by Evelyn Glass
I feel like I’m going to be sick all over again, but somehow I manage to keep it down.
“Chance,” I say. “Irish Mick is what they call Mikey, my dad. Did this man have dark eyes, and—wait, back then he would’ve had black hair down to his shoulders, a sort of greasy look?” I remember seeing a photo of him and my mom from a few years ago and thinking he looked like a hippie.
“Yeah,” Chance says. “Damn, so maybe it’s the best he didn’t take me. We would’a been brother and sister.”
I rest my head on his shoulder, hugging close to him. “I’m sorry you never had a home, Chance. I know that must’ve been hard.”
He pushes away from the railing, walking back toward the crowd. “Come on,” he calls over his shoulder. “We don’t wanna miss all the rides, do we?”
Chapter Sixteen
Chance
Becky jogs after me, and I find myself reachin’ down and taking her hand. It’s warm, in the pink glove I bought her at the superstore, and I think to myself how it ain’t so bad holdin’ her hand, much easier than all that talkin’ shit. The Family’s a small life, when you really get down to it. A few hundred hitters and enforcers. So it’s not too unlikely that her dad was the man with the dark eyes, turning me away. But still, it hurts. It hurt back then and it hurts now, is the truth, even if a man like me shouldn’t be hurt by anythin’ like that. Even if a man like me should be above shit like that.
“You want a bear?” I ask, gesturing at the air rifle game.
She looks down at my hand holdin’ hers like she can hardly believe it, and then at the game, and then nods in this quick, cute way. I go to the machine, lay down a bill, and the guy hands me an air rifle. You’ve gotta hit these tiny metal targets set within a jungle of other shit that ain’t related to it, like an old toy train and a beer bottles and dangling clothes pins. I aim the rifle, shoot, and a minute later, the guy behind the counter is handin’ me a big fluffy pink bear and lookin’ none too happy about it. Becky holds it in the crook of her elbow on one side and clings to my hand on the other. We stroll through the Solstice Shakedown, through the shivering crowd, and for the first time in my life, I begin to find some sense of peace that ain’t to do with drinkin’, fuckin’, or killin’. It’s damn strange, that just walkin’ through here and holding her hand can do that, but it does. We go on the bumper carts, Becky almost sitting in my lap in our cart ’cause she’s so small and I’m so big. I laugh like a fool. We both do, crashin’ into the other carts, laughing our asses off. Then we pass the Tunnel of Love, and I think Becky might stop, but we carry on instead, ending up at the Ferris Wheel.
She raises her eyebrow at me. “Are you scared of heights?”
“Nah,” I say. “Are you?”
“A little. Not really.” She giggles, her cheeks red from the light snow that’s just started fallin’. “I think with you there to help me, I’ll be okay.”
“Alright, then.”
We must be the rare brave couple, ’cause when we go to join the line, we realize we’re the only ones. There’s some performance on the opposite side of the park, a fire-eater or somethin’, so maybe that’s why there’s no one else here. But I’d rather ride the Wheel with Becky. The guy waves us through after I pay, muttering, “Wouldn’t you rather see the show?” It sounds like he wants to sneak off to watch it, and we’re stoppin’ him from doin’ it by going on the Wheel. But I don’t really care. I shake my head, and we go into a booth.
Climbing into it together, Becky puts her leg over mine, that damn fine leg, sexy as fuck even in her jeans. The guy goes to the control booth and in a couple’a minutes the icy machine is creakin’ and hummin’ its way to the top, our booth rocking lightly back and forth. Brookyln, New York, the whole State—the whole damn world—becomes small and meaningless below us as we rise higher and higher, both of us not lookin’ down on the city but at each other. Wind whips into the booth, makin’ Becky shiver, so I grab her under the armpits and lower her onto my lap. Fuck, but feelin’ that ass, even in the denim, makes my cock hard right away, pushin’ hard against my zipper. I reach around and slide my hands up her legs, can’t help myself, up and up all the way to her pussy, which is hot and damp even through the jeans.
“Chance,” she whispers, a moan in her voice. “We’ll be down there soon! Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
“I reckon I can finish you off before we get down there,” I say, pressin’ my middle finger down on her clit, or where I reckon her clit is through all this material. “We both know my little whore comes damn quick when I tell her to.”
She makes that moaning noise which always drives me fuckin’ wild, but then reaches down and grabs my wrists, tryin’ to pry ’em away. “Chance, there’s not enough time—” She lets out a scream as the machine makes a deafening cranking noise and then comes to a stop, the sound of ice shattering comin’ from somewhere below. Twisting around and clutching her hands around my neck, she squeals. “Chance! Chance!”
“Hush,” I say. “Calm down.”
I lean over the side of the booth and call down. “The fuck’s goin’ on down there?”
The guy calls up, “System malfunction. Nothing to worry about. Should be up and running in about fifteen minutes. I’m really sorry. It’s just that—”
“Fifteen minutes, alright.”
