For You

by Strong, Mimi

  My voice soft as a whisper, I said, “Defending yourself is okay.”

  “It certainly is. You have to fight, or you won't believe you're worth fighting for. Now tell me more about this husband of yours.”

  I looked around the bar for some reprieve, but there was nothing to save me on the giant TV screens or in the neon beer brand advertisements.

  “He hasn't been around much lately,” I said.

  A thunderous crack startled me, and I whipped my head to see some of the old-timer regulars starting a game of pool. Looking at the green felt lit up under the low-hanging lamp made my blood feel chilled, like ice water.

  “Let me help you,” he said. “We can be friends. You help me with this giant albatross of an art project, and we can play a few games of pool. Low pressure.” He took a sip of beer, never moving his eyes off me. “Let's be friends.”

  “I don't know.”

  “Is it because I talk too much? I could try to talk less, but it helps me let off steam. It's good to use your words instead of your fists to communicate. I think real men talk.”

  Some new patrons took a seat nearby, so I began to back away.

  “You do have a nice voice,” I said, then I turned and quickly walked away.

  For the rest of the afternoon, we talked a little more each time I came by to check on Sawyer Jones. He kept working on ideas for the mural, doing quick sketches in his book. As he'd done the previous visits, he drank only two pints of beer, sipped very slowly as he worked. After the second one, he requested a water. As I set the water glass down, he said, “I'm just off to the boy's room. Would you keep an eye on my laptop?”

  I was confused for a moment, then realized he'd sketched the image of an open laptop inside two pages of the book. Both the drawing and his joke were cute.

  He clapped his hands together and hooted. “Did it! Made you smile.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand, embarrassed. Everyone in the area had turned to stare.

  He was still chuckling as he disappeared around the corner to the washrooms.

  I stood there for a moment, “guarding” the drawing of the laptop until I realized what I was doing. Shaking my head, still smiling, I walked away from the sketched laptop.

  Lana had just shown up to start her shift, and I went to greet her over by the cupboard where we stowed away our purses.

  “You look great today,” she said.

  “You too.”

  She smoothed down her brightly-dyed purple hair. “No I don't. I look like shit. I barely put on half my face, because Curtis wanted to make love.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Oh.”

  She poured two shots of something—vodka—and nodded down at the second one as she picked up the first.

  “It's Wednesday, so happy humpday,” she said.

  I picked up my shot and held it up to clink with hers.

  Grinning, she said, “Shit it!” and tossed back her drink.

  Shit it was a Lana-ism I'd recently learned about. She had no problem the F-word, so it was an odd substitute, but it suited her.

  “Shit it,” I said, tossing back my shot of vodka.

  We chased these shots with another set for good measure. It was Wednesday, after all.

  With the drinks in my system, plus no more pain from my tooth, I was light-headed and free. Giddy.

  I wasn't watching where I was going. On one pass back to the sink, Lana and I bumped into each other spectacularly, and she folded over in a fit of giggles.

  “Don't you love that feeling?” she said between gasps.

  “What feeling? Bruising? Not really.” I was rubbing my hip, where I already had a bruise from the ice machine's unforgiving corner.

  “When your arms get heavy,” she said.

  “I'm not that drunk, just buzzed.”

  She laughed hard and flopped forward like a rag doll. “No, I mean when you laugh so hard your shoulders slump, like you can't bear the weight of your own arms. And then you get that sharp pain behind your ears.”

  “From laughing?”

  She stood up and grabbed me by the shoulders. I was getting used to the constant body contact from Lana, so I didn't pull away.

  She leaned in until the top of her forehead was touching mine and we were eye to eye. “You need to get laid,” she said.

  I humored her with a nod as I pulled my forehead off hers. “Yep.”

  She shook me by the shoulders like I was her play toy. We were standing just inside the room I thought of as a kitchen, but was actually just a dishwashing station and storage for some of the mixes that didn't fit behind the bar.

