by Rebel Farris
“I’ve never gotten the nice guy blow off.”
“Well there’s a first time for everything,” I reply and smirk at him.
“Yep,” he says with a roguish grin. “Even a first time for mixing stuff?” He arches one brow back at me.
I want to slap my own forehead for walking into that one. I’ve got to admit, though, I’m enjoying his playful banter. I shake my head in response and fight the grin struggling to break free on my face.
As we approach my car, I see him eyeing it with interest. He touches a fingertip to it as if testing that it’s real. He whistles low and mumbles, “Sweet ride,” under his breath.
“Thank you,” I say. “She’s my baby. Well… one of them.”
He turns back to me, an expression of shock on his face. “This is yours?”
“Yeah, I’ve had to rebuild her more times than I care to admit, but she’s worth it.” I smile because my car isn’t just a car to me, she’s family. She’s a 1966 Shelby Cobra s/c Roadster, candy-apple red with an off-center racing stripe. I bought her about three years ago as something to calm my mind during panic attacks, but I’m not going to tell him that.
He makes a curious sound, and I look up to find him staring at me like someone would look at art in a museum. I begin to feel uncomfortable under his gaze that seems to see straight through me. I move to the door and get in.
I notice him attaching that leather bag to the tail of the motorcycle next to my car and grabbing the helmet left on the handlebars. Such a bad idea. Tattooed guys that ride motorcycles are never a good idea.
“Bye, Dex. See you round.”
“Yeah… you will,” he says to me with a twinkle in his eyes. The mischievous smile on his face sets off warning bells in my head. He slides his helmet on and starts the bike with that unique sound that only a Harley can make.
I fasten my seat belt and watch him disappear in my rearview mirror as I pull out of the parking lot.
As I lean into the curve, my wheels slip a little and I readjust. Bonnie shouts at me as I pass her, though I can’t hear her over the rush of wind and the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. She turns in a slow circle, holding her stopwatch and watching me make round after round on the track. My muscles burn and my mouth is dry from breathing so hard, but I can’t give up. This is my last chance to improve my skate time and get my jammer status back.
Last season was my big return to roller derby after more than three years out of the game. When I came back last year, I didn’t expect that I would’ve fallen so far behind.
As I round the track for the last lap, I push myself as hard as I can. I push past the pain until I feel that perfect euphoria that comes with adrenaline. When I round the last curve before the finish line, my wheels lose their grip on the track and fly out from under me. I hit the track with an oof and pull my knees and arms to my chest so I can fall small. I skid across the concrete floor before coming to a stop at the track’s outline. I lie motionless, trying to fight back the tears. My hip is scarlet with rink rash, and I’ll have a monster bruise in a couple of hours. Fuck. I was so close, but isn’t this just perfectly in line with my life right now? No matter how hard I try, things just won’t go back to the way they used to be. I’m stuck.
I skate down to the center of the track and stop in front of Coach Bonnie.
“I’m sorry, baby girl,” she says. “You’ll still skate, but I can’t give you back jammer yet.” She holds out her arms for a hug. I gladly roll into them. Inside I’m crying, but on the outside, I just rest my head on her shoulder. I’m spent.
“Go, get your gear off,” she orders with a smack on the butt. “We’ve got somewhere to be tonight, and the first shot’s on me, birthday girl.”
I attempt a grin as I move to join the other girls on the benches.
Everyone is chatting noisily, pumped for the after-practice celebration tonight.
“Did you make it?” Holly asks.
I flop down on the bench. “No…” I groan through a rush of air. “You didn’t see that spill six fucking feet from the finish line?”
Holly’s shoulders droop. I fucking hate this because I feel like I let her down. I let them all down. The other girls follow with their words of support and encouragement. We all do this for the love of the sport and friendship, so no one is going to hold it against me.
“I feel like I need to hump something,” Holly says and latches on to my leg. I pick her up by her thighs, and we both go crashing to the ground in a pile of giggles and mock punches. She knows how to distract me from my shit mood.
