Riot

by Jamie Shaw

  “Why?” she says, and I struggle to think up a believable lie.

  “Jimmy just walked in,” I say, pulling a name out of thin air.

  “Who’s Jimmy?” She starts to turn around again, and I jerk her forward again. Leti is turned all the way around in his seat, but he’s not the one I’m worried about.

  “A guy I screwed around with a few weeks ago,” I lie. “He won’t stop calling me. I need you to get me out of here.” My foot knocks at Leti like a woodpecker under the table, and the expression on his face slowly turns to one of realization. I toss my purse on top of the table. “Leti, can you get our pancakes in boxes and pay with my card?”

  He nods and slides out of the booth to let Rowan out, and I wrap my arm around her shoulder, spinning around like a seasoned body guard shielding her from paparazzi. I keep her pinned against my side until we’ve emerged through the double doors into the bright morning sunlight, and then I start telling her all about the fictitious Jimmy.

  When we pass a silver Cobalt on the way to my car, I amp up the story to distract Rowan from noticing. “And THEN,” I say, throwing my hands in the air, “he had the NERVE to tell me I’d never forget him! Like HELLO, if you stopped calling me every two minutes, maybe I could!”

  Rowan chuckles and continues walking, oblivious to the car or the way my heart is pounding in my chest. “Sounds like he really likes you.”

  “Him and a million other guys. He had his chance, but he was all hands, Ro. And not like Joel’s hands, because those are just . . . well, Adam plays the guitar, so you know.” She blushes, and I continue rambling. “But this guy’s hands . . . God, it was like making out with the Hamburger Helper guy!”

  She laughs hysterically, and my heart slows just a little. When we get to my car, I unlock the doors and she gets in. I open the driver’s side but pause before sliding in next to her. “Shit,” I say, “I forgot to tell Leti which card to use. My Visa is maxed out.”

  She reaches for the handle to get out. “I’ll tell him.”

  “No!” I force a smile at the startled look she gives me and add, “I’ll do it. In and out, real quick. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  I jog back to IHOP, slip just inside the front doors to wait for Leti, and take my purse from him when he hands it to me.

  “Her ex?” he asks, and I nod while flipping through my keys to find the sharpest one. Brady broke Rowan’s heart into a million pieces when he cheated on her—and ground those pieces into dust when he did it again—and I’ve been itching for payback ever since. He’s here with a girl, and he’s lucky Rowan was with me or I would have scratched his eyes out right in the middle of IHOP.

  With a jagged key pinched between my knuckles, I smile at Leti and say, “Smile and pretend you don’t hear this.” As we pass by Brady’s Cobalt, my key digs a deep, screeching gash into the silver paint, all the way from front to back, and Leti and I smile like lunatics. By the time we hop into my car, we’re both laughing hysterically.

  “What?” Rowan asks, her eyebrow raised as she stares back and forth between us.

  “Nothing,” I say, starting the car and shooting Leti a smile in the rearview mirror. I begin backing out of the spot and add, “Thanks for getting me out of there, Ro. Love you.”

  I smile at the confused look she gives me but lose it less than a half-minute later, when Leti abruptly recalls what we had been talking about back in IHOP.

  “So,” he says, his big head popping between my seat and Rowan’s, “Bowl.”

  “I could crash this car right now, you know.”

  My warning just makes him laugh. “Really? That’d be better than just admitting your feelings?”

  My head snaps in his direction with a look that should make him flinch. Instead, his smile widens and I’m the one who looks away. “What feelings?”

  “Mushy ones. Probably feels like butterflies. Or mashed potatoes.”

  There’s a chirp at my right as Rowan barely contains a giggle, but I ignore it and let my foot weigh heavier on the gas so I can limit the amount of time Leti has to annoy me. “Yeeeah, I don’t have any of those,” I say, but I can feel his bright-as-ever smile burrowing into the side of my head.

  “What about Joel? I bet his stomach is fuuull of mashed potatoes.”

  “Joel has never had mashed potatoes in his life,” I counter, immediately cursing myself for going along with Leti’s stupid mashed-potatoes analogy.