I lean back into the booth. Becky is staring at me with wide, suggestive eyes. Becky has really come out of her shell since I took her virginity a couple months back. Before she was all nervous, all unsure, that first time, at least…but now, now she’s a proper horny freak. And I fuckin’ love it. But this is more than that, I sense. She’s lookin’ closely at me, almost like she wants to say somethin’ that might start with the letter L. I lean in, kissin’ her, kissin’ her tenderly like I’ve never kissed anybody in my entire life. Before Becky, I’ve never kissed anyone at all, not really. So when I begin groaning, and she begins moaning, and I start movin’ my hands over her slowly, instead of roughly, I shock myself as much as her. Her lips’re soft against mine, soft and warm despite the cold. Down below, I can hear the guy talkin’ to another guy, someone messing with the controls. But I don’t care.
I lift Becky up, holdin’ her in front of me. “Take off your jeans and panties,” I tell her.
“You’re so strong,” she whispers, lookin’ at my arms as I just hold her there, hovering.
She doesn’t waste any time, just strips her jeans off and wriggles out of ’em, puttin’ them onto the seat beside me. When she’s done, I set her down and pull my own jeans down around my knees. Seein’ her perfect legs stickin’ out like that from beneath her hoodie, skinny and pale and still with her socks on, is the best sight a man could see, I reckon. I lift her up again and then lower her, slowly, onto my cock. But instead of just takin’ her, or buryin’ my head in her neck, or just going crazy and thrusting until we’re both spent, we stare into each other’s eyes. I see affection in her eyes, affection which almost makes me believe there’s somethin’ beatin’ in my chest. It’s the sort of affection I thought I’d never get since I was a kid, since I was cast out by everyone who came into contact with me. And then it’s like, in this moment with this woman, all of that don’t matter no more. All that matters is the feeling of warmth inside of her and her perfect, open face.
We don’t fuck. We make love, which I’ve only ever heard about in movies and songs. She reaches down and interlocks her fingers with mine and starts rocking, softly, tenderly, and I start rockin’ with her, all the while snow drifting past us and the wind addin’ to her rocking as the booth pendulum-swings back and forth. I move my fingers over the palms of her hands, tracing the lines, as we passionately move together. My cock slides deep, and then slides out, but it’s more than that. It’s like that’s only a part of it, and not even the main part. The main part is our eyes, the way she’s staring at me. I feel the urge to look away ’cause it’s making me uncomfortable, despite the pleasure, but Becky takes her hands from mine a
nd clasps my face.
“Stay with me,” she says. And then she starts moanin’ and I feel her cunt goin’ tight, as it does every time before she comes. But more than that, I see her face, and I notice how her mouth makes that O shape and her eyebrows raise and her eyelids flit and she cranes her neck back, and all of the things I never noticed before ’cause I was too busy pumping. She moans a song for me and then releases, throwing her head forward, laying her forehead against mine, breathing her pleasure warmly onto my winter-cold cheeks.
And then I can’t take it anymore, either. It’s too much, too hot, too close, and I feel myself emptyin’ inside of her, and that’s what it is, I reckon. ’Cause in this moment at least, I’m giving her absolutely everything I have.
When we’re done, she lifts her arms, gesturing to me that she wants to be picked up. I do it, lifting her to the floor, and we both start gettin’ dressed. I feel strange now, exposed. I feel like I’ve just walked into a shootout with all my weapons back in the car.
I look away, not sure what to say. That was the closest I’ve ever been with a person, hands down. And in my experience, bein’ close always ends with somethin’ bad happening.
“I’m falling for you, Chance,” Becky says, voice barely a whisper. “I…I really am, and it’s more than just sex. That was more than just sex. You know it was. You have to know it was. I know it might make you uncomfortable, or scared, or worried, but it was and we both know it. I’m falling for you, hard. And I think you might be falling for me, too.” She pauses, and then adds, “Or maybe I just hope you are.”
There’s loads I reckon I’d say if I was a different man, but I can’t change who I am, so I remain silent.
Becky sighs, disappointed it sounds like, and then jerks the booth around by throwing herself half over the edge and vomiting into the air. I grab her by the waist, holding her back, as she is sick for around a minute, the chunks flyin’ away in the wind.
“You were sick in the motel, too,” I say. “The fuck’s goin’ on with you?”
“I missed my period,” she says. Her voice is shaking, but I get the sense there’s a calmness under that, somewhere. “I’m pregnant, Chance. I’m sure of it.”
She looks at me with an expectin’ sort of face.
Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
I turn away, stare at the snow, waitin’ for the Ferris to start up again.
Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
Before this woman came into my life, I was a machine, nothin’ but a machine, and if I wasn’t happy, at least I wasn’t worried and scared and—and fuckin’ human.
Pregnant…
I shiver. It seems colder than it was a few minutes ago.
Chapter Seventeen
Chance
The Wheel starts turnin’ again and I get to thinkin’ about how the wheel of time is turning, too, and how it’ll just keep on turning for nine months until a life comes outta Becky, a life half mine and half hers, and for a few seconds I reckon I’ll lean over the booth and start blowin’ chunks into the air just like she did. I feel her eyes on me, but I keep my eyes on the city, on the snow. I can’t look at her ’cause that’d mean talkin’ about it and I’ve got no clue what to say. I don’t wanna jump up and down with joy and tell her how happy I am, ’cause that’d be a damned lie. I ain’t happy. I’m terrified. A child. A fuckin’ child.
