Field-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  The veins in his arms pop as he repeatedly clenches and releases his fists.

  “He had all those groupies all over him at the clubs,” Sabrina babbles on. “He didn’t tell them we were dating.”

  “That’s because we weren’t,” he says.

  Sabrina drinks down her last drop of wine and continues humiliating herself. “I tried to make him jealous.” Her lip quivered. “I thought he’d, like, I don’t know, make a commitment. But the Saint doesn’t like games. ‘I don’t like games,’ he told me.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Interesting. He strikes me as someone who loves games. Enjoys jerking women around.”

  “Oh, no,” Sabrina slurs. “He hates them.”

  “That’s enough,” he says.

  I protest. “No, do go on. I love hearing about people’s failed relationships. Makes me feel better about my own.”

  Alan’s hand drops to my thigh.

  I flick it off.

  Art’s chair scrapes the floor. “Would you kids like some pie?”

  “I’d love some, with whipped cream if you have it,” Jerry says.

  “Shut it, Jerry,” Eli snaps.

  “I could use a little wine,” I say and pass my empty glass to Art.

  He fills it to the brim. Such an amazing godfather, that man.

  Elliott pushes away his plate. “Time for bed.”

  “So soon?” I give him a mocking smile. “It’s only eight o’clock. I was hoping to hear more about your magic mouth.”

  His eyes scrunch at the corners. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  I swallow my wine in three gulps. “Well, that was fun.”

  In actuality, that conversation topped my list of the worst conversations ever, coming in a close second to the one I had with the police the night my whole family died.

  Sabrina sighs and watches him leave. “Thank you for listening, everyone. This has been so hard, being around him like this.”

  I clench my fists under the table. “I completely understand.”

  Alan holds up the bottle. “More wine, Char?”

  If this is his attempt to get me drunk, too late. “No, thanks,” I say and whistle for the dogs. “I’m going to bed.”

  Upstairs, right before I close my door, Eli sticks his boot in the way. I slam the door on his foot a few times until he pushes it open and enters my room.

  “Get out,” I tell him.

  Instead, he locks the door.

  His hands jam inside his pockets. “I’m sorry. About Sabrina. She’s…” He shakes his head. “Obsessed.”

  I wave a hand. “No need to apologize. I looooove hearing about your sexual escapades. They sound frighteningly similar to my own.”

  His lip folds under his teeth.

  “Is there anything else?” I fake yawn. “Because I am beat. All that dick sucking really took it out of me.”

  “Chicken.” He takes a step closer and puts a hand on my cheek. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  I duck out from under him. “No! We are not doing this again. I had a lapse of judgment. Or three. Game over. I’m done.” I point to the door. “Time for you to leave.”

  “Charlie, please—”

  “No!” I make the hex sign with my fingers. “The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth is an apology for leaving me after my family died.”

  Just then, a loud thud hits the floor.

  Julius fell off the bed in the midst of a seizure.

  I sprint to his side. “No. No. No. No.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He has epilepsy. Can you please get me some water and a damp towel?”

  He rushes to the bathroom and comes out a second later.

  I dip Julius’s paws in the water to keep him from overheating then place the damp towel on his head.

  “Should I call the vet?” he asks.

  I pet my dog’s forehead, trying to comfort him. “We’re used to this.”

  Eli kneels down next to me. “How can I help?”

  A few seconds later, Julius’s eyes roll back to normal and his body finally stops shaking. “There we go. All over.” He buries his nose in my lap and pants.

  Eli’s hand travels to the small of my back.

  I so want to lean on him and cry.

  I struggle to lift my eighty-pound dog on the bed. “You can go now.”

  He takes him from me. “I got him. You still sleep on the right side?”

  I close my eyes and nod.

  Effortlessly, he places Julius on the left side and caresses his head. “Glad you’re okay, pal.”

  This is too much for me. I press my palms over my eyes and bite down hard on my trembling lips.

  All of a sudden, I’m in Elliott’s arms. He’s carrying me to bed.

  I can’t bear to look at him or thank him. Instead, I curl around Julius. The other dogs jump up and settle around me.

