I plan as I walk down my aunt's hall and into my cousin's room where my dress hangs menacingly in the corner. Beneath it sit the horrible fuchsia shoes I purchased yesterday. I start to get dressed while my mind spins.
I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing, but I'll figure it out. There is only one thing that could make or break this: my bank account. It's a joint account I have with my parents, meaning if they got wind of my plans, they could ruin everything. I know I don't have time today to take the money out, so I've got to act as normal as possible and make sure I don't give them any reason to suspect that anything is wrong. When I do decide to go for it, I've got to be quick. In and out. Like Austin. I shiver as I pull up the zipper on the side of my dress, turning to look at myself in the mirror next to Jodie's dresser. I look terrible, I think as my blue eyes stare back at me with horror. My hair is slicked tight against my head and my bun is a twisted, frizzy mess. The color of the dress makes my skin look sallow and my hips enormous, and the shoes … Don't even get me started on the shoes.
I sigh and head downstairs where my mother is waiting, nursing a cup of coffee with one hand and marking something down in a notebook with the other. There are only going to be fifty-seven guests at this wedding (the exact size of our congregation), but the stress on Mama's face suggests that there are multitudes of people waiting desperately for the four of us (who happen to be running late). Again, this is apparently all my fault.
“I told you to be showered and ready,” she snaps without looking at me. I say nothing. Mama slams her notebook closed and pauses to stare at me. “Goodness, Amy,” she says, moving forward and picking at my already sore scalp, rearranging my aunt's handiwork with pursed lips, as if the bad hair do were my fault. “I need you to look presentable today.” The sound of the doorbell ringing brings a quick smile to her face as she licks her thumb and smooths back a stray hair from my forehead.
Uh oh.
“He's here,” she whispers, and I don't ask her to clarify because she won't. I just watch with a sinking feeling in my gut as Mama moves around me and answers the front door. “Well, don't you look handsome,” she coos at our unknown visitor, ushering him into the coolness of the house with the world's fakest smile. I watch as a boy I've never met rounds the corner into the kitchen with a brown sweater on his shoulders and a pimple, right there on the tip of his nose. Oh dear. This must be the new guy in town that my mother was referring to. He looks a little young to me, but I can smell a setup from a mile away.
“Amy,” Mama begins, flashing me a quick look before she touches her hand to the boy's arm with a smile. “This is Crandle Rogers. Crandle, this is Amy.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Crandle says, and my mind immediately begins to build a chart, so I can start comparing him to Austin. This isn't a new thing for me. I've been setup loads of times – usually with boys from our church. I've always, always, always turned them down. In the past however, when I made my mental charts, I used to compare the boys I was meeting to the men in my romance novels, wondering all the while if I was holding them up to an ideal that couldn't possibly exist.
I now know otherwise.
“Nice to meet you, Crandle,” I say, trying not to grimace when he pulls my hand to his lips for a cold, emotionless kiss. Now, I don't mean to sound frigid or heartless or rude. I wouldn't say that I'm superficial, but when I look at Crandle's skinny shoulders and his blotchy skin, his pasty cheeks and his thin lips, I can't help but think that Austin is better looking. It's not a judgment, just a fact. And maybe (probably) Crandle is a nicer person than Austin Sparks. None of that matters to me, though. I'm not looking for a husband to settle down with and marry. I'm looking for change and freedom and passion and some of that heart-stopping angst that's always in my books.
I close my eyes briefly and think of Glance Serone and Sali Bend.
“You stupid, stupid bitch,” Glance says as he looks me up and down, a trembling mess in my robe with a wad of tissues in one hand and a butt load of tears making their way from my eyes to my pointy chin, so they can crash down on my unpainted toenails. “You thought you'd be happy with a guy because he was 'nice'?” I stare at him, and I don't know what to say. Mark was nice. Very nice. But he couldn't fuck for shit and he didn't make my toes curl or my stomach ache. “I'll tell you what, Sali. I can't cook a casserole or crochet a fucking blanket.” I glance briefly at the blue and pink monstrosity lying across the back of my couch. Oh, Mark. “But I can promise to fuck you hard and dirty, day in and day out. Come on, Sal. Be mine. What do you say?”
