by Naomi West
She glances up just as she secures the kid in his chair, and then paces around the car and goes to the driver’s seat. She’s seen me, but maybe she don’t want anything to do with me now. As I jog across the road to her, I feel my body stir at the sight of her, all of her, lit up in the sun. She has the kind of hair a man can easily imagine running his hand through, the kind of legs a man can easily imagine being between. Bad thoughts, man, bad, bad thoughts, but bad thoughts are sometimes the easiest to think.
“No need to go off in a fucking temper tantrum.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head. “Are you always such a jerk?”
“Here.” I toss her the bundle of cash. “How jerkish is that? That ought to keep you going for a couple of days, at least.”
She looks down at the cash and then up at me, clearly wondering whether she can take money from me after what just happened. But then she makes the choice that most do when faced with cash or anger: she pockets the cash. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “Although I still think you acted like a real asshole up there. There was no need for that, was there? I mean, what’s your problem?”
“That’s a long list, Kayla. But I can tell you one of my problems.” I step forward so that my body is pressed almost against hers, an inch of space between us. “You’re about the sexiest, most beautiful lady I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”
For the first time in ten months, my mind is empty. I take her face in my hands and lean in. She purses her lips at the last moment, her body relaxing. I’ve never been much of a kisser but goddamn if this don’t feel good. Her mouth is soft, her tongue warm. It makes me wonder what else she has that is soft and warm. She’s nervous at first, kissing me softly, but then she lets out an animal-like growl and bites down on my lip. She’s the one who closes the distance between us, pressing her crotch against my leg, grinding up and down on me. I slide my hand down her back. I need to feel that tight ass, to squeeze it hard and feel how perky it is, to spank it, if she’s into that sort of thing, to bend her over and—
The baby’s screams cut through the passion like a machete through muscle. Kayla cringes away from me and I do the same with her, standing a few feet apart now instead of inches. She opens her mouth to speak, closes it, and then opens it again. “I don’t know …”
“No,” I say. “Neither do I.”
“I don’t … Thank you for the money.”
She gets in her car, manages to get it going after a few coughs and judders, and then pulls away from me. I watch the car go, reaching instinctively for my bottle of whisky before I remember that I didn’t bring it down with me. I stand here for a long time trying not to let my mind stray to what just happened. Then I head back up to my apartment, still blotting my mind, which is easier when a man’s drunk than when he’s sober. I take another drink but the whisky tastes sour after the taste of Kayla’s mouth. I’m still rock-hard for her, is the crazy thing, and she left five minutes ago. I think about jerking off but I can’t be bothered. It seems pointless when I just had the real thing pressed up against me, moaning, gasping. She lit up for me like a firecracker. I wish she was here now so that we could both lose ourselves in the other person. I want to feel that ass, man, just feel that sweet tight ass …
I work out for a while, doing some pull-ups and curls and presses, but not even working out gets my mind off her. I can’t let my mind go down that road, I just can’t, but it’s true, ain’t it, that if Arsen saw what I just did, he’d be pissed off with me? A brother don’t take his dead brother’s old lady. That just isn’t how it’s done. I’m the same old Xander who kissed Marie Keller in front of him, the same old Xander who bullies his little brother just ’cause he’s terrified of his old man. I bring the whisky bottle to my lips, and then lower it. Bring it up, lower it. I don’t sip. I can’t sip. Sipping seems pointless when I’m already so drunk. I need something else. I need some sort of release. I need Kayla’s body, but that’s precisely the thing I shouldn’t be thinking about.
I throw on a shirt and some jeans, pull on my boots, and go down to the street. I’m not so far gone that I don’t know that I shouldn’t drive, so I walk down the street, hands in my pockets, heading for a neighborhood I shouldn’t be heading for. The sun’s out and people seem happy, like they always do when it’s bright and smells of spring. The Rockies loom, but the Rockies always loom, reminding us that we’re human. I stroll through a park, hands by my sides, twitching. I wonder what Arsen would’ve done if he’d watched me and Kayla just now. Maybe he would’ve fought me, ran at me and punched me right in the face, and I would’ve let him, just lay there as he laid into me. That would’ve been fair. It’s bullshit, kissing her like that, it’s not fair to him, to his memory. But then, how much could he have loved her if he never mentioned her? Now I’m justifying, just like when I told Marie Keller not to pay any attention to his crying; he’s just a silly little kid. Disgracing his memory. What sort of brother am I?
And yet she felt so, so good, and she seemed willing, and it isn’t the same as fucking my brother’s old lady if my brother was still alive. At least maybe I’m hoping that’s true, ’cause if that’s true I get to do it again. The sun is too bright, the world is too warm, and my tongue is too dry. Everything is boiling; the whole world is on fire. I go to a food stand, one of those healthy ones that do fruit and vegan stuff, and get a banana, an apple, and a liter of water. Sitting on the bench, getting myself ready—inside and out—I devour the food and neck the water.
