by Danae Ayusso
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I scoffed. “I’m not talking to you, remember?”
That wasn’t immature in the least.
Draven looked over at me, giving me a look. “Uh huh. Price is preoccupied at the moment so you can’t go home,” he said, looking from me to the cell phone in my hand.
“With what?” I demanded.
“Oh, I’m sorry, are you talking to me now?” he asked, getting to his feet before slipping his book in his bag.
“You’re just begging for another beat down, aren’t you?”
“Training Bra, Training Bra, Training Bra,” he tisked before lopping down the stairs and headed towards the parking lot. “Come,” he called out without bothering to look at me.
“Ugh!” I groaned in frustration.
Irritated, I followed.
Normally I would have done the opposite, but I had tried calling Price and it went straight to voicemail and when I texted Ellie I didn’t get a response.
“This is going against my plan,” I grumbled under my breath.
When I turned the corner at the end of the sidewalk, I groaned.
“You can’t be serious,” I complained.
Draven smiled wide, opening the passenger door to a black Porsche that was parked across two handicap spots.
I joined him and stood there, looking at the overly proud of himself douche bag.
“What?” he asked with that cocksure smile of his that makes me want to punch him in the face.
“You can’t be serious.”
His head tilted to the side. “About what? Doing as your father asked me to do?”
Now it was my turn; my head tilted to the side like a confused puppy and I looked at him curiously, trying to figure out if he’s lying or not.
“Training Bra, get in the damn car and we’ll grab lunch. Once we get word from Price that you can return home, I will drop you off, walk you to the door like a total gentleman and kiss you goodnight.”
I gave him a look. “Seriously, your lame ass lines haven’t gotten any better, even after all these weeks.”
Draven chuckled and offered me his hand when I started to get in the car.
Of course, I slapped his hand away, and in the process misjudged how far down the car was and fell into it.
And of course, he laughed, shaking his head in amusement before closing the door behind me.
As if my day could have gotten any more awkward, sitting next to Draven Van Zul of all people, in an enclosed space that caused his mental fog inducing smell to be that much stronger, was causing my knees to bounce, waiting for the worst.
“We aren’t going to the Welfare Office, Training Bra,” he scolded. “Or to give a statement to law enforcement.”
I glared at him.
“I hate you.”
Draven shook his head. “You hate me because I know you as well as I seemingly do?” he retorted.
“Yes. You know me as well as you do because you lied to me and violated my trust. Since you know me so well, you know how upset that’s making me, and you know why!” I snapped at him before turning to look out the side window.
The reflection on the dark tint showed he was nodding his understanding and agreement.
“I didn’t know,” he said after a while, his voice soft and his soft accent flaring, the way it does when his guard is down. “At first I thought it was your way to save face, to project your weakness as if it was not yours, by speaking the way you were and addressing me the way you did. Not being of sound mind myself, most of the time, I did not press it and I should have. Know I will never forgive myself for that,” he said, coming to a stop at a red light.
I looked over at him; his attention was out the window, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
“How is that possible?” I whispered.
He shrugged his wide shoulders ever so slightly so I smacked him.
Draven chuckled. “Abusive.”
“Yeah, and?” I asked, as if that isn’t the point, and he smiled.
“I am sorry if it seemed as if I was abandoning you, Training Bra. The truth is I was. When you lost your temper with Price, how you fought to keep me, it freaked me out because no one had ever done that before, or wanted to.”
That isn’t hard to believe since the Draven next to me was my blanky again and not the smug man whore Van Zul asshole I had to deal with today. The way he spoke softly and with his sexy accent, his eyes were warm and filled with understanding and compassion…
That was my blanky, my Frenchman…
My man whore.
“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.
Again, he shrugged.
“Really?” I complained.
Draven chuckled; I knew him rather well myself. “Very well. I don’t like getting beat on and treated how you’re treating me because of something that wasn’t my fault,” he said. “It was your fault, if you think about it,” he said the latter contemplatively. “So, if I follow your way of dealing with, I should be beating on you.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled my knees to my chest and hugged them. “I welcome your attempt, but I can’t be held responsible for any damage that might come to that questionable face of yours or harm to your ego.”
Draven laughed. “But of course. If beating on me and marring my handsome face is the self-therapy you need, feel free to beat away, Training Bra. Though, it isn’t the beating I’m used to.”
“Ew,” I complained. “You couldn’t not resort to the mindset of a twelve year old, huh?” I asked, making a face.
He chuckled.
I don’t know how it happened, but even with the random childish comments that are synonymous with his man whore persona he expertly portrays at school and in front of others, it felt as if I’m with my Frenchman again.
“You’re staring,” Draven pointed out after a while.
“Trying to figure out how you’re the same person from my morning walks all of a sudden,” I admitted.
“Because I am the same,” he reminded me. “It’s a side that only you’ve gotten to see. I don’t like that. I don’t like that about you, if you must know. You accuse me of tricking you, well, that goes both ways, Training Bra. Somehow, without effort, you got things from me, had me opening up, and I don’t like it. I hated you for it, if you must know.”
