by Xavier Neal
“No I mean my…” her voice trails off as she realizes she doesn’t have friends or if so she doesn’t have contact with them. For her sake I'm hoping it's not the latter.
Like a good guy who hates to see a woman suffer, I sigh, “You’re name’s Gianna.”
“Yeah, but my nickname’s Gi.”
A chuckle escapes me, “Special.”
“It is special. You know, Gi, like in G –spot.” One of her fingers lightly strolls down my chest. My body's immediate response is to tense from the action while my dick knocks against my jeans again. Damn it! This girl has to be an assistant to the devil and on her agenda today? Turn my nuts blue.
I take a moment and stare into her deep hazel eyes, wondering why she plays so many games. One moment she’s being a complete and total bitch and the next she’s trying to flirt with me. I fell for those kinds of games once. Never again.
With a wide grin she sneers at me, “Or maybe you don’t. Not all guys are capable of finding it ya know?”
Right as she begins to flounce off again further continuing this game of cat and mouse, I grab her by the wrist and spin her around so her back hits the wall and I’m in front of her. “First of all, don’t be mistaken…I do know where that spot is.” Not loosening my grip, but tightening it, I lean my lips down to her ear that’s got two piercings and one in the cartilage. In a heated whisper I say, “Trust me.”
A whimper escapes her lips. I lean back to look into her eyes. Her body language is screaming at me to kiss her. The way her eyes are lit up. The way she's holding her breath. And now, her bottom lip being sucked into her mouth demonstrating where she wants tongue. Steadying myself I let go and insist, “Now tell me, Gi, what you meant.”
Gianna swallows deeply, slightly wets her lips and props her foot against the wall. With a flick of her dark brown hair out of her face she answers, “I meant that a guy who is…built with a great body like yours, and green eyes to die for, and a smile that turns knees into jelly, should have a girlfriend. I meant there’s no reason for a guy who’s caring and forgiving and smart and funny to not have a girlfriend.”
My face leans back down into hers. “And how do you know I’m all those things?”
She fiddles around with the edge of her shirt. “I don’t. I was making an educated guess. The truth is I don’t know you or anything about you.”
I let my lips reach her ear once more, “Exactly.”
With that said, I turn around and head back to the couch, which is when I hear her mumble, “But I would definitely like to.”
“What’d you say?” I pretend to have not heard her as I flop down on the couch once more.
“Nothing...” she denies strolling back over to me. “Where were we?”
Quickly I answer, “Page seven. And let’s try to get these lines down so we can actually work on other things next class. Like blocking.”
Gianna gives me one final look that raises all sorts of red flags to me. I couldn't date her even if she did more than just push my buttons. I can't date. It's just not something I can do. Not for a very long time. Damn though. This girl is definitely tempting. Even if it's just to...no. Definitely not that. One kid is enough. Gianna looks down and starts flipping around in her script. Maybe we will actually get something accomplished today other than the headache I feel coming on.
Chapter 4
Once I’m finally at work I do my best to try to take it easy knowing all the stress from school could probably just cause me to break things rather than fix them. I don't know what it is about that girl, but there's something I just can't stay away from. It's more than just being horny or really horny in my case. It's like a nagging to see why she's so defensive. Huh. My dad would say that's a higher power's way of telling you to take that path. Gianna is not a path I wanna take. I have enough hoops, hurdles, and hard times without adding one gorgeous misunderstood female to it.
While wandering around I make sure to pass by MaKayla’s classroom to see her playing cheerfully with her two best friends, Claire and Zoë, who I need to make sure to invite to her birthday party. It won't be anything huge, but I've been saving to at least do something this year. Hell, I'll see if I can grab some yard work favors to make sure she gets to have some sort of celebration she'll enjoy. Right as I walk away, I hear a call of distress for an overflowing toilet in Ms. Kendall’s Pre-K class.
