by Witt, L. A.
Through all of our texting, though, we realized we finally had that coveted weekend day off—when neither of us had to work and Tariq wasn’t at school. The poor kid could finally have that skating lesson we’d been promising him.
But that wasn’t for a few days yet. And as I stocked shelves in Red Hot’s leather aisle, I could barely concentrate because tonight, during the sliver of time between my two jobs, I’d finally get to see Brennan.
I finished putting a couple of ball gags on a rack, then went to the end of the aisle to hang up some strap-on harnesses. As I headed back to get another box of new merchandise, Violet looked up from her clipboard and tilted her head.
“You’re in a good mood today.”
Laughing, I shrugged. “That’s not a bad thing, is it?”
“No, but I know you, and it’s mildly suspicious.”
“Mildly— What?”
She chuckled. “Well, with as much as you keep checking the time and squirming, I’m guessing you’ve got something to look forward to after work.” She glanced at the clock. “Why don’t you wrap up what you’re doing, and take off a few minutes early?”
I blinked. “Really?”
Violet nodded. “Get out of here, sweetheart. Have a good time.” She shifted her attention back to the clipboard, and that was the end of it. She didn’t ask questions and I didn’t offer answers.
I finished stocking the last few items on my list, and fifteen minutes before I was supposed to leave, I said good-bye to Violet. She always insisted on paying me even when she let me take off early, so I didn’t bother clocking out—she’d take care of that when the time came.
And yeah, she was right. I was excited. After not seeing Brennan for the better part of a week, why wouldn’t I be?
But . . . why am I?
Oh who cared? I enjoyed hanging out with him. Didn’t really matter why.
I strolled into Skate of Juan de Fuca and hoped I didn’t look like too much of a grinning idiot as I approached the counter.
The burly biker-type guy behind the register glanced up from a magazine. Then he craned his neck toward the back room. “Hey, Bren! Your friend’s here.”
“Be right out,” came the answer.
The guy smiled, and I returned it.
Something clicked in the back room. Then something scuffed, like a shoe skidding on laminate. Another click. Another scuff.
A second later, Brennan came hobbling out on a pair of crutches, and my jaw dropped.
“What happened?” I asked.
The other guy snorted, rolling his eyes, and wandered into the back where Brennan had come from.
Brennan laughed sheepishly, some color blooming in his cheeks as he leaned on his crutches. “Well, the good news is I came in third.”
“Oh did you?” I eyed the black boot encasing his left foot. “What did the other guys do? Break both their legs?”
Brennan chuckled and shook his head. “No. And it actually didn’t happen while I was competing.”
“So . . .”
He cleared his throat, his cheeks getting even brighter. “Well, let’s just say some of us were fucking off in the hotel parking lot, and I kind of wiped out.”
Someone in the back room laughed. “‘Kind of’?”
“Hey!” Brennan twisted around. “No comments from the peanut gallery.”
One of the other guys—wearing a backwards cap and baggy shorts, of course—stepped out of the back, holding up his phone. He looked right at me, grinning. “You want to see the video?”
“Uh . . .” I glanced at Brennan. “N-no. That’s okay. Not when my son’s about to start skating.”
Brennan shot his coworker a pointed look. “Don’t you have work to do?”
The guy sighed dramatically. “Man, you take the fun out of everything.”
“Except filming parking lot bloopers, right?”
His friend laughed. “Yep.” He slapped Brennan’s shoulder hard enough to make his already compromised balance wobble. “Never a shortage of those with you around.” To me, he said, “It was a classic Brennan Cross moment. Absolutely kill it when it counted, then bust his ass doing an elementary trick off a four-inch curb.”
Brennan muttered something obscene. After the guy had disappeared into the back again, Brennan turned toward me. “Anyway. I was screwing off and being an idiot, and got a nasty sprain. And this.” He held up his arm, revealing some vicious road rash on his elbow. “Not my most graceful moment.”
I sucked in a breath through my teeth. “And it was a basic trick, you said?”
