Blurred

by Kim Karr

  I have to swallow, not out of fear of course, but, fuck, this is so hot. Her hands are on my balls and she’s squeezing them. “You like it when I touch you?” she asks.

  I’m practically panting and she can’t miss my nod. The leather snaps across my ass and it stings like a son of a bitch. My shoulders hunch and I lean my forehead against the couch when she kneels behind me and again grabs my balls. But this time she runs her other hand up and down my ass crack. “Let’s try this again. Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

  “Yes,” I answer, my voice low and harsh.

  She leans away. “You will learn to give me a complete answer, I promise you,” she hisses and again I can hear the leather slap against her palm.

  But before I can feel the burn of her anger, or the pleasure of it, the sound of my sister’s horrified voice echoes in my ears. Serena screams, “What the fuck is going on? I’m calling the police. Ben, are you okay?”

  I try to get to my feet, but my ankles are tied to the coffee table. “Fuck. Serena what are you doing here?”

  She stands there in shock, as I twist around trying to undo myself. The chick is scurrying to get dressed. Once I’m untied, I rise to my feet and find my shorts. The chick is picking up her things scattered around the room. Serena doesn’t move, but her eyes follow mine every step of the way. Her mouth hangs wide open and the bag of groceries she’s holding is looking pretty heavy. I take the bags from her and set them on the half-round table in the entryway then I flip around. “Hey,” I say to the chick. “Wait for me outside.” At least her forcefulness is only in the bedroom because she hurries past Serena in a flash. I want to tell her to call a cab, but I don’t want to listen to Serena’s shit about my lack of manners.

  I run my hands through my hair. “You should have called first.”

  Serena grabs the plastic handles of the bags and walks toward me, setting them on the coffee table. Why move the bags? I’m not sure, but it got her closer to me. She looks at me with disgust on her face. “Do you even know that girl’s name?”

  I shrug and nod. I shove my hands in my pockets, dropping my gaze to the woolen throw rug.

  “I came over to tell you Dahlia is getting married today. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

  Everything stops . . . my breathing, my pulse, my churning mind. It takes me a few minutes to pull my heart from my throat. “What day is it?” I ask her.

  “It’s Saturday, October thirty-first, Ben.”

  “Fuck, she’s getting married on Halloween?” My voice falters. I drop to the sofa and cradle my head in my hands.

  After a minute, I look up at my older sister.

  She nods with an equal mix of sympathy and pity and I can’t stand it.

  “She’s getting married on the anniversary of her parents’ death. Why would she do that?”

  “She wants to make it a happy day in her life.”

  I scrub my head. I tried to do that so many times for her. I shuffle to my feet and pace the room. Then I turn back to Serena. “Fuuuck!!” I yell, swiping everything off the desk.

  “Ben!” my sister scolds.

  And that’s all it takes. My trigger. I look at my sister and can tell my eyes go blank. “I don’t give a shit what she does anymore.”

  Serena shouts at me, her face turning red, and disappointment shines from her vibrant blue eyes. “Yes, you do! Of course you do!”

  With my hand in the air, I walk toward the door. “No. I. Don’t. I don’t give a shit about anyone.”

  “You’re a fucking mess, Ben. Pack your shit and get out of Mom’s house. How dare you disrespect her like this.”

  I spin on my heels ready to argue with her, to tell her she’s wrong. But she isn’t. I am a mess. Her eyes bore into me and I feel like I’m drowning in judgment. I can’t take another minute of it. Keeping my lips sealed, I storm up the stairs where I grab my duffle bag and pack my shit. I’m outta here. I don’t need her trying to be my mother over and over. It only reminds me that my mother is dead.

  When I come down the stairs she’s tidying up the desk. She tips her glance up. “Call me when you get your shit together.”

