by M. R. Joseph
Porter and Max make their way down to where we are and they stand beside me. Boys on one side, girls on the other, and it looks like a standoff. Shit, the tension is fierce. I like a little heat. I like a little drama. I’m the king of it.
“Well guys, Miss Hannum here thinks she owns the beach. I am here just being innocent, trying to take a nap, and my cojones were trying to rest as well. They’ve been through a war today thanks to you, baby.”
She seethes at me, despises me, and has a true distaste for me and my words. She shuts her eyes as tight as she can, rolling her lips between her teeth. She speaks through them, not opening her mouth much, but the words are clear.
“I told you, do not call me baby. I am not your baby. I loathe the word. It makes me ill. I will, however, apologize for my impetuous assault on your… well, those.” She motions towards Morty and the boys.
“Fine. I accept. Now I will also apologize for making you look like a total ass the other night. It wasn’t professional of me. Truce?” I extend my hand to her, and she is reluctant to take it, so I repeat my mantra.
“Come on, Harlow. Truce?”
She does take it. I squeeze and allow my fingers to graze, gently, the top of her hand, which makes her pull away from my grip, fast. She acts like my hand was on fire. Jeez.
Porter lays his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it.
“Cruz, I’m proud of you man. It’s going to be a long summer, and I really don’t want any trouble in my parent’s house, and Willow’s mom will go ballistic if anything happens to hers. If we all have to live next to each other this summer, we all have to get along.”
Everyone nods, except for Harlow.
Ha!
She figured it out.
She knows.
Awesome.
Oh, shit. Nevermind.
Her calmness is now replaced with a look of terror.
“What do you mean, Porter, if we have to live next to each other? Who? Us, you and Max? Please explain before I go mad?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Cruz is our roommate. He’s going to be living in my house with Max and me, and…”
Harlow is grabbing her towel and beach bag, stuffing the contents that were on her towel into her bag. When she’s done, she swings the bag over her shoulder and starts to walk away, fast.
Her friends begin to yell at her to come back.
Harlow turns and walks back, well, almost running towards us.
“I’m not living here, Willow, with that, that, that man-whore.” She motions to me, and I have to agree once again.
My name is Raphael Patrick Cruz, and I am a man-whore.
Yes. My middle name is Patrick, my crack-head mother is a mick. So!
She gets in my face (ohh, how I have a newfound love for freckles) and gives me a look of pure disgust. Her tone is quiet, but her delivery is spectacular.
“If you think I’m going to live next door to you for the next ten weeks, watch you parade around with skanks, listen to you have sexual encounters with them inside or outside of that house, and watch you and your caveman mannerisms, I will be put in a mental institution for the criminally insane, because I will kill you by the end of summer!”
Yikes, she can scream when she’s angry, and if memory serves me, when she’s coming too.
Mind… meet gutter.
She takes off and her friends look pissed. Porter’s cousin, Willow, the crazy one, gets near and starts to poke my chest.
“Listen here dickwad, you are not going to be the reason that girl leaves here. She is so deserving of this summer break. I can’t even give you enough reasons. Just let me warn you.” She takes my nipple, ouch, and starts to twist it. “If she leaves, and you don’t try to rectify it, I will cut off your precious dick and serve it to the fish restaurant up the street, have them cook it up real nice, then shove it down your throat. You got me, copper?”
Ow, that hurts, and I’m pretty sure this is not a threat. Think Cruz, think.
Do the right thing?
Let her rip off my nipple?
Let her cut Morty off my body?
I love Morty, we have been friends since birth.
Ugh. Doing the right thing sucks. Totally.
“Fine. Ok. I will, but please stop twisting my nipple.”
She releases me. Points to her eyes with her index and middle fingers, then at me, like a sign as to I’ll be watching you. The girls walk away, and I’m left with a bruised nipple, calf, and balls.
Life’s not fair.
“Guess I better go apologize.” The guys nod to me.
I hate being a grown up. It sucks.
***
CHAPTER 4
Introducing Turnip
Cruz~
By the time I reach the house and make it to the girls’ sliding glass door, I’m really re-thinking this whole apology thing. Why should I? Because I tried to have a little fun with her? It really wasn’t a big deal. I thought it was funny to see her dance around that street.
My conscience is battling with me, the angel on one shoulder, the devil on the other. The devil usually wins, but I’m seriously afraid of Willow. I’m pretty sure she means business, so I guess in this case, the angel is defeating my horn-clad friend. I just need to figure out how to give Harlow a reason not to leave, and I really have no idea how I’m going to pull this off. I’ve never had to apologize, admit I’m wrong, or at least be wrong. I’m close to perfection in my eyes. I need to stay here, do good at this rent-a-cop job so maybe I can get a full-time position with the force.
After chickening out about two or three times, I gently knock on the door. Willow comes to the door, opens it gently, and motions for me to come in. I follow her as she gives me the death glare.
“Where is she?” I say quietly.
“Packing, what do you think she’s doing?”
Shit. I better make this good.
“Can I go talk to her?” She nods.
