by Brent, Cora
“Talk to me,” she pleads. “I know you remember me, Johnny.”
Hearing her say my name is two things at once.
It’s a hard kick in the gut and it’s sweet music.
It’s a wish and it’s a punishment.
No. No. NO!
She can’t have a fucking place in my life.
“Shit.” I force out some fake laughter. “Did we hook up a while back or something? Sorry honey, I wish I did remember you but you’ve got a lot of competition.”
Caris stiffens and her cheeks grow red. I’ve surprised her. She figured we’d have a sweet moment of reunion with all kinds of emotional hugs and tears and soulful dialogue. She’s probably been fantasizing that we’d kiss under the moonlight and end up making sweet love between the sheets. How poetic.
Caris and Johnny: Two childhood friends who become lovers.
But that’s not what we are. That’s not what we are at all.
“Stop it,” she commands.
I don’t stop. I dig the knife in with a shrug.
“You gonna make a scene or something? You know how it is. Sometimes you just want to scratch an itch and you don’t care whose pussy you’re playing with.”
She shakes her head. “You’re being a real son of a bitch right now.”
I laugh at her. “I won’t be bragging to anyone if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Her arms cross over her chest. She looks even sexier when she’s angry. “What is this? What kind of fucking game are you trying to play?”
“There’s no game.” I stand up and stretch. My wet boxers stick to my skin and my dick is still hard. I want her to notice that it’s hard. And that I’m walking away from her anyway.
“Look, uh, Caris, right?” I shine a cold grin down on her. “I’m only sticking around here to help out a friend. I don’t know you. And I don’t want to. Because even though you’re kind of cute you seem like a lot of crazy trouble.”
“Jonathan.” She spits out my name, as if that will make all the difference in the world.
I ignore the effect it has on me. “Look on the bright side. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding another dick to keep you company if you go out dressed like that all the time.”
I grab my clothes from where I’d dropped them on a patio chair and head into the house without looking back. When I hear her choke out the word “Motherfucker”, I smile to myself although I don’t feel remotely happy.
Caris
If Asshole were an academic category he would get an A+++ without studying.
He would be the almighty valedictorian.
The goddamn gold medal champion.
After he cackles his vulgar insults and leaves me sitting beside the pool alone, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of staying out there all by myself and nursing the sting of humiliation.
I retreat to my bedroom, pace back and forth while reliving every crushing second of that pool encounter, and then try to calm down in a lavender scented bubble bath. If it weren’t for the fact that I’ve hardly slept for the last two nights I wouldn’t be able to sleep now.
However, I’m exhausted. Too exhausted to dwell on Jonathan Hempstead for another moment. I fall asleep on top of my covers.
My dreams become an odd collage.
Johnny is there. Not the cold-eyed muscled jerk who smirked beside the pool and showed off the fact that cruelty made his dick hard. The Johnny who used to be my friend. We are back in Arcana, in the soft twilight of a summer evening. He holds my hand and shyly recites facts about the meteor crater on the edge of town. We are staring down into the wide chasm when I am abruptly shoved, hard and without warning. I fall into the rocky hole and cry for help but there’s no one but Johnny to hear me and Johnny doesn’t care. Johnny’s the one who pushed me.
The landscape shifts and I’m in front of a small white coffin, small enough to hold an infant. The coffin shakes as if the occupant is alive even though that’s impossible. The lid opens and my mother slaps me across the face, screaming ‘WHY ARE YOU HERE?’
And then I’m lying in a field. Another summer is coming and I’m sad that I won’t be here to see it. I can’t understand all the terrible things that have happened to me but I know that they are final and I know that I am lost. I know that I am her. I am Nancy...
When I awaken my skin is clammy and my heart pounds. It’s barely six a.m. and I feel vaguely sick. The troubling images that ran amok behind my closed eyes refuse to fade. And last night’s conversation with Johnny/Jay echoes in my ears while I brush my teeth. I don’t believe for a red hot second that he doesn’t remember me. His anger is confusing. We didn’t part on good terms but that was almost nine years ago for fuck’s sake. We were both hurting. We said rotten things. We were kids.
