Red Hot Blues

by Rachel Dunning

  Gin puts her hand on mine. Holds it. Says nothing. And we lie here. Looking at the ceiling.

  Silently.

  -46-

  Some time later, I’m kissing her. I love kissing her. I could kiss her all night. Slowly, quietly. Just the sounds of our lips smacking, and the whir-whir of the AC.

  Kissing her eases my mind.

  Kissing her makes me forget.

  Kissing her soothes the buzzing thrum of the pressure of uncertainty I feel in my chest, my heart, for things that have happened, pains that I’ve suffered. It eases the anger, the hatred. The desire to run.

  The kiss leads to me climbing over her, smothering her, falling in love with the sounds she makes, the innocent calls of attraction, her music of arousal.

  I widen her legs, find her, enter her. And she arches, thrusting her hips into me, upwards, driving me crazy for her.

  I’ve fallen for her. But I wasn’t lying to her when I told her I’d break her heart. I will. Not because I want to, but because it’s who I am.

  Will I be able to see her again afterwards? I have to. Because I promised her.

  And more than that: I want to. I don’t think I could live without ever seeing her again. Regularly.

  Afterwards, I sit up to go to the gas station and pick up some more rubbers. She grabs my wrist before I’m off the bed. With fear in her beautiful blue eyes, she says, “Come back. After tonight, you can leave, but tonight you’re mine.”

  She smiles innocently, and the smile breaks me.

  I’m falling for her. Falling deep. Falling head first, feet second.

  It scares me. I don’t like caring for people. Because the people I care about get hurt—mom, Janice, Aaron. Everyone I care for gets bruised, punched, kicked. I have no love in my heart to give, only hate. Black Hate. Hate that sits inside me for a despicable man, a man who beat me, kicked me, hurt me. Hurt my family, my mother, my sister. And now my best friend, my true father. The man who truly raised me.

  I hate him. Logan Travers. Hate him!

  And now he’s dying. And I have to hope he doesn’t die because if he does then more people I know will get hurt.

  Even though I want him to die. I do.

  Facts are dirty. Truth is dirty. It’s just the way I feel about it. And I’m not going to make excuses for it. I am who I am.

  Before I know it, there’s blood in my palms. I’ve dug my fingernails into them. Gin’s on her knees in front of me, on the bed. Naked. Beautifully naked. Holding me. She pulls me to her. I don’t know where I went there, but now I’m in her arms.

  There’s tension all around me. My fists are clenched. I’ll hurt her. I’ll hurt her if I don’t go. Because I have a temper. I have a temper. A red temper. A hot temper. A filthy, hateful, vengeful temper. And what if she gets in my way when I’m angry about something that has nothing to do with her?

  I’ve never hit a woman. Never even had the urge to.

  But, what if? I have a temper. I fought those underground fights not only for the money. No. Sometimes I think it wasn’t for the money at all.

  I fought those fights because I wanted to hit someone. Hard.

  Or be hit.

  I did a lot of both.

  “It’s OK, baby,” she says, holding me, rocking me, her mound pressed against the side of my body, my face buried in her amazing breasts.

  Where did I go there? Where?

  Hate. Lots of hate. That man. That man. That. Man.

  “It’s OK. It’s OK, Ace. It’s OK. Shh. Shh. Shh.”

  Eventually, I feel my hands glide upwards. I wrap my arms around her. All I want is to bury myself inside her. Burying myself inside her makes me forget. Brings peace. Like her voice, only a million times more. A trillion times more. More than a single moment of it—it brings an eternal peace, being inside her.

  But I can’t now. Because I have no rubber left. I need her, need her more than she knows.

  Come back? What does she think?

  It’s the first time the thought of running sends blasting shivers of terror down my spine.

  -47-

  The ride to the gas station is a blur. I’m furious. Angry. I realize I might be tired. That trip from Memphis to Virginia. Hardly any sleep. Then back here to Nashville. Then hardly any sleep at that godforsaken hostel because nobody sleeps at a hostel. They only drink. And party. And think about their next score.

