Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  For he needed to get the fuck out.

  “Hmm?” he asked again. “Do you want me to stop?” Shifting a little, he pressed himself against her side so she could feel his hardness.

  After that, neither one of them moved. Until she slowly closed her eyes and shook her head no. But she could feel her heart breaking. Like a part of her was dying.

  She felt his hands glide down over her jeans, then around to the front of her thighs, searching and rubbing till they traveled up, over her ribs, to briefly cup her breasts before gently unbuttoning her new black shirt.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AT FIRST, BAKER WAS so aroused he thought he was going to come before things even got underway. But then his body sank into a strangely disconnected state, making him believe he could last all night. The world seemed warm and fuzzy while his mind was full of fog. But the drugs were wearing off, and he eventually arrived at a singular and unfamiliar place, feeling like he’d woken up from a dream—only to discover it was real. And at the edge of his consciousness, intruding like the unwelcome guest that it was, was the awareness that he was doing something very wrong.

  Arms straightened to raise his torso, he stared down at her. Her eyes were closed, and her hands, after slipping down from his back, were resting on his forearms. Greenish-yellow remnants of the two-week-old bruises were visible on her body as well as her face. They blended into the shadows cast by the weak glow of the desk lamp. Now and then, like some austere amulet keeping watch, her plain silver cross shined when it caught a bit of light as she moved.

  His eyes followed the curves of her breasts—which looked like those of a fully grown woman. But she was really just a kid—his legal ward, no less. And while his gaze traveled back to her face, he was aware of the fine coat of sweat on his skin and the sound of cars passing on the street below. His rhythm faltered.

  Micki opened her eyes, and found herself looking into his. A chill ran through her, and she wanted to cover her nakedness. But he’d already brought her to climax—enjoying it, apparently, unlike Rick, who usually acted like it was a chore if he could even bring himself to bother. And though Baker’s passion seemed to have cooled along with his high, she wanted to make him come, wanted him to leave so she could be alone again—untouched.

  Baker stopped moving. He looked like he was about to say something. But she closed her eyes and slid her hands down his arms. And while her mind went off to hide in some dark, safe place, she felt herself become one of the girls in those pictures she’d seen. Lightly touching the insides of her thighs, her fingers started moving up. Slowly. Sensually. And it was working; he was getting hard again, hips driving. When her hands reached her breasts, he threw his body back down on hers, thrusting harder and faster until he came with an intensity he hadn’t felt in a long, long time—moans loud, body shuddering.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTERWARD, THE AWKWARDNESS WAS unbearable, every moment prolonging the act an excruciating eternity. It was embarrassing to lie there, legs still spread apart, while he sat up and held the base of the condom so he could withdraw. Arms crossed over her chest, she stared blankly toward the window. And as soon as he went to throw the rubber away, she grabbed her nightshirt from under the pillow and put it on. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped around tight, she sat on the bed while he quickly dressed.

  He picked up his coat from where it had landed on the floor and said, “I need to get some cigarettes.” But she was staring into the darkness on the other side of the apartment, the desk lamp, backlighting her huddled figure, making her look to be all of about twelve years old.

  And not a single moment could ever be undone.

  Barely able to breathe and stone-cold sober, Baker turned away. And left.

  But Micki didn’t budge—except to rock a little back and forth. She knew it was his car door she heard slamming, knew he wasn’t coming back. Finally, she got up to turn off the little light.

  It was then that she saw the twenty-dollar bill where it had fallen to the floor.

  chapter 15

  NO SOONER HAD BAKER reached the Manhattan side of the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge than he turned around and headed back to Queens, parking in the exact same spot he’d had before. Yet Micki’s apartment was already dark. Paused on the building’s front steps, he broke out in a cold sweat. What the hell was he going to say? He stood on the stoop with the wind kicking up around him, the night weighing heavy in the air. And then a souped-up car gunned by, engine roaring, tires squealing as it fishtailed around a corner.

  Head hung low, he turned away, got back in the Camaro, and left.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  SUNDAY WAS DROWNING IN booze, a river of whiskey flowing steady from the night before. But anytime Baker put the bottle down for too long, he’d see Micki in those moments afterward, hugging her knees to her chest and looking too young, too vulnerable. Looking like someone he should never have touched. The sky was already growing dark, and he hadn’t checked in on her once. God only knew what she was doing—maybe shooting up. Or getting smashed, like he was. Too drunk to drive over and see, he drank even more.

  But as night descended in earnest on the cold Manhattan streets, he got up from the recliner and staggered toward the window, a terrifying cry of despair welling up from the depths of his being. When it threatened to lay bare the ugly mire that was churning underneath, it was swiftly silenced by yet another long drink. But not for long. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder before lowering the bottle, desperate eyes staring back from the dark pane of glass. Transfixed by the ghostly, ill-defined reflection, he watched as he raised the bottle to his lips again.

  He looked away and grunted. He really needed to talk to someone; needed to confess; needed to get it off his chest that he was a self-righteous bastard who’d done the very thing he’d sworn up and down he never would. But who could he tell? If Malone or anyone in IAD ever got wind of this, Micki would be sent back to Heyden in a heartbeat; she would end up paying for his mistake. And his career? That would be over, too. Finished. Finito.

