Almost Broken Up (Almost Bad Boys)

by Peart, A. O.

  I go back to bed and close my eyes. The sleep envelopes me right away, and I dream of my Faith; of the happy and careless Faith—the girl that she was before the drugs and booze.

  I don’t know how long I stand in the shower. Hot water burns my skin, evoking red splotches all over me. But I welcome the sensation, because it lets me concentrate on something other than Faith’s death. I put my palms on the wall and hang my head down under the water. I watch the water run down the drain by my feet. Someone pounds on the door again, but I ignore it. Maybe the same girl as before? Or maybe another girl. I don’t care, because the only girl that I want to see now is dead.

  “Colin!” I recognize the voice. It is high and melodic with a hint of something more in it… fear? Panic? God, Libby! My grandmother is here. How did she find me? I jump out of the shower, not worrying about turning the water off, and grab a semi-clean looking bath towel. It’s so small that I barely manage to wrap it around my hips. I pull the doors open. Two women stand there, their eyes huge with anticipation: Libby and her mother—my great grandma—Helga.

  “Colin! Are you okay?” They both rush at me, wrapping their arms around me, hugging me fiercely.

  I hug them back with one arm, holding the skimpy towel close to my body with the other hand.

  Helga is very old and very tiny—maybe four feet two, that’s all—but she’s fierce and authoritative. Libby is all motherly love and wisdom. These two raised me since I lost my parents at the age of four.

  They talk, shout, cry, ask questions. I don’t know what to do first, so I just motion them inside and close the doors.

  “Wait, wait,” Libby quiets her mother and turns her worry-filled eyes to me. “What happened exactly? After I’d got your call last night, I tried to contact you at the dorm. Your friend Adam told me about the accident. But he didn’t know where you went. They only knew the police brought you back at night, but then you were gone… I traced your call to here. That’s how we found you. Colin… please tell us everything. From the beginning.” She sits next to me on the bed, and Helga sits on my other side, grasping my arm in her small, wrinkled hands.

  So I tell them the whole story. I feel tears rolling down my cheeks, and it is embarrassing. I’m a grownup man, not a kid anymore, but I can’t stop. It’s infuriating, but it is good to talk; to get it all out of me; to uncork that barrel of pain and let it flow out and away. They cry quietly, wrapping their arms around me and around one another. And then they tell me that we are going back home to Seattle. For good. I don’t fight it. I don’t want to go back to UCLA. I can’t face it. If I do, that little part that hasn’t been wrecked inside me like everything else is, will shatter, and I will be a broken man with no hope.

  ONE

  “If you can find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn’t lead anywhere.”

  Frank A. Clark

  What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. This is such bullshit. If something is about to kill you, it will scar you for life. There is no strength coming from terrifying experiences. Maybe that saying should be more specific and read something like What seriously kicks your ass makes you stronger. Yeah, that makes more sense.

  Did the car accident that took Faith’s life, but didn’t kill Colin make him stronger? Hell no. He will never really put it behind him; he will never recover; he will always be broken inside, blaming himself for what happened, for not stopping her, even if he had no chance to do so.

  I watch him closely now and even though I see him becoming visibly more relaxed, as if a huge boulder has been removed from his shoulders, I realize the aftermath of the tragedy from his past boils right under the surface, ready to rear its ugly head and take him down.

  I know Colin’s trying to control his panic attacks. A few years spent in therapy taught him how to recognize the first symptoms of an upcoming attack, and how to quickly disperse it. He’s really good at it, but I still keep an eye on him.

  After witnessing his panic attack for the first time, I start to do my own research, pouring over the Internet and books, learning everything I can about his condition and how to help him. Colin teaches me what to look for and what to do in case he fails to restrain the attack. So far, over four weeks from the initial incident, he hasn’t succumbed, although I’ve seen the first signs of an upcoming attack twice.

  He tells me that he’s getting better; that this is just a residual of the past and not something new; that it doesn’t have anything to do with me. This, in his own words, is a good thing. I feel relieved but far from being completely at ease.

