For A Good Time, Call...

by Gadziala, Jessica

  And then there would be the sound of the bed slamming up against my wall, my father panting then grunting. He would fall asleep shortly after and I would hear my mother crying through the wall.

  I cant remember her as anything but cowering. Her shoulders seemed permanently pulled upward by her ears, her face always trained on the floor. When I was little I remember saying how I thought she was pretty with her long blonde hair. My father had stormed across the floor, grabbing my chubby little six year old face and yelling about my sins.

  The next day I came out for prayer to see my mother's hair sheared off, her scalp underneath ripped up and bloody.

  I never spoke of my mother in front of my father again. And my mother tensed anytime I opened my mouth when she was in the room.

  My brother and I didn't go to school. There was too much sin and not enough God. Not even in the Catholic schools. My father took my brother out with him, hunting and fishing and doing things I didn't want to know about. My mother would wait for them to leave and rush over to me, grabbing me and pulling me down on the dirt floor and drawing letters with a stick. She taught me to read against my father's wishes. After every session, she would grab my hands and tell me to look at her and in a shaking voice remind me how important it was that my father never find out about our lessons.

  He never did.

  The early years weren't that bad. Overall. I was fed. I had enough blankets to ward off the winter chill. I had it better than other kids in the world. The beatings always came out of the blue after offending some ideal of my father. He would pull me outside and break a switch off of a tree, pull up my dress and hit me with the switch until I cried hard enough to wet myself. Then I would be left there, out in the heat or the freezing cold to think about my sins. To repent to God. Overnight.

  My mother would come to me in the morning, pressing compresses to my cuts and murmuring about the tempers of men. Telling me to hold onto the anger, wrap it up like a baby to my chest and never let it go. Because if I let it go, he won. He owned me.

  What she didn't tell me was that he had owned me from the day I was born. Just like he had owned her from the day they had married. And as a little girl, I couldn't understand. I didn't grasp the point she was trying to make. If I didn't hold onto the anger, I would accept my beatings. I wouldn't stop to think about how unjust the punishments were for the crimes. I wouldn't wonder why my brother wasn't bloodied and left outside overnight. I wouldn't see my father for the monster he was.

  I remembered my tenth year well. The sharing of household responsibilities with my mother. The constant, unrelenting scripture quotes about the sins of the flesh. The weakness of women. I didn't understand at the time that my father was hinting at something I didn't yet know about. My upcoming blossoming. My womanhood.

  Isaiah was twelve, all arms and legs and eyes that spent too much time on me and my mother. At the time I didn't understand. That look. That look that, as an adult woman, you know is only one thing. You know that look. And you know when that look is more than a look.

  Isaiah pulled the curtain between our room open when he heard me come in for bed, standing there and staring at me while I changed. I wasn't much then. A sapling still. My breasts were just tiny buds that would still be mistaken for a boy's. But I wasn't a boy. And he stared. I would crawl into bed and pull the covers up over my head. I would hear him pull the curtain, his mattress give way under his weight.

  Then he would be panting and grunting. Panting and grunting on one side of the room. From my brother. Panting and grunting on the other side of the wall. From my father. And a part of me was starting to understand that it wasn't right. That whatever was causing those noises... was not something I should be allowed to be near. It wasn't something I should know bout.

  It was something that made my mother cry.

  My father came in one night while I was changing, my back turned to Isaiah as his eyes raked over me. Then he was screaming. Not at Isaiah, but at me. Screaming words that were so angry and jumbled I didn't even understand them. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of the room in all of my nakedness, through the house, outside.

  He threw me down on the ground, six inches deep in new snow. I remembered that feeling like it was yesterday. The stinging, burning, stabbing sensation raking over every nerve ending where the cold touched my skin. I remembered crying out, trying to stand. But he pushed me down, grabbing a branch from a tree and pummeling my back to raw strips of flesh. Then he dropped down on the ground next to me, reaching into his back pocket. He threw me over onto my back, letting the snow seep into the open wounds. Then I saw what he was holding, the moon flashing off of the blade in the dark. His hunting knife.

