by Dan Lawton
With his eyes closed and the piano chords spectacularly easing him awake, Randolph felt relaxed. The grates on the dash blew a stream of lukewarm air on him, just the perfect amount to keep him cozy. The window near his ear hummed with a pinprick of cool outside air, which, juxtaposed with the warmth, played tricks on his body temperature—too hot one second, too cool the next. He stretched his back and sat up.
“You don’t have to listen to this, you know,” he said. Sheila was that much younger than he was, so he thought there was no way she would be interested in mellow classic rock.
“I like it.”
Randolph laughed. “No, you don’t.”
Sheila smiled at him.
Before long, the snow turned into rain, but only inside the truck—outside, the sky was gray but clear, and the moon hovered just below the canopy of trees. Randolph felt wonderfully refreshed. It was five o’clock. He had slept for hours.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Not sure, to be honest. Somewhere in eastern Nebraska. We crossed the state line some time ago.”
“Thanks for driving. I guess I was exhausted.”
“Don’t mention it. You hungry?”
“Starved. You?”
“Let’s eat.”
. . . . .
They ate and they talked, got to know each other better. Sheila smiled often and laughed. They shared stories. They learned about one another’s lives—their backgrounds, their interests, their hopes and dreams. Randolph learned a lot about her. She enjoyed fish and tacos, but not fish tacos—something about the combination of the smells misled her taste buds; she believed in love but not destiny, and definitely not fate; she thought friendship was important but its significance was overstated; she tried but could not understand the infatuation with The Beatles—she was more of a Doors gal herself; she disliked the taste of all green vegetables, except for Brussels sprouts, but only when doused in garlic butter; her least favorite chore was cleaning the shower. Her favorite? Singing while cleaning a pile of dishes. Also notable—and he was not sure if this was good or bad—was that she was not a fan of French onion soup. It really was a new beginning any way he sliced it.
She once broke her arm playing beach volleyball, which still ached sometimes when the temperature dipped too low; she had been to the island of Palau thrice and it was by far her favorite place on earth—nearly 350 islands made up of sandy beaches and palm trees, small populations, and beautiful, sunny skies twelve months of the year; her favorite animal was a tortoise. Worms terrified her. While she did not talk much about her childhood, she did tell him she had an uncle she looked at like a father. She did not say anything about her real parents, and Randolph did not ask. He got the sense it was a sore subject, saddening.
He shared his life with her too—about his career as a mechanical engineer, about the breakdown of his marriage, about what drove him to pursue her. She acted curious about his job—she asked probing questions he would expect someone who did not know anything about airplane engines to ask—but he got the sense she was just being polite. It was difficult to understand for someone who thought differently than he did, he knew that. But he appreciated her for trying.
About his marriage, she trod lightly. He shared more than he thought he would, but when she interlocked her fingers and rested her chin on her thumbs and looked him in the eye and nodded, he kept going. He wanted to. It was nice to talk about it, to get all the anger and resentment off his chest. The story was simple, really—boy met girl, they fell in love; boy married girl, they lived; they argued and they disagreed, but they loved until they did not; then they lived together but separately until eventually not at all—that part was still forthcoming, though very soon. Even still, Randolph had not talked it out enough, so he felt better for doing so.
Randolph reached across the table and grabbed Sheila’s hand. She let him. “Thanks for listening.”
“Thanks for sharing.”
Silverware clanked.
“Tell me a secret,” he said.
Sheila smiled, partially laughed. “What?”
“About you. Something not many people know about you.”
She pulled her hand away and leaned back. Randolph picked up his glass and poured an ice cube into his mouth, embraced the chill against his tongue.
“I’d have to think about it for a minute,” she said.
He shrugged with smugness, waited.
After a minute, she said, “Okay, I’ve got something.”
Randolph leaned forward. “Let me hear it.”
“I, um...wow, I’m really anxious about this. I’ve never told anyone this before.”
Randolph folded his hands, waited her out.
She took a deep breath. “Okay, here it goes. One time—well, not just once—I had a relationship with a woman.”
He waited for more, for a reaction, for anything. But nothing came. “And?”
“A sexual relationship. An affair.”
Randolph’s chest thumped. “Oh. Oh wow.”
Sheila crinkled her forehead and covered her face with her hands.
He thought of something to say, quickly. She was embarrassed and he did not want her to be. “Well. I don’t know quite what to say.”
She uncovered her face, though not entirely. “I’m sorry, that was too much. Are you mortified? I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s quite all right. I’m glad you felt you could share that with me. I’m sorry I didn’t know what to say. It caught me off guard is all.”
