Confessed

by Nicola Rendell

  Then he pays with a twenty from his black leather wallet, curved by the shape of his ass, Jesus God.

  The sheep girl is making eyes at him. No wonder. He is that guy. Then, much to my surprise, he leaves a five in the little plastic box next to the Otis Spunkmeyer cookies.

  A sexy, cocky, bad boy who obliterated my understanding of sex completely and who tips 50%.

  He might be a criminal. But in my book, I’ve found myself a winner.

  He picks a table by the wall and wipes it off with a napkin. He pulls out my chair and places his big hand on my back as I scoot in.

  He spins his chair around and sits on it backwards, with his legs spread wide. Cocky. It’s not even practiced cockiness. He’s just that way. Inherently manly. Being around him, it’s like having had way, way too much to drink. My face almost feels tingly, like too many G & Ts at a regatta.

  He pins one of my knees between his leg and the wall.

  “So,” he says, unwrapping his sandwich without ever taking his eyes off my face. “Who are you actually, Lucy-Helen?”

  I clutch my Veggie Lover’s six-inch. Time to table that issue. “What did you say you do for a living again? Imports-exports, maybe?”

  “I mean. Look at you. You’re obviously loaded.”

  I glance down at myself. I don’t feel like I look anything of the sort. I feel like I look easy-breezy Pinterest casual. White shorts, pink boat neck long-sleeve tee. Black flats. Cute. Not loaded.

  “The car. The purse. The attitude,” he says, his gaze traveling down my body, and then returning to my face. “You know, you actually look sort of familiar.”

  Now I’m literally strangling my damned sandwich. “I’ve got one of those faces.” Actually, I don’t, and I probably do look very familiar. If he has seen any source of news at all in the last two weeks, he’ll have seen the press’ favorite photo of my dad: the two of us eating sandwiches at the Grand Canyon. Because I’m not underage, they don’t pixelate me. Such jerks. He takes a big bite of his sub. The way he’s watching me, I can tell he’s trying to figure me out. I can also tell he’s plenty smart enough to do it. “I still don’t know the story about that necklace, you know.”

  We eat in tense silence for a while. I don’t know what I’ll do if he figures me out. Pay him to keep quiet? That’s what Dad would do, and obviously that’s worked out super well. But Vince doesn’t exactly seem like someone who would contact say, Perez Hilton, to report that the Poisoned Lunchmeat Heiress is on the run to parts unknown.

  He takes the lid off his drink and takes a few gulps. Even his Adam’s apple is sexy. Still holding my stare, he puts his drink down and reaches across my body. He’s stealing one of my chips.

  “I thought you said they were gross,” I say. My voice is incongruously breathy for talking about a variety of Lays.

  He nods. “Yeah. But I like to try new things. So do you, obviously.”

  There he goes again. Just his eyes are making me wet.

  I once rode an Arabian stud named The King of Persia who behaved exactly like this. Like he owned the world, could have whatever he wanted, and knew it.

  I freaking loved that horse.

  He grips the back of my neck with his hand and pulls my lips to his. His hand is so huge, his thumb stretches around to grip my jaw. The kiss starts gentle, but gets urgent fast.

  Suddenly, there’s a cold shock all over my lap. The kiss breaks and I jump up from the table, the chair flying backwards behind me. He’s spilled his drink, making a wet mess of my sandwich and me.

  “Fuck, sorry,” he says, standing to help. The edges of his lips are a little red, from the friction of mine on his.

  I’m literally dripping with Dr Pepper. Also, dripping wet otherwise, having nothing whatsoever to do with soda. I wipe soda off my legs but my shorts are soaked through. “It’s… One sec…” I stumble and clutch the edge of the drinks counter. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” I pivot on one sticky sandal and head to the bathroom.

  At the little sink, I collect myself, trying to blot the Dr Pepper out of my shorts with a wet paper towel. It’s not making a difference and it falls apart in my hand. Honestly, I’m not that interested in stain removal. My head is still with him. He’s got an even more intense effect on me sober. Never mind biblical cocktails. This guy makes my head spin over two-for-$6 sandwiches.

  I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed and my lips reddened from his stubble. I’m stained with soda all over.

