by Naomi West
He put his hand on my knee. Tingles moved up my leg, as they always do when he touches me like that. I wanted him to slide up to my pussy, but I knew if he did I’d just stop it in the middle of our passion. There was a roadblock in my head. I couldn’t stop seeing those flames.
“It’s a really strange experience, seeing someone so strong become so weak in a matter of months. I didn’t really know what was going on at the time. I was ten years old and my father was becoming a skeleton before my eyes. I learned as much about cancer as I could later on, but back then it was like if I searched the Internet about it, I was making it real. I remember sitting up at night wishing that tomorrow morning I’d go downstairs and Dad would be there, big again, healthy again, and all this had been a dream.
“I was there in the room with him when he died, holding his hand which was as skinny as mine now. He couldn’t speak. He could hardly open his eyes. He just lay there, and I held his hand. I wouldn’t stop holding it, even when it became cold.”
I was too drunk. I was burdening him. But he was listening like nobody else ever had. For the first time, I saw a different side to Diesel, a side which wasn’t just interested in me for my body. His green eyes were full of sympathy, not boredom or pity like I’d seen in other people’s eyes when I’d told them.
“That must’ve been pretty damn horrible,” he said. “Fuck, Willa.”
“Fuck,” I agreed.
I should’ve stopped there. I’d burdened him enough for one night. But the wine had made me talkative and there was nothing I could do to stop my tongue from waggling.
“Mom was devastated. They’d met when she was in college and he was just starting work. She loved him more than I’ve ever seen anybody love anybody. Even though I was there, they were still a couple, you know? They weren’t just Mom and Dad. They were Michael and Trixie. They still went on dates and made an effort. Mom was horrified, but she had me to look after and that’s what pulled her through. She told me that all the time.”
I swallowed a large sip of wine, head feeling light, lolling from side to side. Stop talking, I told myself. I couldn’t, though.
“And then almost exactly a year later, Mom was driving on the freeway when a flatbed truck carrying a totaled car veered too quickly. The ropes, or whatever they use to tie down cars, came loose and the car slid right off the bed, through the front of my mom’s windscreen, killing her instantly. The police and everyone said there was no pain, that it happened so fast she probably didn’t even know it was happening. But I think there must’ve been a moment, a few seconds, where she saw the truck veer and saw the car slide off the bed, where she thought about me and Dad, where she screamed out in terror.”
I wasn’t sure when I had started crying, or when Diesel and I had climbed into bed side by side, his arm wrapped around me. I nuzzled in, feeling safe.
“My grandmother raised me, my mom’s mom, but she wasn’t really all there. I was alone.”
I stopped myself then, sitting up in bed and propping myself against the headboard.
“Can I have a glass of water?” I asked.
Diesel brought it to me, and when I sobered up we fell asleep together. There wasn’t any kissing or moaning that night.
I asked him about his childhood, hoping to make it so I wasn’t the only one exposed, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. Except one day, about a week ago, when he came home smelling of smoke from the warehouse fire—I think, even if he wouldn’t admit it—he stripped off his jacket and shirt and sat on the couch, moving a hand over his scars.
“I know a thing or two about pain, Willa,” he said.
“What?” I urged. “Tell me. You can talk to me.”
He just shrugged and turned on the TV. If I’d learned one thing living with Diesel, it was that he didn’t like talking about what was going on inside that scarred chest of his.
“Willa?”
I look up, waking from my reverie. It’s lunchtime and Peter is standing over my desk.
“Yes?”
“Can you join me for a coffee? I want to talk.”
I don’t know why I say yes. Maybe it’s because part of me wants to go with him.
Chapter Eight
Willa
Peter is wearing a suit as gray as his eyes today, looking like nothing more than an unremarkable businessman as we sit in a booth at the coffee place around the corner from the station. It’s one of those hipster LA coffee joints, with vinyl records instead of photographs on the walls, soft jazz playing in the background, hipsters galore sitting in the seats, some of them nursing coffee in mugs they brought from home.
I get a latte and Peter gets a white coffee.
“So,” he says, “how’ve you been?”
There is no way for me to explain the cacophony and ever-shifting nature of emotions I’ve experienced since spring became summer, so I just answer with, “Fine, and you?”
He grimaces as if that’s not the answer he was hoping for. “Fine,” he repeats. “The last time I checked, your apartment building hasn’t been rebuilt. Have you found a new place?”
I don’t have much reason to use the word “irk” in my life. I remember in college when I sat down to write my great American novel, when that word would materialize on the page and I’d cross it out immediately. But when Peter asks me this question, I have to admit that I’m irked. It’s not just the question itself. It’s the way he says it, too, as if he has a right to know everything that happens in my life. I remind myself of the slack he’s given me this past month, letting me follow up on the warehouse fire story instead of writing copy, and letting me take time off last week to deal with the insurance people.