  She should try being me for one day. I grab my keys and walk out the front door without glancing back. The sun assaults me and I have to close my eyes for a minute. The glow is relentless . . . yellow and orange burn through my lids. I shade my hand over my brow and look around the house where I grew up, trying hard not to let melancholy set it. The chick is sitting on the planked steps and she glances up at me questioningly. She looks so different from the way she did inside—softer. Dawn, yeah, her name is Dawn. I turn my head and walk past her down the stairs—I don’t need to see soft. “Sorry about that. Mind if we go to your place?”

  “Sure, but I need to get my car first. You can follow me home from the Cliff.”

  I nod and open my door. I start the car and blast the fucking radio before she even gets in. I can’t believe Dahl is getting married to someone else and today of all days. The anniversary of her parents’ death was always the hardest day of the year for her and why she would choose it to marry him—I don’t get. Although I try to erase her from my mind, I can’t let go of the fact that the girl that was made for me found someone who was made for her, and it wasn’t me. I blindly reach to turn the radio up even louder. If I can’t shut my thoughts out, I’ll drown them out.

  Suddenly, I feel fingers creeping up my leg. Shit, I had forgotten she was even in the car. I move her hand to her lap. “Let’s wait till we get to your place.” Once I pull out of the driveway I let my mind wander again. I drop Dawn off to get her car and follow her back to her place.

  She lives in a small, Spanish-style house in the middle of town. It’s in need of a paint job, a number of terra-cotta tiles seem to be missing from the roof, and the grass is sparse, but it looks nice enough. Trees surround it and leaves cover the ground. When I was a kid, I’d rake all the leaves in my yard into a pile and Dahl and I would jump into it over and over. I park in the street and follow her inside. I probably should have asked if she wanted to stop for breakfast after we got her car, but I never thought of it. I was too lost in my thoughts.

  She waits for me to enter then turns to lock the door, and just like that the quiet, shy chick is gone. She slips back into a dominatrix. Her hands slide into my shorts and reach for me. As soon as she’s touching me, I forget about everything except the feel of her hands. Taking my hand she guides me down a dark paneled hall. I stop and lean against the doorjamb of what I presume is her room. This time she doesn’t close the door behind me.

  “Strip now,” she purrs.

  That’s easy enough. I kick my flip-flops to the side, pull my T-shirt over my head, unbutton my shorts and let them fall. Without having put underwear on, I’m naked in an instant. Here’s the thing—it’s fucking daylight out and I’m stone cold sober. “Got anything to drink,” I ask her as she pulls her skirt off and then unbuttons her shirt. Shit, she has big tits. I hadn’t noticed earlier. My dick springs to life when I think of what I can do with those, but I’d still like a drink.

  She walks over and runs her finger up my chest to my chin. “Did I say you could talk?”

  I’m really over her performance by this point. It was fun while it lasted, but that time has passed. A smile crosses her lips as she leans in to kiss me, but I drop my head and start sucking on one of her nipples. She grabs my hair and tangles her fingers through it. I tug on her hard nipple and swipe my fingers up her pussy quickly. She’s not waxed and I wasn’t crazy about it when I was wasted and I’m definitely not crazy about it now, but I’m this far already. Shit, I really prefer fucking at night . . . drunk and in the dark.

  She moans when I swipe across her one last time. “Okay, we can do this your way. I’m fine with that. But it’s your loss.”

  I step back and grin. “I don’t think anyone will be losing.”

  She tugs me toward the bed, but I stay where I am.

  “Where’s t
he booze?” I ask.

  “Above the refrigerator in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.”

  “No, I’ll get it. What do you say you lay down and get yourself wet for me?”

  She laughs. But when she asks, “Do you want me to use my hand?” I almost get whiplash. One minute she’s giving the orders and the next she’s asking for mine.

  I leave her on the bed with her fingers circling her clit. The floor tiles are cold on my bare feet as I make my way back to the small kitchen and find a bottle of Jack. Perfect. I open a few cupboards and grab two glasses. Pour and drink. Pour and drink. Pour again. Now, I’m ready.

  I take the two amber filled glasses and head back to the bedroom. She’s lying down with her feet on the floor still going at it. I stand there, watching her.

