He and Mom set up a trust fund for my college education when I was young, and filled it up real good before the divorce. Dad’s familial tuition discount gave me enough money left over to order the bike of my dreams—a custom-built Triumph Bonneville with an authentic vintage look. This baby has a suicide shift on the left, and the dark, matte-green military paint is from a sixty-year old stash found out of a Czech warehouse.
After the twenty-five grand spent just for the build, Dad was mad enough to not talk to me most of freshman year. Fine by me, but shit, I was here, wasn’t I?
I throw out the last moving box, shower, put on the steel-toed boots, and crank the bike, heading out to the shop to do some welding. I’ll get dirty and sweaty again, but I hate feeling like ass. I have a commissioned piece I’ve been working on since last fall in its final stages. All I need is to add a few more touches, and then it’s done—collect the final check and ship it to its proud owner.
I park in front of the shop, no bigger than a small warehouse. Marky’s sitting outside on his rocker, sipping tea. “What the hell are you doing out here, old-timer? It’s hot as hell today.”
“It’s hot as hell every day. About damn time your scrawny ass is back in town.”
I pat his beer belly. “Scrawny, my ass.”
He chuckles and takes another sip of his sweet tea.
“Thanks for keeping her safe for me while I was gone.” He’s kept my piece here for three months so I wouldn’t have to worry about shipping it elsewhere, risking dings or damage.
Marky took me under his wing my freshman year. He owns the modification shop for custom work on cars, and I started out doing small welding jobs for him with only the training I got from high school shop class. Eventually, I graduated from working with Marky to doing my own shit, but he lets me use his shop. He’s a hero like that. I give him a cut of all my pieces, though, so I don’t feel like I owe him. He bitches about it every time I give him a “donation to his party fund,” but the guy can use it. Shit, he makes an ass-load off his custom work and paint jobs, but he blows a lot of it on gambling and women.
I wander to the back of the shop, passing old muscle cars and new lowriders, where I left Aphrodite. I pull off her tarp and run my hand along her leg, her shoulder, the detail in the back of her hair, along the metal scarf hanging from her lower arms, making sure she is as I left her.
She’s an all-metal beauty. A custom statue made for a guy in North Texas. Oil money. The detail he wants on this thing is insane. I’ve had to get creative and bust my ass to make the metal of the sparrows blue and the metal of her long scarf red. But as long as he’s willing to pay me, I’m willing to oblige. And hell if I’m not proud of her. I’m amazed at what I can do with metal with the right amount of money and time.
The five birds are in place with tack welds, so all that’s left is to go in and add the fill-it welds.
Before I start, I turn the wall air conditioner on full blast. In this Texas heat, you really need something more like central air, but being near the flame of my welder and outfitted in welding leathers, I’m grateful for the small unit.
Once the fans are going and the pump is spinning water, I amble over to one of the metal shelves I made Marky for the shop. Before I came around, he had tools everywhere. No rhyme or reason to his methods. I got sick of looking for the ever-elusive tool, so I made shelves and hanging racks for the shop. I claimed this shelf when I started working on my own—needed a place to store my welding irons, rods, and toolboxes.
When I get the last of my tools ready, I put my mask on and get to work. The gold sparks and blue light shine through the shop for as long as it takes me to stabilize three of the five sparrows enough that a grown man could hang from them. I lose time when welding, but the ache in my back tells me it’s been a long while. It gets complicated where the birds meet the folds of the scarf, so I work slowly and make sure the welds are perfect the first time.
I lift my helmet and take out my ear plugs, stretching my back.
“Well, look who I found wandering around outside the shop,” Marky says, Randall following close behind him.
I pull off my gloves. “Shit, it’s nine already?” I ran over again.
Randall’s all cleaned up. The gel isn’t even dry in his hair yet. “I knew I’d find your ass here.” Randall has been my wingman since sophomore year. He’s a preppy boy, so we make an odd pair, but I’ve never been one for that stereotype bullshit. You be cool to me, and I’ll be cool to you.
