[2018] Confessions From the Heart

by TB Markinson

  She snatched my jeans from the floor and searched my pockets, smiling when she found my phone. She tapped the screen, making me regret not updating my phone for the lock-screen option. “Now you can’t ever call me again.”

  I grabbed my jeans from her hands, having to use more force than I would have liked. “Don’t forget to delete my number from your phone or you might accidentally pocket-dial me,” I said, expecting her to brush off my suggestion.

  She angrily swiped her phone off the floor, where it had fallen in the stripping melee. “I don’t like Catholic-phobes.”

  “Is that a thing?” I stuck one leg into my jeans. Then the other, hopping a bit. My legs were still wobbly from sex. Her eyes shone with desire, and a sexy smile slipped onto her face, causing a light bulb to blare overhead. “Or is this a show to get me riled up?”

  She got on all fours, facing me with her ass poking up, teasing. “What do you think?”

  That you’re one fucked up woman.

  I leaned down to her eye level. “You like women to beg for it?”

  She ran a finger down my washboard stomach. “Go ahead, then.”

  “If you let me fuck you again, I promise never to bring up your religion.” I signed Scout’s honor.

  Her resolve started to waver. I could practically smell her pussy, and as much as I hated to admit it, I wanted her again. Research or not. Aside from Annie, I’d been starved of female attention for too long. Grad school was killing my personal life.

  “What else?”

  Still leaning over, staring into her eyes, I asked, “What else do I promise?”

  She nodded, her eyes sultry.

  “To let you sit on my face. I’m dying for another taste.” I got on my knees and clamped my palms together. “Pretty please with a cherry on top.”

  She stretched over the side of the bed and placed a finger under my chin. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Would it help if I said I wanted to make you come? More than once?”

  “And you’ll do me doggy-style?”

  “Honey, you tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.” I added, “To you.”

  “Since you’re on the floor, there’s a box under the bed. Be a good girl, and pull it out.”

  The cardboard box, the sides sloppily trimmed down to slide under the bed, contained several vibrators and a strap-on.

  I laughed. “Own a sex shop as a side business?”

  “Got a problem with that?” She licked her lips.

  “Let me show you what I think about it.” I grabbed the largest vibrator.

  Two hours later, on my way out the door, Brooke in a bathrobe said, “Call me, okay?”

  I brushed my lips against her cheek, not bothering to remind her she’d deleted her number from my phone and vice versa. “Will do.”

  Brooke pulled me in for a deeper kiss. “You sure you don’t want to stay the night? We can start the day off right.” She inserted her hip between my legs.

  “Wish I could, but I have an early appointment.” I didn’t really, but it was time to end the Brooke character.

  She kissed me again to prove what I would miss.

  It wasn’t until the cab pulled up outside my house, near Boston College, that I let out a sigh of relief. Her flash of anger, resulting in the deleting of my number had saved my hide. Maybe it was fate looking out for me. Sex with a crazy woman was fun for a night, but I got the feeling Brooke was a lot more trouble than she was worth.

  Chapter Three

  Annie had texted first thing the following morning to ask if I had time for a beer around five.

  A quarter to five, I sat in the beer joint a mere seven-minute walk from my house. The walls were slathered with Boston College sports memorabilia, and every table was taken. I’d forgotten Monday through Wednesday, four to seven, was ten-cent wings. The beer here was already inexpensive. Add cheap wings and the place crawled with rowdy students.

  Two people left, and I grabbed their seats at the bar, reserving the stool next to me for Annie by placing my bag on it.

  “Hey, Cori. PBR?” the blonde bartender asked, already filling a glass.

  “Am I that predictable?” I smiled at Sheila.

  She placed the pint glass on the bar. “Mostly. What’s a veggie doing here on wing night?” She liked to crack that joke whenever I happened to show up on a school night during happy hour.

