by Adriana Law
Cover Image: STOCKFRESH
Daniel Wagner:
Thank you for loaning Starr and Sawyer your songs!!
Nobody Else
Ordinary Love
Everything I Need
Copyright © 2014 by Adriana Law
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
Table of Contents:
Failure
Fake Jewels
Grooming
Who Am I
Cattle
Barbell
Lot Lizard
The Past
Missed Opportunity
Redbox
Abandonment
Egg Benedict
Wilted
Poison
Awakening
Color Your Life
Climax
The Cross
Labor Intense
Owls and Forever
Rage
Cold Steel
CHAPTER ONE
Failure
I wish a lot. Wishing my life was different. Wishing I had made better choices. Wishing I had more. Done more. Seen more. I probably spend too much time wishing. If a younger version of myself ever showed up at my door and asked: Do you have any advice? I would probably answer: yeah, don’t spend so much time stuck in the past. That shit is toxic. Because, when you’re always stuck on what you did wrong, how can you even begin to move forward?
I would also say: self-pity serves no real purpose. I’m addicted to many things, self-pity being one of those things. I think, I spend too many hours nurturing my self-pity. Feeding it. Growing it. How can you become addicted to feeling sorry for yourself? It’s easy. You just focus on you and constantly stay there. Regardless of what shit goes on around you to other people, you can’t see it. After all, there is no fucking way they’re hurting as bad as you are, right?
Don’t mistake my self-pity as a weakness. I’d liken myself to a crustacean, or maybe even a cockroach. Exoskeleton with a rigid and resistant outer shell. All bony and horny parts. Hard to penetrate. No. I would say I’m not especially weak. On most days.
But I would say I’m a selfish bitch who’s quick to grasp onto things that I like, ignoring the consequences. And then I just end up feeling more self-pity. As I said: it’s easy to make “yourself” an addiction. It’s easy to sabotage yourself just for the sake of…sabotaging yourself.
“I’m asking Phoenix to marry me,” Sterling announces. I’m so enthralled in watching the kid in the booth across the restaurant stick the end of two clear straws up his nostrils—at first Sterling’s declaration doesn’t fully register.
I love kids.
They’re so honest and authentic.
Love you no matter what.
“Did you hear me? I’m going to propose,” finally penetrates.
I blink, confused. “Propose? To who?” I shake my head to reset. “What?”
“Starr, what’s up with you?” Sterling raises a brow in question. “To Phoenix, who else would I be proposing to?”
Sterling is sitting across from me. His dark hair is buzzed short, shorter than I’ve ever seen him wear it. The cut suits him; somehow making the long lashes framing his blue eyes stand out even more. Resting an elbow on the tabletop he rubs a hand over the bristly hairs.
“How are you going to pop the question?” I ask. “You have a ring already?”
“I thought I would give her my mother’s ring. The one my father gave her right before he abandoned her…pregnant. Is that bad luck?”
Now I’m the one raising a brow. “You’re asking me about luck? A superstitious Bentley? Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Go ahead, laugh it up,” he says. I’m laughing to hide the pain. “I’ve already had enough bad shit working against me and no, I don’t know how I’m going to ‘pop the question' –that’s what I was planning to ask you.” He exhales a long breath and drags both hands down his handsome face. He sits back in the booth. “You know I suck at this shit. I was hoping you would help me come up with a romantic way to ask her.”
I hug my purse and jean jacket closer to my chest. It’s the end of my shift. I was five minutes away from clocking out and escaping when Sterling caught me. If I had left five minutes sooner I could have avoided seeing him as I’d hoped. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. “I don’t know what to say.”
Sterling shakes his head, saying, “It’s a bad idea. You’re right. It’s too soon. I'm impatient and pushy.” It doesn’t take much to get Sterling to revert to his old ways; bashing himself.
“I didn’t say you're pushy. You know Tori better than I do, obviously.”
He’s deflated. I’ve hurt my friend’s feelings. I’m such a bitch. All I had to do was squeal, hug him tight, and tell him how happy I am for him. But it hurts too damn much.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I want Sterling or anything, but he is my Ex, and anytime you see an Ex who’s moved on and happy when they weren’t so happy with you—it’s a blunt blow to your self-esteem.
I lay my belongings on the table. “How long have you two been dating, what a year and a half? You think you’re ready for marriage?” Now I’m trying to talk him out of it. “There’s so much that can go wrong in a marriage,” I tell him. “I’ve had an up close look. My parents can’t tolerate being in the same room with each other. They can’t put their difference aside for Christmas, birthdays. It’s so bad that if I were ever stupid enough to get married, my parents would probably make me choose which one of them I wanted at the wedding, which is when I would say…neither.” I ask, “Are you sure you’re ready for that kind of commitment? It could all blow up in your face.”
“Not necessarily. We are not our parents,” he tells me.
“You sure about that?”
“I can’t speak for Phoenix, but I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else. I swear, she’s the best part of me.” He smears the condensation on the outside of his bottle of beer; his long lashes lowered, his cheeks spattered with color. “I promised her I would find something to occupy my time while she visits her mother, but damn, I already miss her. It’s been less than an hour since I’ve seen her. How is that even possible?”
