by B. B. Hamel
“They’re assholes,” I call out. Carly glances at me but looks back to Jeremy.
“Did you make all this?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says, looking proud.
She sighs. “Of course he can’t make his own material.”
I laugh at that, but don’t argue.
“Anyway,” Jeremy says, looking awkwardly at me. “This is everything you need. If you read it all, you’ll get there.”
She nods. “Where’s the stuff for high school?”
Jeremy digs through the box and produces two binders. “Here they are.”
Carly takes them from him, walks over to the trashcan, pulls it out, and dumps them in. Jeremy watches, horrified.
“I spent three hours each on those,” he whispers.
She shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t need those. I know everything I need to know about Davis from high school.”
I grin at her and she just glares in return. We have a short little staring contest before Jeremy interrupts.
“Well, uh, anyway. Good luck. We’re going to need to sit down soon and make some material for Davis.”
I sigh. “Do I have to?”
“Only way for this to be real,” Jeremy says.
Carly laughs. “Poor Davis. You’ll have to think about someone other than yourself.”
“Doubtful,” I grumble.
Carly grabs the first binder from the table and takes it over to the couch. She plops down, flips it open, and starts to read.
“Thank you, Jeremy,” I say to him softly. “Head on home. I’ll take care of this.”
He shakes his head. “I really don’t mind helping.”
“I know you don’t, but we have a deal, remember?”
He sighs. “I do the materials, but no more.”
“Right. I don’t want you implicated in this. Your job is done and you’ll be paid for what you did.”
“I don’t need—”
“Jeremy,” I interrupt. “You need to get paid. Seriously, when was the last time you bought new clothes?”
He grins sheepishly. “Okay, fine.”
“Good man.” I nod at him and he nods in return before leaving the kitchen with a quick glance at Carly.
Jeremy has been with me for three years now. He started as an assistant, but he’s a lot more than that now. My whole world functions because of him. He’s basically the third person on my company’s hierarchy.
And he’s my friend. Despite what Carly thinks, I have friends, and I take care of my people. Jeremy is getting paid an enormous sum of money for all this hard work. He wants to do more, but I won’t let him. I won’t risk him.
I make myself some tea while Carly studies. After about an hour, I make her some coffee along with a grilled cheese sandwich.
“Thanks,” she says, glancing up. “Your middle name is Francis?”
“Family name,” I say.
She snorts. “Sure, sounds like it.”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Jean,” she says.
“Carly Jean.” I smile. “Sounds pretty.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She gives me a look and goes back to poring over the binder.
I sit in the kitchen, watching her nervously. I don’t know why I can’t seem to leave her alone. I scroll through my phone, play on my laptop, but mostly I’m just watching her.
I feel strangely vulnerable. I think it has something to do with her learning my whole life story. I mean, I know what Jeremy put down in those binders. It’s all factually correct, although it lacks a lot of the nuance. That should be fine, I doubt ICE knows whether or not my childhood was happy.
Still, she’s learning a lot about me. It’s strangely intimate, especially considering that’s Carly reading all that stuff.
We have a history. A complicated, long history. And now that history is only getting more complicated.
I keep thinking about that moment in the office, her mouth around my cock, my mouth on her swollen little clit. I want to push those binders aside, kiss her lips hard, fuck her right here on the couch. I want to make her strip for every answer she gets wrong until she’s naked, trembling, begging for more.
But I don’t, I can’t. I need this to work. Fuck, she needs it to work.
I can’t risk getting her in trouble for this, at least not any more than I have already.
After a few hours of studying, nervous pacing, and general unease, I finally can’t take it anymore.
“We gotta get out of this house,” I announce, standing up.
She looks over at me, frowning. “Why? I just got to the good part.”
“Which bit?” I crane my neck to see.
“Your middle school baseball days. I didn’t know you were such a stud.”
I sigh. “Of course I was a stud. I still am.”
She rolls her eyes. “Why do we have to get out of here?”
“Because,” I hesitate. “You need context.”
“I have plenty of context. I know you already, remember?”
“You need perspective then.” I glare at her. “Come on, get up. Let’s go out.”
“Go where?”
“I don’t know. There’s a bar around the corner. We’ll get a drink.”
She sighs. “I guess I could use a break.”
“Come on.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy but she finally gets up, tossing the binder aside. “All right, all right. Fine, just let me get changed really quick.”
I groan but I nod. She rolls her eyes and hurries upstairs. I watch her ass as she climbs the steps, shaking my head.
What am I doing? I don’t need to take her out right now. I should be making her work harder, like a taskmaster. I should be on top of her, wringing out every single second of work possible.
Instead, I’m going easy. I’m taking her for drinks.
And as soon as she comes down the steps, I know why.