  I sipped my beer. “Forgot the day.”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re on summer break writing and probably haven’t looked at a calendar since wrapping up spring classes. Basically unemployed.” She leaned on her forearms. “When are we going to dinner to catch up, now that you have all this free time?” She was being more sarcastic than usual.

  “What night do you have off?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Feel like falafel?”

  “You and your feel-awfuls. Meet ya there around seven.” She straightened and painted an odd smile on her face. “Hey, Annie. PBR?”

  “Thanks, Sheila.” Annie took her seat and slipped off her knitted cardigan.

  I appraised her slacks paired with a white polo bearing the logo of the school she worked for. “You’re still in your teacher clothes. Do you have to wear the shirt now?”

  Annie seized her glass before Sheila had a chance to set it down and took a long tug, draining more than half.

  “Right,” Sheila said. “Why don’t I pour you another?” She arched a questioning brow at me, and I waved no.

  Placing a hand on Annie’s shoulder, I asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Children are shits. Little shits that you can’t kill.”

  “A good day teaching? Is that what I’m hearing?”

  Her eyes conveyed she was thinking if I told one more stupid joke, she’d smash my head against the bar. “I have a new student who cries all the time, unless I hold her. But I have eleven other three-year-olds in the room, and now they all want me to hold them. By nine this morning, all twelve of them were bawling. Then Jimmy punched Brittany at lunch, which her mom saw on the nanny cam, and I got reamed for it.”

  “Can preschools have cameras in the classroom?”

  “Don’t get me started on the cameras and the invasion of privacy. It’s one of the ways the grubby owner convinces parents she has their children’s best interests at heart and isn’t padding her checking account.” She took another healthy slug of beer. “Where was I? John tried to eat a crayon and almost choked.” She drummed her fingers on the bar. “Oh, Matthew projectile vomited on Susie.”

  “Geez, that sounds awful.”

  “I’m not done. During a break outside this afternoon, a bird shat on the back of my T-shirt, hence why I’m wearing one of the center’s shirts. Here’s the best part, I didn’t know about the shit until the last mom to pick up her brat said, ‘Did you know you have bird doo-doo on your back?’” Annie groaned. “It took everything I had not to say, ‘No, bitch, because I was too busy taking care of your spoiled brat all day, who kicked me in the shins three times at lunch because I had to take the peanuts you packed for him away because Brody is deathly allergic and this is a no peanut classroom.’” She finished the rest of her first beer and shoved the empty glass to the side. “How was your day?”

  “Um, I plead the fifth.”

  “Because you didn’t do anything.” She sucked in a mouthful of air and wrenched her hair free from her ponytail holder, redoing it immediately.

  “Writers don’t get any respect these days.”

  “I’m sorry.” She slumped her shoulders. “I don’t mean to take it out on you. I’m not cut out for my job.” She rested her flushed cheek against the cold beer glass. “I respect people who actually enjoy teaching, but I don’t. This”—she waved a finger up and down her face—“isn’t the face of someone who just had a bad day. It’s how I truly feel. I’m finally admitting that. I hate teaching.”

  I nudged her with my shoulder. “How a
bout we have a couple rounds here then head to my place? Order pizza? Take a dip in the hot tub? Will that help?”

  She smiled. “I knew there was a reason I was friends with you.”

  “Chicks, man. They love a hot tub.”

  “Speaking of chicks, how was your date?”

  “What date?” I opted to be cagey.

  “With baseball girl—you know, your research project.” She made quote marks in the air. “I’m willing to bet ten bucks you’ve already seen her. When a woman like her gets a live one on the line…” She left the rest unsaid.

  I took a guilty sip.

  “Ah, so you have seen all of her.” She laughed. “The life of a former jock turned writer who’s enrolled in Harvard’s creative writing master’s program. If only I could be that lucky.”

  “Hey, now. You make it sound like writing is all fun and games. And don’t forget you’re teaching the youths of America. There’s no nobler cause.”

