why because she’d told me it could have been written for her…about her. She’d said she loved the song itself but hated what it represented. After her confession, she’d changed the subject, distracting me from the lyrics before I could gather the meaning. I’d intended to download the song later to understand why she connected to it, but I’d forgotten until now.

  What was the damn song? It was a megahit, one of those songs you couldn’t escape on the radio or TV, in shopping malls and elevators—it followed you like a stalker you were actually happy to see. I stumbled to my laptop, googling the ‘top ten hits of the year’ and there it was. I pulled up YouTube and searched for the song with lyrics, turned up the volume, and sat back.

  “Demons” by Imagine Dragons

  As I listened to the voice of the lead singer filled with pleading caution, the words on the screen spoke volumes. Though I was certain countless people had listened to the song and related, a large group probably claimed it could have been written about them, thanks to the cryptic lyrics that allowed for personal interpretation. However, her response to the song was primitive, as if the words originated from the essence of her being.

  I replayed the track several times before muting the computer to foc
us solely on the words. She had shared something profound about herself with me through this song. In her own way, she was confessing unnamed sins, counseling me to proceed with caution, and begging me to help her find a way past the darkness she carried.

  A small fissure formed in the ice surrounding my heart. Whether the lyrics were an accurate representation of her or simply a reflection of how she saw herself, the parallel she felt was a kick to my gut.

  I closed my laptop, more confused than ever, unsure of what the revelation meant…if it meant anything. What did this new insight change? Nothing. She was still married. She had still deceived me. Why then did I wish I had given her the opportunity to explain?

  With more questions than answers, I downloaded “Demons” to my iPod and headed to the guest bedroom in hopes I would actually sleep tonight if I avoided a bed riddled with her scent. I placed my iPod in the dock and set my newest addition on repeat.

  Yeah, I was a glutton for punishment.

  "It’s hard to let go of something you never really had, but even harder when you know it's everything you ever wanted." -Author Unknown

  Meg

  Wednesday morning began with a stiff neck, courtesy of a night spent on the bathroom floor. My stomach churned uneasily despite its emptiness. The immediate, violent physical reaction to seeing Wes with that whore had taken its toll—even the thought of my beloved chocolate set off a wave of nausea. The only good news in the melodrama that was my life came between bouts of dry heaving. I could say beyond all reasonable doubt that the sole source of my illness was Wes’ public indecency, not an unexpected bundle of joy. Considering the state of our relationship and my life in general, that was a significant bullet dodged.

  A groan escaped as I pulled myself upright with the aid of the vanity. Ugh! I had no idea what time it was, but I was grateful classes had ended last week and finals didn’t begin until next. That provided the necessary time to recuperate before my evening shift.

  I plodded arthritically to my bed with a new appreciation for the elderly while gingerly laying my weary body down. The alarm clock on my nightstand helpfully informed me that I could resume sleep in a more customary position for another four hours. At least that was the plan…as soon as I convinced my mind to power down instead of replaying the live-action soft-core porn I’d witnessed last night.

  My stomach clenched at the unbidden memory. Clearly mind and stomach were not in agreement and I was the rope in their game of tug-of-war. All I wanted was the oblivion of sleep where, if lucky, blessed blackness awaited me.

  First, I needed to purge the emotions instigating the mind/body turmoil if I had any hope of sleeping. I needed music to serve as an outlet and offer temporary relief. Collecting my laptop from the desk, I recalled a cover of “Wrecking Ball” Griffin had recently shared with me. I lay on my bed, eyes closed, and listened to the emotive duet sing the story of my mistake. Thankfully, by the fifth repeat I was finally able to lose myself in sleep. Unfortunately, my unconscious mind wasn’t ready to let go.

  In my dream, I could see myself pulling into Sam’s driveway, the headlights illuminating a couple locked in a heated embrace, their bodies undulating in pursuit of pleasure. The beams clearly displayed another woman’s fingers threaded through the thick chocolate brown hair I loved. They were so lost in the erotic scene that I parked and exited without notice. Instead of escaping to save the last vestiges of my sanity, I was rooted to the asphalt, unable to look away. Every second was another lash of the whip across my battered heart, shredding scar tissue that riddled the surface until fresh wounds appeared and deep ruby blood ran freely. The pain was excruciating, robbing me of breath and thought. My mind roared for me to run, to save myself from further punishment, but the insidious darkness within me reveled in my suffering, forcing me to stay and bear witness. The darkness condemned me, whispering sinister words, reminding me that my deceit provoked his actions. I gave him to the woman with a hand down his pants and her tongue down his throat.

  I felt the tears spill from my eyes, flowing down my face unchecked, the only external proof of the agony within. A sob broke free, reminding the couple to my presence, but they still made no effort to separate. Impassive caramel eyes finally met my own, his emotionless state yet another blow to an already broken spirit. So quickly and easily he felt nothing—I had been replaced.