My face dropped.
That sucks.
“But not enough to not feed me,” I said.
He smiled. “No, I suppose not. Did you want to get lunch?”
I started to shrug, I was starving, when something out the window stole my attention. “Pull over!”
“Why?” he asked, looking around.
“Just do it.” I punched him softly in the arm, giving him a look.
“Demanding woman,” Draven complained, pulling over to the side of the road.
I got out of the car and started back towards the ancient out-of-business gas station we had passed.
“Where are you going?” he whined, appearing at my side, causing me to jump, startled.
“How do you do that?” I demanded.
Of course, he shrugged.
Why would he be forthcoming in the least?
Since he ignored my question, I’m going to ignore his.
It truly is a vicious cycle with us.
When I stopped in front of the rusted metal on rims with the FOR SALE sign on it, I smiled despite myself.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” I asked, turning to face him and my smile quickly fell. “What?”
Draven shook his head. “You truly are crazy, aren’t you?”
I glared at him.
“It’s a bucket of rust,” he informed me, in case I hadn’t noticed.
“Do you have any idea what it is?”
“An unconscionable waste of time and money?” he said, as if it were obvious.
I rolled my eyes.
“You made me stop for this?”
I nodded then shook my he
ad. “You wouldn’t understand,” I whispered, looking in the windows.
“Make me understand,” he said softly, and it made my heart race.
I hate it when he uses that soft tone because I can never deny him when he does. It’s the most dangerous thing in his arsenal, but I don’t think he knows it.
“You aren’t impressed that I’m driving you around in a hundred and twenty thousand dollar Porsche,” he continued, his eyes moving over my face many times, “but you are tearing up over a pile of rust on sixteens. Thus, I ask, make me understand.”
Perhaps he knows how dangerous that soft tone is after all.
Damn it. I should have kept my mouth shut.
I walked around to the other side of the SUV and peeked in the windows on the driver’s side, trying not to look at the annoying Frenchman that was patiently waiting for me to enlighten him to yet another darkened memory and event that I don’t want to talk about.
“When I was six, there was a raid on the crack house we were squatting at,” I said, choosing my words. “The dealers shot at the cops, the cops shot at the dealers, so of course Mom took off out the backdoor and left me there. One of the dealers was shot in the leg and couldn’t make a run for it so he took the closest thing hostage he could find. Me. The two-hour standoff ended when a sharpshooter put a bullet in his head.
“The funny thing is I just stood there as if I numb to it all. I wasn’t scared, wasn’t crying… I was numb by that time. Mom effectively made me numb to the darkness and gore of the streets before I was seven.” I wiped away the tear that rolled down my cheek. “Anyway, I stood there, waiting for someone to grab me and start the cycle all over again. I was covered in blood and God knows what else, hair matted to my head, I was so dirty that you couldn’t tell I was white… Not that it mattered. It was chaotic and everything happening around me was just a blur of movement and hollow yelling. Over and over I recited my prayer, my mantra: Apres la pluie, le beau temps; Apres la pluie, le beau temps.”
This time, Draven wiped away the tear rolling down my cheek.
“As if he rose from the ashes, this big ol’ boy dressed in blue, who was quite possibly the biggest man I had ever seen, picked me up and held me tight against his bulletproof vest and carried me from the carnage. He kept telling me that I was safe, I would be safe now, and he promised I would never be hurt again. That man, that temporary savior, was Special Operations Officer Billy Bob Jenkins.”
I chuckled, shaking my head; it was hard not to smile when remembering him.
“Billy Bob spoke with the thickest southern accent you ever heard, was the biggest teddy bear I had ever met and known, and he just happened to have had his foster parent license. Since Mom was missing in action, as usual, I went home with him and his wife for five very good, love filled, months.
“Every Monday and Tuesday Billy Bob had off, so we’d pack up his candy apple red and white VW Thing,” I motioned to the rusted Thing in front of us, “and we’d take a family drive through the country for the weekend. We stayed off the interstate and always took the country roads and old highways. We never went faster than fifty-five miles per hour because there was no reason to. We were enjoying life, the company, the ride, the adventure… Enjoying being a family.
“With the soft top back and windows down, I would rest my head on my arm in the back side window and enjoy the feeling of the warm wind blowing through my clean and brushed out hair, and would stick my hand out and rolled it up and down through the air. The way my hand cut through it made me feel free, and I liked it… So I guess where you see a rusted, ancient piece of metal and a massive waste of time and money, I see a memory of when I felt safe, loved and free.”
Again, I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand, trying to compose myself.
“I wonder how much they want for it, or if they’d take payments or something,” I mumbled, changing the subject.
Draven shook his head. “Mr. Stevens is a bastard and won’t take payments or let you work it off,” he absently said.
Damn it. These damn VW’s are hard to find.
“Oh well, maybe next time.” I started back towards the idling car.
Draven walked next to me, his hands shoved in his pockets, his attention on the road.
When we were driving again, he broke the awkward silence.
