by Amy Sparling
“Fuck yeah you can,” Park says. He slides into the middle of the four women, throwing his arms over all of their shoulders at once. Someone hands me a cell phone opened to the camera. “Make me look hot,” he tells me. I roll my eyes and snap the photo. The flash is on and it makes a few other women look over at us, their gazes scrutinizing, probably thinking that they’ve seen us somewhere before.
This part of Texas is huge in motocross because there’s three different race tracks within an hour from each other. That sounds a little far away but most of the country isn’t so lucky. Many kids come to Texas for the summer to train because their closest motocross track is a day’s drive away. So in a town like this where just about every teenage boy rides a dirt bike or wants to ride one, people know who we are. We’re those pseudo-famous California boys.
Park was actually in the X-Games last year so I’m surprised when the girls know my name as well. Someone buys us a drink and we all take a shot together. Eventually, Park manages to wrap up his conversations about how awesome he is and we head over to the bar to order a beer. I managed to be in only one photo with all four of the girls. If that ends up on Facebook it won’t bother Bayleigh too much. She’s actually gotten pretty cool with it, probably because she knows I can’t stop people from coming up to me. These girls don’t matter. The only girl who matters is at her mom’s house right now.
Only the second I hop up on a barstool, a blonde with impossibly white hair slides up onto the stool next to me. “Hey there,” she says, and she exudes more confidence than women in the movies. Like, really?
“Hello,” I say back, just to be nice. Then I look back over at Park to my right. He orders two beers and I slide my credit card across the reclaimed wooden bar. “Start a tab, please,” I tell the bartender. He nods, his cowboy hat casting a shadow over his forehead.
The woman orders a martini with extra olives and leans over to me. “It’s nice of you to share the spotlight with your friend.”
I look over at her, taking a sip from my beer. “What spotlight?”
“Don’t be modest. Everyone knows the famous Jace Adams frequents this bar.”
I snort. Frequents? I haven’t been here in months. People are annoying. I lean back in my stool, giving her a view of Park. “Have you met Nolan Park?”
She slides her hand out, across the open air in front of me and shakes his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Nolan,” she purrs. “I’m Jess.”
“You a motocross fan?” Park asks.
“You could say that,” she says with a little shrug. “My little brother is Marc Preston.”
“Damn,” Park says, nodding in appreciation.
“I trained that kid,” I say, realizing my beer is empty. I slide it across the bar and the bartender hands me a new one almost instantly.
Jess nods. “Yep. I’ve seen you out at the track a million times.” She makes a little pouty face. “Guess you don’t remember me.”
“I’d remember you,” Park says between chugging another beer. He sets the glass back on the counter. “But I have a girlfriend.”
She smiles and steps off the barstool. “Well you gentlemen have a good night, okay?”
Relief washes over me. I don’t want to be a dick but I also have no desire to hold meaningless conversations with random girls. “Tell Marc I said hey.”
She nods. “Will do. Nice meeting you, Park.”
Park nods to her and waves down the bartender. “Two shots of whiskey,” he says.
“Man you can’t drink liquor after beer,” I say, nodding appreciatively to a second bartender who refills my mug. I probably shouldn’t be drinking so much so quickly but I’m in need of a casual buzz to take away the annoyance of the last twenty-four hours.
It feels so foreign and weird and terrifying to know that I don’t have a job to go back to tomorrow. I tip the mug and drink half of it at once.
Park slides a shot glass over to me. “Don’t be a pansy. We’ve had our share of drinking our asses off in Cali. I know you can handle it.”
I smile and down the whiskey with him. “Next one’s on me,” I say.
And so we take another shot.
And then another.
My beer is empty and then it is refilled.
My heart aches for Bay, wishing she was sitting on the barstool next to me, with her soft smile and her hair that always smells amazing and that little playful eye roll she gives me when I tell her she should get a little drunker because she gets turned on when she’s drunk and it’s the hottest thing ever.
Park nudges me on the shoulder and I look up at him. “What’s going on with you, man? You look like your dog just died.”
