by Brent, Cora
I felt crazy. I gritted my teeth and wrapped my legs around him so tightly it hurt. And relished every heart stopping plunge and thrust until I came.
Marco was spurred on by my pleasure. His pace quickened and then his entire body stiffened. His hot release churned inside of me as he finally pulled away.
“Shit,” he panted, rolling over next to me.
I stared up at the dark eaves of the porch. I was thankful the light had burned out. Because honestly I would have let Marco screw me on his front porch anyway.
Marco reached over and grabbed something from the rusted railing.
“Here.”
“What is it?”
“It’s my shirt.”
“You want me to launder it or something?”
“Dammit, Angie, I just thought you might want to cover the hell up.”
“You’re so kind. Thinking all about me.”
He laughed suddenly. “Shit, you’re one unhappy chick.”
I sat up, not bothering to shield my naked breasts. “I’m not unhappy you dickhead. I graduated summa cum laude. I have a good job. And a great boyfriend.” Where the hell did that come from?
“You do not.” I heard him smiling in the dark.
“Well, whatever then,” I sputtered.
Marco rifled around in his pockets and lit a cigarette. Bad habit. And absurdly sexy.
“So what was it in?”
“What?”
“Your summa cumming loudly.”
I rolled my eyes. “History. What the hell difference does it make?”
“You a teacher?”
“No. I’m a financial analyst.”
“Sounds stimulating as hell.”
“What about you then?” I insisted.
“What about me?”
“For starters, BANGER, are there are a bunch of Bendetti babies running around somewhere?”
“Not that I know of.” He zipped his fly and blew smoke in my direction. “I told you I hadn’t had a roll in quite some time.”
“I think before that you had many.”
He considered. “True. But I wasn’t careless in the way that typically produces results. However I will admit that my transgressions were frequent and usually nameless.” He stood, grabbing a beer and pulling the tab back with a crack. “And then when I was on the inside I finally figured out how blown to hell my priorities were.”
“The inside? You mean in prison?”
Marco nodded.
Goosebumps rose on my skin. There was a chill in the night air but that wasn’t the cause. I hugged my chest. “How long?”
“Three years.”
“Are you going to tell me what you did?”
I felt him staring at me. “Assault and battery.”
“And you were guilty?”
“Sure.”
I chewed on that for a moment while I pulled his t-shirt over my head. It was so heavy with his scent that it was making me hot all over again.
My underwear had gone missing but my ass was getting cold on the concrete so I pulled my jeans on. I sat down again, holding my knees primly.
Marco sank down next to me and handed his beer over. I took a grateful gulp.
“You’re right, you know.”
He flicked his ashes off the side of the porch. “About what?”
“I guess I’m not particularly happy.” Funny; I hadn’t even realized it myself until Marco suggested it.
“So,” he said. “Do something that makes you happy.”
“Well, Marco, I think I just did.”
He chuckled and then was silent for a long moment, looking down the length of Polaris Lane.
“Angela,” he finally said very quietly. “You sorry?”
“About boning the town lothario in my childhood bedroom? Or screwing him on his front porch?”
He snorted. “I know I seem like a pretty big prick but I really didn’t wake up this morning and say, ‘Hell, today I’m going to ruin my neighbor’s life.’”
“I’m not your neighbor anymore.”
“Come on, Angela.”
I rested my head on my knees. My mind was in a tumult. Never in my life had I taken this kind of risk. And never in my life had I felt so awake. Vibrant. Alive. But all I said was, “No, I’m not sorry.”
Marco snuffed out his cigarette and reached for me. One hand went around my back and the other cupped my chin, drawing my face to his. We made out like teenagers, our tongues exploring, our hands tentatively groping as if we hadn’t already been ten times more intimate.
He pulled the scrunchie from my hair. My dark curls fell in a riot long past my shoulders.
“Come inside with me.”
I swallowed. “All right.”
