by Portia Moore
"Babe, there's a million other dudes out there taking pictures of stuff, wanting to be a famous photographer. What makes me different?"
"Ugh, because you’re amazing!" she says as if she’s answering the dumbest question in the world. I roll my eyes and in a few seconds she's beside me, giving me a hard punch on the arm.
"If there’s anyone who won't blow smoke up your ass it's me, and you know it."
I shrug and smile at her; it's a turn-on that she believes in me so much, but my work is private. It's something I feel good about and I’m a big dude with a shitty attitude who can handle anything you throw at me. But my work, it's a vulnerability of mine. If some little artsy prick tells me it sucks I might not be able to stop myself from knocking their lights out.
"Who needs credentials? It's not the 1990s. You should start getting your work out there. All it takes is the right person to see your stuff and bam, you’re doing it."
“You make it sound so easy,” I tell her playfully. She eyes me evilly and then gives me her signature pout.
“I’m not saying quit your job and exist solely on gigs from Craigslist. I’m just saying start and Instagram account, ask to shadow someone you admire. Let people see your work. You’re so talented…people just need to see it,” she tells me, her excitement almost contagious.
"I'll do it if you do it," I say, her brows knit together in confusion.
"How about your singing?" I remind her, even though it should be obvious. She's amazing, clothes on or off.
I literally see her resistance rise up the moment I say it.
"It's not the same thing," she replies shortly.
"It is. It's all art. Just like you said I'm amazing, so are you. We can do it together."
She bites both her lips and I can tell she’s trying to stay on my good side about this but wanting to blow up.
"I can't Ian," she says, her tone clipped. I turn towards her, looking her directly in the eye so she can see how serious I am.
"Yes you can," I tell her genuinely.
"NO. I can't Ian! God, you know what? Just keep working at the shitty manufacturing plant and I'll keep singing half-naked and we'll live happily never after. I don't care!" she shouts before storming into my room and slamming the door. What the fuck? I turn the eggs off and follow behind her.
"Yo, come on now! I already have to hear you guys fucking all night, now this?" Devin says half asleep.
I shoot him a scowl before turning the stove off and going after her. As I figured, she's putting on her clothes.
"What the hell was that out there?" I ask, confused.
"Nothing. Don't worry about it."
"What is wrong with you?" I ask, my irritation getting the best of me.
"Everything." She’s grabbing all of her things. I let out an exasperated sigh.
"You're not going anywhere,” I tell her, shutting the door behind me. She scoffs, because obviously she doesn't listen to a fucking thing I say.
"I need some air," she says sharply, slipping on her jeans. I let out an irritated groan and grab my sweatshirt.
"Alone, Ian!" she huffs.
"You're not going out at 5 am by yourself. So you might as well start freaking out now because I'm going with you, okay!"
She stops and folds her arms and glares at me. I glare at her right back.
"You're so annoying sometimes!" she grumbles.
"So are you babe," I tell her tightly.
"Fine," she says quietly, moving past me and out the door.
We walk in silence for about five minutes. It's nice, quiet, and relaxing. Finally she stops and turns towards me.
"I can wear a mask when I'm at the club."
I look at her, confused.
"I can’t be exposed to the world." Her voice is quiet and sounds fragile in the empty street. I walk towards her and pull her to me; she doesn't pull away. It's always a toss up with that.
"If I asked who you're hiding from, would you tell me?"
"Myself," she says quietly, avoiding my gaze.
"When you look at me, it's like I'm perfect, and I am so far from that." I move to approach her but she steps back. When she looks up at me her sadness makes my chest tighten.
"I am so screwed up, you have no idea. It's the whole reason that I didn't want to get close to you. I'm not who you think I am. I can never be who you want me to be I'm not a normal girl." She's speaking so fast her words are slurring together. I lift her chin up.
"I don't think you're perfect, I think you're nuts like most women are, but you're my special little psycho and I wouldn't trade you for the world."
