Grey

by Aundrea Ascencio

  Glass shattered loudly across the room. Some guy had collided into a tower of wine glasses stacked in the corner. Roswell pushed Chantel roughly away from him and advanced on the drunken idiot in a rage. "Get the fuck out!" he shouted, yanking the guy up by the shoulders and throwing him toward the door. "Don't come back!"

  Chantel, who had stumbled drunkenly onto the floor under Roswell's forceful push, struggled to regain her balance on three inch heels. Her third glass of champagne was now spilled all over the front of her dress. The guys around her were more than willing to assist her to her feet, but their hands groped at anything but her hands.

  "I got it! I don't need help!" Chantel cried, trying to push them away, but she was so drunk that her efforts hardly made a difference and she fell back on the floor laughing hysterically.

  Roswell snatched the empty champagne glass from her hand, stepped over her legs, and marched for the liquor table again, determined to finish what he started. Chantel looked so stupid lying there laughing on the floor, and Eric sank into his seat in embarrassment. It wouldn't be long before people started making the connection back to him, and he would always be known as that one guy who brought the "ghetto black chick" to the party. He couldn't live with that. He had to do something.

  He pushed himself roughly off the couch and forced his way through the crowd that had gathered around Chantel, cursing to himself the whole way there. He snatched her arm and pulled her up off the floor with no amount of gentleness.

  "Whoa, what the hell is wrong with you?" Chantel cried, barely able to stand on her own feet.

  "You're acting like a dumbass," he declared, prying the champagne glass out of her hand. He poured the contents out into an empty beer can nearby. "Get your own goddamn drinks around here. That's rule number one."

  "I'm 21 years old. I don't need a babysitter."

  "Then stop acting like you do. Look at yourself. Look at how stupid you're acting," Eric ordered. "Where's Roswell?"

  "Excuse me? Don't be yelling at me. You ain't my daddy," she declared. "I don't know where he is. He said he'd be back but-"

  Eric grabbed her wrist and yanked her off the dance floor. "What are you doing? Let go of me!" she demanded.

  "I should've never invited you here," he said fiercely. "I can't even have a drink in peace because you won't be responsible and take care of yourself."

  "I didn't ask you to come over here. I'm having fun. I came here for the liquor and the bitches. That's what this is about, right? The experience," she said, yanking her hand away from his grasp. She grabbed another beer from a table nearby. "If you don't like it, you can leave."

  Eric had no choice but to let her go. If she walked into it willingly, then she deserved the consequences. He didn't confront her again, but he kept her within his sight at all times.

  It was an education for both of them. Eric dreaded having to play chaperon, but it gave him a chance to really see her. The side of her that nobody got to see, not even her. The girl she wished she had the guts to be, but put on a perfect-girl mask to please everyone else. It had to be stressful keeping up that image all the time. For this one night, she could let loose. She could dance like nobody was watching. She could laugh and smile and flirt like nothing else mattered She worried about nothing or no one. That's the ideal. When it really comes down to it, that's what we all want. To be that happy and to want for nothing.

  With Eric skulking within a 10-foot radius of her, Roswell abandoned his mission to get Chantel drunk. It was other guys Eric had to watch the rest of the night. Yet he kept his cool about it and didn't storm onto the dance floor to confront them again. If Chantel was ok with them pushing up on her, then he didn't let it bother him. However, if ever once she looked uncomfortable about the attention, Eric was ready to step in.

  The only time he let her out of his sight was to take a piss, but soon came to regret that. He came back to find Chantel passed out on a sofa with some guy trying to get a peek up her dress. He wasn't on top of her, but Eric felt like that was invasive enough.

  He walked over to the couch and squeezed himself between them, forcing the guy to retreat to the far end of the couch.

  "How's it going?" Eric nodded to him, and turned back to observe the party. The guy stared him down, but Eric ignored him. Realizing Eric wouldn't budge, the guy stood and tried to cross in front of Eric to sit next to Chantel again. Eric stretched out his feet and crossed them, making it impossible for the guy to walk by without stepping over his legs. "She's passed out, man. Leave her alone," Eric told him.

