by Red Hammond
“Please. Don’t do this to me. I need someone tonight. You. You’re the one I need. You’ve always understood.”
“Let go.”
Tighter. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
She shouted, “Bo, get over here!”
One of the drinkers, a thin wiry guy in a tank-top, tight muscles showing, spotty facial hair, perked up. He adjusted his cap, blonde strands peeking out, and started over. Hopper let go of the bartender’s wrist. She pulled it back quickly and crossed her arms.
Bo stepped behind Hopper and said, “This guy need to go, Dana?”
Dana. There’s her name.
She said, “I’ve eighty-sixed him. I hope he goes on his own. Just in case, be a buddy and walk him out, okay?”
Hopper looked around at the other drinkers. He found who he was looking for, one of the guys who came to his rescue when Ernie Depp and his lawyer attacked him in the alley outside. Eye contact. The drinker sighed, shook his head, and turned away towards the TV over the bar. Pretended to be interested in a commercial for a local Ford dealer.
Hopper got off the barstool. Bo cleared out a few feet. He said, “Any call for physicality?”
“No. Help the gentleman to the door.” She couldn’t help but sneer at gentleman.
Bo rubbed his hands together. Hopper thought he smelled like cologne from the Eighties and cheap beer. “You owe me, sweetie.”
Dana ran the tip of her tongue across her lip, relaxed a bit, and said, “Oh, you’ll get it.”
Hopper had had enough. He brushed past Bo and headed out. The sound of a poker machine and Bad Company from the jukebox and the traffic as he pushed through the door all blended into God’s voice telling him, You deserve this.
It’s not my fault.
That’s what makes it ever worse.
He parked on the street a block from his apartment and walked the rest of the way home, the cold air of the early hour choking him. He’d cried in the car. An angry cry. Too much crying the last couple days. Fuck crying. Fuck those women. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t.
Divinity. That was his fault. That was the one he wished he could take back.
A brief flash: Suicide. Take yourself out of the game. Plenty of pills you can toss together, swallow them down with tequila. Do what Cynthia wasn’t brave enough to finish.
His bosses had said something like, “Don’t be afraid of it. Not a bad way to solve some problems. As long as you’re sure you don’t believe in anything.”
But he was afraid of it. The idea of not existing—pretty freaky. Afraid of the pain and the nothing beyond it.
He could live with the drama, even if his every step made things worse. For all the girls he had found, for the girls he had fucked, for his own well-being. Violet.
He told the cold air, “I’m the victim here.”
In front of the gate at his apartment building, a white Honda was parked on the curb, and someone was waiting in the driver’s seat.
She said, “Hopper Garland.”
Hopper wanted to hide behind his gate. He couldn’t open it in time. Someone had finally come to deliver payback. The woman was already out and on the sidewalk. Dressed like she’d been out on the town, high-heels and a black party dress. Kristen Hannity.
He stood with a hand on the gate, frozen, waiting for her to bring out a gun or something.
Instead, she said, “I didn’t think you were coming home. I had to wait.”
“How long?”
She shrugged. “I forgot. Hours.”
“You found me.”
“Googled you. You get your mail here, so it was easy.” She reached into her purse. He flinched, not knowing what to expect.
She said, “I’ve got a check.”
Hopper settled down, unlocked his gate, and said, “You want to come in?”
Kristen’s eyes widened, but not in a good way. “I’d better not. I thought, you know, I owe you. Thanks for all the help.”
“Look, if you can’t afford it, let’s go inside and talk. We’ll work it out. I’m just glad she’s okay.”
Kristen dropped her eyes, hand still deep in her purse. “I said no.”
She took a deep breath.
Hopper said, “Is something wrong?”
She slid her fingers from her purse, a check folded between them. She handed it over. Hopper unfolded it. This wasn’t Kristen’s account. It was her parents’.
“I don’t get it.”
Kristen’s lips were tight, like she was trying to keep from breaking down. Finally she said, “I had to tell them. Dad flipped. I mean, like, he was on the phone to the cops and the governor and all. He’s on a plane right now, gone out to get Yasmin.”