  The screams were like that of a dying animal. Because that was what I felt like. Like I was being skinned. Like I was being sliced for Sunday dinner.

  Then, like a madwoman my mother was running out of the house in her bare feet screaming “Fire!”

  “Fee, wake up,” I heard through the screaming. The screaming I could never forget. The choking on your own spit screaming. The praying for blissful end to it all kind of screaming. “Fee... fuck... wake up!”

  There was a sharp pain across my face and my eyes shot open, but uncomprehending. I was still ten. In the snow. Being mutilated by my father. I felt a hand on my knee and I shot out, fists colliding with flesh. “Fee, snap out of it,” the voice said, grabbing the sides of my face and shaking my head once.

  Then just like that, my dream faded, pulling backward like a fog. And there was Hunter, kneeling next to me, his light eyes looking downright frantic.

  “Jesus, Fee,” he said, letting my face go and sitting back on his ankles

  “How are you here?” I asked, feeling a little more lightheaded than I should.

  “How?” he asked, his brows drawing together. “I broke your door down.”

  “What?” I asked, confused. “Why?”

  He looked at my face. “You were screaming. I mean... blood-curdling screaming. I thought someone was in here trying to kill you. I kicked your door in.” I nodded, feeling more than a little embarrassed and, what's worse, like I owed him an explanation. I pushed up on my elbows and his hand shot to my shoulder. “Slow. You've lost a lot of blood, baby.”

  My eyes widened, going to my thigh, feeling like I was choking on my self-consciousness. My thigh looked worse than I remembered through the haze that allowed me to do the damage in the first place. The cuts were deeper and he was right. There was drying blood on my leg, all the way down to my knee and a frighteningly large puddle on the tile floor next to me.

  I reached out for the clean gauze, but his hands stopped me. “Fee,” he said, my name like a question. “Talk to me.”

  “I had a bad dream,” I said dumbly and he shook his head.

  “How about this then?” he asked, gesturing toward my leg.

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “To me it does,” he countered.

  “Why? Because I woke you up?”

  “Because you scared the piss out of me tonight,” he admitted. “I heard the screaming then I came in here and saw all the blood...”

  “Don't worry,” I said, sitting up. “no murderers here. You can go.”

  “I'm not going anywhere,” he said, snatching the bottle of witch hazel out of my hand. “I'll do it,” he said, squirting it over my skin then blotting at the blood until my skin was clean. “Do you want me to glue these?”

  “No,” I said, watching him minister to me, carefully. Like he was afraid to hurt me. Which was something completely new for me coming from a man. I watched as he rose and dug around for triple antibiotic, coming back and smoothing it over the cuts. “I'm not a slut,” I heard myself saying, quietly.

  But he heard me and his head shot up to my face. “I never said you were,” he said, his brows drawing together.

  “It's just... last week...”

  “Fee forget about that.”

  W
as he just trying to placate me? Poor little screwed up Fiona who needed coddling so she didn't hurt herself. I couldn't let that be his opinion of me.

  “I'm not a slut,” I said again, my voice a little stronger. “I'm a phone sex operator.”

  His mouth had been open as if he was going to cut me off, then his eyes went wide for a second before a smile started tugging at his lips. “Wait. What?”

  “I'm a phone sex operator.” At his blank look, I shrugged. “You know... guys call me and I dirty talk them and...”

  “I know what a phone sex operator is,” he said, rolling his eyes. He sat there for a minute, lost in his own thoughts, looking entirely too amused. “That explains a lot actually,” he said finally. “So the, ah, horse noises...”

  I laughed, bringing a hand up to my face. “Oh my god... that guy.”

  He smiled with me for a moment before his face went serious. “So that other morning,” he started, his eyes bearing into mine. “with the spanking...”

  “A dom,” I supplied.