  She said, “You take off that pretend ring and get yourself a real man. You tell him to put his head between your legs and don't come up 'til you're howling his name loud enough to get all the dogs in the neighborhood barking.”

  “Nice.”

  She released me from her grip. “You're in the good part of your life right now. Don't you feel it? I bet you get wet just thinkin' about kissing a guy. I bet you come in five minutes flat. What do you think about Mr. Tattoos out there. He's always makin' googly eyes at ya.”

  “Sawyer? He's interesting, and I guess he's cute, but I've got Bell to take care of. I can't have a relationship.”

  She snorted. “Who said anything about a relationship? Listen, there's nobody home at my place right now. My son's staying at a friend's tonight, and Curtis is working a double shift. Why don't you use my spare key and take that big hunk of man back to my place? Just one night, to shake you loose.”

  As I demurred, politely, I couldn't remember how much Lana knew, and what lies I'd told to whom. She knew I wasn't married, but did she know Bell was my sister, not my daughter? I wished I'd made some notes, or at least told everyone the same thing.

  “Look at ya! You're quivering with anticipation,” she said, shaking me some more.

  “Lana! You're gonna make me barf.”

  She stopped shaking me and just gave me a stare so ridiculous and serious, I had to laugh.

  “I see a smile,” she said. “Smilin' gets a lot easier when you're getting some.”

  I thanked her as graciously as I could, then backed out through the swinging door, into the dim environment of the bar, where I wasn't so visible.

  The place was filling up with the post-supper crowd, and the music had gotten louder.

  Sawyer wasn't at his table, but leaning with one elbow on the bar. His back was to me, and he was talking to Bruce. I drank in the full length of him, from his muscular calves, to his butt, and his broad, solid shoulders. He wasn't a huge, bulky guy, but he looked strong, and solid.

  The suggestions Lana had made were swirling around my head, sending heat between my legs.

  Sawyer turned his head slowly, like he could sense me standing there, checking him out.

  His green eyes crinkled at the corner as he gave me a smile.

  Bruce waved me over. “Aubrey! You didn't tell me Sawyer offered to show you some tips at pool. You're going to take him up on it, I hope.”

  I shrugged my shoulders back as I stuck my hands in my pockets self-consciously.

  Lana snuck up behind me and pinched the back of my arm.

  Before she could open her mouth and embarrass me, I said, “You bet I am. He needs a fresh set of eyes on something he's working on, and we're going to trade.”

  Sawyer raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were blowing me off. But you're in?”

  “I'm in.”

  Bruce said, “We're not too busy, so how about you knock off early? Right about now?”

  A pulse of terror shot through me, but at least it was sobering. Right now?

  Bruce rummaged around and grabbed my purse, plopping it on the bar's counter. “Free to go.”

  My grandmother would be picking Bell up from school, expecting me to be working late. I was free to go, but did I want to go?

  Sawyer was already saying goodbye to Bruce, and then I was following him out the door, into the bright sun. Right. It
was still daytime.

  Chapter Four

  I sneezed, twice.

  “You won't sneeze if you shut one eye,” Sawyer said, squinting at the sky. “Nature's sunglasses.”

  I closed one eye and sneezed a third time.

  “Takes practice,” he said.

  “Doesn't everything.” I pulled my sunglasses from my purse and put them on.

  Sawyer leaned over and peered into my purse, which was full of stuff like granola bars, suckers, and loose napkins.

  “That's a mom-sized purse,” he said, then, “Ooh, suckers! Can I have one?”

  I clutched the purse closed against my stomach. “Not cool.”

  Unfazed, he chuckled. “Fine, I didn't really want a sucker.”

  We stopped next to a big motorcycle, and he handed me a shiny black helmet.

  “No way,” I said. “Nu-uh.”

  “I had two glasses of beer over four hours. I assure you, I'm as sober as when I got up this morning.” He rubbed his chin, which had some dark stubble from not having shaved for a couple days. “Nope, I think I'm more sober than I was this morning.”

  “I don't ride on motorcycles.”

  “Not even one as sweet as this?”