Another one down. Exactly what Hopper was trying to avoid. His legs felt weak. He sat on the sidewalk and slumped against the gate.
“You know that’s not what she wanted.”
“Hey, she’s too young to know what she wants. We’re doing her a favor.”
“This really okay with you?”
He was turned away, waiting for an answer. He heard her sniffling, then a soft, “I’m sorry. Thanks again.”
Then the car door opened, closed. Engine roared. She moved off down the road.
It took another twenty minutes for Hopper to find enough strength to get to his door, lock himself in, and ignore the flashing message machine.
Sleep wasn’t going to come easily, and Hopper knew it. He took a couple of Benadryl tablets to help make him drowsy. They had a mixed effect. Numbed him out, sure, but also gave him dry mouth and had him stumbling to the toilet every half hour to piss. In between was this long dream that picked up right where it paused with each bathroom trip. Four women he’d hurt—Divinity, Cynthia, Georgia, and Yasmin—had formed a pop group. He saw them onstage with instruments. There wasn’t any music. The girls were pale and sad but the light show was bouncy and vivid. Between sets, they’d come by one at the time to drink with Hopper.
Divinity: “It seemed like a fun job, and I knew what we had was special. Now, after what happened, how can I ever look at you again without thinking—”
Cynthia: “All I wanted was to find myself without the old baggage slowing me down. After you ratted me out, it was twice as heavy. That’s your job, isn’t it, to rat people out?”
Georgia: “I don’t know why I did it, since I’m not good with hit-and-runs. You seemed….different, I guess. Like you didn’t need another notch on your belt. Maybe I didn’t expect forever. More than ten minutes though—”
Yasmin: (She was quiet a long time, then) “I mean, think about how you found me. You fucked my ass before coming clean. What kind of guy does that?”
He had her on this one, though: “You’re the one who set us up with Ivana. It’s all down to you.”
She puffed a cigarette, held her big pregnant belly. “If you hadn’t treated Ivana the way you did, maybe she wouldn’t have come after you guys so hard. Don’t blame me for your bad people skills.”
They were all so reasonable, laying out the facts like lawyers arguing an airtight case against Hopper.
He tossed and turned and sweated.
He felt the glass dildo in his ass.
He imagined Divinity in a hospital. Suicide attempt? Some disease she picked up from the rape?
The worst was Sister, holding a newborn, speaking softly to Hopper. “She has your eyes. She also has cleft palette.”
At five in the morning, he couldn’t take it anymore. He sat in his mentor’s chair and tried to concentrate on the Weather Channel. Watched the clouds swirl across the map and imagined places he could go that weren’t so…so…fucked up.
Alaska. It called to him. Alaska. Maybe he’d head up there and hire onto a boat, go fish for crab.
He drifted to sleep thinking of cold water, snow, ice, the waves bobbing him up and down.
The phone woke him up at half past nine. His bladder was about to explode. He ignored the ringing and ran to the bathroom before he
pissed himself. Whoever was shouting at his answering machine, Hopper blocked out the voice. He groaned as the stinging went away, several more spurts before he was empty. And then he wandered into the kitchen, naked, to fix some coffee.
What was he going to do today? The business was pretty much shut down. He couldn’t stomach another missing girl or divorce case. If he called a few attorneys, maybe they’d have some research for him to chase down. Boring as hell. Not how he wanted to spend his life. The Alaska idea was gaining speed. First he wanted to see Divinity, try to win her back and let her know he’d be by her side for any counseling or doctor’s visits. After that, if it worked, might as well deposit the check from Yasmin’s parents. As for his sister—and he was pretty sure at least half the calls on his machine would be from her—better to let that cool out a few days. Something he should have figured out earlier finally made its way to the front of his brain: Hey, you’re a detective. If you want to know if Sister is pregnant, follow the paper trail. Follow her, see where she goes during the day. Tap her phone.