  I’m going forty in a twenty-five when Rowan says, “He said you’re special.”

  Leti and I both look at her, and it’s only by the terrified look in her eyes that I manage to slam my foot on the brake to avoid running a red light. “He said what?”

  She has one hand glued to the dashboard and the other clinging to the armrest at her right. “Can you please not kill us?”

  “Tell me what he said and I’ll think about it.”

  Rowan’s fingers unpeel from the dashboard one by one, and she takes a deep breath when the light turns green and I ease onto the gas again. “I asked him why he keeps going back to you when he doesn’t really do that with anyone else, and he said you were special.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rowan shakes her head. “I asked, but he just smiled and shrugged.”

  Typical Joel. My brow furrows at the road ahead of me, and Leti singsongs, “See! Mashed po-tat-oes!”

  “He’s full of something,” I say, “but it isn’t mashed potatoes. If he thinks I’m so special, why was he slumming it with that groupie last night?”

  “He picks you every time he gets a kiss card during Kings,” Rowan counters, and I scoff.

  “He doesn’t mind when other girls pick him.” The last time we played, one groupie bitch lucked out and picked all three remaining kiss cards. She picked Joel every. single. time.

  Leti chuckles. “He held your hair back when you got so mad about it that you scarfed down margaritas and ended up puking your guts out.”

  “See?” I argue. “Joel fills my stomach with margaritas, not mashed potatoes.”

  “And puke,” Rowan adds, and I chuckle as I manage to stop at the next stoplight without my tires screeching.

  “And puke.”

  Chapter Four

  “I’LL CALL YOU.”

  Those were the last words Joel said to me the day I dropped him off at Adam’s. It’s what he always says. And he always does—when it suits him.

  Sometimes, I answer, and sometimes, I don’t.

  For the past week and a half, I would have answered. But for the past week and half, he hasn’t called.

  So on Wednesday night, it’s his fault that I’m making out with someone who was obviously in some horrific farm accident as a child and had to have an emergency tongue transplant with only cows to serve as donors. I swear to God, I’ve never had so much tongue in my mouth in my entire life. It’s like this guy decided on quantity over quality and has dedicated himself to giving that method his all. And by his all, I mean his entire. freaking. tongue.

  I turn my head to the side, and Cow Tongue thankfully drops his lips to my neck. I’m on my back, on his bed, in his bedroom. Classes this week were annoying. Work at the restaurant this week was annoying. Not hearing from Joel at all was annoying. Wanting to hear from him was annoying. I spent my entire serving shift tonight thinking of him—constantly checking my phone for texts even though I knew damn well he was probably already breathing heavy in some other girl’s bed—and I realized I had to do something about it.

  Leti was right: Joel is a problem. He makes me feel . . . lonely. Crazy. Desperate.

  Cow Tongue, who told me his name was Aiden even though I hadn’t wanted to know, was the next guy to smile at me after I decided a one-night stand was exactly what the doctor ordered, so he was who I opted to go home with. I figured if I started acting like my old self again, maybe I’d start feeling like my old self again. The only reason Joel felt like the only guy that mattered was because I made him the only guy that
mattered.

  I want to forget him, and yet, when I gaze up into Aiden’s brown eyes, I can’t help wishing they were blue. I can’t help wishing his soft brown hair was spiked and blond. I can’t help wishing the smile he gave me made my insides molten hot instead of old bathwater warm.

  “Take off your pants,” I tell him, and he wastes no time following orders. I strip mine off too and tell him to get a condom.

  “Shit,” he breathes, giving me a panicked look. “I don’t have one.”

  “My purse,” I say, nudging him toward the dresser it’s sitting on. I lie there patiently while he grabs it and proceeds to spill half its contents onto the floor.

  “Sorry,” he stammers, and then he spills the other half while he’s trying to pick up the first half.

  “Worry about that later,” I hiss, trying to keep the frustration out of my tone. I’d hoped to be in the throes of mind-numbing ecstasy by now, not lying alone and frustrated on sheets that smell like dog hair—which is just disturbing considering I’ve seen no sign of a dog.

