Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition

by Elizabeth Knox

  “You mean Jennifer Garner?”

  “I guess.”

  “Wait. When did you see 13 Going On 30?”

  I shrug. “I got roped into babysitting Cole’s bunch one night. That’s what Melissa wanted to watch, so I sat with her, and watched it.”

  She arcs a brow. “Jennifer Garner, huh? So this girl is tall and beautiful?”

  “Yeah, but with glasses.”

  “Oh, that’s her one big flaw? She wore glasses?”

  “I didn’t say it was a flaw.”

  Misty sips her champagne, staring out over the crowd. She seems miffed, but I can’t figure why.

  Not looking at me, she says, “I suppose she has dimples, too.”

  “Yep.”

  “I hate her already.”

  I chuckle.

  “I wonder what she looks like now,” she says, giving me the side eye. She knows I’m nervous about this, and now she’s just taunting me. I think about how little Miss Cheerleader Heather turned out, and my anxiety deepens.

  Misty takes pity on me and swats my arm. “Quit worrying, Green. If she looked like Jennifer Garner in 13 Going On 30 back then, she probably looks like Jennifer Garner in Draft Day now.

  I’ve seen the film, and that chick was a knockout. I smooth a hand over my short, nearly shaved head, hoping I look okay. There’s a wall of mirrors behind us and I catch my silver club rings flash in the light. I wonder if the whole MC thing will turn Sara off. I won’t bring it up, but she may spot my rings. Earlier tonight, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror debating taking them off, and now I’m ashamed I even considered it. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not. This tux is as far as I go. Even as I say the words in my head, I know it’s a lie. What really scares me is just how far I really might be willing to go for this girl, and I wonder if there’s a line in the sand.

  An hour and two drinks later, I still haven’t spotted Sara. The DJ calls everyone to be seated for dinner, and we find our table. Plated dinners are served by wait-staff dressed in formal attire. The meal is decent, but I’ve lost my enthusiasm, and with each passing minute, I’m getting more depressed. When they clear the main course and begin to bring around dessert, the bar opens back up and the music starts.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say to Misty, standing and tossing my linen napkin down. I’m barely to the exit before I spot Dave Wakefield, our school’s star center, over at the table talking to my date. I roll my eyes, knowing she’ll have her hooks in him in no time.

  I stroll back down the hall to the check-in table and scan the nametags that haven’t been picked up yet. There aren’t many, but I spot Sara’s.

  I point to them and ask the lone girl still at the table waiting for stragglers. “These people all RSVP’d they were coming, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks.” I shove my hands in my pockets and gaze toward the entrance. Maybe she chickened out. Maybe she’s married. Maybe I’m an idiot.

  I stroll back inside, set to tell Misty I’m ready to go, but she’s dancing with Dave.

  The DJ is playing all the popular songs from our high school era. Right now NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” is blasting from the speakers.

  I grimace, and pull at my collar, deciding I need some air and a smoke, so I go through a set of French doors that lead out to a terrace. Stone balustrades surround it, but there are steps leading down into a formal garden.

  No Smoking signs are posted, so I slip down the steps and out of sight of the windows, finding a marble bench with a large bush hiding me. I dig out a cigarette and light it up, keeping it cupped in my hand so the glowing tip can’t be seen.

  I know there’s no use lamenting the past or how badly I wanted Sara to show up tonight. She’s a dream I pissed away.

  The music drifting out to me changes over to Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life”. They were a favorite band of Sara’s and suddenly I’m eighteen, riding in my old Chevelle with her in the passenger seat . . .

  Twenty years ago . . .

  I pull into a spot down by the wharf and jam the gearshift in park. I glance over at Sara, but her arms are crossed and she’s staring out the passenger window giving me the silent treatment.

  I’m not sure how to make any of this right, so I stare out the windshield at the surf, and absently tap my thumb on the wheel, matching the beat, and mouthing the words along with the song. It’s my life . . .

  Only it doesn’t feel like my life or like I have any control over what’s happening, and I hate it. “You can’t go somewhere closer?”

  “We’ve been all through this, Irish. They’re the only ones that gave me a scholarship. Besides, I have an aunt in Savannah. I can stay with her and save on room and board.”

  I swivel my head to her. “So that’s it then? It’s a done deal?”

  She looks down at her feet, and nods.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Then come with me.”

  “We’ve been over that, too. I can’t. Nobody is gonna give me a scholarship. Hell, I barely graduated.”

  “You can get a job. We can be together.”

  “How? You just said you’ll be livin’ with your aunt. Besides, what skills do I have?”

  “What will you do here?”

  I shrug. “My uncle said he could get me on with his union. I can apprentice.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Welding.”

  She frowns. “Is that what you want to do? Weld?”

  I run a hand over my jaw. “Fuck no. But what am I supposed to do, Sara?”

  “I told you, but you won’t listen. You’re smart, Irish; smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

  “College is great for you, but it’s not me.”

  “What about a trade school? I’m sure Georgia has . . .”

  “They got those right here. They got other schools you could go to right here, too.”

  “Irish—”

  “I don’t want to lose you, and I know if you get on that plane, I will.”