When our booth reaches the ground, the man smiles at us and says sorry and then says, “We’d like to offer you ten free tickets, to use on any attraction of your choice.” All smiles, customer-service smiles, please-don’t-get-me-fired smiles.
“It’s alright,” I tell him, shouldering past him without looking back.
Becky jogs after me, walking by my side, silent. I realize I haven’t said a thing for almost five minutes. I need to ask her important questions like if she’s sure, what she’s gonna do about it. Is she gonna keep it? But I find that every time I try’n speak, nothin’ comes out. I’ve trained my whole life to deal with shit, but this ain’t the shit I was trained for. I’d take four gunners holed up in a warehouse over this any day. My feet take me toward the car and I don’t fight ’em. The crowd was bad enough to begin with. Now, with this hangin’ over my head, I might end up head-butting someone just for gettin’ in my way. I climb in, and Becky climbs in after me.
After I’ve cranked the heating up and the frost on the windows has melted, Becky starts drumming her fingers on the dashboard. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks, voice low.
Yeah, I wanna say. Yeah. You gonna keep it? You sure you’re pregnant? You’re sure it’s mine?
I swallow. “Let’s find a drugstore.”
She pauses, and then nods. “Okay. Yes, that would be for the best.”
I start the car and drive us, in silence, from Coney Island back toward Brooklyn, stopping at the first drugstore I see. I hand Becky a few bills and sit back, waiting.
“I’ll get two,” she says, leaving the car.
I lean back, watching her as she stuffs her hands in her pockets and makes for the automatic doors. She looks so damn beautiful, head bowed, sleek and lithe, moving with a confidence I don’t reckon she had before all this. Maybe it’s the sex. Or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t wanna play the victim anymore. Or maybe it’s my imagination and she’s movin’ exactly how she always has. I watch as she leaves the drugstore and makes for the public toilets across the way. My heart is poundin’ like crazy. I remember when I was a kid, couldn’t’ve been older’n ten or eleven, when I killed my first man. I took that pistol and I walked up behind him and shot him right in the back of the head. I didn’t expect all the blood, exploding like a water balloon full of red food coloring, spattering my face. My heart was pounding like crazy then, thumping so hard I thought it’d explode outta my chest. But since then, I’ve learnt to stay cold, no matter what. But not now, not as I sit here, knowing that Becky’ll come back and tell me she’s pregnant, I’ve gotta kid on the way.
When she returns, she’s got two tests in her hand. She opens the door and lays them on the dash. One’s a green line. One’s a smiley face.
“I’m guessin’ that means…”
“Both positive.” She nods. She’s smiling. I guess she’s less confused about this than me. “I’ve got a little boy or a little girl in here.” She rubs her belly lovingly.
Part of me wishes I was the sort’a man to reach across and place my hand on hers and look her in the eye and say somethin’ lovin’ like I’d always be there for her. Part of me wishes I could be a normal guy about this. But that part of me is a tiny mouse compared with the mammoth I’ve spent my whole killin’ life building up. That part of me ain’t shit compared with that.
Her smile falters when I don’t respond. I’m just thinkin’. First I revealed about how I never had a home, and now I’m exposed all over again with this baby thing. I wish there was such a thing as emotional Kevlar.
“I reckon we should go to dinner,” I say, speaking automatically.
That’s the right thing to do, ain’t it, when the woman you’re fuckin’ suddenly announces she’s pregnant? That’s gotta be the right thing to do. Yeah, take her to dinner, be a gentleman about it. Gomez and his merry band can go fuck themselves. We’ll go to a quiet place and use fake names and I’ll go to an ATM and get more cash out with my second backup card. And if Gomez charges in? I feel like laughin’. Maybe that’d be for the best. At least in the slammer—or the grave—I wouldn’t have to deal with this baby thing.
“Is that safe?” Becky asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “As long as we don’t act loud or anythin’. If Gomez had any kind of real power on this thing, he’d’ve caught us at Coney, I reckon. Enough people there, enough security. Say what you want about the boys in blue, but when they want you, it’s damn hard to stay away. I reckon we’ll be alright.”
I start the engine and take us to a restaurant I’ve never been to before, so that no mob guy or police guy—even a paid-off police guy—recogniz
es me. It’s an English pub-type place called The Dickens with a sign outside readin’, Best Roast in Brooklyn! and a picture of Charles Dickens on the stained glass windows. When we walk in, I hear David Bowie playin’ on the jukebox and English flags and the like strewn all over the place. The man who serves us has a British accent which sounds just a little too British, like he’s an acting student and this is a moonlight job.
We sit down and both order Cokes and a roast dinner.
“Don’t you want a drink, like a proper drink?” Becky asks.
“Nah,” I say.
I’ve never been a big drinker, mainly ’cause when you’re off your head you’re not aware of your surroundings. In the Family life, I’ve heard way too many stories about assholes who got blackout drunk and then blacked-out forever.
