by Naomi West
“I agree.” I laugh awkwardly. “It’s pretty horrible.”
Another silence stretches. Outside, a car backfires. Peter’s gray eyes roam over me. I’m just wearing a T-shirt and some jeans I got at the supermarket down the road from the motel, but he’s looking at me like I’m dressed in some sexy outfit.
“Where are you going to stay?” he asks.
“I’m at a motel.”
“A motel? I thought you were broke.” He doesn’t intend for it to be cruel. I can tell that from the way he laughs afterwards. He isn’t a cruel man. But it annoys me nonetheless.
“What made you think that?”
I stand up, but all that accomplishes is that now we’re standing opposite each other. I really wish people would stop boxing me in.
“Remember a couple of weeks when I asked you for a drink?” He quickly adds, “As a friend.”
“Oh, right. I remember.”
I told him I didn’t have the money and when he said he’d pay, I told him I didn’t like guys paying for my drinks. So that was a lie, I reflect, since I had no problem with Diesel paying for my drinks.
“I guess I save money for situations like this, and don’t waste them on drinks.”
“Waste? I’d be a waste?” He laughs again. “I’m a nice guy, Willa. I’m always nice to ladies.”
I cringe, hard, my insides twisting at how pathetic and desperate he looks. Nice Guys are the bane of so many women’s lives. In college I often heard stories about the fabled Nice Guy, who’d show up at your apartment uninvited with a bunch of red roses and call himself Casanova for the trouble.
“I never said that. Excuse me, Peter, but you’re in my way.”
He doesn’t move at once. It’s like he wants to show me he doesn’t have to. But when he does move, I wonder if I imagined that hint of malice in his eyes. After all, just because Peter’s a Nice Guy that doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy.
I don’t really have a plan as I head toward the elevator. I just want to find a safe space where I can think through all of this. I’m in the hallway, heading for the entrance, when the security guard intercepts me. He’s a short man with a bald head and wrinkles marked on his forehead. Tufts of hair jut up from behind his ears and out of his nose.
“Willa?” he says.
“Um, yes?”
He shifts from foot to foot. “You’re not a rat, right?”
“A rat?” I look at his name tag. “Joseph, what are you talking about?”
When I use his name, he calms down a little. “It’s just I got a grandkid, you know, and I don’t wanna be in any trouble or anything like that.”
“Why would you be in trouble? You’re not making very much sense.”
He reaches into his pocket and hands me a note. “You didn’t get this from me, okay? Okay?” He withdraws it, waiting for my answer.
“Okay. What is it?”
“What’s what, miss? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He thrusts the note in my hand and strides away.
I read it: Willa, it’s me. Turn left at the parking lot and walk for two minutes.
I feel like I’m in a spy movie when I leave the station. The sun is bright, far too bright for a scene like this. It should be dark. It should be raining. I don’t have to guess who “me” is. I wonder if I should turn back to the station, dial the police … but in truth, I’m getting tired of wondering that. I know I’m not going to. I just don’t know why.
Liar, liar, a voice whispers. You know exactly why.
The reason why is leaning against his bike, watching me with his arms folded and a matchstick in his mouth.
Chapter Five
Willa
Before the conversation starts, I tell myself I’m here for work. If I’m not going to tell anybody about Diesel, the least I can do is remember our interaction so that one day, when I decide to do the right thing, I’ll be able to document it. I’ll be Truman Capote, who claimed his memory retention was over ninety percent.
“You came,” he says.
I think of last night, hand between my legs.
“I did,” I reply.
“I’m surprised, I’ve gotta say. I reckoned you’d want to stay clear of a man like me so near to your office.”
“How do you even know where I work?”
He smiles at me, and then pats the sleeve of his leather. “I’ve been thinking about yesterday,” he says. “Our kiss ended too soon.”
“I didn’t end the kiss,” I say. “But don’t try and kiss me again. It won’t work if you haven’t forced vodka down my throat.”
“Forced?” He laughs. “Forced is a weird work to pick, Willa. And I thought your business was all about words.”
I look around the alleyway. In the corner, a trash bag overflows onto the concrete. In another corner, a condom clings like a raindrop to a metal bracket. Graffiti is our wallpaper and old, ignored trash our scented candles. “Is this where you bring all your dates?”
“Is this a date?” he shoots back.
I spread my hands. “You brought me here. You tell me. I was happy at work until your lackey came to disturb me.”
“You seem annoyed,” he says. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not great when it comes to reading women’s emotions. But you seem annoyed. That’s obvious.”
“Annoyed?” I growl, letting out the frustration I’ve felt all morning. I feel like spitting. “That word doesn’t really cover how I’m feeling, to be completely honest with you. I’m homeless. Soon to be homeless, anyway. I’m staying in some shithole motel where I can hear people screwing in the next room. In two days, I might take that as my bed.” I gesture to the trash bag. “So yeah, maybe I am annoyed.”