“You ready yet?”
“Yeah, let me clean up and then I’ll head home for a quick shower.”
“Nope,” Randall says, “we ain’t got time for that. The boys are waiting at the Rusty Nail already.”
“Damn. Well, they’re just gonna have to wait a bit longer because I‘m not going like this.” I’ve got metal dust all over me. The chill, Texan karaoke bar usually has some cuties there, so I’m hoping I’ll end up with one of them and not have to call Vicky.
Things work with her because she doesn’t expect much. We fuck and that’s it. I told her up front and a couple times since. She knows that. Mostly. Sometimes she acts territorial when a hot chick hits on me, but she never takes it far when she sees I’m interested.
“I’ll tell ’em first round’s on you,” Randall says as he walks toward the front of the shop and waves over the back of his head. “Hurry the fuck up, or I’ll make it the second too.”
“Get outta here.” He knows better than that. I’ll put up with one round, but two is pushing it.
I rush to put my tools and leathers away, but I take my time covering Aphrodite.
“You’re the best goddamn welder in all of Texas,” Marky says.
I grin at him. “That would mean I’m even better than you, old-timer.”
“Well, shit. ’Course you are. You have been for a while now.” Marky claps me on the back and then cups the back of my neck, resting his hand there as we walk toward the front of the shop. “You go getcha a fine-ass woman now, ya hear.”
I smile up at him as I get on my bike. “You know I will.”
I speed to the apartment and take another quick shower. Once dressed and in my favorite Chuck Taylors, I’m hopping back on the bike. The engine growls all the way to the Rusty Nail until I park it next to another bike near the door and kill it. Riders have more respect for bikes than anyone else. Less likely to scratch my shit.
The Rusty Nail is a shack of an old bar but the drinks are good, and they usually book talented musicians. There’s a small window with a lit-up beer logo hanging in it, and a big, faded Texas flag painted on the side of the building.
I push the heavy steel door open and pass the oak bar with the rusted sheet metal wrapped around its base. I wave to Gina, the strawberry-blond bartender, on my way to the table with the guys. She throws up her deuces—a double shot? I nod before telling Cory to get his ass out of my seat. I sit facing the dartboard. Always have.
He grabs his drink and pulls another stool up to the table, and I take his. After every semester break, we Phi Gamma Delta brothers—or Fiji as we like to call it—meet at the Rusty Nail to catch up and let loose before classes start. The Fiji frat house party will officially kick off the semester, but this is more low-key and just us brothers. Yes, I’m in a fraternity. It’s good for connections. And the parties.
Gina brings over my shot and I slap her ass, giving her shit. She arches her back and shakes her head. Now Gina’s a girl I’ve never fucked. She’s cute enough, but I hate the thought of people spitting in my drinks. And it seems most women I sleep with get mad at me eventually. I always tell them up front I’m not interested in a relationship, or falling in love, and I sure as hell won’t be taking them home over Thanksgiving break.
But every woman thinks she’ll be the one to change me. That our sex will be so magical, I’ll be star-struck by her goods in the bedroom and put a ring on it. Or the least ask her out to a movie. And when I don’t, they get all upset and confused. I’
m the one who should be confused. I straight up tell them, and almost every time, they get mad when the agreement clearly was not a fuck tonight and dinner tomorrow.
Gets old fast. That’s why I have regulars like Vicky. I can get laid without having to deal with all that expectation bullshit and drama.
I swallow my shot and catch up with what everyone did over the summer. “Who’s up for darts?”
A couple of brothers get up and drop twenties on the table. I lay mine down and notice a redhead over by the bar already fucking me with her eyes, but I’ll let her simmer for a while.
Randall starts the first round off right by landing a D18, but I still manage to pass him by the third round. Nate gets close to catching up to me, but I land a trip sixteen to win the game. “Sorry, buddy, not enough rounds for you. You have to be quicker with those doubles and trips.” Nate’s been practicing. I clap his shoulder and gather up my money.
