For A Good Time, Call...

by Gadziala, Jessica

  He rolled his eyes, watching as I took one of the coffees and shaking two aspirin into his palm and holding it out toward me. “You got to have a headache. I don't think I have ever seen someone that shitfaced and still walking before,” he said as I took the pills.

  “In heels nonetheless,” I added.

  “What the hell happened to your face?” he asked, trying to peek at the cut but I turned my head away.

  “It hit a wall.” A few dozen times. With no help from anyone else.

  His breath hissed out of his mouth as he moved across the room to me, grabbing my chin and holding my face still as he looked. “This probably needs stitches,” he said, his face looking impassive. Like he had seen nasty cuts a million times. “You're lucky it's not infected.”

  “I poured some vodka on it,” I shrugged, having a vague memory of someone laughing as I dropped a shot down the side of my face.

  “It still needs to be cleaned up. Maybe if you don't want to go to the hospital, put some glue on it.”

  “I know the drill,” I said, thinking of my own brushes with cutting too deep in my leg. The horrifying realization that I might have to go to the hospital and answer questions. Get a psych evaluation. Glue and I were good friends.

  There was a long silence that had me looking down at my coffee cup. “What is up with the self-destruct spiral, Fee?” he asked, his voice softer than I had ever heard it before.

  “Why do you care?” I shot back. He didn't. No one really cared. They just felt like they were entitled to the intimate details of your life. Spell out your pain so I can make a map of it. I want to know there are people more fucked up than me so I can feel better about myself.

  “I don't know,” he said, tucking his dark hair behind his ear. “I just do.”

  I ignored the warm feeling inside. The ping of hope that someone might actually give a damn. That someone would notice if I just gave up this fight after all. “Don't,” I said, the word coming out sadder than I intended. I didn't want him to care. He couldn't care. I wasn't the kind of person you should let yourself care about. I will only let you down.

  “Too late,” he shrugged.

  “Why? Because we kissed? Because you got me off with a vibrator?” I rolled my eyes. Shrug it off. Men hated that shit. Their silly fragile ego. “Get over yourself.”

  “This isn't about me,” he said instead, not sounding the least bit insulted. “But if I'm not mistaken,” he said, looking cocky. “I heard you yesterday morning calling out my name while you got off.”

  Oh, you fucker. Jesus. Was I really that loud? I didn't even remember calling out his name. But seeing as I was thinking about him, that was entirely possible. “Do you have a point? Being on someone's highlight reel isn't a big deal. I had a pizza delivery guy end up on mine for a month straight.” Nope. Not true at all. But I certainly made it sound like it was.

  “What's your damage, Sixteen?” he asked, shaking his head.

  “What?” I asked, not sure if that was an insult or an actual question.

  “I don't know,” he said. “We all got it, but with the booze and the bad decisions...”

  “Maybe I'm just stupid,” I suggested, finishing my coffee and dropping the cup in the garbage. I needed to put some space between us. The air in the small kitchen felt thick and stifling. I walked into the hall and then the bathroom.

  “You're not stupid,” he said, following me. “You're just... coping. I was just curious as to what you're trying to cope with.”

  “What makes you think you're entitled to know that?” I asked, reaching into the medicine cabinet and pulling down the witch hazel and glue. He watched my reflection in the mirror as I wet a swab and dabbed at all the dried blood, trying to get it as clean as possible before I put the glue on. I pretended to not notice his gaze.

  “I'm not saying in entitled to know,” he said reaching for the glue as I tried to watch in the mirror and glue at the same time. His hand pushed my hair out of my eyes and held my face still. “I'm saying that I'm here. And I want to listen if you want to talk.”

  I closed my eyes as I felt him push my skin together and wipe glue on the seam. God, how I wanted to tell him. A part of me felt like it would ease the burden. To stop keeping it so secret. But the other part knew I would never be looked at the same way again. “I'm not in a talking mood,” I said quietly as he let go of my face and stepped away.

