Pleasure Point: The Complete Series

by Evans, Jennifer

  “Let’s go check it out,” I said. “No one’s around.”

  Jax stopped walking. “Why do you want to do that?” His brows pulled in.

  “Because, bonehead, they might’ve left something cool inside.”

  “But it says no trespassing.” He pointed to the sign tacked on a chain-link fence.

  I faced him, hands on hips. “That doesn’t say no trespassing.”

  “Yes, it does. It says right there—”

  “Don’t you know anything? That means welcome. Now give me a boost, and let’s climb over the fence.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Stop being a wuss,” I said. When I saw the shocked look on his face I almost laughed. “Come on babe, help me up.”

  He set his surfboard down reluctantly and made a foothold with his hands. “But if we get caught—”

  “We’re not going to get caught.”

  He helped me over the low fence, my feet scrambling up the links in the fence. I pulled myself up and over and jumped the few feet to the other side. Jax stood on the other side. “Come on, what’re you waiting for?”

  Jax glanced over his shoulder, and when it looked as if he felt satisfied no one was watching, he climbed then sprang over the fence.

  “Woo-hoo!” I held my arms over my head. “Let’s get to work.”

  We peeked inside the windows, running quickly from one to the next.

  “Nothing but a bunch of trash,” Jax said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I peered through one dusty window and hit the jackpot. “Jax, come check this out!” My hands shielded my eyes from the sun so I could get a better look inside. “There’s a really cool painting leaned up against that wall.”

  He stood next to me, and we looked inside. There, like a gift from the garage sale Gods was a canvas of what looked like an original oil painting of a dramatic sunset.

  I tried unlocking the two doors, running from one to the other. “Damn, they’re all locked.” I saw an open window. “Come on, give me a boost, and let’s see if I can fit through that window.”

  “Rosalyn, I don’t think we should—”

  I turned to face him, hands on hips. “Jax Priest, where is your sense of adventure?”

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “It’s a great idea! Now, make a foothold with your hands and help me up to the window.”

  “But what if we get caught?” He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Nobody’s around. Now, are you my partner-in-crime or not?”

  He made a foothold with his hands, and I expertly hopped up until my crotch was nearly in his face. “Damn, it’s too high.” I put my hands on his shoulders for leverage, then jumped back down. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. We wait till it gets dark then we come back and smash one of the ground-floor windows with a brick.”

  The horrified look on his face was so comical I almost laughed.

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

  “Yes it is. Just call your mom and tell her you’re staying for dinner. Then we come back tonight. Nobody’s going to care. They’re getting ready to trash the place anyway. If we don’t do it now, then when? God, it breaks my heart to think someone’s artwork is going to end up in a heap of rubble. C’mon, tell me you’ll do it.”

  Jax was such a good person, and I didn’t want to get him in trouble, but what harm would there be in a little adventure? I put my arm around him. “Come on, sweetie. It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay, Roz, you got yourself a partner.”

  “Yay!” We shook on it.

  We found a brick and set it next to the window, then climbed the fence and hightailed it out of there.

  That night, after we’d eaten brown rice and steamed broccoli with soy sauce in front of the TV and watched Friends, we set out. I dressed in black, which was easy because I had a collection of black yoga clothes, and Jax, wore jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt, extra clothing from the backpack he always carried.

  “Here, take this,” I said, handing him a flashlight before we left my apartment.

  We made our way over the fence and through scratchy weeds trying to contain our giggles.

  I faced him in the moonlight. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll hold the flashlight while you smash the window. Then you hop in and grab the painting.”

  Once Jax decided that he was in on my little caper, there was a new enthusiasm about him. The two of us stood in front of the window, an expectant look on Jax’s face. He pulled back then swung hard with the brick, raining shards of glass over his Vans.

  “Jeez, you didn’t have to swing so hard,” I said, trying to hold back my laughter. “Now get in there quick.”

  He moved a few pieces of glass away from the frame and expertly lifted himself up and in.

