by Dan Lawton
“Honestly, I don’t know. You seemed nice and all, but it’s hard to tell someone’s intentions sometimes. You know?”
“And now?”
“You still seem nice.”
Randolph took another bite of the club.
“Why are you so nice to me?” she said.
Randolph chewed, thought about the answer. “I’m nice to everyone.”—he swallowed—”And I like you.”
Sheila stopped mid-bite, left the brisket floating in her hands above the plate. “You don’t know me.”
“Not yet.”
Sheila smiled again, this time with a blush. “I’m starting to like you too.”
CHAPTER TEN
They went to a bar. Randolph had not been to one since he was in college, and it was far noisier than he remembered. People were packed like sardines. Young men and women crowded him, brushed their backs and fronts against his, invaded his space in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. After a Scotch and a few handfuls of germy bar nuts and some ice chips, his head pounded. The music that blasted from the speakers was nothing he was familiar with and frankly, he disliked it. Everyone around him looked barely old enough to drive.
Sheila quietly but boldly threw back a clear spirit. It was her third. Even still, she seemed to be in control of herself. Relaxed. The vodka was heavy on her breath.
“After this,” she said, “where are we going? What’s the big grand plan?”
That was the question, was it not? Randolph did not exactly know the answer. “You ever been to Wyoming?” he said. He had to yell over the intrusively loud bass that rattled his everything and contributed to the worsening of the pain in his head.
“Wyoming? Has anyone ever been to Wyoming?”
Randolph laughed.
“Seriously, what’s in Wyoming?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”
“I don’t understand. If there’s nothing in Wyoming, why go?”
“There’s nothing there—no responsibilities, no commitments, nobody. It’s a fresh start.”
“Are you having a midlife crisis or something?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Look at you. An old guy in trousers at a bar with a bunch of drunken twenty-something idiots.”—she laughed—”No offense, I’m just saying.”
He reached for his glass and fingered the rim. It was almost empty. The bartender walked past and Randolph raised the glass, which was quickly replaced with an identical one. Brown liquor filled it a third of the way, maybe less.
“I’m not that old,” he said.
“I’m just teasing you.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, guess.”
“Fine. Fifty.”
“Close. Fifty-two.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Honestly? No idea. Thirty? Thirty-one?”
Sheila smiled. “Good answer. Close, but wrong. Thirty-four.”
Randolph lifted his glass and took a swig. It burned all the way down, but it felt so good. It warmed his belly when it settled. “The good news is, I’m not quite old enough to be your father.”
Now Sheila laughed. “Doesn’t bother me. I like older men.”
“Do you?” He took another swig, this one large. His head swam.
“All types, really.”
He smirked and shook his head. “You’re something else, aren’t you?”
She leaned in. Her breath was hot. “You want to kiss me right now, don’t you?”
“What if I do?”
“Why don’t you?”
Randolph’s first instinct was to lean back, to give her space. But he fought that instinct. Instead, he leaned in closer and slowed his breaths, locked eyes with Sheila. His chest pounded. Her eyes were red but not too red, and her mouth was open just slightly. The noise around him seemed quieter now, as if his entire world were trapped in a bubble that just so happened to surround their two stools. He no longer cared about all the unwanted touching that surrounded him.
Then he kissed her. Her lips were wet against his, which felt dry and in need of balm. Her hand squeezed the back of his neck, then slid to his jaw and caressed his stubble as their lips merged. Darkness overtook his vision.
She pulled away first. Her bottom lip was tucked under her front teeth. A hint of lust twinkled on her face. “We should order another round,” she said.
So they did.
. . . . .
It was late and cold and very dark when they left. The crowd inside was still rambunctious, the party only beginning. Randolph was happy to pay the tab and go and remove himself from the scene. His head felt like a bowling ball on his shoulders.
He drove to divert his focus away from the pain. Sheila partially dozed off beside him, their arms interlocked. There was a motel a couple of miles west; he was in good enough shape to make it there without incident. When they arrived, the man inside wore long, greasy hair and thick glasses and a mysteriously stained polo shirt. A TV with an old-fashioned antenna sat cockeyed on the corner of his high-top desk, and a steaming microwavable dinner cooled in front of it. Something that portrayed itself as mashed potatoes and peas and a sorry excuse for meat spewed toxins into the air. The man hardly acknowledged them and recited monotone instructions and policies, of which there was only one—just clean up after yourselves and do not bring trouble. It was a no-tell motel in every sense. Randolph paid for two adjacent rooms in cash.