I have to ask myself an important question: If I really think I did nothing wrong with Kayla, why am I willfully walking, alone, into a neighborhood where I know for a fact there’re drug dealers who are no friend to the Angels? I let the question work its way around my head, filling my thoughts, but then I push it away. The answer is too obvious, too pathetic. And yeah, sure, maybe I do deserve to be punished, but that doesn’t mean I have to lay it out like that, wallow in it. I have a job; just get it done.
I stroll down one of the nastier streets in Denver, whistling a tune, until I come to two men at the corner of the road who are dressed like fellas who have just auditioned for a gangster movie. All checkered shirts and baggy jeans and so much jewelry they’re turned to beacons in the afternoon sun.
One of the men is black and has his hair in cornrows. He’s the bigger of the two, so I approach him. “What’s up, man?” he says, looking shifty as hell.
His friend, sunburnt so badly his face has turned red, stands with his hand withdrawn slightly, as though winding up for a punch. “I don’t like the look of this motherfucker.”
“I’ve been hearing whispers, fellas, whispers I don’t much like the sound of. I’m a forgetful bastard, sometimes, and I left my jacket at home. But this town belongs to the Asphalt Angels and I don’t much like hearing that kids can swing by here and get a hit of any damn poison they like. I don’t mind if some little bastard wants to come by here and try some weed, but meth, heroin, coke? Never trust shit that’s made in a lab, and never give shit that’s made in a lab to kids. Don’t fucking interrupt me.” My voice takes on a biting tone when the black guy makes to shout something. Maybe I’ve got some dread in me, ’cause he shuts his mouth. “Here’s the deal. You stop dealing the hard shit to kids and I don’t bust your heads open.”
“Are we really gonna listen to this shit?” the white guy roars, swinging at me with a knuckle-duster.
It’s a clumsy hit, the sort of hit I could dodge easily if I wanted to, but I don’t. I step forward and take it on the chin. I let both of them get a few hits in until my nose is dripping blood and I’ve got a cut just above my eye, and only then do I start to fight for real. I tool the bastards up and get them on their heels. After a while they decide it’s too much for them and run away, shouting all the while that they won’t forget this, they’re the hardest men in this block, blah-blah-fucking-blah.
I go back to my apartment, wondering if that made me feel any better.
Then I take a drink.
Ch
apter Eight
Kayla
What was that about? I ask myself the question all the way home, over and over again, trying to figure out what just happened between me and Xander. It’s times like these that I wish I was better at making friends, but I guess growing up a recluse who actively pushed away people, I can’t be too surprised that I’m not surrounded by friends right now. I have Cormac, but I’m not about to give him a cocktail and talk about boys.
I take him up to the apartment, feed him, and then set him down for a nap. Since the doctor sorted out the infection, he’s been much quieter, smiling at me and hugging me tighter. I pace around the apartment, all full of energy: energy fueled by the kiss with Xander. The way he grabbed me was so rough, so powerful, so animal. It was like being grabbed—well, it was like being grabbed by a biker outlaw who was drunk at midday. I didn’t mean to let myself go like I did. When he first laid his lips on me, my instinct was to push him away. But then I let myself feel it, just for a moment, but that one moment was just too tempting. It was like nibbling the edge of a cake and telling myself that was all I’d have.
I sit on the couch, wondering about Arsen. We were never close, not close like some couples are. There was always some distance to him. But still, I’m sure he wouldn’t be thrilled if he saw me kissing his older brother, a brother he only mentioned a couple of times. But on the flipside, can I spend the rest of my life wondering what Arsen would say about this and that? I can’t deny the thought, even if it is mean, that that first kiss with Xander gave me more passion and excitement than a month with Arsen. It’s cruel, it’s disgraceful to his memory, and it also happens to be true. At least I have a thousand dollars now, which means I can stave off eviction for another month and get some groceries. I take out the rent money and put it next to the door, ready for my landlord’s next surprise visit.
Then I turn my mind to the future. A job is the thing. The only problem is I have a high school education and nothing else, no college, no work experience that gives me an edge in any fancy job. I’m well-read in literature, but unless I get a degree, nobody cares. Plus, I need a job now, today, tomorrow at the latest. Biting my lip—and my pride—I dial Mr. Brown.
“Uh, hello?” he says, sounding skeptical in the extreme. “Is there something wrong, Kayla? I’ll pay the last of your wages on Friday, as usual.”
“Hello, Mr. Brown!” I squeal, sounding chirpy and fun, trying to imitate those cheerleaders I saw in high school who had the magical ability to get men do whatever they liked. All it took, I observed, was the right smile, the perfect eyelash flutter, and those men were suddenly malleable. “I just wanted to talk with you about something, if I don’t seem like a complete monster for bringing it up.”
“Uh,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him caught off-guard, imbalanced. “Okay …”
“I know I’ve been just dreadful lately, but I really think you’d be doing be an awesome favor if you gave me a second chance. Just one more chance. I promise I won’t be late anymore. Come on, sir, don’t you miss me, just a little bit?”
“No,” he says. “No, I can categorically say that I do not miss you.”