  Finally finding my feet, I sprinted inside, barely making it to the bathroom before my body found another method of demonstrating my suffering.

  I awoke covered in sweat and tears, gasping for breath and clutching my chest as if applying pressure to actual physical wounds. Shaking as I rose, eager to wash the remnants of the dream/memory from my body, I vowed to never sleep again.

  A chime alerted me that a customer had entered, and I hustled from the supply closet, my arms laden with accompaniments for the self-service bar. It was near closing and I wanted nothing more than to finish the nightly checklist and officially end the day. I wasn’t eager to head to Sam’s for fear of running into Wes, but I was in no condition to be exposed to the public. Years of experience had taught me how to firmly affix a mask of normalcy, but the same mask that once comforted me now felt restrictive and irritating.

  Quickly emptying my arms, I took my place behind the counter, surprised to find a familiar face smiling back at me.

  “Mark,” I said, shocked. “What a surprise! How are you?”

  “I’m great, Meg. It’s been a while. I called a few weeks ago but didn’t hear back. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Between work and classes, not to mention my thesis, I’ve been swamped. I kept meaning to call you back and then something else would pop up.”

  I was stretching the truth to its limits, but I didn’t know what else to say. A few weeks ago I was happily lost in Wes, relegating Mark to nothing more than a distant memory.

  “What can I get for you?” I asked, trying to distract myself from my guilt with routine.

  “I was actually hoping for a date.”

  “A date?” I parroted in shock.

  He chuckled.

  “Yes, we’ve been on them before and enjoyed ourselves,” he teased. “The district attorney’s office is having a holiday party the Friday after next—the twelfth—and I was hoping you’d join me. Those things are dreadfully dull without a companion, and I could think of no one I’d rather spend an evening with than you.”

  I desperately searched my mental calendar for a conflict that would prevent me from joining him. Mark was a very nice man, but Sam was right when she said there was no spark between us…at least no spark for me. Mark, I suspected, would disagree. With no real or plausible excuse prepared, I had little choice. Plus, my guilt that I’d ignored him without any explanation or return call prevented me from declining.

  “That sounds nice. Thank you for thinking of me. Of course, I’d be happy to join you,” I said with faux enthusiasm.

  “Excellent! I was hoping you’d be free. It will be a great night and we’ll have plenty of time to catch up. I’ve missed you, Meg.”

  I smiled cordially but not heartily, which he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Absolutely,” I replied, avoiding his ‘missed you’ comment like the plague.

  “I know you need to close up shop, so I’ll leave you to it and call you next week to finalize the details,” he said, leaning in to place a kiss on my cheek before departing.

  How did I find myself in these messes?

  “Sam,” I called out as soon as I entered the house.

  “In here,” she replied from the great room.

  I found her on the couch with a book in hand, one finger raised in the universal sign for ‘just a minute.’

  “Done,” she said, closing the book with a flourish. “That was some hot stuff right there. I’ll lend it to you.”

  I swear, Sam was a ‘lady porn’ pusher. A purveyor of all things smutty. The modern day literary Hugh Hefner for women.

  “You’ll never gue
ss who showed up at Higher Yearning tonight,” I said with confidence.

  “Wes? Did you guys make up? Oh, yay! This is such good news,” she rambled on, not giving me an opportunity to correct her incorrect assumption.

  I sucked in a pained breath, trying to regain my enthusiasm at sharing the bizarre events of the evening.

  “Umm, no…to all of it. Actually, I ran into Wes last night.”

  Sam’s eyes widened with hopeful anticipation that needed to be squashed. I quickly added, “He wasn’t alone—and when he saw me, he acted like I was invisible. He’s done with me, Sam,” I said miserably.

  “Why didn’t you call me? You shouldn’t have been alone after witnessing his manwhore ways. God, you poor thing! What a jackass. It’s been less than a week, a little soon to be flaunting new pu—”

  “I know,” I interrupted, unable to bear thinking about the skank again, “but that was always the risk with him living next door. As much as it hurts—and it hurts like a bitch—he’s entitled to move on. I’m just surprised he’s moving on so easily…and quickly,” I muttered, the rapid replacement still burning. “But it was bound to happen sooner or later. He’s a no-strings guy—always has been, always will be.”

  I hoped I sounded like the mature adult I was pretending to be, because on the inside I was a two-year-old throwing a wailing temper tantrum of epic proportions.

  “No strings, my ass. That man was strung up tight as a submissive at a sex club while you were together. You hurt him, he got spooked and ran—typical man. Trying to make the hurt go away by banging the first Barbie he finds—typical man. Pretending you don’t exist so he doesn’t have to reconsider the biggest mistake of his life—typical man,” Sam paused, deep in thought. “It really is a wonder we’re not all lesbians. Think about it. Who wants to deal with the typical male bullshit?”