  She catches me and smiles. “My fingers are so wet right now. I think I’m ready.”

  I knock back another shot and set both glasses down on the nightstand. I grab my shorts, snatch a condom out of my wallet, and roll it on. I’m ready, too.

  When we finish, I stand up. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  She points to a door on the other side of the room. I scoop up my shorts and hit it. Running my tongue over my lip, I taste sweat . . . it tastes good. I feel good. The water runs and I reach for the soap. It’s shaped like a dolphin and it throws me a bit. I use it to scrub my hands and then throw some water on my face. When my eyes scour the counter for a towel, I notice a cartoon toothbrush on it. I swivel my head around the small space and see a fish shaped step stool and an octopus bathmat. ABC foam letters line the tub. Shit, did I just fuck some kid’s mother?

  The room is bright when I open the door and she’s still lying on the bed. I toss her the towel I found and shrug my shirt on before coming to stand over her, pulling the blanket over her naked body. “Do you have a kid?”

  She pushes up on her elbows. “Yes, Jacob. He’s five. He’s with his dad today.”

  I have to swallow. I feel like a shit. “Hey, you probably shouldn’t bring strange men over to your house. It’s a bad habit,” I tell her. Not that she has to worry about me, but you never know about other men and I’d hate for anything to happen to her or her kid. But it really isn’t my business.

  “We went to high school together. You aren’t a stranger.”

  I start to tell her she doesn’t know a thing about me, but let it go. I glance around the room and feel like the air is being sucked from the lungs.

  She tugs on my hand. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just thinking it’s time I head out if you’re cool with that.”

  “Sure, you want my number?”

  “Buckley. Right? Dawn Buckley?”

  She nods.

  “I’ll look you up when I’m back in town.”

  It’s clear she thinks I’m feeding her a line. “Oh, you’re leaving Laguna?”

  “Yes, I think I am. It’s time for me to get the hell out of here.”

  The short walk to my car seems like miles and as soon as I get in, I slam the door and veer away from the curb, accelerating as fast as I can. But I can’t shut the memory out. I was five. It was my Dad’s birthday. Mom baked him his favorite cake and I helped—chocolate with white frosting. She let me lick the bowl like she always did. We had gone to a local dive shop earlier that day and bought snorkeling gear for the family for Dad’s present. “How much fun are we going to have?” my mom said. Her eyes were so blue, just like mine, just like Dad’s. We wrapped the gear in pictures I drew of the beach—pictures of Dad and me building sand castles, me making sand angels, and Serena teaching me how to fly a kite. Things we did all the time—things I’ve never done since. Serena was at cheerleading practice and Dad was supposed to pick her up.

  I close my eyes for one brief second, trying to shut the memory out. When I drive past the beach, I turn around and park. Grabbing a hot dog with extra mustard and a soda, I sit down on one of the breaker walls and watch the waves as they curl over and form tunnels. I have a sudden itch to ride one. I haven’t even surfed since I got back.

  I stare ahead for the longest time, trying to block out the rest of that day, to focus on the surf, but I can’t. The memories come back in pieces, but I recall them all so clearly. Serena called our house. I was icing the cake with a red rubber spatula in my hand. I could hear her yelling at Mom that no one was there to pick her up. My mom took the spatula and let me lick the icing one last time before we left and we went to get her. We picked her up. We went home. We sat. We waited. And waited. And waited. He never came home. Mom started calling around. She called his office assistant; she didn’t know where Dad was. She called Dad’s other employees; they hadn’t seen him, either. She called Adam, Dad’s partner at Blondie’s, their surf shop, and he told Mom he hadn’t talked to him since Dad took the sailboat out to check the sails. He called back and told her the boat hadn’t returned, either. They called the coast guard. The boat was never found. No body was ever found. But that was it. He was gone. No body to mourn. An empty casket just like mine—my mom had to go through that twice. Fuck me.