I shrug, playing with the cold mug handle in my hand. “I miss Bay.”
“Oh my goddd,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Barkeep!” Park spins his finger in a circle, motioning to the area in front of us. “Another round, please. Actually, make it two.”
Two shots later, I’m feeling a whole lot better. And a little dizzy. But I still miss Bay. I take out my cell phone to tell her that, but the damn screen has a lock on it. I press the zero and the eight and the zero and the nine. But nothing happens. It just tells me no and keeps the numbers on the screen, demanding the right password. I know I remember it.
I squint at the glowing screen in this hazy, smoke-filled bar. I try the password again, but my thumb is all over the place, pushing too many numbers and making too many wrong tries. My phone locks me out for fifteen minutes. Fuck.
I slide it back in my pocket. “My phone hates me,” I say, noting that my voice is slurred and very unlike me. It’s deeper, slower.
I look over at my best friend, thoughts of asking him to use his phone floating around in my mind, mixing with the alcohol. The band plays louder, songs I know and songs I don’t know. It’s really loud in here.
“Hey,” I think I say, but Park’s back still faces me. He’s turned around, talking to someone else. He’s not paying attention. He can’t even hear me anyhow. “Hey, man.”
Nothing. I sigh. Another beer slides across the counter and I take it and drink it, just for something to do. Warmth fills my chest, covering over the hole that’s been torn in my heart ever since Bayleigh went to her mom’s. It’s just two days and I should be able to handle it. But I can’t. I miss her. I’m not the party guy anymore. I don’t even like this.
Camera flashes go off and Park swings around, throwing an arm over my shoulders. “Smile!” he says, and I do. Someone takes a picture with us. A girl puts an arm around my shoulder and another girl squats down in front of us to get in the picture. There’s camera flashes and girls switch out places so that they can get in the photo. I hold my smile, trying to look interested in being here. I don’t want to be a dick. I’m not that kind of guy.
Park says something when they leave but the music is too loud and I’m too damn drunk so I just nod as a reply and hope that’s a good enough answer for him. He laughs and checks his phone.
An older guy walks behind the bar. He’s probably the boss because suddenly all of the workers stand a little straighter and pay a little more attention. The guy is greying and has shoulder length hair and kind of looks like a child molester. He reminds me of Mr. Fisher—not because they resemble each other in any way—but because he’s a boss and Mr. Fisher was my boss. Up until a couple of hours ago.
How could he do this to me? I was an amazing employee who brought a lot of clients to the park. I made it legitimate. I was a pro racer and I taught at his track. Anger builds up in my chest, spreading out through my veins, threatening to take control. He chose that bitch over me. The threat of a lawsuit scared him away, made him retreat and hire back someone who isn’t even a decent employee.
He could have fought it, tried something else. He could have at least asked me if I was okay with it. If I had any ideas. Instead he stabbed me in the back.
I grip my mug so hard my knuckles turn white. I lift the glass and chug the rest of the beer, then slam it down
on the counter. I look over to Park, wanting to tell him that we should go home or at least go get some food or something. He’s not there.
Fuck.
I draw in a deep breath. My head is spinning but I kind of want another beer. When the bartender quits flirting with that ugly chick at the end of the bar, I’ll flag him over here and ask for another one. Fuck it, I’ll drink enough to make me sleep until my wife comes home.
A hand slides around my waist from behind me. Then another hand, sliding up the other side. The hands are small and pale and blurry as they slide up my chest, hugging me against boobs that press into my back.
Bay?
“Hey there, handsome,” is whispered into my ear. The words don’t make much sense to me, but the room is spinning so I guess nothing makes much sense. I smell lip gloss, just like Bay’s.
I slide my hand over the hands on my chest. “Hey,” I say.
“Come with me,” she whispers. And then she’s tugging on my shirt and I’m stepping off the barstool. There’s hay on the floor and it’s a little hard to walk. But I follow the blonde hair in front of me, clinging tightly to the hand that holds mine.
I’m briefly aware of one thought…
When did Bay dye her hair blonde?
