“Hey Tash,” I said to her. Her greeting was far warmer. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and kissed me, right on the lips. I let her. I wasn’t going to say no to a beautiful woman throwing herself at me. She looked at me in a way that was probably supposed to read as loving, but lustful would have been more accurate.
I knew she didn’t love me, but she certainly did like to fuck. I wrapped my hands around her waist and drew her near, so her body pressed against mine. She didn’t mind me touching her when I was covered in dirt and oil from the cars; I could give her that. It was nearly the end of the day, and a lot of the guys at the shop were beginning to head out. We kissed again, this time, me leaning down to kiss her lips.
I didn’t know why she had come all the way to the shop. I was leaving soon, and chances were that I would have found my way back to her place anyway.
“Heading out soon?” she asked seductively. The woman had two modes. Sexy purring was one, and I had never experienced the other.
“Yeah, I just wanted to go over the engine and see whether a replacement would be worth it or if we should just try and fix it up.” Her eyes would glaze over whenever I talked cars. It wasn’t often, but it was a game I liked to play sometimes. “I was going to head home soon. You have plans tonight?”
Just the thing she had wanted to hear.
“I wanted to head out to a bar, maybe have a few drinks... you’d buy me a few drinks then we’d head back to your house, and I’ll let you help me out of these clothes.”
I sighed. I liked the sound of that.
We had had a rocky start, Natasha and I. We had met in a bar and after a few drinks each, we had decided that we both preferred to hang out outside for the rest of the night. It was supposed to be a dirty quickie out the back, but it turned into a fight with her boyfriend. Yeah, boyfriend.
Her having one was not something I held against her. It wasn’t even something that counted her out as far as having a chance with me but shit, the least you could do was tell a guy first. I should have stayed away after that, but Natasha’s boyfriend was the kind who was away a lot. He was also the kind of boyfriend who I could take in a fight if it came to that again.
What could I say?
Natasha’s face was pretty—prettier when she didn’t wear as much makeup. She was Puerto Rican, so her skin had that tan that never faded, year round. Her tits were firm and more than anything; she was into me. If it wasn’t her, it was going to be another girl, but the fact that she was available and willing just made things easier for me.
There was also the fact that she could suck the black off of dark chocolate.
I liked her. She was fun.
“Where’s Thomas tonight?” I asked her.
“Los Angeles.” She kissed me.
“When is he getting back?”
“Tomorrow morning.” She kissed me again.
“Early?”
“Before nine.” She leaned up and kissed me again. I deepened it, letting my tongue explore her mouth. “You need to come to our house.”
Our house, the ‘our’ being her and Thomas.
“I’ll come over. Wait for me.”
She giggled and said that she would. I smacked her ass as she turned to walk away. I needed a cold shower. I pulled my gloves off and started inside the building. I walked up the stairs to where the mechanic locker room was. Not that many guys were still there because a number had left already. I spotted my friend Lawson lacing his boots up. He was the one who had gotten me the job at the auto shop a year ago. He spotted me and nodded in my direction.
“Plans tonight?” he asked in place of a greeting, “I’m trying to get out of the house for a bit.”
Lawson was an extraordinary human being. He had been sleeping with a girl and had somehow managed to weasel his way into living with her. It wasn’t that he didn’t make enough for his own place, he just wanted to know how long Heather would put up with him before she got tired and kicked him out. I had thought she would be done with him in under a month, but they were still going strong. I opened my locker and pulled my jacket and pants out of it.
“Maybe some drinks at a bar,” I said shrugging, “Tash wants to go.”
“Natasha Nadal. I can’t believe you’re still hitting that,” Lawson said, shaking his head. His hair was long, like Tarzan. He had to keep it tied up during work. Occupational hazard.
“If you were hitting it you’d understand,” I told him.
“I thought you were going to look at some car this guy was having shipped in.”
“Who, Forester? Reggie? Yeah. He was having his mom ship it down from Orange County. He canceled earlier this afternoon. Had to have his kid over.”
Reggie Forester was the kind of guy I wanted to be when I got to my late forties. He was single and lived alone in Southern California. He had made enough to retire early, and he had a fleet of vintage cars with his name on it up in Santa Ana. The dream. What was it like being able to do whatever the fuck you wanted all day? It was like being a kid but with money. And beer.
The one wrinkle in Reggie’s otherwise perfect life was he had kids. I didn’t know how many or how old they were, but he had mentioned that one of them, his daughter, was having dinner with him that night. I couldn’t stand kids. Everyone said you would love your own, but I was not willing to test that theory out.
“His mom?”
“Yeah. His old man used to collect them. Apparently, he’s got tons just sitting in this garage. When he croaked, he left them to Reggie. His mom is still alive, so she’s the one in charge of them since Reggie lives here. They’re all in pretty good shape, but a couple of them need some work done.”
“So he wants you to look at them?”
“He knows good work when he sees it. If he was going to give his money to anyone, it was going to be the best.” I saw Lawson roll his eyes at the comment, but he didn’t dispute it.
“What kind of car?”
