by Toby Neal
After school I walk the five blocks quickly home because I’m looking forward to meeting Brandon.
He’s already at the house, and Ruby’s talking with him in the yellow parlor when I unlock the front door.
“So you’re at MIT,” Ruby is saying. “What year?”
“I’m a junior,” Brandon says. “Majoring in engineering.”
I push the door in, eavesdropping. Engineering? At MIT? I can’t help contrasting Brandon with my first boyfriend, Connor Carver, whose talent was running drugs and fixing cars. But Connor was so hot it didn’t matter what he did. Brandon’s nerdy. He wears argyle sweaters, for Heaven’s sake.
But Brandon makes me feel good, and safe, and so what if he turns out to be boring? Boring is what I need right now.
I try not to think of Hot Motorcycle Guy with his long legs and burning-coal eyes.
“Hi, Brandon,” I say, coming into the yellow parlor. I’ve taken a minute to put on some cherry lip gloss and mascara earlier and my hair looks good, so I’m not surprised when he looks a little dazed when I give him the patented full-wattage Pearl smile.
“You should be a model,” he blurts out. “You’re every bit as gorgeous as the girls my mom works with.”
“What?” Ruby says. “Your mom works with models?”
“Yes. She owns the Melissa Agency. They have offices here in Boston and in New York.”
“Do you really think so?” Ruby gives me a critical once-over. “She’s tall enough, but don’t you think she’s a little—full bodied?”
“Hey!” I put my hands on my hips. “I’m standing right here.”
“She has a nice shape. She’d have to lose a few pounds but I wasn’t thinking runway. She’d be better for magazine work,” Brandon says to Ruby, looking me over with the same assessing air. He picks up a handful of my drifting, creamy-silver curls, lets them drop through his fingers. “This hair will photograph amazingly well.”
“Why don’t you introduce her to your mom?” Ruby’s being really persistent, and I’m getting a little angry and embarrassed.
“Hey!” I say again. “I’m not interested in modeling.”
“I think she’d be mad at me if I didn’t,” Brandon says, and finally addresses me directly. “Don’t worry about it. Modeling is the most competitive field ever. It would be a miracle if she looks twice at you, no matter what I say.”
This immediately gets my competitive streak going, and I want to impress this unknown Melissa of the Melissa Agency. His mother. Probably a battle-ax.
“I thought we were going for a walk.”
“And so we shall.” He extends his elbow for me to take. “How are you feeling?”
“Bruised. But lots better.”
“Here’s your coat,” Ruby says, and hands me the black wool coat with a hood on it that I picked out at a thrift store. It’s like my friendly hoodie, only bigger. I get into it and immediately feel like myself again.
“See you in awhile, Ruby.”
She waves us out the door like a den mother. We walk out of the brownstone and I pat the lions’ heads. “Bye, Odin. Beowulf.”
Brandon has a nice warm laugh. “Those your pets?”
“Low maintenance. That’s how I like them,” I say. We walk along the sidewalk and over to the bridge across Massachusetts Avenue, retracing our steps from before.
“I can’t believe you half carried me all the way home,” I say, snuggling into Brandon’s arm, rubbing against his coat. “What were you doing out at the park alone? I never asked you.”
“I had a tough equation I was working on. Sometimes I walk at night, and it helps me unsnarl the problem.”
“Did you figure it out?”
“Weirdly enough, I did,” he says, as we get to the park and walk along the wide cement walk that borders the Charles. In the afternoon sunlight, crew teams glide along the river’s smooth green surface like water striders, and the last of the fall leaves blow along in a light breeze. “I left your place, walking back to my frat house, and I suddenly knew the answer. So I had to run all the way back and write down the next step before I forgot it. So you helped me too.”
“I’m glad I’m good for something.” I don’t mean for it to come out so sad sounding, like a little girl with a case of hopelessness. He looks down at me, and I like that he’s at least three inches taller. I’m five-nine so I don’t get to look up at people that often.
