Unscrewed

by Ren Alexander

  What the actual flying fuck?

  Wilder answers a question Val asks and then I demand, “What the hell was that?”

  He looks up at me, no clue whatsoever. “Is there a problem, Rodwell?”

  “Why am I at center? Who’s backing up Crick?”

  “You are if we need you there. It’s a team effort.” The way he emphasizes team is a clear fuck your team effort, Greg Rodwell.

  “Bull. You don’t need two centerfielders for the game. You do need two pitchers, though. Not one who will be tired from playing centerfield along with batting. We’re not pro pitchers.” Shit. Sorry, Scanlon.

  “So, you’re the coach now?” His jaw rapidly flexes, and it’s apparent he’s pissed. Home run already.

  “No. I’m just pointing out that flaw in your game plan.”

  “Really? Flawed because you don’t get your way?”

  “I’m not saying that. It’s not about me getting my way, as you put it. It’s about not blowing out my shoulder for our last game.” What the fuck is his problem with me today? Jesus Christ. I should’ve jumped over that railing earlier when I had the chance.

  Ricky, always his wingman, says, “It’ll work out, Rodwell. Don’t make it a bigger deal than it is.”

  Biting my tongue since Val is now looking at me, and fuck if I hate disappointing that woman in any shape or form, I refrain from getting into it more with Wilder. So much so, for as long as I’ve been working at the firm, Val has thought my birthday was September 19th. She bakes me cookies and sings to me in my office. Every year. I don’t have the heart to tell her my birthday is February 11th. Hadley’s even been banned from mentioning my birthday on my actual birthday in the office. That’s how much I adore Val Dryden. She’s like the grandmother I wish I could trade in both of mine for, even if the one is dead.

  Even Val’s son, the noob next to me, earns my respect, being an all right guy and a kick-ass probation officer. Nico whispers, “What the hell just happened? Or what did you do to him?”

  “Fuck if I know.” But I have a shit-ton of ideas. If he wants a dick-measuring contest, he’ll fucking lose that one.

  Sighing, I shake my head at the stupidity of it all. Why did I sign up for this shit? Hadley. That’s why. More time with her is all I really want. I suppose it’s another sacrifice on my behalf.

  I hear Wilder telling half of us to take the infield so the other half can bat. Not sure where I fit in with that. I’m not asking him for a repeat.

  “Rodwell, batter up. Go.”

  This time hearing Wilder’s order, I look up from staring at strands of Hadley’s ponytail floating in the breeze. Good. I need something to hit.

  Removing my gloves from my pockets, I notice Sylvie watching me like I’m fascinating her with my glove know-how. I wish my life were that simple. Shit. When I look at her again, she flashes an oddly big smile. I smile back, not sure why. I guess it’s because she’s never given me a reason not to like her, other than her fucking Grant Majorca. Repulsive.

  Trading my glove for a bat and grabbing a batting helmet, I go to home plate, where Simone is suited up, and Crick is at the mound.

  Taking a few practice swings off to the side, I then step up to the plate, determined to knock it out. I know Wilder and Ricky are evaluating my every move. They can kiss my next home run for all I care.

  Being the kind of guy Crick is, I know he’s waiting until I’m ready. I nod at him, and he pitches. I swing and only chip the ball. It limply flies toward second base, bouncing with a thud on the ground. Damn it. But it’s my first hit. I get three.

  “Adjust your grip and don’t hit the ball with the tip of the bat. Aim for the middle,” Wilder advises, and I clench my teeth.

  “No shit,” I mutter and then hear Simone giggle behind her catcher’s mask.

  Crick readies again, and I nod. His pitch is a little outside, yet I fucking go for it. Still, the ball is a dud as it stomps over the dirt, right to Crick. Fuck.

  Wilder says, “Take your pitch, Rodwell. That wasn’t yours.”

  I snap, “I think I know that.”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  I move away from the plate, realizing I’m letting him fluster me. Shit. I take some deep breaths. Simone says, “You can do this, Greg. Ignore him.”

  I impatiently ask, “How in the hell do I do that? Any tips? He’s your damn brother.”

  She groans in her mask. “Don’t remind me.”