“Hasn’t told me yet.”
“He paying you?”
“Of course,” I scoffed. Lawson was done and was just waiting for me at that point. He lit a cigarette and sucked on it contemplatively.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How many guys are you still in contact with?”
“What?”
“You know. From the pen. How many guys do you still talk to?”
I frowned at him. Lawson was a shining example of the failure of the American justice system. The man had been collecting felonies since he was 14 and he hadn’t served a day in prison. The worst he had gotten was a couple of nights in county jail.
“Do you think we have a support group or something? Ex-con book club?” I asked sarcastically.
“Come on Adam. There’s gotta be someone.”
“What do you want Lawson? Are you in trouble?” I asked. I shrugged my jacket on and stared at him.
“No.”
“Then you are trying to get in trouble. That it?”
The last time Lawson had approached me with that ‘can I ask you something Adam?’ bullshit, he had gotten in with some cockfighters near the border. Try as he might he just couldn’t keep his nose clean. Maybe he’d stop when he got 25 to life. I grabbed my bike helmet and held it grasped under one arm.
“I just want to know whether you know any dealers that can help me out.”
“Forget it.” I slammed my locker shut and made for the exit. Lawson got up and followed me.
“Come on Adam.”
“I don’t touch drugs,” I told him. I could do dirty. I had a record for fuck’s sake; there was documented evidence that I had done dirty on a large enough scale for someone powerful enough to notice and to send me to prison, but I didn’t do drugs. Selling. Conspiracy to sell. Trafficking. Consumption. None of it.
“I just need some quick cash.”
“Then borrow money like a normal person.”
“Adam, I never ask you for anything.”
Lie.
“What do you need the money for?”
“I owe a couple of people.”
I stopped walking and fixed Lawson with a pointed stare.
“Who?”
“No one you know.”
Another lie.
“Who do you fucking owe?”
“Martin and Hanley, those guys from the Bay. You know ‘em?”
I rolled my eyes and pushed my hands, palm first into my temples. Yeah, I knew those guys from the Bay.
“They run those fights every month. You know them, right? I placed a bet on—”
“How much do you owe?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“$5000.”
I turned and started walking again. Lawson jogged to catch up to me. I kicked the stand of my bike up and swung my leg over it, sitting.
“You gotta help me out, Adam.”
“No, I don’t,” I reminded him.
“Adam. Please. Do this for me, and I’ll never ask you for anything again.”
Another fucking lie. I looked at Lawson and sighed.
“Call me tomorrow; we’ll talk about it.” I revved my bike up and rode away before he could answer.
I could have gone by the house to clean up and grab some things before going to Natasha’s, but I didn’t want to stop. I was too agitated. I needed relief… release and Natasha was the person that I wanted to give it to me. Natasha did her living and her living in two different neighborhoods. She lived in an area where her neighbors were rich gay couples and loaded elderly folks. She hung out in my neighborhood. It wasn’t the boondocks, but it was decidedly working class. Apparently, some of her neighbors didn’t like the sound of the bike at night. That just made me want to rev it harder.
I pulled up to the large house. I didn’t know what Thomas did, but it must have been his checks that paid for the crib. I neither knew what Natasha did for a living nor wanted to know. A little mystery between partners kept the passion alive. I stopped the bike, dismounting and kicking the stand down. I left my helmet across the handles. Walking up to the door, I knocked firmly.
Nothing.
I stood a couple more moments before trying again.
More nothing.
I rang the bell, something like worry running through me. She was usually at the door waiting with her tail wagging before my knuckles met the wood to knock. I heard activity on the other side of the door—footsteps and barking. She had a dog; one of those awful, tiny ones with all that long fur that got on everything. She would let it in the room when we had sex. I heard the locks, there was more than one, being turned, unhooked and disengaged. The door popped open enough for me to see a sliver of Natasha’s face looking out at me.
“Tash, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“You have to leave.”
“What are you talking about? What happened?”
“Tommy’s here and if he finds out that it’s you at the door he’ll—”
“Natasha, who is it?” a voice from inside the house called out.
“Leave. Go now. I’ll call you.”
“Natasha?” the voice yelled louder. Suddenly the door swung open all the way, and Thomas Rodrigues, all 6'5, and 260lbs of him was glaring at me. “You,” he snarled.
“Me,” I replied calmly. “You remember? It’s Adam.”
“Get in the house Natasha,” he demanded, pushing her roughly back past the doorframe.
“The number of guys fucking your girl behind your back too high for you to remember us all?” I asked. I shouldn’t have goaded him, but I couldn’t help myself. “You should just ask Tash. Even better, hang out when we come over. You’ll hear. She’s loud when she’s taking it.”
I deserved that punch. I deserved every ounce of anger he put into that swing. I swung back connecting with his nose. He staggered backward into the house. Natasha appeared at his side, crying and asking him whether he was okay. He started towards me again, but Tash held onto him, saying it wasn’t worth it. I watched him transform when she held his face in her hands, muttering something in Spanish to him. It was like watching all the air go out of a bounce house. He went from 100 to 0 just like that. Blink and you would have missed it.
