Scorpio

by Lauren Landish

  Finally, Brad drains the rest of his drink and sets it down, looking me in the eyes. “Just be careful. I know you like the bad boys, but that one’s a little beyond your usual repertoire. From what I’ve heard about him, he’s got issues. He isn’t some wannabe rebel with a sneer and a trust fund backing him up.”

  I roll my eyes. That was just once. But Rose seems to have the same thing on her mind. “He seems like an asshole to me, but if that’s your thing, have fun, I guess.”

  I raise my glass in a toast, not upset at all. Fuck it. I’m a big girl, and I’m gonna take care of business. “To fun, in all its types and positions.”

  Brad and Rose clink glasses with me again, and we all dissolve into laughter. Still giggling and smiling, I’m caught unaware when there’s a hand on my shoulder from behind. I look back, already halfway into bitch mode for the space invasion, when I see it’s Jaxson. He’s grinning, and I feel the awkwardness drop over the table like a wet blanket. I was having a good night too.

  Jaxson doesn’t seem to notice, completely at ease in his khakis and dress shirt with no tie. “Hey, guys. Let me buy a round.”

  Before anyone can say anything, he plops down on the bench beside me like he was invited, throwing an arm around the back of the bench. Not quite on my shoulders, but still obviously marking his territory. The waitress comes up and my moment of rebuttal is sidetracked by her smiling request for orders.

  What the hell, I was gonna drink another one anyway. “I’ll have another double Scotch on the rocks.” I peel off a ten-dollar bill from my small money roll, dropping it on the waitress's tray before Jaxson can do anything about it. I still can’t quite tell him to piss off. The salon can’t handle that sort of blow, but I can send some pretty clear signals.

  There’s a tight tension at the table now, the jovial mood from moments before gone.

  “Hi, Jaxson,” I finally greet him. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got a strict cash and carry policy, so I’m good for the drink.”

  Jaxson smiles at me, but it feels like it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s like in the salon. He’s smiling, but there’s nobody home upstairs. “No problem, just wanted to say hi and that there’s no hard feelings. You’re new in town, and if you’re looking for friends, then you’ve got one right here.”

  He pats his chest with his palm with a strange little double-thump, making it clear that he’s referring to himself. “So what are we talking about?”

  Rose looks at me, uncertain, but she’s the kind that’s too polite to just tell him to fuck off. “We were just, uh, toasting to new successful ventures.”

  Jaxson gives a huge smile, and I inwardly moan. Shit, of course he’s going to eat that up, being on the city council. “Good to hear. Have you heard about the rezoning going on down on the south end? There’s a lot of people who think that it’s really going to take off. The business environment is . . .” And he’s off, blending in discussions of tax structures with culture, and more to the point, that it’s a total mishmash. I tune him out, sipping on the new Scotch the waitress dropped off a few minutes into Jaxson’s diatribe. It’s total political half-baked bullshit. I heard enough of it in Hollywood to smell it a mile away. There’s no way that he knows what’s going to happen twenty years down the road.

  I’m having one of those best friend conversations with Brad, no words, just lots of eye contact and mind reading.

  This guy’s a tool.

  I know. Why do you think I turned him down?

  He’s a disrespect to the word tool even. I like tools.

  You like a certain tool. He’s got one, you know.

  Not interested.

  I’m about to reply when I see Brad glance down with a raised eyebrow. I look down at the table and see Jaxson running his finger along the rim of my drink glass. Uh, no. I snatch my glass away, truly pissed off for the first time. “Don’t touch my drink.”

  Jaxson looks startled at the steel in my voice, even though I worked to keep it quiet and calm. He blinks, then gives me that politician’s smile again. “Oh, sorry, just fidgeting.”

  I realize I sound a little bit Neanderthal, like Evan did with his bike, and the irony is not lost on me. But I don’t give a fuck. There are rules, and some of them are totally unbendable. “I’m from LA. When guys mess with your drink, it’s a pretty surefire sign you’re about to get roofied. Don’t touch my drink.”