  "And who the hell are you?"

  "I'm Eric. Nice to meet you. Hey, you want to know something cool?" Eric asked. "You ever been hog hunting? Hog hunting is a tradition in my family. That's a good meal. Where I'm from, they run around like squirrels. He's a bad mutha, I'll tell you that. But after you shoot him down, you can let him roast on the stick, real slow like. And sometimes there's too much to go to waste, so you got to slice him up for later. First you get a rope and throw it over a limb. You can even use a tree hitch off the back of your truck-"

  The guy stood to retreat, but Eric slammed him back onto the couch. "Hold on, this is the best part," he said. "You hang him upside down on the gambrel, which is basically this metal hanger for his little hog legs. You use a thin straight blade, but I have been known to use a serrated edge if the meat's tough. You slit his skin all around his arms--excuse me--his legs. Then straight down the middle over his belly, slowly pulling the skin apart, because that's good meat. After you've repeated those steps, you carefully cut around the anus, and start to pull the skin back until it's hanging around his head. Don't worry about the head yet. That'll come off later. I'm clean about skinning hogs. You don't want to leave any trace of him behind that can go to waste. You know what I'm saying?"

  "You're sick, man." The guy shot up again and hurried away.

  Gradually, Chantel's head drooped to the side and fell on Eric's shoulder. "This woman," Eric sighed. "Chantel." He shook her shoulder firmly. "Wake up."

  "What now, Eric?" she groaned.

  "You need to sober up. It's getting late," he told her. "If you want a ride back to campus, you better get your ass up because I'm leaving."

  "Uhmg knah stahna," she muttered.

  "What?"

  Her head sank further and further down his arm.

  "Hey!" he shook her again. "You got to wake up!"

  Her neck flopped backwards onto the couch, continuing to mutter in gibberish.

  "Chantel, I'm serious. I'm leaving and you're going to be here alone."

  When she didn't answer, Eric snatched a water of bottle from a table nearby and splashed her face. Chantel gasped and guarded her face, shouting, "What's wrong with you? I just got my hair done!"

  "I'm sorry, honey, but your hair's been a wreck."

  "Seriously?" she said, as if that was the absolute worst of her problems. She stumbled over herself trying to get off the couch and find the nearest mirror to check it out.

  "Where are you going?" Eric asked, confused. He hurried after her and halted at the dining room where girls were taking turns twerking on the table. Chantel quickly forgot about her hair then and joined the crowd, pumping her fist and cheering the girls on.

  Apparently, finding a mirror didn't matter to her anymore. Her biggest priority was getting on that table and showing them all what she was working with. A guy in the crowd grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her onto the tabletop. The crowd rallied behind her as she teased them with the straps of her dress. She threatened to play pick-a-boo, and Eric knew the night would never end until he dragged her out the door himself. He stood at the edge of the table tight lipped and arms crossed. He was the only guy in the crowd who wasn't losing his mind. He waited until the heathen danced to his side of the table, then he scooped her up into his arms. A chorus of boo's and condemnation followed him out as he carried her in his arms from the dining room.

  Chantel didn't fight this time. She was totally spent and limply
hung onto to Eric's neck as they stepped outside into the fresh air. "Where are we going?"

  "Somewhere where you can sober up," he said, approaching a black Mazda across the street.

  "I have to wait for Mia. She's coming back to get me."

  "I'm not leaving you here alone. Not with the way your head is right now," he said. "I'll drop you off at your dorm."

  He opened up the passenger door and dropped her into the seat. "Put your seatbelt on."

  After slamming her door shut, he walked around and got in behind the wheel.

  "I don't think you should be driving drunk," she said drowsily, trying so hard to keep her head upright.

  "It's a rental. You're supposed to wreck it."

  She mumbled something he didn't understand, but lost the fight to her exhaustion. Her head fell lazily against the cold window and she was out again. Eric sighed in relief. Finally, it was over.