Sweater that fits her body perfectly. Tight jeans that barely leave anything to the imagination. She cocks her head as I stare at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I clear my throat and have to look away. I keep thinking about taking a fist full of that hair, grabbing it tight, feeling her full breasts, making her suck my cock again. “Come on, let’s go.”
I hurry outside, hoping my fucking hard-on will relax on its own.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks me as we head down the sidewalk.
I glance at her. “A few years. Well, I’ve had the house for a few years. I don’t always stay here.”
She snorts. “I noticed. The place looks like nobody lives there.”
“It’s more of a home office than a home.”
“Where’s home for you then?”
I shrug. “Wherever I am at any given moment.”
She laughs. “Sounds corny.”
“I know, but it’s true. I travel a lot for Bison, so I’ve gotten used to being anywhere but home.”
“Isn’t that hard?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But it’s not too bad.”
“Makes it hard to have relationships, I bet.”
I laugh softly. “I haven’t had a relationship in a long time.”
“Really?” she raises her eyebrow.
“My relationships tend to last a night and not much more.”
She groans. “Of course.”
“Does it surprise you?”
“Not at all. You’re a rich asshole.”
“Being rich doesn’t have anything to do with it.” We reach the little bar around the corner and I turn on her, grabbing her wrist. Surprised, she stumbles against me.
“Women want to fuck me,” I say softly. “Can you blame me for giving them what they want?”
She stares up at me for a second, standing against my chest. For that second, I think she’s about to kiss me.
Instead, she shoves me away. “Asshole,” she mumbles.
I laugh and lead her inside. It’s a little place, just
a bar along one wall and grimy bathrooms in the back. They have exactly three beers on tap, and the guys sitting on the cracked vinyl stools look like they’ve been there for ages.
We sit at the far end, away from the others. I ask for a beer and Carly gets the same thing. The bartender, a woman with gray hair and a scowl, comes back with two glasses of what I think is probably Miller Lite, but who knows.
We cheers and take a sip. “Come here often?” Carly asks me, jokingly.
“Yeah actually,” I admit. “Whenever I’m in town.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Nobody knows me here. Nobody bothers me here. I can just sit and drink.” I nod at the other guys. “They’re here for the same reason.”
She bites her lip. “Yeah, I’ve seen bars like this.”
“They’re all over Philly. They basically exist to serve a single neighborhood. I bet this place has been just like this for fifty years.”
“Maybe longer,” Carly says, poking at the chipping bar.
I laugh. “It has character.”
“It has lice.”
“Fair point. But still, part of the charm.”
She sighs. “Sometimes, charm’s overrated.”
I laugh again and sip my beer. We sit in silence for a second before Carly starts to fidget.
“What?” I finally prompt her.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead, wife.”
She glares at me. “What were your parents like?”
I shrug. “It’s in the file.”
“Their names and jobs are. But it doesn’t talk much about them.”
I glance away from her. This is what I was afraid of, but also what I wanted. If she’s going to know me…
Maybe, if it were just an ICE interview, I wouldn’t care what she thought. I wouldn’t care if she had context or not.
But for some reason, I think I do care. I think I care a lot.
“My father was a drunk asshole,” I say softly.
“He was an investment banker?”
I nod. “We lived outside of Vancouver. He spent all his time working or thinking about work.”
“And he died?”
“When I was twenty.”
She sighs. “Sorry.”
“Like I said, he was an asshole.”
“He was still your dad.”
“Fine. But whatever, he’s gone.”
“What about your mom?”
I don’t answer for a minute. I take a sip of beer, trying to explain what my mother was like.
“Imagine an artist that always failed, but never knew she was failing,” I finally say. “Now imagine that artist’s medium is the charity auction, and you have my mother.”
She frowns slightly. “Hard to picture.”
“I know. My mother was a perfectionist. Still is, actually. You might have to meet her at some point.”
“Probably. Since we’re married and all.”
I grin at that. “Slow down, Carly. You’re moving so fast.”
She rolls her eyes. “Do you have a good relationship with her?”
“Good enough,” I say. “She was there for me when I was young and when my father was being a particularly bad drunk. Otherwise…”
She’s quiet for a second after I trail off. “Otherwise?”
“She’s distant. Doing her own thing. When I left the house, we basically stopped talking.”
“Oh.”
She sounds disappointed, and for a second, I hate myself for letting her down.
But why do I care about that?
“You have to understand. My mother cares more about her own world than she does about the world outside.”
“I see where you get it from.”
For a second, anger flares. But it disappears just as quickly. “You’re probably right.”
She sighs. “Sorry. That was a low blow.”
“It’s okay.”
“Do you ever wish you had a better relationship with her?”
“No,” I admit. “Things are the way they are. I don’t dwell on anything else.”
She frowns but doesn’t argue. I want to press her about her parents, about her imperfect life, but I bite my tongue.
The whole point of this is to give her context. The whole point is to let her inside.