  “Careful! Don’t cut yourself.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Oh, now you’re worried about me.” He ran in like lightning, grabbed the painting, and handed it to me, then hoisted himself out the window.

  I shined the flashlight on the painting. “It’s beautiful!”

  “Do you mind?” he said. “I need a little light here.”

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. Spaggiari.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Oh never mind. He’s a famous bank robber. I’ll tell you later.” I handed him the painting. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  We ran the four blocks home, flushed with excitement from our caper. I cranked up some Led Zeppelin and grabbed a cloth out of the kitchen. I handed the cloth to Jax, and while he wiped down the painting I danced around the living room, singing along with Robert Plant as he belted out “Communication Breakdown.”

  “Isn’t it gorgeous? Let’s hang it right here.” I indicated a bare spot on the living room wall.

  He was already getting the red toolbox out of my utility closet.

  Jax was sweet, helpful, caring, and as it turned out, always down for any of my adventures. Maybe it was wrong of me to involve him in my juvenile pranks.

  But he was quickly becoming my best friend.

  Jax

  Rosalyn had been in Point Loma for a couple of months and she and I were hanging out together a lot. I couldn’t wait to get home from school, do my homework, nab a surf session, then skate over to Rosalyn’s and help her with chores or projects around the house.

  One Sunday, she begged me to go to the movies with her. “I’d hang out with your mom more, but she’s always with your dad. Good thing I’ve got you.” She had the newspaper open to the entertainment section. “Hey! How about this one?” She pointed to an advertisement with a black and white panorama of a bunch of trees in the forest set against the backdrop of a darkening sky, a woman wearing a knit cap, her green eyes opened in horror visible on the movie poster. “The Blair Witch Project,” she said. “That looks pretty good.”

  “Don’t you know anything?” I turned the page on the newspaper. “That movie’s totally fake. Bunch of teenagers got a cheap camcorder and ran around in the woods in Arkansas or somewhere and pretended like they were in a haunted forest. “It’s stupid. Hey, how about this one?” I pointed to the movie poster for Charlie’s Angels.

  She punched me in the arm. “You only want to see that movie because Cameron Diaz is in it.”

  We finally agreed on Fight Club, and it was one of the best movies either of us had seen in awhile—a really cool twist ending. I had a hard time concentrating on the movie though, because Rosalyn, who shared a large bucket of hot, buttered popcorn with me, kept leaning over, brushing her boob and arm against me every time she grabbed a handful of popcorn. My eyes strayed to Rosalyn’s pretty feet up on the seat in front of us, her faded blue jeans with the hole in the knee, her low-cut tank top, and the way she’d throw her head back and laugh every time something on the screen was funny. And she smelled heavenly. I shifted in my seat.

  After the movie, we were heading for the lobby when Rosalyn stopped in her
tracks. “Hey, why are we leaving?”

  “Umm, because the movie’s over?”

  “You dummy, let’s go see what else is on.”

  “But we only paid for one movie.”

  She turned and faced me, hands on hips. “How old are you again? Ninety? What else have we got to do?”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “Oh, come on, let’s go check out that new Scream movie.”

  “But we’ll have to pay again.”

  “No we won’t. We’re already in, nobody’s watching, and besides, they’re playing the movies all day. What do they care?” She grabbed me by the arm and herded me toward theater number six, where Scream 3 was playing.

  “That movie’s not going to be any good. They’re already on number three. How many more people can they slash?” I didn’t want to tell Rosalyn, but I didn’t like scary movies. They gave me nightmares.

  “Quit being such a downer. Come on, it’ll be fun. Are you in, or are you out?”

  Without waiting for a response, she linked her arm in mine, and we entered the dark theater just as the killer with the scary mask stabbed somebody with a shiny butcher knife. There went any hope of sweet dreams for the night.

