I stared at the books, and although I had counted them many times in the past, I began to count them again. After another extended period of silence, I reached a total, and counted them again to make certain.
Two hundred and seventeen. That’s not really that many.
“How long did it take you?” I asked, still focusing on the books.
He cleared his throat again. “Most were read over the course of my education. A few before and a few since. Several years.”
After a few minutes, I turned to face him, glanced at the clock, and made note of the fact that almost twenty minutes had passed.
“If your concern is time, Mr. West, I’ll assure you I have much more time today than normal. We’ll sit here until my questions are answered. Now, I’ll ask again…”
“Kind of,” I interrupted.
“Kind of what?” he asked.
“Kind of feel like that,” I responded.
“Kind of feel like what? Describe your feelings,” he said.
“Shit,” I said.
“Your feelings are shit?” he asked.
“I feel like shit. That’s what you asked. How do I feel, that’s what you asked. I feel like shit. Write that down,” I said.
“Well, to take a few steps back, I asked, more specifically, if you felt like you had lied to…” he paused and glanced down at his note pad.
“Riley,” he said.
I sat up in my seat and leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees as I glared at him.
“Take her name off your little fucking pad,” I said.
“I merely made note of…”
“Take it off,” I said flatly.
“My notes stay here. With me. There’s no harm in…”
“Take her name off your fucking pad,” I demanded.
He gazed down at the pad and began to scribble. I stood from my seat. As he noticed me stand, he placed the pad on his desk and pushed his seat away from the desk.
“Sit down, Mr. West,” he said.
“Take her name off the fucking pad. You have no right to write her name down. We were just talking. You weren’t even fucking writing when we were talking, you wrote the fucker down later. You fucking cheated,” I snapped.
“If I erase it, scratch it out, or toss the sheet in the trash, I still retain the memory of what you said. The longer you make an issue of it, and of her name, the more permanent it will be etched in my mind. Now, let’s get back to what we were speaking of. But first, sit down,” he said.
I studied him for a moment, exhaled a shallow breath, and sat down. He had a valid point. No matter what I did or said, he already knew Riley’s name. My best chance at any kind of recovery from his attack would be to change the subject.
I crossed my legs and focused on the bookcase. After a pause long enough to irritate him I shifted my eyes toward his desk. “Work’s been steadily picking up.”
He glared at me and picked up his pad. As he began to scribble, my blood pressure began to rise.
“Okay, yeah. I don’t know. I felt like maybe I should have said something, but it isn’t necessarily the type of shit you run and tell someone you’re trying to get to know. But I sure as fuck didn’t lie to her. I just didn’t tell her. And if you’re going to do any more scribbling on your little pad, you can write ‘Blake didn’t tell her yet’, not ‘Blake isn’t going to tell her’. Got it?”
“Understood. So, you do expect to see her again?” he asked.
I nodded my head.
He began to scribble.
“Hold the fuck up. You need to set that fucking pad to the side. I’m about sick and tired of you scribbling on that fucker. Can we just talk?” I asked.
“Would it be safe to say you are feeling slightly guilty for not having told Riley the truth yet? I do understand you have every intention of telling her everything, but you feel guilty about not having divulged everything yet, is that correct?” he asked.
“If you say so,” I responded.
“I want you to tell me. Tell me how it makes you feel that you’ve decided to wait to tell her everything.”
“It makes me feel like I’m a pretty smart fucker, that’s how it makes me feel,” I said as I reached for my glass of water.
“Oh, and how so?” he asked as he reached for the pad.
I shook my head at the thought of him doing any more scribbling.
“Because if I would have just blurted out my life history, she might have run away. But because I didn’t tell her, and we talked a few times without her knowing anything, I think she likes me. So, if I tell her now, she might just shrug her fucking shoulders and say so fucking what. That’s why,” I said.
He picked up his pen, tapped the end of it against lip for a moment, and then began to carefully write on the pad.
“Blake’s a smart fucker, and he’s making big time progress. That’s what you wrote, right?” I asked.
“Where’s the fucking music? There’s no music. What’s the fucking deal today? It’s like fuck with Blake day, huh? Turn the music on,” I said as I glanced around the room.
“The music is a program that is time based. It has shut down for the day,” he responded.
I glanced around the room and eventually fixed my eyes on him.
“Turn it back on,” I said flatly.
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s out of my control.”
I sighed a phony sigh of irritation. As I inhaled another deep breath and intended to force another sigh, he cleared his throat. It was his way of attempting to gather my attention; he did it all the time.
“Now, let’s discuss your meetings,” he said.
“What’d you write on your little pad?” I asked.
He cocked one eyebrow. “The meetings, Mr. West. Let’s discuss the meetings.”
“You know. Sometimes you call me Blake, and sometimes you call me Mr. West. How do you decide which one to use?” I asked.
He glared.
“Are you still wearing the cross?” he asked.