  He chuckles. “Still sleeping in a pile of animals, I see.”

  These words are like an Exacto blade slicing open a decade-old scar. He knows me too well.

  I can’t take this anymore. It’s one thing losing control of my body, but I can’t lose control of my heart.

  “It’s been a long day,” I say.

  He nods. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I don’t.”

  He heads for the door then halts. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  Then he leaves. Again.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Eli Ties

  Survival Tip: Do not allow anyone to smoke if fuel has been spilled. Also, don’t let intoxicated campers blunder off into unknown terrain.

  Eli’s Mixtape: Beastie Boys, “Sabotage”

  AT OUR PREGAME meeting the next morning, Skip asks us to name our team. “We need something to cheer from the sidelines.”

  “How about the Biggest Losers?” Avery suggests.

  Skip gives her a down-the-nose stare. “I was thinking the Shimura Samurai.”

  “Sounds super lame,” Sam says.

  Skip jumps right over Sam’s comment. “I did a little light reading last night.” He flashes his phone. “Sun Tzu, The Art of War. Good stuff. Now that we’re tied with Orion, I’d like to implement some of these strategies.”

  He pulls out a folded-up piece of notebook paper and stuck it to the bull’s-eye on the dartboard.

  Preeti rises from her chair and reads it aloud. “‘Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.’”

  “Thank you, intern, you may be seated.” He repeats the quote again. “As you know, we’re the latter—”

  Sabrina snorts. “We’re a ladder?”

  I press my palms together over my mouth. How did I end up in bed with her? Did we ever discuss anything besides body parts? Never mind, we all know the answer to that.

  “Anywho…” Skip continues. “What I think old Sun meant is we need to up our trash talk game. During the snowmobile race, we shall cut down our opponents with our cutting wit.” He slides a glance at Sabrina. “And you will concentrate on driving.”

  “What is trash talk?” Preeti asks.

  Jerry puffs up his chest. “I’m a pro at ‘dis.”

  Preeti takes out a small notebook and pen and takes notes.

  “First, you gotta insult somebody’s ma. Then their bedroom skills. Dick size. Intelligence. Just keep going until they cry like a baby.”

  The intern scrawls notes on her pad. “So I should insult all of the family members or just the maternal figure?”

  “Mostly the mom,” Jerry says. “Here’s an example.” He turns to Skip. “Yo’ mama’s so fat, she uses epileptic boys as vibrators.”

  Skip pretends to blow chunks onto the floor.

  “Ew, Jesus, Jerry,” Avery says.

  “Preeti,” I shake my head. “Just…no.”

  Sam stretches and yawns. “I don’t think we’ll need to do much trash talking today. I’ve got a good feeling about today’s race.”
The developer pulls a pocketknife out, opens it, and starts cleaning his fingernails with it.

  Skip gives him a slanted side-eye. “What did you do, Fischer?”

  A corner grin ticks. “Nothing, Samurai.”

  Avery collapses back on the floor. “I had exactly one hour of sleep last night because Austin was kicking me in the vagina. Now I have to race a snowmobile around a track when I’ve never even been on bumper car. Speak up, Sam, before I take that knife and cut out your heart. Do we have to race, or not?”

  He winks. “I plead the fifth.”

  Avery shivers. “Is it weird that I’m turned on right now?”

  “Is it weird I hired a serial killer?” Skip says.

  This conversation is getting on my last nerve. So much so that the soothing belly breaths I’m pulling in are drawing looks from the intern.

  I’m a wreck. My meditation this morning morphed into a heavy masturbation session in the shower.

  “Also,” Skip points out, “I think we need a team cheer. You know, like football teams? What rhymes with Shimura? Avery? You’re the copywriter.”

  “Want to know what rhymes with Shimura? Let’s get this goddamned thing over with,” she says.

  Jerry points out the obvious, as usual. “That doesn’t rhyme.”

  “Amen,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “All right, Samurai.” Skip raises a fist. “Let’s win this race.”

