by Rylee Swann
I turn to find Dean standing in front of me. Tears are stinging my eyes and I’m sure he can tell.
“Ah, so you do have a heart under all that bravado. C’mere, Raven.” Dean opens his arms to me and I rush into them, holding him tight as the tears start falling. Resting my head on his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Dad. He nods to me with a sad little smile on his face. I know he’ll be sure to tell Mom that I finally broke down and this only serves to make me cry harder. I remember how badly I treated her this morning and wish I could take back the hate.
Why am I always such a bitch?
CHAPTER TWO
Fringe
I wake, my head pounding and ready to explode. No morning wood to speak of.
How the fuck much did I drink last night?
I gave myself the nickname Fringe years ago when I realized that’s where I was in life: on the fringe. I can never seem to move past that to where I want to be. I have aspirations, dreams, things I want to accomplish, but it’s like I fell in a hole and can’t climb out no matter how hard I try.
At least I’m still trying.
Do I get any points for that?
I’m almost afraid to open my eyes. I groan as my cell phone blares to life, pounding out a rhythm that forces my eyes open just to find the damn thing and make the noise stop.
I look around in relief. I'm home, dump that it is, in my own bed. Frantically searching for my cell, I reach down to grab the jeans I was wearing last night, wrestle the phone from a back pocket, and press the button that brings silence to the room.
Not caring who was calling, I drop the phone onto my pile of clothes and start to settle back but find to my surprise that I’m not alone.
I try to remember what the fuck I did last night but the effort only serves to increase my headache.
Blackout drunk. Fucking wonderful.
I look at the sleeping form next to me and slowly peel back the blanket. I’m about ready-to-puke hungover but that doesn’t mean I’m not curious about who this is. What I see when the blanket is down to waist level is attractive but doesn’t help. Pushing back long dark hair from her face, I don’t recognize her. Average face, nice tits, but still a stranger.
Shrugging in annoyance, I take a peek farther down and what I suspect is true. She’s completely naked.
I look down at myself. So am I. Fuck, hope I used a condom.
My phone buzzes as I absently scratch my balls. A text coming in, probably from whoever just tried to call. It can wait.
I give my balls a final scratch. And feel something that doesn’t belong there. I look down and in the dim light coming from behind closed curtains, I see a used condom half hanging from me.
Fuck, am I a piece of work or what?
Pulling it off, I get up to use the john without turning on any lights. I don’t want to see what condition the bathroom is in nor do I want an eyeful of the mess I’m guessing I look like. Running a hand through my tangled, shaggy dark hair, I piss like a racehorse and secretly hope the girl will be gone by the time I finish.
I’m tired of this.
Yeah, I’m only twenty-four but already I’m finding that I want something more from life besides meaningless one-night stands. For once, it would be nice to wake up and know the name of the girl sleeping next to me.
Fuck, who am I kidding? No woman wants something serious with the likes of me—flat broke drifter type with no future to speak of. They love me for my pretty face and big-ass cock and they’re glad when I send them packing.
She’s still in my bed when I shuffle back into the room. Rolling over to face me, she stretches and smiles.
Damn nice body, I think, and my cock twitches, half comes to life. Fucking thing has a mind of its own. All I really want to do is go back to sleep but now I’m hungover and horny. Great.
“’Morning, Fringe.” She stretches languidly again and my cock seems to find that exceedingly erotic. It twitches again, growing a little harder. She notices and her eyes light up. “Last night was fun.”
I just shrug because I really don’t know what we did last night, and it’s easier on my aching head to not say anything.
She’s not deterred. “So, what is your real name, Fringe? You said you’d tell me in the morning.” She smiles again but I’m forcing myself not to wince as I draw closer to the foot of the bed. Her breath stinks. I can smell it from where I’m standing. Please don’t let there be vomit in my bed. My cock must be watching her tits because it’s almost fully erect now. “You wanna play a little more first, I see.”