Why would he be so angry after all this time? If he’s still furious that I told the police about Rafe then he shouldn’t be. He couldn’t have expected me to lie to protect his brother. Not after what his brother did.
Anxiety has made me jittery. I decide the best solution is to go for a run. I started running in high school but never competitively. I ran to get out of the house, away from the burden of my mother’s perpetual sorrow and my father’s concern. I ran because it felt good to have to work so hard that all feelings of confusion were chased from my mind. It’s an activity I’ve largely abandoned in college. Between school and work and frivolous social action, my time tends to fill up quickly.
After digging my running shoes out of the back of my closet, changing to workout clothes and tying my hair back, I’m already feeling better. There’s not a sound in the apartment. Lana has to be over on the other side, sleeping peacefully in Shane’s bed. As for the house’s fourth inhabitant, I have no idea what Johnny is up to.
Not Johnny. Jay.
Over the years I wondered about him. Not very often. Thoughts of him were painful. I might have typed his name into search engines a few times. There’s no telling when he ditched his real name to invent this Jay Phoenix identity. And after the way he talked to me last night, I’m sure there’s no point in asking.
My keychain has a small canister of pepper spray attached and I keep it in my hand as I jog through the residential streets of Hutton. There are few people around this early on a Sunday. I veer towards the university and then regret it. Jogging through the deserted campus is downright eerie. I’m running the path that surrounds the quad when I notice there’s a lone man standing directly opposite. He’s young, probably about my age, and he has stopped, perhaps to catch his breath. The front of his yellow Hutton Coyotes t-shirt is damp with sweat. He notices me and is pleased, raising a hand in greeting. He’ll probably start up a conversation if I come any closer.
I do not wave back. I turn around and run the other way, pumping my legs as hard as possible. Once I glance over my shoulder to ensure I’m not being followed. In all likelihood the guy in the yellow t-shirt means no harm. He’s probably just some college guy who’d be happy to meet a new girl.
Yet I was raised to understand something.
There are terrible people in the world.
Usually they don’t look like monsters. Sometimes they even look like someone you know. Remaining on guard and running away from strangers with your tiny pepper spray weapon clutched in your fist is a necessity.
It’s because of that last dream. That one in the field. I’ve had that dream before, though not in years. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this particular dream has resurfaced just when Jonathan Hempstead does. Little does he know he has the power to summon ghosts, at least the ones that just live in my head.
My hard breathing sounds as loud as a roar in my ears. I’m not in awesome physical shape. I’ve pushed myself too far. My chest shrieks and my legs are melted rubber by the time I return to my street. Gasping for breath, I stagger to the front lawn and drop down on the cool grass, which is still damp because it’s so early. I could have lurched the last few steps to the door but it feels good to sit here in t
he damp grass in the soft morning sunlight. I run my fingers over the soft green carpet and gradually my heart rate slows to a more normal pace.
My cotton shirt has become a sweaty mess and it feels unpleasant on my skin. I don’t think twice about pulling it over my head. It’s not like I’m conducting a striptease. I’m wearing a sports bra underneath and no one is watching me anyway. Pulling the shirt taut between both hands I raise my arms and stretch, bending my torso all the way to the right. The muscle extension feels amazing. A borderline pornographic ‘ahhh’ escapes my lips. Ever so slowly I bend in the opposite direction and this feels equally fantastic. Perhaps I ought to enroll in a yoga class. This is so much better than running.
Then I swivel my neck and receive a shock. Jonathan Hempstead is staring at me.
The hood of his truck is raised and streaks of grease now paint his powerful forearms. He’s not wearing a shirt and although I got an eyeful of his chest last night when he shot out of the pool, it’s no less impressive today. Those abs are unbelievable. They should be sculpted into marble. They should be worshipped.