I reached toward my chest, tapped the piece of silver with the tip of my finger and shook my head.
He scribbled on his pad.
“Are you ready to discuss the meetings, Mr. West?” he asked.
I nodded my head once. “Okay by me, Patrick.”
“You’re still attending the AA meetings?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Racine, I do. Once a week, maybe twice, it depends on my moods,” I responded.
He widened his eyes slightly as he rolled the pen between his thumb and forefinger, studying me the entire time. Eventually he tilted his head to the side. “And you’re of the opinion, or at least you were, that they are helping you cope with your addictions?”
“That’s my take on it, yeah,” I said.
“Interesting. Do you still feel that way?” he asked.
“Well, Patrick, it sure seems to be the case. The meetings help me cope,” I responded.
“Do you find today’s session annoying, Blake?” he asked.
“Not anymore, Mr. Racine,” I said as I stood from my seat.
“Mr. West, sit down,” he said in a stern tone.
As I walked toward the door I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key to my Harley, and clutched it in my hand. As I pulled the door open, I paused and turned to face him.
“Next time I’m here, make sure the music’s playing. I’m not fucking around. I don’t want to talk to you if there’s no music. Listening to you in the silence is fucking irritating. Write that down, Patrick,” I said.
As he centered the pad on his desk and began to write, I grinned. I really didn’t care so much if the music was on or off, I had just become accustomed to listening to it. Having him fully understand my thought processes wasn’t ever something I was interested in doing.
Keeping him guessing was much more fun.
“Mr. West, I would appreciate it if…”
I cleared my throat and interrupted him from speaking. “That�
�s another thing, don’t call me that anymore.”
He fixed his eyes on mine and waited.
“I’m fucking tired of the back and forth shit. Call me Blake. Or you can call me Boss. Or Brainiac. Yeah, that works. Brainiac. I like that,” I said with a nod.
And I turned and walked out the door.
Chapter 11
RILEY
Growing up, there were times when I was aggravated with my mother, but regardless, I always loved her. She despised Stephen, and we often disagreed about my relationship with him, his treatment of me, and her belief that he was with me for sexual reasons alone. In the end, she was correct in all respects, a quality I think all mothers must possess. Admitting she was right was easy to me, because admitting it allowed me to accept that Stephen truly was the controlling prick she had always believed him to be.
“So, how old is he?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but before you say anything, believe me, it doesn’t matter,” I said.
“Why doesn’t it?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Because age really doesn’t matter, and it shouldn’t. But I guess because he’s not as old as Stephen, and because you’re really going to like him.”
“We’ll see about that. You said he owns a tattoo shop downtown?” she asked over her cup of coffee.
“Yep, and he doesn’t drink, doesn’t use drugs, and he’s not like Stephen at all,” I assured her.
My relationship with my mother had always been one where I could - and did - tell her everything. I found the open line of communication we shared to be therapeutic, never really held anything in reserve, and was always willing to listen to what she had to say; deciding afterward if her opinion was something worthy of considering or implementing in my life. In complete contrast to any other girl my age, I could truly claim my mother was my best friend.
“Well, I like that about him already, as long as it’s true,” she said.
I clasped my hands around my coffee cup and considered my response.
“Well, he came over the other day and we were making out on the couch. You know, just kissing, but for a really long time. So, I glanced down, and he was rock hard. So, I…”
She raised her hand in the air as if she’d heard enough. As she began to chuckle I continued.
“You asked, Mother. So, anyway, I decided to grab it. And I did. He immediately jumped up, denied me the cock, and went back to work,” I said.
“Well that’s a first. And good for him,” she said with a nod.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Stephen forced himself on you from the beginning and never let up. If this guy at least has the courage and the ability to walk away from you groping him, he’s much better than Stephen, at least in that regard,” she responded as she raised her cup of coffee in the air.
“I didn’t grope him. I grabbed his junk,” I said with a laugh.
She shook her cup of coffee in front of me, as if offering a toast. I lifted my cup.
“Here’s to tattoo artists with courage,” she said.
“Courage and a big bulge,” I said as I clanked my cup against hers.
“Riley Jaye Campbell,” she snapped back.
“I’m telling you,” I said.
She took a sip of coffee, shook her head from side to side, and lowered the cup to the table.
“Now, that, I don’t need to know,” she said.
I narrowed my eyes slightly, grinned and nodded my head once. “I’ll keep it a secret.”
“As it needs to be,” she said.
“So, still not a word from Stephen?” she asked.
I shook my head, “Not a single one.”
“Good,” she said as she stood from her seat.
“You sure you don’t want anything to eat?” she asked.
“No,” I responded. “I ate some yogurt before I came.”
“You’re not eating enough. You look thin,” she said over her shoulder as she walked to the refrigerator.
“I look thin because I’m healthy. I’ve been at the gym every morning since I left Stephen,” I said.
She opened the door to the refrigerator, peered inside, and as she rummaged around for a snack, spoke.