“What happened to Billy Bob? Why didn’t you stay with them?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I really hate how well you know me,” I mumbled.
“That makes two of us,” he said.
“Billy Bob was supposed to start vacation on Monday. We were going to take a trip down south to visit their family. Ten days on the road! Another Officer had a family emergency and asked Billy Bob to cover his shift on the Sunday before we were supposed to leave.”
Draven shook his head.
He asked.
“It was Sunday church traffic, a relatively uneventful morning shift. In two hours, he’d be home and we’d be hitting the road. It was a routine traffic stop…” I shook my head, looking out the side window so he couldn’t see my face in case tears started down my cheeks again. “Billy Bob never saw it coming. The dash-cam showed that he didn’t even get to finish asking how the driver was doing before he was shot at pointblank range. Billy Bob was only informing the driver that their brake light was out. He didn’t know, I mean how could he, that the driver was an escaped convict from Tennessee that stole the car from the old lady he killed that morning. Billy Bob died instantly, so that’s good, but it doesn’t make it any less painful to remember. His wife couldn’t handle it, obviously. She returned to Mississippi to stay with her family, and I was returned to the system where Mom made an appearance and took me.”
The rest of the drive was quiet, which I wish I could say was welcomed but it wasn’t. When it was quiet, it meant Draven was contemplative and it made me reflective.
It never ended well for the walls both of us have spent our entire lives building.
When Draven pulled into a small sandwich shop on the outskirts of town, I looked over at him.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Draven forced a smile that quickly fell. “Nothing. I need to learn to stop asking you questions, because I really don’t want to know the answers,” he said with a chuckle. “Let’s get some lunch.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have any money.”
“My treat,” he said, getting out of the car and silently closed the door behind him.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? I wanted my delusion that listened and talked, that didn’t make me question my sanity, back? I’m sure it is, but why does it feel different in the light? In the morning, especially the foggy mornings where the only thing I could see was him, there was something surreal about it. Now, being out in public, being in his company, it felt different.
Different but I like it…
So it has to be wrong.
Draven opened the passenger door and offered me his hand. “Come on, Training Bra. We both need to eat and I have to piss.”
Then again, this doesn’t feel right in the least.
“Real classy, Man Whore,” I said, ignoring his hand and pulled myself out of his car.
“You’ll figure it out one of these days,” he said, closing the door behind me.
“What?” I reluctantly asked.
“How to get in and out of my car without breaking it or you,” he said, as if it were obvious.
Yeah, not going to happen.
This will be the last time I let him kidnap me, in essence, from school and aimlessly drive around before taking me hostage in a different form and feeding me.
That, I can guarantee.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Draven complained before shooting his straw wrapper at me, hitting me right between the eyes.
I’m not amused.
“Are you finished?” I asked, giving him a look.
He smiled wide.
When we walked in, the round lady behind the c
ounter squealed with delight and hurried over to us. She then proceeded to kiss all over Draven’s face, leaving red lipstick all over him.
Whore red wasn’t his shade.
Once that creepy display was over, he went to the bathroom for twenty minutes, leaving me sitting here. If he had to shit, he only needed to tell me to bust out with a book or something because it was going to be a while.
Inconsiderate asshole.
“You missed a spot,” I said, pointing to his cheek and he started cleaning it off with a napkin, using the back of his spoon as a mirror. “Whore red isn’t your color.”
Draven stopped in mid-dab and cocked an eyebrow. “One, remind me to thank Remi for the man whore thing,” he said, and I smiled wide. “Two, my grandma doesn’t wear whore red.”
My smile fell.
“Oops?” I offered and he rolled his eyes. “Soren’s mom?”
“Ew, no.”
“Your mom’s?” I asked, looking back to the humming redhead making up some sandwiches for us behind the counter.
“No,” he said, shaking his head, sounding aspirated. “Soren’s mère is dead, for some time now. I never met her. Dannette’s mère is a connasse.”
Whoa, that’s harsh.
“Dannette is your mother?” I asked.
He nodded. “Oui.”
“And you call her by name?” I wanted to clarify.
“Oui. Does that bother you?” he asked, his accent flaring.
I nodded then shook my head.
“Yes and no,” I admitted. “Soren I can understand not calling father. He’s a bastard. Is your mother like that? Does she act like your father?”
Draven made a face. “Ma mère,” he instantly corrected to appease me, “is a complicated woman, and her relationship with her husband is even more complicated. Mère wasn’t born from money or privilege; they had nothing, barely the clothes on their backs. Her mother did what she could in order to… She and the crackwhore had some things in common.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Mère started modeling when she was very young, a chance sleeping with a talent scout, you could say, that paid off. It wasn’t anything big, just enough to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table,” he explained, absently bobbing his straw in his sparkling water, watching it intently. “A chance meeting at a party… I was the result. Is Mère like Soren?” he asked, looking up at me. “No. She would stop at nothing to make me happy, to give me everything, and that’s why she sold her soul and took Soren’s last name. It was her way of protecting me from him… That, and to make his life a miserable Hell,” he added with a smile, blushing.
