Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1)

by Dunning, Rachel

  The babe has me freaking out. Someone got to her. Someone bad. And if I get that motherfucker I'll—

  She's sobbing quietly now. I'm no good with all that emotional crap so I don't give her a frickin hug or anything but I get down next to her on my haunches. "Miss, you OK?"

  I'm afraid to touch her because it's no doubt she's been touched badly by someone else already.

  She holds her stomach and clutches it like there's something in there burning.

  Her cries have soothed. Damn, so much for a freaking Sunday morning stroll.

  I look outside the window because I remember those two cops walking the streets. They'd love to just come barging in here and acting all boss-like, now wouldn't they?

  "Miss, you OK?" I repeat.

  She nods.

  OK, good. That's a step forward. She's communicating.

  "Did someone hurt you?"

  Hell, I feel like I'm some dude from a cop reality show.

  She shakes her head.

  She looks embarrassed. I can understand that. She broke down in front of a total stranger. I'd be embarrassed as well.

  "You from around here?"

  She shakes her head. More communication. I'm no expert, but I think that's a good thing.

  "You just arrived?"

  She nods.

  "You had a good ol' American burger since you arrived?"

  She half sobs, half chuckles.

  She really is beautiful.

  She shakes her head.

  I'd love to offer to take her out for one but, man, I'm not interested in screwing this broad. I mean, she's really attractive with her huge anime eyes and mahogany hair and full red lips and soft skin. But she really doesn't look like the fuck-you-later-alligator type. And I'm no good with women that aren't that type.

  Not anymore.

  I catch myself looking down her chest and then stop myself. I look up at something that looks like a painting but could equally just be someone's vomit.

  Art.

  I sit next to her, rest my back against the wall.

  When I look over at her I see stitch marks across the side of her right eye. Thick and heavy. That was some cut. She must've been hit pretty bad there. Or maybe she had a car accident. Both could make a person jumpy like this.

  I'd know.

  The room is silent. She says nothing. I say nothing. I stare at four more "paintings" on the white wall across from me. The mahogany-haired girl looks outside and chews the bejeezus out of her thumbnail.

  "I'm Gen," she mutters.

  Whoa, she just spoke! "Axle." I stick my hand out, slowly.

  She turns her head shakily to me, eyes me once over while my hand lingers just a second too long and then she reaches for it.

  She forces a smile. That wasn't from the heart. That was a polite smile.

  I want to ask her if she's here alone but that'll probably just freak her out some more, so I say nothing.

  "So, where does one get a good ol' American burger in this town?"

  Her statement catches me by surprise. I shift slightly, clear my throat. "Um"—I point—"just, um"—I cough—"just up the way, um, a little. That way."

  Something lifts from her face. A darkness of some sort, a heaviness. And her brown eyes lighten. She gives a relieved smile and this one, even though smaller than the previous one, is a real smile. One that she really feels. I can see that.

  "Wanna go get one? My treat." I say the words without even thinking them. And what exactly would I do with this girl, sitting across a table, waiting for a burger...? Talk about Formula One?

  She looks down at my left hand on the floor and her expression goes cold. More specifically, she's looking at my ring-finger.

  I give her the answer before she has time to ask the question. "I'm not married, and that's the only thing you can't ask me about. Or else you're on your own."

  She looks at my face, seriously, sees that I mean every word of it.

  "OK. I won't ask. And I'll get a burger with you," she whispers. "So long as you don't ask me why I was crying."

  "Fair enough."

  She wipes her left eye. The rosiness of her cheeks catches me short and I find myself staring into them. "Just let me go freshen up."

  I swallow. Nod.

  What am I doing?

  One burger. And that's it.

  I take my ring off. I put it in my money pocket.

  CHAPTER 6

  -1-

  Gen K.

  Nov. 10, 2013 — Sunday

  I get to see the city as we walk toward the burger place. Axle told me the American burger place is actually quite a way from where we were—about thirty minutes. He offered to drive but...

  He understood that a girl shouldn't get in a car with a man she just met.