  He gulped down more liquor, put the bottle on the table, and picked up his pack of Camels. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he fumbled with the book of matches and finally lit one. Jeez, Micki would have to be completely mindless not to recognize his situation. If she chose to take advantage of it, his authority over her was shot. He froze, the match burning brightly in his grip, fingers getting hot as the tiny flame danced its way down the cardboard stick. Maybe she’d planned this all along. He lit the cigarette and waved out the match. That was insane. It would mean that everything she’d ever said or done had been a calculated act of deception.

  He picked up the bottle and snorted: it never mattered where he started—this was where he always ended up.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THREE HOURS LATER, BAKER stopped drinking and lay down to sleep; he still had to face the kid at school in the morning.

  “The kid”—it suddenly sounded strange. Last night, when he’d danced with her so innocently, he’d viewed her as a child. Later, in his horny, drugged-up state, he’d—conveniently—viewed her the way she liked to view herself: as an adult. She did, after all, live alone with nearly all of the responsibilities. But she wasn’t an adult. Not really. And certainly not with him. How he was going to make her see that, he wasn’t exactly sure.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  SUNK INSIDE A HEAVY, lifeless sleep, Micki didn’t wake till almost ten on Sunday—a record for her. But she stayed in bed until she dozed off again.

  At one thirty in the afternoon she got up, head hurting when she moved it too quickly: too much sleep. And yet all she could think about was crawling underneath the covers again. Or getting high. It was one or the other. Or both. There was money under the mattress, enough for a dime bag, but she could practically hear Baker calling her a junkie and a whore. Jacket on her lap, she sat on the floor an
d searched for the pills floating around in the lining. She located three and tried to move them back toward the hole in the pocket. But it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be. She considered ripping the damn things out, but then simply stared at the jacket as if it were a broken toy.

  Tired of doing nothing, she pushed herself up and looked at the clock, the hours stacked ahead in aimless succession. She got dressed and went outside. Cold and grey. The unseasonable temperatures had come to an end. Without the extra lining zipped in, winter streamed through her jacket as if the leather weren’t even there.

  She reached the sidewalk and saw Rick approaching, a big grin on his face. He opened the foil-wrapped package he was carrying and said, “Look what I got.”

  Sweet and rich, the aroma of chocolate greeted her nose. “Brownies?”

  With a lift of his chin, he said, “Hash brownies.”

  Her eyes lit up.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THEY WERE BACK IN her apartment, and Rick, looking proud, said, “I put in almost two grams a hash. I figger we can split it.”

  “Yeah, uh-huh.” She cut the single slab of chocolate cake in half and put one part on the counter. She wrapped the other back up and handed it to him. “Get out.”

  “Wha—? But—”

  “Just get the fuck out.”

  “Hey! I di—”

  “GET—OUT.” And she went to the door and opened it, eyes looking straight through him.

  Face pale, Rick fiddled with the package in his hands. “Whatsa matta wit’ ya?” He tried to smile. “Y’on the rag or somethin’?”

  “Get the fuck out NOW.”

  In the hall, he turned and said, “Yer a fucked up bitch, y’know that?”

  But she’d already slammed the door.

  She returned to the giant brownie, breaking off a small piece and popping it in her mouth. It was awful. Even the rich, fudgy chocolate couldn’t mask the taste of the hash. There was too much drug. Maybe it hadn’t been mixed into the batter evenly. She wolfed it down as quickly as possible, then chased it with a glass of Coke.

  Jacket and sneakers tossed off, she stretched out on the mattress with her hands behind her head so she could listen to the radio and wait for something to happen. But scenes from the previous night kept running around, over and over, in a never-ending loop. Only, she didn’t want to think about it anymore, didn’t want to remember what it felt like with him on top of her. Inside her. The way her heart had rolled up and stopped beating when she saw the money lying on the floor. He must’ve put it there afterward when she’d turned away as he’d gotten dressed. He’d paid her. Like a whore. Left it silently for services rendered. Recalling what she’d done at the very end, her face grew hot. Curiously, with everything that had happened, that was the one thing she really regretted.

  The disc jockey introduced a song she hated. She turned off the radio and got up to get another glass of soda. But she managed only one step toward the kitchen before the room began to spin. Heart racing, body shaking and tingling, she thought she was falling. She felt sick. With what seemed like her last willful act, she stumbled back to bed.

  Flat on the mattress, looking up, she watched the ceiling endlessly expanding, the brown spider-web cracks growing longer and wider. And sounds from the street reached her in a strange disorder of time: she could’ve sworn she heard two guys say goodbye, have a conversation, then say hello. She kept waiting for some wild and beautiful hallucinations: rainbows of colors or a burst of glittery stars. Instead, she was drifting in a pale, lusterless sea of hopeless detachment.

  Not a muscle twitched as she lay there, paralyzed. And unbelievably aroused. She felt desperate to have sex with someone—anyone at all. In fact, someone was knocking. Rick. It could only be Rick. She heard him calling to her.