  I push it to the edge of the table. I don’t think he did anything, but I can’t even consider putting my lips where his fingers were just rubbing. Jaxson stutters, then nods. “Sorry.”

  “Uh-huh,” I reply before realizing this night’s done. Fuck it, I’m done. I fake a yawn and stand up. “Sorry, guys, I think I’m out for the evening. Gonna head on home.”

  I grab my purse, and Jaxson stands up, totally in my bubble again. I step back, putting space between us and a palm out toward him to show the invasion is unwelcome. “Excuse me, Jaxson.”

  He merely smiles. “Come on. Let me give you a ride home. I wouldn’t want you to get pulled over by the cops.”

  “No, thanks,” I reply with no flexibility in my voice. “I’ll be fine.”

  The front desk of the hotel runs a shuttle bus from the hotel to downtown, so I catch a ride. The driver drops me off a few blocks from the salon, and I relish the chance to walk in the relative coolness. The sidewalk is quiet, letting me calm down more. I don’t think it was just the alcohol that had me snap at Jaxson. I just don’t like him.

  As I get closer to the salon and home, I glance across the street and see a light on in the windows above the garage. Evan mentioned he sometimes would stay there. I wonder if he’s home.

  A delicious little tingle runs through me as I think of him up there, watching me. I bet he loves the way my tits are pressed up and together in this halter, and I hope he likes fishnets, because these stockings are meant to turn his engine over for sure. I pause and consider the window for a moment, thinking maybe a little part two of our bike ride adventure is just what this night needs.

  There’s a flash of shadow at the window, and before I can change my mind, I start walking over. Fifteen seconds later, I’m knocking on the door that leads to an upstairs area.

  There’s no answer for a moment, and I’m about to give up and head back across the street. Maybe I was just seeing shit or maybe the Scotch was a little stronger than I thought. I start to turn away when I hear heavy footsteps coming down the stairs inside.

  Evan opens the door, and two thoughts run through my head. One, he looks haunted . . . but two, he looks so fucking sexy I’m glad this skirt has scandalously easy access. “McKayla?” he asks.

  I decide to run with thought number two and give him a smile. “Hey! I saw the light on and thought I’d see what you’re doing. Can I come up?”

  I can see the ‘no’ on his face before he even speaks, but with a sigh, he agrees, stepping back. “Yeah, sure.”

  He opens the door further, gesturing me inside. He closes and locks the door, then heads up the stairs, leading me into an apartment. I’m struck with curiosity about what his sometimes crash pad will look like. “So, I wasn’t expecting company. Place is kind of a mess.”

  Despite my wonderings just moments before, I decide to play it chill. “Just coming to see you, not to judge your bathroom cleanliness.”

  He opens the door at the top of the stairs, and I’ll admit I’m a little shocked. It’s not messy. If anything, the place is neater than most hotel rooms I’ve been in, but that’s because there’s barely anything in here at all. There’s a metal-frame bed that looks more like a cot against one wall, two milk crates with a piece of plywood laid over top of them, and against the wall opposite the cot is a small flat panel TV, a strictly discount store job that someone probably bought at a Christmas sale for fifty bucks or something.

  The walls are a bare white, no decoration or even marks on them to say that someone stays here. Everything just looks disposable, and I only see one other door, which I
presume leads to a bathroom.

  On second thought, I see one discrepancy underneath the ‘table’ that Evan’s set up. Books. I don’t know how many, but the table is longer than his bed, at least ten feet long and low to the ground, but the space underneath is filled with books. They’re all lined up neatly, spines flush with each other and arranged in height order except for a few on the end, which I guess are too tall for the short space under the table. It’s impressive. Meanwhile, I’m a little ashamed to admit that other than style books and school books, I haven’t read this much in my entire life.

  I smile at him, trying to find some sort of balance in this stark, Spartan area. “So, minimalist chic, huh? Very late nineties dot-com style.”

  He looks around like he’s never seen the place, then shrugs. “Yeah, it’s not much, but it’s mine. Just the basics I need when I don’t want to go home. Probably not like your fancy, cushy place.”