“Pearl. You’re at the beginning of what’s going to be an extraordinary life.”
“Really? You think so?” So far, my life on Saint Thomas was sheltered and boring. Then, things happened and it all changed. Now I’m wishing I could get back to boring, but extraordinary? I never thought of myself that way. Ruby, yes. So smart and pretty, she was always going to do big things. Me? I just wanted... I don’t know yet. But I never had a sense it would be anything extraordinary.
I like that he thinks so, and I hug his arm. “Thanks for saying that.”
“I am going to set you up an appointment with my mom.”
“I don’t know. Modeling.” I kick some leaves. “I’m not sure I want all these people looking at me.”
“It’s not really you they’re looking at. It’s the idea of you. Kind of like this old coat you wear, and that ratty old hoodie. The model persona is a disguise.”
“I never thought of it that way, but I can see what you’re saying,” I say, glancing at a billboard I can see across the park of Cindy Crawford. Her hair blows like a wheat field, her skin is burnished metal, her lips a sculpture.
I wonder what the real Cindy is thinking and doing, if she even kind of looks like that poster. Brandon might be right.
“I know I’m right,” he says, and squeezes my arm. I must have said it out loud. “We’re almost here.”
I feel my heart speed up as my mind goes back to the other night walking along here, my head down, preoccupied—and the whack like stars exploding that knocked me down.
Brandon steers me off the main cement path to a spot between two thick bushes. The ground is trampled grass and looks unremarkable.
“This was where I saw him assaulting you.”
“It was so dark. And I was wearing black. I can’t believe you saw me,” I say, and shudder.
“You screamed, remember? I wouldn’t have spotted you if you hadn’t, I was so preoccupied with my math problem.”
“You came and fought him off,” I say, trying to imagine being Brandon, going to a stranger’s aid in the dark against a possibly-armed man. “I can’t believe you did that for me.” My eyes fill up and I sniffle.
He hugs me. “I would have done it for anybody. We can’t just let evil happen in the world and turn a blind eye.”
But some people did. A lot of people did. Including some I thought were friends.
I flash to that Christmas party, the Christmas party I can hardly remember, and that back bedroom in the Carvers’ house where I woke up, to what was done to me.
I discovered what happened from the blood and mess I was lying in, from marks on my body from teeth and lips, from drying stains of nameless fluids I’d known nothing about until that night.
I never should have had that drink in the big red plastic cup.
I feel an overwhelming nausea and turn away, retching, beside one of the bushes.
Brandon pats my back, awkward but tender. I stay bent over awhile, gasping, thankful I hadn’t eaten much at lunch. Finally, I straighten up. He hands me a Kleenex in one of those little plastic packets. So tidy, so organized. I pat my mouth. I can’t look at him.
“I think I should go home now.”
He doesn’t ask if this was a good thing for me. Therapeutic. I can’t tell if it was. I only know I remembered more today than I’d ever let myself before, and I desperately want to forget again.
To feel better.
I think of the oblivion of the drug Connor introduced me to, the dreamy half-light, a floating and magical feeling like I was insulated, like nothing could touch
or hurt me.
I want it, fiercely. I should go to a meeting, but that’s not what I plan to do.
I am walking so fast toward home, Brandon’s jogging a little to keep up. I’ve almost forgotten he’s there because I’m thinking of where Ruby keeps her household money and that I know where I can make a buy. As soon as I ditch Brandon.
“Hey. Are you okay?” He takes my arm and I resent the intrusiveness of him touching me. I shrug him off.
“Fine, thanks. But listen, I just want to get home. I think I need to talk to my shrink about what happened.” This is guaranteed to make him leave me alone, and it does.
“Okay, I understand. I’ll call you with a meeting time for the modeling thing.”
“Sure.” I stop myself from saying, “Whatever” because Brandon doesn’t deserve that. He’s been a total gentleman, gone above and beyond in every way.
He walks me all the way to the sandstone lions. “So I’ll see you tomorrow. If I get a meeting for you.”