“No,” I say. He’s just being friendly, I tell myself, even if his eyes look between my chest and my face, never settling.
“So where are you staying, then?” He hasn’t touched his coffee, I notice. When I don’t answer straightaway, he leans his elbows on his knees. “Do you have any family in LA?”
“No.” I shouldn’t even be answering these questions. It’s like he’s interrogating me. I glance at the clock. It’s still twenty minutes until we need to head back. Even if I have my doubts about this career path, I don’t want the decision made for me by annoying my superior. I’m in a very awkward position, between a rock and a Nice Guy.
“So then …”
I fold my hands in my lap, keeping my voice as civil as I can. “Peter, I’m not sure I have to tell you that.”
“Whoa, whoa!” He laughs, holding his hands up. “I didn’t mean any offense, Willa. I was just making conversation. Of course you don’t have to tell me. I never said you had to tell me. Did I? If I did, I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean it in that way.” He takes his first sip of coffee.
This is the trouble with men like Peter. Maybe he really didn’t mean it in any kind of way. Maybe he’s just concerned. I have to admit, he hasn’t been as strange to me around the office these past few weeks. “I’m sorry, Peter,” I say, thinking, I can’t sever this bridge.
“No need to apologize!” He laughs again. It sounds somewhat forced, but I don’t know if that’s just my imagination.
“I’ve been building a motorcycle,” he says, after a minute of silence.
I narrow my eyes. Does he know something?
“Oh, right …” I trail off, waiting.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s no big deal.” He shrugs. I get the sense he thinks it’s a very big deal. “Building it myself, ordering the exact parts I want. It’s going to be a real beauty. Harley chassis.”
“Okay.” Latte scolds my tongue. “That sounds interesting.”
“Yeah, yeah, I guess it doesn’t, doesn’t it? I’ve always been interested in bikes. I love the feel of them between my legs, you know? Do you get that?”
He’s watching me strangely. He must’ve seen something, somewhere. I search my mind, trying to figure out what it could be. Sometimes, instead of catching the bus to work, Diesel will give me a lift on his bike. He drops me down
the street, out of view of the station, but maybe …
I decide to lie to see how he’ll react. “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle,” I say.
“Sure, sure.” He waves a hand. “But you get the same experience being a passenger, too.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I’ve never been a passenger on one, either.”
The look on his face is something between disgust and rage. It appears quickly and vanishes just as quickly, making me wonder if it was actually there at all. He offers his bland businessman smile. “Oh, I thought you said you had.”
“I don’t think so. Maybe you’re confusing me with somebody else.”
“Right. Hmm. I don’t think so. Hmm.”
“Well.” I half stand, grabbing the handbag Diesel bought for me. “I better get going.”
We’re both standing, and then Peter lurches forward, his face coming at me like a 3D movie image. “Willa, why would you lie to me?”
I sit, mostly to get away from him. He sits down as well, folding his legs, gripping his knee, looking far more feminine than I think he knows.
“Lie to you?” I say. “What do you mean?”
His forehead creases. I’m not sure if he knows his fingers are drumming against his knees. “Why would you tell me you’ve never been on a motorcycle when you know you have, and I know you have?”
“You know I have. Right.” I sit up, gripping the arms of the chair, finding this whole conversation absurd. He’s talking to me with an intensity wholly unwarranted. We work together. He’s not my boyfriend, or my brother, or my father, or anybody to me. “I don’t want to talk about this, Peter.”
“I’m just talking!” He takes a deep breath, and then lets his hands drop. “Okay, I’m sorry. I know this must seem weird.” He takes another breath. “I just don’t want to see you getting hurt. I saw a biker drop you off two streets down a couple of days ago, and it got me wondering who he was. If he’s your boyfriend, just say and I’ll drop it. But I am concerned about you, Willa. We all know that these fires and bikers are linked, and I’d hate for you to get caught up in it.”
His concern is real enough. I can see it in his eyes, even if they are colorless.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” I say. “I’ve been looking after myself for a decade now.”
“But I do worry. That’s the point. As your boss, as your friend.”
And despite everything, it’s nice to hear. When you’ve lived your life as a shadow, a ghost, it’s good to know that somebody sees you as real. And … well, and Peter isn’t an arsonist. But I’m not attracted to Peter, not one bit. Looking at him all I see is Diesel, bigger, stronger, more handsome, and with something inside him that calls out to me. Peter has none of that.
“You really don’t need to,” I say. I want to be with Diesel, to have Diesel expressing this kind of concern. Apart from that night when I got too drunk and told him about Mom and Dad, Diesel hasn’t exactly been emotional with me. “I’m just … I work for you, Peter.”
“You don’t work for me,” he says. “Is that really how’d categorize it, that you work for me? You work for the station. I’m just the head of department.”
