by Shen, L. J.
“It’s …” He took my small, soft hand in his big, rough one, examining it. “Hideous. Anyway, the apple candy is it for me.”
Feeling frisky, I grabbed one of them from his back pocket, where I knew he stashed them, and stuck it into my mouth under the helmet.
“It’s … tasteless.”
So tasteless, in fact, that I wondered what had him coming back to this specific candy, over and over again. Of course, if he wanted me to know, he’d volunteer the information.
West grinned, giving a lazy shake of his head.
I waited for him to mount the motorcycle then hopped behind him. He brought my arms to clasp his pecs. The engine roared to life. We zipped through the highway, bypassing a traffic jam, the dessert wind licking at our bodies. I pressed against him, inhaling as much as I could of him. I loved wearing a helmet. It covered my face completely, giving the illusion I could be anyone. When I was like this, draped over a gorgeous man, my long blonde hair twirling, and all people could see was my body, it looked like I was normal. Just another girl going about her day.
No one could guess that my body and face were scarred.
That my grandmomma was sick.
That I was going to fail my semester this year.
The whole time, West’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. I could feel it against my inner thigh. But I didn’t want to chance ruining the moment by asking who it was.
We got to 2nd Street District, grabbed iced coffee, and walked around for a little while. The streets were crowded, booming with college kids and shoppers and blossoming flowerpots; light-decorated trees lined everywhere. The coffee shops poured with chattering youth. We talked about school and Friday night fights, and about my acting when West stopped dead on the curb and yanked my hoodie sleeve, causing a human traffic jam behind us.
“Jack. Fucking. Pot.”
I looked up at the sign in front of us. It was a ball cap shop. I rearranged my faded gray cap self-consciously. I only took it off when I wore West’s helmet or I was at home. He grabbed my hand, leading me inside.
“If you’re going to hide your face under this thing for eternity, at least don’t saddle me with the same old Nike logo. Keep shit fresh for me, Tex. That’s the recipe for a good relationship.”
“Fine, but you’ll have to turn around when I try them. I must protect my virtue.” I kept it light, shoving my fists back into my hoodie’s pockets. We strolled between rows of hats. Unlike the street, the place was quiet. Other than a salesman in his late teens staffing the register, it was just the two of us.
“Not being seen is really that big a deal to you, huh?” West ran a hand over a dozen hats.
I thumbed through a stack of university-themed caps, shrugging.
“I like my privacy.”
“You like being invisible.”
“What’s the problem with that?”
“That you’re not.” He stopped walking, rubbing his knuckles against his chiseled jaw. “Let’s compromise—I’ll close my eyes every time you try a cap on and open them when you’re ready. Trust me?”
“Why do you even care?” I stopped next to him, eyeing a baby pink cap with a cherry print on it. I was a girly girl and owned up to it prior to The Fire. I thought the cap would look super cute and wondered why I hadn’t thought of buying a new one before. But the answer was obvious—I didn’t think anyone was looking at me, and when they did, it was clearly for the wrong reasons.
“Texas, I can’t even begin to tell you. The inside of this ball cap must smell like a used dental floss. I want you to own at least a dozen caps so you can alternate. Ball caps for weddings, funerals, parties, work, school …” His eyes caught the baby pink one I was holding. He grabbed it from my hand and slapped it against my sternum.
“Try it.”
“Close your eyes.”
“If I do, you can’t turn around.”
“Hey, that wasn’t a part of the deal!” I protested.
“You were a cheerleader, right?”
“Yeah. Before—”
“What’s the first thing they do in practice, before you make it to the team?”
I frowned, trying to remember. “Uh, trust falls?”
“Exactly. This is our trust fall. Trust I won’t open my eyes.”
“You told me trusting people is putting your optimism in the wrong place,” I pointed out.
He twisted his face. “Don’t listen to my ass. I’m just a fucking no-good punk who is only good with his knuckles.”
“But …”
He put his finger to my lips. His eyes crinkled at the sides with a smile. I could tell it meant something to him. That I put my trust in him. Even if I didn’t know why.
“I won’t let you fall, Tex,” he said quietly.
“Promise?”