  “I’ll be home for Christmas and summers . . .”

  “Babe, come on, you know it’ll never be the same.”

  “Why can’t you be happy for me? Why can’t you see this is a good thing for me?”

  “Because it’s the end of us.”

  “Why does it have to be?”

  “It just will.”

  “So what then? We’re just over?”

  “You’re the one leavin’.”

  “You’re the one being a stubborn ass about it.” Before I can stop her, she climbs out of the vehicle and stomps away, flipping me off over her shoulder.

  And I let her go.

  I take a drag off my cigarette, staring over the gardens of the Fife Estate.

  She left the next day, and those were our last words to each other; angry, frustrated, spiteful words that I longed to take back.

  Three weeks later 9/11 happened, and I joined the Marines. When I came home, I heard she was dating someone. Hell, she’s probably married with a couple of kids by now; who am I foolin’?

  I’m drawn from my memories by a woman’s voice, and I realize I’ve been out here long enough to burn the smoke damn near down to the filter. I crush it out, flip it into the woodchips, and I can’t help overhearing the woman’s conversation.

  I fade back in the bush, not wanting to get caught eavesdropping.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” the woman says. “It was stupid of me to think he’d show up. It’s been twenty years, after all. I doubt he remembers.”

  I recognize her voice immediately and move toward the sound like I’m under a spell. She’s standing at the top of the steps, looking to the left, pacing away from me, and then she turns and paces back. She’s gorgeous. Mesmerizing.

  I take a step closer, drawn to her. Her gaze lifts, perhaps sensing my presence and our eyes lock.

  Her mouth drops open, and she lowers the phone.

  “Irish. You came.”

  I nod. “We ha
d a deal.”

  “You remembered.”

  “Of course.” My eyes trail down over her, and I whistle. “You’re beautiful, Sara.”

  I hold my hand out and she comes down the stairs to me, taking it in her smaller one.

  “You have ink.” Her words are soft as she gazes down at my hand.

  I tilt my head and see a small heart on her wrist. “So do you. It looks good on you. Is that the only ink you have?”

  She waggles a brow and grins. “You play your cards right, Irish, maybe you’ll find out the answer to that.”

  I return her smile and pull her into my arms as Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing” carries to us.

  “Dance with me?”

  “Out here?”

  “Yeah. Right here. Right now. It’s just the two of us. No one to see me stumble over my feet.”

  I don’t do much more than hold her and move in a shuffling circle, staring down at her beauty. She hasn’t changed a damn bit, except maybe to become even more beautiful. Her warm brown eyes suck me in, and it’s like no time has separated us. How did I ever let her go?

  “Not bad, Irish,” she teases. “You haven’t stepped on my dress or feet once yet.”

  I chuckle. “Tryin’ hard not to, darlin’.”

  As the last refrain plays, I lower her into a dip. She drops her head back, extending her graceful neck. When the song ends and I pull her up, we step apart.

  I lace my fingers through hers. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

  I lead her through the formal garden, under a trellis, and beyond some hedgerows. The scent of roses is thick back here as we follow the maze of hedges, the brick walkway leading us on.

  “So what have you been up to all these years, Sara?”

  “I’m a costume designer in LA, now.”

  “LA, wow.” I’m calculating how long a ride that is in my head and feel my hope fading that this will be anything more than a precious weekend I’ll treasure forever. “So, you’re successful in that—the designing stuff?”

  “Yes. I’ve done well. I haven’t gotten an Oscar or anything yet, but maybe one day. I hope so, anyway.”

  “Wow. An Oscar. That’s quite a goal. Then you’d be famous, huh?”

  “Well, the only ones who would probably remember my name are other designers.” She smiles up at me, and I’m lost in her enthusiasm as she talks about her job while we walk around the gardens, weaving through the maze of hedges and rose bushes. I’m reminded of how she always was enthusiastic about whatever she did. And usually she pulled me right along with her.

  Eventually, she runs out of words and gets quiet. I tug her hand and stop next to one of the rose bushes. I slip a pocketknife from my slacks and slash off a pretty bloom. I trim off the thorns and hold it out to her.

  She lifts her hand to take it, her eyes almost glazing as she stares at me. “Thank you, Irish.”

  I grin back; glad she doesn’t berate me for cutting the rose, but instead just accepts the gift gracefully.

  She brings it to her nose and inhales.

  I take it and tuck it behind her ear. “There. Beautiful, just like you.”

  I shove my hands in my pocket, suddenly feeling at odds. We continue walking. Sara slips her hand in the crook of my arm, and I can’t deny how good it feels as she cuddles against me.

  “I’m glad you came.” She looks up at me.

  “Me too.”

  We head back toward the terrace. A breeze kicks up, fluttering her skirts, and she shivers. I shrug out of my jacket and wrap it around her, then grab the lapels and pull her to me for a kiss, our first in too damn long. My mouth covers hers, and her soft lips part welcomingly.

  In some ways it’s like our first shy kiss, but in others it’s like we haven’t missed a beat in all these years. She still tastes just as sweet as I remember, and I’m just as turned on sexually by her as I was at eighteen, maybe more.