The inside of the Bendetti house wasn’t as neatly tended as my parents’ home but had the same darkly paneled décor whose day was over a decade expired yet comforting nonetheless. The last time I vividly recalled seeing the inside of the house was circa 1979 when my mother, busy at the store with my father, had sent me over to retrieve a piece of Tupperware from Mary Bendetti.
I remembered now; Marco had answered the door with his shirt off as Ozzie blared loudly in the background. Behind him, on a rust-orange floral patterned sofa, Cindy Page was red-faced and hooking her bra.
“Yeah?” Marco, more well-defined than any other reasonable ninth grade boy, was already bored by my interruption.
I blushed, crossing my arms over my polo shirt. “Um, is your mom here?”
Marco raised his eyebrows while Cindy giggled. “What do you think?”
I took a step back, nearly sprawling on my back as the front steps came out of nowhere. Marco looked at me like I was a zoo animal which annoyed the living crap out of me. Cindy had left the sofa to slither behind Marco and wrap her skinny arms around his muscled torso. So I said the most sensible thing that came to mind. Actually I yelled it at the top of my lungs.
“I was just looking for the goddamn Tupperware!”
And then I spun on the heel of my Keds and went running back to my house, my face in flames. I slammed the door to my room and flopped on my bed, realizing Marco very likely, almost certainly, didn’t have any idea what the hell Tupperware even was.
When the doorbell rang a few minutes later I was expecting to see one of the neighborhood gossips in search of my mother, or perhaps one of Tony’s hopeful girlfriends in search of something that didn’t exist.
But it was Marco Bendetti. He twirled the moss green plastic bowl on his right index finger and grinned at me. “This what you were looking for?”
I snatched it away and for the briefest of universe snaps, my hand brushed his. “Thanks,” I murmured, hugging my mother’s bowl to my chest.
“You’re welcome, Angela.” And as he turned away and began to walk back across the street I stared after him, still feeling the vibration in the air of my name on his lips. Watching him, I could almost see the restless man he would become already simmering under his skin and I shivered, closing the door, wishing that I hadn’t seen him in his living room with Cindy Page, wishing that adulthood didn’t loom so close. And then praying it would let me catch up soon.
“It’s the same,” I said, motioning to the couch as Marco closed the front door. It was in fact the ugliest piece of furniture I’d ever had the misfortune to behold. The burnt orange background was the Crayola crayon color no one ever wanted to use and the patterns of large nameless flowers were varied hues of urine yellow and shit brown.
Marco gave a short laugh and then pulled me close, kissing me hard and pressing himself against me. Just before I closed my eyes and sank into his kiss I glimpsed a brass-embellished end table with teenage 8x10 headshots of Marco and his brother Damien. For a strange second it was as if no time whatsoever had passed between the “Good year” Marco admired on my bedroom wall…and now.
Marco began peeling my clothes off, his voice gruff. “Let’s get rid of these.”
I glanced with alarm at the curtained windo
w, knowing full well we were at least partially visible. After the front porch sexcapades I should expect it didn’t matter but my more sensible side finally screamed through.
“Not here,” I stilled his hands.
With a sharp tug he pulled me into a narrow hallway and opened the door to a room I had never seen, not even in the hazy era of early childhood. It was his bedroom.
Marco’s mouth was moving rapidly across my nipples and between my breasts, skating across my stomach and teasing lower. As he rose I reached into his pants and withdrew the pulsing organ which was ready to go again.
He pulled back a few inches, examining me. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
My face felt warm under his scrutiny. No man had ever looked at me so closely. And been so hard doing so.
“I’m not,” I said.
Marco took the flare of my hips in his strong hands, massaging gently. “You are,” he insisted. “You’re perfect, Angela.” And then he wrestled me onto the bed and entered me without another word.