This causes a small smile to creep across her face. “You’re such an ass sometimes,” she says but she’s grinning, her confidence back. She pushes me away and walks ahead of me.
"I want you to meet my parents." When I say this she stops in her tracks. She turns and looks back at me, her brow arched questioningly.
"I tell you how screwed up I am and your response is to meet your parents?" she asks, holding back a laugh. I nod.
"I'm starting to think you're just as crazy as me," she says playfully. I grab her by the waist, lift her up, and throw her over my shoulder. She squeals in delight.
"Did I mention, I told them you'll meet them today?" I sneak in quickly. Her body freezes and she slaps me hard on the back.
"Ian what the hell?"
"I knew if I told you, you'd freak out."
"I can't believe you said I'd come," she says, wriggling over my shoulder.
"I hinted that you might come. I'm hoping that you will. My mom's cool, Pete’s going to love you," I promise her.
"Put me down," she demands.
"Only if you promise to not leave or kick me in the balls."
She groans.
"I promise not to do one of those things," she says on edge.
"You've got to promise not to do either, sweet cheeks," I tell her before slapping her across the ass.
We’re here. It took all morning, and my head between her thighs licking and sucking away every protest she had, but she finally agreed.
"If I didn't know any better I'd think you were nervous," I tease her while squeezing her hand.
"You know I don't give a shit what anyone thinks of me," she teases back, but she's chewing on her lip. We only have three more houses to pass on the little block in Berwyn, where my mom and stepdad's lived for the past four years. It's a lower middle-class suburb in Illinois, only a few minutes outside of Chicago, but it could be the Beverly Hills compared to the block I grew up on when I was a kid. It's lined with bungalows and a few apartment buildings and is a pretty quiet block. There's a dog at nearly every house, all different breeds, though most of the little shits bark all the time. In my old neighborhood dogs weren't pets but more like security, all pit bulls and rottweilers. I'm glad my mom has moved up in the world.
"You ever see yourself living somewhere like this?" I ask her as she stuffs her hands in her jeans. I know she wants to impress my mom because she's not wearing anything low cut and tight like she normally does. The jeans are hugging her curves but she has a black blazer over her tight white t-shirt, and her hair in a ball how girls wear on the top of their heads, with a few strands framing her face in the front. It's the tamest I've ever seen her, and I want to tease her about it but I know she's really making an effort, and I'd hate for her to take it the wrong way.
“In another life maybe.” She’s quiet. I take her hand and kiss her cheek; she playfully pushes me away.
“She’s going to love you,” I say, almost confident. My mom is a tough woman. She taught inner city kids for fifteen years. She’s sweet with a hard edge is how I’d describe her.
“How many girls have you brought here?” she asks, letting out a breath and putting on a pair of sunglasses.
“One.”
She stops dead in her tracks right in front of me.
“And what made her so special?” she asks teasingly, just a hint of jealousy. And I like it.
“She was my prom date, I sort of had to.” Her wide smile lessens.
“So I’m the first girl you’ve brought home after you hit puberty?”
“Something like that,” I say with a shrug. She looks at me, those big grey eyes all consuming, pulling me in, making me a big pussy. I push her and she puts her leg in front of me and I trip. She breaks out in a run.
“No wonder I don’t get to meet any of your girls!” my mom calls out from her front door with a wide smile. “You break him, you buy him,” my mom adds, a hand on her hip, her tone resting between warning and friendly.
“Oh my gosh she’s your twin,” Alana mutters under her breath. I can’t deny it. I’ve always been told me and my mom have the same face…well, she’s a lot prettier and tiny at 4’11” but the fire in that woman would blow you away.
"Mom this is..."
"Alana. I pried his name out of you weeks ago," she says with a wink that makes me let out an embarrassed sigh. I give my mom a bear hug and she looks at Alana, taking her in.
"It's nice to meet you Mrs. Cage." They both shake hands. I kind of wish my mom would've given her a hug but Alana likes her space.