“Last room on the right, and remember what I said asshole, she needs to stay, so do your best to keep her here. I know being a nice guy may be new to you, but you better try, if your genitals know what’s good for them.”
This chick is scary, and if I don’t make Harlow stay, I’ll be afraid to go to sleep at night.
I take a deep breath in, as I pass two very pissed off broads, and make my way to Harlow’s door. I reach it and quietly knock a few times. This is really not my thing, but here goes nothing.
I hear her faintly tell me or whomever she thinks it is to come in.
I slowly turn the knob and make my way in. She’s turned so her back is to me and the rest of her is in her closet, taking out items of clothing. A large suitcase is on her bed, open, with a few things already in it.
I close the door behind me and lean against it. When she turns and sees me, she looks shocked, but surprisingly calm. Her eyes only meet mine for a split second, and she goes back to doing whatever she was doing. She addresses me without another glance.
“What are you doing here? You got what you wanted, I’m leaving. Hope you’re satisfied.”
Why do I suddenly feel bad? That’s not like me. I don’t feel bad for anything. Not even homeless kittens, but when she looks at me, I can tell she’s been crying.
I push off the door, arms still crossed and go to sit on the edge of her bed.
“I’m not satisfied, actually. I’m… I’m sorry, okay. I’ve been hard on you, and we’ve only been in each other’s company for a few hours. I haven’t been, well, I haven’t been fair to you.”
She snorts and gives a small ‘ha’.
This isn’t going as planned. I better step up my game.
“No, I’m serious. I’m just not used to girls being so…” She stops me.
“Cold?”
And I have to agree with her. That night, as hot as she was, she was cold as ice. I’ve bagged dozens and dozens of girls and very few stick in my mind, she was one of the few.
I smirk, “Yea, I guess you could say that.”
She continues to throw shit in her suitcase, this time with a little more gusto.
Yikes.
“Listen, your friends want you to stay, so does Porter, and I’m trying to be honest with you.”
She stops the assault on her clothing and places her hands on her hips, giving me an amused look.
“Well, I’m guessing that’s a first for you, Officer Cruz.”
I give my best one-sided smile and fiddle with her scarf that was meant to be thrown in her suitcase, but missed.
When I don’t answer, she turns back to her closet, picking up shoes and emptying hangers. I bring the scarf up to my nose. I don’t know why. It smells like a chick. It’s soft, silky even.
Like a chick.
Actually, it smells really good. I don’t remember how she smelled that night, but I imagine that’s what this scarf smells like. Is this what Harlow Hannum would smell like?
Does that sound sick? Maybe.
I throw it in her suitcase, and now I need to plead my case.
“Look, you’re right. I’m usually the one who’s right in a situation, and I’m not a nice guy sometimes, but I don’t deliberately go around hurting people.” I pause because what I want to say next may not go over very well, but I have to try before Morty is served on a bed of lettuce.
“Um, your friends and Porter tell me you’ve had a rough year and that you need a break, so I have to convince you to stay.”
She turns around quickly and her eyes look weird, and she looks incredibly nervous.
“What did they tell you about me? What did they say? Tell me, you asshole. I need to know.” She’s close to my face, taking a fist and punching the bed next to where I’m sitting.
What the hell?
“Nothing. All they said was that you had a rough year. They didn’t get into specifics. Chill.”
This is getting weird to me. She smooths out her shirt and looks calmer now that she knows what her friends said. She shuts her eyes and swallows so hard, I can hear it.
“Fine.” She slowly reopens them, but our eyes don’t make contact. She looks at her suitcase, stares at it, and bites her lip.
“I do need this break. I don’t want to go home.”
There’s a sadness when she says it, and for some unexplained reason, I kinda feel something I’m not sure of.
Sympathy? Is that what it’s called? I dismiss it quickly. I stand up when I see her trying to zip up her suitcase and lug it off the bed. When it hits the floor, I still her hand with mine.
“Stop for a minute and listen. You should stay. I think maybe we can come up with some kind of solution, so we can both live here and enjoy the summer without being at each other’s throats. I’m really trying here.”
I grab the suitcase from her and throw it back on the bed.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She’s so difficult. In less than twenty four hours, I can tell.
“I’m trying to tell you let’s figure this out. I work a few nights a week. You won’t have to see me. You don’t even have to talk to me when you do see me. If we are on the beach, ignore me. I can do it, if you can. It will be like we’re strangers.”
She closes the closet door and turns back to me. She’s quiet for a moment, almost like she’s thinking what she should say next. “We are strangers.”
I laugh, and I’m thinking that yea, we are. Strangers, who had sex. How funny is that? I never even thought about something like that. People say it’s such an intimate thing, and I’ve never thought of it that way. It’s always about how it makes me feel. The pleasure of it, not the… what’s the word Porter uses… intimacy? What a weird word.
It’s all about the pussy.
“Yea, I guess we are, in a way. Guess I didn’t think of it that way even though we, you know… did the nasty.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Do you always have to be so crude?”
What does she mean? That was crude for me to say? Wow, we really are strangers then, because I can be a whole hell of a lot cruder than that.
