by Lena Pierce
“How’s it going in there?” Brittany calls.
I want to snap at her, “It’d be going a lot easier if you’d just go away.” But I know that would cause her to go on a Brittany rant, and I’m in no mood for that.
“Fine,” I say. “Just give me a minute.”
“Okay …” She sounds like an impatient teenager.
I think of all the times I’ve needed to pee so badly I thought I’d do it in my underwear, sitting on buses and trains, legs crossed, biting my lip, praying for a toilet. And now, sitting on a toilet, my bladder doesn’t want to cooperate. It’s almost like my body doesn’t want me to find out if I’m pregnant or not. But eventually, after what feels like an hour, I manage a trickle onto the stick. Once I’ve cleaned myself up, I go to the sink and wash my hands, placing the test on the counter.
“How long does it take?” Brittany peers over my shoulder at the test. In the mirror, I see her reflection. She looks way too eager.
“One minute, it says.”
It’s the longest minute of my life. I bite my fingernails, chewing the forefinger down to a stub and starting on the middle finger before the test tells me that, yes, I am pregnant with Diesel’s baby.
“Wow,” Brittany says. “Just, wow … you and Peter are going to have a baby.”
“What?” I wheel on her, face burning red. “What are you talking about, Brittany?”
“You and Peter …” She gestures at the test, looking at me like I’ve had a bump to the head. “That’s great news. Crazy news.”
“Peter isn’t the father,” I snap. I shouldn’t be telling her this. I shouldn’t be telling her anything. But I can’t have her floating around the station telling people that Peter and I are having a kid.
“Who is, then?” She peers closely at me. “You’ve been living with Peter for a month now, almost, and one can only assume that it started before then …”
“What started? Peter and I are just friends.”
Brittany folds her arms. “Honey, if you believe that, you need to grow up. Do you really think a man invites you to stay with him because he wants to be friends? Either he’s fucked you or he wants to fuck you, sweetie. So I’ll ask you again. Who’s the father?”
“Why are you being so fucking mean?” I hiss. “I don’t know what I’ve ever done to you, Brittany. Why do you hate me?”
Brittany brings her hand to her chest melodramatically. “Hate you? Whoever said I hate you? What a horrible thing to think! I don’t hate you. I care about you deeply. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
The words hold none of the accompanying feeling. She sounds like a text-to-speech program repeating the statement by rote. I grind my teeth, but say nothing. My world has just been cracked down the middle and the last thing I need is Brittany watching as the sole spectator. I swallow a retort, swallow anger, swallow pride, and nod. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m going back to my desk now.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” She mimes a crude throwing-up gesture.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m great.”
I return to my desk determined not to be sick, or to show any sign that something out of the ordinary has happened. I try and get back into the copy but my fingers keep typing traitor’s sentences: Diesel is my baby’s daddy … I can’t believe this … What am I going to do …
I click onto the news page and move the mouse cursor over the headlines. My feelings are at war with each other. One half of me wants to jump up and down with joy, because the fantasies I secretly entertained about having a baby with Diesel are coming true. Another part of me wants to throw the computer screen to the floor, because Diesel is an arsonist. That clearly hasn’t changed.
By the end of my day, all my fingernails are stubs, one of them bitten down so much that it starts to bleed.
Chapter Seventeen
Willa
This bedroom will never feel like mine. I don’t think I’ve had a bedroom since Mom died which really felt like mine. Even at Grandma’s, my bedroom felt like some other girl’s. I always felt like an intruder as I lay down, even with my posters around me. I never quite felt like I could relax. It’s the same in Peter’s place. My bag with my clothes is pressed against one wall. I wash the clothes, dry them, and then put them back into the bag. I guess it’s so I can tell myself I’m leaving here soon. Everything else is how it was when I moved in. A bland, normal, run-of-the-mill guest room.
I lie on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering what I’m going to do. Outside, one of the rarest occurrences in living memory is happening. It’s raining in LA in the summer. It’s a light downpour, pitter-pattering against the window, but it still has all the news stations in an uproar. When it started this afternoon, the phone lines went crazy. LA people can’t handle the rain.
But the rain isn’t what concerns me. Diesel is. He’s an arsonist; he’s the only man I want to be with; he’s a criminal; he’s the father of my unborn child. These are all facts I can’t ignore, even if they don’t fit well together. I want to be with him. I can’t be with him. Why does life have to be so confusing?
The knock startles me. I sit up. “Yeah?”
“It’s me. I made pizza.”
“I’m not hungry,” I reply, already lying back down.
“Please, Willa, just have some pizza. I made it for both of us. I’m not going to eat it all.” The whining note in his voice is too much to take. I try and ignore it, but he goes on. “I let you live here without paying any rent. I let you ignore me, treating this place like a hostel. The least you could do is—”
I walk across the room and throw open the door. I haven’t got the energy to have a battle of words with him. He jumps back, holding his hands up, and then smiles. “You scared me,” he says.