  The bike was gleaming in the afternoon sun like a physical manifestation of pride and joy. The tank was black on top, with a gold-colored stripe that had the Harley Davidson logo stretched along it, the words almost unrecognizable until you got close. The bottom of the tank was gray, with some darker spikes that looked like a tribal-style tattoo. The black seat was scooped down at the front and higher in the back, where the passenger sat. All the chrome along the engine and the exhaust pipes was clean and shined brighter than most people's jewelry. Two rear-view mirrors, also polished to a dazzling shine, rose above the bike's handles, on either side of a curved windscreen.

  “It is a nice bike,” I said.

  He snorted. “Nice?”

  “I don't know anything about bikes, or riding them.”

  “But you know how to hang on, right? You could put your arms around me and hang on tight.” He smirked in a way that made me want to punch him or kiss him.

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Not on a gorgeous day like this.” He breathed deeply, his broad chest expanding as he leaned his head back and sunned his face. “We'll detour down to the beach and get that salty sea breeze. You'll be begging me to take you bike shopping before the end of the day.”

  “Maybe another time. I should get home and use the extra time to catch up on laundry.”

  He gave me another sexy, mocking look, as if to say, laundry is for losers, so I just buy new clothes every week, like this super-tight, brand-new T-shirt I'm wearing to show off my big chest and arm muscles.

  “And dishes,” I added.

  He grabbed some mirrored sunglasses from the bike's cockpit and put them on. “Dishes. Sounds serious. Hop on and I'll give you a lift home.” He held the helmet out to me again, and I accepted. “Take your sunglasses off first, shorty,” he said.

  “I'm not short.”

  “It's an expression. Shorty.”

  Squeezing the tight helmet onto my head gave me a wave of panic, of claustrophobia. Once the helmet was in place, my panic receded. The lower part was tighter, hugging the base of my skull, but I had enough room inside the bubble of it for my ears to be comfortable. I put my sunglasses back on, careful not to poke myself in the eye.

  Sawyer grabbed for my purse, and I stepped back reflexively.

  “Gimme that,” he said. “That strap's too short to go over your helmet, and you can't wear it loose over your shoulder like that.”

  I handed him my purse and he looped the strap over his head, then twisted the purse around front, above his belt. My ample purse looked tiny on his muscular frame.

  He got a mischievous look. “Do you like my fanny pack?”

  “Stay out of there.”

  “What if my blood sugar gets low and I need a sucker desperately?” He groped the leather purse along the outside. His eyes were hidden behind his mirrored sunglasses, but his lips were curved up in a smile. “Just doing a weapons check. Hmm. No handgun. Phew. What's this?” He outlined the shape of a slim cylinder. “You don't wear lipstick, so I'm guessing this is pepper spray. Am I right?”

  “None of your business.”

  He threw one long, muscular leg over the bike and righted it. Looking over his shoulder at me, he said, “Buckle that helmet and get on.”

  “But you don't have a helmet.”

  “The cops around here are pretty lenient if the helmet's on the passenger. Plus this guarantees you I'll drive extra-safe, doesn't it?”

  I buckled the strap under my chin, pinching my skin. “Shit!”

  “Don't pinch yourself.”

  “Thanks.” I stepped up to the bike and got on the back, careful not to touch Sawyer, and rested my hands behind me on the loop of metal behind the seat.

  “You'll throw my balance off like that.” He turned the key and the engine shuddered to life, the leather seat trembling between my legs. “Put your arms around my waist.”

  “I've got my hands on this bar back here. Isn't that what it's for?”

  “Aubrey, don't be a wuss. Put your arms around me and hold on tight, so you can lean when I lean, just don't—”

  The front of my helmet cracked the back of his head. I wasn't used to having to think about my head being so much larger than it was.

  He rubbed the back of his head, his fingers lost in his wavy, brown hair. “Yeah, just don't crack me on the back of my head.”

  “You should be wearing a helmet.”