  Returning to the plate, I release a deep breath and adjust and readjust my grip. I rearrange my feet three or four times. I angle the bat more—all shit that I never have to second guess. Crick pitches the ball, and I let it go past me.

  Simone throws it back and whispers, “Watch. That would’ve been a strike.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, already in position for the next pitch, but I look over to Hadley and see her talking to Wilder. When he puts his hand on her shoulder, it sends my blood pressure soaring. I try to concentrate but hearing her laugh at what he said throws me. Crick pitches and I’m swatting flies, hitting a damn high one. The obvious foul ball pops up, and Simone jumps up to catch it.

  Returning to the plate, she whispers, “What’s the matter?”

  Ignoring her, I head to the benches, resisting the urge to fling my bat as I go. That’d be dangerous and childish. Fuck me for being responsible. It’s not that I care about softball. It’s much more than that shit.

  Wilder picks up a bat as I pass him. What’s he doing?

  Still holding onto my bat for stress relief as I squeeze it, I lean against the chain-link fence. Hadley moves to stand next to me. Her perfume is heaven and hell on Earth. From the bench behind us, Val says, “It’s okay, Greg. You’ll be fine tomorrow. You always are. I have total faith in you.”

  I genuinely smile at her. “Thanks, Val.” I’d drown a puppy for that woman if she told me to.

  The first pitch Crick sends over, Wilder cracks it into centerfield. Not as far as I usually go, but it’s a nice hit, almost near the fence. Maybe a home run, depending on the agility of the opposing team. Damn him.

  Smirking as Shasta and Betsy clap, Wilder returns and setting his bat against the fence, he tells me, “Something like that. Try for the outfield tomorrow.”

  I grit my teeth, wanting so much to tell him off. But with Val practically the angel on my shoulder, I don’t. Instead, I rip off my hat, not throwing it, but needing to separate myself from being on any team with him.

  As I storm away from the benches, I catch Shasta’s squawking from third base, either about our baby or me acting like one. I drop my bat with the others and keep walking, needing a break. Behind me, I hear, “Rodwell, get back here!” After that, light stomping commences behind me, and a hand goes to my arm, stopping me in the parking lot before I leave.

  Hadley goes around me since I won’t turn to face her. She asks, “What’s wrong with you?” Question of the day, apparently.

  I crunch the cheap plastic net in my hand. “What’s wrong with me? Didn’t you hear him?”

  “He’s trying to help you.”

  “He’s not. He wants a pissing contest or to compare dicks. Whichever one. I’m not doing it.”

  She anxiously giggles, looking to the ground. “No, he doesn’t.”

  “You wanna bet?” The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced of it.

  Hadley lifts her head, confused. Her green eyes search mine for any sign that I’m joking. She won’t find one. “He’s the coach. He’s here to help us, Rod. Remember? You’re the one who gave him the idea to coach our team. You dared him.”

  “Big mistake.” I don’t give a shit if he’s Richmond’s star sportscaster. His viewers don’t know the real Finn Wilder. Unfortunately, I do.

  “He’s not doing it just to get on your nerves.”

  “You sure? He doesn’t plot it out during pillow talk?”

  “What?” Her mouth moves like she wants to say more, only she doesn’t.

  “He’s fucking
out of control. Get your damn husband off my back, Hadley.”

  Her mouth hangs open, and I look away because I’m the one who’s out of control, thinking of my aching dick in her mouth, mere feet from her husband. I’m such a sorry specimen masquerading as her best friend. I laugh. “You want to know what your other half told me after your wedding?”

  Hesitant, she whispers, “What?”

  “Wilder—not even married to you for two seconds—warned he’ll be watching me. He doesn’t trust me but can’t tell you to stop being my friend. What groom says that to the guy who just gave away his bride? How normal is that reaction?”

  “I...” Hadley sighs and shakes her head toward the ground.

  “He should be grateful for what I did. But no. The jealous fucker had to pound his chest, warning me. I basically was your marriage sponsor to Wilder. You know that, right? Without me, you’d be married to the other guy, and he’d be alive right now. Do you realize that shit? Am I wrong?”

  Still staring at the ground, Hadley doesn’t answer, and that’s the only answer I need.

  “I saw him.”