Sheila seemed bothered but accepted the key to her room, and she disappeared inside without saying goodnight. Inside his own, Randolph flipped on the lights and yanked the curtains closed and tossed his bag on the bed. The room smelled of must and dander and lacked a satisfactory level of cleanliness he was accustomed to. A standard double bed failed to tempt him with its sunken pillows and a wrinkled comforter that had a floral design straight from 1985. He did not think he would have the nerve to sit on it, never mind attempt to sleep. He could only imagine the things that had happened in this room, on this bed, in this bed. When was the last time the sheets were changed? Was there even a cleaning crew for a place like this? He did not want to know.
One thing he failed to pack was ibuprofen, and he regretted it. He wondered if it was possible for his head to spontaneously combust from the pressure. Too much Scotch, not enough food. Amateur mistake. Against his better judgment, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his temples with his forefingers, begging the pain to dissipate. The mattress bounced above the springs with every movement. Dehydration lurked.
He got up and searched the room for something that may offer relief since his fingers could not. Near the coffee pot, he found an individual plastic cup sealed in another layer of plastic, which he tore off and brought to the bathroom. He flipped on the light and prepared for the worst. It was ordinary but not as repulsive as he imagined it might be. The tile was off-white and dirty, the grout blackened, but without cracks or roach carcasses. The sink was surprisingly clean. A single window above the toilet shone with starlight from the night. Randolph cranked the handle on the faucet and filled the cup with cold water, which he guzzled. Then he repeated it. The headache would get better.
Back in the main room, he sat on the bed again. He felt dizzy, saw stars, but not the ones from outside the bathroom window. It had been hours since the bar nuts and even longer since the club sandwich, and he wondered if eating would help. It had been a while since he drank that much and he was feeling the effects of coming on too strong. His body revolted. He lumbered outside to find something, anything, to put in his stom
ach.
The chill of the early morning whacked him like a fist and stole his breath, and he was temporarily nauseous. Thankfully, it quickly passed. A vending machine with individually wrapped cookies and sleeves of crackers and small bags of chips and nothing with any nutritional value hummed from the far side of his room window. Into the machine, he fed two singles and entered the corresponding codes that released the packages to the metal door at the bottom. A quarter spat out from the coin release slot, which he left behind, a gift for the next.
Exhaustion came—physical mostly, but also emotional. It had been a long day and he was clueless as to what he was doing or where he and Sheila were going. He hoped tomorrow would bring clarity. In front of Sheila’s room, he pinched his fingers into a loose fist and rapped his knuckles on the door.
“Sheila?” he called.
No response.
The light was dim behind the curtain. Perhaps she was in the shower or already asleep, though he acknowledged that would have been fast. Had she even had a bag with her? He failed to notice. His mind was jumbled, his thoughts a blur. He rapped on the door a second time and called out louder than the first, but with the same results. With nothing further to do, he moved on and retreated to his own room.
He tossed the extra sleeve of cookies on the table and tore open his own. They were stale, but the chocolate was still sweet, and his eyes rolled into darkness while he chewed. He pushed in one cookie after the other, chewed as a cow would hay. When he opened his eyes to remove his shoes, he noticed the pile of crumbs on his crotch, which he brushed to the floor without a care.
He fell backward onto the bed. His eyes were heavy.
But he could not sleep.
The day replayed in his mind like a film reel, and he saw the images over and over—the hospital and the text message from Sheila, then O’Reilly, and the diner and bar. And the kiss. Oh, the kiss. The sweetness of the vodka lingered on his lips as he thought about it. He licked it away, but it returned with a vengeance, on the attack against his psyche. The responses flamed within him—the physical rolling in his gut, the tingles in his legs, the ecstasy that swam through his brain.
He thought of Sheila. He pictured her lips sucking his, imagined her tongue rolling through his mouth like a tidal wave. He wondered what it would be like to feel her, to touch her, to have her. He wanted her. He reached down and unzipped.
Part of it was mental—he knew that and he was working on it. But the physiological part was hard to overcome, and there was not much he could do about it. He had seen his doctor about the problem but refused to medicate. At the time, anyway, it seemed unnecessary. Emotionally, he was engaged, ready to give his mind to the process, but he was sheepish about his physical limitations and the restrictions it put on this part of his life. He ached for release—a full release, not the kind he could achieve with direct, concentrated stimulation. The experience was nowhere near the same as it once was.
He lay not limp but only moderately erect in his hand. It was the best it could get and the most disheartening and depressing experience he imagined any man could withstand. It felt as if his manhood was gone, stripped away seemingly overnight. One day he had full function, the next he did not. Without this portion of him working as it should, he struggled to persuade himself he had something useful to offer a woman.