  Not the end of the world. I can always change, after we find some secluded spot in the Great Smokys and have wild sex under the pines. Sounds like a plan, if you ask me. So I wash my hands, smooth my hair, take a steadying breath, and then step out of the bathroom.

  Only to find that Vince, my purse, and the BMW are gone.

  8

  Guilt. I’ve never felt it before, but now I do.

  It blows.

  For the first time in my entire fucking life, I feel guilty for doing what I’m good at. I feel guilty for having a plan and seeing it out. For spotting a soft mark and taking advantage of her. I take my rage out on the BMW, gunning it down a dusty side road. The V8 roars back at me. It should be satisfying, but it isn’t. She’s everywhere in here. Her perfume hangs in the air. I see peppermints by my boots. The disco ball from the rearview catches a ray of light and spins dots around the cab, like the rhinestone case on her phone. I slam the wheel.

  Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I have never felt like such an asshole in my entire life.

  I let the thing that should never happen happen. I’ve fucked a lot of women, I’ve kissed and conned even more. But things with Lucy, they went from a game to… Shit, I don’t even know. A fucking meteor strike. A gunshot.

  A punch to the face.

  So I was right all along. She’s a sweet little killer. And I’m the victim now.

  Even just standing behind her in line, I’d felt an electric buzz through my cock for her. Completely uncontrollable and insane. Even now, hauling ass with my foot down, all I can think about is almonds and motherfucking peaches and how cute she looked when she was dripping with Dr Pepper.

  I don’t like that idea. You hurting.

  Vince, you asshole. You don’t want her that bad. You’re in a dry spell. It’s just a girl. It was just a fluke. She’s high maintenance. She talks too much. She’s just a kid. She’s impractical: She was wearing a peach sundress to run away from home and got dressed in little white shorts this morning. You know how you hate impractical. And Christ, bossy. I mean, just think about how she bossed around that poor Subway girl.

  Definitely don’t want her. Definitely not.

  Lucy is a headache. She’s baggage. She’s a woman who’d need taking care of. Looking after. Touching. Holding. Listening to…

  I rip the disco ball down. I palm it hard, feeling the little pieces of mirror dig into my skin. But I can’t bring myself to toss it aside.

  Baggage, sure. But sweet, smiling, warm, soft baggage. The kind of baggage I’d like to carry around.

  Fuck it. I toss the disco ball. It ricochets off the passenger side door and lands on the gear shift.

  Like some sign from the universe. You’re not going to throw this one aside.

  It’s fucking true.

  First of all, the way it started. Phil Collins, what the fuck was I thinking? Talk about showing my goddamned hand. What was I? Stoned? And then I got so fucking lost in her, so fucking into her, I couldn’t even see straight in that bathroom. I know in my guts that even then I wasn’t fucking her just to rob her: I was with her because I wanted to be. I needed to be.

  I still need to be.

  I pick up the disco ball again and turn it over in my hands.

  Then the hotel room. Having to get inside her like nobody else had been. Like I’ve never been in any other woman. Fighting, biting, kissing, talking. Shit, shit, shit.

  Even as I was ditching her at Subway, I was already fucked. Because I did some
thing else that I’ve never done to a mark: I didn’t leave her totally high and dry. I felt so bad that I left a hundred under her drink, and her phone on the corner of the table. Because I couldn’t fucking take the idea of her totally stranded and broke.

  I clench the steering wheel and the speedometer lurches past ninety.

  Verdict is in. She’s got me inside out.

  And I’m the king of the assholes.

  Checking the rearview mirror, I slow down and pull over at an old service station. I grab her purse and rifle through it. The bag is full to the brim with assorted shit and so much fucking lip gloss. I take out one of those travel packs of Kleenex from the pocket. Of course it isn’t just Kleenex. The tissues are red with that KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON thing printed on them. I put the Kleenex aside, with her birth control container. I pop it open to find pills taken completely at random. One here, two there. Four she forgot to take.

  “Jesus,” I say and snap it shut. Jesus.

  At the bottom of the bag, halfway finished packs of Bubble Yum. Loose almonds. Some weird, cutesy camera called an Instax. I accidentally hit the button on the front, there’s a flash, and out pops an undeveloped Polaroid-type photo from the top. I open up her over-stuffed wallet and parking tickets pop up from every direction.