  He buckled her seatbelt for her, and drove as carefully as a person with a BAC way above the legal limit could manage. Fortunately, it was careful enough because he made it to campus an hour later without getting pulled over.

  Breathless

  He turned into the parking lot in front of Anne Spencer's Hall and shut off the car.

  "Hey." He tapped her shoulder gently. "Home."

  Chantel startled awake and looked around her. It was a moment before she realized where she was, and her eyes fell on the dark windows lining her dorm hall. She pinpointed her dorm window on the third floor, four windows to the right of the entrance. It was the only window with a light on inside, which meant that Mia was still out. It was their way of letting each other know if either of them had come back safely.

  "I need to call Mia. She's probably still waiting for me."

  "She's probably figured out you're not there by now," Eric said.

  "She has my keys. I accidentally left them in her car."

  Eric stared in disbelief at her before sighing and turning the car back on. "I'm never going to get rid of you. I guess we'll just drive around then until she shows up."

  Chantel rested her head on the window again as he drove out of the parking lot. She was too exhausted to keep her eyes open any longer. Arguing with him would have to wait until morning.

  After another hour of driving aimlessly around campus, Mia still hadn't turned up, and Eric's eyes grew heavy with sleep. He had no choice but to turn into the parking lot outside his own dorm, and by that time, Chantel was deep in sleep.

  He turned the car off and sat in silence, trying to come up with a plan. He tapped the steering wheel pensively, and tried to distract himself from the tiny, beaded nipple that had slipped out of Chantel's top. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get things started. Once again, he was taken hostage by that relentless urge which had formerly subdued his better judgement. The rush flooded his system faster than he could gain control of it. The redhead and the brunette should have been enough. He had indulged himself completely in two beautiful women and hadn't even broken a sweat. Yet, one peek at one nipple and he burned for the one it belonged to.

  He didn't understand it. There just wasn't a cure for it, and it left him in an impossible situation. He couldn't just take a stranger to bed and be satisfied. It wasn't casual, random sex that he wanted. It was sex with Chantel Pari. That was his prize, and it would continue to bait and haunt him because it was unattainable. It was forbidden. Yet, undoubtedly, he had no chance of her ever giving it up to him. Who was this girl that had him so powerlessly spellbound? Karma, he thought, laughing to himself. This is my private damnation. I would've rather burned eternally than face this.

  The temptation was hell. Having guarded her all night from guys with less than honorable intentions, he realized that he himself was the wolf she needed protecting from. At that moment, she was completely vulnerable, which presented a rare opportunity. It was probably the only chance he'd ever get at having her alone like that, and he was almost certain she wouldn't feel or remember anything. All he had to do was slip his hand into her dress and explore her full busty curves to his heart’s content, fulfilling the fantasies he’d entertained for over a year. If he was brave enough, he could bury his lips against her plump, coca flavored ones, which were parted slightly in invitation.

  The more he thought about it, the riskier the situation became. He wanted every part of her. She would never open her legs to him sober, so he knew if he was going to do something, he had to do it then. In the morning, things could go back to normal, and she would be oblivious to the things he had done to her, or what he had felt while doing them. If she remembered anything, it would be a vague dream of him fading to abstraction, like water slipping out of her palms. He would remember everything upon waking, but carry the burden of anonymity, as she would never know that for a brief moment she had indeed loved him.

  No, Eric thought. Not like that. It's like hog hunting. If it didn't give chase, then you're not a real winner.

  He liked to think of his prized hogs as rightfully won through his own cunning and sportsmanship. Women were no different. It wasn't just about having sex with Chantel. It was about surrender. He wanted to see her eyes when he touched her, and when he kissed her, he wanted to feel her body arch against his in absolute submission. He wanted her to know that he had conquered her and that she belonged to him. He valued that more than any one-night stand. It had to be that way or nothing at all.

  Gradually, he pulled himself together and got out the car. He walked around to her side and opened the door. "Hey," he shook her. "Let's get you to bed."