“But you seem annoyed at me.” I know he knows, just by looking into his dark green eyes. He knows why I’d be annoyed with him. Does he want me to play some kind of game?
I take a step forward and look up into his face. “You’re kidding, right?” I snap. “You’re really, really kidding.”
“What am I kidding about, Willa?”
“You know why I’m annoyed with you!” I slap the front of his leather. He doesn’t even flinch, just stares down at me calmly. He doesn’t even move. He’s carved from rock. I slap him again, harder. There’s no difference. “You can’t stand there and tell me you really, really don’t know what’s going on here. You’d have to be an idiot, Diesel. Diesel. I feel so stupid calling you that.”
“You have something you want to say.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, I do. You burned down my apartment building. It’s so obvious I can’t believe you’re actually making me come out and say it like this. You burned down my apartment building; that’s it. It’s so obvious! I don’t know why you did it. Maybe you have some weird biker reason for wanting that building gone. But you did it.”
I think he’s going to admit to it, but then he pushes away from his bike and walks to the other end of the alleyway, his back to me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not wearing a wire, Diesel.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he repeats, turning back to me. “What you’re saying makes no goddamn sense. Me, burn down a building?”
“Whoever did it,” I say, ignoring him, “made the effort to make sure he wouldn’t be hurting anybody. Physically hurting anybody, at least. He seemingly didn’t care about making them homeless.” I watch him, trying to get a rise out of him. His face twitches but he stays silent. “Maybe he thought he could justify it by saying he’d reimburse anyone without insurance. Fine, that’s a nice gesture, I suppose. But it doesn’t change the fact that he burned down the building they live in, making them homeless.”
“Let someone else do it, then, and see how those people end up!” he explodes, shaking his head. “Let Grimace give the job to one of the psychotic fucks who’ll burn the place to the ground with fuckin’ babies in there! Let—” He cuts short, bringing his fist to his face like he’s going t
o bite it. Then he lets it drop and makes a growling sound from deep in his throat. “Goddamn, Willa.”
“So you did it,” I say. “You can’t take it back now.”
He stares at me silently.
“You really think I’m here to spy on you.”
“We don’t know each other at all.” He shakes out his arms as though trying to calm himself down. I’ve seen boxers do the same on TV. “We met last night. You can’t expect me to spill out my guts for you.”
“I expect no such thing,” I say. “And I want no such thing. I just want the truth.”
“So you’re going to be homeless soon?” he says. “You don’t have anybody to stay with, or anything?”
“So you’re just going to pretend like this conversation is over?”
“No family, no friends?”
I feel myself blush, even though there’s no need. “No,” I mutter.
“Shit,” he says. “That sucks. Well, I guess there’s only one thing for it, then. You’ll have to stay with me.”
“You’re joking,” I say. “This is a joke.”
“I don’t joke about serious business, and this is serious business.”
He takes two large steps and then all at once he’s standing over me, making me crane my neck back to look up at him. I remember his smell, the feel of his lips … for a passing moment it’s like he’s kissing me again. He leans down so that his lips are close to mine. And then he leans in, closer, closer, and my body is aching, aching for him, hungry for him. Just like last night, when my fingers moved despite myself, now I stand on my tiptoes, close my eyes, purse my lips. When I kiss, I kiss air.
I open my eyes and see him standing a foot away from me, arms folded, looking cool and distant. “Is that a yes or a no?”
Frustrated—sexually and otherwise—I fold my arms, so that we’re facing off. Gunslingers, but instead of guns we have scowls. Scowl-slingers, then. “That was mean,” I say. “That was really, really mean. And how can I agree to move in with you? Like you said, we don’t know each other at all.”
“Come on, I’m a classy kind of guy. You can’t expect me to kiss you here. My place, though …”
“A classy kind of guy?” I roll my eyes dramatically, tipping my head to bring the point home. “You could’ve fooled me.” I’m smiling, I realize, flirting. I’m smiling at and flirting with the man who burned down my apartment building.
“I don’t want you on the street,” he says. “That’s the fact. I promise I won’t try anything with you.”
“You just lied to me,” I say. “You just lied right to my face.”
He smiles, shrugs. “I never claimed to be an angel.”
“You never claimed to be a devil, either. In fact, so far you haven’t claimed to be anything.”
“Are you going to stay with me or not, Willa? I don’t like to ask twice.”
“Well excuse me for inconveniencing you.” I shake my head at him and put heavy irony into my voice. “I’d never want to do that. That would be an unfair thing to do.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. I still want an answer, though.”
“Tell me your name,” I say, taking a step forward. I want to be close to him again, to feel his breath on my face, to feel his arms around me, his lips pressed against mine. But I’m not going to make the move if he isn’t. “I don’t even know your name and you want me to move in with you.” I offer him my hand. “I’m Willa Holloway. It’s nice to meet you.”