“All right, bitches, settle down,” Bridget yells. “Save the humping for the bar.”
Catcalls follow this. Ruby tries to tickle me, and I pull her down. Soon, practically the whole team is in a pile, laughing and wrestling.
This is why I skate. This is my home, my family. I fucking love these girls with all my heart.
Now
We arrive at Ruby’s, a little bar in South Austin’s SoLa district. I met Ruby, the namesake, when I joined the team years ago. Her family has owned this venue since shortly after she was born. These walls, covered in kitschy paraphernalia, hold a lot of my own personal history. It’s a dive bar, but it’s our dive bar.
The whole team’s here tonight to celebrate. Even some people from the rest of the league have joined us. There’s a sea of women in funky tights, knee-high socks, and Hellcat team shirts. Holly stops me just after I walk in the door.
“Here, shit, I almost forgot.” She digs in her purse and pulls out a tiara, complete with tulle and magenta fur.
It matches our team colors, and the rhinestones on the front spell out Birthday Bitch. She places it on my reluctant head. I frown at her.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s tradition.”
I grumble a protest, but I’m swept toward the bar for a shot with Bonnie.
After a while, we move to the tables the girls have pushed together, right next to the giant taxidermy jackalope. There’s a birthday cake in the middle of the table, and I take the seat nearest to it. Holly comes to the tables with a stack of shot glasses and a bottle of Smirnoff Whipped Cream vodka. I laugh and shake my head at her.
It’s karaoke night, which they only do once a month, so she has to yell over a startling rendition of “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” “It’s tradition, bitch!”
Holly passes out shots to everyone in our group. I accept hugs and birthday wishes from everyone. I know I should be happy that my friends care enough to go to all the trouble, but I’ve never been a birthday person. It’s such a self-centered thing to celebrate, and it’s never been my cup of tea, because my birthday, in particular, is shrouded in shit memories. I always just end up drunk trying to enjoy the effort my friends put into it because I know it comes from a good place.
I study the collection of hubcaps on the wall, chatting with Bridget and her flavor of the week when I feel muscular arms wrap around my waist from behind and a kiss planted on my cheek.
A low voice whispers in my ear, “Happy Birthday, Mads.”
I try to look at who it is, but the hug lasts a little longer than necessary, and I wiggle to turn. Asher.
“Hey, you. You’re just in time.” I motion to the bottle and shot glasses, and he moves to pour his shot. He’s been to enough of these to know the drill.
When the song is over, Holly grabs the mic. She climbs on the stage followed by Chloe and Bridget. Asher returns to my side and wraps his free arm around my back. I lean into his shoulder.
“How’s it goin, my people?” Holly shouts into the microphone.
Ruby is back at the bar ringing the cowbell that hangs off the wall. People shout and yell and clap and slap tables. It’s a deafening roar of a response.
“Well, most of you know why I’m up here, but for those who don’t, tonight’s my best bitch’s birthday.”
This is greeted by more raucous noise.
“You see that sexy th
ing over there in the awesome headgear? That’s our Maddie. Asher, get your hands off her.”
Everyone who knows us laughs. Not Asher, though. If looks could kill, Holly would be long gone. I straighten myself, and Asher’s hand falls away.
“Well, she’s single and horny and is looking for the best birthday fuck ever, so don’t be afraid to try your luck, guys.”
The whole bar erupts in catcalls and laughter. Shouts of “Pick me” or “I got yours right here” rise up from the chaos of noise. It’s embarrassing, so I flip her off.
“Now, baby, don’t be that way. You know I love you. Seriously, though, not many can pack a bar with people who love them. And we all love you because you’re the shit. Happy Birthday. Everybody join me in singing Happy Birthday to our Maddie.”
Bridget, Holly, and Chloe lead the song, and everybody in the bar joins in. I stand there feeling incredibly awkward, but still thankful that I have such great friends.