“Well, going to the gym doesn’t make you healthy. But going to the gym and eating properly might,” she said.
“I’m eating properly, Mother,” I said.
“If you say so,” she said as she pulled her head from the refrigerator.
“What did you come up with?” I asked as she carried a plastic container toward the counter.
“Cantaloupe,” she responded.
“Fork me,” I said.
She shook her head from side-to-side as she grabbed two forks and a bowl. After dumping the contents of the container into the bowl, she walked back to the table and set it between us. As she handed me the fork, I shrugged my shoulders and glared.
She widened her eyes. “What?”
I stood from my seat, walked to the stove, and grabbed the salt. As I sat down at the table, salt shaker in hand, she shook her head again.
“Not on my half,” she said as she covered half of the bowl with her hand.
I shook the shaker over the bowl, making sure to cover her hand with as much salt as possible. After a few extra shakes, I placed it to the side, and stabbed a piece of cantaloupe with my fork.
“That’s a good cantaloupe,” I said as I chewed the melon.
“Got it at the farmer’s market,” she responded. “Good, huh?”
I nodded my head and stabbed another piece. “Yep.”
As we sat and devoured the entire bowl of cantaloupe together, I realized how much I had missed my mother during my time with Stephen. Although I continued to see her throughout my relationship with him, I didn’t see her as frequently, nor was I as open with her as I typically was. Our time together was short, and our talks were brief and almost meaningless.
Although she was my mother, we could easily pass for sisters, and often did. She looked much younger than her thirty-nine years of age, and depending on my makeup and what I was wearing, I could look a little older than my age. She was a very attractive woman, blonde, and no differently than me, had a lanky body and nice boobs.
I had always suspected the only reason she was single was because she wanted to be, not because she had to be. When I started high school and she was thirty-one, all of my male friends claimed she was “hot”, and often made excuses to come over and stare at her.
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“I don’t need one,” she responded.
“Everyone needs someone,” I said.
“Well, I don’t,” she responded as she stood.
After grabbing the bowl and our two forks, she carried them to the sink. She stood for some time, gazing out the window before coming back to the table and sitting down.
“I suppose it’s the same as it’s always been, each time you’ve asked. I still love your father. Being with someone else would never amount to anything but friendship. It wouldn’t be fair. I loved, and still love your father,” she said.
My father died as a result of a tragic accident when I was in kindergarten. My mother lived, walking away with nothing more than a scar on her neck from the shards of glass. Although the curious side of me always wanted to know more, I was unable to find out any details, as the internet had yet to be developed for widespread use in 1998 when the accident happened.
My mother’s explanation of a truck running a red light, a loud metallic crunch, and the sound of breaking glass was all I knew of my father’s death.
“All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy,” I said as I stood.
She glanced upward, narrowed her gaze, and pointed at my chair. “I am happy. Where are you going?”
“I just wanted to give you a hug,” I said.
“Okay,” she said as she stood, “But you can’t leave. I want to hear more about this Blake character.”
&nbs
p; “About his bulge?” I whispered as I held her in my arms.
“No, about everything else,” she said as she released me.
“You said he rode a motorcycle. Have you been on it yet?” she asked as she sat down.
I nodded my head and grinned, “It’s awesome.”
“Did you wear a helmet?” she asked.
I glanced down at the legs of the table, knowing she would not like my response, but fully realizing I couldn’t lie to her.
“No,” I responded.
“Riley Jaye,” she gasped.
“Mom, he didn’t have one…”
She glared at me. “Not again. I’m not losing you to a motorcycle accident because you weren’t sensible enough to wear a helmet.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Promise me,” she said.
“I promise,” I whined.
“Okay. Now, tell me everything you know about him.”
“Everything?” I grinned.
“Everything but the bulge,” she said with a laugh.
“Well, he’s tall, but not like tall. Maybe six foot-ish. And he’s got a little beard thing going on some of the time. You know, a few day’s growth. He’s covered in tattoos; all up and down his arms, hands, knuckles, and even one kind of on his neck, but not like all up on it. But he doesn’t look like a thug, he’s really cute, mom. He, uhhm, he always looks serious, like he’s thinking. He squints his eyes a lot, and when he’s doing it, I can tell he’s thinking,” I paused for a moment and lifted my cup of coffee to my mouth.
I took a drink of the lukewarm coffee, winced at the temperature, and continued.
“He owns his own tattoo shop, and he has a guy who works for him, Tyler, and the guy’s a complete dick. He doesn’t drink and he doesn’t use drugs, but he smokes,” I said.
“Pot?” she asked.
“No. Cigarettes,” I responded.
“He rides a motorcycle, and I think he said he doesn’t even have a car. It seems like he told me that,” I said.
“Well, that’s kind of strange,” she said.
“Oh, and his eyes. They’re like brown and green at the same time. Like equal amounts of each, it’s crazy,” I said.
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