He takes my hand. “I’m Diesel. It’s nice to meet you.”
Snatching my hand away, I snap, “I asked for your name, not your nickname.”
“I told you. My name is Diesel. Legally.”
“And your second name? Nobody has just one name.”
“I do.”
We watch each other for a few seconds in silence. I’m exasperated. I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere. And yet I’m also imagining what it would be like to take this man up on his offer. It’s crazy and it makes no sense, and yet I am drawn to the idea. It’s the kind of thing you hear about in magazines and in articles online, but which you’d never actually do.
“I sleep on the couch,” I say. But it’s like somebody else is speaking. This isn’t the Willa I know. “Or a spare room if you have one. You don’t touch me. You don’t look at me. We’re roommates, nothing more.”
“So you’ll be paying rent then?” He’s joking, I can tell. He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “I can give you my address or pick you up after work, your choice.”
“Pick me up,” I say, thinking, what the hell am I doing?
“All right, then. Meet me here after work. What time do you finish?”
“Half past five.”
“All right, then.” He climbs onto his bike.
“Aren’t you going to wear a helmet?” I ask.
He winks at me. “I only have one helmet, and I reckon I’ll give it to the lady. Climb on. I’m giving you a ride back to work.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I feel at a loss. I was going to be a journalist here. I was going to remember and document, observe, not get swept up in it. Even as I ask the question, I’m walking to his bike, taking the offered helmet, and putting it on my head.
“Hang on.” He takes off his leather jacket and hands it to me over his shoulder. That’s when I see the scars on his arms, crisscrossed and pale, starting at his wrists and disappearing in his T-shirt. “Take this.”
This is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Scratch that. This is one hundred percent the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. My only consolation is that lunchtime isn’t yet over. The office should still be empty. When I’m in the helmet and the jacket, I wrap my arms around his belly, holding onto the tight-packed muscle. Diesel kicks the bike and then I’m sitting on a vibrating hunk of metal. I’d be lying if I said the reverberations, along with the firmness of Diesel’s belly, don’t make me wish I was in bed.
He rides me halfway to work and then stops in another alleyway. The ride is short, around half a minute, and I’m frustrated when I have to climb off and let go of his belly.
“It would’ve been quicker to walk,” I say, “when you account for the time we’re wasting now.” I take off the jacket and the helmet and hand them to him.
“Quicker, sure, but not as fun.” He leans against his bike. “Go on then, Willa. I want to watch you walk away.”
I walk out the alleyway, feeling Diesel’s eyes on my ass and liking the feeling way more than I should.
When I get back to the office, suddenly the attention doesn’t seem so bad. The copy doesn’t seem so bad. Nothing seems as bad as it did half an hour ago.
Even Brittany’s pouting doesn’t annoy me. All I have to do is avoid thinking about if I’m making a terrible mistake.
Chapter Six
Diesel
I sit in the alleyway against my bike, chewing the wooden end of a matchstick and wondering what sort of bastard I’m going to be remembered as. Willa hit home, harder than she probably knows. Because she’s right. Of course she’s right. Just because I make sure I don’t end up a killer—at least by accident—that doesn’t mean what I’m doing doesn’t have consequences. I think about a kid again, as I have countless times before. My kid would be better than me, boy or girl. I’d make sure of it. My kid would never end up in the slammer. My kid would never end up an arsonist. The club is the club; the club is family. But does that mean I have to do this for the rest of my life?
I toss the matchstick to the concrete and think about lighting a cigarette. Then I remember how Willa threw the cigarette to the curb yesterday, and I decide against it. It’s the first time in my life I’ve gone without one for a woman. I’m sure that says something.
When she doesn’t show up right away, I’m surprised by how nervous I’m getting. I want to spend tonight with Willa. I want to go back to my apartment and close the door to the world and pretend that the club doesn’t exist. Grimace has been getting on
my case about this Chino bastard, telling me that Chino is going to be a big problem soon, telling me that we need to deal with him. I know it’s a matter of time before he asks me to torch another building, and maybe next time I won’t be able to get everybody out. Maybe next time I’ll end up burning innocents alive. I spit on the floor and pace the alleyway.
“Chino is the lowest of the low,” Grimace told me last night, hunched over in his president’s chair, his grizzled gray beard reaching almost down to the desk. Grimace is almost as big as me and looked damned strange hunched over like that, but he always sits in that way when he’s angry. It’s the only way I can tell, since his face is always so calm. “Nothing worse than a slumlord, Diesel,” he went on, though I could think of a few worse things. “Doesn’t respect his tenants, doesn’t respect the law, doesn’t respect anything, not even respect itself. Uses his damn buildings as fronts for drug dealing and money launderer. Gets pregnant women hooked on crack. He’s a real piece of shit, Diesel, a real piece of work.”