  “C’mon, Micki! Let me in. You in dere?”

  And as much as she despised him now, she wanted him to come in and fuck her. But she couldn’t budge, couldn’t utter a sound.

  “Stupid bitch!” And he went away.

  Hours later, she woke up in the dark, body stiff but able to move. Yet when she turned on the lamp, the apartment was shot through with danger, everything thrown into shadows and sharp, black corners, the furniture cold and disturbing in the faded light.

  She switched on the radio, then sat on the bed, the music pouring out in a brilliant, bold escape from the magical little box. Prancing and shimmying, words and notes tumbled over each other as they danced across the floor, evaporating into air and disappearing into walls. And though she tried very hard to concentrate, things slipped away from one second to the next. By the end of a line of lyrics, she’d forgotten what the beginning was. Nothing made any sense.

  Maybe the hash had done some kind of permanent brain damage.

  She went back to sleep.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE ALARM CLOCK WOKE her. Dry and crusted over, her eyelids were stuck together; her teeth, coated with fur. She felt as rumpled and grimy as the clothes she’d slept in. She crawled out of bed, unfolded her limbs, and, with the help of a chair, stood up. After a brief respite, she drank water, then coffee, did a half-assed workout, and showered. But the filmy sheath around her brain was receding at an agonizingly slow pace. Finally dressed, her jaw tightened as she stuffed Baker’s money into her pocket. Maybe—if there was any justice in the world—he wouldn’t be at school today.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER HAD MANAGED ONLY fitful bouts of sleep. By the break of dawn, he’d given up entirely. Since then, he’d been scrutinizing everything from every possible angle until he was anything but the calm, controlled man he’d hoped to be. Looking out the office window, he saw Micki crossing from the top of the front stairs to the main doors. He went to his desk and ground the stub of his cigarette into the thick glass of the ashtray.

  She walked in. “I don’t want your damn money.” She was holding out his twenty-dollar bill.

  His brow furrowed.

  “Fine,” she said, and strode over to slam the cash down next to the cigarettes on his desk.

  “Suit yourself.” But he’d noticed the subtle differences: the thick speech, the imprecise motions. “Take off your jacket and push your sleeves up.”

  With rough, angry movements, she did what he asked, then held her arms out in front, palms up. But as soon as he reached for them, she stepped back. “Don’t you touch me!” she hissed.

  Heart thudding, he barely glanced at her veins. As if there weren’t a million other places she could shoot up. “Turn around, Micki.”

  “Forget it.”

  “C’mon, it’s just routine like always.”

  Warner and Marino came through the doorway.

  “This is the last time I’m going to help you, Denny,” Warner said. “You should’ve stayed late Friday to finish this and not be taking up my time while I’m on duty. It’s—” But the two men froze: the tension between the cop and the kid was palpable.

  “I don’t care!” Micki said to Baker. “I don’t want you touchin’ me.”

  “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “ ‘What’s the problem?’ ” she repeated. “What’s the problem? I don’t know if it’s Mr. Morality who’s gonna pat me down or some guy who drives around, stoned off his ass, and—”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Y’already did.”

  “Way to go, Jim!” Marino hooted.

  “Shut up!” Baker snapped, eyes still riveted to Micki’s.

  “C’mon, man, no one blames you for bopping the little—”

  “SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, DENNY.” And Baker’s piercing gaze was now fully trained on Marino.

  Marino shut up, backing his way out the door. “Hey, man, take it easy. It was just a joke.”

  “You breathe a word of this to anyone,
” Baker said, “and you’re a dead man.”

  Hands raised, Marino said, “No problem. Everything’s cool. Already forgotten.” And he left.

  Baker reached over and dug his fingers into the heart of Micki’s bicep. “Let’s go next door and have a little chat.”

  Out of consideration for the intense pain in her arm, she let him take her two units down to an empty conference room. He swung her inside and closed the door.

  “Did you think that was cute?” he asked.

  “I was just stating a fact.”

  “You know damn well I didn’t mean it literally.”

  “You took it literally when I said it.”

  His nostrils flared. “You’d better get it through your head that nothing’s changed. Like it or not, you’ll do what you’re told. If you think, for one minute, you’re going to hold this over me—”

  “I’m not gonna do that.”

  “Damn right you won’t, ’cause no one’s going to believe you.”

  “Oh, really? They believed me.”

  Baker started to sweat: he shouldn’t have shot his mouth off so quickly. “Well—no one would care.”

  “Oh, I think they would,” she replied. “I think that social worker, Miss Gutierrez—or whatever her name is—I bet she’d be real interested. And Captain Malone, too.” She tilted her head. “Then there’s always your girlfriend.”

  “Yeah? You think so? Well here’s a newsflash: it wouldn’t mean a damn thing to her. Cynthia and I have an understanding right now.” He could feel the heat creeping into his cheeks, the telltale warmth of a spreading blush.

  But Micki’s face hardened: just one more reason you fucked me, you son of a bitch. She turned to look out the window, at the trees shedding their leaves, then shrugged. “Whatever. Like I said, I’m not gonna say anything.”

  Baker’s head pulled back. “And why is that?”