by Lydia Millet
He had questions. Man did he have questions. Maybe sleep a bit, though. Coke wearing off. He was tired. Could he sleep here? Would there be a rat-a-tat-tat on the driver’s side window? Private-security patrolling? Far from impossible. Likely. OK. New plan: sleep in the truck on San Vicente. Set the phone alarm. No one would be up before six. Except maybe some illegals doing yard work. Come back, park under that big tree. Watch, wait, see what he’d see.
Alarm was the sound of a cricket. Barely made noise. He fumbled for the phone. OK. Up. Did a line. Water on face from a bottle rolling around on the floor. Fuzzy mouth. Was there gum? Rubio was always chewing a wad. He popped the glove. Nicotine gum, that was it. Fine. Still minty, right? He tore a piece from the foil. Hard. Hands trembling.
He pulled up the GPS and headed out, was on her street and rolling past, didn’t have a new plan formed, just rolling past the house to scope it out by day. And shit, the luck of the fucking Irish. Damn if she wasn’t coming out a door beside the drive-in gate right this goddamn minute. Wearing white short-shorts. Rape-me shorts, Rubio called them. When you could see the bottoms of the ass cheeks. Rubio had a mouth on him. She wore ratty sneakers. And giant shades. That insect look. Made them all look like flies. Sexy flies.
She turned around, that ass, that ass, and leaned over, pulled a buggy through the door. No, a stroller. With a baby in it.
Well yeah. That’s what you put in strollers.
For a second he was spooked. But just a second. She’d been skinny when she left home and she was just as skinny now. The thing was small—he squinted at it, pink smush of face surrounded by blankets—but not a newborn. The thing wasn’t hers, no way. Course not. Jesus.
So she was a nanny. At seventeen. Rich people had no fucking standards.
She pushed the stroller along the sidewalk. Coming toward him as he cruised. She didn’t glance his way. White earbuds in. The wires hung over her tits. Couldn’t see the nips. Baggy T-shirt.
He made a U-turn at the corner, followed. Passed her and turned again. She was paying zero attention. Kid could be squalling in its container, she wouldn’t have a clue. Probably listening to Lorde. Or Adele. She liked the girly shit. Once he did her with “Hello” playing on her bedside table. Whenever he heard that crap come on he changed the station. Right away.
Plan. Plan. He needed to get inside. Had to get her alone. Four walls. Bed not required. Did he have leverage? What was his leverage now? Always been Rita. But maybe that card had been played out. Was it played out? Might be. Might really be.
He should’ve thought about this on the drive. Felt too high. The music. Speed. Lights at night. Hadn’t thought.
What about this, the nanny job? Could he use that? How?
Ely. Ely and Toff. That was the button to push.
He passed her again, her facing toward him now, and she glanced up. She saw. Stopped walking. Stood there. Stared at him.
He pulled over, parked. Got out. Shit, had to pull up his pants as he slid out. Waist loose. He’d lost weight since she cut out. Which was OK, he could stand to get rid of some flab. But hadn’t bothered to wear a belt. The cab-dismount pants-hike, not a good look. Don’t think that way. Raw power. Man.
“What are you doing here?” she said. Angry. Seemed older behind the sunglasses. Button nose. Lips. Shiny with gloss.
“Came to see you,” he said. “What else?”
“Well, you’ve seen me. Here I am. Now can you go?”
“See you,” he said. “You know. I missed you.”
Sounded desperate. Wished she’d take off the sunglasses. She could be anyone, behind those. He needed to piss. Badly.
“You have to go,” she said firmly. “All that stuff’s over. You want me to call the cops?”
“Hey!” he said, and his hands went up. She had him on the rails. Not good.
“I will,” she said, and slid her phone from a pouch on top of the stroller. “I swear I will. Then what would my mother think?”
“And what about your little family here?” he said. Now he was heating up. “You want them to hear? How Ely and Toff make a buck? You think those rich parents would want a girl from Meth World USA cuddling their rich baby?”
She stared. She raised the hand that didn’t hold the phone. Took off the glasses. Wish granted. Her eyes were fierce.
“You’re an asshole,” she said.
“Newsflash,” he said.