I didn’t count how many times we coupled and in how many positions; from the front, from the back, sideways, on top, with tongue. Marco was a demanding lover who gave as good as he got and he showed me possibilities to rival the Kama Sutra. Finally I fell asleep in his bed and even then, half in a dream, I felt him inside of me again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When I opened my eyes to sunlight my heart nearly stopped.
“Marco,” I poked him urgently in the side to roll him off of me.
He smiled. “Hello, Angel of the Morning.”
I ignored his lyrical reference and began feverishly pulling clothes on. “I’ve got to go.”
Marco propped himself up on an elbow and watched me appreciatively. “Why? You’re not exactly sixteen.”
“Well, Grace and Alan believe otherwise.” I snapped my jeans closed and searched for my shoes.
“Angela.”
My bra hook was proving elusive so I ripped the whole garment off and shoved it in my back pocket. “What?”
Marco hesitated, watching me with dark intent eyes. After a moment he sighed and rolled onto his stomach. I tried not to look at his naked body. I didn’t want to have a reason to stay. The word ‘Seventeen’ was tattooed in large spidery script from one shoulder blade to the other.
“Hey,” he groaned from the bed. “Close the curtains, would you? That sun is glaring like a mother fucker.”
My heart threatened to escape my chest as I took long strides across the street to my house. It was Sunday morning but surely somewhere behind the glinting windows of Polaris Lane there were one or two hardy busybodies already awake and sipping tea as they surveyed their tiny world.
Thankfully, Alan and Grace Durant were not among them. I climbed through my bedroom window and listened carefully for a moment, hearing nothing and finally exhaling with weak relief. Technically I was beyond their legal reach. But sneaking back in sure as hell fought off a lot of unanswerable questions.
I grabbed some fresh clothes out of my bag and headed for the shower. As I was stepping into the stall, the yellow lighting shone on the handful of bruises on my back. I grinned wryly, well recalling how they were achieved. The hot water felt wonderful as all the cramped muscles in places I didn’t even know I had relaxed and luxuriated in the steam. I even hummed a little. I was tired and there were parts of my body which felt battered into jelly, but I also felt good. Really good.
Until I left the bathroom and found my father waiting on the other side of the door.
I smiled nervously, not liking the grave look in his gray eyes. “Morning Dad. Sorry, did I hog all the hot water?”
He didn’t smile back. “You sleep well?”
I combed through my wet hair and avoided his gaze. “Hmm? Yeah, real good.”
My father threw me a look I’d seen before, just never directed at me. It was the way he used to look at Tony. The I-Know-You-Are-Full-of-Shit-and-You-Know-You-Are-Full-of-Shit look. We spent an uncomfortable moment silently appraising one another.
But then my mother bounced into the hallway. She hugged me. “I’m making your favorite, Angie.”
I tried to remember what Grace might believe my favorite was. I sniffed the air. “Cinnamon toast?”
“Coming up in five minutes.” She peered at me and pushed a lock of wet hair aside. “Your stomach all better?”
My stomach?
“Yeah. Learned my lesson though. No more greasy food this weekend.”
My father continued to regard me with the most disconcerting glare. Evidently he didn’t want to speak his mind in his wife’s presence because he shook himself and spoke mildly. “Grace, I’ll be puttering in the rose garden for a bit and then I’m off to do inventory at the store.”
My mother waved him away. “You and your rose garden,” she rolled her eyes.
I tried to listen to my mother’s bright chatter as I nibbled at bites of cinnamon toast. But all I thought about was Marco.
“Tell me you didn’t love it.”
“Angela,” my mother said crossly as I spilled my cup of coffee.
“Sorry,” I croaked, mopping it up. “You know, I guess I’m still pretty tired. I think I’m going to take a nap.”
My mother wrinkled her nose. “A nap? It’s eight in the morning.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, tossing the soggy paper towels in the trash. “It is.”
After I’d rinsed my plate of in the sink and was heading down the hall my mother called me back.
“Have you seen my buttercup glass?”