But I’m drunk and if I ask her she’ll be upset that I didn’t notice it earlier. So I push the thought away and follow her out of the bar.
Chapter 25
We step into the warm summer night’s air and I’m tugged along the gravel walkway, all the way across the parking lot to where a few scraggly shops dot the county road next to the bar. The world is a rollercoaster right now and I’m holding her hand tightly, letting her lead me so I don’t fall over.
I haven’t been this drunk in years. I guess it’s true that you lose your alcohol tolerance if you don’t drink for a while. My life has been work and baby and sleep for months now.
I blink a few times, willing my vision to go back to normal but it’s relentless in its shaking blurriness. We reach a darkened glass door beneath a sign that’s not lit up. “Where are we?” I ask, and I’m whispering and I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s so dark. Maybe it’s from this small headache that tugs at the corners of my brain.
“Smoke shop,” she says, sliding a key into the lock on the door. She twists it and pushes the door open and now we’re inside a shop. It’s dark everywhere, the only light coming from the moonlight outside. It smells like weed and stale old books. Words tumble out of my mouth. “I don’t smoke.”
She laughs and pulls me along through a narrow aisle. There’s bongs of every shape and color on the shelves, t-shirts with stupid sayings printed on them, keychains and hemp jewelry. I barely see it all as we walk past, the moonlight giving me only a hint of what the store would look like with the lights on.
We reach the back wall and she pushes aside a thick velvety curtain that covers another doorway. I reach out and touch it, feeling the soft fibers against my skin. The movement makes me dizzy. I’m pulled into another room and then a dark hallway. My finger slides across the wall, the only thing I can feel around me, besides her hand. Why is it so dark?
A rush of cool air hits me. We’re in another room. It’s small, or at least I think it is. There’s a light in here—a night light? Or a burst of sunlight filtering in through a tiny hole. Except no…it’s dark outside. This place is a closet but there’s futon shoved against the wall. Blankets are tossed all over it. Where the hell am I? Why would Bay take me here?
“Where’s Jett?” I hear myself say. I sound confused.
“Shh,” she says, placing a finger to my lips. Suddenly she’s in front of me, her breath minty and her boobs pressing into my chest. “No one will find us in here.”
“Where are we?” I say. My eyes close. Suddenly it feels like a massive lead blanket is being lowered over my shoulders, pressing into every inch of my skin, making me sleepy and dizzy and drunk as hell all at once. All of that liquor must have kicked in.
“We’re someplace private,” she whispers. “Finally.”
I stumble forward and she presses her hands to my chest, holding me up. There’s a tiny earthquake in my pocket and it startles the shit out of me. I touch my jeans and her hand slips into my pocket. The earthquake stops and the air glows. My phone is tossed to the floor. “No one is allowed to bother you right now,” she whispers, sliding her hands up my shirt.
I nod. “I don’t want to be bothered.” It’s true. I just want to go to sleep. I’m so tired. And I’m dizzy.
And now her lips are on mine and her hands grab my hands and press them to her boobs. I squeeze and something is off. Or I’m just drunk. Too drunk for this. “Sorry, Bay,” I murmur against her lips. “I’m in no condition to—” She cuts me off by kissing me harder. I’m pushed backward until the back of my knees sits something soft. I sit down.
She climbs on my lap and her hands are all over me. My chest, my back, my hair. I close my eyes, wishing the world would stop spinning. “I’ve wanted this so long,” she whispers.
“You can never get enough,” I say with a chuckle. I open my eyes and the room spins so I close them again. There isn’t anything to see anyway—it’s too damn dark in here.
She pushes me backward and I fall onto the futon, scrunching up a blanket into a makeshift pillow behind my head. Somehow my shirt is gone. Where did it go? Her nails slide up my chest and she grinds against my jeans, leaning forward and kissing my neck. Her scent is so unfamiliar, like some kind of berries or fruit. Why is she back from her mom’s already?
“Where is Jett?” I ask, feeling like I’ve already asked that before. She bites down on my shoulder, hard.