They stared at each other.
“One more time,” he said. “Last time. It’ll be the last. I swear.”
“You said that before,” she said. “You said it on New Year’s. You said it after that Debbie kid’s stupid bat mitzvah. You swore it on your mother’s grave. When you were shitfaced. Or did you forget? You said, Just one more time. I swear. On the grave of my sainted mother. Those exact words.”
Showed how drunk he’d been. If his mother was a saint, he was the Dalai Lama.
“But this is different,” he said. “You’re not here.”
She stared some more.
“There. I mean. With me. You live far away now. I know it’s over. You moved out.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Throw me a bone. “Lexie. I need it. Just one more time. Then you can—you can take that app off your phone. I won’t be able to find you. The—with the GPS.”
“So that’s how. Fuck. Stupid. Yeah. Sure as shit I’ll take it off. Like, instantly. But it won’t matter. Because now you know where I fucking live.”
“You won’t be here forever,” he said. Weakly. A weak point.
“Forget it,” she said. “Just go home, Pete.” And turned around. Hit a keypad. Pushed the stroller back through the gate. Closed it with a clang that vibrated. Clang of steel. He heard the lock click. Walked quickly, peered around the tall hedge, through the bars. She was pushing the stroller around the side of the house. Watched her ass as she disappeared.
Trudged back to truck. Tail between legs. Slammed the door. Smacked the wheel with the heel of his hands. Piss-poor showing. Piss-poor. Leaned over, snorted right out of the baggy.
Not giving up. Not yet. She’d come around. He knew his girl. Needed more time. He’d call Rita. One-day delay. Consignment not ready.
Couldn’t stay here. What if she did call the cops? Would she?
Naw, man. She wouldn’t do it. Too risky.
But just maybe.
He started it up, pulled away.
Regroup. Get better sleep.
Skeezy motel. By the time he found it, had to let loose behind a trash can before he even checked in. Then paid cash. Crashed hard on the sagging bed.
When he woke up it was mid-afternoon. Needed a drink, asked at the desk about liquor stores, picked up a bottle of Beam. Drank in the truck. Trying to figure his next move. Finally texted her. Second thoughts yet? She texted back Fuck off.
Game on, my girl.
Drove back to the motel, showered and shaved. Back in the truck. Drove to the swank pad. Rang the bell at the gate.
Someone Hispanic answered, a woman. “Ee-yes?”
“Here to see Lexie,” he said. “She’ll know who it is.”
The box was silent for a while, then the Hispanic woman came on again.
“She putting down the baby. She see you when the baby sleep.”
Better than he expected. He’d figured he might have to wait till the man of the house got back. Throw a scare into her. He didn’t give a shit what people thought. Not anymore.
He waited. Made a trip to the truck for some blow and a drink. Came back. Waited again.
Finally. She opened the front door, came down the path in a hurry. Wearing different clothes. A white dress like a sack, with lace at the top and bottom. Closer, he saw she had a chain around her neck with a cross on it. What the fuck.
“They’re getting home soon,” she said, tense. “You have to go. I mean it.”
“I’ll go,” he said. “If you meet me later.”
She looked at him, shaking her head. But
she didn’t say no.
So he gave her the name of the motel, his room number.
Stopped for a drive-thru burger, went back to the motel. Stomach unsettled. Took a long shit. Watched part of a game on TV. Showered again. Quickly, he couldn’t miss her knock. Was she even coming? She better. Dark outside. The coke was almost gone; he had to save a line for when she got here. He was getting hot. Jerked off so he wouldn’t come too fast later. Looked at the bikini photo on his phone. Also popped the blue pill. Not gonna make it easy for her. This was for him. It would last. Cleaned himself up. Drank. Liter bottle half gone.
10:05. 10:43. He was surfing through channels. Faster, faster. Almost like he expected to see her on the screen. Face and tits.
11:14. Knock. Yes. He snorted up the line.
Opened the door. It was a man. Some fat fuck. Shit.
“Phone’s down. Girl came to the front desk? She said she wasn’t coming to your room. She said to meet her at the truck.”
“Yeah, yeah. OK.”