  See? We could never get along. Ever. She’s so messy. So random. So…

  But that’s when I slip out her ID. I place one finger to her cheek in her photo and feel this rumble in my chest. She’s not bright platinum blonde here. In this photo, it’s a little darker. A little more brunette, with her roots grown out.

  Well, fuck it.

  …so perfect. That’s what.

  I thump my head back on the headrest. Who looks that cute in a dingy office with a blue background? She does. I trail my finger over her hair. So pretty, so sweet. The way her nose wrinkles up when she smiles. A goody two-shoes, freckled vixen. Christ. I don’t have a chance. I run my finger down her info:

  Name: Lucy Marie Burchett. (Do I know that last name?)

  Address: Winterbourne House, 3 Forest Lane, Greenwich, Connecticut. (Called it.)

  Age: 22 (Knew it.)

  Height: 5’5” (She’s lying. No way she’s taller than 5’3”)

  Weight: 119 lbs (That’s actually probably right. Weird. First woman in history who didn’t bullshit her weight.)

  Eyes: Brown (Stupid DMV. Such an ugly word for such beautiful eyes.)

  Hair: Brown

  But of course, she’s crossed out “brown” out with a little Sharpie marker and written “Blonde!” over it. I smack my forehead. I see that the Polaroid has developed and it’s my own face. I see I have a smudge of her lipstick on my cheek. I rub it hard to get rid of it. Christ almighty. I keep on digging.

  * * *

  Also in her wallet:

  Yale ID: Class of 2016. (Just graduated. Definitely flying the coop.)

  Froyo World Frequent Shopper Card—9 of 10 punches

  2 ¡Ay Arepa! Venezuelan Food Card Frequent Shopper Cards—both with 7 of 10 punches. (I find this incredibly annoying. If I were with her, I’d be the one consolidating these… Oh, for fuck’s sake, Vince. Shut up.)

  Sephora Gold Card

  Nordstrom’s Gold Card

  Macy’s Gold Card

  Platinum American Express

  Platinum United Visa

  US passport (I look at the photo. Smiling so hard her nose is wrinkled up. Shit.)

  A picture like the one I just took of myself, except this is of a horse, eating a radish. The hand in foreground, it’s hers. I know those fingernails now. I know those fingernails raking down my skin.

  I jam the wallet back in the purse. I place the horse picture upright in the cup holder that pops out from the dash.

  Fine, I like her. A lot. I like the way she makes me feel, I like the way I make her feel. I like how fun she is and how feisty. But if I move fast, I can use that Platinum Amex to get myself on an airplane to Honduras before anybody notices and before I have time to think too hard about this.

  I look around at the service station where I’m parked. I shift my cock a little. She made me so fucking hard in Subway, my balls actually hurt now.

  Blue balls.

  Fuuuuuuck.

  I get out of the Beemer, put my phone to my ear, and pretend to talk. I scope it out. The service station is dusty and looks abandoned, but it isn’t. They’ve got the latest Powerball jackpot posted in the window, so the place is definitely still in business. Risky, but I have to chance it. To the side of the place are a couple of cars: An old truck and an old Accord, both with up-to-date Tennessee plates. I see nobody inside or outside, and I slip my multitool from my pocket. The place is probably some old mom-and-pop operation. I can see an overgrown yard back behind with a faded old tire swing hanging from a big tree. I prop myself against the tailgate of the truck, still pretending to be talking. With one hand, I quickly unscrew the plate on the truck, which I’m blocking from view with my leg. I remove the second bolt and pinch the plate between two fingers, flipping it up alongside my arm. Then I slip it against my stomach, under my shirt and halfway down my pants. I walk calmly back to the Beemer. Still pretending to talk on the phone.

  Three miles down the road, I pull over again. I double check for cops and get out. I swap the plates and peel off a decal from the back window, the Yale University sticker. I wad it into a sticky ball and put it in my pocket.

  I open the trunk and move aside her luggage. I was taking a piss when she put on her underwear this morning, and I wonder what color her panties are now. Or if she’s wearing any. I didn’t see a line under those white shorts. And I did look.

