by Lucas, Helen
“What made you think that?” I asked, in mock innocent. He slapped my ass hard and I yelped before breaking out into giggles.
“Because you’re an eighteen-year-old girl and girls always want to do dumb stuff like that,” Damien replied.
“Fine. You’re right. We’ll go to your show and then we’ll go to the dance?”
“It’s a date.”
I found myself flushing, in spite of myself, at what he had just said. A date? Even though we had just had the most passionate, deepest sex I could possibly imagine—a date. Wow. That somehow felt… Like a new step.
A next step?
DAMIEN
Riley’s, a bar on the outskirts of town, was set to be the venue for the show. It’s clientele was as strange and diverse as the bar itself was: on any given night, you’d find a weird mix of college students, long haul truck drivers, local businessmen, off-duty cops, and bums sitting next to an equally eclectic mix of art and photography that Riley had collected over the years: from tobacco store Indian statues to tiki-inspied velvet paintings and kitschy Norman Rockwell prints, it was a bizarre place to settle down for an evening.
But he’d pay us fifty dollars each for the show, and we got to keep any tips dropped in our jar, so all of us figured it would be better than nothing. Besides, the beer was cheap, with PBR selling for two dollars a can, so who could resist?
I was in the process of tuning my guitar on the stage—really, just a raised part of the floor that usually held chairs and tables, all of which had been moved for the occasion of the concert. It wasn’t much of a stage, but then again, we weren’t much of a band.
I wasn’t sure what to wear to perform in, and so I wore a pair of tight black jeans that Sarah was particularly fond of, a tight white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. I looked like some sort of 1950’s greaser, with the exception of the fact that I had a modern hair cut, I supposed, plus Chucks. I had a suit in a bag hanging up in one of Riley’s closets to change into post-show for the dance. It really felt like something out of Happy Days, only I doubted Fonzie was ever deployed to Iraq.
“How you feeling tonight, marine?” Lance called over to me as he strode up from the bar, two cans of Pabst held triumphantly in his fists. He tossed me one and I caught it effortlessly, without taking my other hand off my guitar frets. I cracked it open and sucked it down in about twelve seconds flat.
“Someone was thirsty.”
“I needed this, man,” I said with a sigh. “It’s been a wild few weeks.”
“I heard about that kid who killed himself—he was a friend of yours? I’d seen you with him.”
“That’s right. He was one of Sarah’s best friends.”
“Shit, man.”
“And what’s more…” I lowered my voice here. “He was dating the son of the chief of police, in secret. But that was one of the bullies who drove him to kill himself.”
“Jesus Christ, man. Ollie Richards’ kid?”
“That’s right.”
“Man, don’t go fucking around with that family. They’re bad news. I know a guy who tried to fight a fucking parking ticket—you know, small time shit—but the next morning, he woke up to find his windshield smashed in and all his tail lights smashed too.”
“Goddamn,” I said, shaking my head. “Teddy—that’s Oliver’s kid—was telling me something that…”
I trailed off as I saw Sarah enter. Lance grinned.
“To be continued, am I right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, let me know if, you know—you need some help,” Lance murmured as he opened his own can. “I’ve got a .357 in my truck—you just say the word. I know a few other guys, marines—we’re all happy to go to war for one of our own.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that. But thanks.”
I had to end this conversation fast, because here was Sarah. And she was gorgeous.
She had gotten a new dress for the occasion. And my god—it was incredible. It hugged her body like a tight leather glove. And I hadn’t realized it, but she had lost weight over her two weeks—her body was like a model’s now. She had never been fat before, but now, her curves had been carefully maintained by her depression-induced starvation, and only heightened.
“I’m, uh, Lance,” Lance was saying, offering her his hand. She smiled, blushing. She looked suddenly like a little kid, a precocious child on the precipice of adulthood.
I fell in love with her all over again, right then and there.
All over again? Was I in love with her already?
“Hi, Damien,” she said shyly, looking up at me. I set the guitar aside and leaned down to look at her.
“Hey, kiddo. That’s a nice dress.”
“Do you like it?” she gushed, giggling, spinning and showing me: it was a blue-ish silver, with meandering lace flowers. “I ordered it from ModCloth. It was a bit expensive but I had some money saved up from my birthday. Maria helped me put it on.”
“Where’s your dress, Damien?” Lance butted in but I just ignored him.
“It looks… Great on you.”
She bit her lip.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want a beer?”
“I probably shouldn’t. I’m only eighteen.”
“Well, it’s only a problem if you say that out loud…” Lance muttered. “You’re taking away all the plausible deniability.”
“You didn’t hear anything, Lance. Why don’t you get the lady a beer?”