“No, baby, I’m not always that crude, but when it comes to the ladies, I can be a bit… free with my words and actions.” I wink at her.
She grabs the handle of the suitcase and tries again to pull it off the bed.
Did I say something wrong?
“Wait, what are you doing? I thought I was getting through to you?”
She’s quiet as she pulls the suitcase towards the door. I get out of her way, and I’m about to just let her go.
Then I think about Morty, and the thoughts of him no longer being with me, and now I’m scared. Shit.
“What did I say this time?”
She stops before she gets to the door. She looks so small with that big suitcase in her hands, so petite, so fragile.
“I think I’ve told you at least a half dozen times in the last few hours, not to call me baby. It’s insulting, and it sounds like something only a male chauvinist pig with a small mind would say.”
Not this again. What the fuck does she have against guys calling her baby? This is so not worth it. I’ll ask Porter for my money back and sleep in my car for the next ten weeks. It’s all bullshit.
“You know what? Forget it. Letting you leave is worth getting my dick chopped off for… well almost. Maybe I’ll run away to Siberia. Eskimo chicks are hot,” I mumble.
She turns to me, confused, but amused.
“What in God’s name are you rattling off about? You are the most vexatious person I have ever met.”
Is that English? The vocabulary on this girl is unbelievable.
“Ok, so I have no idea what that means, but it sounds like you are insulting me.”
She lets out a frustrated groan as her hand goes to the knob of the door.
“Wait.” I make a sudden move for her hand to stop her. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m doing it, but I do. She stops, and I hear her let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Willow said she would cut off my dick. I… I mean penis and sell it to a seafood restaurant if I didn’t convince you to stay. I really like my penis, and I’d like to keep it, so please, let’s come to some kind of agreement, learn to get along with one another, and make it a nice summer.” The room is silent. Eerily silent, and I wait to hear her reply. Then I hear her giggle. She giggles. She fucking giggles.
“She really said that?”
“I wouldn’t lie about something like that, trust me.” And I wouldn’t. Morty is like a brother to me. “I’m not a bad guy, really. I’m not once you get to know me. I’ll behave.”
“Ok. Fine. I have a few conditions.”
She turns around and motions for me to sit on the bed. I do, but she remains standing, and I feel like I’m about to be scolded. She paces in front of me, looking at the floor and not at me.
“First things first. No more deck sex, please. I’d like to enjoy the view from it without seeing you and your flavor of the week engaging in sexual acts.”
“Ok, I can deal with that.”
“Second, when you are entertaining someone of the female persuasion, please keep the noise down to a minimal roar. I fully understand that this may be a difficult feat for you, being the man-whore you are, but have some respect for the people living next to you.”
Oh, God. Is she serious? How the hell am I supposed to keep a chick I’m banging quiet? I mean, I get the deck sex thing, but damn.
“Now wait just a minute, baby, how am I…”
Shit. If I could eat that word, I would, because now I know what’s next. Just the look on her face says it all. She crosses her arms and inches her way a bit closer to me, actually a lot closer.
“And then there’s number three.” Her tone is soft, but what she’s about to spew at me, I’m betting is not.
“At no time over the next ten weeks will you use the term ‘baby’ when you address me.”
Air quotes are gestured around the word baby.
“I cannot begin to dep
ict how much I despise it. I have a name. It’s Harlow, in case you have suddenly forgotten. It means meadow of the hares. People with the name have a deep inner need for quiet, and a desire to understand and analyze the world they live in, and to learn the deeper truths. That’s me. It’s not sweetheart, or darling, or cutie, and it’s certainly not baby. Learn to address me correctly, or we are going to have a problem.”
She leans in, hands flat on the bed beside my body, arms stiff, her hair flows in the front of her shoulders, towards her chest. I can feel her breath on my face, and I smell her. It’s the same scent as on the scarf. Sugar cookie, maybe?
“Do I make myself clear, Officer?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting the blood from my teeth, and I nod. It’s all I can do at this point. She doesn’t linger in front of me. She straightens up and crosses her arms in front of me.
“Ok, fine, but why don’t you like anyone calling you baby? What’s the deal?”
She stares at me, then moves to her suitcase and begins to drag it across the room, back towards the bed. I grab it from her and fling it back on the bed, but she still hasn’t answered my question.
“So are you going to tell me why you don’t like it, or do I have to guess?”
She unzips her suitcase and starts to pull things out, still not making eye contact with me.
“I… I j-just don’t like it. It’s not cute. It’s n-not sexy. It just makes me feel…” After stuttering her words, her voice trails off, and I don’t hear the last thing she says. I’m not sure what her deal is. I stand up, fishing some of her shoes out of the suitcase, and I begin handing them to her. It’s a simple gesture, and she looks confused by it. I shove a shoe in her hand, rolling my eyes at her. She looks at it, then at me and places it in the closet.
“Ya know. I’m not a monster. We can be friends, if you want. Just because what happened between us last year, happened, doesn’t mean we can’t get past it. We both know it’s never going to happen again.”