He held my gaze, and must’ve heard the concern I didn’t say, because he hobbled a little closer and lowered his voice. “Not that basic. Nothing Tariq will be doing anytime soon.” He paused. “If you’re this worried, are you sure you want him to start skating?”
“To be perfectly blunt?” I folded my arms loosely and shifted my weight, avoiding his eyes. “No. I really don’t. But . . . I know I can’t protect him from everything.” I took a breath and made myself look at him. “This is what he wants to do. And I’ll get over it.” Eyeing his crutches, I swallowed. “Eventually.”
“I could always teach you first. So you can see just how basic and harmless it is for a beginner.”
I pursed my lips. “That’s . . . a possibility.”
He smiled. “Tell me when and where.” Then his features scrunched into an adorably apologetic grimace. “Err. Maybe give me a week or two. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I laughed. “But fair warning—next time you see Tariq, don’t be surprised if he wants to hear every detail of the competition and—” I gestured at his leg “—that.”
Brennan shrugged. “Part of skating is telling war stories. I’m game.”
“Well, you two will have plenty to talk about when you give him his—” I paused. “Crap. I suppose his lesson on Sunday is probably out.”
“Aww, damn. Yeah.” Brennan clicked his tongue. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Though . . .” I chewed my lip.
“Hmm?”
“Well, feel free to say no,” I said. “But since we both have the whole day now, you and I could go over to Seattle and check out that asexual group. They meet Sunday night.”
“Oh.” He stood a little straighter, crutches creaking quietly. “That could be interesting.”
“If you want to go, I’d be happy to drive. Since your foot is out of commission and all.”
“Cool. I’ll cover gas.”
“Awesome.” I grinned. “I’ll email them and let them know we’ll be there.”
* * *
On Sunday morning, at eight thirty on the dot, I parked in front of Brennan’s apartment. As he came outside, he carried his crutches, though he still limped heavily on the booted foot.
“How’s the ankle?” I got out and came around to open his door.
“Sore. That’s why I’m bringing these.” He held up the crutches. “Hopefully I won’t need—” He did a double take, and presumably saw Tariq in the backseat. “He’s coming too? To the asexual thing, I mean?”
I shook my head. “No, he’s spending the day at my sister’s in Port Angeles. We’ll drop him off on the way out of town.”
“Oh. That makes sense.” He paused, his expression turning sheepish. “Not that I didn’t want him around or—”
“It’s okay,” I said as I took his crutches. “I probably should’ve mentioned it.”
We exchanged glances, and both smiled. Then he got into the front seat, and once he was situated, I handed his crutches back.
By the time I was getting in on my own side, Tariq was already asking him about his injuries.
“You want to see the video?” Brennan asked as I buckled my seat belt.
I glanced at him, and he gulped.
“I mean if that’s okay with your dad,” he quickly added.
Chuckling, I waved a hand. “It’s fine.” I put the car in reverse. “I just don’t want to see it.”
“You’re driving,” Tariq said. “You can’t watch videos.”
“See?” I sighed dramatically. “I can’t watch. Gotta drive.”
Brennan glanced at me again, and I shrugged. While I drove us out of the parking lot and onto the highway, Brennan thumbed through his phone.
“Ah, here it is.” He twisted around in his seat. “Okay, so I was supposed to be doing a kickflip and then jumping that curb. But . . .”
Though the volume was fairly low, I could hear the click and scrape of wheels on pavement. Someone’s breath caught. Then there was a grunt. Lots of cursing—definitely Brennan. And someone—probably the guy who’d offered to show me the video in the first place—laughed and said, “Dude, that shit’s going on the internet!”
“Fuck you,” Brennan ground out, the pain in his voice palpable.
“Whoa!” Tariq laughed. “How bad did it hurt?”
“A lot.” Brennan pulled his phone back but stayed turned around, facing Tariq. “You ever fallen off a bike or something, and it doesn’t hurt right away, but you know it’s going to?”
“Uh-huh,” Tariq said.
I squirmed uncomfortably—I knew that feeling too.