Guy stood there, expectant. What did he want, a tip? Fuck that. He shut the door.
Waited for the guy to go away. Then stuffed his keycard in his pocket, was out the door, down to the parking lot. Hands shaking again, dammit. There she was, a bulky hoodie over the white dress. Pink flip-flops. Face lit by her phone. No makeup. Sweet pouty lips. He was already hard.
“Why didn’t you text me?” he said, adjusting himself, hand in pocket.
She shrugged, slipped the phone into her hoodie pouch. “I didn’t feel like it. And wow. I knew you were cheap. But this place is a shithole. Probably has bedbugs.”
“Got rich tastes now, I see,” he said.
“Whatever,” she said, and shrugged again. “It’s in the truck or not at all. And this is the last time. For real. If I ever see you again without my mother right there in the room with us? You’re toast. She deserves better anyway. It’d be like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
He liked the new Lexiegirl. Assertive. Big girl now. Felt a drop on the end of his dick. Wanted to put it in her mouth. She’d never let him. Threatened to bite. Wouldn’t let him kiss her, either. Clamped her mouth shut when he tried. Tight as a nun in the Arctic.
Had he brought the keys to the truck? He hadn’t brought the fucking keys.
“Don’t leave,” he said, and jogged back up to get them. He didn’t feel right. Felt strange. Never been this nervous. Booze should’ve taken the edge off. Had to be the coke. Maybe it was cut with something. Ely didn’t do trash coke, most times, but. He hadn’t asked how pure it was. Maybe. He fumbled with the keycard.
Then he was back. Didn’t even recall being in the room. Had he been there? Like a whirlwind. But the keys were in his hand. She stood there watching him.
“I’ll put the seats down,” he said. Awkward with the shaking hands. Stop, stop. Thank God for Rubio’s king cab, though. His own truck didn’t have reclining seats.
She was climbing in the passenger door. Closing it. He shut his own door, reached up to turn the cab light back on. Had to see her.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’re sweating.”
“Pull your dress up,” he said. His teeth were almost chattering. Weird.
“Not taking it off,” she said. “Not here.”
“Just pull it up, then,” he said. Gritted his teeth. “Take off your underwear.”
She did. The panties were at her feet. He saw it. Fucking heaven. He couldn’t help himself, he reached over and fumbled with her lips. Soft and dry. He felt a sigh come out of him. Lay back and raised his fingers to sniff. Didn’t care what she thought of it. He was pressing so hard against his pants it hurt. Fumbled with his button, unzipped the fly. “Get on top of me,” he said. They’d never done it like that. That was how he did it with Rita. But here. No room. He couldn’t get over there. He couldn’t fit himself on top of her. Nothing to brace against . . . he was amped. But also tired. So heavy. His arms felt heavier than lead.
A moment’s pause. Would she say no? But then she clambered onto his lap. The steering wheel at her back. Horn honked. “Jesus,” she said. “Pete. Seriously. Your color’s off. Your face is like, red and gray. You don’t look good. Even for you.”
“I can still do it,” he said. He was a rock. He was huge. “Get on me. Get on me.”
She tried, but she was dry as bone. “Ow. Ow.”
“No lube. Sit on my face,” he said. “Let me lick you.”
She raised herself up, arranged herself. Strong, slender legs. Golden. His face was full of her. Heaven again. He was immersed. But she didn’t let it last. Cruel. As soon as she was good to go she took it away and settled down and tried again. She slid down, still there was too much friction at first but she gasped and made it work. He filled her up. He groaned. Was she still on the pill? He’d made her go on the pill at home. Fuck it. Not his business. He didn’t care. He didn’t give a shit.
She moved up and down.
“Show me your tits,” he said. The top of the dress had buttons. She undid them as she moved. Took the tits from the bra. He groaned again and grabbed them, though his arms moved slowly. He squeezed the nipples. They were small and hard. They were perfect.
“Faster,” he said. He should be wanting slow, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He dropped his arms, watched her tits jiggle. Her face was serious. Not cold, exactly. No, not cold. Not angry, even. Actually her face was kinder than he remembered it being. But serious. Too serious. Mouth closed.