  She pulled her shit-splattered shirt out of her purse. “Yeah, I’m living the fucking dream. Jesus, didn’t you hear my declaration earlier?”

  I blinked. “Was it just one bird that did that?”

  She shoved it back into the plastic grocery bag. “Who knows? When responsible for twelve kids, you don’t have time to think, let alone know some bird was using you as target practice.”

  “If you buy the next beer, I may throw in a back rub after the hot tub.”

  Annie laughed so hard she spat beer in my face. “Oh, no. You’re buying the beer, pizza, and giving me a back rub or”—she held up a threatening finger—“I’ll tell your mom about baseball chick at dinner on Sunday. Tell me, do you think she’ll buy your lame ass excuse for sleeping with her?”

  Annie was fishing for info, so I sidestepped. “Since when did you start popping by on Sundays?”

  “Roger invited me. He wants to talk about a job.”

  I circled my fingers, telling her to back up. “Wait a minute. That’s for real?”

  “What? You don’t think I’m qualified to do anything else except glorified babysitting?”

  “That’s not what I meant. If I remember correctly, the job involves you going to Ireland—like to live there.”

  She cupped my cheek. “Would you miss me?”

  I swallowed.

  “Careful Cori, or you may start giving me the wrong impression.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, and yes, I would miss you. Who would I go to games with?”

  “There’s always baseball chick.”

  I shivered.

  “Oh, no. Was she crazier than I thought?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you thought she was crazy?” My voice squeaked.

  “Didn’t know I had to.”

  “What does that mean? I only attract the crazies?”

  Sheila set a bowl of French fries on the bar. “Can’t let my favorites starve. And just for you, Annie, a side of ranch.”

  “Thanks. How’s my favorite law student?”

  Sheila gripped the bar. “The upcoming school year, which is my last, is going to kill me. Luckily, I have a law office job lined up, but I’ll still be working here at night to pay the bills and to stock up for the massive student loan that’ll come due upon graduation.” She blew out some air, rustling her wispy bangs. “You know, Obama said law school should only be two years. That’s when you complete most of the course work. I crunched the numbers for my student loan bill so far, and I’m starting to have panic attacks even though I don’t have to start making payments for another year.” She shifted her gaze to me. “That’s why you’re paying for dinner tomorrow in exchange for free beers and fries tonight.” A waiter caught her attention, and she left to fill more orders.

  “Okay, back to your theory”—I jabbed a fry at Annie—“that I’m a crazy chick magnet.” I smothered the fry with ranch, ignoring Annie’s frown. Both of us liked ranch, and Sheila knew that. “Does that include you?”

  “Easy, there.” She swung her legs on the stool to face me. “All I’m saying is when a girl goes into hyper drive to pick you up while you’re at Fenway with another woman, she may be a bit aggressive or…” She circled a finger around the side of her head.

  Annie was dead-on about the crazy part, not that I wanted to spill just how awful the previous night had been. “Duly noted, oh wise one. Finish your beer. The fries are helping, but I need more. Shall I order the pizza now so we can pick it up on our way home?”

  “Let’s meet at your place in an hour. I need to pop by my place to feed my cat.” She stood and gathered her bag.

  “I warned you pets are like chicks; they tie you down. Any special requests for the pizza?”

  “Extra meat on my side.”

  “Only because you had a bad day.” I tweaked her perky nose.

  “Is that the only reason?” Her laughter was faker than usual. She caught Sheila’s attention. “You coming over to Cori’s after your shift?”

  Sheila, who more than likely followed our entire exchange, bobbed her head. “I think that can be arranged. My relief should be here soon, as a matter of fact.”

  After I called the pizza place, I ordered another beer.

  “I’m almost finished here. Grab that table over there, and we can have a drink before picking up the pie.” She jerked her chin to my right.

  I moved to the two-seater. Most of the rowdy patrons had gone across the street to the dive bar now that they had their fill of cheap wings and beers. The other bar had even cheaper booze but no food.