  We scrunched down into our seats in the back of the theater, and if I’d had a hard time concentrating before, I may as well have forgotten about it then because every time something creepy happened, Rosalyn jumped and grabbed on to my arm, and a few times, she even grabbed my leg, her fingernails digging into my jeans. She smelled fantastic, and her body was warm. My heartbeat sped up, and I readjusted my jeans, which were suddenly too tight.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this movie was going to be so gory?” She leaned into me, whispering, her breath on my ear, her warm lips making contact with the skin of my earlobe. I smiled and patted her leg, trying to contain my arousal.

  When the movie was over, Rosalyn wanted to watch all the credits. She sighed. “I love how many artists it takes to put these things together.”

  I laughed. “A Scream movie’s not artistic.”

  She looked at me in mock horror. “Don’t say that! These people worked hard so we could enjoy ourselves.” Rosalyn had a way of looking at the world that I’d never considered. Looking through her eyes, everything seemed fresh, new and artistic.

  We left the theater. Rosalyn hooked an arm through mine again. “That was a blast. Thanks for putting up with me.”

  With all this hanging out we were doing, I started worrying about Rosalyn. She needed help. She needed a man around the house. I worried about whether she’d be okay with her reckless personality and her pot smoking and her car that had such high mileage. I wanted to take care of her however I could, but I was only a teenager with homework and an addiction to surfing. And I was eager to help because, well, because with her smile and her delicious scent, Rosalyn could’ve talked me into just about anything.

  For the next few weeks, I helped her around the house by doing things like fixing loose door handles, fixing the float in the toilet so it would flush, hanging curtains in her living room and painting her bedroom wall that deep purple color she liked.

  Rosalyn even gave me the key to her house, and I tried to find any excuse to be in her home. When she wasn’t around, I’d slowly walk through her apartment and soak up the scent of her, read the shopping lists she’d written in that loose, loopy writing of hers, walk into her bathroom, and open the medicine cabinet where she had a jumble of all kinds of herbs and holistic junk crammed in. Her birth control pills and tampons were jammed into the cabinet right next to the rubbing alcohol.

  Once, she’d left her work uniform hanging on the hook that I had affixed to the back of the bathroom door. Rosalyn had been wearing that. I held the uniform to my nose and inhaled as deeply as I could. My head immediately felt dizzy, kind of like when I was sick, only I wasn’t. My knees felt like they were going to give out, and my stomach did a flip-flop. I grabbed onto the towel rack before I fell. Super weird.

  My mom, dad, and Tyler didn’t say anything about me spending so much time with Rosalyn, or maybe they thought I was surfing more than I was, and to be honest, there wasn’t much to tell.

  Yet.

  Rosalyn

  I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes that night, singing loud to Aerosmith’s “Dream On.”

  “Sweetie, will you take out the trash?” I asked Jax. He had wiped down the countertops and was already bundling up the garbage. He slid his body around mine, making his way to the cupboard underneath the sink.

  “Can you please scoot out of my way? I need to get the trash bags.” He brushed my bare leg, and I wasn’t expecting how warm his hand would feel. Gotta stop hitting the bong so much, Rosalyn. The pot I’d smoked that night mixed with Aerosmith had warmed my veins. I sucked in a breath.

  When Jax returned from emptying the trash, he opened the backdoor into the kitchen and smiled.

  He slowly walked to the sink where I washed dishes and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down, his athletic frame towering over me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Why are you staring at me?”

  With great ceremony, he unzipped the sweatshirt and revealed a black kitten that couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old.

  “Look what I found.”

  I whirled around. “What?! Where did you find him?” I turned off the water and stripped off my pink gloves, dropping a soapy dish into the sink where it landed in the sudsy water with a splash.

  “Little guy was out by the trash cans.”

  “He was?”

  “Yep. I heard something that sounded like a baby crying, and there he was.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” I said, reaching my hand out for its inspection. The trembling kitten mewed and sniffed at my hand. I picked the baby up. Jax reached over, petting the little guy, who then began to purr.

