Push

by Claire Wallis

  I know how to give a blow job because of my brothers. I learned when I was eleven. They were always having their high school friends over to watch porn movies when my mom and Michael were away. Ricky thought it was so fucking funny for me to be there while they were watching those things. They used to tease me relentlessly about it, and most of the time, I would cover my eyes so I didn’t have to see. At the time I thought they were total sickos, but now I’m kind of glad because I know how to do lots of stuff while most of the other girls my age don’t have a clue.

  Bobby and I are making out in the locker room, and when I rub up against him, I can feel how much he likes it. I unzip his pants, pull it out, and start messing with him. For some reason he isn’t trying to take off my dress or anything, he is just letting me touch him. I drop to my knees and start sucking him, and he is shaking like a leaf with his hand on the back of my head.

  The next thing I know, the lights go on and I hear my mother screaming. Crap. Crap. Crap. I look up at Bobby, and his eyes are wide open. In an instant, he has tucked himself back into his pants and is rushing out of the locker room. I turn my head around after him and see that he is face-to-face with Michael.

  “Don’t worry, son,” Michael says to Bobby, putting his hands on Bobby’s shoulders, “I know what a manipulative little thing she is. It’s not your fault she dragged you in here. You go ahead back to the party. We’ll be there in a minute.” But I know that it isn’t true. I will not be going back to the party. I want Bobby to stand up for me, to tell Michael that he’s wrong, but I know he’s not going to. Why would he? Even my own mother won’t.

  Michael turns to her, runs his hands over his greasy hair, and shakes his head. “See? Do you see why she never deserved to have this fucking party in the first place? Do you see why I told you this was a bad idea? We have just paid two thousand dollars for that boy to get his cock sucked.” My mother is standing there doing nothing, and I can see that Michael is livid. His head is getting red, and his neck is stiff. I’m not sure exactly why my body decides to laugh, but it does. And the next thing I know, I am rolling on the floor in the men’s locker room laughing my ass off.

  “Emma,” he shouts, “stand up.” But I can’t because I am laughing so hard. I am laughing at the look on Bobby’s face, at Michael’s red cheeks, at my mother’s doe-eyed obedience, at the thought of myself rolling on a locker room floor. Michael reaches down and jerks me to my feet. “Do you think this is funny? You wanna be on your knees, huh? Well then, let’s let everyone see you on your knees.” He grabs my upper arms, pulls me past my idiot mother, out the locker room door, down the hallway, and out the door of the building.

  We are standing in the parking lot now, just outside the front door, and Michael pushes me on to the ground and tells me to kneel. The parking lot is unpaved, and I feel tiny pieces of gravel dig into my knees. Ah, here we go again. Michael and his fucking punishments. I am going to have to kneel here, on this sharp gravel, for the rest of the night. I’ll be kneeling as all my party guests pass by, as all their parents drive up to take them home, as all the country club employees leave for the night. I’ll be kneeling here for as long as he tells me to. For as long as he sees fit. For as long as he thinks I deserve to.

  I can tell you this much, though, I am not going to cry. I am not going to give him that pleasure. I am going to keep my burn inside, just like I always do with Michael.

  Chapter Eleven

  Emma—Present Day

  David doesn’t say another word, but I can hear him walk down the hall to the bathroom. I finish making the salads and put the chops on a plate. I set the table, putting out utensils, napkins and place mats. I want to get us something to drink, but then I realize I don’t know what David likes to drink.

  “What’s your poison?” I ask him when he returns from the bathroom.

  “You mean other than redheads in heels?” he asks. I immediately walk out of the kitchen and put my shoes back on. I try to do it as seductively as I can, but I think it might look more cheesy than sexy. He’s looking at me in surprise, though, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger, so I know it worked. Me and my heels walk back into the kitchen where he can’t see me smiling.

  “Yes,” I say, “other than that.”

  “What are you having?” he asks.

  “You mean other than a good-looking, cocky bastard?”

  “Yes,” he chuckles, “other than that.”

  “I’m having a glass of red. But I have beer, too, if you’d rather have that.”

  “Yeah, um, about that, Emma,” he says, sheepishly, “you actually don’t have the beer anymore.”

  I put down the corkscrew and peek around the corner into the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa again, just like he was before. He looks over at me, and I put on my best ‘what are you talking about?’ face.

  “I had to get two of my guys to help me finish your kitchen today, and I gave them those two six-packs when they left,” he says.

  “Oh. Well, I guess this fine-ass kitchen was worth a couple of six-packs. Were they some of your friends from Saturday night, then?”

  “Yes. But, don’t worry, I made them go up to my place to use the bathroom. I don’t want them looking at your stuff,” he says. “Ever.”

  “I’m not worried one bit,” I say sarcastically, “especially now that I know we aren’t spending any energy on all that jealousy bullshit.”

  “Very funny,” he says. “Seriously, I was just as worried about them stealing something as I was about them looking in your bathroom drawers.”

  “I’m sure the tampons would have thrilled them,” I tease.

  “That’s the truth, Emma.” He is teasing me back now. “After seeing what you did on Saturday night, those fuckers probably would have jacked off in there if they could have.”