  Outside, Proton’s owners await us on the field. Red flags mark a rough track that zigzags through the trees, around the lake, over another field, down a ravine, and back up again.

  At the starting line, there are wooden stands. And on a log pole, they’ve installed speakers that are currently drilling feedback into my head.

  Under the tent, near the starting line, Art, Burt, and Malcolm sit at the table and shoot the shit over the airwaves like professional sportscasters.

  Art pants into the microphone like a sickening prank caller, and then chuckles and makes an announcement. “Here comes Shimura’s team, looking pretty worn out after the Irish coffee this morning. Good luck guys. No drinking and snowmobiling. Heh, heh!”

  Malcolm jumps in on the action. “Orion’s team is dressed in Proton’s latest winter line, looking fashionably sporty.”

  There are only eight snowmobiles total. So we have to choose two women and two men from each side. Through a very scientific game of eenie-meenie-miney-mo, Skip chooses Jerry, Preeti, Sabrina, and me to compete.

  Across the field, Charlie tosses her pigtails, and in slow motion, she glides over the snow.

  I groan. “My head’s not really in the game, dude. Maybe you should take my place.”

  “My head’s not even on this planet.” His eyes are just barely open. “I just smoked some insane Death Star Kush, and all I see are marshmallows. I’m counting on you, St. James.” He claps my shoulder. “Go forth and weaken the enemy.” His gaze goes skyward. “That’s a weird word, enemy. Sounds like enema. Enemy. Enema. Enemy.” He shakes his head and wanders away, repeating the words endlessly.

  Malcolm presses the bullhorn button about twenty times.

  Burt yanks the thing out of his hands and smacks him on the back. “Line up, gang.”

  Sam passes by me and mumbles, “Grab the four on the end before the other team does.”

  As if I needed any more stress. “You didn’t do anything dangerous, did you? Like cut the brakes or some shit?”

  “Nah. They’re just newer models.”

  He’s lying.

  Art insists we go through this ridiculous shake-the-other-team’s-hand thing.

  Charlie takes off her glove before she reaches me and gives me a handshake that’s more like foreplay. Her fingers trace my wrist and leave a lingering tingle.

  My knees almost buckle.

  “Ready to lose?”

  An instant hard-on grows. No longer capable of rational thought, I brush my mouth against her ear. “If I win this race, I’m going to fuck you so hard tonight.”

  Hot surprise blooms on her cheeks, and then, poof! It’s gone, and she morphs back into a surly kitty.

  “And if I win,” she purrs, “I’m going to grip that beard of yours in one hand and ride your face like a bronco.”

  I choke on my own saliva and pound my chest. Screw the Olympics. I’ve never wanted to win so bad in my life. I actually consider performing a series of light calisthenics to limber up. I also consider praying on my knees like Orion’s receptionist.

  Game on.

  I swing my leg over the snowmobile and lower my goggles—ready to win, ready to ride, ready to get out of this cold and between her warm thighs. I rev the engine like it’s a Harley. It sounds more like a lawnmower.

  A flash goes off in my brain. It’s as if I’m watching myself perform live onstage in a Seventies’ sitcom. Where’s the canned laughter? Where’s the clapboard slamming shut? Where’s the director shouting, “That’s a wrap!”

  Furthermore, where’s my goddamn dignity?

  “Hey, guy,” Jerry says to Duffy. “You got sumptin’ on your back.” He flicks the copywriter’s gray ponytail. “Oh, oops! Thought that was a rat.”

  Duffy doles out a tight smile. “Those ‘roids affecting your vision, hoss?”

  I tease Duffy. “Aw, did Jerry hurt your feewings?”

  “Not as bad as I hurt his mom’s last night when I told her to shave her face.” Jerry slaps his thigh.

  Christine gasps. “Jesus is watching.”

  “Is he watching this?” Sabrina flips her the bird.

  I give her a soft fist bump. She is heretofore redeemed in my eyes.

  She returns it with a look that says, “I’ve got your back, and I want you so bad.”

  Preeti reads a phrase out of her notebook to Charlie. “Your mother’s breasts sag with such severity that the late, great surrealist artist, Salvador Dali, mistook them for clocks. Did I do that right, Jerry?”