She jumps out of bed and gets down on her knees in front of me, taking my length into her mouth almost before I know what’s happening. It feels good and I don’t push her away. Yeah, I’m going to Hell. Instead of stopping her, I shut my eyes and bury my fingers in her long, silken hair, showing her what pace I want her to take.
Hard and fast. Just get me the fuck off. Swallow for me, baby, then maybe you’ll leave and I can go back to sleep.
And forget everything I’m trying to remember.
My breath hitches as she works my cock and a light sheen of sweat beads on my forehead. My sweat stinks like alcohol. Nice, real fucking nice. I need a shower. No, what I really need is a do-over. And not just for this day. For my entire loser life.
Despite these depressing thoughts, the girl is doing a good enough job that I’m near to coming. I’m impressed and give her some words of encouragement.
“That’s it, baby, just like that. Fuck yeah.”
In response, she squeezes my balls and my body tenses, my impending release vying for dominance with a killer headache.
“Ah, fuck, baby, I’m gonna come.”
She doesn’t back off and I shoot my load down her throat. I can feel it working against my cock as she swallows it all down. She keeps sucking, draining my erection of every last drop and I growl, wanting to throw her down and bury it deep inside her.
I fight the desire and she finally lets go, sitting back on her heels and looking up like a puppy wanting to be praised. I resist the urge to pat her on the head. That would send me to Hell for sure.
“Thanks, babe, that was nice,” I mutter and head back to my bed. My cell phone buzzes again and I pick it up to read the texts waiting. “Fuck! It’s a workday. I’m fucking late. Babe, you gotta go.” I text my boss back that I’ll be there soon. “I gotta get to work or I’ll lose my job.”
She pouts and holds her tits together to entice me to stay but I’m already on my way to the bathroom to shower. I can’t subject anyone to my stench no matter how late I am. When I come back to the bedroom, she’s gone and I’m grateful that she didn’t make a scene. I look around. And, she didn’t rip me off—not that there’s much to take.
My gaze lands on my beat-up old Lori guitar. It would have hurt if she’d taken that. Hurt a lot. I’ve had it since I was a kid, and all of my hopes and dreams are tied up in it. I fancy myself a bit of a musician and I’ve even scrawled out a few lyrics that aren’t half bad.
Who am I kidding, though? I’m a nobody and luck doesn’t run in my veins. I don’t have much of a shot. Fuck, less than a shot. No shot at all.
I often think it’s much easier to get by when you don’t have any dreams.
Quickly throwing on the least objectionable pair of jeans and t-shirt—I’m in serious need of doing laundry—I race out the door and to work.
CHAPTER THREE
Raven Dawn
Fringe isn’t at work when I get to Frank’s Motorcycle Repair Shop and that tells me he’ll probably be in a bad mood. He takes a lot of shit from Frank and it doesn’t help when he’s late. But he’ll never get fired. Fringe is the best mechanic Toronto has ever seen and the owner knows it. People come here just so Fringe can work on their custom bikes. Frank makes a decent living off of Fringe and all his bluster is just for show.
I hear the roar of an approaching Triumph Bonneville Street Twin motorcycle as I open the door to the shop and see the man of the hour coming up fast.
I hold it open and when he reaches the lot and spin-stops, spitting gravel everywhere, I give him an upnod, joining him in the parking area. “S’up.”
I can tell he’s hungover but Fringe smiles and returns the nod and greeting in a throaty rumble reminiscent of the bike he’s sitting on. My stomach does a little flip then I burst out in giggles.
Fringe is my best friend. Been that for going on six years now. He’s seen me at my best and at my worst and he never judges, lectures, or complains. Some days I don’t know what the hell I’d do without him. He lives as far from my world as a person can get but he seems to understand my problems almost better than I do. And, he has amazingly broad shoulders to lean on.
“Missed you last night,” I say, feigning nonchalance. He looks at me with raised eyebrows. “You said you’d stop by.”
“No.” He swings a leg over his bike and dismounts. “You said I should and I said it wasn’t a good idea.”
“But—”
“Oh, no, don’t go giving me those puppy eyes, Raven… or is it Dawn this week?”