  The fear of Colin walking out of my life is still quite present in my mind. The recollection of him acting withdrawn because I brought back the panic attacks hunts me. Despite his assertion of wanting me… no, needing me by his side, I keep remembering the feeling of us being almost broken up. And it scares me that we still might end up broken up.

  There is also that dreadful, nagging thought about Faith—Colin loved her deeply and unconditionally. I keep speculating if he feels about me as strong as he had about her. Is he capable to love like this again? I chastise myself for being so insecure and needy. I can’t help but torture myself with doubts. What the hell is wrong with me?

  We’ve been dealing with a lot of stress lately, and so we decide that we deserve some fun. Going dancing at the Doors to Hades nightclub in downtown Seattle is on our agenda tonight. Parking is non-existent around the club. Besides, we are planning to have a few drinks, so a taxi is the only option.

  I dress in my little black dress that I snatched at the Nordstrom’s semi-annual sale last year. It hugs my body, emphasizing all the right curves, making me feel super sexy. I fix my hair into a messy bun, and then rummage through my little jewelry case. I have a pair of cute dangling earrings that sparkle just enough. I put them on and start on my makeup.

  Colin enters my bathroom and leans against the door jam with his shoulder, ankles crossed, hands in his pants pockets. I meet his eyes in the mirror. There is an unmistakable pure appreciation in his eyes for what he sees. One corner of his mouth lifts up just a notch, and he tilts his head to the side. His gaze travels up and down my body, and my heart skips a beat. Or more like five.

  “What?” I laugh.

  Slowly, he brings his hand to his mouth and absentmindedly traces his lower lip with his thumb. Such a small gesture, and I start to melt inside. My boyfriend is a sexy beast without even trying to be. Colin pushes himself off the doorframe and, biting his lip, unhurriedly moves closer. He stands behind me and wraps his arms around me, bending down to press light kisses to the back of my neck.

  I take a sharp breath and feel that familiar slow, lazy heat starting to spread from my chest all the way down to my sex. “You’re going to mess up my hair,” I whisper feebly.

  “I’m afraid so,” he whispers back. His lips burn a trail over my shoulder. He cups my breasts and pinches my nipples through the thin fabric of my dress and bra.

  I moan and close my eyes. Screw the hair. I press my back against his growing erection and I know where we are heading.

  It feels so natural, so right. Colin and I belong together, no matter what demons from the past we are battling. I turn around and look at him, my palms over his chiseled chest. He is so beautiful, with his dreamy eyes, sparkling with anticipation. He leans in, and our lips crush.

  A hurricane of our sexual energy is unleashed. We are all lips, and hands, and tongues, and impatient, short breaths. My dress flies off me, and the hairpins slide out of my hair. Colin’s fingers loosen down what’s left of my bun, and I feel my hair tumble down to my back and shoulders. He lifts me up and sits me on the bathroom counter. His lips are on my nipple, and I feel his teeth grazing it through the thin fabric of my lace bra. The sensation is exquisite. It forces any thoughts out of my brain, except for one: I want this man so badly; right now; right here.

  His mouth moves to the other nipple, and I scrape my fingernails over his back. Impatiently, I undo the buttons of his black shirt
and push it down over his shoulders. He takes the hint and quickly shakes the shirt off, grinning at me.

  Colin’s tongue is back on my nipple, torturing me sweetly. He moves down, pushing my already spread legs even more to the sides. Unhurriedly, he slides my underwear out of the way to reveal my folds, and then his mouth claims me. I can’t contain the scream, so I let it out. It’s like crying out my thanks to heavens for sending down this angel. He mercilessly works me into an explosive orgasm, and then quickly unzips his fly and in one swift movement enters me, slamming hard; again and again. And again, and more, until I’m pushed over the limit once more.

  “God, Natalie!” Colin rasps in my ear right before finding his own release.