  Tonight I won’t sleep either. Because I choose not to. I won’t sleep because I don’t want to miss a second with Gin. Not a second.

  Maybe I’ll stay another day. Maybe.

  I get the rubbers and realize she has no dress because I tore it apart. She didn’t realize it either.

  I pull out my phone and search for the nearest clothing store. Walmart. I drive there. It’s not too far, a few miles. I pick up some sundresses she might like. I don’t know her size and don’t want to seem like an asshole for getting something too big so I pick up everything from the smallest to the largest. No, that’s too large. I pick the second largest. No, also too big. But what if it’s not? OK, fine, I take it. But the smallest is too small. She’d know I was bullshitting if I brought that! OK, leave that.

  Christ. Girls are so complicated.

  OK, I take everything from the almost-smallest to the not-almost-largest-but-pretty-large dress. Fine. I hope she doesn’t take my head off.

  Is she hungry? Thirsty? Damn it!

  I pick up some water, a few Yazoo Pale Ales, some potato chips. Some dips. Junk food—the Good Ole American staple. She’d probably want to eat a salad. Screw that. I’ll be damned if she thinks she needs to eat a damn salad around me! I saw how she dimmed the lights, thinking I wasn’t completely turned on by her figure.

  But I didn’t say anything. I can feel the terror in her eyes about the way she looks. She doesn’t need to mention it. And I know me mentioning it, telling her she looks fine as she is, would make her uncomfortable. So instead of mentioning it, I’ll drop a hint—in the form of Lays potato chips and beer.

  When I get back to the suite, she’s sleeping. Still naked. I remember my need to have her, my urge to burst out the door and pick up some condoms because all I could think about was being inside her again.

  I can’t fight the urge back.

  I wake her up with a kiss, on her breasts, her beautiful pink discs, then lower, lower, lower.

  Until I’m there, kissing her, loving her. Tasting her.

  I kiss her until she’s fully awake, and screaming over the edge.

  And then I take my fill of her.

  -48-

  We’re sitting on the carpet, legs crossed, no clothes on. Perfection. Potato chips and beer and dips in the middle.

  She hesitates on the potato chips. “Carbs,” she says.

  “Fuck that shit!” I grab a chip, dip it in the carb-filled dip, feed it to her. Some lands on her chin. She laughs.

  I do it again. And again.

  “OK! OK! I can feed myself!”

  She does, but she can’t do it for long, because not long afterwards I have her on the carpet, and I’ve got her legs open, and I’m inside her again.

  And it’s heaven. Being wrapped in her is my heaven, my bliss. I need a little bit of heaven in my life.

  I need Ginger in my life.

  But she doesn’t need me.

  -49-

  In the morning, I call my mom. She tells me my dad’s not gonna make it. She tells me I should visit him and say my goodbyes “because it’s the right thing to do.” I tell her I don’t want to. She begs me. “He’s your father, Ace. Come and see him.”

  “How’s Aaron?” I change the subject.

  She hesitates. “B—better.”

  Silence.

  “Please, Ace. Do it for me. I beg you.”

  “I can’t, momma. I can’t.”

  She says nothing.

  I dredge up the courage to say what I want to say, what I believe: “Maybe it’s for the best, mom.”

  Silence.

  �
��Mom?”

  “We’re broke, Ace.”

  Silence.

  “Huh?”

  “We’re broke. Broke. If there’s one thing your father knew how to do it’s how to keep the debt collector away. We’re up to our ears in debt. We have nothing. I can’t deal with it. I can’t...run the farm like he did. I can’t keep it alive if he goes. It’ll all crash. It might have crashed later even if he lives, but he would have kept it going long enough to get Janice through school. He would have kept it going long enough for that, I’m sure.”

  I feel sick to my stomach.

  I think of Aaron, all those nights he taught me how to play. I think of his daughters. I think of momma, nowhere left to go. I think of Janice, that night Logan Travers, her own father, had his dirty hand on her innocent leg.