Lance stalked off, apparently dismayed that he wouldn’t get to monopolize my sister. That’s fine. She was all for me.
“I’m excited to hear you play. You know, for real. In a band,” Sarah said, taking a seat not far off the stage. “Do you think there’ll be a big turn out?”
“No. But that’s all right. We’re getting paid anyway.”
“I…” Sarah started to say but I saw her gaze wander away from me towards the door. I met her eyes, and then sought out whatever it was that had caught her attention.
A group of four people, three guys, one girl, had just entered the bar. They seemed about my age or a few years older. All wearing jeans, sweatshirts from the local college. They took a seat in the back of the bar and one of the guys went up and bought a pitcher for them.
The boys didn’t look familiar in the slightest but there was something about the girl that reminded me of someone. And I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something about the brown hair, the shape of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the guarded way she smiled.
“That’s my sister,” Sarah said finally.
“What?”
“Christina. My sister.”
Christ. I had forgotten about her. Of course, there was another Logan girl. Sarah was the middle child. That explained a lot, now that I thought about it.
“She doesn’t come around the house anymore, even though she’s at college in town. She won’t talk to dad at all.”
“I can’t blame her.”
“Yeah, I know. But she doesn’t really talk to us, either.”
I knew that “us” meant her and Dakota.
“Well, should we go over and talk to her?” I said after a moment of silence. But it was too late—Christina had already spied us and she was on her way over.
“You’re too young to be here, aren’t you?” she said as soon as she was within earshot.
“No, she’s not,” I cut in.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing with my underage sister in a bar?” Christina said fiercely turning on me.
“I’m your brother,” I drawled. I extended my hand. “Damien Calabruzzo. Good to meet you, sis.”
That threw Christina for a loop. She shook my hand dumbly, struggling, clearly, to find something to say. Fortunately, Sarah stepped in to explain.
“Damien’s home from Iraq, and he’s finishing up his GED.”
“Right. Right. That makes sense,” Christina murmured. “I’m sorry, I can be kind of a bitch, especially when my
family’s concerned.”
I just smiled.
“I mean, I think you’ve got plenty of reason to be.”
“Thanks, I guess. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here. She’s—“
“We’re just hanging out here before going to a dance at school. I’ll have one beer and then that’ll be it,” Sarah insisted gently. Christina’s face fell and she shrugged.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be more sober than Dakota at the end of the night…”
That comment had us all laughing bitterly.
“You’re applying to college now, aren’t you?” Christina asked, turning to Sarah. “I keep meaning to email you about it. You’re not applying to Laramie, are you?”
“Well… I hadn’t really thought of it…” Sarah started and then shook her head. “No. Fuck no. I’m getting out of here.”
“Thank god,” Christina said with a sigh. “That was my mistake. Harry twisted my arm and got me to go to Laramie, since I’ve got a full scholarship. Cheaper for him, and he thought he could keep an eye on me.”
“How’s that working out?” I asked.
“Well, the scholarship’s fine, and wouldn’t you know it—he tried to run my life for the first semester and then I threatened to get a restraining order and now we don’t talk.”
“That’s one way to do it,” I said with a shrug.
“Listen,” Christina said, turning on Sarah, jutting her shoulder in my way as if to block me out of the conversation. “We should talk, sometime. In private. I think I’ve figured something out.”
“What?”
“Something about mom.”
“Oh, god, Christina, this again…”
“Sarah, I’m serious. I think I know how to get proof.”
“No, god, Christina, please. I don’t want to think about it. I can’t think about it.”
I could see Sarah was on the verge of tears.
“This might not be a good time,” I cut in, gently turning Christina aside and re-entering the conversation. “Mitch killed himself the other week. It’s been kind of rough.”
Christina’s eyes widened.
“God, I’m so sorry. Sarah…” she murmured, taking her sister into her arms. They clearly didn’t agree on everything, or even much at all, but they were still sisters—and good ones at that, it seemed.
Christina re-joined her group. I turned to Sarah.
“What was she saying about your mom?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She has this theory… About the night she died.”
“What?”
I knew that their mother, Kayla Logan, had died in a car accident on the highway a few years before my mom married Harry. But I didn’t know anything more than that—none of the Logans ever talked about her. Sarah didn’t mention her, and Harry certainly didn’t.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Christina’s just mad at dad. She thinks dad murdered our mom.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“What makes her think that?”
“I don’t know. Their relationship was pretty rough by the end. They just couldn’t get along. But also… Christina thinks that mom found out something she wasn’t supposed.”
“What kind of something?”