He hangs up the phone and I remind myself that I’ve never been the cheerleader charming type. I grab my laptop from the bedroom and wait around five minutes for it to boot up, and then navigate to a jobs website and search by location. Then I start sending out my résumé, firing it down the list: cafeteria jobs, cleaning jobs, whatever jobs. Any job that will make me semi-stressless. And always with an inner voice whispering: just get married, you silly girl. There must be something the matter with you.
I’m just about to send off a résumé for “an exciting wait staff opportunity” when my apartment buzzer goes off. This startles me so much that I actually jolt up from the couch. Cormac lets out a cry but then snivels and starts to snore again. Nobody ever presses my apartment buzzer. Nobody swings by. I haven’t had any packages delivered since I bought Cormac’s crib online, and I don’t have any packages due right now. The landlord always knocks on the door. Maybe it’s Xander. Surely that’s the only explanation. He followed me home and now he’s outside my apartment. I should be creeped out, or offended, but I’m not. I’m excited.
I go to the intercom. “Hello.”
“Hello, sorry. I have mail for apartment twenty-two and they’re out. Could you buzz me up?” The guy must have a cold; his voice sounds like a duck’s quack.
“Oh, sure.” I press the door button and return to the couch, to my job applications. But then a knock comes at the apartment door.
I take the cash from the counter and go to the door, happy for once to see my landlord. He’ll be ready to launch into one of his speeches—which he has every right to do, since I missed rent—and then I’ll intercept him with the cash. But when I open the door it’s not my landlord. It’s Connor, the duck-quacker, standing at six feet three, all spider-like gangly limbs, his face so skinny and soft he looks more like a little girl than a vicious man. I make to close the door, but he sticks his foot in.
“Now wait a sec, Kayla,” he says, his voice as spidery as the rest of him. “Don’t be so hasty.”
“What are you doing here?” I keep the fear from my voice, just about. I know from experience that I can never show fear in front of Connor. He loves fear. He feeds on fear. I back into the apartment, wondering how I can get into the bathroom, wondering why I ever thought it was a good idea to put my pepper spray in the bathroom.
He follows me into the living room, smiling from ear to ear. I find it difficult to believe that I was ever with this man, that I ever had sex with him, that I ever let him charm me into believing I cared about him. But that’s the power he has—or had—over me. Now I see him for what he is, a really terrifying monster. He never hit me when we were together, but he did emotionally manipulate me to the point where I was so scared about there being one particle of dust in his apartment, I’d cry at night thinking about it.
“Nice place,” he says, kicking a shirt aside. “Really nice place.” He strolls over to the living-room crib. “There’s a little fella.”
“What do you want, Connor?”
“Lots of things,” he says, turning to me with his sickening smile. “I want Kim Kardashian, naked, on all fours with a fucking apple in her mouth. But somehow I doubt that’s ever going to happen for me. So, fine, I pull in my horizons just a little bit. What I want, you sweet little flower, is for you to see the light and become my dear wife. You have—what is it—millions at the very least, millions in a vault somewhere, going to waste because you want to live the slutty single life.”
This is how Connor works. He bends reality to suit what he wants to be true. He wants my money, so he paints a picture of a vault with money going to waste. He wants me to be with him, so he accuses me of being a slut. Everything is filtered through his well-oiled spin machine.
“My answer to that hasn’t changed,” I say. “And it’s not going to change.”
He strolls to the TV, running his forefinger along the top of it, gathering a small ball of dust. He lifts it to his eyes and then blows, scattering it like gray snow. “You always were a slob, Kayla. I remember those days quite well. Living in a sty. Tell me, Kayla, why would you ever want to live in a sty?”
“You’ve got your answer,” I say. “So I think it’s time you get out of here!”
“Oh, poor little Kayla.” He paces long-stepped to the kitchen counter and then to the window, an arachnid staking out its claim. “That’s not the answer I want. You’ve known me longer than most. When have I ever accepted an answer I did not want? I am going to stay here until you agree to marry me, and then we are going to the nearest place where they marry people, and we are doing it. See? I’ve laid it out simply for you. You don’t have to worry your little head about it: little being the most important word of all time when it comes to your intellectual abilities.” He drops onto the couch, folds his ankles on the coffee table, and turns on the TV. “I’ve
never been a fan of daytime TV, Kayla, but you’re not giving me much choice.”
“You can’t just stay here!” I snap. “I’m serious, Connor. I’ll call the police.”
He yawns. “No, you won’t. You’ll run to the phone and then I’ll be forced to use violence on you. Don’t forget, I’ve never been violent with you. Why would you want me to start now?”
“Do you really think I’m just going to agree to this?”
“I think you might. Ah, look, I just mentioned this big-bummed beauty.” It’s phrases like “big-bummed beauty” which bring out Connor’s British side, occasional words which sound like they come from the mouth of the queen. His mother was British, he told me once, during one of those rare conversations where he wasn’t berating me. “Oh, I think you will, because if you don’t, something very bad is going to happen.”