“You’re not upset?”
“Of course not. We all have things we regret in our pasts.”
“Oh. Is that so?”
“I mean, sure. Nobody is perfect. That’s life, right?”
“It’s just...I never said I regret it.”
Randolph let that sit for a few seconds. “I’m just going to put my foot in my mouth over here, don’t mind me.”
Sheila laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just saying, I don’t regret the experience at all.”
“No? Why’s that?”
“Have you ever heard that women are better kissers than men?”
“I wouldn’t know, but I have heard that.”
“Well I would know, I do. And I can tell you, it’s true. No question about it. Women are superior kissers.”
He leaned forward. “Is that so?”
So did she. “Definitely. And our lips are so sensitive, so when a good kisser kisses you passionately, it flows down our bodies and sparks desire in all the right regions. It’s a natural reaction. We’re wired that way as mammals.”
He thought about the kiss from the night before, about how he felt the tingle from lips to toes, about what it did to his body. It almost felt like it was happening again as he remembered. The restaurant suddenly felt very warm. He was hyper-focused on Sheila as if the two of them were alone, everything else on the periphery insignificant. He smelled the lust on her, and he knew what that meant.
Her lips were spread. Behind them, her tongue peeked. She leaned back. “But what do I know?”
He felt something in his gut. It twirled, spun out of control, rode waves through his system. His heart sprinted as the thoughts of him and Sheila together tormented him, teased him in every way possible. “We should get out of here. Do you want to go?”
She folded her arms but smirked. “I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“How many rooms?” It was the young man behind the counter at the motel. It could have been the same man as from the night before, the similarities striking.
Randolph looked at Sheila, who stood within an arm’s reach. His bag was on the floor between them. “One room,” he said as he looked back to the counter.
Sheila slipped her fingers in between his and smiled while the man smashed away on the keyboard. Randolph’s stomach rolled again. The man told them the price and accepted Randolph’s credit card without the least bit of hesitation. Sheila stepped closer and interlocked her arm with his, rested her chin on his shoulder. She smelled like a rose.
“Here you go, sir,” the man said as he handed Randolph his card and their room keys. “Check out is ten o’clock.”
Outside, the moon hung high above them, almost full. Stars littered the darkness and illuminated him and Sheila as if the universe were watching. Randolph was confident, his shoulders held high. He felt strong. Sheila’s arm stayed linked until they found the room.
So much of it was similar to the no-tell from the night before, and that was to be expected. The motels off the highway were made for quick stops and a place to crash, not to impress—they did what they were supposed to, no more. The rate was reasonable. Frankly, he was surprised they accepted his credit card and were not a cash-only establishment, though he supposed it was the way of the world these days. He made a mental note to check his statement when he could to assure everything went through as expected and he was not overcharged. He dropped his bag on the carpet and stepped aside, locked the door, and connected the chain. Sheila sat on the end of the bed.
He grabbed the curtains and yanked, shutting out the starlight, blocking out the peepers. He breathed in hard and pushed it out quietly. He suddenly felt less macho, not as confident. Nerves crawled within him. His body shook. Sheila looked at him when he turned toward her, her shoulders straight and her necked craned. A fire burned in her eyes. He smiled and walked toward her, stopped in front of her. She looked up at him and bit the inside of her lip.
“What now?” she said, then she stood.
A hand landed on his hip, and it was not his own. It slid to his front, then to the back. Sheila walked around him, her fingertips swiping across his belt. His everything stiffened when her lips pressed against the back of his neck, then his collar. She smelled beautiful.
Soft, moist lips on his neck.
Soft, moist lips on his earlobe.
Soft, moist lips on his jaw.
On his cheek.
On his lips.
Then he felt her tongue on his and he tensed.
Her hands crawled south, stopped at his belt. Then she pulled away, bit her lip, and bent her knees. Her eyes stayed on his as she descended.
But he was anxious. Petrified, even, of how he would perform. He slid his hands under her armpits and stopped her, pulled her back up. The eroticism fell from her face in an instant.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing, nothing’s wrong.” Though that was not true. He knew it was a lie, and so did she.
“Something’s wrong.”—she sat back on the bed and her head fell—”Is it me? Do you not find me attractive?”
He sat next to her on the bed, which bounced just like the one the night before. “No, no. That’s not it. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
“Then what, Randolph? I’ve thrown myself at you repeatedly. What’s the problem?” She was angry now.
His head dropped and he sighed. She had to know. He had to tell her before it was too late, before she was gone for good. “Okay, so here’s the thing. It’s a physiological thing. Well, and a psychological. Both.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A few years ago, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer.”