  Sheila plunked down two pint glasses on the table. She slid into the seat across from me, waiting patiently for me to finish the page of Wuthering Heights, a book I was rereading for a British lit course I was taking in the fall.

  I dog-eared the paperback, a sacrilege to many booklovers, but I was firmly in the camp that wear and tear was proof positive of a connection with the story.

  “Any good?” Sheila gestured to the book.

  “It’s okay.” I knew she didn’t want to discuss the novel. Her attention span for literature was a one-page synopsis of a John Grisham novel.

  She glanced to her left, where a young couple was in the midst of a spat. The fracas settled down just as quickly as it had flared, but from the tense look on the guy’s face and the misty eyes of the woman, the quarrel hadn’t been entirely resolved, or quite simply, they were throwing in the relationship towel.

  Sheila snickered. “Ah, love,” she whispered, not bothering to go into specifics.

  “It’s for the birds,” I joked.

  “Penguins mate for life.” She hoisted her glass to her lips.

  “Do they? I’ll file that away in the useless Trivial Pursuit facts file.” I tapped the side of my head.

  “Does that mean you never plan on falling in love?”

  “With Trivial Pursuit? Who has the time for that type of commitment? Although, I do rock the sports and literature questions.”

  She raised a finger. “In my business, that’s what we call a diversionary tactic.”

  “I thought that involved someone skipping out on their bar tab by climbing through the bathroom window.”

  Sheila leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. “I was referring to the legal profession. Interesting you opted to evade twice. Why?”

  “Depends. Are you asking as a lawyer or bartender? I’m having a hard time keeping up.” I offered a weak smile.

  She displayed three fingers in the air. “That’s three strikes. Spill.”

  “Nothing to spill.” I sipped my beer, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  Sheila tapped her fingertips together. “Oh, this is juicier than I thought. Let’s see, the only woman I see you with is Annie. Have you developed feelings for our Red?”

  “Nope. And, as far as I know, you’re the only one who calls her Red.”

  “Something’s different between you two, though. The past few weeks, there’s been a crack
le of tension.”

  I avoided her eye. Annie and I had agreed not to tell anyone we were sleeping together to avoid people thinking we were a couple, which we weren’t. “Methinks you’re fishing for dirt that’s not there, counselor.”

  “There’s always dirt with you.”

  “What does that mean?” I blurted.

  “Don’t act innocent.”

  “But I am. As pure as the driven snow.”

  She cackled. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She rested on her forearms. “If you’re a virgin, I’m a mermaid who can’t return to the water.”

  “Because…?” I motioned for her to explain.

  “What?” She furrowed her brow.

  “Why can’t you transform into a mermaid again?”

  “I’m not—” She tossed a white sugar packet at me, leftover from the previous occupant. “Stop trying to play me.”

  I placed a hand on my chest. “I would never.”

  “Does anyone ever fall for your act?” She swigged her beer.

  “No. That’s why I’m still a virgin. Now that we’re on the same page, let’s—”

  She put a hand up. “Nice try.”

  I laughed. “I’m not trying anything. How come no one believes me?” I flicked my hands upward.

  Sheila studied me. “If you haven’t fallen for Annie, that must mean she has for you.” Her voice contained an edge I couldn’t quite decipher.

  A bark of nervous laughter escaped me. “Annie McGuire and love—no way.” I sliced the air with the sugar packet.

  “What makes you say that?”

  I straightened in my chair to present my case. “Come on. Annie’s one of the toughest chicks I know. When she was six, her father up and moved back to Ireland, leaving a Dear John letter. Annie’s mom promptly dispatched the little redhead to boarding school. When Annie was thirteen, her mom moved to New York City for a job, only seeing Annie on holidays and summer break. Annie doesn’t trust people. And, she certainly doesn’t fall in love. Although—” I immediately regretted starting the last train of thought about Annie’s bedroom skills.