“I don’t promise. I never promise.” He tsked. Wasn’t that what he was doing? I wondered what made him so hell-bent on never promising even the smallest, most trivial things. “Try me.”
The air was thick with silence as I considered his request. He squeezed his eyes shut. I took off my gray cap slowly, the adrenaline whooshing in my veins. I stared at him in shock, relishing the small liberating moment. I could practically feel his arms as I figuratively fell backward into them.
How he caught me.
How he kept his word and didn’t sneak a peek.
I grabbed the pink cap. It wasn’t bent on the sides, so when I put it on, West could still see a little more of my face than I was comfortable with. I secured it over my head, took a deep breath, and tapped West’s shoulder to signal he could open his eyes.
“Decent?” he teased.
“Not by my standards,” I mumbled.
His eyes fluttered open.
“Whaddaya think?” Even though it was only a cap, I motioned at my entire body, posing a-la Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City. It sounded stupid, but it felt like trying on a wedding dress.
He flashed me a lopsided, half-moon grin that made my knees weak, and whistled.
West reached for the cap and my heart stuttered. For a second, I could feel my body hitting the ground as he let go of me. But no. He didn’t take it off. He bent it the way I liked it, so it shielded both sides of my face.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice dropping low. “Cap’s all right, too.”
“Thank you.” The softness in my voice jarred me. “And not cool, dude. If you bend it, you buy it.”
“That’s fake news. Ask any girl I’ve hooked up with.”
I chuckled dully. I wasn’t amused by the fact he was known for sleeping around.
“’Sides, we’re buying it,” he said flatly.
I turned around to change back to my old hat and checked the price, then proceeded to snort.
“For fifty-five bucks? You’re kiddin’ me.”
“My treat.”
“No.” I shook my head. “You already got me dinner once. We can’t make it a habit.”
But he was swaggering to the register, spinning the pink cherry cap with his finger on his way there, not paying me any attention. I followed him, groaning. I knew he was going to do whatever he wanted.
“It’s not a habit. It’s a trade-off. I got you something I thought you needed, now it’s your turn to get me something. How ’bout them apples?” He jerked his wallet chain (which my nineties heart had noted was very much in sync with my favorite era) and took it out, dropping a few notes on the counter in front of the salesman.
“Snap. You’re West St. Claire. Sher U, right?” The guy’s face brightened.
They did a bro-shake.
“Saw your fight with Williams last year. You thrashed him. Is he still even alive?”
“Wouldn’t bet on it.” West stuck a green apple candy in his mouth, back to being his cocky, jerk self.
“You should go pro. You’re the best fighter I’ve ever seen. You go there.”
“You’re a good kid,” West said.
“Will you sign my cap?”
“So what do you think I need?” He was referring to our trade-off.
I tapped my lips, pretending to mull it over. “A genital guard.”
He laughed. “You’ve got jokes, Texas.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one who left you ballet shoes before I even knew your name.”
West tugged his wallet back into his pocket, handing me the bag with my new cap. “You never acknowledged that. I wondered if it ever happened. I was starting to question my own sanity.”
“You should do that regardless. But no, I got ’em. Still have them at home. Not sure what to do with them yet, but my poor girl complex wouldn’t allow me to throw them out,” I admitted, laughing. “Want them back?”
“Keep ’em. I’m not sure ballet is my field. I’m kind of a big girl.” He feigned shyness, and I snorted, imagining him in a tutu.
After a quick cap change in an alleyway, I came back out with the pink cap. He catcalled me, and I swaggered past him, swaying my butt like I was some sort of femme fatal.
His phone buzzed again. He killed it.
“Aren’t you gonna take that at some point?” I turned around and walked backwards, my eyes on him. “It’s okay if you have better things to do.”
“I don’t have better things to do,” he clipped, his mood changing back to sullen.
“Whoever is callin’ might have somethin’ important to tell you.”
The more I thought about it, the more I realized a hookup wouldn’t call him dozens of times a day. Worry settled in my gut. It was more serious than that.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Your turn, Tex,” he called out to me as I charged ahead. “Where to?”
“Ever had a Frito pie, Maine?”