  It feels like there’s some venom in the words, and I don’t know why. I don’t want to shoot back that my place isn’t exactly filled with Versace either, but instead, I decide to try again. “What were you up to tonight? Movies, video games, reading?”

  Evan leans against the wall, shaking his head. “Nothing much, just lying down to try to catch some sleep. I gotta be up early to finish rebuilding a Ford with a cracked engine block, so I decided to stay here.”

  My hands go up to my face, and I can feel the heat creeping up my cheeks. “Oh, God, I totally woke you up, didn’t I? Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I just try to catch some Zs when I can because sleep is hard to come by.”

  There’s a prolonged silence, drawing out like a blade in the quiet of the night. It’s worse than pulling teeth to get him to talk, and I don’t know why there’s this awkwardness because it hasn’t been there before. But I can certainly feel a fuck off vibe coming from him. Maybe he’s regretting what happened the other day? One surefire way to know.

  ”So, I was thinking about the other day, thought maybe we could finish what we started?”

  What can I say? I’m a forward woman.

  Evan looks at me and blinks. I can see thoughts swirling through his mind but the emotions flicker across his face too fast for me to read.

  He runs a calloused hand across his scruffy jaw and looks at me with shadowed eyes, his hair swept back from his face, but still, there’s nearly nothing I can read about him. “Yeah, um, sorry . . . tonight’s just not a good night.”

  He doesn’t offer a raincheck, no softness of maybe some other time, so I guess that answers that. Damn it. Guess it’s time for that maneuver that everyone has to do at some time or another, even if we don’t like it—the retreat while maintaining dignity. “No worries. I’ll talk to you later, maybe.”

  I move toward the door, and he doesn’t stop me, just follows me down the steps and out the door. He doesn’t even stand in the doorway to watch me go across the street, closing the door and clicking the lock almost as soon as I’m through.

  I sigh and look both ways—even though the street is deserted at this hour—and walk to the Triple B. I walk to a little door beside the salon’s main entrance that leads to my apartment’s private stairs, and I’m tempted to go back and drag Evan’s ass over to show him the reality of my living space too. About the only difference is that my bed actually has a box spring and mattress, and I’ve got a poster of Dita Von Teese on the wall, all curves and corset and sexiness. She understands, I bet.

  As I bend down to undo the lock at the bottom of the door, I feel eyes on me and a cold shiver runs through my body. I hold my head high and pop my ass out just a little more. If the asshole wants to look but not even talk to me, well . . . get a damn eyeful. Because I’m gonna go upstairs and I’m gonna be just fine, Mr. Evan Hotness On A Fucking Motorcycle Hardwick.

  Just fine.

  Asshole.

  Evan

  It’s been a few days since McKayla’s late-night visit when I gave her the brushoff for her own good. I try to remind myself of that as my brain loops on the disappointment in her eyes when I turned her down and watched her go.

  But that was a bad night. I’d lied when I told her that I had a job to do the next morning, I was up there because of a major flashback. It started simply enough. Someone brought in their old pickup truck to the garage. The area is filled with these old beaters, cars and trucks that were built before I was born and are only still street legal because people seem to give zero fucks about car inspections around here.

  So when John Englebert brought his seventy-seven Ford in, I should have been ready, but I was underneath another car when he put the truck in neutral. It backfired three times quickly.

  Three backfires, so similar to a three-shot burst from an AK-47 that I nearly lost it right there. John, of course, was laughing about his old truck having gas and telling TJ that he needed to give the thing some damn prunes, but one glance at me and TJ sent me upstairs.

  It was hours later that McKayla came by, and it was for her own good that I sent her away. The room is sparse because I made it that way on purpose. In that room, there’s not much I can smash or use to smash things with beyond an extra-thick copy of Children of Dune. I wanted to talk to her, but I could feel it coming on again, so I sent her away.

  No, it’s for her own good and she can do better. I’ll just tarnish her shine, and lord knows, she’s fucking sparkly outside, but more importantly, on the inside. She tries to pretend that she isn’t, but I can see it. She’s the sort of woman that comes around once in a man’s life, a woman so good that you’re left in awe when she looks at you.