Entering with the mop bucket and plunger, the kids take their attention away from playing and direct it at me.
“Mr. Connor! Mr. Connor!” they squeal trying to rush to me, but are stopped by Kendall and her assistant, who quickly insists that they return to playing.
Within a matter of moments they’re gone and Kendall says to me, “I’ll show you, which toilet it is.” Following behind her, my eyes get a brief glance at her ass in her work pants, not feeling even slightly impressed. Not after seeing Gianna bent over today. Ugh. Damn it! Again? What is she, some sort of voodoo priestess? I haven't consistently thought about a female like this since before Mak was born. Kendall opens the girl’s bathroom door, points, and smiles. “All yours Mr. Fix-It.”
A chortle escapes me as I tend to the mess. “Thanks.”
“Any time,” she jokes leaning against the door frame with her eyes glancing at the children. After a moment of silence she asks, “How are you today?”
“I’m alright,” I reply. Better if I could get one super model sexy girl out of my fucking head. “You?”
“Great now that I’ve seen your face,” her flirtation grabs my attention.
Doing my best to unclog the toilet, I shake my head, “You’re too sweet Kendall.”
“I try.” She tosses her bangs out of her eyes. “Am I sweet enough to have a date with?”
Taken off guard, I let the plunger slip in my hands. “What?”
Her eyes continue to watch her children, but her voice stays directed at me, “Well, I was just wondering if maybe when you got off if you’d wanna have dinner together or something?”
“I um… have to take Mak home and get her fed and to bed,” I regain my composure.
“She can come too,” she quickly says. “I love kids, obviously. So I would love if she came with us.”
“I don’t know Kendall…”
“Oh come on Connor,” her voice begins a pout. “I’m dying to spend time with you outside of this place.”
Thankful the toilet is finally fixed I begin mopping. “And why is that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Kendall pushes the hair out of her eyes again and gives me an innocent glance. “I like you Connor.”
“You barely know me,” my huff is followed by the sound of the mop hitting the water. Which at this point is the truth for all women outside a selected few for me. No one is allowed to know me. Besides, there's nothing more to know about me than I'm an 18 year old single fucking father.
“Well I like what I know,” she argues and lets her shoulders shrug. “And want to know more.” After another awkward pause she sighs, “Do you…like me?”
Rolling the mop out of the bathroom I give a deep look into her bright blue eyes. “I barely know you.” I notice the disappointed look on her face and mutter, “But what I know I like.”
Satisfied she waves to me as I exit hoping that’s the last time I have to deal with that sort of awkward situation. This day just keeps getting better and better.
Hours later I pick up my daughter slightly earlier than expected, which leaves just enough time to grab dinner on our way home, a rare opportunity.
I hold MaKayla’s hand and the Pete’s pizza box while both backpacks beat up my back during our travel up the apartment stairs. Before we even reach the faded blue door I hear vicious yelling that makes the blood in my veins begin to boil.
Glancing down at Mak whose face now looks slightly terrified, I instruct her, “Go straight to your room and close the door tight until Daddy comes to get you okay?”
“Yes Daddy.” She nods tightening her grip on her teddy bear.
/>
As soon as I open the door she darts down the hall to our room having done this many times before. My attention quickly diverts to my mother’s lover, the man she likes to call my stepfather, as his pale rough hands twist around her neck while she struggles to breathe against the wall.
Dropping the backpacks and pizza, I rush over to the toothpick size, balding man and yank him off of her in one quick motion. Without hesitation he swings his fist, which lands directly on my jaw. Not getting a second to process that thought, another swing comes my way, but instead of damaging my face for a second time, it's blocked. Quickly I grab his arm and twist it around his back. I pin him up against the wall, unfortunately inhaling the bitter smell of whiskey.
My face leans over to look into his cocaine glazed eyes, “What the hell are you doing? How many times have I told you not to come around here?”