I shrug a shoulder not able to relate. I’ve never missed anyone after only being away from them for less than an hour. I don’t ever want to be that pathetic. I don’t ever want to give someone that much power over me. Especially not some douche-bag guy, and for some reason that’s the only kind I attract. Well, except for Sterling. He’s the good kind.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Hey, I want to leave her a message, let her know I’m thinking about her but my cells out in the truck, let me borrow yours.” He lunges across the table without waiting for a reply and grabs my purse, opening it and digging through it.
“God, is nothing ever off limits to you?” I snatch my purse out of his hand right after he pulls out one of my tampons. Heat rushes into my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says but he doesn’t mean it. “Want your spark plug back?” He holds the tampon out with a cocky grin.
“Asshole!” I snap, grabbing the tampon from his hand. “Will you ever grow up?”
His grin fades. “I—”
“Didn’t think. You never do, Sterling,” I c
ram the oh-so-hilarious tampon back inside my purse. Guys are always so weird over the whole period thing. It’s ironic that they make fun of us girls whenever we cover our eyes during a horror flick when they’re the ones that can’t handle the sight of a damn tampon without squirming. It’s a period for God sakes. Grow up! “You didn’t think twice about leaving,” I snarl sliding out of the booth. “And you sure as hell didn’t ever think about calling to see if I was okay.”
Tears blur my vision. Why the hell am I so hurt? The only guy who was ever been halfway decent to me is getting married. Big freaking deal. Okay, it’s a major deal. Rejection. It sucks. Not being good enough for a commitment sucks on a whole new level. Being the girl that never gets the guy, sucks royally. I am officially a woman scorned.
I take out my cell and slap it down on the table in front of Sterling and stare him directly in the eyes. His widen. “You haven’t spoken to me in a year and a half,” I say. “Don’t assume things are like they used to be. Don’t ask for advice with your girlfriend and don’t ever go through my things again, you got it? From here on out anything having to do with me is off limits to you.”
“Starr, I...” he stammers completely taken back by my outburst.
I snatch up my purse, turn and take off for the restroom before he can say anything else.
***
A white piece of paper is scotch- taped to the wall by the hand towel dispenser, the paper reads: please wash your hands and turn off the light before leaving followed by a smiley face. There are two stalls: one with a door, the other bare and wider for wheelchair access. One single porcelain sink with a rickety base. Rust around the drain. A line of green build up from the drippy faucet. The air is heavy with stink and aerosol disinfectant spray.
Holding onto the sides of the sink for support I lean in and check my reflection under the poor lighting of the buzzing fluorescent. I wipe smudges of mascara out from underneath my eyes. My hair has seen better days; it’s pulled back in a ponytail, long, stringy and lifeless. As lifeless as I feel lately. My appetite is shit. The twenty-five pounds I gained during recovery fell off quicker than you could say: Sally sells seashells down by the seashore. I now weigh a total of ninety-eight pounds. Wet. And fully clothed. My hips have fallen away along with my breast. Why is it always the breast that goes first?
That was the major reason I didn’t want to see Sterling. I was afraid he would notice the weight loss. He’s not stupid. He knows the signs: the edginess, the weight loss, the fidgeting, the secrets, the lies, the manipulation, the downward spiral of losing hold of everything around you. But Sterling hasn’t noticed. If he has, he hasn’t said anything. Which means just like with everyone else, Sterling isn’t really looking.
“You look like shit warmed over,” I mumble under my breath mashing the sore welt on my forehead between my fingertips. A nice size stress bump. Oh wow, that’s ugly.
Releasing a long sigh I turn on the tap and gather cold water in a cupped hand, splashing my face with it. I DO NOT want to have to go back outside and face Sterling, especially not the happy, new and improved Sterling. The one that is oblivious to the fact that his best friend is, once again, in self-destruction mode.
I shake my head. “I totally went off on him for no reason.” Resting a hip against the sink I open my purse: keys, lip-gloss, makeup compact, pack of cigarettes, pink lighter and then I see it—what I really didn’t want Sterling to find. I groan and squeeze my eyes shut reprimanding myself for being so careless. If you’re going to use be better at hiding your pills. What if he’d opened my purse and seen it. What then? What lies could I have thought up to cover my ass? Plenty.
I lift the plastic baggie with five small blue pills inside of it. Roxicodone. My drug of choice at the moment. It’s as if the pills scream out to me, luring me like an old friend, one who causes me harm but I repeatedly return to. Like a dog returns to its vomit.
My tongue traces the seam of my lips. I crave to have the pill melting, the awful bitter taste clinging to the back of my throat. I crave to feel nothing. To be numb. To turn off every human emotion. To take down barriers allowing me to be me without any apologies. To remove my hesitation. To remove my worry. To be able to cope. To survive. I crave to feel normal. No high will ever be as good as the first, but that doesn’t keep me from chasing it.