"Your dad's in the back. Burgers are almost done, y'all follow me."
The smell of grilled meat seduces my senses. Pete’s on the grill, a beer in hand and sports radio on in the background.
“Look who I’ve got,” my mom announces happily. He turns towards us and when his eyes land on Alana, he gets a shit-eating grin on his face.
“This is Ian’s girl, isn’t she pretty?”
“Pretty’s an understatement. I’d ask for a hug but I don’t want to get you all greasy.” He laughs.
“I’m okay with a little bit of grease.” Alana gives him an award-winning smile and a hug. I’m shocked at this. Pete looks at me, already giving his approval. My eyes go to my mom, who looks at her almost warily. What the hell?
“Aren’t you sweet. Diane can take some lessons,” he says playfully. My mom glares at him stubbornly.
“Don’t let her fool you,” I interject and Alana swats me.
Pete and my mom have been married since I was ten. He took us from the worst part of Chicago to the burbs and he made my life more stable than I’d ever thought it would be. He’s not my biological dad but he’s like the father I never thought I’d have. Pete’s the guy who played basketball with me, taught me how to box, and gave me a box of condoms when I turned fifteen. Not perfect by any means but I don’t know where I’d be if he didn’t come into our life, taking on the bills so my mom could get her degree, giving me the benefit of a two-parent household. Pete’s not hard to please and I didn’t expect my mom to be, but the air around her is chilly and I hope Alana hasn’t picked up on it.
“Grab a beer Ian. You drink sweetheart?” he asks Alana.
“Sometimes,” she laughs.
“I have wine, red and white. You want to grab some with me?” my mom asks her. She hesitates a moment before agreeing. Alana has picked up on it.
“Sure,” she says, nicer than I expect her to. They disappear into the house.
“Beautiful girl you got there son,” he says, flipping the meat on the grill.
“What do you think mom thinks of her?” I ask him, folding my arms.
“You know women and their boys.” He shrugs with a half-hearted laugh. I grab myself a beer and soon the ladies are back. We sit at the lawn table and Pete brings over a pan of meat. My mom already has a bowl of potato salad and baked beans waiting for us. The energy between my mom and Alana seems better but I can tell they’re both tense and I hope the wine loosens them up.
“Ian says you’re a teacher. That’s awesome,” Alana says, and I give her an encouraging smile for her opening up the conversation.
“Yup fifteen years and counting. You wouldn’t believe the type of things I’ve seen, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. Are you in school?” she asks, and I tense. She knows Alana isn’t in school, but neither am I.
“Ugh. No, school’s never really been my thing,” Alana says before putting a half spoonful of baked beans in her mouth.
“Education is important, I keep telling this one that,” she follows up, her tone a little colder, glaring at me.
“It’s better they realize it before they go and rack up a bunch of debt figuring it out. John’s kid got him to cosign on a forty grand loan and he’s barely holding down a job at Target,” Pete interrupts. I’m thankful for it and give my mom a what the hell? look. Alana’s taken the comment in stride though, still wearing a friendly smile.
“So what do you do now?” my mom asks.
“I have a few jobs, but I mainly make my money singing at a gentleman’s club,” Alana says without an ounce of embarrassment. My mom’s eyebrows shoot up, and Pete clears his throat with a laugh.
“I’m sorry, is that a strip club?” my mom asks, condescension reverberating through her tone.
“Mom, what the hell?”
“No, it’s okay Ian. I guess that’s what your generation would call it,” Alana says sweetly but there’s a bite in her tone.
“My generation?” My mom laughs.
“You know, these days everything is different. If anyone should know that it’s you, hun,” Pete says, trying to douse the fire that’s about to start between the two most important women in my life.
“I think the biggest problem with your generation is that they want everything fast, quick, in a hurry. No one wants to put in the time or work to find the right career or the right person.”
I can’t believe she just said that! Alana’s entire body stiffens. I can count down until she explodes.