The redhead is still doing dirty things with me in her mind, so I salute the boys farewell and walk over to the bar. “Another double, Gina.” I give her a twenty to cover more than this and the last one.
The redhead leans against the wooden bar as she slides closer to me. “Good game you played over there.”
I shrug. “I landed a few.”
She smiles, showing off the expensive orthodontia her daddy must’ve bought her a few years ago. “What do you think about buying me a drink with some of your winnings?” she asks, like I might still see some of these winnings as their money. What she doesn’t know is I take ownership over the money as soon as a game of darts is called. Only difference is I’m the only one who knows exactly when it happens.
What the hell? I like a woman who isn’t afraid to ask for what she wants. “What are you drinking?”
“I’ll have a climax,” she says with a sultry crook of her lips.
“Gina—”
“I heard,” Gina says, shaking her head and turning around to grab a glass. Gina’s seen it all.
I pull out my wallet and trade Gina the redhead’s cocktail for a ten. “I’m Dallas,” I say and give the girl her climax.
“Delilah,” she says, delicately wrapping her manicured fingers around the frosty glass.
I make small talk with Delilah until she finishes her drink. “You want to get out of here?” I ask.
She beams and hops off the stool. I put my hand on the small of her back and walk her out. Before we reach the parking lot, she attacks my face with her lips. She’s a little sloppy, but she smells nice and her ass is perky.
We make our way over to what I guess is her car. “Your place or mine?” she asks.
I never take anyone to my place. It only causes more drama. “Yours. I’ll follow you.”
“Okay,” she says and kisses me again.
I pull back. “I already gave you one climax tonight, and I’m down to give you another, but that’s as far as I go. I don’t date and I don’t do relationships.”
Her smile tightens a little, but she nods and turns around to get in her car. “It’s only about ten blocks from here.”
I follow her through what is really double that and then inside her cozy but posh place. Her heels are off at the door of her apartment, and her dress and my T-shirt follow before we’re out of the living room. She’s eager; I’ll give her that.
Delilah takes me into her bedroom—the large, white, four-poster bed is the centerpiece, and I take her through more than I promised by giving her two more climaxes on that bed before we call it a night.
I leave satiated, but like every other time, something’s missing.
“If dreams can come true, so can your worst nightmare.
Mine sure has.”
—Carmyn Rafferty
I HAVE done nothing productive for the past two days. I called in sick to the bridal shop, which isn’t really a lie. I can’t keep food down. My stomach is too unsettled. Every time Ava talks me into eating something, it revolts and I spend a good amount of time in the bathroom heaving it up. She’s switched me to liquids. That’s helped. They don’t feel as heavy in my twisted-up insides. She says as long as I can keep ginger ale and juices down, she won’t make me go to the doctor.
I told her it’s not a virus. It’s Becker.
“Bitch, there is more to worry about than just a virus. You could get dehydrated or some shit.” She looks at me with empathy and brushes hair off my face. She doesn’t really think I’m a bitch. We call each other bitch, whore, hooker, slut, tramp, all the names you wouldn’t think to call your best friend. To us, it’s endearing, true best friends of only the thickest kind. “Are you sure I can’t go over there and Lorena Bobbitt his ass?”
“I’m sure,” I deadpan. It won’t take any of it back.
As soon as I got home, I pulled all the condoms out and counted them. I recounted them and recounted them until I was sure the number of missing packages remained unchanged.
Six.
That’s the number of times I can be certain Becker slept with someone else. The number of times he cheated on me. The number of times he probably lied to me about what he was doing. I roll onto my side and clutch my knees up to my stomach.
He’s always hated using condoms. I’m sure there were girls who were okay with going sans protection. My stomach rolls, but ends there. “I have to get tested. I could have an STD.”