“I didn’t even get that.” Brennan shuddered. “Soon as I hit the pavement, it hurt.”
“How come you weren’t wearing a helmet?” Tariq asked.
“Uh . . .” Brennan cleared his throat. When I glanced at him, his cheeks were so red I couldn’t help laughing.
“Yeah, Brennan.” I tried to sound disapproving, but failed miserably. “Why weren’t you wearing a helmet?”
“Um.” He shifted a bit. To my son, he said, “Because I’m a dumbass. And you want to see just how dumb I was?” He handed his phone back to Tariq again. “Watch really close when I fall.”
The wheels clicked on the pavement again. Scrape. Click. Click. Scrape. The grunt made my skin crawl, and as did the pained cursing.
“See that?” Brennan asked. “You see how close my head came to the bumper of that car?”
My throat tightened. I gripped the wheel and focused intently on the road, thankful I couldn’t see what was on the screen.
“If I’d fallen the other way, I’d have smacked my forehead right on it.” He set the phone on the console. “I got lucky.”
“So you’re going to wear a helmet next time?” Tariq asked.
Brennan hesitated. I glanced at him again, and suppressed a smirk.
I faced the road, and he turned toward the backseat.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be wearing a helmet next time.”
I pressed my lips together. The next time he strolled into Red Hot without a helmet, he was going to hear about this.
All the way to Port Angeles, which was about thirty miles out of Bluewater Bay, Brennan and Tariq chattered about skating. Brennan showed him some less horrific videos, mostly from his competition, as well as some older ones.
It couldn’t go on forever, though, and before too long, I pulled into my sister’s driveway.
“Here we are.”
Leyla was outside with my niece and nephew, her hijab fluttering in the breeze as she watched the kids play. She waved at us, and I waved back before I put the car in park.
I’d barely shifted gears before Tariq was out of the car and sprinting toward his cousins.
“Bye, Tariq!”
“Bye, Dad!” he called over his shoulder.
“Really heartbroken, isn’t he?” Brennan asked.
I laughed. “No kidding.”
Leyla came up to the window. “I’m taking them to the beach today, so he should be totally worn out by the time you get back.”
“Perfect.” I gestured at Brennan. “By the way, this is my friend Brennan. Brennan, my sister Leyla.”
She ducked a little lower so she could see him, and they exchanged waves.
“Hi,” Brennan said.
“Hi.” She smiled. “You really going to put up with—”
“Hey.” I waved a hand at her. “He knows what he’s getting into. Shut up.”
Leyla smothered a laugh, and Brennan snickered.
“All right.” She paused to tame a piece of her hijab that kept getting away in the wind. “I’ll see you two tonight.”
“See you tonight. Thanks for taking care of him for me.”
“Anytime.”
As she went after the kids, I shifted into reverse.
“I take it he doesn’t mind staying here,” Brennan said.
“Hardly.” I backed out of the driveway. “He adores my sister, and her kids may as well be his siblings. It’s when I tell him it’s time to leave that he’s not thrilled.”
“Ah, yeah. I can see that.” He paused. “So does your whole family live around here?”
“Just my sister. My parents live near Seattle.”
“You close to them?”
I winced.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I . . . If it’s too personal, we don’t—”
“It’s okay.” I glanced at him and managed a slight smile. Facing the road again, I said, “My dad and I have . . . never really gotten along. And it just got worse after I told them Tariq’s mother was pregnant.”
“He didn’t approve?”
I laughed humorlessly. “Not of his unmarried sixteen-year-old son knocking up a non-Muslim girl, no. And ‘non-Muslim girl’ is putting it nicely compared to the way my dad worded it.”
Brennan blew out a breath. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I was actually supposed to go with him that year to do my hajj.”
“Your what?”
“Hajj.” I glanced at him again. “The pilgrimage to Mecca.”
“Oh right. Right. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I flashed him another quick smile.
“That’s . . . the one all Muslims have to do, right?”