My chest drops a mile when I see what he’s done. He’s set up a circular dining table in the living room, cleared the couch and the chair, and put a candle on it. And he’s wearing a suit. Oh God, and now he’s leaning across to kiss me on the cheek. I dodge out of the way.
“Peter, what is this?”
The corner of his lips twitch. “I’m trying to be romantic,” he says. “I know women like you need romance, Willa, so that’s what I’m doing.”
It’s like a scene from a movie, without any of the magic. I imagine him watching some movie and thinking to himself: ah, this will get her! What does he expect me to do, crumble at the sight of some a candle? Does he expect me to become the woman he desperately wants me to be? I feel guilty for ever moving in here. It was a mistake. I should’ve let myself become homeless instead of coming here.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“I don’t … I don’t think I can be here anymore.”
He tilts his head at me as if I am speaking a language he doesn’t understand. “What do you mean? Look.” He gestures at the table, at the candles. “Look what I’ve done for you. And then you say that? What’s the matter with you? Look, look.” He softens his tone, stepping forward. “I know it’s been hard for you, getting over that biker, but that was a long time ago now. It’s time for you to forget him. It’s Peter’s turn.”
“It’s Peter’s turn,” I repeat. Did he really just say that?
“Oh, just come here.” When he leans into me, I smell the beer on his breath, strong, overpowering. He grabs the back of my neck and tries to force his lips against mine. I squirm, wriggling out of his grip. He catches my wrist and pulls me to him.
“Get away from me!” I snap, bringing my knee up into his groin.
He gasps, leaping back. “Ow!” he whines. “Ow! Ow! Ow! What’d you do that for, Willa?”
I massage the back of my neck. “You’re a fucking creep!” I scream, my neck throbbing with pain. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”
I march into the bedroom and pick up my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and then kick on my sneakers. Peter hovers in the living room as I make for the door. “I didn’t mean anything by that,” he says. He sounds like
he’s crying, but I won’t look at him to check. “I just wanted to be close to you. That’s all. You can’t be angry with me for that! You fucking cock-tease! Walking around like that, you fucking whore!”
I turn on him just as I’m about to leave. His insult dies on his lips.
“You need to learn to read social cues,” I say. “Because you’ve got some serious fucking problems.”
I leave the apartment building, walking out into the rain, not sure where I’m going or what I’m doing. That’s been a theme in my life, I reflect, not being sure of what I’m supposed to be doing.
I walk for an hour until my thin hoodie is soaked through, my jeans plastered to my legs, and I’m standing outside my old apartment building. It’s still a husk. They haven’t even started rebuilding it yet. Maybe that has something to do with the Chino connection. I’m pretty sure that’s why the insurance people are screwing me around, too. Rain dripping down my nose, from the bridge of my eyebrow, I walk down the street toward the bar where Diesel and I first talked. I want to go to Diesel’s place, but I know that I’m not calm enough for that. I’d end up doing something I regret.
The Princess is just as much of a dive bar as I remember it. I’m about to order a vodka and coke when I remember my baby, so I order a Diet Coke instead, sitting in the corner near the radiator and waiting to dry off. I don’t have to make any plans just yet, I tell myself. All I need to do is get dry and then I can figure it all out.
After an hour and two Diet Cokes, I start trying to figure out what my next step is. A roof, obviously. That’s priority number one. I think back to college, wondering if any of my so-called friends would be willing to help out. But I know that’s just wishful thinking. It’d be a stranger showing up on their doorstep. They’d smile politely and then ask me to leave. Brittany is a no. I can’t go back to Peter. Diesel, then … But then I come back to the main problem, which is that he’s a criminal. He hasn’t stopped being a criminal since I left him.
I go to the bar to get another Diet Coke. Even my small change is nearly spent.
“Hey there, pretty lady.”
The man’s a Skull Rider. I can tell because his jacket is slung across his shoulder, the sigil visible even if it’s crumpled. Maybe this is dumb chance, or maybe this is a Skull Rider hangout. Whatever the case, I don’t want anything to do with him. He’s short, very thin, with one of those handlebar mustaches. His black hair hangs down to his shoulders in greasy-looking curtains.
“I’m just getting a Diet Coke,” I mutter, gesturing to the barman.
The Skull Rider slides up the bar. “Why’nt you let me do that for you?” He nods at the change in my hand. “It don’t exactly look like you’re swimming in cash now, does it?”
“I’ll get my own drink, thank you.”
“Now come on, missy.” He coughs out a laugh. “Don’t treat a man like that—”
“Get out of my fucking face!” I scream, turning on him. “I said get out of my fucking face!”
