“You sure?” His gaze narrowed. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have guessed he was appraising me, but then that would have been silly. Why would he take so much as a second look? Back in the day, I’d been crowned homecoming queen and Miss Stonewall County. And everyone had told me I was pretty enough to be a model. And then I’d married a real live prince and he’d proceeded to use and abuse me in an unspeakable manner. And no one—not even my parents—had believed me. And ever since, I’d portrayed myself as being as ugly on the outside as I felt inside.
Swallowing bile, then the black knot lurking at the back of my throat, I nodded, willing my pulse to slow. I was safe. All that was behind me. I was a whole state west of Blaine, and just as soon as I earned the money, I’d move even farther. It’d cost my engagement ring to purchase a new identity in a Memphis back alley. Worth every penny, and then some.
Nathan arrived with the mustard. He wore roller skates and skidded to an impressive backward stop alongside me. “Here you go. You owe me a cherry Icee when I’m off.”
“Sure.” I clutched the plastic bottle, wishing, praying, to one day feel normal again. “Just bring your own cup. Mine are inventoried.”
“Will do.” He eyed the lone customer, then me. Did he think we were together? Nathan had asked me out a couple times, and I’d always gone, being sure to keep things casual. I liked having him as a friend but was afraid of making him mad—which only proved how messed up I truly was.
As fast as Nathan had appeared, he was then gone.
“Do I get any of that?” The stranger nodded toward his mustard, jolting me from my thoughts.
I looked at him and those serene, smiling eyes and, for the first time in forever, felt the tiniest glimpse of the girl I used to be. Why? What was it about this stranger that made me want to at least try rejoining the world?
“Please?” His gentle coax nudged me back to reality.
I set his condiment on the table, then cautiously backed a safe distance away. “Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” He broke the safety seal. Used those big hands of his to squeeze twin golden lines on either side of his dog. In the process, a chunk of hair kept falling over his left eye. Grinning up at me, he blew it out of the way. He had no idea how sexy his unattractiveness truly was. And those eyes. How easily I could lose myself in that verdant green.
Then reality crashed around me when I remembered to answer his question. “I don’t know.” Only, I did know why I’d apologized. The psych books I’d checked out of the library told me all about how naive I’d been, ignoring all the classic signs of being in an abusive relationship. Too bad identifying issues doesn’t necessarily change them.
“Ma’am? I need two slices of pepperoni, three cherry Icees, and a coffee.” It was Halloween and a frazzled mom approached the counter with two rowdy kids. One wore a Spider-Man costume and the other the Incredible Hulk. Hulk couldn’t have been much older than three, which was why his growls were cute as opposed to annoying.
“Sure,” I said to my customer. To this guy I didn’t know, but strangely wanted to, I waved good-bye. “Duty calls.”
He nodded. “I understand. Thanks again for the mustard.”
“My pleasure.”
The middle and elementary schools down the road must’ve let out, as an hour passed with a steady line of costume-wearing kids. Somewhere during a sticky flood of Icees and nachos and more Pepsis than I could count, my stranger left. And for some unfathomable reason, that made me sad.
—
By the time nine rolled around, I was more than ready to close for the night. Though the manager preferred I hold over the popcorn to use for the next day, I thought that was gross, so I discreetly scooped it into a trash bag, then wiped down the machine. By nine thirty, I’d cleaned everything else and was more than ready to retire to my shithole apartment.
Funny thing was, though, as crappy as the place was with its lumpy furniture and constant reek of the neighbor’s fried onions, it was mine. No one hurt me. I got halfway decent sleep—I feared a full night’s rest would never again be part of my life—and best of all, since all utilities were paid, I could always leave the lights on. Never again would a man catch me in the dark. Bad things happened there.
I tugged my thrift-store almost-white coat from my locker, slung my equally ratty purse over my shoulder—the Louis Vuitton Blaine had bought me on our Paris honeymoon had long ago been sold to pay my first month’s rent—then set off to wait for Willow, who, since I didn’t have a car, was usually kind enough to drive me home.
“Boo!”