I want to tell him that that isn’t as big of a distinction as he perhaps thinks it is, but I want to get out of here more. I never should’ve agreed to the coffee. I let my defenses down and he’s grabbing hold of the opportunity. I need to get out of here, find Diesel, but then … Why should I find Diesel anymore desirable than Peter? Once you get past how big he is, how muscular, how cool, there are just as many complications with Diesel as with Peter, maybe more.
“Okay,” I say.
I need to be alone. I need to think. I remember a few nights ago when I was in bed—Diesel was in the next room, on the mattress he set up—and I got so angry I could hardly think. I clenched my fists until my palms stung with the bite of my nails and went to the wall, staring at the place I imagined Diesel to be. I was furious with him because he was making me question myself, over and over, question my morals and question who I am.
“Okay?” Peter makes one big fist with both his hands, gripping them together so that the knuckles turn white. “Is that all you have to say? What about staying with me?”
“Staying with you?” I giggle, and then the giggle turns into a harsh laugh. I cover my mouth with my hand quickly, killing it when I see the look of pain on Peter’s face. Suddenly I feel absurdly cruel.
“Wow. Okay.” He finishes his drink in one sip. When he places the mug on the saucer, it rattles as his hand shakes. “I was just trying to be kind to you, Willa. That’s all. I didn’t realize the idea would be so unbelievably funny.”
“I have a place to stay. I wasn’t laughing at you.”
This is exhausting. The idea of returning to work after this makes my bones tired. And yet as I look into Peter’s offended face, I feel so bad, so mean. I didn’t have to laugh at him, I suppose.
“With the biker?”
I sigh. “I don’t have to tell you where I’m staying. It isn’t affecting my performance at work, is it?”
“No,” Peter allows.
“Then why do you want to know so badly?”
“Who ever said I wanted to know so badly?”
I stand up, gesturing at the clock. “We should be heading back.”
Without waiting for a response, I walk to the door and stand in the street, praying for a kiss of wind to relieve some of this heat. It doesn’t come. I’m left standing, boiling, waiting for Peter to come and join me. I want to head for the office right away but I’m afraid that might seem too much like storming off.
“You know I think you’re a great person,” Peter says, as we round the corner to the office.
“Thanks,” I say.
“And I know I can be a bit forward at times. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, Peter.” I nod, relieved. “Thank you.”
When I return to my desk, I’m confused. I want Diesel. He’s an arsonist, a criminal. Peter is a weirdo; he’s way too forward … he’s nice, and he’s genuine. Contradiction after contradiction, making me wish people could just be simple.
Chapter Nine
Diesel
A couple of days after the apartment fire, Grimace called me into his office. I think of it now, as I lie awake late at night listening to Willa tossing and turning in the next room, as the fan blasts me with warmish air. I went by the club and played cards with some of the guys, and then Grimace came lumbering out and nodded to me. I’m six four and not exactly easily intimidated, but Grimace always makes me feel like I’m half my age. He’s the closest to a real dad I’ve ever had. Maybe that’s why. Or maybe it’s because when he says jump, I ask him how high. Maybe I’m just a lackey.
He nodded to the seat opposite and dropped into his own. Laying his hands on the table, he smiled at me. When he smiled, his beard lifted, the hairs doing strange wiggling motions. Behind Grimace’s chair there’s a photograph of me and him at a bike rally a long time ago. I used to feel proud when I looked at that photo, used to think, it’s right there, in the president’s office, for all the men to see when they meet with him. But as I sat there that day, I didn’t feel proud about it. I didn’t feel much of anything about it.
“That fire.” His smile got wider. I thought about what it’d be like if I’d accidentally killed Willa in the fire he was smiling about. I clenched my fist under the table. “Really good work, Diesel. Really damn good work.”
I forced myself to say the words: “Thanks, boss.” They were what men in that chair said, after all.
He leaned across the table and patted my forearm. I remember all the times my real old man patted my forearm, except he’d grip it in a vise-like hand, and drag me into the basement, and cut, and lash, and punch …
I close my eyes, listening to Willa, focusing on Willa. I can’t sleep, dammit.
Touching my forearm, Grimace said, “We’re making some progress with Chino. He’s an animal, and we’re going to put him d
own.”
“I know,” I said.
He withdrew his hand and that was the sign for me to leave. I wanted to go back to cards but for some reason I was too amped up. I felt like riding, so I rode out to the beach and just sat there for a long time staring at the sea and thinking. I didn’t know what’d gotten into me. The sun had set by the time I figured it out, or I think I figured it out, anyway. I’ve never spent much time looking inside myself so it’s hard to know.
I got onto the idea that maybe Willa had something to do with me feeling this way, with me feeling at all. I wanted a kid before I met Willa, but since she came into my life it had become all I could think about. And thinking about having a kid and going out and setting fire to buildings didn’t sit well together.