“Diane, let me talk to you inside,” Pete says, his voice firm.
“No, she doesn’t have to. We’re leaving.”
“Ian, you should stay,” Alana says, standing.
“No, we’re leaving together,” I tell her firmly.
“Everyone calm down. No one’s leaving. You two stay put. Diane—in the house now,” Pete says, standing from the table. My mom glares at him defiantly but relents and they disappear into the house.
“I don’t know what the hell her problem is but I’m sorry. We can leave right now if you want.” She looks at me, not with fury in her eyes how I expect, but almost a sadness.
“No. Your mom may have been a bi--- but she’s your mom. I’d never come between that,” she says firmly, but her eyes are glassy with tears. Fuck. I pull her into a hug and kiss her, letting her know I don’t give a shit what my mom says or thinks. I hate that my mom has acted like this when Alana was really trying, and how the one person who she may for a millisecond have been able to look at as a mother figure has ruined it in less than a half hour.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, standing, anger coursing through me. I head in the house and my mom looks at me innocently.
“What the hell was that Mom!”
“I don’t like her,” she says matter-of-factly.
“You don’t even know the girl,” Pete interjects.
“Do you know she’s been on her own since she was a kid? That she doesn’t know who her parents are? That she’s had to fight more in life than all of us combined? And that’s saying a fucking lot. She’s not perfect—hell, she may be damaged—but you don’t get to treat her like trash and that’s exactly what you did. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let you do it in front of me again. You need to apologize to her,” I demand. Her expression softens, but just a bit.
“I know she’s beautiful son, breathtaking even, but behind all that I’m telling you—she’s damaged goods. I’ve worked with enough kids to know.”
“I can’t believe you’re being so judgmental. God, Mom!”
“I’m not here to disrespect anyone or hurt their feelings, but you’re my son and I don’t want to see you hurt, and that girl has destruction written all over her.”
The sincerity in my mom’s eyes sends a chill down my spine.
“Well, I’m hers to destroy,�
� I say before leaving.
“Hey.” She’s says with a half a smile. She’s waiting on the hood of my car, a regular degular Chevrolet Impala, not the expensive foreign cars she’s used to riding in. She’s let her hair down, her blazer off, sitting on the car as if she has nowhere else to be.
“I thought you had left,” I tell her, wearing a goofy smile.
“How could I leave when I don’t have the keys?” she says with half a smile. I walk to her and spread her legs so I’m between them. I kiss her neck, then her lips, and coax her tongue out. If it weren’t four in the afternoon on this residential street I’d have her right here on this car.
“I missed you,” I say, squeezing her ass.
“It’s only been ten minutes,” she says wryly.
“But I thought you were gone, I had this feeling,” I say, sounding like a lunatic to myself.
“I wouldn’t make your mom right about me,” she replies, leaning her head on mine. My lips go back to her neck and I pull her close to me, hugging her tightly. The thought of losing her felt like I was drowning. I’m tired of the games, walking the tightrope of holding on to this feeling I have with her. She makes me want to be a better man, to prove every asshole wrong, to love her how she should be loved every day. I feel high, electricity coursing through me. I lean back and take in the woman who has driven me insane since the first day I met her. She eyes me suspiciously with a curious grin on her face.
“What?” she asks, amused.
“Marry me.” Her face goes blank, her eyes wide.
“Don’t joke like that,” she scolds me.
“I’m not—I swear to God.” I see her swallow hard.
“You’re crazy,” she says, her face in a grimace. But I can’t fight my smile. When she’s around I’m always fighting my smile, my feelings, emotions I’ve never felt…and I’m tired of it.
“We both are,” I tell her through a laugh.
“You’re serious,” she says, almost breathless.
“As a heart attack.”
“Your mom hates me.”
“So the fuck what? She’ll get over it. I love you, more and more every day. I don’t need to wait a year or two to know how I feel now isn’t going to change, but if you ask I’ll wait on you for ten.”