  He politely doesn't comment on the fact that a woman must be completely insane to randomly open the door for a man she just met.

  I hadn't been thinking straight in that moment. My mind had been a whirl. I need to sharpen up. I can't make mistakes like that. This time I was lucky.

  We walk across a bridge spanning a huge river which he tells me is called the Main River, pronounced "Mine." Other bridges also cross it at regular intervals. It looks like a fairy tale, even with the gray clouds currently engulfing the city. It would make a good photo.

  If I had my camera.

  I'm freezing. Axle had insisted I bring a jacket but I was too stubborn to think I needed one. He notices I'm cold and gives me his.

  I protest.

  He insists.

  When I put it on, his smell takes over me—man's cologne mixed with smoke and alcohol and...perfume? Just a touch of it.

  He told me he's not married. So...girlfriend?

  His fur collar rubs against my neck and I feel the shivers against my back while waves of warmth take over me.

  "Better?" he asks with a smile.

  I nod, still too cold to move my lips. I tug the collar around my neck and hold tight.

  "I guess my lips must be quite blue."

  His eyes linger on my lips for just a second. "No, purple."

  He points out a museum, then another, and a third. "I'm not much of a museum guy, in case you were wondering—"

  "I was wondering."

  "—but I know where they all are because, well, you can't help friggin missing them in this town."

  I feel myself easing out, relaxing. I see a section of the promenade with sculpted trees. We walk past a mattress store, a Jazz café, an Indian cuisine place and, my feet half dead even though I'm wearing sneakers, I see what must be the place we're getting the burger at: American Sports Bar.

  "Tada," he says. He makes a very inelegant gesture as if he were a car model. I appreciate it.

  We go into the bar which is actually a diner and, living up to the name, they have screens lining the walls playing everything from NBA to NFL to boxing to baseball.

  We sit.

  Dance music blares down from speakers right above us. We move to a quieter spot. I sit near the wall, Axle sits across from me.

  "Best damn burger in Germany," he says.

  I'm so hungry. The snacks from Brooke's fridge barely did anything. "I haven't really eaten since I left." He stares at me blankly. "I arrived this morning."

  He cocks an eyebrow. "Damn, I'd be half-dead if I didn't get a meal after only a few hours. So, I recommend the, um, burger and French fries in case you were wondering."

  I look at the prices and pause a second, realizing that seven hundred Euros is not gonna be nearly enough for me to survive on for very long.

  "Gen?"

  "Right, sorry, um, yeah, sure, the burger and French Fries."

  I try and play it up, try and sound happy. I think I overdo it. I fold up the menu and put it next to me, sit up as if all is dandy and great. I fold my hands on the table.

  Axle looks around for a waitress and a black-haired girl with tits the size of my head comes over and winks and flirts and shows off her ass while he gives her the
order. I wouldn't be able to tell if he was flirting because I can't really tell anything about him except that he wears a wedding ring but—

  Oh, he's taken it off...

  He has a scar above his eyebrow. Pretty big. I think of my own noticeable scar to the right of my eye. Every scar tells a story even if you don't want it told.

  He's got another two or three light ones—one higher up on the forehead, barely noticeable. Another small one on his right cheek. He's definitely been in a few fights. Or a few accidents. His hair is short and messy but his eyes are swimming pools made clear with plenty of chlorine.

  I realize I feel "OK" around him. And OK is a good thing. And it's not because he's big, because big guys would just make me feel nervous. It's that, well, he seems like a rough-around-the-edges, decent kind of guy.

  The burger arrives. Axle was right. It's freaking huge, and actually tastes like a real American burger. I eat myself silly and sit back with my stomach almost ready to pop.

  My stomach. But, no, the negative thoughts don't hit me this time.

  "So, where you from?" I ask.

  "Huh?" He's still chewing.

  "I mean, in the states. I can't place your accent. At first I thought southern—there's definitely some southern there—but then you have a hint of this Minnesota twang thing going—"

  "Oh, you pick that up, do you? That damned year I spent there will haunt me for the rest of my days."