Good, a plan was falling into place. The rich coffee aroma filled the room, Hopper waiting at the table with his huge mug waiting for the gurgling noises to stop. Maybe he’d microwave a breakfast burrito or fry some sausage.
He barely heard the timid knock at his door. The first time, Hopper thought maybe it was some Christian working his way door to door, or a salesman, or someone doing a political survey. When the second knock came, only slightly harder, he decided to check it out. Morons couldn’t wait until a decent hour, had to bother people before they had any coffee in them. He was inches from the door when he remembered he was naked. A stutter-step, started to turn for his bedroom, then figured Fuck it. This will scare them off fast enough.
With his clothes and glasses on, Hopper looked like a big uncomfortable dork. Naked, he was someone you didn’t want to mess with—sculpted, tight, pulsing, and hung like a radioactive horse.
He pulled the door open wide for the shock value and said, “What do you want?”
It was Emily, D’s roommate, clutching a laptop to her chest and going wide-eyed and wide-mouthed and gasping, “Ohmygodohmygod, I’m so sorry.”
Hopper flung the door closed and made his bedroom in three running steps, grabbing the first pants he could find, the first T-shirt. He was zipping up with one hand while poking for his other sleeve with the other as he made it back to the door and opened it again. Emily was walking away, stiff and stunned.
“No, wait, I’m sorry. Come on in, please.”
She cautiously looked over her shoulder, stopped walking when she saw Hopper mostly-clothed. “I didn’t mean to. God, I’m so embarrassed.”
“You don’t have any reason to be. It’s my bad. Please, come in. I was making some coffee. Want some?”
She started back towards him, laptop still pressed to her chest like she was a schoolgirl from the Fifties. A little make-up on her cheeks and lips and eyes. It didn’t do her any favors because Hopper had been more impressed with the wallflower look, which was still apparent in her clothes—the beige knee-length skirt, white Oxford shirt, brown loafers. She kept her eyes on him even as she passed the threshold to his apartment. He guided her with his arms held wide towards the kitchen, slowly, carefully, finally relaxing as she sat at the table.
“You like sugar, cream?”
“Both, yes, please.”
He fixed two mugs and brought them over. Emily had set the laptop on the table, and he saw it was his. Or Divinity’s. Or the company’s.
She caught him staring at it and said, “She knew you’d need it, for the business, and asked me to return it to you.”
He nodded. “You mean until she’s ready to come back, right? A few weeks?”
“I don’t know, I’m sorry. I don’t want to lead you the wrong way.”
“She’s okay, right? She’s up and talking, that’s good. I should follow you back over and see her—”
“No, really, don’t.” The girl had found some strength. “She said to let you know that she needs space. A lot of space. Don’t call, don’t visit, nothing. She said to beg you if necessary.”
Hopper lifted the mug to his lips. His fingers were trembling. The sweet coffee burned his mouth. He didn’t care. “Did she also tell you I probably wouldn’t listen?”
A deep breath. “She’s leaving for a while. Won’t tell me where, because she didn’t want it to slip. Said you could persuade me to, like, confess.”
Hopper drummed his fingers on the table. Getting angry, antsy, wishing this was Divinity and not her proxy.
“I’m a private eye. I can find out anyway.”
“She knows that. She’s covering her tracks.”
Emily hadn’t touched her coffee.
“I get it. She hates me. Let me talk to her.”
Emily covered Hopper’s drumming fingers with her tiny hand. It was cool and soft. She said, “Hey, no, it’s not hate. I understand how much you two mean to each other. Believe me, I see her when you’re not around, and there’s something powerful here. But the way things are right now, she needs time to think.”
Hopper didn’t pull his hand away. The coolness of her palm turned warm and he wanted to lace his fingers between hers. He liked the flesh-on-flesh contact. He wished he didn’t. Talking about Divinity, needing to hold her, and then needing to hold anyone to help him mourn losing her. Anyone other than Violet.
“She told you? What happened, I mean.”
Emily gave a weak nod, stared at the table. She said, “I feel really bad for what they did to you. To both of you. She said to tell you, though, that none of it is your fault. Don’t keep thinking like that.”