“Jesus…” I’d just exited the storeroom when Willow jumped at me from alongside the swinging door. Evidently well into the Halloween spirit, she sported a neon pink witch hat and a twist-top bottle of Mountain Dew that I suspected from her boozy smell was loaded with vodka. She knew nothing about my past, and now I couldn’t quit shaking. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry. I was going for more of a sexy witch vibe than scary, but I suppose I could switch it up and be Stripper Strawberry Shortcake?”
Though my pulse still raced, I couldn’t help but laugh. She always had that effect on me.
“Does that smile mean you’re good with the stripper costume? You could be Stripper Smurfette. That way we’d match.”
I linked my arm with hers and sighed. “Willow, my love, has anyone ever told you you’re a straight-up mess?”
“All the time. I take it as a compliment.”
After hitting the already picked-through costume aisle for Willow’s new look, we wound our way to the front of the store. I lacked the funding for playing dress-up but had plenty of time. Since she was my ride home, I waited with her in the checkout line.
Outside, beneath the parking lot lights’ eerie orange glow, the night carried the sort of damp cold that had always seeped inside me. Angry wind howled, abusing brittle leaves and pitching paper flotsam like a temper-fueled small child. While a heavyset guy struggled to gather strewn mail, a woman chased her runaway cart. In an odd pleasure/pain dichotomy, the haunting, sweet scent of wood smoke rose above the mayhem, almost as if it were the wind’s mother, willing it to hush.
The smoke reminded me of my nearly idyllic childhood. How the few nights my father had been home, if it’d been cold enough, he’d always built a cozy fire.
Willow asked, “You hitting BJ’s with me tonight?”
“Sounds fun, but my lack of cash presents a problem.”
She sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you, if you have good tits, you have free booze. Problem solved.”
“Willow…”
“Yeah, yeah…You’re a good girl, flaunting what the good lord gave ya goes against your religion, blah, blah, blah.”
“It’s not that, I just—”
“No more excuses.” Willow used her keyless remote to pop the locks on the black Dodge Charger her boyfriend let her use. Since I’d never seen this boyfriend—only his gifts—I suspected the guy was more like a dirty old man who got his rocks off nightly with a supple young thing, then went home to his devoted wife. I liked Willow and had plenty of my own filthy secrets, so who was I to judge? “We’re running by my place to get you dolled up, then we’re drinking—and by drinking, I mean getting seriously fucked up.”
—
I’m not sure what’d gotten into me to make me go along with Willow’s plans, but by the time we hit BJ’s, she’d squeezed me into a red cocktail dress that showed far too much of everything. She’d piled my hair high, then, upon adding red devil horns, declared my costume complete.
We’d pregamed with her cheap vodka, and though after what happened back in Tennessee, I usually didn’t like losing control, tonight, with that stranger’s mossy green gaze lingering in my mind’s eye, more than ever I craved escape.
After a while, being dead was exhausting.
The tricky thing about being dead is that as much as I’d have liked to believe myself wholly and completely num
b, that wasn’t exactly true. Every time I took off my bra, what happened was still there. Every time I saw a family, I couldn’t help but wonder if my parents had even tried looking for me after I’d gone. The mossy-eyed guy had unwittingly dredged up everything. He’d served as the temperature conversion on my own personal black lake. Turning me over inside, bringing all the torment I’d so carefully shoved down bubbling to the surface. Only now, swimming through a lovely, ever-rising cheap-vodka fog, with at least the presentable portion of my tits on display, my makeup fierce and hair properly teased and sprayed, I looked no different from any of the rest of the costume-wearing crowd.
For this one night, I was no longer the scared woman-child Blaine had wanted me to be but the empowered woman I was striving to one day become.
Wolf whistles trailed us into the smoky bar.
A cover band blared Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.”
A biker type smacked my ass. It only seemed natural for me to spin on my borrowed heels to scold, “You can look, but don’t ever touch.”
He raised his hands in surrender, then blew me a kiss. “I like a spicy bitch.”
Willow tugged me by my right arm. “Eew. Come on. The hotter guys are always back in the grunge room.”