  I cup her nape and tilt her head back, stepping closer and wrapping my other arm around the small of her back, pulling her flush against me.

  She’s pliant in my arms, and she fits like she belongs there.

  After a long moment, I pull back to breathe, and stare down at her flushed face, wide eyes, and red lips.

  “I’ve missed you, Sara. You have no idea how much.”

  We’re at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the ballroom terrace, and I can hear the music drifting down. I also hear footsteps and turn my head. Shit. I pull back from Sara, panic jolting through me when I see who it is.

  Misty skips down the steps and wraps her arms around my neck. “Green, I’ve been looking for you.”

  I pull Misty’s arms free, but judging by the look on Sara’s face, the damage is already done.

  “Go back inside, Misty,” I hiss.

  “I . . . I have to go,” Sara whispers. Dropping my jacket to the ground, she dashes up the steps, gathering her skirts as she runs.

  “Sara, wait.”

  Misty has ahold of my arm, and when I try to pull free, she stumbles and falls. Gazing after Sara as she disappears through the French doors, I sigh and reach to pull Misty to her feet.

  Misty looks to the doors, then to me.

  “Was that her?”

  “Yeah, but I just fucked it all up.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was just coming to tell you Dave is going to drive me home.”

  “Not your fault. It’s mine. I should have come alone.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  I shrug.

  “Because you were afraid?”

  “Yeah. Guess so.”

  “So tell her.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “Why you brought me. Everything.”

  “Now I doubt she’ll even talk to me.”

  Misty pats my hand. “Let me handle this.”

  “Wait, no, Misty!” But she’s already dashing up the steps.

  “Goddamn it,” I hiss, knowing this is going to be a disaster. I drag a hand down my face and trudge up the steps.

  6

  Sara

  I’m in the ladies’ room staring in the mirror and patting a damp cloth under my eyes. It’s no use, though. The silent crying I just did in the stall has my eyes red and puffy. I pull out some concealer from my evening bag, determined to look decent when I walk back out. I wonder how long it will take to get another Uber to come pick me up. The one that brought me here said they usually don’t come this far out.

  I’m alone in the room, but the door opens and heels click across the marble floor. A woman comes around the corner, and our eyes meet in the mirror. Oh, for the love. It would have to be Irish’s girl. What did he call her?

  She extends her hand. “Hi, I’m Misty.”

  I turn and look at her hand, then meet her eyes. “Are you his wife?”

  She drops her hand and huffs out a laugh. “God, no, me and Green? He just brought me along because he didn’t want to come alone. He got scared you might be a dog now or married or something.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Don’t be surprised. Men are idiots, the whole lot of them. Take it from me, I’ve seen them at their worst.”

  “A beautiful girl like you?”

  “I’m a stripper, and honey, if that’s not an education in the opposite sex, I don’t know what is.”

  “You’re a . . .”

  “It’s okay, you can say it. I’m not offended or ashamed of what I do. I make damn good money.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Sure you did.” She pulls out a cigarette and lights it, then blows the smoke toward the ceiling, resting her ass on the counter. She plants a hand on the granite and leans toward me. “Look, let me be honest with you. Green’s got it bad for you, or for whatever you two used to have together.” She shrugs. “I may be a bitch, but I’m a romantic at heart, and I’d hate to see you break his. So, if it’s me that has your panties in a wad, don’t worry, I’m not interested in Green.”

  “Why do y
ou keep calling him Green?”

  “That’s the only name I’ve ever known him by. That’s what everybody calls him.”

  I shove my concealer tube back in my beaded clutch. “Well, thanks for the advice on men, but this was a mistake. I never should have come.”

  “You had some kind of pact or something?”

  That stops me. “What do you know about it?”

  She shrugs. “Just what Green told me. Look, the boy was like a lovesick cow on the way over here. It’d be decent of you to throw him a bone. At least go out there and let him explain. Then if you still want to leave, leave.” She hops off the countertop and twists to put her cigarette out under the tap. “No skin off my nose.” She meets my eyes. “You do what you want.”

  I watch her strut away, but she pauses and looks back at me, her eyes skating over me. “Love that dress, by the way. Bet his mouth dropped when he saw you.”

  After she’s gone, I stare in the mirror and consider my options. I can run scared with my tail between my legs and get the fuck out of here. Or . . . I can go find Irish and figure out if what we had out in the garden was real or just some magical fairytale in my head. What would Misty do?

  I straighten my spine. “Be a badass, Sara.”

  I pull open the door, and model my strut after hers, head held high.

  I spot him at a table alone, flipping an empty shot glass over and over on the linen tablecloth.

  I glance around, looking for Misty, and find her at the bar, pressed up against some guy I think was on the basketball team in high school. She’s staring adoringly up at him as he laughs at something she says.

  I refocus my attention on Irish, and weave between tables until I’m standing beside him. The shot glass stops moving, and he slowly looks up at me.

  “Dance with me,” I say.

  Without saying a word, he stands, takes my hand, and leads me out on the floor. We whirl around the floor once before he finally speaks.

  “I thought I blew it. I thought you’d left.”

  “I almost did. Your girl stopped me.”

  “She’s not my girl.”

  “I know. She told me that.”