“And how many times did I try to teach your punk ass to duck when you see a fist coming at you?” He laughs again. “Yet, you still manage to get sucker punched.”
Shoving him into the wall again, he grunts, and I respond, “I’m going to ask you again. What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s the first. Rent is due, and you know that tramp you call your mother needs giving and I need getting.” This time I grip his hair with my other hand shove his head violently into the wall. After another groan of pain he mutters, “What’s wrong junior? Don’t like knowing what a slut mommy is?”
My grip tightens to the point of bruising. “My mother is—”
“Open like 7-11.”
With one more vicious shove of his head into the wall I state, “My mother does what she feels she has to do to pay bills, but she isn’t your personal punching bag.”
“Why not? My fist fits so sweetly in her jaw,” the disturbing tone returns to his voice.
I turn him around, shove him again, this time with my forearm jammed in his throat. “I want you to get your shit and get the hell out. And if I catch you around here ever again you’ll need an oxygen tank to breathe. If I decide you get to keep breathing.”
“Ha,” Paul manages to grunt through my choking. “You don’t have it in you.”
My eyebrows lower as my eyes glare into his. “Test me.”
Our eyes dangerously linger, rage of two different rivers flowing swiftly against each other creating a rapid of tension in which only one of us can survive.
Shoving my arm away he shrugs and looks at my mother, “I’m out of here Lily.”
With her hand on her swollen face she rushes towards him, “Paul I—”
“See you on the first of next month.” He snatches his leather jacket off the couch.
Paul winks at me, slams the front door, and my mother suddenly breaks into tears chasing after him, “Come back!” In one clean motion, she's in my grip kicking and screaming, “Paul!”
“Stop!” She continues struggling.
“Paul!!”
When her tantrum starts to dwindle, I loosen my hold. “He’s gone mom.” Letting her go completely, I lock the door and pick up the pizza box, trying to ignore the pain throbbing in my jaw.
With tears staining her cheek she cries out, “I hate you!”
Nodding, I move the pizza box to the coffee table, replacing the empty whiskey, vodka, and beer bottles. I shake my head gathering the cocaine tray and razor.
“I hate you Connor!” her repeating high pitch scream is a sound both I and the neighbors are accustomed too. “I hate you so much! You’re the world’s worst son!”
“Funny coming from the world’s worst mother,” I mumble hiding the mess in the kitchen.
“Why’d you do that? Why’d you throw him out?” she screams, stomping around like my two and half year old. Dropping the bottles in the trashcan I grab the cleaning wipes and stroll back into the living room. “Why? Why? Why!”
“Because he’s a pot dealing, coke sniffing, womanizing bastard who hits you!”
“He doesn’t beat me!” Touching her face she whispers, “He’s just got a rough touch.”
“He blackens your eyes!” I emphasize during the process of clearing away the condom wrappers, cigarette butts, and wiping the surfaces down to be livable.
“It’s nothing make-up can’t cover!” My mother returns to screaming probably scaring my daughter like usual.
“He’s a waste of great God given space and shouldn’t be around my mother let alone my Goddamn daughter!” I fling the fallen pillows onto the couch.
“You’re so selfish! Everything’s always about you!”
“About me?” I whisper. Turning around, I raise my voice, “About me? Worrying about you and my daughter is being selfish? I protect you day in and day out through your drunken episodes, and this is the thanks I get?”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“Clearly. What was he doing here anyway? Didn’t I give you money already?”
With a sneer she rolls her eyes, “I’ve got bills to pay and needed more money than I had.”
“Bills to pay or alcohol to drink?”
“Bills, Connor.”
“And you couldn’t ask me for the money?”
“Ugh, don’t give me that.” She flicks her wrist at me. “You know you have to support MaKayla. Besides, I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself.”
“Obviously.”
“You shouldn’t talk to me like that. I am your mother, you know,” she sighs, her buzz beginning to wear off.
“Only biologically,” I respond, relocating our backpacks to the living room.