  “Someday I will have to meet these gentlemen,” I mock. “It’s a rare breed that is willing to jack off to a box of tampons. They sound like people I might like.”

  “Maybe you could introduce them to your grandma,” David says in complete deadpan.

  “Now there’s an idea!” I carry the full plates out of the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m completely famished now. And my grandma died a long time ago, so your friends are out of luck. Unless they are into that, too....” I cannot believe I just said that.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” David says, in jest—I hope, anyway.

  When he gets to the table, he adds, “This looks great, Emma. Thanks.”

  I open the bottle of red and pour us each a glass. We sit down opposite each other and start to eat.

  “So, if you weren’t here eating with me, where would you be?” I ask him out of pure curiosity.

  “Probably upstairs eating a sandwich or something. I’m not much of a cook. My mom died when I was eight, and my dad pretty much raised me—if you wanna call it that. He didn’t even know how to turn on the oven, let alone cook something in it. We ate a lot of fast food.” I can’t tell if he looks sad or if it’s merely resignation on his face.

  “Oh. I’m sorry about your mom. Mine’s gone, too. She died when I was eighteen, a few months after I went to college. Car accident,” I say quietly. “Is your dad still around?”

  “Yeah, but he lives in Illinois, where I grew up. I haven’t seen him in years. We didn’t get along so well. Actually, he might remind you of your stepdad.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” I say, pouring on the inflection. “Michael is one hell of a fucked-up asshole. I don’t think anyone is rotten enough to deserve that comparison.” I sigh softly, then I quietly add, “I don’t know what kind of man your dad is, but he can’t possibly be like Michael.” I am hanging my head now. For some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel ashamed of myself. Ashamed that Michael is—was—part of my life.

  “What did he do, Emma?” I can hear the apprehension in David’s voice, but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. “What happened?”

  There is no way in this fuckin
g world I am going to tell David about Michael. Frankly, I have never told anyone about the extent of Michael’s depravity. About all the crap he’s done. I don’t want David’s pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity.

  “He’s just a fucked-up asshole,” I say again emphatically, looking up at David. “That’s all.” He’s staring at me now, and I can tell that he wants to ask me more, but he doesn’t. He just cocks his head to the side and takes another bite of dinner.

  “Well, my asshole dad was a drinker. He probably still is. And the trouble with Pops is that he was never a nice drunk. Rather belligerent, actually. Things at my house were usually completely out of hand. I just tried to stay the hell out of his way,” David says. “The only good thing he ever did for me was make me his apprentice. He’s a master carpenter and has his own construction business. Eventually I became a journeyman, and I worked for him for a couple of years before I moved to New Orleans when I was twenty-one.”

  “How long did you live there?” I ask, thankful that the subject is no longer Michael.

  “Almost three years,” he says, “then I moved here because I needed to get the hell out of New Orleans.”

  “The fucked-up girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Yeah, pretty much,” he says with a shrug, not offering anything more.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, eating and drinking. I admit that I am almost relieved to hear that his family is nearly as messed up as mine. I feel as if he’s less likely to judge me because of it, and that makes me happy.

  “So, you’ve got a couple of brothers, huh?” he asks. Michael’s words from the other night bite into me. “Older or younger?”

  “They’re both way older than me. Evan by six years and Ricky by eight. By the time they graduated from high school, they were a couple of complete football-playing dicks, but looking back on it, I learned a lot about life because of them, I guess. I definitely learned to stand up for myself. And they kind of taught me how to watch my back. Mostly because they never had my back, so I had to look out for myself, you know? Let’s just say they did not turn out to be protective big brother types. Quite the opposite actually.” Not for the first time, I wonder what life would have been like if Michael had never entered our family. “What about you? Brothers or sisters?”

  “Nah. It was just me,” he answers. “My parents didn’t even want the one they had, so they definitely weren’t going to make any more.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I wonder how he knows his parents didn’t want him, but I decide I’d better not ask. I probably won’t like the answer.

  We both empty our plates and finish our wine, and as I carry everything into the kitchen to wash up I realize I never actually thanked him for my fine-ass kitchen.

  “Thank you, David, for my new kitchen,” I say as he follows me into the kitchen. “I love it, and I know that you said that Carl is paying for it, but I know that he really isn’t. I know it’s you. I still don’t understand why, but I am grateful for it.” I turn to him, and he’s looking thoughtfully at me.

  “You’re welcome, Emma,” he says, looking borderline confused. “You should know, though, that I don’t do dishes either, so you’re out of luck there, too.”

  I smirk at him. “Go home, David. Your ineptitude is exhausting.” He actually looks hurt. Really? I think he’s probably kidding, but I can’t quite tell. I decide I’d better try to salvage the conversation with further explanation, “Seriously, I have to be out the door by seven tomorrow to get to work on time, and I need to get a couple of things done tonight. Trust me, I’d love for for you to stick around, but I know what will happen if you do, and I need to get some sleep.” That should do it.

  He throws his hands up in a pretend surrender. “Well, okay, then,” he says with a look of absolute surprise.