I punch him lightly on the arm. “Dawn, you doofus. You know I could have used your support last night.”
For a moment, he pretends to be mortally wounded, which makes me roll into a new wave of giggles.
“And it would’ve just caused a bigger stink than either of us want to deal with. C’mon, how many times have you told me that they’ll think I’m not good enough for their baby? You know better than me that your parents won’t approve of us hanging together. I’m too old for you and all that shit.”
“Screw ‘em! I’m not making the same mistakes they made at my age, so they can just back the fuck off.”
“Oh, no, you’re going to wait until you’re all of eighteen, baby doll. When you’re all grown up.” The sarcasm in his voice gets my blood boiling.
“There’s nothing wrong with my plan and you know it.”
He just laughs and shakes his head, changing the subject. “Seen Frank around?”
“Yeah, I think he’s in his office.”
“Fucking great,” he mutters. “Hey, wanna help me with the Harley this morning? You hang out here enough, you ought to start pulling your weight.”
I know he’s teasing but it’s fun watching Fringe work. He lets me help sometimes—like a nurse in the operating room, slapping tools into his palm. He might be surprised how much I’ve picked up from him.
“Bet I could,” I say as we head into the garage.
“Yeah? You could rebuild a tranny?” He playfully side-kicks me in the ass as we walk.
“Hey!” I laugh and land a punch on his arm.
When he chuckles and drapes an arm around my shoulders, all at once I feel safe, like nothing in the world can hurt me.
For a change, Frank doesn’t come in to harass Fringe and he works quickly and efficiently on the Harley’s transmission. He explains everything he’s doing and I watch like an apt pupil, which is ironic since I ditched school again today. But I’d rather apprentice under Fringe any day than sit at a desk straining my brain over useless algebra. Or is it geometry I’m taking?
After about an hour or so, Fringe looks at me and laughs. “You have grease smudged all over you. How the hell did that happen?” I self-consciously rub my cheeks, probably making it worse, and he motions for me to stop. “It looks good on you.” He’s kneeling with a wrench in his hand and stares at my face until I fidget.
Standing up, he stretches and runs a hand through his unruly, long dark hair. He has a shadow of stubble on his cheeks, which for some reason makes me breathless. I can see why the sluts throw themselves at his feet. I know about his conquests, although he mostly keeps them to himself.
I know he still sees me as that gangly twelve-year-old he met when he first roared by my parents and I. We were just leaving a restaurant when he pulled his bike to a halt and stared, starstruck, until a horn honked behind him and he got his motorcycle moving again. That happens a lot with Mom. With her long flame-red curls, she’s easily recognized.
I was the only one who noticed him following us as the limo took us home. But I wasn’t worried. I didn’t get a stranger-danger vibe from him, so as soon as I could I raced back down from the penthouse to see if he was still lurking. He was a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, the same age I’ll be turning in twenty-nine days, but who’s counting?
He upnodded me when he saw he’d been spotted, and we’ve been best friends ever since.
“Let’s take a break.” He yawns and takes on a bored expression.
“Your old man bones aching?” I tease.
He laughs as he walks to the drink vending machine, plugging in a couple of loonies, what we call dollar coins. Frank makes a killing by charging two dollars. Coming back, he tosses me one of the bottled waters and we sit in companionable silence as we drink.
“So, what are you getting me for my birthday?”
Without missing a beat, he says, “Birth control.”
I’m so shocked, I choke. “Eww, don’t say that!”
He shrugs. “You’re the one who keeps bragging about doing the nasty on your birthday. Did you get a prescription yet?”
“Umm, can we change the subject?”
“No, you don’t want to put a bun in that sweet little oven of yours on the very first go, do ya?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Why, because you say so?” He snorts out a laugh.
“Yeah,” I say, heat rising to my cheeks. I’m being flippant and he knows it.
“Shit, Dawn, be serious for a minute. Do the right thing. Don’t go getting in trouble. That would fuck up your life.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll go see a gyno. I’ll ask Divine who she sees. But, fuck, Lobo’s going to use a condom anyway.”