  A sailboat goes by and its giant mast glints in the afternoon sun, reflecting off the water. Looking out there, I know this is where I need to be, on the water . . . the one place that makes me happy. My Styrofoam cup crinkles in my hands as I stand up and grab my trash. I’ve wasted enough time in my life. I need to get out of here for a while . . . to get away from the scrutiny of the press and forget about all the shit.

  Chapter 3

  Somewhere I Belong

  The people in Australia say they have sand in their souls. I believe it. Thirty thousand miles of paradise and I’ve made sure to circle all of it. Now I’m back to the city that I first landed in six months ago, any surfer’s wet dream—Bondi Beach. I lay in bed, staring out the open window just listening to the sound of the ocean. It’s early, but there’s enough light to reveal a hint of what the waves promise today. It’s my last day in the Bondi Bubble and I don’t want to leave, but I have to. The trial for the drug cartel is about to begin and I’ve been called to testify.

  The time passed here in the blink of an eye. What I’ll remember most is that I was able to forget . . . forget about my life back home for the first time since I supposedly died as Ben Covington so long ago. I feel stronger, more focused, and more determined to make this transition in my life—to finally move on. I’m ready. Being here has helped me put things in focus and I can finally accept that Dahl is happy with someone else.

  Stacks of Surfers End magazines lay on my nightstand. I reach around them to grab my laptop and punch a few keys to bring up my bank account. I officially have less than I paid for my first board in it. Fuck me—where did all my money go? My brilliant plan of living off the rent didn’t work out so well. I shut the lid and lean back thinking about what I’ll do when I get home for money. An hour passes before I decide to get up. When I do, I glance out to the majestic shoreline I’ve enjoyed so much and see families already frolicking on the beach and lifeguards in their signature red and yellow swim caps monitoring them for safety. It’s a slow and easy way of life here—one I could very easily get used to.

  My clothes are neatly piled on top of the dresser ready to be placed in my bag. My journal is packed, the one I haven’t been able to write in. I survey the room for what’s left—not that there’s much. All I’ll have to do before I leave for the airport is grab my duffle, my briefcase, and my board. But I have time so I quickly shower and head to the Bucket List for breakfast. The diner spills out onto the beach with its wide patio. It’s one of my favorite views of the Pacific. I could sit here for hours staring at the coastline, the glistening sand, and the stone cliffs. The place itself looks like a pirate ship with its faux fisherman style décor, complete with lobster pot lampshades on every table and a namesake mural that looks like a map lining the walls. The only difference being the purpose of the mural is to record your bucket list items and not navigate the sea.

  “Yo
u’re finally doing it today?” my waiter Scott asks, pointing to the sharpie I have in my hand.

  I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “I am.”

  “Way to go man, you did it.” He raises his hand and I slap it.

  After I drink a cup of coffee, I approach the iconic wall with my marker and write my checked off items on it. It reads:

  Ben Covington

  Jog the Bondi Bronte Cliff Walk

  Brave the surf at Tamarama

  Yes, I did do it. I rode the waves of Tamarama yesterday despite its ferocious currents and strong riptides. It took me six months to get back in shape but I can now say: mission accomplished.

  Time grows short and I move through town in an effort to say my goodbyes—not only to the locals but also to the places. I stop at Icebergs. It’s a local bar with its own outdoor pool wedged right into a cliff. The pool refills itself with seawater whenever waves crash against the rocks below it. And the joint itself is filled with happy, friendly people. No one cares what demons you carry. They’re just here to have a good time. Not to mention, the deeply tanned waitresses saunter around taking drink orders wearing skimpy bikinis . . . talk about living life easy.

  Living in the Bondi bubble . . . life couldn’t be sweeter. But my visit here today isn’t to enjoy the pool or talk to the waitresses, it’s to say goodbye to Kale Alexander, the owner’s son. He and I hit it off right from the start. He reintroduced me to what I once loved—writing. Not just the thrill of catching the story that I had become addicted to, but he reacquainted me with the passion I once felt for words.