  We stay wrapped in each other for a while, panting. He kisses me long and deep. I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers lost in his hair.

  I pull back and somberly stare in his eyes. “I love you.”

  He grins, looking young and careless—the expression I long for and appreciate so much. “I love you too, babe,” he says between the kisses. “Never doubt that.”

  So he suspects that, in fact, I do have my doubts. Oh, great, am I that easy to read? I decide not to touch that subject and instead say, “How about that dance club?”

  Colin laughs. “Yeah. We better put our clothes back on, right?”

  I nod.

  TWO

  “We are all born mad. Some remain so.”

  Samuel Beckett

  We eat dinner at the Jarabe Tapatio, a few minute walk from my apartment. This is the best Mexican food I’ve ever tasted. Colin eats his overstuffed grilled chicken burrito, trying to contain the falling pieces onto his plate. I snort when he swears under his breath after a huge blob of black beans and shredded chicken misses the plate and lands on the table. The sauce starts to dribble down his wrist.

  He wipes his hands with what appears to be over fifteen napkins. Then he uses another handful to clean the mess off the table. “I love these burritos. I would love’em even better if the freakin’ thing wasn’t so ridiculously messy.”

  “You can always ask for a fork.” I snort.

  Colin takes a gulp from his Pacifico beer and leans back. We sit in a corner booth, away from three loud families occupying the middle section of the restaurant. There are ten kids in the group, all looking younger than eight-years-old. The boys are running around and throwing themselves on the floor, yelling and making an array of weird noises. It seems like a relentless competition of who can make the most racket. The girls are coloring with the restaurant-issued crayons. A couple of mothers are nursing tiny babies. Another one is nursing a big kid that must be over three.

  I point to the nursing kid and quietly say to Colin, “You know, my mom always says that if they are able to ask for it, they should be done with momma’s tits.”

  “Your mother is a wise woman,” Colin agrees and turns to look at the noisy scene behind him.

  “By the looks of it, this one will nurse past his sixteen. Are we ready to go?”

  We leave the restaurant, shrugging on our jackets. The night air is crisp. I look to the dark sky peppered with twinkling stars. Colin puts his arm around my waist and pulls me to him. He kisses my temple and inhales deeply in my hair.

  “Are you sure you can dance in those heels?” He points to my shoes.

  “Sure. They are only three inches.” I shrug.

  “Only? They look lethal,” Colin sounds incredulous.

  I gave him a come on, really? look and roll my eyes. This earns me a smack on the bottom.

  “Heeeeeyyyyy!” I laugh and smack him right back.

  He catches my wrist and pulls me to him. I’m plastered onto his belly and chest, my arms trapped behind me in his unwavering hold. “Got ya, babe,” he whispers and kisses me.

  A group of teenagers passes us, whistling and snickering. They make kissing noises, and one of them hollers, “Get a room!”

  We chuckle but don’t get dissuaded and kiss once more.

  Colin takes my hand in his and leads me to cross the street. His steps are long, and I have to walk fast to keep up with him. He slows down when we reach the sidewalk. We see a taxi approaching and both of us wave to the driver. He stops the car, and we get in.

  My feet are cold. Wearing sandals wasn’t the best decision, but I’m far from pointing that out. It would only fuel Colin’s quip about my fashion-over-comfort mentality. I am a woman after all. He can’t expect me to wear my Nikes to a dance club.

  The taxi lets us out in front of the Doors to Hades. The line to get in is absurdly long and wraps around the corner of the building. Another taxi pulls right behind us, but nobody gets out. I see a man in the back seat looking at Colin.

  “Seriously? We are going to stand in this line?” I ask. The level of incredulity in my voice could knock down a horse. It’s going to take at least half hour or longer. My feet are way too cold for that.

  “Working at one of the most popular radio stations in Seattle comes with its perks.” Colin winks at me and leads me to the front of the line.