  Aiden grabs the condom off the floor and rips it open, sliding it on and climbing back over top of me. I spread my legs around him and he settles between them, immediately trying to push into me. But I’m bone dry, and my body isn’t having it.

  “Kiss me or something,” I order, instantly regretting the suggestion when his tongue fills my mouth again. I break away as soon as possible and change my strategy. “Just use spit.” I’d suggest lubricant, but if this guy didn’t even have condoms, I’m guessing a good lube might as well be the Holy Grail.

  Aiden gives me a boyish smile, and then he starts to crawl his way down my body.

  “Oh, no, that’s not what I—”

  He spreads my legs wider and laps at me like an overanxious puppy, but instead of moaning or wriggling or liking it in any way, my legs just kind of close a little tighter and I’m left casting a weird look at the ceiling, my nose scrunched and my eyebrows drawn.

  When he drills his tongue into me like an aggressive anteater, I yelp, and he apparently takes this as encouragement. More drilling. More weird looks at the ceiling. I close my eyes and try to enjoy it, but my thoughts are instantly on Joel. When Joel does this, it’s slow and teasing and he savors every bit of me.

  I’m just beginning to get turned on when Aiden says, “Do you like that?”

  I ignore him and try to bring the image of Joel back into my mind. The way his hands capture mine when I’m so out of my mind with lust I don’t know what to do with them. How strong his arms feel when he wraps them around my middle and refuses to let me wiggle away from him.

  “Mm, do you like that?” Aiden asks again. If he had any decency at all, he would STOP TALKING.

  “Yeah,” I lie, wishing he would shut up. He laps away, and I imagine the way Joel’s tongue does tiny little flicks against the most sensitive parts of me.

  The drilling starts again, and Aiden asks me for the third freaking time if I “like that.”

  “YES!” I shout, realizing he’s not going to be quiet long enough to let me get myself anywhere near orgasm.

  Which means I’ll have to fake it or suffer through more cow-tonguing, puppy-lapping, and anteater-drilling.

  “Oh,” I say, bucking my hips and rolling my eyes simultaneously. “Oh God.” I put on a porno-worthy performance and pull him to my face. When he starts to lean down to kiss me again, I hastily push against his shoulders and roll him onto his back. If he shoves that tongue inside my mouth one more time, I’m pretty sure I’ll choke and die. And with the way this night has been going, that doesn’t sound too terrible.

  I straddle his hips and lower myself onto him, and he moans loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. Great. I can already tell that if I don’t hurry, he’s going to climax before I do and then I’ll be on my own.

  I brace my hands on his chest so I can start moving up and down on him, but whereas Joel’s body is lean and toned, Aiden’s is mushy-soft. I slide my hands to the sides of his neck and hold there instead, but he’s sweaty and it feels like petting a buttered porpoise, so I wipe my palms on his pillow and sit back. With nowhere to put my hands, I thread them into my own hair. I manage to move up and down only one and a half more times before Aiden moans and releases into me and I realize the mistake I’ve made. I lower my hands, not sure if I should feel flattered that the sight of me was enough to make him orgasm, or so outraged that I need to strangle him before packing up my things and going on the run.

  “That was awesome,” he pants, and I unstraddle him to roll onto my side. He wraps his arm around me, which I tolerate only because I really don’t want to be alone tonight.

  “You’re amazing,” he tells me, and I wish I could manage a smile or at least believe him, but I can’t.

  I WAKE WHEN it’s still dark outside, to nothing but utter silence. There’s a heavy arm around me and there’s a face buried in my hair, but there’s no snoring in my ear, and that disappointing realization makes me squeeze my eyes shut and gnaw on the inside of my lip. With a heavy sigh, I sneak out from beneath the arm, gather my clothes off the floor, and slip them back on. I don’t bother casting a second glance at the stranger passed out on the bed before tiptoeing across his room. I learned the art of sneaking out the first time my dad tried to ground me when I was thirteen years old. By the time I got my license, I was an expert.

