Tito

by Hildreth, Scott

  “You won’t discuss your junk in front of a woman?” Braxton asked, his eyes narrowing as he spoke.

  “Said he doesn’t discuss it in front of women,” Hap said.

  “Let him respond, Old Man,” Braxton said with a laugh.

  “He took my earlier reply out of context,” I explained. “What I was meaning was this: in front of a woman, I don’t need to make reference to it by name.”

  “Don’t need to?” he asked. “Or won’t?”

  “It’s not necessary,” I responded.

  “So, you don’t discuss it in front of a woman?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “But you’ll sit here and discuss it at length,” he said. “You don’t think that’s odd?”

  “We’re getting way off the subject. Like I said, there’s no need. It’s not like I have some strange hang up.”

  He drank what remained of his beer and stood. “Sounds like you do.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  He walked to the front door and pulled it open. “I’ll be right back,” he said over his shoulder.

  Somewhat mystified by Braxton’s lack of acknowledgement to my response, I looked at Hap.

  “Don’t look at me,” Hap said. “I don’t know what he’s doing.”

  Braxton disappeared into the house, and then returned in a moment with three whisky glasses. He paused after stepping onto the porch and nodded toward the box sitting beside my chair. “Am I to assume that’s for me?”

  I handed it to him. “It is.”

  After removing the bottle from the box, he poured three glasses of whisky and gave each of us one.

  He raised his glass. “To friends, family, and the fucked up things we get ourselves into.”

  Hap and Braxton took theirs in one gulp. I sipped mine, but then decided to do as they did, and down it in one drink. As the warmth of the liquor slowly worked its way to my stomach, I set the glass beside my chair.

  “So, tell me about your date with the hat detective,” Braxton said.

  “Well, we went to that restaurant you recommended—”

  “What’d you think?” he asked.

  “It was great. Like you said, it’s kind of a run-down dive, but the food was fantastic.”

  “The waitstaff is…interesting,” he said. “Most of ‘em are over sixty.”

  “Ours was pushing seventy,” I said.

  “Nothing wrong with being seventy,” Hap snarled.

  “Then what?” Braxton asked, smirking. “Did you go back to her place and point at your dick?”

  I rolled my eyes. “She wanted to have sex, but all I did was kiss her. I left after that.”

  He gave me a look of sheer disbelief. “So, not only is it off-limits to discuss, it’s off-limits, period?”

  “She was drunk,” I said adamantly. “I wasn’t going to have sex with her if she was so drunk that she could barely stand.”

  “Wine?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “They pour a hefty glass at that place.”

  “They sure do. I only drank one and I felt like I’d had enough. I asked her when we were leaving if she was okay. She said she was, but I could tell she wasn’t. By the time we got to her house, she was tanked.”

  “How many did she have?”

  “Three. Maybe four.”

  “Jesus. How big is she?”

  “She stands about five-four and weighs maybe one-forty,” I responded. “She’s no newcomer to drinking wine, though. She drank her first glass just like you drank that glass of scotch.”

  Hap cleared his throat. “So, you wouldn’t fuck her because she had a little too much wine?”

  “I wasn’t going to take advantage if her if she was drunk.”

  “Did she say she wanted sex?”

  “She made it clear,” I said with a laugh. “She was pretty pissed off when I left.”

  He peered into his empty glass. “Damned shame things are the way they are.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “What do you mean?”

  “If you were drunk and she ripped your clothes off, it’d be called a fun time,” he said. “If she’s drunk and you do it, it’s rape. I suppose it was a good decision on your part to walk away. Especially beings as you don’t really know her.”

  “My fear of her claiming rape isn’t why I walked away.”

  “Why’d you do it, then?”

  “Several reasons,” I said.

  “Enlighten me,” Hap said. “I’ve got to live vicariously through you and dip-shit over there, and he refuses to talk to me about women.”