  Pig.

  And now this. The ultimate betrayal. Forced to depend on him when he’s alive. Dropped like a sack of worm-infested potatoes when he’s dead.

  I decide I will go and see him.

  And if he’s not dead yet, I’m gonna kill him myself.

  -50-

  “I need you to come to Virginia with me.”

  Gin’s shocked at my request. She’s sitting on the bed, holding her knees, looking adorable.

  “OK.”

  “OK?”

  “Yeah. OK.”

  “Just like that? No questions?”

  “No questions.”

  I’m stunned. Moved. “OK.”

  “OK.”

  “You ever ridden on a motorbike?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ll need a helmet.”

  We get her a cool pink helmet with flames on the side and a Mohawk on the top.

  She wraps her legs around my waist and already I’m feeling that wave of peace. I need that, or else I’ll do something stupid. I’ll do something really stupid.

  I tell her she can hold on to me or hold on to the bar behind her. She holds on to me.

  I roar the Harley awake.

  And we ride.

  -51-

  It’s open road. Me and my Harley and my girl. I could get used to this. I could really get to like this.

  I could even get to...love?...this.

  We ride slower than my usual pace, not because I’m scared of an accident. I’m not. I’ve driven for years. I’ve got a sixth sense about it. We drive slow because I get the feeling that life can’t get better than this, cruising up the I-81, the wind in our hair, the squeal of the hog under our butts. And its American purr—that pure rock n roll purr.

  What would normally be an eight hour drive, becomes a slow, kissing, hugging, enjoying-the-sites-and-the-heat road trip of two days. Two full days.

  We make a detour and check out Rock Island, feel the spray of falling water on our cheeks as we stop to listen to the rumble of the Twin Falls. We traverse the rocks and she almost falls over one. I hold her, kiss her, imagine what it would be like to take her, right here, under this falling water. Or inside it.

  She picks up on my thoughts and gets on her tip-toes to kiss me, buries her tongue in my mouth. Makes me so horny for her. So horny.

  We spend the night in Knoxville, downtown, go for dinner, make love like sick lovebirds in a hotel until we can’t keep our eyes open anymore. We don’t talk about the future, just think about the moment.

  We wake up early, order room service, fall into each other again.

  I catch the flash of fear in her eyes. She’s falling for me as well. I know it. And I’ve fallen for her already. I know that, too.

  We ride all of the next day, make more detours, see more mountains, more parks, more falls. The road to Virginia is so beautiful, one of the best in America.

  Near the end of our trip, we’re singing rock n roll and blues at the top of our lungs, drowned out by the roar of the Harley, but we don’t care.

  And then we finally arrive. Nighttime. St Mary’s Hospital. And it’s cold. There’s a wind that cuts through my jacket. I turn the bike off. Get off it. Extend my hand to Gin’s.

  She’s so beautiful. And I’m so glad she’s here.

  We walk in. Hand in hand.

  ~ GIN ~

  -52-

  Layna called a few times, told me I was mad to go out on the road with some guy I don’t know.

  But I do know him. I know everything about him. I know everything that’s important to know about him.

  And I love him. Completely. True love. Real love. The stuff they write about in movies and plays and books—all those books I’ve read on that brown leather couch in the Nashville library—this is it.

  It’s gonna burn. It’s gonna sting. It’s gonna knock me out the ball bark and I’m gonna fall, tumbling, crashing.

  He is who he is.

  I know why he runs. He runs because he’s afraid.

  He told me, sitting under that rushing water at one of the parks we stopped at, chewing on carb-loaded chips, about his fighting days.

  He keeps his fear at bay with his fists, his music, and his motorbike.

  I can’t change him.

  Does he love me in return? If he doesn’t, he sure as heck likes me a whole lot!

  But I believe he does love me. Love is different for guys, I think. And I think it takes them longer to figure out they’re in love. But I believe he does love me.

  I know him. And I won’t hold him back when he needs to go. When he needs to hit the road again to alleviate his fears. When he needs to run and get some air and stop his mind from imploding on him.