I stopped dead. “What?”
There was a sigh and the sound of the kitchen faucet. “You know, my set of painted flower glasses. Your father’s managed to break two of them so far this year. And now I can’t find the buttercup glass.”
I remembered the sound of shattering glass, the splintered bits on a dustpan as they slid into the trash can. And I remembered what, and who, came after that.
I coughed. “No, ma. I haven’t seen your buttercup glass.”
***
The house was quiet when I emerged from the hazy funk of my morning nap. I sat upright in my bed for a few minutes, listening to that peculiar ear-ringing echo which is the sound of deep silence.
After leaning over and checking the time on the bedside alarm clock I got heavily to my feet. My insides felt like tapioca pudding, the aftershocks of too much sex. I mused about too much sex as I smoothed the quilt back into place, wondering if too much sex was a legitimate medical diagnosis and making a mental note to research it.
When I still heard nothing from any other corner of the house I assumed my parents had both gone to the store.
So I was a little thrown when I found my father sitting unhappily in the living room. They had purchased new furniture the year I graduated from college and I missed the odd patriotic-themed pattern of the old set. Alan Durant glowered at me from a bland beige sofa.
“Sit down, Angela.”
I sat gingerly on the edge of a reclining chair. My father appraised me sternly.
“How’s work?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Work?” I shrugged. “Good as ever, I guess.”
He leaned forward. “And how’s life?”
My eyes lowered. “Fine, Dad.”
“Is that why you’re making time with the Bendetti boy?”
My mouth fell open. My father could see through obsidian. I should have known better than to try to fool him.
“Don’t bother denying it. You know where that guy has been the last few years? What are you thinking getting mixed up with a punk like that?”
I was starting to feel a sort of surreal detachment from this conversation. It was really an exchange which I should have had with my father ten years ago. Except there wasn’t any reason for it back then.
My face flushed and I felt obliged to remind him of something. “I’m an adult, Dad.”
“Then please act like it.”
I stood, my hands on my hips. “D
ammit, I’m responsible for my own decisions.”
He sighed, looking suddenly tired. “And your own mistakes.”
“If need be.”
My father looked at me sadly. “All you ever wanted was to get out of here.”
“I am out of here.”
He shook his head slowly, then rose to his feet, glaring at me. “You tell that asshole if he wants to see my daughter he’d better get over here and shake my hand and look me in the eye.”
“I’m not telling him that.”
He started to head out the front door. “Got to get back to the store. You know your mother doesn’t have a head for counting and if I leave her to it much longer my inventory numbers will be all off.” His hand was on the brass doorknob. “Invite him for dinner. Your mother’s making meatloaf and even I can’t stop her.”
“Dad!”
“Six o’clock, Angela.”
He slammed the front door.
I felt miserable. It had taken me nearly twenty five years but I had finally utterly disappointed my father.
The idea depressed me to the point of exhaustion so I did the reasonable thing and returned to my bedroom, peeling back the bedspread and sinking between the covers, letting the blissful oblivion of sleep overtake me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grace Franco and Alan Durant had been born in Cross Point Village and so of course they knew one another long before the first wisps of adolescence.
I’d grown up looking at grainy photos of high school dances, mountain picnics and the nauseatingly shiny radiance of a young couple in love. It didn’t even have to be said; my parents were the fairy tale. The first kiss, for them, was the forever kiss. And when I was old enough to recognize the rarity I would shake my head, thinking “My God they were lucky.” They never knew the futility of the search, the sting of one heartbreak after another until it seemed impossible the world could hold your other half.
I, on the other hand, knew all about it.
The guy I lost my virginity to was named Matthew Moriarity. Amherst was a small college and it wasn’t difficult to float in similar circles with nearly everyone at some point.
It was senior year, the final spring break, and I reluctantly tagged along with my roommate, Judith. Judith was prissy as a cat and engaged to a fellow undergrad named Fred.