She whispered something to him and kissed him. He looked at her lovingly for a few moments before turning to glare at me.
“You come back here again, it’ll be my Beretta that greets you and not my fist,” he warned. I bit my tongue and raised my hands, showing I meant no harm. The little dog had run out after me and was yapping at my feet.
Couldn’t control either one of his bitches, I thought as I mounted my bike. It was too dark out to try and assess the damage his punch had done in my rear-view mirrors. I started the bike up and began to ride. My whole evening had suddenly freed itself up. I could go home and ice my face, or I could find Tash’s replacement for the night. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make.
Drinks and girls at the bar it was.
3
Dana
It’s been months dear, when are you coming home?”
My mother rose before the sun came up every day. She didn’t even need an alarm clock to do it. She would say it was just her circadian rhythm. Some nonsense about how her expertly engineered balance of exercise, diet and shopping had made her able to transcend sleep and wake up at dawn for no other reason than to say that she did.
This was not so bad on its own. It didn’t matter that she rose with the people in the time zone ahead of her. The problem was the fact that when she was awake, she had no reservations making sure you were awake too. 4:00, 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning were not too early for her to bring up her woes with you for deep and exhaustive discussion. I wasn’t sure what time it was, but I didn’t have to know the exact hour to know that it was much, much too early.
“It hasn’t been months, mother. It’s been like a month and a half at best.” I rolled onto my side under my bedcovers. “And I’m not coming back home; I moved away. Remember?”
“Dana don’t be ridiculous. How many more months are you going to stay out there with your father?” Mom did this thing where she would hear you, but when she had assessed what you had said and found it unsavory, she would replace it with her own reality and ask you about that instead. The truth she was rejecting was that I had moved away to San Diego, for good, or at least the foreseeable future. The reality she had substituted it with was that she had lost in the competition of favorite parent with my father, and that I had chosen him and his city over her and hers.
“I’m not living with Dad,” I sighed. “I moved here because I was sick of LA. I’m living with my best friend, Mimi. We’re going to become part owners of an independent bookstore.”
I could practically see Evangeline Weinstein’s perfectly made-up face grimace at the thought.
“Dana darling, I thought you went to school to become a writer. You’ve moved to San Diego to become a bookseller?”
“Yes, Mom. I’ve moved to San Diego to become a bookseller,” I said, humoring her. She loved to bring up college. It’s been my theory that my parents both paid me off at age 18 to try and make up for the divorce. Dad gave me Janie and Mom paid my college tuition, in full. “If you are worried about me wasting my degree, I can still be a writer from San Diego. This isn’t the middle of nowhere.”
“I’d rather you had a job that was more… reliable sweetheart.”
Translated, that meant ‘I really wish you would settle down with somebody who had Roman numerals as part of their name sweetheart.’
“If I get into trouble you and Frank can just bail me out, right?” I joked.
“Dana, this is serious. I would rather have you close to me after what happened.”
She said the last word in audible scare quotes. She was dramatic, but to be fair the particular event she was referring to did warrant some parental worry. It was definitely not her that I was trying to escape when I left Los Angeles.
“I know, Mom. I would, however, rather stay far away from
the place where it happened.”
“Frank’s offer for a house close to where we live still stands honey.”
I sighed. For all her quirks, Evangeline Weinstein née Trafford and formerly Forester was one thing, and that was fiercely protective. She had the mothering instincts of a momma grizzly bear. Arguing with her about her children was the one sure way to get your head bitten off. As much grief as she gave me, I knew it was because she loved me. I sighed.
“Thank you, Mother. I have to start getting ready for work soon.” I zoned out as she began on the benefits of drinking vegetable juice first thing in the morning, letting her talk until I heard her ramble come to its natural end. I said goodbye to her and snoozed in bed until my alarm rang.
Work in Los Angeles had been writing for an online and print publication targeted at young artists, so basically the whole city. It was pretty sweet. I wasn’t making ‘Carrie Bradshaw writing for Vogue’ money, but it was enough to rent a nice place in downtown LA and live like I was young and free. The actual goal was scriptwriting. That was my answer to the question “What do you do?” whenever I would get it, which had been often. It sounded so pretentious and ‘LA’ to tell your friends that you couldn’t make it out with them because you were working on your screenplay, but it was true when I said it.
Granted, I had never actually gotten a script sold, but that was beside the point.
Mimi had had plans to buy an independent bookstore that the retired owner was selling, and my move to San Diego had been at just the right time to buy it with her and become co-business owners. What was our friendship level? We were going to pay sales tax together. It was the next step in our relationship. How many of her exes could say that they had gotten as far with her as I had?
She and I had a deal. I would get to stock the store with all the obscure, classical literature that I had studied and fallen in love with at school and she would get to stock her healing and wellness books. I could get the books of poetry she hated, and she would get to stock the sex and relationship books she liked. That way, you could come to our store and buy Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus and Giovanni’s Room all in one trip.
ADAM: A Bad Boy Romance (The ALPHAbet Collection Book 1) Page 2