  “After,” he said and I felt my face heat with the memory. “After you hung up with him.” There was a long silence as if he expected me to say something. But I couldn't. “You were thinking about me. About me doing those things the guy had talked about.”

  “Maybe,” I said, not able to look up at him any longer.

  “When you were touching yourself,” he said, reaching out and tilting my chin up so I faced him again.

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  “I heard you,” he said. “Through the wall. I heard you moaning. I stopped working to listen.” Which should have been creepy, but it wasn't. “I was stroking my cock listening to you.” Jesus Christ that was hot. The image flew into my head and I pushed my thighs together to try to ease the chaos there. “Then when I heard you call out my name when you came...” he trailed off, shaking his head like he couldn't find the right words.

  There was a pregnant silence between us then, both of us lost in thought. Him probably about my work, about me masturbating to the idea of him while he listened. I kept thinking about our failed attempts to get closer. To be intimate. I wondered if I should tell him. Just bite the bullet and get it over with.

  “Hey,” he said, breaking through my swirling thoughts. “whatever put that look on your face... stop thinking about it.”

  “Hunter...”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head and getting to his feet. He reached a hand down toward me and I took it. “You don't owe me an explanation. I'm assuming there is some issue with actual, real life sex for you, right?”

  “Yeah.” You have no idea. You wouldn't want me if you knew.

  “Okay,” he said, still holding my hand though I was on my feet. It felt good. I don't ever remember having someone hold my hand. It was no wonder new couples always did it. It felt like comfort. Like stability. “So now I know,” he said. “It's not a big deal,” he said, leaning forward and planting a kiss on my forehead.

  He was lying. I knew that. I knew it was a big deal. Sex was always a big deal. When you were having it, it was a big deal. And when you weren't having it, it was a big deal. “Okay,” I said. Not believing him, but without the energy for a fight either.

  “Why don't we get you to the kitchen and get some food in you to counteract that blood loss? And I'll go try to fix your door.”

  I sat in my kitchen nibbling on the cold, chewy spaghetti while me worked. I was glad for the distance. I needed to think. I needed to get my guards back up.

  It had been a long time since I had that dream. And even when I did have it, it was usually as a third party. Like I was looking on at the scene. But tonight I had been inside my little body, I heard all the swirling thoughts, I felt the cold, I felt the pain, I felt the screams bursting from my mouth. It had felt as real as it had thirteen years ago. It was like reliving it.

  Under my breasts and under my panties, my scars felt raw and painful. They felt fresh and burning. I half expected to see bright red, bloody messes when I changed later instead of the pinky-white weirdly smooth skin I knew was there.

  The clock on my stove told me it was just after one in the morning. Though to be fair, I didn't think any worse damage could come of the next three hours than had come in the past three. This was going to be one of those nights that I flicked around the TV endlessly, wincing whenever I moved my leg or something brushed across my cuts. But it was only a few hours and then I could sleep. Then things could go back to usual.

  Or, as usual as my life could be.

  “Alright,” Hunter said, walking back into the room, a little sweaty from whatever he had been doing. “I put some boards up over the split. It's not perfect, but it will hold until I can replace...”

  “You don't have to...”

  “I broke it,” he cut in. “I fix it.”

  “Okay,” I conceded because better sense told me that there was no use arguing with him. “I'm... sorry I woke you up,” I said when the silence stretched awkward.

  “Hey nothing like a little mild heart failure to keep you young,” he said, giving me a smile that I could only describe as flirtatious. “So... you alright?” he asked, watching my face. “I could stay...”

  “I'm fine,” I said automatically. It was knee-jerk. I was always fine. As if reading my thoughts, his brow lifted. “No seriously,” I added, waving a hand. “I'm alright. I'm gonna watch a movie, wait for the sun to rise, then get some rest.”