  "Where are we?" she groaned.

  "We're still on campus. I need you to walk a little, then you can go back to sleep," he said, supporting her against his shoulder. Her dark hair pressed against his cheek, smothering him with a pungent mixture of Bacardi and perfume.

  "My head hurts," she whined.

  "It's going to hurt," he said, pulling her along. "Bet that one too many is kicking your ass now. You deserve it."

  He practically dragged her upstairs to the second floor, until he reached his dorm on the left side. He propped her against the wall. "Stay."

  However, by the time he found his key, she had gradually slid down the wall until she sat like a rag-doll on the floor. Eric couldn't keep from laughing. She didn't look much like a Madam President anymore. He took out his phone and snapped a few pictures. Blackmail for later, he thought.

  "Ok. Up." He lifted her to her feet again.

  "I don't feel good," she moaned, frowning. "My head's spinning so fast. I keep seeing spots." Her breasts heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

  "Just relax. Don't let it fuck with your head," he told her. "It helps to focus on something. Hold my phone while I get the door open. Concentrate on the pretty little light."

  Once he had gotten the door open, he heaved her inside.

  Chantel found the room unexpectedly clean and well-kept, defying all her expectations. It was a little dark, however, which she did expect. The only source of light was the dim lamp on his desk, emitting a soft blue haze rather than the usual standard white bulb. The room smelt like fresh laundry and alpine breeze mingled with hints of his cologne.

  He dropped her onto the bed and soft gray pillows soothed her tired head. The dark green plaid blankets were a warm and easy comfort. She could've wrapped herself like a burrito in the plushy fleece and slept there for eons. She felt oddly content and at peace with herself.

  Eric moved his laptop from the bed to the floor. She watched him in the dimly glowing light as he attached his mp3 player to two tiny speakers on the dresser. Gentle guitar music softly played back, an acoustic instrumental of It's Been A While by Staind.

  "Helps me sleep," he said, looking drowsier than ever. "Does the cigarette smell bother you?"

  "I can't smell anything," she replied, and eyed him suspiciously. "Why does your room smell so nice?"

  "Because I'm not trashy, maybe?" he suggested.

  "I didn't mean it that way."


  "My mom always sends me shit. Incense, candles, and stuff like that," he said. "She makes them by hand and sells them in her own catalog. So of course, whenever she comes up with something new, I'm the guinea pig. That's the price I pay for being the only son."

  "No sisters?"

  "Nope," he said. "Just me. She wanted daughters, but she got me. So it's me who has to tell her how I like her candles."

  "What a good son."

  "I'll admit it. I'm a muttersöhnchen," he said. "There's no lady above my mother. She gave me life. Taught me how to be a somewhat decent person. And she makes the best kirschenmichel. All she ever asks in return is that I try out her candles."

  Chantel smiled. "Any particular favorites?"

  "Anything that smells like food," Eric answered. "I'm a sucker for baked pastries and she knows it."

  "So what's her name?" she asked.

  "Elin."

  "That's a pretty way of pronouncing it. Like Ellen, but with more of an ee sound at the beginning. That's uncommon."

  "Well, in the U.S. maybe, because we use the short E more," he said. "But I have an aunt and three girl cousins in Germany who pronounce it the same way, with a long E, so to me it's not that unusual."

  "What about your dad? Is he German too?"

  "Nah, he's American."

  "Wow, what a change in tone. Sorry. Was I wrong by asking?" Chantel asked.

  "No, it's not a secret. My dad's always had his head up his ass. He never really cared if I was alive or dead. It's my mother who had to step into his place. She was a mom and a dad to me. German women are the strongest women I know. I respect her more than any man."

  "You make it sound like you were a bad boy growing up."

  "I was like any other boy, I guess. I wasn't the saint I am now, that's for sure," he said. "My mother could turn gestapo on me quick."

  "Did she hit you?"

  "No. She didn't believe in that. She never laid a hand on me. It was the look she gave you that made you act right," he said, smiling.