“We’ll get you tested. I’m sure you don’t have anything, but if you do, I am definitely chopping off his wiener with a butter knife.”
“I have to know. Right now.” I roll off the bed and go to the closet for shoes. I slip on my cowboy boots. “Let’s go to the clinic.” A Planned Parenthood is conveniently located down the street from campus. I’d rather go there than have Dad see the insurance’s medical explanation of benefits when they pay for it. I can’t do that to him. He knows I’m sexually active with Becker. I didn’t lie to him about why I needed to be on the pill. It’s the part about what Becker did to me that I can’t let him know about. It’s just … I can’t. It’s too close to what he went through with Mom. I can’t carry his heartbreak on top of my own.
I grab my toothbrush and walk down the hall to brush my teeth. My breath smells like something died inside of me.
Probably my heart.
I watch the water swirling in the sink with a blank stare, trying to think of anything else than what Becker did, what disease might be multiplying inside my body right now.
“Hey, Carmyn,” Lisa says when she comes in with her shower stuff. “You feeling any better?”
“Ava’s taking me to the doctor.” She doesn’t need to know I’m not sick in that way. She doesn’t need to know what Becker did. I don’t want anyone to know. Of course people will speculate why he and I are no longer together, but speculating is different than knowing. Humiliating anyway you look at it, though.
“Well, let me know if y’all need anything, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say, rinsing my toothbrush one last time and turning off the faucet. I’ve always liked Lisa. She’s sweet and considerate. She has that southern charm about her that draws people in.
Ava has her keys in hand when I walk back into the room. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” We’ll drive. It’s too damn hot to walk anywhere. Plus, I feel like shit.
Ava unlocks the doors. “You’re not puking in my car, right?”
I shake my head. “I should be all right.”
When we get to the clinic, the cars in the lot are sparse, but I still ask her to park in the far back. This is so embarrassing. How could Becker do this to me?
I walk up to the front desk and tell the middle-aged woman I need to get tested.
“Have you ever been here before?”
I shake my head no.
She rolls around in her chair and gathers up some paperwork for me to fill out. “Okay, complete these forms and then give them back to me. Do you have any insurance?”
“No,” I lie.
“Okay, the test ranges from forty-five t
o seventy dollars depending on what you want to get tested for, but we’ll consider your income when it comes time to check out.”
I nod and take the clipboard, sitting down in the faded purple chair next to Ava. I focus on the paperwork, trying to detach myself as much as I can from the actual reason I’m here, why I have to give my name, address, emergency contact, and answer questions like the first day of my last period and the last time I had unprotected sex.
I sign my name with a shaky hand and return the clipboard to the receptionist.
“We’ll call you up in about ten minutes.”
“Thanks,” I say and sit down. It takes everything within me to not get sick again. The place reeks of sweat and antiseptic. Both things I wouldn’t have to experience right now if it weren’t for Becker. God, what if we’d gotten married and then later found out he had a child from one of his girls on the side?
I shake the horror from my mind as Ava flips through a People magazine. I lean over and read it with her. The latest crazy, grown-up child star who’s gone over the deep end is much more comforting than anything about my life right now.
“Carmyn,” a nurse calls from the hallway door leading to the back.
Ava and I stand. My stomach is a concrete knot in my abdomen. We follow the nurse through the doorway. She stops at a scale and weighs me. “Okay, follow me this way.”
We trail behind her into an exam room. The nurse sits down on a black stool, and Ava sits on another faded chair. I climb up on the exam table, the paper crinkling underneath me. The nurse scans my paperwork. “It looks like the last time you had unprotected sex was earlier this week.”
“Yeah, I’ve been on the pill, though. I just found out my boyfriend cheated on me.” It’s important to me this woman doesn’t think I sleep around. It’s ridiculous because it’s the smart, responsible thing to do and everyone who has sex should get tested. But I have the need to defend myself.
Wicked Thing Page 2