  “I didn’t like the thought of having sex with her if she wasn’t even going to remember it the next day. Then, I don’t know. I guess I realized we had some things in common during dinner. I was hoping if I withheld on the sex that she might go on a second date.”

  Hap raised his empty glass and turned it upside down over his open mouth. “In theory, that sounds like a good plan. May or may not work.” After a considerable wait, a lone drop of whisky fell onto the tip of his tongue. He grinned. “What did you two have in common?”

  “She was bold, quick-witted, and had a really good sense of humor. She was also intelligent. Very much so, to be honest.”

  “All characteristics that you clearly don’t possess,” Hap said with a laugh. “Sounds like a match made in heaven.” He leaned forward and looked past me, at Braxton. “You planning on hoarding that bottle of scotch, or are you going to share it?”

  Braxton tossed the bottle through the air like it was a boomerang. My muscles tensed at the thought of it crashing down on the porch and shattering in a thousand pieces.

  As if it were as common of an occurrence as tying his shoes, Hap caught the bottle mid-flight, by the neck.

  He gave Braxton a thankful nod. “Thank you, son.”

  “Thank our naïve friend,” Braxton said.

  “I’m not naïve.”

  “I’d argue that,” Braxton said, raising his open hand over his head.

  While my focus was on Braxton, the bottle of scotch flew into my field of vision, from behind me. No differently than his father, Braxton snatched it from the air without a second thought.

  “You had no idea that girl wanted to use you for sex,” he said, uncorking the bottle. “I did. Considering that we both had the same information to formulate our opinion, I’d say that makes you slightly naïve.”

  “I think my judgement was clouded.”

  “By what?”

  “Hope.”

  “Hope?” He poured his glass half full and handed me the bottle. “Of what?”

  “That there would be more to it than that,” I responded. “More than just a one-night-stand.”

  “What were you hoping for?”

  I held onto the hat for ten years, denying the existence of everything associated with how I obtained it. Realizing I lost it brought a flood of suppressed memories that I wasn’t prepared to deal with. With those memories came pain.

  Tremendous pain.

  I hoped being in Reggie’s company could eliminate that pain.

  Being honest wasn’t going to be an easy task. I poured my glass half full of whiskey. Being vague with Braxton prompted him to poke and prod until he got the results that satisfied him. In the end, he controlled the outcome by asking the right questions or diverting the conversation along a path that evoked the response he was after.

  I sipped the scotch. Despite my efforts to hide it, the fact remained.

  I was in agony.

  Confiding to the men in the MC about my crippling pain would be met with scrutiny. It always was. Their expectation of me always having the answers allowed them to chastise me to no end when I didn’t. This time, I didn’t have the answer. I didn’t know that there was one. Not a clear one, anyway.

  Braxton and Hap were both smart-asses, but they’d become family. Their opinions differed greatly, but the advice they gave was heartfelt and solid.

  I pour
ed another glass nearly full. After handing Braxton the bottle, I took a healthy drink. “About ten years ago, we were headed to Oceanside, to an all-day biker rally. At the time, my hair was buzz-cut, like Hap’s. I knew once we got there, I’d have my helmet off all day, and I was afraid my scalp would get sunburned. So, I went to the mall to get a hat. The girl who helped me was cute. Really cute. Her skin was white, like she’d never been in the sun whatsoever. On her left wrist, she had one tattoo, a bright pink peony.”

  I took another drink of the scotch, laughing to myself at my recollection of meeting her. She was energetic, quirky, and unpredictable. Keeping her focused on any one subject for longer than a few seconds was impossible. In fact, through the course of buying the hat, she changed the topic of our conversation no less than a dozen times.

  While she spoke, she danced—because she couldn’t help it. Without provocation, she offered interesting tidbits about herself.