I open my eyes and smile.
“Crandle just finished his senior year over in Dallas and moved here recently with his parents and sister. They'll be at the wedding, of course.” He enjoys long walks on the beach, Popsicles made of root beer, and can play a mean game of croquet.
“I'm thinking of becoming a minister,” Crandle blurts, running a hand through his perfectly manicured brown hair. It's about the same color as mine, similar in tone to the wood trim of the mantle above our fireplace. I force myself to keep smiling. Maybe he thinks he's being interesting, capturing my attention, showing me how like my father he is. I couldn't be anymore repulsed.
“That's lovely,” I say.
“Crandle was the chess champion at his high school.”
“Oh?”
My eyes drift towards the window as several more marks go onto my mental chart. Austin is taller, his jaw is more square, his muscles well-defined, his tattoos bright; he's got a small scar on his lip that gives him a sultry, tough guy look and his accent could burn the panties off a nun. Crandle … wants to be a minister and was a high school chess champion. He has pale, brown eyes, brown hair, skin the color of my mother's nude tights and exactly four pimples on his face. Also, he's three years younger than I am and can't drink. I wonder briefly how old Austin Sparks is.
Somewhere upstairs, voices echo and my mother frowns.
“If you'll excuse me,” she says, patting me gently on the shoulder as she moves away from Crandle and me and up the stairs to assist my dreadful cousin with her nuptial wear. “Crandle, would you mind driving Amy to the church? She'll show you the way.” I stifle a groan and force myself to keep smiling.
“So,” Crandle begins, hooking his arm around mine and staring pointedly at my tits. “Tell me a little about yourself.”
“Goddamn it, Jodie,” I hear my aunt snap as I peek in the back door of the church, terrified to enter my cousin's domain but desperate to get away from Crandle Rogers, the world's dullest (and possibly most perverted) man on earth. He's been following me around the church for the past hour or so, pestering me about my favorite things – color, book, movie, food, blah, blah. I'm quite sick of discussing humdrum bores and end up here, right at the edge of the dragon's den. Then again, it's either deal with this or sit next to Crandle and have him continuously ogle my breasts and try to put his hand up my skirt.
My mother cringes at her sister-in-law's language and looks up as a crack of sunshine penetrates the dark room.
“Don't dawdle, just get in here,” she sighs as she motions at me with her hand. I slide into the room and lean against the wall in the back. Jodie glares at me with tiny, slitted eyes that make her look an awful lot like a lizard. Despite my aunt's earlier protestations against my makeup, my cousin's is ten times worse, caked onto her face like she's one of the clowns at the state fair. Her lips are too red and her foundation is too pale. I hate to say it, but I've never seen her look worse.
My aunt jabs a bobby pin into Jodie's hair and she winces.
“Hold still.”
“How did you like Crandle?” my mother asks, forcing a small smile onto her tired face. Apparently, the idea of me settling down with a boy as plain and pervy as Crandle Rogers makes her happy. I try to imagine Crandle taking charge in the bedroom, ravishing me with white, hot passion, and I just can't do it. Absolutely not. I smile back and don't say what I really wish I could say. I'm not interested. I doubt Crandle
Rogers could fuck me silly over a pool table in the back of a bar. What do you think? I'd like a real man, please, not some silly, little boy in a brown cardigan.
“He was nice.” My mother's smile grows wider.
“Wonderful. I've invited him over for dinner after church tomorrow.” Splendid. I keep my fake smile in place and fold my hands politely in front of myself.
“I don't see why we had to move the wedding to today,” my cousin moans as my mother gently pushes Megan aside and takes over hair duties. “This isn't the way I imagined it.”
“Well, maybe you should've thought about that before you spread your legs?” Jodie gasps, and my mother goes white as a sheet. “Four weeks along, hmm? More like sixteen. What if you'd started showing, Jodie? What would people think?” Aha. So this isn't exactly my fault. I let my faux smile turn real.