I just hate letting people inside.
I hate letting people into my world, into my pain. I don’t want her to know that I’ve struggled with my family, that my father was an abusive piece of shit, that my mother is distant and cold. I don’t want her to feel bad for me.
But I also want her to understand where I’ve come from.
It’s a complicated, messy situation. And I’m already starting to regret getting myself into it.
I finish my beer. “Come on,” I say, standing.
“Where now?”
“Back home.”
She nods, finishes her drink, and gets up.
We walk slowly down the block. She stands closer to me, and I’m tempted to grab her hand. Suddenly, I feel a sort of closeness to her that I didn’t before.
It’s more than just desire. More than lust.
I have to cut it off, or else.
“Get back to work,” I say when we get to the house. “I have some things to do.”
She nods. “Listen, Davis. I know this is… weird.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person.”
I stare at her for a second, surprised. “You don’t?”
“No. I mean, you’re an asshole… but you’re not a bad person.”
I laugh softly. “My god, Carly. Did you just compliment me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”
I step closer to her, smirking. She backs against the door. “Come on, say something else. Give me another compliment.”
“Don’t be thirsty,” she says.
I laugh, put my hands on her hips. “Tell me how badly you wanted to fuck me this morning,” I whisper in her ear.
“When?” she asks.
“Don’t pretend. When you walked in on me. You want to suck me dry and ride me until you couldn’t walk. Tell me I’m lying.”
She takes a sharp breath. “Yeah, definitely an asshole.”
I smirk and kiss her. She kisses me back and the hint of needy hunger on her lips tells me everything I needed to know.
I pull back, smirking, and turn away. “Get back to work,” I say as I walk down the stoop and head up the block.
I leave her there, grinning to myself, reveling in this weird, confusing, complicated, sticky situation.
9
Carly
After that strange outing with Davis, it’s back to studying.
Fortunately, I’m an actress. That means I’m used to reading really long, relatively boring documents and memorizing what they say. I keep thinking about this binder of Davis’s life as basically just one long script, and I’m the narrator.
It’s slow going. I’m just one girl, after all, and I’m supposed to memorize this guy’s entire life story.
Like, for example, I’m supposed to know that when he was ten years old, he had a rabbit named Charlie. Well, he and Charlie used to be close pals, hopping around the basement and all that crap, until one day Davis took Charlie out on a little walk.
You can probably fill in the rest of the story. It ends tragically, like most of these stories tend to. Davis is heartbroken, and Charlie goes to live out the rest of his life on a farm upstate somewhere.
Apparently, it was a farm that could magically heal truck-induced trauma, but little Davis wasn’t thinking too much about that.
His life is filled with little anecdotes like that. A lot of them involve his father, and I can totally see why the two of them didn’t get along.
Around one in the morning, I find a particularly gross story. Davis is eleven, Charlie long forgotten at this point. He’s heading home from a baseball game where the coaches gave out
participation awards. Little Davis runs right up to his father, excited and giddy, and shows his father the trophy.
“Isn’t it cool?” he asked his dad.
His father took the trophy, stared at it, and broke the little baseball man off the base. He smiled at his son and handed the two pieces back. “Go win some more.”
I think his father meant that as a motivational thing. I think his father was trying to get his son to work hard and earn more awards.
Instead, it just made the poor little kid cry, which only pissed his dad off more.
If there’s one thing I’m going to take away from reading this binder, it’s this: spanking your kid does not make him stop crying.
I have to shut the binder after that. I feel a little sick, a little upset. I keep thinking about that little boy, desperate for his father’s love, and getting absolutely nothing but rejection in return.
Rejection and the occasional physical punishment, of course.
I can’t help but think of my own parents. If I had a father like that, I don’t know how I would’ve turned out. I mean, they cut me off and basically kicked me out of the family when I decided to become an actress…
But at least he didn’t spank me whenever I cried. At least he showed me some affection. He’s still an asshole, but Davis’s father was worse. I can admit that.
I get out of bed and stretch. The binder drops onto the floor as I pull on some sweats and a crewneck sweatshirt over my t-shirt. Quietly, I head downstairs.
I haven’t heard from Davis since earlier. I figure he’s either not home yet or in bed, since the house has been quiet. I go into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and pour myself a glass of white wine that’s still open from yesterday.
That’s when I realize the TV is on mute, and Davis is sitting in the living room.
“Shit,” I say, startled. “You scared me.”
He smiles. “Sorry.”
“What are you doing?”
He holds up a paperback novel. “Reading.”
“With the TV on?”
“I don’t know why, but I like to have something going on in the background.”
I sigh and put the wine bottle back into the refrigerator. I take a sip and look at him.
He’s wearing the same clothes from earlier, a bit rumpled now. There’s a half-empty glass of something brown next to him, and his eyes look tired.