  Vince. Come on, man. What the fuck?

  I pull up the trunk carpet. It’s a shit hiding place for GIDDYUP, but it’ll have to do for now.

  But then, as I pull up the carpet, what do I find?

  “Holy fuck.”

  Twenty grand in cold, hard, non-sequential cash.

  I thumb the bills. She’s not running away from home to make a point. With cash like this, I’ll bet she’s running away for good.

  And fuck me if I wouldn’t kill to go with her.

  With a few hundred in my pocket, I get back in the Beemer. As I do, I feel my burner buzz. I have a bullshit idea that it’s her calling me to chew me out. But of course it’s not because I didn’t give her my number. I’m almost surprised I didn’t give it to her, the way she’s got me upside down. I might’ve considered writing it on her Subway napkin. Might’ve. Didn’t.

  The area code is New Jersey. I know exactly who it is, and if I don’t answer, it’ll just ring and ring and ring for-fucking-ever until the battery runs out.

  “Yeah,” I say. I put my phone on speaker and put it on the seat next to me.

  “You mother of assholes,” is the first thing he says. His name is Gregor Gregorovich. He looks like Boris Yeltsin, always wears golf shirts, and his pants don’t fit right. He’s the boss of the crew I used to run with. Also, he wears these ugly, old brown Rockports. A sociopath in sensible footwear. That is the sign of a true maniac. His nickname is the Mercenary. That guy.

  “What do you want?” I say. I try not to yell. I can never talk like a normal person on a speakerphone.

  “You are not at apartment. I come to find you for job, and you are not here.”

  I don’t even ask how he got the number. I don’t even want to know. There’s probably some kid at the gas station down the street from where I used to live with three broken fingers right now. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Right. I told you, I was done. D-o-n-e, done.” I like spelling things out for him. I figure his English could probably use the help.

  “You are not d-o-n-anything, motherbitch.”

  “That’s not a word, Gregor,” I fire up the Beemer, but I don’t put it in drive.

  “I will kill you, Vincent Russo. I will come find you, collect debt, and put balls on barbeque.

  “Alright, Gregor. You do that.”

&nbs
p; I’m sounding confident, but I’m not stupid. He’s not fucking joking. I owe him ten grand cash and five more jobs. Guys like Gregorovich are why I’m getting o-u-t of the game, o-u-t. Up until the moment I went and lost my shit to Lucy Burchett, working for Gregor Gregorovich was the worst idea I’d ever had.

  “You are nothing without me, Vincent Russo. You have nothing without me.”

  False. I’ve got twenty grand and a late-model Beemer. “Find yourself another wheelman.” I check the mirror for traffic but keep my foot on the brake.

  “You know why they call me the Mercenary, Vincent Russo? Because I will take large hunting knife and then…”

  I hang up the phone, pressing longer on End than is totally necessary.

  I look out into the forested, green distance. The emptiness.

  I want to make a fucking U-turn and go back to her. I want to rip open my heart to her and tell her all the things I’ve never said. She’s bringing out something that feels like, fuck, what is it?

  Hope?

  Me? Hopeful?

  Goddamn it.

  From my pocket I take the NO FUCKING sign and trace the edge of her sandal with my fingertip. From my duffel in the back seat, I take my sketch book. I drew her this morning, and she’ll never know it. I didn’t get her nose right. I didn’t get her eyes right. Her lips though, those are almost perfect.

  Hope.

  Sweet. Innocent. Her whole life ahead of her. For a girl like that, a guy like me is nothing but trouble. She might be running away from home, but I’m a fugitive. And that’s a whole different ball game. I refold the sign into quarters and tuck it into the sketchbook.

  She deserves a shitload better than me. She’ll find a shitload better than me.

  I pop the SIM card from my phone with my multitool, snap it in half, and head southwest. Alone.

  9

  “Bastard!” I scream across the almost empty street. An ancient liver-spotted lady clutches her grocery bag and stares.

  Kicking myself, I realize I should’ve known. “I can find another truck,” my ass. He’s a car thief. That’s why he didn’t care about the exploding pickup. It wasn’t even his.