“You know what,” my mom begins as Jodie starts to tear up. “Let's try to move past this, shall we?”
“I have a headache,” my cousin moans as my aunt sniffs rudely and turns away, letting her eyes cut me as they slide past. It must be nice to have a scapegoat to blame your problems on. I try not to let her gaze bother me and start to fantasize. I could move somewhere that snows year round. I think I'd like that. It's so much more fun to read when there's snow outside. My daydream slowly morphs from me sitting on the couch to lying on my back, on a sheepskin rug in front of my pretend fireplace and above me, I see a man slick with sweat, belly muscles contracting as he thrusts into me. The longer I look, the more the man shifts, changes, the more he starts to look like Austin Sparks. I shake my head and try to ignore the goose bumps springing up on my arms and legs.
“Amy!” my mother snaps, obviously frustrated with me. I blink my eyes and try to focus on her in her cream gown. She looks awfully pretty in it, very romantic with her hair swept up artfully atop her head. Her brown eyes seem almost purple, bathed in the beautiful colors from the stained glass window high above. I stare at her, and I can't help but wonder what she'd be like if she wasn't so stuck on a certain ideal, if she were more adept at losing herself in the beauty of life instead of trying to morph it to fit her rules. There must be some of that in there. After all, her latest read is called Sexed by a Pirate. “I swear, half the time I can't even tell what dimension it is that you're residing in. Pay attention. I need you to run to the store.”
“The store?” I ask. Jodie sniffles and glares up at me with a slight smirk hovering around her lips. I'd love to slap her one day, just once. I make myself a note to try before I leave town. The girl could use a bit of humbling.
“Yes,” my mother hisses, slamming a brush down on the vanity next to her. “Go. To. The. Store. And get your cousin a bottle of ibuprofen for her headache.”
“And a vanilla milk,” Jodie says, pouting her lips and pointing to her belly. “For the cravings.”
“And some new tights,” my aunt says with a mouth almost as pursed as my mother's. “I've got a run in these ones.” Not much longer now, Amy, I tell myself as I step forward and take a wad of cash and a set of keys from my mother's outstretched hand. Not much longer at all.
I leave Mireya asleep on my bed and head out in search of Kent. I figure the dumb fuck is probably down at the bike show looking for ways to piss off Walker. I'd be surprised to find him anywhere else.
“Stupid son of a bitch,” I growl as I stalk through the lobby and out the front doors. Thing is, I'm not really sure if I'm referring to the Pres or myself. I don't feel right. Can't say what it is, but I'll have to figure it out later. My first priority right now is keeping my life together and my friends out of Triple M's shadows. I've lived in 'em long enough to know how to handle myself; this is my job now.
I step out into the sunshine and shield my eyes with my hand, searching the crowd and the rows of gleaming metal for Kent's dark hair and pale skin. I can't believe how white the damn man is. It isn't right, not for a biker. He's the only person I've ever met who lives on the back of a motorcycle and doesn't darken under the sun. Makes me think the asshole's a vampire or some shit.
“If you're looking for the Pres, he ain't here.” I pause and turn to look at Gaine who's sitting on a bench nearby, arms slung over the back and dangling loosely. He looks like he's had the chance to shower and change, but it hasn't sweetened his expression any.
“No?”
“No. He left a little while ago.”
“Where?” Gaine shrugs, but his eyes glitter dangerously like maybe he knows something I don't. I tuck my hands in my pockets and watch him carefully. “What's the matter with you?”
“You're a good man, Austin,” he says, slipping a cigarette into his mouth. “But you're fucking dense as shit.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask him, but Gaine's doin' that thing where he stares off into the distance like he's waiting for someone. I look at him real close, zoning in on the metal ring in his eyebrow and the muscle that's twitching in his forehead, like maybe I can figure out what he's thinking if I stare at him long enough.
“Hey,” he says, breaking my concentration. “Isn't that your friend over there? Hot damn, that is one, ugly, fucking dress.” My head snaps up and I see her right off the bat. How could I miss her? Amy Cross stands out like a thumb on a handful of fingers.