  The crust of her sandwiches was eaten last and she preferred pimento spread over sliced cheeses. She feared lunchmeats and anyone who refused to make eye contact with her but didn’t fear death. Siracha was her condiment of choice, and she used it on everything from soup to nuts. She dreamed of one day being a race car driver and loved to walk along the beach, preferring to do so with someone who enjoyed it as much as she did.

  We talked for twenty minutes straight, laughing as much as we spoke. I later found out the tattoo covered scars that were left from the self-inflicted wounds of her past. Sadly, there were other scars that were much deeper than the few covered by the tattoo.

  “She’s the one that picked out the frowny-faced hat for me,” I said. “She said it was appropriate because it would always remind me of how she felt when she was alone. So, the entire time I was talking to her, all I could think is damn, it’s a shame she can’t go with me. I considered asking her out but felt that anyone as attractive and entertaining as she was had to be in a relationship. I decided to save myself the disappointment and bought the hat without asking her on a date. On my way out of the store, there was this blood-curdling scream from behind me. I turned around just in time to see her collapse on the floor—”

  “Jesus,” Braxton said, interrupting me. “What was wrong with her?”

  “A flare up from recurring stomach ulcers,” I said. “In agony, she groaned that out while her co-worker helped her to her feet. I ended up leaving for the rally while she was headed to the emergency room.”

  “Damn,” he said. “Continue.”

  “While I was in the parking lot putting the hat in the saddlebag, I couldn’t get her off my mind. How we didn’t even know each other, yet she made me laugh so hard my ribs hurt. Her quirky way of just blurting out whatever she was thinking. While I was wishing we would have exchanged phone numbers, this Honda Civic came speeding through the parking lot, right at me. It left four black marks across the asphalt and screeched to a sideways stop, missing me by a matter of inches. I jumped to the side and glared at the idiot driving.” I took a quick sip of scotch. “Guess what?”

  Braxton grinned. “It was her?”

  “It sure was,” I said with a light laugh. “She jumped out of the car, laughing so hard I thought she was crying. She didn’t have stomach ulcers. She couldn’t imagine staying at work while I was going to the rally, and a trip to the hospital was the only thing that she could think of to get off work without losing her job. She all but begged me to take her to the rally.”

  “Did you take her?”

  I grinned. “I did.”

  He poured another glass of whisky. “Continue.”

  “We had a great time,” I said. “Everyone liked her. We left the rally at about midnight and stayed out until the sun came up. Spent most of the night walking along on the beach by La Jolla, talking.”

  “Sounds like a real firecracker,” Braxton said. “Where is she now?”

  “She uhhm.” I downed what was left of my scotch, wincing as the whisky burned my throat. I lowered the glass and drew a deep breath before continuing. “She killed herself when she got home.”

  Braxton swallowed heavily and handed me the bottle.

  “Jesus, Kid,” Hap said from behind me. “I’m sorry.”

  I poured another glass of whiskey and nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

  11

  Reggie

  It was just before midnight on Sunday. Armed with a container of nail polish remover, two bottles of wine, a barbeque igniter, a bag of Doritos, and a boatload of desire to settle a score, Mel and I were in my backyard.

  Illuminated by the two motion sensing lights that were mounted over my back door, we prepared fill the night sky with smoky proof of my hatred for Jared, his choices of attire, and his preferences in household furnishings.

  Mel took a drink of wine from the bottle while assessing the situation. “I think we need to cut the cushions first. That’s what they do in the movies.”

  I looked at her with uncertain eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “In the movies,” she explained. “They always pull out a pocket knife and cut the seat cushions of the car they’re burning before they light it on fire. I think we need to expose the poofy stuff inside the cushions.” She took another drink. “Maybe it burns better.”

  Even though I was drunk, it made perfect sense. I doubted the pleather would burst into flames as freely as the inner fabric. In fact, the more I thought about it, I doubted the green vinyl would burn no matter how much nail polish remover I poured on it.

  Mel was right. Cutting the cushions was the way to go, no doubt.