BJ’s had once been a grocery store but had since been converted into three adjoining bars, each recognizable by different music. Eighties hair bands took up the former checkout, bakery, and deli sections. Then came a wall, punctuated with three sets of swinging doors. The area that’d once housed rows of canned goods, pet food, sugary kid cereal, and tampons was where the honky-tonk crowd hung. Willow hustled me out of there. In the former stockroom was where we usually played. The music ranged from Alice in Chains to Nirvana to Tool, and Willow was right—the guys were hotter. Not that I usually looked.
I hadn’t come here for anything other than liquor-induced escape.
At least that’s what I told myself.
I wasn’t brave enough to look much deeper.
“Watch and learn.” Willow turned toward me, adjusting her push-up bra. “I expect to have a free Crown and Coke in my hands in three, two, one…”
She left me to strut toward the bar. I should’ve been nervous on my own, but honestly, I was too drunk to care.
The hazy air throbbed with vintage Pearl Jam and for the longest time, I stood stone still on the edge of the fray, just taking it all in. Couples dancing. Couples laughing. Couples leaning their heads together for deep-mouthed kisses so primal I felt voyeuristic watching. And then I felt hungry, angry, frustrated by having no outlet for my own sexual needs other than squeezing my thighs together, willing my racing pulse to slow, willing the old nemesis away.
“Desire” was no longer in my vocabulary.
Unfortunately, the vodka said “horny” was.
Needing more to drink, I found Willow. The target she’d found looked like an off-duty mechanic. He wore jeans and a dark blue shirt with a patch that read TIM.
We exchanged pleasantries that grew more pleasant when he bought me three double shots of Skyy.
Buckcherry wailed about a crazy bitch and the bass centered in my core. I became that bitch. Needed with every breath of my being to be her. Just for tonight. Tomorrow, I’d willingly return to my self-imposed coffin.
Not needing a dance floor, I closed my eyes, waving my arms Mata Hari style over my head, swaying my ass, my full, aching breasts, all the parts of me I struggled on a daily basis to forget. And then he was there, my mossy-eyed stranger, slipping his hands around my waist in a way so perfect I couldn’t have dreamed it. A slow version of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” began to play. And I did hurt. Still hurt. Would always hurt. And my eyes stung and throat ached and when the stranger leaned in to kiss me, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
I didn’t know him.
He didn’t know me.
Yet in that moment, nothing mattered but the music. The heady sexual power coursing through every inch of me. My arms fell in a slow tumble, resting around his neck. I slid my splayed fingers into his hair, pressing him closer, deeper. I was in control and I pushed him into the nearest dark corner, where, when our midsections brushed, there was no denying his attraction. I was wet and humming, flying in a netherworld of raw emotion. All of it turned topsy-turvy in my head and I couldn’t stop kissing, kissing this stranger.
I raised my right leg, rubbing it up the length of him. He caught me by the back side of my thigh, clenching me hard, pulling me against his raging erection. My dress rose higher and higher until air kissed my pulsing core and my thong wedged deep, creating maddening pressure.
Not thinking, just doing, I reached for his waistband, tugging, struggling to find the button.
“Whoa,” he said, “let’s take this outside.”
I nodded.
We somehow found an emergency exit and stumbled through, crashing against the concrete-block wall on the far side of a Dumpster. The cold didn’t matter, because I was so hot. I wanted this—him—desperately until nothing mattered but getting him inside me, pounding out the hurt, the pain, the confusion never granting me peace. I wasn’t dead. I was so very much alive but screaming through a self-induced coma this stranger had somehow broken through.
Our kissing took on a fevered pitch, a mad wanton sweeping of our tongues. He tasted of vodka and lime and hope.
He let me spring his cock free and when I knelt to blow him, his satisfied groan tore through me. “Yeah…Just like that. God, don’t ever stop… ”
Suck it good, baby! Oh yeah, that’s the way your Blaine Daddy likes it!
Like a needle scratching a record, sanity returned.
I froze, letting his still-hard cock pop from my mouth. What was I doing? This was insanity—beyond that, it was sick. I wasn’t horny but clearly needed psychiatric help.
“I-I’m sorry,” I said, now shivering, crying so hard mascara ran into my eyes. “I-I can’t do this. I thought I could. I wanted to, but—”
Unable to finish my sentence, I did the only thing I’d ever been good at—running.
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Longing: Club Inferno Page 20