“Well, at least once in our lifetime, if we can afford it.” I scowled. “So, my dad was taking my brothers and me. We had our plane tickets and everything, but he canceled mine. He said when my son was old enough to come with me, then maybe I’d be mature enough for my hajj.”
“Wow. That’s harsh.”
“Right?” I rested a hand on the wheel and the other elbow below the window. “But, I mean, maybe this means I can go with my son, and it’ll be my first time and his. I would’ve liked to go with my dad, but . . .” I shrugged.
“And even after all this time, he still doesn’t approve?” Brennan asked. “I mean, it’s been, what? Ten years?”
“Pretty close.” I paused for a moment to pass a pickup truck that was going twenty under the damn speed limit. As I eased back into my lane, I went on. “It took him a long time to get over the fact that I’d gotten a girl pregnant. After Tariq was born, he did get a little better, especially once I was raising the baby on my own. But then he was always on my case about not being a devout enough Muslim, and I was like, ‘Dad. Back off. I’m trying to juggle high school and a newborn. Pretty sure Allah will understand.’ And that . . . didn’t go over well. We got into some huge fights about it, and I finally moved to Bluewater Bay to stay with my sister.”
“And that’s where you’ve been ever since?”
I nodded. “It was supposed to be temporary, but I liked it out here. Back before the TV show came to town, the cost of living wasn’t so bad compared to where I grew up, and there were some jobs available that I could get once I finished my GED.” As soon as I mentioned it, my stomach tightened. I could look people in the eye and tell them I’d been a teenage father, but dropping out of high school was still a sore spot on my pride. Clearing my throat, I shifted in my seat. “So, uh, even after my sister moved to Port Angeles, I decided to stay.”
“Can’t blame you. I love that town.” He paused. “Have you been working at the sex shop since you moved there?”
“I’ve changed jobs a few times. Been there for the last four years, though.” I laughed dryly. “It wasn’t my first choice, but Violet really liked me, and she
promised me full-time hours every week so I’d have benefits. On my own, I could probably wing it in whatever neighborhood and without insurance and hope for the best, but not with a kid.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. But you have the second job too?”
Sighing, I nodded again. “I’d rather not, to be honest. The chain that owns Red Hot has spectacular benefits, but I still need the side job to earn enough that I can live in a better area so Tariq can go to a good school.”
“Oh yeah. Good point.” He was quiet for a moment. “Okay, so I gotta ask. You’re Muslim. And you’re asexual. But you work in a sex shop. How does that work? I mean, besides the paychecks making it out the door. Doesn’t it, I don’t know, bother you?”
“Well, no.” Some heat rushed into in my cheeks. “Let’s just say I’m not the perfect Muslim. My family would shit themselves if they knew I was working at Red Hot, I’ve dated men, I’m not great at the whole praying five times a day thing . . .” I shrugged. “And the things they do know about—well, between being a lazy Muslim and a single dad, we’re always butting heads about something.”
“Are you at least on speaking terms with them?”
“Off and on. But it’s kind of touchy. My mom doesn’t like how I’m raising Tariq. My dad’s always on my back about something.” I rolled my eyes. “Last time we talked, he was annoyed that I keep my hair long but I won’t grow a beard.” I scratched my chin and wrinkled my nose. “I hate facial hair.”
Brennan laughed. “Yeah, me too. Can’t grow it anyway.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. I’m twenty-five and can still get away with not shaving for three days.”
“Lucky,” I muttered. “I can grow it. I just hate it. So it makes things kind of tense with my dad.”
“Yeah, I guess it would. That sounds rough.”
“Just a bit.” But discussing my family situation was going to get depressing fast, so I asked, “What about you? You from Bluewater Bay?”
“I grew up in Port Townsend. Moved . . . man, almost four years ago now.” He whistled. “Time flies.”
“It does. What brought you to Bluewater Bay?”
“The skate shop, believe it or not.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I was trying to go pro, and the people I was skating with in Port Townsend couldn’t get their shit together. But I really liked the group in Bluewater Bay, and the owner said he’d hire me and sponsor me.”