When they’re finished, Chloe’s pink bob swishes around her face as she grabs the mic. “Now that we’ve entertained her, I think it’s time she entertains us. How many of ya want to hear her sing something?”
Oh, no.
The bar erupts again, and people start chanting my name. Maa-dee Maa-dee Maa-dee.
Nope. That is a hard limit for me. They know I can’t get on a stage again. How could I? It just doesn’t seem fair that I get to when he can’t. I turn toward the front door, and Asher grabs my hand.
“I’ll go up there with you. It won’t be that bad. Just like old times, right?” he says.
I stiffen at that, and he squeezes my hand. It’s somewhat reassuring. But I can’t fully set aside the guilt that has settled into my stomach like a lead weight.
He drags me to the DJ, and after a brief conversation, the DJ nods and gives him another microphone. Chloe meets me at the stairs to the stage. I’m two steps below her, but that puts us eye to eye.
“I’m going to make you pay for this later, you know,” I grind out through clenched teeth, forcing a smile on my face.
She smiles at me, but I think I see fear in her eyes. Well, one can hope. I haven’t been on a stage for a little over four years for a damn good reason, and I haven’t been on this stage, in particular, in what feels like forever.
I stand on the stage, holding the microphone and focusing on the monitor in front of us. When the song starts and “Love Shack” pops up on screen, I can’t help but laugh.
The story never gets old with Asher, but I don’t remember it at all. The first time I got drunk in front of him, he says I sang this song on repeat like a broken record. Or, really just the chorus. I swear he’s making it up, but the fact that he chose this song instantly relaxes me.
I start singing, and the world falls away. I go into the zone. It’s almost like I haven’t left the stage behind, and soon I have the whole bar clapping and singing along with me. I miss this, but I wouldn’t admit that to anyone. It feels like coming home.
Asher does the male vocals with a comedic edge. He’s never been much of a singer, and it says a lot that he’s up here with me now.
When the song’s over, I take a bow and blow kisses, then rush off the stage like the devil’s on my heels, my eyes trained on the ground. I run smack into a wall of muscle in my hasty escape and stumble back, about to fall on my ass when he catches me. I know who it is before I even look up. Goose bumps spread across my entire body, because I know those tattooed arms.
“Those were some impressive karaoke skills. Can I buy a drink for the birthday girl?” Dex says, and the vibrations of his voice tickle my ear.
A shiver dances over my skin. I’ve had enough to drink at this point that my defenses are down, and I make no move to back away from him.
“What’re you doing here?”
“A little birdie gave me an invite.” His lips twitch on one corner, tipping up. That damn dimple reappears. Dammit, Holly. “Drink?” he asks again.
I look up into his unusually striking blue-green eyes and nod. Maybe I just stare. Neither of us moves for a good bit like we’re hypnotizing each other, until someone bumps into me. I’m smashed up against him. His arms wrap around me, and our bodies press together. A wave of desire rushes through me, making me feel faint for a second. I need space. I turn away and, out of some subconscious masochistic place within me that’s clearly begging for trouble, I grab his hand, leading him to the bar.
Then
A final tear tracked down my face and clung to my chin, refusing to let go. The murmur of voices from the party behind me was far enough away that the crickets in the field next to me were louder. It was dark out, the houses about a quarter mile apart, no streetlights, and just the glow of a full moon keeping me company.
The ache still lingered in my chest as images of Lisa and Brad ran through my head on repeat. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been going on, how deep the betrayal ran. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d wake up and realize this was a bad dream. It had to be a nightmare because I couldn’t process a world where my best friend, the girl I’d known forever, would be so callous. What had I ever done to her?
A throat cleared behind me. I jumped at the sound and turned to see Jared.
“Hey, you leaving?” I asked. I cringed as my voice, raspy from crying, grated in my ears. I brushed the tear away from my chin.
“I was,” he stated, walking to the truck in front of me.