  Hadley’s ponytail slinks over her shoulder as she suddenly looks up at me. “What? Who?”

  “Dash.” What a name. “When you were committed to the psych ward.”

  “Stop calling it that.”

  “You know what I mean. For your anxiety. I know you introduced me to him at the Halloween party, but we were both at the ER, waiting to hear news about you. He sat down next to me for two minutes. He called me Hadley’s Rod.” If I only were hers. Goddamn. That still bites.

  “What’d he say to you?”

  “He was upset. Didn’t say much. He told me to take care of you.” She stares at me, maybe shocked by that truth. “That’s all I’ve ever done, Hadley. And it’s all I’ll ever do. That’s why I brought you and Wilder back together. It wasn’t about my hopes. I knew he was the one you wanted. Not Dash. Not...me.”

  Hadley’s eyes tear up, and she looks to Wilder’s new red SUV and mumbles, “Greg.”

  “So, you know what? Finn Wilder had better watch it too. If he hurts you again, he’ll answer to me. I fucking guarantee that. I’ll write it in my blood if you want me to.”

  “Becks, you’re up!” Wiping her cheeks, she turns to the sound of her beloved’s voice, calling her his pet name, and it’s just another kick to my balls. Continuously. Every goddamn look and smile Hadley delivers to him. She’s never looked at me like that, even though every one of mine to her scream my feelings loud and clear. Amos is a stupid bastard for thinking she had ever felt the same way about me. It never happened. It was always Finn Wilder. Always.

  I’m just the idiot who brought them back together, only to hate myself for it.

  Hadley starts walking and says, “Come on.”

  I back away from her and shake my head. “No. Go ahead. I’m taking a walk.”

  Off a short pier.

  CHAPTER 5

  Lying in bed, trying to sleep, I can’t. I can only think of Hadley Wilder. She doesn’t realize the depths her husband will go to protect her from me. I may have said things to her when we fought after the parking lot incident, but I would never hurt her like he did.

  Thinking of the parking lot does nothing to curb my thoughts of how wet her pussy was. It was wet because of me that night. She wanted me. How different would things be if we had fucked? For one, I wouldn’t have gone to Baltimore. At least, not without first fighting for her to love me as much as I love her.

  Squeezing more K-Y in my hand, I rub my dick harder. Faster. My phone shakes on the pillow it’s propped on, and it’s like Hadley’s shaking her head at me, either ashamed of what I’m doing or because I’m jacking off to her wrong. The picture is new, and it showcases her bigger tits.

  My breathing is ragged as I go from staring at her picture to watching me beat off to the image of my best friend next to me. I need to stop doing this to myself—not the jacking. Just the need for her to get me off.

  My hand is furious. The head of my dick is dark red, nearly purple from the need to come. But one thing always delays it. That night: the hotel. Hadley. I want to forget. I have to.

  I loudly groan in my room all alone. I’m so close. The light burning of my impending release is right on the damn edge. It feels so good. It hurts so bad.

  Hadley was asleep next to me in the room. I had fallen asleep after crying myself there, over the loss of Eden and Hadley, really. I just lost both of them. But Hadley... The dream I had was intense. I don’t know if it was her vicinity to me, but whatever it was, I dreamt I didn’t stop earlier that night with her, and she hadn’t wanted me to. We made love. Goddamn, it was hot. It was tremendous. It was without the right words. It felt so real. I swear I felt her all over my body because I was positive I had been over every inch of hers.

  Waking up, I was hard. I was frantic for the dream to be real. Fuck, Hadley was right next to me. There was no turning back from that hard-on. It wasn’t going anywhere and seeing her nightshirt had ridden up above her hips was entirely no help whatsoever. Hadley was facing me, asleep. The blankets had been kicked off, probably by me from my dream. Her underwear was paper thin and lacy. Spilling through the lace and the left side of her underwear riding up, I saw her curly cloud of light brown hair.