“Okay,” I still won’t look at him.
“Listen.” He puts a hand on my arm, turns me. I won’t look at him so he tips my chin up and I finally have to meet his warm brown eyes. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Pearl. But you’re going to be okay.”
Once I’m high, I’ll really be okay.
“Sure. I know,” I say with fake cheer. “Absolutely. Thanks again.” I turn away and skip up the steps as if cheerful, and give a little wave at the top.
He’s frowning, hands in his coat pockets, as I shut the door on him and go looking for my sister’s stash of grocery money.
Rafe is down at the docks, according to a note on the counter, and Ruby’s at work at McCallum Enterprises. They are both such busy, responsible, good people it kind of makes me want to hurl again.
The place to score is by the public bathrooms on the Common, and after I’ve found the hundred-dollar bill Ruby leaves for Mrs. Knightly in a cookie jar, I dress in my usual all-black, braid my hair and stuff it inside my hoodie, and leave the house again.
I trip down the stairs without patting Odin or Beowulf and walk briskly to Boston Common in the low light of evening.
It’s getting colder, and the wind cuts through both my hoodie and my coat, but pretty soon I’m going to be feeling warm and very, very good. I give some thought, as I walk, to where I’m going to get high.
It has to be my bedroom. I can just leave a note that I’m so emotionally wrecked from revisiting the site of my assault that I took a sleeping pill and went to bed. That should work to keep Ruby and Rafe from checking too close.
I get to the bathroom, and sure enough the skinny black woman with dreads who sits on the bench with her bag of yarn and knitting needles is still there. A customer is just getting up from sitting next to her, a preppy-looking dude in a bomber jacket with his hand in his pocket from something she handed him.
I head for her like a heat-seeking missile. I’m so intent that I jump as I feel a hand on my arm. “Hey.”
I whirl around, and my hood falls off. I’m looking into Hot Motorcycle Guy’s face—a face more rugged than handsome. One angled black brow is split by a scar. His mouth has full, curling lips that look hard—brutal, even, as is the grip he has on my arm.
I try to yank away. “Hey yourself. Let go of me.”
“No.” He clamps down harder and turns, physically dragging me away from the woman with the bag of knitting. I panic and start flailing, fighting to get away, opening my mouth to scream, but by then he’s hauled me into the lee of the bathroom and has both hands on my shoulders, pushing me back against the wall.
I realize he’s released me, and shut my mouth slowly. His hands still bracket me in, and his big body cuts the wind in front of me.
“Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m trying to help you.” His voice is deep and low. His eyes aren’t black like they looked from across the circle of the meeting. They’re a brown so dark it’s like Kalamata olives. I stare back, a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. I find my breathing slowing. Falling into sync with his.
His sculptured lips look delicious. I like the stubble on his cheeks, the row of steel earrings in one ear, the black, chain-covered motorcycle jacket he wears, and the broken-in black jeans and belt covered with gunmetal studs, and the black sweater that’s tight against his amazing body.
“I’m trying to help you.” He’s close, so close I can see the long, thick lashes around those dark-olive eyes. That gorgeous mouth comes closer, and I tip my head and my eyes half-close. The chemistry between us is magnetic. I can feel him trying to resist it, but still getting closer. Kiss me, please, I think, and then, unbelievably, he does.
His mouth is brutal, but in a good way—hot and consuming, confident and taking. No warmup needed, our tongues tangle deliciously. I grab his jacket with one hand and the massive slope of his back with the other and haul him in closer, giving back promises to fulfill some of the simmering attraction we’ve felt from across the circle of the meeting.
He smells spicy and tastes like cinnamon, and I love the way he kisses me, like a starving man getting to a feast. I feel exactly the same, hungry and out of control, but wanting to savor the moment, too.
He finally breaks away and lifts his head, looking down at me. My vision is fogged, my breath hitches, and I’m panting like I ran a mile. My breasts tingle, I can feel how hard my nipples are, begging for him to touch them. There’s a warm pulse between my legs.