  He doesn't really answer the question, sips his Pepsi.

  "And?"

  "I'm from all over the place. I ran away from home when I was fifteen and, well, ended up in Minnesohhhta for a bit. And it was in those formative years, I guess, so a bit of the accent stuck. When I was seventeen I worked on a ranch in Texas for three years. That was fun. That's where the southern comes from. Eventually I got sick of that. So I backpacked across the states. Got into a ton of trouble. I finally settled on the East Coast. And you're probably wondering what I'm doing here now."

  I was, but I wasn't going to ask because I don't want the question in return. So I don't comment.

  "Well, seeing as you're so interested...," he says.

  I chuckle.

  "...My dad was German. It was the only good thing the bastard handed down to me—dual citizenship. Never in the life of me would I consider even visiting here but some of the guys I'd stayed in touch with along the way were in the military and got shipped over to Germany. So, I'd have friends if I came over and they have the Oktoberfest here and all and I wasn't doing shit in the states anyway. So, here I am—eight years later."

  Ran away from home. Got into a ton of trouble. Hell, all loaded subjects.

  "So you must have a German last name like I do."

  "No, actually, last name is Rhodes. My mother's last name. I changed it on my US passport before I left. In my German passport I still have my prick of a father's last name. But that's Europe for you. You don't even have a right to your own name unless someone's chasing you with a chainsaw or something. Then they'll let you change it... So I just use my US passport wherever I can."

  "So what's your German last name?"

  "That's one thing I'll never tell you. Yours?"

  "Katz."

  "You mean Cuts, not Cats."

  "I'm so used to the English way of pronouncing it, that it sounds unusual when you say it as Cuts."

  "You'll get used to it...if you stay long enough."

  That's not a subject I want to get into. I'll stay as long as I can. And so long as no one that's trying to hurt me finds out I'm here. I deviate off the subject. "So, did you go to the Oktoberfest?"

  "I only went there for pleasure once. Then some guys approached me, asked me if I'd like to do security for them. So now I go there on the job every year."

  "Security? What, like a bouncer?"

  "Exactly like a bouncer."

  "Is that how you got some of those scars on your face?"

  He pauses. "No, the Germans are wussies when it comes to fighting. I got those between fifteen and eighteen mostly. This big one here"—he points to the one above his eyebrow—"is from something else."

  He stops talking. Another loaded subject I guess.

  "I'll introduce you to Frankie later if you want. Another Anglo-Saxon in Germany. Runs an Irish pub just down the way here."

  "Are there a lot of 'Anglo Saxons' here?"

  "Not really."

  I struggle to find something else to ask about. I remember the ring, stray away from that. I start looking out the window. I catch him looking at my eye. I drop some hair over the scar to hide it.

  I need to get rid of that someday. I don't want people asking me questions about it. The scar on my belly I'll never remove. That one's mine. And the man who sees that will know me well enough to either have asked and gotten an answer, or to know never to ask. But the one on my eye is too open. It's like walking in the street nude, with no choice. Too many people you don't trust get to look at it, and comment on it.

  "And you?"

  His question gives me a start. "Huh?"

  "Where you from?"

  "Oh, I grew up in a small town in the Midwest. When I turned eighteen I moved up to Brooklyn and did some community college."

  I leave out my parents dying when I was fifteen. I leave out what happened after college. Getting married to the wrong man. All loaded subjects.

  I hope he doesn't ask me why I'm in Germany.

  He doesn't.

  I notice he doesn't ask a lot of personal questions in general. Not wanting to pry. Usually people who don't want you to pry, don't pry themselves.

  I can respect that.

  I twiddle with my straw. "Do you keep in touch with all your military friends?"

  He thinks before answering. I notice he does that a lot. "Not anymore."

  He says nothing more about it.

  "Let me take you to Frankie's pub." He points left. "Not so many Americans there but a shit-load of Englishmen. And great beer."