  He shakes hands with a beefy-looking bouncer. They exchange some quiet words and laugh about something. They must know each other. I don’t hear what’s said. In my peripheral vision I see the door to the parked taxi open. A guy in a black leather jacket and tight black jeans slowly steps out. He puts his hands in his jacket pockets and, without taking his eyes off us, starts slowly walking in our direction. There is something strange about this guy; something… menacing? Why am I noticing him with so many other people around?

  Colin pulls me by my hand when the bouncer moves to the side to let us in. I hear the protests from the line, but I’m not going to stand there and listen. Colin holds the door for me, and I quickly slide in. He walks in behind me. Beyonce’s Countdown is blaring from the multiple speakers. The crowd is colorful, loud, and in a general mood to party.

  Colin wraps his arm around my waist, and we walk to the bar, where three twenty-something, shirtless, attractive bartenders put on a real performance. Seriously, it should be forbidden to be as hot as these guys are. They are causing something close to a mass hysteria among the females clustered around the bar.

  While two of the bartenders wait on the customers, the third one impressively juggles four shot glasses up in the air. He finally puts them down, swiftly jumps on the bar, and falls onto his knees in front of a group of tipsy, screaming girls who still look like teenagers.

  He sits back on his heels and grins at the girls. His distressed jeans tightly hug his strong legs, and his muscular, naked torso and well-defined arms make me want to join the wild females. I quickly snatch a glance at Colin, but he doesn’t seem to mind me drooling. Or at least he’s smarter than showing any signs of jealousy over this.

  One of the women leans forward and tries to kiss the bartender’s washboard stomach, but he stops her, laughing. Another bartender hands him a bottle of Frangelico and a tiny glass. The guy on the counter makes a production of pouring the liquor into the glass, while slowly and seductively swinging his hips to the music. The women are going wild. By now there is a big crowd of them, trying to squeeze in closer. The bartender chooses one girl, leans forward and whispers something to her. She nods, and opens her mouth. He touches the glass to her lips and pours the Frangelico into her mouth.

  Her friends cheer and demand the same treatment. They stick money behind the bartender’s jeans waistband, as if he is a stripper. Well, he acts like one. Soon he collects an impressive amount of bills. I see mostly tens and twenties. He jumps off the bar and switches places with one of his co-workers—a gorgeous African American guy with dreadlocks. The women hoot and clap in delight.

  We order appletinis and watch the sexy bartender entice the ladies. He chooses one woman—a middle-aged bleached blonde in a tight, blood-red mini dress and a shiny choker around her neck. The choker reminds me of a pet’s collar, and a disturbing picture invades my over-imaginative mind: the woman on all fours, barking like a dog and trying to l
ick the bartender’s leg, while straining to pull on the leash in his hand. Geez, Natalie, where the hell do you get your ideas?

  But the truth is, that cougar chick is pet material—or a submissive material would be a better term. She tries to climb onto the bar, grinning at the guy and suggestively running her tongue over her upper lip, but he tells her to stay put. I roll my eyes and make a solid promise to myself not to act stupid when I’m her age.

  Colin smirks next to me. I turn and see that he’s watching the scene in front of us. He points with his chin to the cougar babe and chuckles. “She’s desperate to get laid.”

  “Yeah. But she should choose an older crowd.” I lean closer to him and raise my voice over the music and buzzing conversations.

  I see the guy in the black leather jacket that arrived in a taxi right behind us. The one, who, I would have sworn, intently watched us outside the club. Now he’s standing a few feet away, at the end of the bar, beer in hand. His eyes are on us. Again! What the hell?

  He looks out of place here, definitely too old for this crowd—just like that cougar chick. He must be around fifty with leathery skin taut over his well-pronounced cheekbones and deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His hair is thick, brown, and peppered with gray.

  “Hey, look at that guy,” I tell Colin. But when I glance over at where the man stood, he’s gone.

  “What guy?”

  “There was a guy in black leather jacket, watching us. I saw him outside, and he had this weird look on his face… like if he knew us and didn’t quite wish us well.”