  Jesus. Christ. I hurt. Instead of heading for the bathroom, I took myself into my hand and lusting for her body only inches from me, I jerked my dick while imagining her pussy hugging it. Kneeling next to her, and with my pants still on, I closed my eyes. I fantasized about shooting my wad into her, watching it drip and cling to those hairs and to her thighs, getting them wet like I had in the parking lot. That’s what got me off. I didn’t even touch her. Years of fantasies about her were rampant and vicious. I was lost in it. She never heard me whispering her name out loud, and I didn’t even realize I was fucking crying from the devastating grief of losing so much. There’s something seriously wrong with a guy who cries while masturbating, especially next to a woman who doesn’t want him.

  Before I could stop to cover myself, I came. My cum shot onto Hadley’s lower stomach, her lace underwear, and those little hairs I imagined myself dripping from. She was soaked in me while soaking me in. My cum seeped into the open material of her underwear.

  But I rode it out, not caring that I just came all over Hadley’s pussy. No. At the moment, I was euphoric. She finally had me, in a way.

  Then, the reality trashed the euphoria. It crushed me.

  What in the fuck had I done?

  No. I was supposed to come in my pants, over the sheet, in the fucking air. Not between Hadley’s legs. Fucking hell. What did I do?

  In a frenzy, I grabbed the bunched-up sheet, touching her only with it. I lightly dabbed the drips, trying so fucking hard not to wake her.

  I messed up. Horrendously.

  That was not meant to happen. Fuck. I was panicked but moved slow—cautiously. I tried to clean her up the best I could, but I had already violated Hadley enough. Shit. No. I didn’t... No.

  Not like me.

  I started motherfucking crying again. What the hell did I do to her? I wasn’t like them.

  I jumped out of bed, not knowing what to do. The flashbacks. The image of what I just did to Hadley already haunting me.

  Rubbing the heels of my hands over my eyes, I zipped up, grabbed my shirt, put on my shoes, and took off. I’d have to text her, saying why I left, only with a lie.

  And then, weeks later, Hadley found she was pregnant.

  It didn’t... I think I’m...

  “Goddamn it,” I groan, beating so hard I’m pretty sure the neighbors downstairs think I’m in a heavy metal band.

  The scalding squirts erupt over my stomach, my hand, and over Hadley again while I struggle to catch my breath. “Shit,” I whisper to no one.

  My whole life is a fucking lie. I promised to protect my best friend, but I’ve done shit that proves otherwise. Hadley really doesn’t know me. She’s not even the onl
y one I’ve lied to.

  No one knows what happened to me.

  Or now, to her.

  The one lie I have to perpetuate is the one that will kill me.

  Hadley doesn’t realize I do see my kid.

  Just...the other one.

  CHAPTER 6

  tor·ture noun

  the infliction of intense pain to punish, coerce or afford sadistic pleasure.

  So says the dictionary.

  Yeah. That sounds about right.

  Since meeting Hadley, every day of my life has been fucking torture. Shit. That was dickish to say. Let me rephrase. The torture was there before meeting her. Without knowing it, Hadley twisted the pain in a way that made it excruciatingly bearable. That makes way more sense.

  Sighing, experiencing a form of torture this second, I lean back in the flimsy plastic chair, reserved for cheap cafeterias, AA meetings, and laundromats like this hellhole. The air in here is humid and heavy with the smell of dryer sheets, mildew, and a hint of death. That’s why before choosing a washing machine, I sniff the drums beforehand, having learned that lesson, picking the wrong one. My clothes smelled like ass. Switching laundromats doesn’t help either. Needless to say, I now wash my clothes in only hot water. So long, wool.

  I dread these damn days. Not only do these chairs suck but doing laundry just ain’t my thang. It’s especially a chore when you’re stuck doing it on a Saturday afternoon when the place is loud with college kids and mothers who let their kids run free-range while they gossip on the phone about what neighbor is banging the UPS delivery guy or the scandalous way Gail dresses her damn kids.

  I watch a heavily tattooed man, wearing a spiked dog collar, a black vest, and a camo tank top, trying to operate a washer. When it still doesn’t start, he punches the panel a few times before throwing a Purex bottle at the door, yelling, “Asshole!”

  I cross my arms and laugh toward the grayish white and bile green checkered floor. When I think he’s about to set fire to the place, an old biddy with a cane approaches him and first lectures him about his language. She then schools him on how to operate heavy machinery, starting the washer, which leaves him dumbstruck. When he grills her about fabric softener, I’m bored.