He must have been out here messing with the innards of his truck when I huffed and puffed my way to the front yard. He hadn’t made a sound and I didn’t notice him because I was busy trying not to pass out.
I certainly notice him now.
And I notice something else.
Even from twenty feet away the look on his face is plain. It’s not boredom or defiance or scorn. None of the things he’s shown me since his arrival. It’s something far more startling.
It’s hunger. It’s lust.
And it’s a thunderbolt straight to my core.
The telltale pull in my belly spreads lower and heat rises in my cheeks. I can’t stop my body’s reaction. And I’ll never admit to it either.
The time we spend with our eyes locked probably doesn’t last more than three seconds but it is packed with warring emotions. There’s something disturbing about those suspended seconds, something disturbing about the way we stare at each other.
He turns away sharply and bends down under the pretense of examining some mystery beneath the hood. This is the first time I take a really good look at his back. It’s broad-shouldered and perfect. There’s a tattoo behind his right shoulder. A black bird spreading its wings. I want to ask him if it’s the bird of mythology that rises from the ashes. The Phoenix. Like the name he chose. Like the city he lives in. It’s a symbol of hope and defiance.
What’s happened to you, Johnny?
But this man, Jay, is not willing to answer any questions I might ask. He’s made that clear. He prefers to be despised.
Feeling awkward, I climb slowly to my feet and I’m about to leave him alone to toy with his engine parts. He’s got a wrench in his hand and his arm moves back and forth, twisting something under the hood with more force than required.
I’m halfway to the side door that leads to my apartment when I stop in my tracks. This is absurd. He’s going to be here all summer and he’ll have to deal with me at some point. Last night I tried being nice and that was a waste of time. I’m no longer in the mood to be nice.
“Oh, Johnny,” I call in a singsong, taunting him with every syllable. He freezes, wrench in mid twist.
A smile spreads across my face.
“I was just wondering how often you visit Arcana,” I say with false sugar sweetness. “Your family is so well known in town. I’m sure everyone would be excited for the return of the Hempsteads. You could pay a visit with Rafe, if he’s not in prison. Imagine that. The two Hempstead brothers. You would stop traffic. ”
I wait for him to show emotion. To get angry. To order me to go straight to hell. He does nothing of the kind. Instead he bends down and places his wrench in a grey metal toolbox that sits on the curb. He selects a different tool and calmly returns to his task under the hood without even turning his head to acknowledge that I’ve spoken. He wants me to feel invisible.
“Weirdo,” I mutter under my breath but I’m embarrassed. I don’t really want to attract a lot of attention in the front yard so I stalk the rest of the way to the door without looking back.
Lana has never been an early bird if she can help it so I’m not surprised that there’s still no sign of her. I cut up a banana into a bowl of cornflakes and pour a glass of cranberry juice because it’s the only non alcoholic beverage in the fridge. I haven’t been to the grocery store in two weeks. I’ll go shopping today. Right after I finish hunting in vain for a job. Yesterday I made a flurry of calls and fired off a stack of Please Hire Me emails. No one has responded yet. Either all the jobs in Hutton have been filled or else no one does any hiring on weekends. Something needs to come up soon. If not, I’ll have no choice but to beg my dad for a loan when I visit home next month.
After breakfast I take my time in the shower. The tightness in my muscles fades under the hot water. The loofa sponge rolls over my belly and I remember the hungry rush of desire when confronted with the sight of a half naked sex god in the front yard.
Yeah, Johnny is hot.
So what?
Plenty of guys out there manage to be hot without competing for asshole gold medals.
Alden, for example.
Alden isn’t a Johnny-level stone cold beast but he’s better than average. When we’re out together girls are always looking him up and down. And then he gives them an encouraging wink when he assumes I’m not watching.
Okay, so Alden might be an asshole-in-training. At least he never pretended like he’d forgotten my name.
I set the loofa on the cutout shelf and allow my fingers to stray. I want to get off. Orgasms have a way of cleansing the mind.