“You’re trouble, Pearl,” he breathes into my mouth. “A whole lot of trouble.” And he sets his mouth on mine again, and I feel my nerve endings sizzle like I’m struck by lightning, every hair on my body upright and quivering, and all I want is more, more, more.
Finally, he wrenches his mouth from mine. His hands are still pressed against the wall on either side of me. So far he hasn’t laid a hand on me, though mine are all over him, and everything I feel just makes me want more. “I should take you home.”
“To your place?” I whisper. I realize I don’t know his name, because the whole time he’s been coming to the meetings he hasn’t said anything but “Pass,” when it’s his turn to share.
He chuckles, a bass rumble. “No.” And he takes me firmly by the arm again, and pulls my hood up over my hair. “To your place.”
He takes my hand. He’s wearing soft leather gloves with the fingers cut off, and his hand is strong and warm and feels so good in mine. He walks me down the path to a nearby parking lot where I spot the big, black motorcycle I’d already checked out at the twelve-step meeting.
I’m still dazed, my body flushed and ready to follow him anywhere. Even behind the dumpster would be fine, I’m not picky. He could haul my jeans off and be in me in two minutes flat.
I’m so turned on by this idea I stumble, and he hauls me up against his side. He’s big and hard as a boulder I want to climb, but alas, we’re at his motorcycle already.
There’s a spare helmet in one of the locked saddlebags, and he hands it to me. “What’s your address?”
I tell him, and he sets the helmet on my head, and puts the strap under my chin and tightens it. I look at him, longing, straining toward him, and he smiles and kisses me hard and quick.
“Bad girl. Tempting me like this.” And he kisses me again. “Ever ridden a motorcycle before?”
“Yes.” Connor had one. We rode all over Saint Thomas on that old beater off-road bike.
“Then you know you need to hang on.” He swings a leg over the cushy, black leather seat and backs up the big shiny bike, and kicks the starter. It roars into life like lions growling around a wildebeest.
I get on behind him, my thighs tight behind his legs, my arms clamped around the studs of the belt around his muscular midsection, and the feeling I have as we roar out of the parking lot is exhilaration.
“Don’t take me home, yet,” I yell into the wind cutting our faces. “Take me for a ride.”
I feel the rumble of his chuckle and see him nod, and then we’re whizzing down
Mass Avenue and through the tunnel, and I howl like a wolf into the echoes and spiraling lights and rushing cars, yelling with excitement and something a lot like joy.
We go across the bridge, and the Charles is turning black as the sun has set, and we circle through the dark and spinning lights and high-pitched wail of the wind, and finally back around to the city. I lean into his leather-clad wind-shadow and watch the sights go by, and decide, for the first time, that I really love Boston.
I don’t remember I was going to the Common to get high until he’s pulling the bike up at the steps of Rafe and Ruby’s brownstone and I’m getting off, feeling warm and deliciously hungry and excited and even a little bit happy.
“Can you come in?” I ask, taking off the helmet and shaking out my braid.
“Not today. See you at the meeting.” He takes the helmet and stows it in the bag and revs the motorcycle.
I can’t believe he’s just leaving me like this. I can’t just let him go. I lean over and kiss that hard, tender, tasty mouth, and I bite his lower lip a little at the end.
“Okay. See you at the meeting.”
He roars off. I’m still vibrating all over with the feeling of all that power between my legs.
Turning to face Beowulf and Odin and a flight of ten stairs with light spilling through the glass window in the shiny door at the top, I realize I still don’t know his name.
Chapter 6
It’s too much to hope that Ruby and Rafe didn’t start worrying and looking for me when I came home; Ruby yanks the door open before I can stick the key in.
“Where were you?” Ruby’s cheeks are red, her green eyes flashing. I’ve always thought Ruby looks great in a snit, and I’m feeling so good I just smile, what Connor used to call my ‘shit-eating grin.”