“Stop asking questions,” she growls. Her hands find my jeans and unbutton them. The zipper cries out in the silence and then she’s sliding her hands across my junk. A drunken panic hits me. We had sex just before she left and now I’m drunk. I’m not sure I can perform as well as usual. I’m too fucking wasted.
“Wait,” I say, reaching for her. I want to apologize, to promise better sex after I’ve had a nap. I can’t function right now. And my head is pounding.
And then her tongue slides down my shaft and I’ve forgotten everything I was going to say.
“You like that, don’t you, Jacey?” she says with a giggle.
I moan something in reply but her mouth is too busy to talk anymore. I don’t know if we do anything else. I don’t even know if I finish—I am too tired. Too sleepy and too blissfully, pathetically drunk.
Chapter 26
My head has exploded. It’s exploded and it’s in pieces and that’s the only explanation for why I am in so much pain. An atomic bomb has landed in my skull. I swallow, clenching my eyes tightly. When I open them the room spins and it’s dark and I feel like I’ve been sleeping for years and yet only a few seconds. My stomach lurches and twists, filled with liquor it’d rather puke instead of digest.
I grit my teeth and draw in a deep breath, rolling to my back. The mattress squeaks. This isn’t my quiet memory foam bed. This is something else, something thin and uncomfortable. And I’m missing my shirt.
What the hell?
I shuffle up onto my elbows, propping myself up on this weird bed. What do I remember? The bar, Park. Quitting my job. I look to the right, toward a little nightlight shoved in the corner. It glows, lighting up the orange walls around it. I’ve been in Park’s new house and this is not it. It smells like a skunk in here.
I kind of want to make sure my kidneys haven’t been harvested or some shit like that. But my spinning, throbbing head is almost too much to bear. I throw my legs off the side of the futon mattress, grab my phone off the floor and attempt to sit up.
“Going home so early?” a high-pitched voice says.
I freeze. My skin turns ice cold and my head really does explode. I know that voice. It is not my wife. It is not the voice of a friend. Carefully, I turn around, my eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.
Natalie sits up, letting the thin q
uilt slip off her body as she rises. Her bare boobs bounce in the glow of the nightlight and she gives me a sultry look. “Don’t you want to get some breakfast?”
The silence is deafening. My throat is nails and my lungs collapse and the entire room blurs out of focus. I glance down and my jeans are unzipped, sagging at my waist. Chills erupt over my bare flesh. I can’t think. I can’t move or talk or function.
This is not happening.
This can’t happen.
Please, God, I’d rather die.
I spin on my heel and the room collapses underneath me. Somehow I find a doorknob and I wretch it open. Blinding sunlight slams into my eyes, lighting up my already roaring headache. I stumble into a wall and then follow it down a hallway until I crash into an emergency fire exit. I push it open and an alarm erupts into the quiet air, screaming out an emergency wail. This is an emergency. This isn’t happening.
My feet shuffle out onto a gravel parking lot and I see Big Max’s sitting quiet and deserted in the distance. Cars zoom by on the county road, oblivious to my nightmare. This didn’t happen. This didn’t happen. This isn’t happening. I’m in a coma—I’m in hell. Something—anything. This isn’t real.
I hear the heavy emergency door slam closed behind me and the alarm stops. I fall forward, my hands gripping my knees and I puke until my throat is burning and raw. My head pounds and my chest heaves and I’ve had concussions and bone fractures and a collapsed lung in the past but I’ve never wanted to be dead more than at this very moment.
When the nausea subsides, I force myself to walk, shirtless, drunken and aching all over. I reach the road and look over. My truck isn’t here. We took Park’s truck last night. My truck is somewhere back in Lawson, back at the BMX park. Just a few miles from where she’s staying at her mom’s. My heart rips into pieces at the thought of her. I can’t think of her. I can’t do it. Not now.
My head shakes, in denial or in a futile attempt to shrug away the horrific thoughts that float through my mind. A sob rises in my burning throat and I fall to my knees on the side of county road two forty-nine.