Was she different now? She might be different. He cut off the thought. She was the same. She was the same. She would always be her.
“Show me your tongue,” he said.
She opened her mouth a little, let the tip of her tongue rest on her bottom front teeth.
This was it. This was where he always wanted to be. The only place. He wanted to be here for the rest of his life. Just here. Till he disintegrated. Till he was gone to dirt. A single request. People wanted so many things. They had a laundry list. But he only wanted this. Was it so much to ask?
“You’re a fucked-up man, Pete,” she said. “You’re a sad fucking man.” Still, not angry. Just matter-of-fact. As she rode him.
“Yeah,” he said, half-groan. “I guess so.”
She went faster and harder, till she was sweating too. It glowed on her. He gazed up. Sweat dripped into his ear. Tickled. But he ignored it. He didn’t need to hear. Only the rush of feeling. His whole body was heavy but his chest was light. He was part of the earth. Mineral. He was the ground and the base. Above him the sun. The most beautiful thing. Maybe she’d come. Was she moaning? Would she come on his cock? Would he receive that gift?
Sunburst. Supernova.
One regret, he thought, after he came. Maybe he was still coming. Because it went on forever. One solitary regret in the long dark hall of this life, only one. Never been in her mouth.
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN
She was freaked out, sobbing. He could barely catch what she was saying. But he got that she was asking him to come over. Like now. She didn’t say why.
He was wearing the sweats he slept in, didn’t bother to change. Took the work truck and drove.
When he got to the house and went in through Lexie’s private door, turned out the baby was up and Lexie had her in her room with a bottle. But the baby didn’t want it. Lexie was swaying her in her arms, whispering Shush, Shush, but the baby was still crying so she laid her down on her bed and wrapped her up in a small blanket. She had a special way of doing it, triangles, really tight.
“There you go, Baby Rae,” said Lexie. She always called her that, never Rachel. Her own idea. He liked it better too. “You’re going to be all right. You see?”
Her hair was wet, she must have showered—no makeup, a big T-shirt and cutoffs. Her face was puffy but she had herself under control. Only the baby was crying now.
The child bride didn’t normally get up for night feedings, Lexie had said, and the paterfamilias never even considered it. That’s what a
n au pair was for.
Lexie swayed the baby some more. Laser focus. He respected it. Baby Rae stopped crying finally and fell asleep. Lexie laid her down on her own bed, got some Kleenex and blew her nose.
“Man, so what’s going on?” he asked. He kept his voice down.
She tossed the Kleenex in the trash, opened her mini-fridge and handed him a can of beer. She didn’t drink it, but she kept it there for him. A soda for herself. They popped the tabs.
“Let’s go outside, OK?” she said.
He nodded and followed her out onto the patio, kept the door open so she could hear if Baby Rae woke up.
“So someone died,” she said. “My stepfather.”
“Oh, shit,” said Jem. “Man. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head.
“He’s an asshole,” she said. “Total. I mean. He was. It’s that—I was with him when it happened. Tonight.”
“Oh, shit,” said Jem. Good line. “That’s—”
“I got a couple of hours off, I asked Lora. Because he came down to see me. So I went to meet him, like, where he was staying. This piece-of-shit motel. But then he had a heart attack.”
She’d done some CPR, she’d tried, but she’d only even done it on a dummy before. Swim lessons at the Y when she was twelve.
“I called the ambulance. Then they got there and used the shocker things. Paddles.”
“Defibrillator,” he said. From modern Latin fibrilla, diminutive of fibra. Fiber.
“Yeah, but it didn’t work. So I had to call my mom. It sucked. She like, got totally hysterical.”
“Wait. This was happening. And Lora still made you take care of the baby?”
“I mean, I called my mom before I got back. Right from the motel parking lot. I handed the ambulance guys my phone, they told her where they were taking him. I couldn’t do much. I don’t even remember half of it. She’s getting a flight. She’s too messed up to drive. But anyway. When I came back I just told Lora she could go to sleep. It’s fine.”
No, it was bullshit. Child bride should have moved her ass out of the conjugal bed. Con, Latin for together. Jugum: a yoke. Yoked together. Ox at the plow. The Romans got that right.