Quiet. Minutes stretching. Hopper couldn’t help himself. He inched his fingers between hers, felt her respond, and squeezed.
Emily’s words were as quiet as a thought. “She’s my friend, too, you know.”
He slid his chair back and stood, walked into the living room and froze, not knowing why he did it or where to go or what to say. If Divinity needed space, why not give it to her?
Because she’ll justify reasons to leave you. Without your side of the story—
Then why fight it? Why fight so hard for someone who wants to get away?
That’s love. It’s a disease.
“I didn’t ask for this, but I can’t shake it now.”
“Excuse me?” Emily was standing behind him.
Hopper sagged onto the couch, head in his hands, and scraped through his hair. Emily seemed paralyzed. Standing, staring, rubbing her palms together. The coffee smell turned stale, mixing with his sweat and the heat of the apartment, the windows closed and the air conditioner off. Emily wiped sweat off her neck, then sat beside Hopper. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders. Snaked her other arm around his chest. Cheek pressing against him.
“I’m here for you,” she said. “Let it all out. I’ll be here.”
He reached for her. It became a hug, and he bawled on her shoulder. She patted his back, whispered comfort in his ear.
It turned into a kiss. She moved first, her lips on his ear, her tongue flicking. He searched for the skin under her collar, ran his lips along it. She shivered.
Cheeks, then lips. Moist, slow, then faster. Sneaking breaths in-between. She was rubbing his thighs. His hands slid up and down her back, then brushed under her breasts. Small. Hard nipples, he felt through the shirt. Hopper wanted to rip it off.
She broke away and arched her back, held her chin up, and he was all over her neck, living and dying with the little sounds escaping through her shaky breaths. She took her glasses off, then his, then kissed his lips and bit and pulled. She pressed hard, nails scratching his back. She toed off her loafers, swung her legs up on the couch, one on each side of Hopper, and scooted towards his lap, the skirt bunching uncomfortably around her waist.
Hopper wanted to fuck the little wallflower, wanted to give her what she’d never had. All of her sexual experience, he guessed, was the soft and r
omantic, the drunken and forgotten freshman hook-up, the serious lovemaking with a steady boyfriend. Never a wet fuck that stretched all her muscles and bruised her skin and left her exhausted. The harder she pressed, the more Hopper wanted to be that wild man on her list. He even wondered, a brief second, I wonder if she needs a job.
The thought threw a switch in his head. Not just about Divinity, but about what he was doing with Emily. It felt…
What’s the word? Can’t put my finger—
Routine. That was it. Not on Emily’s part. She was throwing herself into the foreplay, no formula or pattern. Giving in to the lust. The routine was down to Hopper, recognizing how he pretty much let his dick take over, fell right into Emily’s arms and sidestepped how goddamned selfish it was by hearing the mantra repeat endlessly:
Please her, please her, please her, please her…
Got any willpower? How about stopping. Don’t go any further. Stop.
She was unbuttoning his shirt. He did the same to hers. On the last one, he reached behind for her bra clasp. A little ungh mmmm from her cheering him on.
Don’t do it. Take a stand and don’t worry about the road not taken. Be a good guy.
He fumbled. Emily reached behind her back and undid the clasp with two fingers. She threw the bra to the floor and grabbed Hopper’s hand, pressed it against her left breast. Stop this? Stop this?
He licked his fingers and rubbed them on her nipple. Her breath was harder, louder, more passionate. Her eyes were closed. She was all arch and titillation.
Stop.
No.
Stop, for God’s sake.
“Wait,” Emily said. “Hold up.”
A bit of relief and disappointment in one tight throbbing ball. Still, Hopper was glad the decision was made for him.
“I can’t stand this anymore.” She stood, reached behind her and unzipped the skirt, kicked it off. Slid her pink cotton panties down and off, then the shirt, and she climbed back on the couch, roughly grabbing Hopper’s pants and unbuttoning, unzipping, yanking hard. He was a little stunned, didn’t do much to help her.