  “What?” I thought he would want to leave. I thought he would be thrilled to be off the hook for anything beyond a free meal.

  “You’re kicking me out,” he says, “and I’m surprised how much it pisses me off.”

  “Sorry.” I shrug. “I’m not kicking you out, David, I’m letting you off the hook.”

  “Off the hook, huh?”

  “Yes, off the hook. That’s all. Now, go.”

  “I won’t see you tomorrow, you know. Tuesday is poker,” he says as he walks toward the door. “I gotta pay off that fine-ass kitchen of yours.”

  “Ahh, poker with the boys.” Damn, I forgot about that. Now I’m regretting letting him off the hook. His hand is on the doorknob. “Well, if you need some extra incentive to win tomorrow night,” I add, “you can just imagine me bending over my new countertop, ass up and wearing heels.”

  He doesn’t turn around, but his body visibly stiffens. “That’s not incentive for me to win at poker, Emma, that’s incentive for me to throw myself at your feet.”

  “Your choice,” I say. “But I think you may want to consider doing both.”

  His back is still to me, and he bows his head and sighs as his hand twists the knob and opens the door.

  “Good night, Emma,” he says as he walks out.

  As soon as the door closes, I grab my phone and flip it open.

  Good night to u too, David. And thanks...for everything.

  I get no reply.

  I kick off my shoes and head to the kitchen to clean up. By the time I am finished, it is nearly ten o’clock. I am exhausted. I walk into my bedroom to change and see something small and dark sitting on my bed. When I get closer, I see that it’s a handgun. Holy shit. I am dumbfounded. Where did it come from? David enters my mind immediately. But so do his friends. And so does Michael. What the fuck am I supposed to do? And then I notice a note sitting next to it.

  I pick up the note and see right away that it is from David. It is not in Michael’s handwriting, and even though I know that David and his friends were here all day and there is no way Michael could have gotten in, an enormous pulse of relief smacks at me.

  Emma—

  Do me a favor—keep this please. Put it in a drawer or a shoebox or something. It will make me feel better. I’ll teach you how to use it, if you want.

  Male coworkers can go a little crazy around pretty girls (especially those quiet engineer-types). Not to mention stepfathers.

  David

  PS. It’s loaded so be careful.

  PSS. Your pepper spray is on the dresser. I don’t need it because I’m not interested in any of those half-naked whores. Only you.

  What am I supposed to do? Should this make me angry? He obviously put the gun and note here long before I offered to make him dinner. Before our conversation about jealousy. Before our kiss in the kitchen. But most importantly, it happened before he reminded me that we have only known each other four days. Then it hits me: He wants to protect me. Jesus, for the first time in my life, someone wants to protect me. Where the hell was he fifteen years ago when I really needed to be protected? He was protecting himself, of course, while I was busy trying to do the same. He was right; we are two of the same.

  I have no clue how to use a gun, nor do I have any interest in learning how. Still, having a gun is not a bad idea. Living alone for the first time in my life does make me a little nervous. I decide not to make an issue of it and put the gun carefully in the back of the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I agree to be protected.

  Chapter Twelve

  My alarm goes off at six, and I’m not sure why, but I open the bottom drawer of my nightstand and look at the gun. It scares me to have it there, so close to where I sleep, just beneath the picture of my mother and me looking so very happy. I pick up the gun, sit up and turn it over in my hand. It’s heavier than I remember it being last night, and I’m a little freaked out about the fact that it is loaded. I imagine what it would be like to shoot it. The most important thing I know about guns—okay, one of the only things I know about guns—is that they have a safety feature. I look for some kind of button or something, and I see what I assume is a safety slide. I don’t dare to
uch it, though, and decide that I will definitely ask David to show me how to use the damn thing. I sure as shit don’t want to wind up shooting myself by accident.

  I put the gun back in the drawer and push it closed. Then I climb out of bed, shower, dress, and have some toast for breakfast. I am out the door by six-fifty.

  The morning proceeds quickly at work. Matt is there to hold my hand through the initial stages of the design process we are assigned. He’s nice enough, but there is no doubt in my mind that he is here to make sure I don’t fuck up. We make small talk while we work, but I’m only feigning interest in what he has to say. I think he’s trying to impress me with stories of his mountain biking trips through Utah and partially clever jokes about the office politics. I listen politely and answer his occasional questions, but it feels so fregging superficial. I wish he wasn’t trying so hard. I’m trying not to get annoyed with Matt, and I figure that if I just keep my comments to a minimum, maybe he’ll realize that I’m not interested and start being himself. Of course I consider that maybe this is being himself; maybe posturing is his thing. Good lord, I hope not. If it is, this fucking project had better be over sooner rather than later.

  At lunchtime, I walk to the cafeteria downstairs to grab something to eat. I check my cell and see that there is a text from David. It was sent at eight-thirty this morning. I inhale deeply and open the message.

  All it says is Hi.

  I type my reply and hit Send.

  Hi back.

  Ten seconds pass until his reply arrives.

  I’m sorry, Emma. I forgot to ask u last night how your first day went.

  It was fine. Day two going good too.

  Glad to hear it.