  “Okay,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “but it's an open invitation. That's going to scar. Maybe an inch or so but it should heal neat.”

  “What's one more scar?” I mumbled to myself, but judging by the look of pain on his face, he heard me. Which was only made worse by the knowledge that he had seen my thigh.

  “What do you say you go get cleaned up and I'll take you out to breakfast?”

  I could. I mean my job didn't exactly demand that I answer every call. Hell, I didn't answer to anyone but myself. But I knew I shouldn't. We were already too close for comfort and I couldn't risk whatever careful balance I was keeping with my new found social skills and my normal hermitage.

  “Or I can just whip up a quick omelet and let you get back to your day,” he said, sensing my hesitance.

  “Alright,” I said and before I could change my mind, he was walking out of the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

  I grabbed a towel and planned to take a quick shower, but as soon as the water hit my skin, I knew I was in for. I needed the water scalding and I needed to scrub and re-scrub yesterday away. My father's words always felt like they left a coating on my skin. Like I was covered in them. Like they would sink in and become a part of me if I didn't wash them away. Also, not to mention the alcohol and the vomit and dried blood and god only knew what else.

  By the time I finished, my bathroom was a cloud of smoke. I dried myself off and realized with panic that I had neglected to actually bring any clothes with me into the bathroom. I wrapped the towel tight around me, holding the knot for good measure and snuck toward the door.

  He was probably just busy in the kitchen whipping up some kind of awesome concoction. If I made a run for it, he wouldn't even see me. I pulled the door open and darted out, running right into a giant wall of man.

  I yelped, trying to spring away, but his hands landed hard on my shoulders, holding me still. “Sorry I ah...”

  “Forgot to grab clothes?” he asked, his voice sounding amused.

  I was way too close and way too naked. This couldn't be happening. No f'n way.

  “You're... you're supposed to be making me food,” I stammered.

  “Yeah, I got all the food out on the counter and everything and then I heard that water and I couldn't stop thinking about you in there... one room away from me... all naked and soapy.”

  “I'm not naked or soapy anymore,” I said, not able to look above his chest. If I looked up, I might give in. I might just let it happen. And that... well that couldn't happen.

  “Not soapy, no,” he said, his hand dropping lower and touching the top of the towel. “But you're just one... tug,” he said, grabbing the edge and holding it. “from naked.”

  I slowly pulled air in through my nose, trying to pull some self-control in with it. But words failed me once again and my hand went up to cover his, holding it still.

  “Look at me, Fee.” My eyes went up slowly, looking at his shirt, then his throat, his chin, lips, nose. Then finally, eyes. Impossibly blue, almost see through. “There you are,” he said, his other hand sliding up the side of my face, his thumb stroking across my cheek. I felt my mouth fall slightly open, watching him, stuck in that moment. “Kiss me,” he said and I felt the demand settle in my belly.

  And then I was going up on my tiptoes and pressing against his chest. His hand slipped from the towel and slid around my back, settling between my shoulder blades. My hand moved up his chest, touching the stubble on his cheek, sneaking back into his hair and pulling him downward.

  One kiss. I
t wouldn't hurt.

  Even as I told myself, I knew it was a lie. Because kissing Hunter was like stepping into the sunlight after being in a cave for a year. It was blinding. It was warm. And, most of all, it was comforting.

  His lips met mine with a fierce kind of passion, reckless and needy. My teeth bit into his bottom lip, digging in and pulling. This wasn't tentative. This wasn't new. We had already done our exploring. I just wanted more. I wanted everything. My tongue slipped into his mouth, stroking his as my hand grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him closer. My other hand dropped from the towel, wrapping around his shoulders.

  His arms slid down my back, one wrapping hard around my hips, the other around my ass. Pulling my closer. My breasts were pressed against his chest, painful but it felt good. I could feel his hardness pressing at me through his jeans, pushing into my belly. Reminding me of things I forgot I wanted.

  God, how I wanted.