She pauses like she can feel my eyes on her, but she doesn't look this way. Instead, she rushes forward and flings open the door to the grocer like she can't wait to get inside. I watch her go and I try to ignore the phantom feelings of Mireya's lips on my neck and her hands around my cock. Can't say I didn't enjoy myself last night. Mireya was just as good as she always is, but … Shit. I think Amy Cross's tight, little pussy has spoiled me rotten. My mouth waters at the thought of another taste of her. And then the guilt takes over, and I can't figure out where it's fuckin' coming from.
“Better hurry before she scampers off,” Gaine says, wiggling his fingers and rolling his eyes. He stands up suddenly, groaning and letting his head fall back like the pain in his body is too much to take. “I'll distract Mireya.” Gaine opens his eyes and nods his chin towards me. One glance over my shoulder tells me all I need to know. Sawyer is coming out the front doors of the hotel dressed in leather pants with a pair of big, round sunglasses on her face. I don't know what it is, but the thought of talking to her right now doesn't seem all that appealing.
I look back down the block and my heart starts to pump at the thought of seeing Amy again. I don't like the way we parted last. I may not owe her shit, but I said I'd talk to Kent, and I'm a man that keeps his word. If she wants to join Triple M, who am I to stop her, right? Then I think about all the shit that's going down, and I start to get conflicted. Fuck. My head feels messed up, and I don't like it.
“Thanks, Gaine,” I say as I move past him, patting the broken heart tattoo on his shoulder. “I owe you one.”
And then I'm jogging down the damn sidewalk, weaving in and out of the crowd, moving past bikes that would normally give me a raging hard-on, ignoring them the same way I'm ignoring the street signs and the park benches and the trash cans. I don't stop until I hit the entrance to the grocer's and wrap my hand around the hot metal of the door handle.
Breathe, you stupid motherfucker, I tell myself as I stand panting there in the shadows of the white and red awning. Folks are staring, but I can't blame 'em. I don't even know what the hell I'm doing here. I pause and take a step back, putting my hands on my hips and turning away, so I can close my eyes and let the hot smell of pavement and oil trickle into my nostrils, soothing away some of this … frenzy that I've got goin' on. Didn't you just get finished fucking, Austin? I ask myself, feeling a burning down below.
The door opens behind me, but I ignore it, too focused on trying to cool myself down.
“Austin?”
Ah, shit.
“Amy.”
I turn around and come face to face with those round eyes, glossy lips, and curvy body. Even her ugly, purple dress can't hide the swell of hips and t
he long, lean thighs beneath. The burning turns into an blaze that makes my hands squeeze into fists by my sides. I feel like a friggin' volcano that's about to explode. Long as I can explode inside of Amy, I'll be happy.
“What are you … what are you doing here?” she asks, mouth trembling, little brown bag clutched up against her chest. See, that's what I like about little Miss Amy, what drew me to her in the first place when I saw her bent over that Road King, ass out like she was waiting for it. She looks like she's afraid, like she's nervous or shy or demure or some shit, but she's not. That tremble, that shake, those watery eyes. Amy's feeling the same way I do, like she's got fire bottled up inside and it's all waiting to come out.
“Why, I'm here to see you, sugar.”
My hand comes out real fast and wraps Amy's wrist, dragging her forward so that the bag gets crushed between our chests.
“Oh my,” she gasps as I press my mouth against hers and breathe in her scent. She's soft as shit, warm and pliable. Goddamn, I wish she was mine. I slide my hand up her back, tangle my fingers in her crunchy hair and wonder what idiot was stupid enough to spray crap onto that beautiful silk. I grab at it and pull, even as she yelps into my mouth and squirms, struggles to pull away. I tear the metal pins out and throw them to the ground at our feet. “Austin, stop,” she whimpers as I reach between us and grab her paper bag. A quick look inside tells me there ain't nothing worth saving there, just a pair of panty hose and some pills.
“Don't worry, beautiful. I'll buy you some new ones.” I toss the bag into the nearby trash can and drag Amy into the alleyway between the grocery store and the brick apartment complex that stands next to it.
Losing Me, Finding You Page 9