  She’s that sort of good. And maybe once upon a time, I was that sort of guy. I’d like to think I was better than the average schlep working a nine to five. But I’m definitely not now. Now I’m just full of mud and filth and scars that go straight to my very core. I need to remember that when I catch myself staring across into the salon, trying to catch a peek of her.

  I don’t even know why I torture myself with looking over at her any longer. I gave up standing at the bay door to watch her when I realized that everyone up and down that side of the street could see me staring. Earl thought it was damn funny that every time he came up the street from his store, he could see me, watching me as I watched her. He told me I looked like I wanted to kill her or fuck her, and he ‘wasn’t right sure which one.’

  I had raised one eyebrow as I looked back at him, and he broke out in laughter. “Oh, boy, you’re done gone for that girl. Fuck her or marry her because that’s about all you can do when it hits you like that.”

  There was always a third option. Run away. But I’m not one for that, not yet, anyway. I’d moved inside to watch instead, even though TJ bitched about the smoke in the office when I lit up. Fuck it, that’s what exhaust fans are for.

  Once, I’d been in the shop leaned over an engine, and when I stood up, I caught her watching me. In that moment, a tiny piece of me wanted to puff up my chest and show off a bit for her, but I held back. Instead of entertaining the stupid fantasy, I just growled and shut the bay door.

  Even I get the symbolism there, cutting her off like that. But it’s for her own good, even if she’s stubborn as an old mule about her interest in me. I gotta shut myself away. The more I repeat it to myself, the easier it’ll become. That’s what I’m going to believe.

  Fucked up pep talk complete, I get off my bike and walk into the diner to grab lunch for TJ and myself, a little apology for his having to put up with my extra grouchy self lately. The bell chimes as I push through the door, beelining for the counter to order. I lean against the cold Formica and scan, a habit I can’t help as I count exits and look for customers that seem out of place, even if I have yet to ever see one here.

  I see a few of the town regulars, those good old boys who think that since they served in ‘Nam or maybe Desert Storm that they’re the only ones who understand what war is like. They can kiss my ass, and if they want to bitch about my haircut . . . fuck them. I co
ntinue scanning, cataloging moms with sugar-high kids bouncing in their chairs and an old couple sharing a slice of pie, when I see her.

  McKayla is sitting at a booth, right up front, with a burger and fries in front of her that’s barely been touched. I stare, taking her in. She’s like a full-on Technicolor painting in a room full of bland black and white. Her hair’s been teased up into some poufy beehive looking hairstyle today with a yellow bandana tied around it and dangling cherry earrings hugging her lobes.

  All I can think is that she’s made it easy for me to kiss her neck and lick the curve of her ear. My eyes track down to her top, little puffs at the shoulders and a sexy line of cleavage. I’m so struck that it takes me a moment to realize that she looks a bit frustrated, tension clearly evident in the scrunch of her brow, and I follow her attention across the table to . . . Jaxson. The son of a bitch is sitting on the other side of the booth, proud as a motherfucker in his work suit, grinning like he’s the king of the fucking city.

  Inside, I growl. Hell, maybe it’s out loud, I don’t know. But I see him talking to her, what’s probably supposed to be a nice smile on his face. But I’ve been reading people for a lot of years, and that smile he’s got going on right now is just a practiced façade, not genuine. I saw the same smile on his face that first day I came to town and he gave me the ‘welcome to town, now when the fuck are you leaving?’ talk.

  So while I don’t like him, he’s mostly ignored me the way I have him the past few years. I figured most of my recent bad thoughts about the man were honestly more about his flirting with McKayla. Maybe Earl is right, though, and he’s a little worse than just a sleaze.

  I keep an eye on them, wondering if I should stick my nose in and part of me not wanting to.

  “Hey, Evan, what’s the order?” the waitress asks me.

  Without even taking my eyes off McKayla and Jaxson, I half turn my head. “Double burger with onion rings, TJ style. Turkey club sandwich, double cheese and double turkey,” I toss over my shoulder without even looking at her.