It was part of the reason his relationship dissolved with Patricia, he imagined. Emotional and financial support only went so far, and when the physical part was all but lost—though not completely, but it was difficult for him to accept what the changes entailed—a relationship suffered. Over years, it was inevitable. In some ways, he blamed himself, though he knew it was not his fault. If he had only taken better care of himself when he was younger, or if he had monitored his health more closely throughout the years, perhaps he would not have this issue.
Sheila.
How would he explain it to her? When was the right time, or how? A physical connection was not the only thing that mattered, but he would be a fool if he thought it did not. Someone as young as Sheila deserved to know what she was getting into before getting too deep, did she not?
Randolph huffed. He stuffed himself back into his pants and zipped the front. He rolled on his side. The headache was no better, which he figured did not help. Sober or not, the problem would not disappear overnight, and he had to do something about it before it got any worse. But even that was an impossibility. It either got worse—maybe permanently—or it stayed the same. The odds of a complete recovery were low. This was just who he was, take it or leave it, like it or not.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After the longest eight hours of his life, Benji slid into his car and peeled out of the coffee shop parking lot. His phone blew up with pointless ten-second disappearing videos sent from his friends and notifications he did not care about. Still nothing from Shay. He drove to her apartment.
She lived on the east side, about as far from Benji’s place as possible while still living in the city. But it was worth it. She was worth it. When he arrived, her apartment was dark. It was a ground floor walkout with a singular window that faced the street, so Benji saw right in. There was no curtain. He walked around the back to the parking lot and looked for her car. The designated spot with the faded white paint with her apartment number on it was empty, home to only a crushed foam cup. A streetlight flickered on the far end of the lot.
He did not want to loiter too long, especially in the dark, but he had to do his due diligence and check it out the best he could. He was worried about her. Back in the front, he cupped his hands on the glass and looked through them as if they were binoculars. With the darkness at his back and the moonlight filtered, he waited for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw only the ordinary—a striped afghan neatly draped across the back of the sofa, a throw pillow displayed on the corner of the cushion, a side lamp still and lonely, the remotes aligned on the end table.
No sign of Shay.
Benji wanted nothing more than to get inside and check out the rest of the place, but it was not possible. He pressed his fingertips against the glass and pulled toward the stars, but the window would not budge. The exterior door to the building required a key. Even if he was able to get into the building, the apartment had a separate key. He had neither.
There was no way in.
Shay clearly was not home, and there was no sign of a break-in or foul play. That made Benji feel a little better, though not entirely. Why had she not called?
He checked his phone—no messages or missed calls from her. Sadness crept in. Had she ghosted him? Considering what they were up against, that explanation seemed implausible. An impossibility. There was too much at stake.
Over his shoulder, he sensed something. Someone. He turned and found an older woman with a lit cigarette in her mouth and a glare that could kill a man. She stared at him from her second floor porch. A giant smoke cloud billowed around her face like a mask. It was a miracle she could breathe at all. No words came from the porch, but Benji felt her watching. His time was running short, and he knew it. The last thing he needed—they needed—was law enforcement getting involved and asking questions. This had to be kept under the radar. Without further thought, he stepped back and dropped his hands into his pockets and walked to the curb, then slipped in his car and drove west through the heart of Cedar Rapids.
. . . . .
He was out of scenarios. All the ones his mind conjured up were demoralizing in some form or another. Unless he heard from her overnight, he would have no choice but to trace her steps as he knew them, maybe ask around a bit. It was a risk, but there was no other alternative. Without contact, there would be problems. Big problems. And he did not have the answers.
He recognized Cheyenne’s car when he pulled up to h
is building. It looked out of place parked against the curb—too clean, not enough blemishes on the paint. Each time it was left alone and not stolen was a good day, especially in this neighborhood. He almost did not stop because he did not want to deal with her right now, but he also knew she would not either. It could not be avoided forever, as much as he would have preferred it that way.
“Hello, lover,” she said when he got to the top of the stairs. She sat on his doorstep, her knees under her arms. Her skirt was short, which meant lots of skin showed. Too much.
“I’m really not in the mood,” Benji said while he fumbled for his key.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
That was what he was afraid of.
“Then why are you?”
“We need to talk.”
Benji’s jaw clenched. He did not know what he would say to her. She stood and followed him inside once he managed to disengage the locks.
He stripped off his leather jacket and draped it over the arm of the chair. Cheyenne kept her clothes on and joined him on the sofa.
“What do you want to talk about?” he said.
Her eyebrows raised. “Really?”
He swallowed.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I know it’s not like it was supposed to be, but I’m handling it.”
“I don’t think you are. I’m starting to question if you’re cut out for this.”
“I am.”
She eyed him. “You’re lucky your ass is fine. But it’s not going to save you. I want to know the details. What are you doing, specifically, to remedy the situation?”