  It didn’t surprise me that I hadn’t covered all the bases in planning the couch-burning exercise. I was still mentally recovering from Tito’s untimely departure less that twenty-four hours prior. The night went into my mental diary as being my first—and I hoped last—sexual denial.

  “I think you’re right,” I said, reaching for the bottle of wine. “I see one problem, though. A big one.”

  She took another drink and then handed me the bottle. “What?”

  “We don’t have a pocket knife.”

  Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Fuuuuck.”

  I took a few drinks of wine while staring at the faux leather cushions. Copping a squat on the contemporary piece of green shit while wearing shorts was like sitting on a three-foot by three-foot piece of upside-down duct tape. I couldn’t begin to count the amount of times I had to peel my legs from the surface of the cushions.

  All to please the man who rewarded me by fucking a familiar stripper in the front seat his car.

  “Can I have the bottle back,” Mel asked. “I need another drink.”

  I handed her the bottle. Before she raised it to her lips, the yard went pitch-black.

  I waved my arms like I was trying to get the attention of Adam Levine from the back row of a Maroon 5 concert. After a few seconds of frantic thrashing on my part, the lights clicked on, illuminating the stockpile of items we were determined to reduce to ashes.

  My gaze fell to my bare feet.

  While staring at the filthy gunboats, I rubbed my temples with the tips of my fingers. After a moment, it came to me.

  “Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “Problem solved.”

  Seemingly unaffected by my proclamation, Mel looked at me like she was lost. “Huh?”

  “Steak knife,” I blurted.

  “Oh.” She took a casual drink of wine. “Damn. Never thought of that.”

  “Be right back,” I said.

  I ran into the house and returned in an instant with two steak knives. I handed one to Mel. “I know you hated this thing just as much as I did.”

  With the bottle of wine in one hand and the knife in the other, she leaned over the couch. “Fuck yes, I did.”

  Ripping and tearing at the hideous fabric like the continuation of our lives depended solely on reducing the lime-green piece of shit to a pile of rubble, we carved the back of the three-thousand-dollar couch to nothi
ng more than a wooden frame. Thoroughly satisfied at our deconstruction skills, we then sliced the cushions into unrecognizable mounds of green and white fluff.

  Gasping to catch my breath, I took a step back and admired our handiwork.

  “Holy…shit,” I said, huffing to catch my breath. “That was fun.”

  “Hand me that shirt,” Mel said, gesturing to the few articles of clothing that lay in a pile beside the lamp. “The pink Polo. I hated him even more every time he wore it. Asshole reminded me of Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles.”

  I tossed her the shirt.

  She sawed the edge of the knife against the fabric. In a few seconds, the shirt fell to the ground. In her hand, only the collar remained. “He won’t be able to pop this collar again.”

  I laughed at the sight. “Nope.”

  I picked up the pair of Gucci loafers. I’d bought them for his birthday with money I’d made from working overtime for two months. “These furry little fuckers made me mad every time I saw them. He had to have these fuckers. Had to fucking have them. What kind of a man wears fur-lined shoes, anyway?”

  She took a swig of wine. “I bet that biker doesn’t.”

  I was pretty sure Tito didn’t have any fur-lined loafers. I was also pretty sure I’d never been kissed the way he kissed me. At least I’d never had a kiss make me weak in the knees the way his did.

  I tossed the shoes aside. “Let’s not talk about him.”

  “Still mad?”

  “Yeah. He’s…” I let out a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know. Different.”

  “Different good, or different bad?”

  “The good kind of different. He was intelligent. Actually, very intelligent.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “Because, he knew things a normal biker—a normal person—doesn’t know. I think I could actually enjoy hanging out with him.”

  She scrunched her nose at the remark. “Like buddies?”

  “No. I don’t know,” I stammered. “He’s just. He’s kind of cool.”

  She took another drink. “Sucks that you guys didn’t bone, though.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a plan to fix that.”

  “What are you going to do?”