A breathy moan fills the confined shower stall when one finger, and then another, slips into the aching cleft between my legs. I can imagine it; the consuming pleasure of being invaded. Better than fingers or a tongue, better than rubbing one out by way of dry humping in a back seat.
My fingers move faster, probe deeper. My fantasy lover is faceless, nameless and brandishes a record sized cock.
“Sometimes you just want to scratch an itch and you don’t care whose pussy you’re playing with.”
Oh, fuck it all.
Can’t I even enjoy a few seconds of orgasmic glory without Johnny’s interference?
Now my thoughts are all about him. I’m thinking of his mouth watering six pack and the way his wet boxers bragged about the size of his dick.
I yank my hand away and savagely switch off the water. It’s unreasonable to be downright pissed as I wrap myself in a fluffy blue towel but I’m pissed anyway.
I mean, who the hell does he think he is, ruining my shower time masturbation fun?
While I comb out my wet hair and glare at my fuzzy reflection in the steamed up vanity mirror, I’m grateful that no one can hear my inner dialogue. I proceed to my bedroom in search of clean clothes and banish all thoughts of throbbing cocks from my mind, at least for today.
With no job to go to and no classes to worry about, I’m starting to feel rather forlorn and restless. My fallback activity when I’ve got nothing else going on is cleaning. I drag all the supplies out from underneath the kitchen and plan to kill a few hours by transforming the apartment into a sparkling showcase. If it weren’t for a certain unpleasant houseguest I wouldn’t mind performing some housekeeping on Shane’s side as well. I doubt he’s cleaned a thing since he moved in and Lana claims to suffer from skin sensitivity to all household cleaning chemicals so she won’t be in a hurry to scrub the floors. But Shane’s just going to have to clean his own place. I have no desire to encounter Johnny again today.
Inner voice: Jay. He calls himself Jay now. You need to call him Jay too.
Also inner voice: Fuck that guy. He ruined my orgasm. I’ll call him whatever I want.
I’m down on my hands and knees and scouring the grime out of the very dated vinyl flooring when Lana opens the connecting door. Her red bikini is balled up in her right hand and she’s wearing only a
faded black t-shirt that says ‘Suck My Dick’. It’s a departure from her usual fashion sense.
She’s in the middle of a yawn when she walks in but then she cheers up when she notices me. “Oh, awesome! You’re in cleaning mode.”
I sit back on my heels. Blood rushes through my lower legs. My knees are killing me. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing else to do. How pathetic is that?”
Lana laughs. “I’d chip in and help but…”
“I know. Skin sensitivity.”
“And I have to be at work in an hour.” She takes a peek in the fridge and makes a face. “Slim pickings in here.”
“I’m going grocery shopping later. Just tell me what you need.”
“Cool. I’ll give you some cash before I leave.” She shuts the fridge and leans against the door. She looks tired, her hair is tangled and she’s wearing an ugly shirt, yet she’s still enviably gorgeous.
“I have a favor to ask you,” she says, chewing her lip, a sure sign that the favor is of a serious nature.
I toss the wet sponge in a nearby soapy bucket. “Name it.”
“Shane needs some help figuring out some of the financial crap with the bakery.”
“I thought Ruby always used a bookkeeper.”
“She did, but Jay’s not impressed with the job the bookkeeper was doing. He thinks Shane ought to get someone independent to take a look at everything and since you’re an accounting major I thought you could help.”
She pauses and when I say nothing she continues in a rush. “I haven’t mentioned it to Shane, though, so feel free to say no.”
“I don’t mind helping Shane out. But what’s Jay’s problem with the bookkeeper?”
She shrugs. “Who knows. Jay seems a little tense about some things.”
“I’ll say,” I mutter.
Lana eyes me. “You don’t like him.”
I deliberately misunderstand her comment. “You know I like Shane just fine.”
“And you know who I’m actually talking about.” She sighs and takes a seat at the small dinette set in the middle of the tiny kitchen. “It’s all right if you don’t like him but he’s Shane’s best friend. If not for Jay then I’m not sure Shane would still be alive.”