“I have no idea. Christina has no idea. She just remembers overhearing some late night conversations between the two of them. She said it was different than usual—they were quiet, because they didn’t want us kids to hear. Usually they just yelled at each other, but the weird thing was that they were quiet.”
“But she doesn’t know what it was about?”
“I guess not—“ Sarah began to say but Lance gestured at me from across the bar to start getting ready to play.
“Whatever, it’s probably nothing,” Sarah declared with a sigh. “Let’s just enjoy tonight, please? I need to have fun tonight. I need to…”
“Forget everything,” I said, finishing her sentence—as if the look in her eyes had told me exactly what she wanted to say.
She smiled.
“How did you know?”
The band assembled onstage. Lance gave Sarah her single can of beer, which she drank slowly, like a goblet of sacramental wine.
“Damien, introduce us,” Lance hissed at me as he joined us on stage, taking his place at his drum set, surrounded by gleaming steel, much as he had been surrounded by steel while deployed in Afghanistan as a tank commander. I wondered if there were a connection between his love for the drums now and his previous career as a guy who climbed into a steel cage and made loud booming noises with a cannon—I’d have to ask him about that.
I got up from my seat, slinging my guitar over my shoulder, and took hold of the microphone.
“Uh, hi, everyone. Thanks for coming out to see us. Great to see such a big, friendly crowd here at Riley’s tonight.”
Scattered applause greeted me. Christina and Sarah were easily the most enthusiastic, as was Lance’s wife, Jessica, who had just arrived.
“This is our first gig as a band, I guess, so don’t be too harsh on us. We’re called…”
And then I paused. I realized our band didn’t have a name. I glanced back at Lance. He shrugged at me. Time to make something up, I guessed.
“We’re called Homecoming. ‘Cause, I guess, Laramie is our home—for better or for worse,” I said, surprised that I was able to come up with something sounding halfway decent right on the fly like that. It got some smiles and applause from our small audience.
We launched our first set: just acoustic songs, standards: Simon and Garfunkel, some other folk music. Things you would totally expect to hear some guys with beards playing on guitars.
The entire time we played, I watched Sarah’s face: I devoured her eyes, the slope of her cheek down to her chin, the way her hair framed her beautiful face. God. I couldn’t believe I got to have her.
But for how long?
Suddenly, I felt like I was back in that shit hole of a bar near the base. I was in a different world, a completely different place: it was a Saturday night and I was near black out drunk, watching Jenna make out with a guy I didn’t know—big guy, covered in tattoos, the kind of guy who left his motorcycle parked outside.
I finally roused myself to my feet, wobbled over to them. The dark room was spinning, everything smelled of beer, and it was strangely humid—the sensation of hundreds of young, sweaty bodies packed into a small room, all drinking, all horny. All wanting satisfaction.
And I wanted satisfaction right then and there.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I remember slurring, growling at my rival for what I thought was my girlfriend’s affections.
“Beat it, you piece of shit,” the tattooed punk growled, looked up from Jenna’s wasted, withdrawn face. She was too far gone to know what she was doing, I told myself, hoping against hope that somehow she didn’t know, didn’t understand—didn’t know that she was hurting me.
“Fuck you,” I growled, grabbing the guy by the shoulder. He pushed Jenna away and she clattered into a handful of people gyrating to the shitty DJ’s tunes. She just giggled, stumbling to her feet and then falling back, throwing out her hands as one of her breasts popped out of her top, her pink, pierced nipple gleaming in the dim lights of the bar.
The biker swung and hit me hard. His fist collided with my jaw, knocked me into another group.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the cheer rose up as a crowd formed around us. My world was spinning even faster than the booze had made it before. I struggled to stand but somehow, I found it in me to get up.
“Son of a bitch,” the biker growled and threw an uppercut into my belly. I felt my hips rise a full inch off the floor and I pitched over, feeling all the beer I had consumed over the course of the night come rushing to my mouth. This wasn’t going to end well if it kept up like this.
But I had no intention of allowing it to. Even as he swung at me once more, aiming for my head, I was ready for him: I ducked the blow, leaned in, ending up in
side of his guard. I threw two fast upper cuts to his gut and he gasped: he hadn’t seen those coming. As his hands flew down to his gut to protect himself, I grabbed him behind the head and forced his face down into my ascending knee.
I felt the hard, dull crack of victory as I broke his nose—just as they had taught us to in basic training. I threw another knee and then another and then another, faster and faster, hopping from foot to foot as I decimated his face. When they pulled me off of him, his teeth were scattered on the floor, some of them even embedded in my knee. He had bitten me several times, apparently, but I hadn’t even noticed. I never once felt it.