  I know the feeling.

  That had been our deal. I broke my personal rule. He broke his own rules.

  But that had been the agreement: Some fun. And then stay friends.

  Oh, boy, he’s gonna be one hell of a friend.

  But I’ll be here for him. I’ll hold his hand. I only want that he respects me when he does leave.

  The hospital reeks of disinfectant. I hate hospital smells. They remind me of my own dad, of those last days. They remind me of when I was five. They remind me of my mother screaming at the top of her lungs. That smell. That disinfectant smell.

  It’s the smell of Cancer to me.

  And it’s the smell of End of Days.

  It’s the smell of loneliness. Of pain.

  I hate this smell.

  I don’t remember him much. But I know that my life would have been different, much different, if he’d been around. Even if only to have been held by him, held by a man—the first man that ever holds a girl like he loves her.

  I never had that. And if I did, I don’t remember it.

  He left us nothing, because he had nothing. And what little money we did have went to paying his medical bills.

  In the waiting area, a lady who I assume is Ace’s mother, gets up and hugs him. She’s a frail woman, tiny bone structure. She’s sporting a blue eye. Yeah, must be from Mr. Logan Travers. She’s taller than me, because everyone’s taller than me. But she’s shorter than Ace.

  He introduces us. Her accent’s deeply southern. Deeply southern. She has frizzy red hair and thin cheeks, thin everything. More like gaunt, I realize. She’s not led a happy life. And whatever this...man...(if you can call him that) has done to her, she’s at her wit’s end at the fear of losing him anyway.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ginger,” she says, and extends her hand to mine.

  She and Ace have a slightly heated (albeit, Southernly polite) discussion about who he’s gonna see first. Ace wants to see Aaron. His mom says his father might go any minute now.

  Ace doesn’t budge.

  He visits Aaron.

  And while he’s in there—his father dies.

  -53-

  I’m back in the moment, five years old, hearing the screams, hearing that shrill cry of a wrenched heart, a torn-apart soul. I’m in that hospital, smelling that disinfectant, listening to my own mom rip her lungs out with wringing calls to the underworld, begging to sell her soul in exchange for one more minute, hour, day, with the man she lo
ved.

  My daddy.

  My poppa.

  Now, pummeled by memories, I fall onto a blue seat, bury my face in my hands.

  And I weep.

  Mrs. Travers goes ballistic, screaming like my mom did, falling onto her knees. I get up, go to her, try and console her but she’s inconsolable. She doesn’t want to be touched. She flicks away at my hands and falls on the ground, her back to a wall, and she weeps viciously.

  Ace comes running out, only too aware of what’s happened.

  She points an accusatory finger at him, shaking, like a person on the verge of death herself: “You! You didn’t see him! You didn’t see your own father!”

  Ace stands, takes her accusations.

  “He loved you! Oh, Logan, Logan!”

  She lies on the ground, right here in the hallway. A nurse appears, tries to take Christa Travers away, but Ace gets in the way, grabs his mother. Heaves her up. She starts slapping his chest, complaining, and he just holds her.

  I see him crying, just one tear.

  Is he crying because he’s sad? Or is he crying because it’s over? Maybe he’s crying because he knows his mother and his family have nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn.

  His mom keeps slapping him, punching him, hitting him, but eventually she just cries into his chest, her shoulders shuddering up and down while he just continues to hold her tightly, comforting her, taking on the role which is his now by default—the man of the family.

  And I’m feeling sick. Remembering that I don’t remember. Remembering only those faint, ripping screams. And being confused, at five. But I don’t remember his face. I don’t remember him holding me. I don’t remember anything about him at all.

  Only that disinfectant smell.

  That smell makes me sick.

  And I eventually go into the restroom and hurl.

  -54-

  I call Layna and tell her what’s happening. She offers to come by but I tell her there’s no reason to. She asks me what I’m gonna do: Am I gonna stay in Virginia? Take over a tobacco farm? Drop all the website work?