  “Alright,” he said, pushing off the doorway and moving toward me. His hands cradled my face and pulled it slowly up toward him as his face lowered. But his lips didn't press down on mine. They hovered above mine for a long time before pressing down, a whisper of a touch that lasted no longer than two seconds before pulling away. I felt myself waver slightly, horrifyingly, on my feet when he stepped back.

  “See you around, Sixteen,” he said, giving me an odd look.

  “See ya, Fourteen,” I called as the door slammed.

  Alone, I curled up on my bed, wrapping my blankets tight around me like they could keep all the bad away. I laid awake thinking about nothing and everything. My father. My mother. My brother. My burning thigh. But mostly, Hunter.

  Because, damn it all to hell, I think I was falling for him. Just a little. And maybe it was just all the pent up sexual frustration. But a part of me knew it was more than that. That it was deeper. That maybe my frozen little heart was thawing a bit.

  Thirteen

  My phone woke me up. My work phone with it's absurd seventies porn theme song. Bow-chicka-wow-wooow. I fumbled blearily out of bed, looking for it on my nightstand where I usually left it. But as the sleep cleared from my brain, I realized it was coming from the living room. I stumbled around, looking at my door with it's makeshift patching and noticed my phone on the tiny table I kept my mail and keys and wallet on. Which was weird. Because I would never put it there.

  I reached for it, noticing the time with a squint. Most of my callers knew not to call before eleven. And it was barely after ten. I hit the call button. “It's a little early, darlin',” I said, sounding chipper if maybe a little tired. Every man was darlin' or honey or love. Every man was a sweet, sweet nothing.

  “I thought you might make an exception for me,” a familiar voice said.

  You've heard that knocking over with a feather expression. Well, you could have knocked me the fuck over with a feather as I realized who was calling on my work line. On my phone sex line. That's why my phone was out of place. He had moved it last night. Probably after going in it and figuring out my number.

  I brought a hand up to cover my eyes, not acknowledging the big, silly grin that was on my face. Oh, Hunter.

  “You there, Sixteen?” he asked after a moment, sounding perfectly at ease. Like it was totally a normal thing he was doing.

  “Yep,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Why don't you walk back to your bedroom,” he suggested and my feet were moving.

/>   “Okay,” I said, looking at my bed like it was foreign.

  “And get into bed,” he suggested, his voice sounding almost amused.

  “Okay,” I said, settling my head back on my pillows. I swear I could feel his presence behind me. Through the wall. But only six inches away.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “You know what I'm wearing,” I said, laughing.

  “How would I know that? I'm Dan... from... Vermont. I've never seen you before in my life.”

  I snorted, smiling at my ceiling. “Right,” I said. “Well, I have on huge baggy, ratty sweatpants and a housecoat.”

  “Come on, Sixteen,” he groaned.

  “Fine. I'm wearing pink panties and a black and white crop top.”

  “That doesn't match at all,” he teased.

  “Well, I wasn't expecting your call, honey. I didn't get a chance to dress down for you,” I cooed in my usual tone I saved for callers. “Thongs, isn't it?” I asked, knowing it was.

  There was a low, deep chuckle. “Yup. And I want a pair. I noticed that was a new service. Green thong. To match those gorgeous eyes.”

  Oh like hell. No fucking way was he getting a pair of my panties. “You don't seem like a panty sniffer,” I said.

  “I'm not,” he agreed. “I was just seeing if I could get a rise out of you. You're very professional,” he said and it sounded like a compliment.

  Little did he know, I was a swirling mess of anxiety inside. Which was new for me. I never felt nervous on a call. Not even my first call. I had stood in front of a bathroom mirror for days before, saying dirty words at my reflection. Getting used to them. Cock. Pussy. Cunt. Balls. Clit. Snatch. Dick. I would lace the words together, trying to come up with the filthiest thing I could say. Just trying to ease any possible discomfort or shock at what might come from a caller. So I was prepared for anything.

  Except my sexy as hell neighbor calling me from the other side of my wall. There was no way to prepare for that.