  “Oh my gosh! He’s just a baby.”

  “He was all by himself out there.”

  “Well, did you try to find a mommy anywhere?”

  “I looked around, and it was just him. Weird, huh?”

  “Poor little sweetie. What were you doing out there all alone? You need a mama to take care of you,” I crooned.

  We walked into the living room and sat on the sofa together. “Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing? Going to have to get you all cleaned up.” I turned the kitten over on his back. “Oh, look at him, he’s got fleas all over.”

  Jax sat next to me, our legs touching, and petted the kitty under his chin. “You’re going to be okay, little guy. We’ve got you now,” he said.

  “Honey, we’ve got to take care of him. Bring my purse over. I need you to get some cat food from the corner store. Get the wet kind; he’s too young for dry food.”

  While Jax was gone, I poured the kitten a saucer of milk, which he happily lapped up.

  When Jax returned, he had a brown paper bag containing the wet cat food and a smile on his face. He leaned over the kitty. “He can barely drink the milk without drowning.”

  I picked the kitten up and held him aloft. “Look at him. He’s so adorable. Little baby has milk all over his face. Let’s see if we can wash him off.”

  Between the two of us, we managed to get the kitten lathered up with dishwashing soap diluted with warm water. The kitty squirmed. “Hold him still.” As we stood at the kitchen sink, Jax’s body touching mine, he helped me keep the kitten still and calm. I dried him gently with a soft towel. “I think I’m in love.”

  And that was how Leo came to live with me. We sat in the living room that night trying to come up with a name for the kitten.

  “Blackie?” I said.

  “No, that’s dumb,” he said.

  “Fuzzy?”

  “He’s not fuzzy.”

  “Kitty?”

  “Now, that’s original.”

  “I know! How about Leonardo De Catrio?” I said.

  “I’ve got a better one. How about Leonardo De CatLeo?” Jax said.

  I burst
into laughter. “Guess I’m not the only creative one around here.”

  The night was cool and quiet, a few crickets audible through the open window, the faint ocean breeze tickling my nostrils. Jax’s body was warm next to mine, and the two of us petted little Leonardo De CatLeo as the kitten purred. Something was changing between Jax and me. I’d been in Point Loma for three months and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt a part of something, almost like we were a family.

  * * *

  I was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, paintbrush in hand, when the phone rang and jolted me out of my artistic concentration.

  “Hey there,” Carissa said. “How’s the surfer girl?”

  Setting the brush aside, I stood up, and then fell into the comfort of my worn sofa. “The surfer girl is painting, you’ll be happy to know.”

  I could almost hear her clap her hands. “Cool! What are you working on?”

  I squinted my eyes and appraised my work. “It’s a big wave. Oil on canvas.”

  She laughed. “I should’ve known. You and your surfing. So, tell me about it.”

  “Well, this one’s kind of special.”

  “They’re all special. Maybe one day we’ll even sell some of our work. Why’s it special?”

  “It’s for Jax’s birthday.”

  “Jax? You mean Lydia’s son?”

  I crossed my leg at the knee, my foot swinging hard. Then, I popped off the sofa and drifted to the window. “I think it’s good.” I gazed at the painting. “I found some photos for reference in a surfing magazine and I’ve got this really cool sunset thing going on in the background, and it’s got a surfer in the tube. I’m trying to make the surfer look exactly like Jax.”

  “First time I’ve heard you painting people. You always liked landscapes.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s his birthday.”

  “How old?”

  “Eighteen.” I examined the picture, my artist’s eye appraising. “I want to get it just right. Not that you can see his face that much in the painting.” I bounced on my toes, my smile broad. “You should see how great a surfer he is. The guy could probably compete if he wanted. He’s the best!” I thought of Jax’s athletic body, almost like a dancer’s. “You know, he’s so patient with me when he takes me in the ocean. He’s one of the best surfers in the lineup. He’s so much fun to surf with. I feel like a kid again.”