  He grins. “You did great, Preeti.”

  Charlie’s farcical glower falters for a second.

  That mom joke was just…no.

  Preeti starts to fling another insult her way. “And your father has edema so terribly that—”

  “All right, that’s enough.” I hush her up and direct my team to the vehicles Sam noted. “Are we gonna ride, or not?”

  Malcolm shouts into the microphone. “Start your engines.”

  Art slaps his head with a glove. “They’re already started.”

  Malcolm glares at his boss. “I’m suing for assault and battery.”

  “On your mark, get set…go!” Malcolm waves a flag like Rizzo in Grease, and we’re off.

  As we pass the stands, Skip raises a weak fist. “Go Samurai.” Then he stumbles off the steps and lands on his ass in the snow.

  Duffy’s riding dirty, swerving in front of us, blocking our paths.

  Sabrina gives him a flirty wave and blows a kiss.

  He waves back, and she guns it past him.

  Forget what I said, she’s a genius.

  And I’m right on her tail.

  Charlie rides up on the bank, cranks a hard right, and crashes down in front of me.

  I slam on my brakes. “I could have killed you!” While I’m trying to steady my trembling hands, she goes full-throttle and jets ahead.

  Dammit!

  Behind me, Jerry bellows to Duffy. “Get out of the way, old man!”

  “Go fuck yourself, thug.”

  “Language,” Christine yells.

  Sabrina and Charlie are neck-and-neck in front. Stanley’s just a hair behind them. I’m on his ass, and Duffy, Jerry, and Christine are trailing me. I glance over my shoulder. Preeti is nowhere in sight. Skip needs to fire her.

  I grit my teeth. Street rulz. In pursuit of the two women who’ve driven me the craziest over the last few years, I blast through the trees and dart in front of them, laughing manically the whole time.

  The race is five times around the track. We fly past the stands, completing the first lap
.

  “Nothing is happening,” Malcolm says, sounding bored. “Oh my God, I just noticed Sabrina’s coat. Love your coat, girl.”

  Avery and Austin cheer as we pass. Sam smirks. Sneaky bastard.

  Jerry passes Duffy and Stanley, and Christine is on his ass. He’s taunting her, slowing down, darting ahead, not letting her pass.

  She lays on her horn. “You fucker!”

  Jerry grabs the side of his face. “My virgin ears!”

  Once again, I cackle like a madman then hug the curve like I’m on a motorcycle, and the snowy field is a high-tech speedway.

  Head in the game, Eli, or you’re not getting head.

  On the fourth lap, Christine’s snowmobile sputters and dies on the track. Jerry rams into the back of her and loses a front ski.

  Preeti just barely misses them.

  Sam. That sneaky bastard must have syphoned their gas.

  Duffy and Stanley stall out a few lengths back.

  I should feel guilty. But I don’t.

  Sabrina plows ahead and crosses the finish line first.

  “Go Samurai!” I yell.

  I’m so close to getting laid, so very, very, very, close.

  Charlie’s ride starts to slow.

  I brake next to her and grin. “Problems?”

  “Did you fuck with my gas tank?”

  I cup my ear. “Sorry, didn’t quite hear what you said. Did you ask me if I’m going to fuck you until you can’t move later? Why, yes I am, Chicken.”

  We’re moving at a snail’s pace, and I’m deliriously happy, whistling Queen’s “We Are The Champions.”

  Preeti shoots past us and crosses the finish line with her tongue out.

  “Better hurry, Chicken.” I sprint forward, slow down until she catches up, and then speed up again. “Can’t wait to see your titties jiggling above my face.” God, I love, love, love teasing her.

  I’m so caught up in gloating and so lost in the imaginary hot porno of Charlie that I actually smile when she super-leaps over to my vehicle and shoves me off in one move.

  Hopelessly ambushed, I roll off into the snow like a dead body thrown off a speeding train, and she roars across the finish line on my damn snowmobile.

  It happened so quickly I didn’t even have time to wipe the grin off my face.