It was a 1957 Ford F-100 Pickup in cherry condition. I’d been checking it out for some time as a distraction while waiting for my mom. The truck was a rich dark color that looked shiny and black, but I wasn’t sure that it was black since it was too dark to tell. I watched him as he unlocked the door, folded back the seat, and pulled something out. It wasn’t until he came closer that I could see it was a guitar.
“Nice truck,” I said, sniffling and wiping away the last evidence of my tears.
He grinned. “Yeah, Sara’s my baby.”
“Sara?” I asked.
“Hey, at least I didn’t name her Christine.” He grinned.
I chuckled. “Well, as long as you’re not secretly Randall Flagg, we’re cool.”
“No, I don’t look good in cowboy boots or denim jackets.”
He’s a car guy and a horror fan. Interesting.
“I don’t know. You could probably rock the boots. You’re in Texas now, son.” I laughed when he made a face like he sucked on a lemon. “What made you pick a ’57 F-100?” I asked as he sat down next to me. I plucked a blade of grass from beneath me and twirled it between my fingers.
Jared seemed like a cool guy, though, it came as a bit of a shock that he was so good at distracting me. It helped that we seemed to have a lot in common.
His jaw dropped. “You’re into cars?”
I nodded. “Why shouldn’t I be? That’s like me asking you why did you pick a classic and not some sporty rich-kid car?”
He laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know. I like trucks—the best body styles were in the fifties. I got a sweet deal on this from a friend of my dad’s in Arkansas. It was his father’s, who’d passed away. It wasn’t running. Had a bit of rust on the wheel wells, but the frame was solid. The engine needed cleaning and fluids. My dad gave me the paint job as a present for my birthday this year.”
“When was your birthday?”
“Last month,” he replied.
“Well, happy belated birthday.”
“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Yours was yesterday, right?”
“Yeah,” I answered as I peered past him, my mind drifting back to Lisa and Brad, finding it strange that neither had come looking for me.
“How long were you guys together?” He motioned back to the house.
I looked at him, confused. What would make him ask about that?
“I’m sorry about what happened.” His lips pursed into a frown. “I overheard someone talking about it back at the party.”
; I cringed at the proof of my worst nightmare. “Longer than I care to admit.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
An awkward silence stretched between us.
“Do you know how to play that thing?” I gestured to the guitar. “Or do you just carry it around to impress the ladies?”
“Are you impressed?” he asked, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.
I snorted. “It depends on if you can actually play it.”
“Well, let’s see.” He scrunched up his face as if he were thinking. “I know.”
A look of utter concentration broke out on his face as he adjusted his guitar. Then he started playing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
I burst out laughing, my thoughts about Lisa’s betrayal fading into the background. I was expecting him to play something serious. Maybe even something popular to impress me.
“I take it you’re thoroughly impressed?” he asked.
I threw my head back, holding myself up on my elbows and shaking out my hair. “Oh, God, yes. Take me now, Guitar Man,” I said, trying my best Southern belle impression. My head fell back further as a laugh burst out of me.
He drew in an audible breath. I looked up to find him facing me, his eyes shadowed. I forgot to breathe. The way the moonlight highlighted his features made him look like a stone statue. He was beautiful.
He strummed a few notes, breaking the silence and the moment. I sat up, looking at my feet as if they were the most interesting things in the world.
“Name a song you know the words to,” he finally said.
“Ummm… like what? What can you play?”
“Lots of stuff,” he said.
“Play what you like.” I shrugged. “I’m a captive audience… until my mom gets here anyway.”
He looked thoughtful for a few moments and then played a song that sounded familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it. Then he started to sing.
He had the voice of an angel, if angels sang “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd with a deep, raspy voice. His voice sent shivers down my spine. My lower belly clenched. I closed my eyes and absorbed it. I may have been reading too much into it, but I felt like the notes, the lyrics, were speaking to my soul. Something inside me was coming alive that had been asleep my whole life.