She threw her hands over her mouth and gasped. “Are you dying? Is that why you . . .”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m not dying. Thousands of men live with it. More than that. It’s not a death sentence. It was caught early, so it’s okay. Everything is okay.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When caught early, there may be no symptoms. I didn’t have any. You know, besides....Oftentimes, the best treatment is doing nothing. My doctor’s been monitoring it. If it doesn’t get bigger or spread, then nothing has to be done.”
“Are you impotent then?”
“Well, no, not exactly. If it gets bigger or spreads, the prostate may need to come out. If that happens, then I may or may not be. Hard to know.”
“And now?”
“I have a difficult time performing, let’s say that. The prostate issue has made it difficult to, well, you know.”
“But you still can?”
“I haven’t. Not in a while. But, in theory, yes.”
“In theory?”
“There’s nothing physically stopping it, per se. It can be more difficult, but not impossible. I’m told a big part of it is getting past it psychologically. To say it’s caused some problems is an understatement.”
“In your marriage, you mean?”
He nodded and looked away. He was embarrassed, felt ashamed. A hand landed on his thigh.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
“I guess we both have some things of significance that have happened to us.”
“Everyone has a past.”
He looked at her, met her eyes. “And a future.”
She smiled. More, she glowed. Her eyes lit up and welled with tears. Dimples formed on her cheeks. When she leaned in and kissed him, his eyes faded to black and his world flooded with emotion. Instead of fighting the overpowering feeling he felt, he relinquished control and swam with the waves. He wished it would last forever.
Clothes came off. First his, then hers. Her lips pressed against his clavicle then his chest then his torso while he laid on his back and let the sensations suffocate him. He squirmed and convulsed and groaned in ways he was usually uncomfortable with. But Sheila made him feel powerful and desired and therefore put him at ease. He blocked out the negativity from his mind and lived in the moment, and in doing so, his body was free. Vulnerable.
Before the night was over, every square inch of his body had been kissed, including parts that had not been in an exceptionally long time. And it was amazing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Benji knew a guy who knew a guy who worked in the call center for one of the major cell phone companies. In exchange for information, he arranged a drop of a top-tier grade of weed—not the best, but the next level down. Turned out, the information was incredibly useful. Precisely what he was after. It was a record of all Shay’s phone activity over the last week.
It told him a lot.
Yet still not enough.
If nothing else, his suspicions about her were correct; she was up to something. The reason her apartment looked like it had not been touched in a while was because it had not. It was difficult to fathom why that might have been.
Who was Shay, really? He hardly knew her. They had dated for a while, a few months—he lost count how many. Time flew these days. They had been emotionally intimate at times, though as he thought about it further, he wondered if that was the truth. He had not been entirely truthful with her, so why should he assume she was with him?
The information he shared about himself—about his parents and his childhood and his insecurities—was true, and he had no reason not to believe Shay’s stories were anything but. And the connection he felt to her—the love, dare he say—was real. Or at least he thought as much. Until now.
But the other stuff, he may have fibbed a bit. Withholding certain information was not a lie, per se, was it? He did not think so.
He pushed tho
se thoughts aside, felt guilty for having had them. Shay would have an explanation for why she had not been home, just like before—as she said in her text message, something came up. He trusted her. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. They were in this together. That was what being in love was about, was it not? He was still learning. An amateur.
Despite the trust, he could not wait any longer. He was well beyond anxious about what had happened, and answers were needed. Cheyenne would be back with demands, and he would need to comply. He had to think proactively if he was going to salvage this situation before it got out of hand.
He went to his bed. Underneath was the one travel bag he owned—gray and worn and stained with coffee that was not his. He bent over and wrapped his fingers around its straps, then pulled it out. He spread it on the bed and filled it with the necessities from his drawers.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. He froze at first—a natural reaction—then relaxed. His online activity was untraceable, so he had nothing to worry about. He had mastered the art of being a digital ghost, so whoever knocked was not there for that. Anything else he could easily explain away. He left the bag on the bed and went to the door.
“Guess who?” Cheyenne said when he opened it. A genuine smile enveloped her face.
“Why are you so happy?”
“Why not?”
Benji stared at her.
She came in. “I have something for you.”
A black duffel bag hung from her shoulder. When she let go, it slammed to the floor like a sack of sand.
“What’s the occasion?”
“I thought I’d try a different approach. Something is wrong, I can sense that. I’m not stupid, you know. So I thought if I came bearing gifts—an incentive, perhaps—we could get back on track.”