  Beer. Alcohol. That sounds good. Something to ease my mind.

  I play with my straw.

  "Wanna go?" he asks.

  I think about my money situation. I consider asking what a beer costs but can't imagine how mortifying that'll be. I figure I'll have one. And only one. "Do they serve Heineken?"

  "Better. They have Guinness."

  CHAPTER 7

  -1-

  Axle R.

  Nov. 10, 2013 — Sunday, around Midday

  The babe is a mystery. And that's the problem. Because mysteries get me. They hook me in and don't let me go.

  In a way, I'm also a little interested as to what's happening with her. She's hot. I mean, let me re-phrase that. She's most definitely doable. And, yet, I'm not even thinking that way about her.

  Anyway.

  I pay for the meal because it's no big deal and because I think men should always pay for a woman's meal, especially if he invited her in the first place. She fights me on it, convincingly. But I win.

  I see in her eyes that she's tight on cash.

  I walk her down the Sachsenhausen nightlife street toward Irish Greenbacks, Frankie's pub. The street is dead, as is to be expected on a Sunday approaching winter. Midday. And then come all the Christmas markets. It's a real slowdown on the babe front.

  We enter the smoky bar and I inhale deeply as we get in, trying to get the only nicotine fix I can after quitting the drug all those years ago. Frankie says hi to me from behind the counter and I introduce Gen to him. He eyes me weirdly like he knows I wouldn't be hanging out with a good clean girl like this and I give him my best "Fuck You" look. When Gen turns around I give him the finger.

  He flicks his hair back once and shows me the bird as well. For an Australian the dude has such a Wiseguy look it ain't funny.

  "Two Guinnesses," I shout out to him above the crowd after we sit down.

  "This place is awesome!" She looks around like a kid ready to open up gifts. I know the feeling. It's the same way I felt when I first came her
e all those years back. Little kegs hanging from the ceiling, empty whiskey bottles on the walls, paintings of leprechauns and leprechaun dolls and four leaf clover flags.

  It has a certain charm.

  Frankie brings our beers over and writes the tab out on a coaster. He waits. I don't take the bait. Eventually he leaves but I know he'll be grinding me later for where I met her and what's she like...

  Nonetheless, I don't regret bringing her here. It's one of the few places I can relax.

  Frankie looks good. He's moved on since his sister's death. Moved on a lot better than I have...

  I pick up my black, foamy beer and say, "Cheers." Gen does the same and her eyes go wide for a second as she stares at the froth-covered mug like it's a magic carpet.

  "Never had Guinness before?"

  She shakes her head, still awed.

  Then she downs the fucker. The whole thing. In one shot!

  Oh, damn, now that I liked.

  -2-

  I counted. She drank five pints in less than an hour.

  So did I.

  We're singing and I put my arm around her while we sit at the wall-seat and the room goes wavy and then I see Frankie but he looks like there's two of him and I start laughing and say, "Frankdhs geshum sum."

  I stop. Because that wasn't what I was trying to say.

  Next to me I hear this loud, mellifluous laugh that sings to me. It's Gen. Her head is plastered to the seat as she lies down on it. Her leg's on my knee and her hand's on the table to hold herself steady. She's cracking up!

  I start laughing as well.

  I try again.

  "Frankie..." I forget what I want to say. But I think Frankie reads minds because he's standing in front of me with two more pints and that's exactly what I wanted!

  I pick up my pint and lift Gen up by the elbow. She sways briefly as she eyes the stout beer in front of her. Then she smiles a cute, drunken smile that makes me wanna hug her and kiss her in a cuddly sort of way.

  I've had way too much booze...

  "Thisjushwhatineeded...fzzzzz," she says.

  I have no idea what the hell that means but I pick up my pint and smash it into Gen's as we say "Cheers!" and then a whole bunch of beer falls on her jeans by her crotch and she laughs wildly. I try and wipe it off. I realize this is probably not a good thing because my hand is maybe even touching her private parts and so, after an eternity of internal pondering, I sway back and say, "Sorry."