I reach into the bag and fish out one of the pills. Bringing the pill to my lips I pause having second, third and fourth thoughts. My fingers tremble. My entire body trembles. But God I do really need it! Just do it. Just take the damn pill Starr and feel better, why suffer when you don’t have to? Why suffer when you can feel nothing?
I’m five seconds away from giving in when, in my unsteadiness, I accidently drop the pill. “Shit!” I panic watching my sanity hit the floor, roll over the tile until it pings off the base of the stained toilet in the handicap stall.
Just letting the pill go would be like flushing twenty-five dollars down the toilet. I don’t have twenty-five dollars to flush. I don’t have a dollar to flush. I need that damn pill! I drop to my hands and knees and crawl over the floor in the direction I saw the pill roll. The tile is cold, damp and gritty under my palms. “Shit. Shit. Shit. You’re so stupid!” I chant.
My hands spread out over the white tiles in desperation as I get down eye level with the floor. I try to predict the direction the pill went. I’ll stay in this bathroom all day if I have to. “I know you’re here, where are you?”
My fingertips fumble through unexplained dibble beside the toilet. Pee I guess. I don’t care. I’ve had my hands on worst things.
I see the pill caught between the base of the toilet and the wall and exclaim, “Thank God!” when I don’t think God has anything to do with it. A wiry pubic hair clings to porcelain. I pretend to not see it focusing only on my pill. Without hesitation I stand and pop the pill in my mouth, leaning over the sink sucking up a hand full of cold water to quickly wash the pill down. It’s okay. This is temporary. I’ve had a couple of rough days. I can stop using whenever I want. I’ve done it before. A couple of pills to get me through this rough patch. That’s it. Only a couple. Then I will quit.
I come out of the bathroom to see Sterling turned sideways in the booth. I lean against the wall in the hallway and watch him for a few minutes. There’s a glow of genuine happiness surrounding him. A light. Peace. I’d give anything to have that.
He demonstrates discreetly how to fire spitballs out of the end of a straw for a little boy across the restaurant. Collecting my emotions and exhaling a long breath, I walk toward Sterling with a fake smile and slide into the booth saying, “You know you’re corrupting him, don’t you?”
He makes a pst sound. “Please, I’m teaching him early survival skills.”
I raise a brow at him and drop my purse down on the table. “Is that what you call it?” Sterling being Sterling holds the straw up to his lips and swings the end in my direction. “You wouldn’t—” I start but then a spitball bounces off my forehead. I’m pretty certain he aimed for my zit. “Real mature,” I solemnly say folding my arms over my chest and suppressing a smile.
“C’mon, Starr,” Sterling chuckles.
I casually reach over and slide a straw out of the dozen in the apron wadded up next to my jacket. We spend a good five minutes taking shots at each other while the other dodges. I end up laughing so hard my side hurts. It feels good to laugh. Growing bored I launch the entire straw at Sterling as if it’s a spear and lift my hands in surrender.
“Better now?” he asks.
“Yes. “ The pill is kicking in. I feel better. Tingly. Warm. I work on cleaning up our mess telling him, “Thank you.”
“Oh, before I forget.” He slides my cell phone across the table.
I dig a flattened pack of Marlboros from my purse and light up, dragging the ashtray hidden behind the condiments out into the center of the table. Mikey doesn’t mind if we smoke as long as there are no customers. Otherwise we take our breaks out back in the alley.
<
br /> “I lost it there for a minute,” I admit. Smoke clouds the air between us. Every time I flick my ashes it’s impossible to ignore the briar tattoo wrapping my wrist. The briar tattoo Sterling and I share. “You know how I am when I’m PMSing. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m just in a foul mood today.”
He finishes off his beer, eyeing me closely. A corner of his mouth lifts. “You meant it.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Doesn’t matter.” We’re both quiet. Nothing more needs to be said. It is what it is. People change. They grow apart. “Sterling, you don’t need me to tell you how to ask Victoria to marry you. Just be yourself. She loves you for you so whatever you come up with, even if it’s lame, she’ll think it’s the best marriage proposal ever.”
An easy smile appears. “Thanks. I think I already have an idea.”
“See.” I crush the cigarette out in the tray and exhale the last of the smoke from my lungs. “You didn’t need me.”
Another awkward silence settles over us. We can joke about it all day long, but things have changed between us. For starters, there is no us, just a friendship that feels two sizes too small. “So, where are you and Tori cribbing while in town?”
“With Saw. Hey, a couple of the guys that he works with are coming over tonight. You’re welcome to come up to the apartment. Never know, you might meet a good guy with an actual job and no criminal record.”
“No thanks, dating a cop is something I don’t see anywhere in my future.”
“It would be nice…” he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, “…to have you there. Tori and I won’t be in town but a couple more days—”
The owner of Something Italian interrupts. “I need to talk to you in the back,” he tells me in a harsh tone. My gaze lifts to where Mikey is standing next to our table seeming impatient. He is a tall, intimidating guy with thick shiny hair. He’s exactly what you’d picture when you think of a hot-headed pissed-off Italian.