  I sighed against his mouth. His hands moved, reaching down and grabbing my ass, pulling me up and off my feet, crushing my heat against his erection. My head fell back on a gasp and his face moved downward and sunk into my skin. First his lips. Then his teeth.

  He put my feet back on the ground, one of his hands moving between us, grabbing my breast through the towel. Squeezing. His thumb rubbed at my already hardened nipple for a second before grabbing it between two fingers and pinching. Hard. Enough to make my eyes fly open and a half-groan, half-cry escape my lips.

  “It's so sexy how fucking hot you get so easy,” he growled, pushing me back against the wall. He grabbed my arms, pinning them above my head then continuing his assault on the sensitive skin on my neck. One of my hands moved down his back, slipping under his shirt and touching the hard muscles of his back. “So sweet,” he said, running his tongue over my earlobe.

  His hand touched my thigh. The outside of my tattoo, stroking the soft skin on the inside of my knee. Small circles. Moving slowly upward. His fingers brushed the hem of the towel that just barely covered my crotch.

  No. Yes, oh god yes. But no.

  I wretched my hands from his hold, slamming them against his chest and shoving him. Off-guard, he flew back a step, stumbling slightly. I clutched at my towel, my hands shaking slightly. Across from me, Hunter leaned against the wall, raking a hand down his face. “What the fuck, Fee?” he asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

  I sighed, looking down at my feet. I was frustrated. Unbearably frustrated. And angry. At myself. At the monster who made me how I am. And sad. For all the things I could never have. But above all... “I'm sorry,” I said, knowing it meant nothing. But it was everything.

  “I don't get it,” he said, his eyes piercing into me. “The walls are fucking thin, Sixteen.” At my blank look, he let out a short humorless laugh. “I hear you, Fee. Everyday. With all your men.” He rushed across the hall, pushing up against me, leaning down in my face. Intimidating. He was really intimidating when he was angry.

  And then I understood. He thought I was a slut. He thought I was easy. And yet I was toying with him. I was teasing him. “Hunter...” I said, trying to sound reasonable.

  “No, don't,” he said, slamming a hand against the wall.

  This was the Hunter from that Tuesday morning. This was my dark savior. The savage beast who pummeled a man's face in. This was not my Hunter. The one who cooked me dinner. And gave me the safety to sleep through a night. The one who glued me back together.

  This was a rabid pitbull straining against his leash. I wondered fleetingly who would win as I saw him close his eyes and take a long, steadying breath.

  We stayed that way for a long time, him still and silent, me apt and fascinated. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His fist clenched and unclenched at his side. Then his eyes slowly opened.

  The leash won. He pushed off the wall, taking a step back. “Your omelet is in the microwave,” he said and turned and walked out of my apartment.

  Out of my life. Because I didn't think I would ever see him on. Not after that. Not after letting me see him lose his cool like that.

  I walked to the kitchen, finding a omelet with cheese, mushrooms, and spinach, and sitting down to eat it.

  He had showed me some of his damage. And he was ashamed of that. Little did he know, I wasn't someone who could judge. So what if he had anger issues? I had ripping myself open issues. And alcohol issues. And daddy issues. And brother issues. And grandmother issues. I was the long island iced tea of damage: everything but iced tea included.

  Honestly, I was happy to see the flaws in him. It is hard to not feel like a sad sack of awfulness next to someone who had proven himself to be nothing but pretty damn perfect. A good cook, a concerned citizen, a fair friend. And so ridiculously good looking on top of it all. It was too much.

  I liked the screwed up Hunter better.

  It was a shame I wasn't going to be seeing him again.

  Twelve

  My bathroom floor and I have had an on and off again relationship for a long time. He was the keeper of my nastiest secrets. My cool, comforting companion on nights when I find myself stuck at home.

  I hadn't heard from Hunter in a week. Another Sunday. Another private alley. Another call to my grandmother.

  “You really should listen to your father,” she told me, her voice accusatory. “He is a great man. He understands the scripture. He's just trying to guide you.”