  He hit the throttle and the bike lurched forward a few inches. “Was that a joke? Did the sad girl just make a joke?”

  “Just an observation.”

  He revved the engine again, drawing the attention of a few people getting out of their cars in the bar's parking lot.

  Sawyer growled back over the rumbling engine, “I have a bad memory. You said you wanted to go by the beach, right?”

  My response was drowned out in the sound of the engine as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  The power of the bike amazed me, moving as if the laws of gravity and inertia didn't apply. After only a few seconds in the parking lot, I could understand the allure.

  Sawyer rode carefully, waiting for a clear break in traffic before turning out onto the road. As we traveled, my fears calmed down.

  Even with cars, I'd always been afraid of driving anywhere, imagining accidents even at the first mention of a road trip. Accidents were one of the main ways people had left my life, so it wasn't like I was imagining the worst just to torture myself. My father died in a motorcycle accident when I was too young to know him, or so my mother had told me.

  Vehicles of any kind made me nervous. Once I was on the road, though, like when Bell and I were moving somewhere new, I got a sense of calm behind the wheel. Even highway speed didn't seem so fast—it's not that fast if you drive two miles under the speed limit. I had a valid driver's license, but getting pulled over by a cop would be as bad as an accident, because I had no idea what they'd find if they ran my name through the system.

  My nightmares were deserved. An innocent person didn't have those worries.

  I tightened my arms around Sawyer's torso, feeling him sway left and right as we made turns, me moving in harmony with him. It seemed very intimate, this riding a motorcycle together. I had to trust him, but he also had to trust me not to throw off the delicate balance.

  My hands were sweating, despite the wind rushing around us. Was it the feeling of his muscular stomach under my forearms? Or of his strong back pressed against my chest? His body was warm, and a light sweat was forming underneath the front of my shirt, where his heat was radiating into me.

  After a few minutes of riding, I was calm enough to look around more and admire the scenery. The trees looked more lush as we approached the water, and the houses turned into mansions with large lawns and new fen
ces.

  The rumble of the bike drowned out everything, until its roar became equivalent to silence in my head, drowning out the sounds of the city, but more importantly, drowning out my thoughts. I wasn't thinking about the pile of laundry at home, or what I was going to pack in Bell's lunch, or what I was going to do if she kept having problems at her new school.

  For the moment, I was just a girl on the back of a motorcycle, heading to the beach with a cute guy.

  When we got to the beach, Sawyer pulled into the parking area and turned the bike off. The sounds of the world returned, muted.

  I let go of him and jumped off the bike, quickly yanking the front of my shirt repeatedly to get some air in there.

  He rested the bike on the kickstand and swung his leg over with far more grace than I had. Reaching back, he fanned the back of his T-shirt as well. “Man, you are so hot, Aubrey.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Do you have a fever? Should we take you by the hospital?”

  I stopped fanning my shirt and pulled the helmet off. I shook my hair out and rubbed at the red marks on my forehead that I could see reflected in Sawyer's mirrored shades.

  He licked his lips. “That looks good.” He nodded toward a woman with two kids Bell's age walking by with drippy cones.

  I said, “Gimme back my purse and I'll buy you an ice cream.”

  It was past dinner time now, and a double-scoop cone looked like it would hit the spot. The kids with the ice cream stopped walking and stared at Sawyer. Was it the swirling seascape tattoos all over one forearm like a sleeve, or the smaller tattoo looping across the wrist of the other arm? Or were they looking at the ladies' purse he was only now taking off?

  The mother shot me a dirty look and rushed them on their way. Why me? I wasn't the one with the tattoos. And besides, weren't tattoos normal nowadays? Why did people have to be such judgmental assholes?

  I looked around at the young families and silver-haired retirees on the boardwalk. There were a lot of those brown slacks rich people wore. Maybe tattoos weren't so common in this area.

  Sawyer handed my purse to me and pointed to the row of shops across the street from the boardwalk. A third of them seemed to sell ice cream, but he told me the very best one was off the beaten path, just down a side street.