Ignoring my comment she continues, “And he is your stepfather.”
My movement stops. “Only lawfully. He will never be any sort of father to me. Ever.”
“Why not? It's not like your dad is coming back from the grave!”
“And if he did the first fucking thing he would do is congratulate me for not letting that garbage stay in this house!”
“You need to show me some respect,” the request seems more than mildly dumb.
Turning to look at her, I state coldly, “Earn it.”
For a moment she merely looks at me, swollen eyes a bit watery, bruised jaw slightly trembling, and possibly broken hand shaking as it tries to find a place to rest on her fragile frame. With a deep breath to either ease the physical pain her early 40s body continuously encounters, or the emotional pain of having to live with being a terrible mother, with a son who possibly doesn’t love her, she simply sighs, “I’m going to lie down. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I move my glance to the remaining trash for me to pick up at the same time her door slams shut. Annoyed, I flop down on the couch and bury my face in my hands. As my fingertips massage my head, I listen to the muffled sound of my mother’s tears. Life wasn't always like this. There wasn't always this battle zone with a line drawn in the sand. She once loved me like a mother should love a son. Took care of me. Of her. Of my dad...I guess that's the worst part of watching someone you love die and taking care of them in the process. You lose a part of yourself you can never grow back. I know this. Just like I know that I need to do the right thing. Be the man my father expected me to be when he died. With a long exhale, I stand up and retreat to her room seeing her sprawled out with tears stained on her face.
Sliding next to her, I grab the purple blanket and cover her with it. Her tears continue to fall before I hear her whimper, “I try so hard to…to…to…”
“I know mom,” My hand caresses her back trying to calm her down. “I know.”
“And I get it Connor. I’m not very good at this whole mother thing anymore.”
“You’re not too terrible when you're actually trying.”
“Right. And how often is that?”
I bite my tongue as best as I can, “You know one way to get better is to 86 this whole drugs thing. You’re killing yourself not to mention making it really hard to raise a kid here. If you’re not going to fix things for yourself or me, at least do it for Mak. She needs her
grandmother in her life and at this rate…you won’t be.”
Her head bobs like it does every time we have this conversation. Even though I know all I've done is waste my breath, I have to keep trying. Faith. Belief. Never giving up. Basic life principles dad would say. Even dead, with so much of his memory faded from me, he still stands the most reliable guide in this shit storm I call my life. I tuck my mother in and kiss her forehead.
“I’ll let Mak sneak in here once you’ve sobered up a bit to tell you goodnight.”
“Thanks Connor.” She touches her swelling eye.
“Want some ice for that?”
Immediately she shakes her head and rolls over, the faint sound of tears starting up again.
Leaving her room I close the door shut and head to the bathroom where I admire the amazing bruise developing on my face. I run my thumb across the discoloring, not surprised so much as annoyed that I have to create another excuse for coming to school with faded marks that appear to be that of abuse. Doesn't matter now like it did before I was 18. Most of my classmates think I'm in some sort of underground fighting circle. Brent had something to do with that after a girl he was dating was obsessed with a book about an MMA fighter. Said it would make a great cover story. Surprisingly enough he never asked what was actually causing the bruises.
After wrapping some ice in a towel and pressing it against my jaw, I release Mak from our bedroom. Still clutching her teddy bear, she slinks out, and directly into my arms. Mac’s head rests on my shoulder as she sniffles frightened, something she is a little too often for me to feel like a successful parent.
“You ok princess?”
After receiving a nod she points to where I'm holding the ice, “Boo-boo?”
“I'll be okay.”
“I don't like when you get ouchies daddy.”
“Me either,” I mumble and adjust her in my grip. “How about I heat you up some pizza and turn on a movie?”
“Cinderella?” Her head pops up.
“Didn’t we just watch that a couple days ago?”
Mak whines, “Cinderella daddy. I wanna watch Cinderella.”