Chapter Eighteen
Diesel
It’s just like Johnny to go AWOL, but usually finding him is a job for one of the pledges, or one of the lower-ranking members. Not a tried-and-tested man like me. But since I let that warehouse go unburned, Grimace has been treating me like one of the grunts. Even though I’ve burned down every place he’s asked me since, that one is enough in his eyes. I can tell when he looks at me that he doesn’t trust me like he once did. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I can’t help it. The only father I’ve ever known, looking at me like that … I’m starting to wonder if Grimace ever really gave a damn about me, or if he just saw me as a weapon. And if a weapon starts malfunctioning, you either fix it or get rid of it.
I try not to think of Willa as I ride to the bar—one of Johnny’s asshole friends told me where he was—but it’s difficult. Lately, even as I set fire to shit, I see Willa. I see her face form in the flames. I hear her voice in the crumbling of the rafters. Now, I hear her in the rain against my helmet, see her in the sunlight breaking through the clouds. I’ve been alive for twenty-eight years but I never really lived until those weeks with Willa. Now that I’ve tasted it, letting it go is damn hard.
I park my bike outside the bar, wanting to make this quick. Johnny can be a real pain in the ass sometimes. I push into the bar, memories of Willa attacking me. I remember coming here with her. Back then I was a much simpler man, I reflect. Willa hadn’t yet cracked me open, revealing all this mushy shit inside. I had my doubts, but I could manage them. Now they eat me from inside every goddamn night. I remind myself that after this I have a job to do, Grimace’s orders. Another building to turn to dust just so we can get at Chino.
As I walk into the bar, I’m sure I hear Willa’s voice, loud over the jukebox, shouting. I must miss her to hear her voice like that.
Then I realize I’m not hearing phantoms. It really is her.
When I walk onto the scene, I’m sure I must be hallucinating. Johnny stands a few feet from Willa, arms at his sides, and Willa has her hands raised, as if to protect herself.
“If you lay one finger on me, I’m going to kill you!” Willa snaps. “I mean it!”
Johnny laughs. “You’re a fiery one, aren’t you? I’ll teach you some manners.”
I grind my teeth. My first instinct is to smash Johnny’s nose into the bar. But that could have consequences, maybe deadly ones for me and Willa, considering the esteem the club’s holding me in at the moment. Instead I march across the bar and nod to Willa, keeping my face as cold as possible. “You need to get out of here,” I tell her. “Now.”
“D-Diesel?” She looks at me like I’ve just emerged from thin air. “What are you doing here?”
Ignoring her, I turn to Johnny. “Boss wants to see you right away. Somethin’ about a job.”
“Is that right?” Johnny asks. He stands up to his full height, which is still about half a foot shorter than me. I want to crush his skull in my hand, the little shit. “Or are you just saying that to protect this pretty lady?”
“Boss wants to see you,” I repeat. “You can keep him waiting or you can get going.”
It’s lucky he leaves when he does, because I’m on the verge of saying “fuck it” to the club and smashing his teeth against my knee. He swaggers from the bar, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune. I think about how he’d look if I grabbed him by the shoulders and hurled him through the bar, wonder if he’d be whistling then. But then he’s gone and my chance is gone with him. It’s for the best, I know.
“Diesel?” Willa says, wonder in her voice. “Did you follow me?”
“Follow you?” I make for the door. I can’t look at her, not when I need to go to work. Looking at her will make it impossible to do what I have to do. “No, I didn’t follow you. I followed him.”
“Wait a sec!” she snaps, struggling to keep pace with me. “My bag is back there.”
“I can’t stop and talk,” I tell her, thinking about the apartment building I’m about to burn down, the first one since Willa’s. All to play Grimace’s game. I’ve never thought of myself as a pawn before, but more and more I’m starting to think that was because I didn’t want to, not because I wasn’t one.
“Just wait one second!”
I wait near the entrance, staring at the wall, knowing I should dart out to my bike without giving her the chance to be near me. I want her, badly. I’ve ached for her for weeks. But now I have work to do. A man can’t focus on violent work if he has a woman’s legs in his mind.
“Okay.” She clutches onto the bag she took with her when she left me.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” I walk outside. The rain has stopped now, the sidewalk glistening in the evening sunlight. I make for my bike. “I have somewhere to be. It was lucky, us meeting here, I mean. But it doesn’t mean anything. I have somewhere to be.” I know I’m repeating myself. I can’t stop it. Being close to her is driving me crazy. Her jeans are tight, her hoodie is tight, outlining her
body. Without much effort at all, I see her naked.
“Why are you in such a rush? We haven’t seen each other in weeks and now … Oh, Diesel. No, no. Is that why you won’t look at me? Diesel!” I keep walking. “Damon Holmes!” she screams.
I spin on her when she uses my real name. “What do you want from me?” I bark. “What, Willa? You pushed me away! Now I’m trying to get some semblance of my old fuckin’ life back.”
“You’re going to set fire to something, aren’t you?”
We stand near my bike at the edge of the road. The street is dead except for a black cat watching from a window ledge.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter.
“Don’t be a coward!” She drops her bag, pointing at me. “If you’re going to do something like this, at least have the balls to own it!”