  I turn the knob to Aiden’s apartment as carefully as if I were disarming a bomb. Then I gently push the door open, escape onto the front porch, and close the door behind me. I don’t release the knob until the door is all the way closed, when I very slowly allow it to turn back to its normal position.

  In the parking lot, I rest my forehead on my steering wheel, wishing I had picked a guy up from a bar instead of from work. At least then I could’ve gotten sloppy drunk and still be passed out right now. Instead, I’m sober and awake with too much on my mind.

  Against my better judgment, I drive home, shower and change, pick up coffee, and drive to Adam’s. I’m dressed in a killer top, skirt, and heels combo with all intentions of making Joel sorry he didn’t call me last night, but sitting in the parking lot staring at my reflection in my rearview mirror, all I can see is the purple exhaustion under my eyes and the pale hue of my skin. I look just like my mother. With a disgusted grunt, I text Rowan instead of going up.

  Driving you to school today. In parking lot. Hurry up.

  While waiting, I cake on more makeup and contort my face in the mirror, trying to distinguish myself from the woman who cheated on my dad and left him a blubbering mess. I have her brown eyes, her dark hair, her olive skin. It’s an arsenal of weaponry. She used hers to capture my father’s heart and then destroy it. I use mine to ensure that no one ever does the same to me. I’ll never have to rely on one person for love or affection because I can get it from anyone.

  Well, almost anyone.

  Fifteen minutes later, my head is resting against the window and I’m singing a girl-power song when Rowan slides into my passenger seat. I turn down the music, and she gives me a questioning look I have no desire to answer.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asks, buckling her seat belt as I back my car out of its spot.

  “Talk about what?”

  “Why you’re picking me up on a Thursday morning?”

  “Because I woke up early.”

  “Then let’s talk about why you didn’t come up to the apartment.”

  I look her in the eyes, leaving no room for confusion. “No.”

  Rowan sighs and leans back in her seat. She keeps quiet and stares out the window as I drive, but I don’t even make it a full minute before I say, “Was he even there?”

  Not needing to ask who I’m talking about, she shakes her head without looking at me. “I haven’t seen him much this week.” She casts a glance in my direction, catches the frown on my face, and quickly adds, “He asked about you yesterday though.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wa
nted to know what you were doing last night. I told him you were working.”

  Working? More like narrowly resisting the urge to choke out customers with complimentary breadsticks.

  “Do you want me to tell him he should call you?” Rowan asks, and I nearly jerk the car into a ditch.

  “NO!” I stare at her like she’s lost her damn mind. “No freaking way, are you nuts?!”

  She frowns and grips her seat belt. “Well, then you should call him. Call him or forget about him, Dee, because you’re going a little crazy.”

  Understatement of the century. I feel like some crazy hormonal girl invades my body anytime Joel’s swoon-worthy face pops into my mind, and she makes me want to punch myself in the head until she leaves or I knock myself unconscious.

  “Did you even turn in the proposal for your marketing project that was due yesterday?” Rowan asks, her tone revealing she already guessed the answer.

  The short answer is no. The long answer is the excuse I gave my professor, which involved a dead grandparent and an orphaned cat.

  “I told my professor I’d turn it in late.”

  Rowan frowns at me. “That project is worth most of your grade, Dee. You can’t keep blowing stuff like this off or you’re going to fail. Maybe if you spent your energy obsessing over school instead of obsessing over Joel—”

  I give her a warning look, and she immediately silences her lecture.

  “I’ll do it this weekend,” I say.

  “Mayhem is this weekend.” The guys are performing again, and we’ve never missed even one of their local shows.

  “I’ll do it Sunday.”

  After classes, I drop Rowan off at Adam’s and head back to my apartment to change into my work clothes. I arrive late, bitch out my boss for trying to reprimand me, and spend most of my five-hour shift thinking about what the hell I want to do with my life.

  I definitely don’t want to be working in a place like this when I’m in my thirties, having to deal with customers like Miss Gable, who thinks server is just another word for slave.