“Fuck all! What are they teaching you these days in sex ed? Condoms aren’t one-hundred-percent safe. Go see a gyno. Get on the pill and use a condom.”
“Okay, okay, jeesh.” I’ve never seen Fringe so worked up. “What’s eating at you all of a sudden?”
He gets up, paces a few steps, then turns back to me. “Your birthday is almost here and I’m starting to think you’re serious about this. That’s what’s eating at me.” I just stare at him openmouthed. “Fuck, are you sure about Lobo?” He says the name like it’s a bad taste in his mouth.
I just nod.
“You know he’s an asshole, right?”
I nod again. “It’s not like I’m marrying him or anything.”
“Thank god for small miracles.”
“Shut up,” I say, but I’m not angry. Just a little hurt.
“Make me.” The words come out in a long, slow drawl. He’s smiling now but I’m not in the mood.
Still smiling, he flicks his water bottle at me, spraying me with water and I yelp, surprised. Just then we hear a female voice calling out.
“Fringe? Are you in here?”
“Fuck,” he mutters and mouths I’m sorry. “Yeah, back here!”
A minute later one of Fringe’s long-legged sluts comes into view. I roll my eyes but she doesn’t notice me right away.
“It’s so cold out, baby. Come warm me up?”
“I’m busy…” he pauses like he’s trying to pull her name out of his ass, “Trish,” and motions to his workbench.
“Aww, baby, you can finish that later. Gimme some sugar.” She plants her lips on his and wraps her arms around his neck.
I stare, transfixed. It’s like passing an accident on the highway. I want to look away but I can’t seem to make my body move.
Breaking the kiss, Trish rests her chin on his shoulder and spots me. “Aww, how cute. You’re babysitting.”
Fringe pushes away from her, a frown forming on his face. “C’mon, Trish. Be nice. She’s a friend.”
She laughs. “If that’s what you want to call it. C’mon, baby. Let’s play.”
She reaches down between his legs and my eyes widen. I find that I want him to stop her from doing that. She s
houldn’t be rubbing his cock. At least, not right in front of me. Or… not at all even.
“Trish…”
I jump up. “Hey, that’s alright, Fringe. I should get going anyway. I’ll see you later.”
I grab my coat and head out into the cold, feeling all sorts of unsettled and not knowing why.
CHAPTER FOUR
Fringe
It’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen Dawn. Ever since that bitch, Trish, interrupted us. I sent her ass packing right after Dawn left that day.
I realize I’m missing my best friend. And I want to see her. Make sure she’s not pissed at me.
It’s a day off for me and I could just text her. But suddenly I’m not sure what to say. I need to explore this new feeling carefully. Dawn hangs out at Lucifer’s almost daily so I can plan to run into her there, even though I hate the place. It’s always filled with biker dirtbags, like Lobo. I can’t stand the feeling in my stomach, like I’m at some portentous crossroads—it gnaws at me like a hungry rodent.
It’s already close to noon so I have a couple hours to kill before heading to Lucifer’s. Looking around the living room, I see it with new eyes, the way Dawn might see it, if I brought her here. Like it’s the next best thing to a garbage dump. Shit.
Flipping on my iPod, I turn it up to full volume and jump into cleaning this landfill I live in. Three songs in and I’m singing along to Rachel St. Claire while I push a broom around the kitchen. When I first met Dawn, I couldn’t believe my luck. Getting a meeting with Rachel St. Claire, a chance she would listen to my demo tapes, the possibility of my big break suddenly seemed within reach. In the end, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t ask Dawn to set it up. I didn’t want to use her like that or have her think that was the only reason I was hanging with her.
Talk about dream suicide.
A couple hours later, the place looks almost livable. Other than the laundry and the sink full of dirty dishes, but I made progress. Break time. Flopping down on the couch, I hit the on button of the TV remote. Flipping through channels, I smirk as I land on “Heartbeat,” the doctor show Dawn’s half brother stars in. He’s Canada’s version of Dr. McDreamy. Has to beat the female fans off with a stick. I’ve seen it happen.