  “Yes, Grams.”

  YesGrams.YesGrams.YesGrams.

  I had a bag of groceries at my feet and a half-assed idea to pick up cooking. So I had to go home. And once I was home, I wasn't going anywhere.

  I heard nothing from his side of the wall. No hammering or sawing at six in the morning. No talking. No TV. No nothing. I had a rush of panic at the idea that maybe he had left, moved on. But I saw the pile of cigarette butts in his ashtray on the balcony get higher everyday. He was still around. He just didn't want to give me any excuse to go to his apartment.

  Which was for the best. That was what I kept reminding myself. Five, ten times a day. It was for the best. Things could go back to how they used to be. Me, myself, and I. Drunken stumbling me. Solitude.

  You gotta protect the world from you, Fiona. No one deserves to have to deal with you.

  My internal monologue had taken a turn toward the negative lately. True, my head has never been a happy place to be, but suddenly it was becoming a landmine filled field of self-loathing. I could hear his tone slipping into my subconscious. Because that's how good he was. One phone call and I was different.

  I made myself spaghetti which came out too tough and the sauce too watery, deciding that maybe cooking wasn't a science but a skill. One I obviously did not possess. But I ate it and drank a bottle of wine. Wine. Which was weird for me. I bought it thinking it would keep me from going out and drowning in a bottle of something harder. I didn't keep liquor in my apartment. That was just asking to become a day drinker. A full-blown alcoholic.

  I got a warm tingling sensation once I finished the bottle, a nice warm feeling. But it didn't last. My mood soured and the alcohol latched onto the negative internal dialog like a life preserver. And I was spiraling downward.

  So there I was with good old bathroom floor, in hot pink undies and a black and white striped bandeau crop top... looking every bit the mess I felt like. I had a pile of clean gauze next to me with some witch hazel and the glue. Just in case.

  I had always heard that the first cut was the hardest. It was something I never agreed with. The first cut is full of promises. The rush of good feelings. The shock at seeing the skin open and weep. For me, the first cut was the easiest. Every cut after felt like I was chasing a pipe dream. Like trying to get drunker. Or higher. When you knew it wasn't possible. There is always a cap. But those who are really dedicated keep trying anyway.

  I was really dedicated to self-destruction.

  The razor blade touched my skin and I slipped into the mindset. It has to be a different minds
et, because no one in their normal, everyday brain would cut themselves open. It was a strange limbo of a feeling that I could get drunk on some nights.

  This was one of those nights.

  Twenty minutes later, my hands were shaking as I pressed witch hazel soaked gauze against the cuts. I didn't get my rush. No matter how many times I tried. No matter how hard I pushed. I felt all the more despondent, dropping the gauze and curling up on my side.

  I couldn't cry. That was what I wanted to do right then. Just let it out. Purge the feelings in something other than blood for a change. But he could have the blood. He couldn't have the tears. I laid there for a long time, staring at the legs of my bathroom table, watching as they slipped in and out of focus, the wine making me tired as I came down.

  Before I could think to fight it, I was falling asleep.

  And I was six years old again. Our house was a shack in the woods behind my grandmother's house. Estate. My grandmother's house really could be called an estate. But my father had slipped in between the pages of his Bible sometime in his late teens and shunned the idea of material wealth. He slept in the backyard for months as he cut down trees and nailed together the house I would eventually grow up in.

  There was a small living/ dining area right inside the front door with a fireplace. Which was the only place I had ever seen my mother cook food. We didn't have a stove. Or microwave. No luxuries.

  The bathroom was an outhouse twenty yards from our front door. My brother and I had a small eight by eight room, split down the middle with a curtain. Because we weren't supposed to see each other dress or change. Not even as small children. Sins of the flesh or something like that. My parents had a similar sized room, their bed pushed up against my wall.

  I used to hear them at night, my father reciting scripture to my mother. “The husband should give to his wife her conjugal rights, and likewise the wife her husband. For the wife does not have authority over her own body, but the husband does.”