His face broke into the goofiest, sweetest grin I’d ever seen. His eyes twinkled like fine jewels. I’d once watched a documentary about the fall of the Berlin Wall. Saw the thousands of people bringing hammers and bricks to it, demolishing it with their bare hands, glowing with triumph, buzzing with deep, dark ache. This was what I felt happened to my walls of defense the moment he truly flashed me a genuine smile. It was crumbling, brick by brick, as thousands of little Wests pounded their fists upon it, making it collapse.
“Can’t say that I have.” West tilted his head sideways.
“Let’s get Christina, then. We have places to see. Frito pies to eat.” He inclined his head, just as the last brick in my wall shattered.
“Lead the way.”
“It’s … odd.” West leaned back in his seat, dropping his fork directly into the Frito pie. I slapped a hand over my heart, gasping.
“Are you for real right now?”
He nodded, picking up his fork, dissecting the pie with a frown.
“What’s in this thing, anyway? Beef, beans, cheese, enchilada sauce, tortilla chips, sour cream, corn, pecans …” He started naming all the ingredients. “It reminds me of that time Rachel from Friends had two recipe pages stuck together and made that disgusting strawberry beef cake pie. You throw everything into this thing other than the kitchen sink.”
“Oh.” I smiled cheerfully. “The kitchen sink is there, all right. Right at the bottom. One layer away from the crust.”
He burst out laughing. I signaled for the check and paid it. “Besides, I’ll have you know, Joey liked that pie a lot.”
“Joey liked eating everything. That was the joke.”
“I take it you’re a picky eater.”
“Not really. Disgusting shit is where I draw the line.” He scratched at his square jaw, giving it some thought. “And pussy. I don’t eat pussy either.”
I choked on my Diet Pepsi, spitting some of it back into my cup. “Excuse me?”
“You asked about my eating habits. Thought I’d be forthcoming.”
“Why don’t you …” I left the question unfinished. I never talked to guys about sex. Actually, I never talked to Karlie or Grams about it either. Marla was out of the question, for obvious reasons, too. It wasn’t that I’d never done it. I had. When I was sixteen, with my ex-boyfriend, Tucker. But we’d never actually discussed it, and the experience was lackluster to say the least.
“Eat pussy?” He completed the question for me, enjoying my unease. “It seems like an intimate thing to do. I have nothing against pussies. Some of my favorite times were spent inside them. I just don’t want to get too acquainted with ones who’ve been around the block. If I had a steady lay, well, that’d be a different story.”
“Ever had a steady lay?”
He nodded.
“In high school. Ate her out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. How ’bout you?”
“Same.”
“Did he eat you out?” he asked, insultingly casual. I felt the tips of my ears growing impossibly hot.
“Yes.”
“Did you reciprocate?”
“Of course. Equality for all, right?”
West sat back in his chair, his jaw ticking.
“Ever heard of positive discrimination? Whatever happened to feminism?”
I bit down on my lip, trying not to laugh. Was he actually jealous?
“I’m guessin’ your oral sex rule doesn’t apply to being on the receiving end?” I cocked an eyebrow. He smirked down at me, like he was proud that I was carrying the conversation without combusting into a thousand pieces of embarrassment.
“Correct. Never met a blowjob I didn’t like.”
“That’s not very feminist.”
“Hey, do you have any idea how many bras I’ve ruined in my lifetime?”
“And they say romance is dead.” I rolled my eyes. He tugged my cap down. We were both incredibly at ease.
“Where to now, Tex?”
“Another Mexican dig,” I said without missing a beat.
“Another pie?” His eyes flared in mock horror. “You’re putting me through this again?”
“Sure am. Until you admit Frito pies are the best thing to happen to humanity since agriculture and language.”
“Frito pies are the best thing to happen to humanity since agriculture and language,” he deadpanned.
I laughed. “Nice try.”
We got out of the restaurant and walked into the one next to it. He didn’t like the Frito pie there either. After the third one I made him try, he got up from his seat and shook his head.
“No more Frito pies. It’s against my human rights.”
“C’mon, don’t be so narrow-minded,” I teased, catching his steps. My face hurt from laughing, and I wondered if it was because we’d had that much fun, or because I wasn’t used to laughing anymore. “We were just warmin’ up.”
“I’m vetoing the pie.” He shook his head, flipping his keys around his index.
“Maine,” I whined.
“Texas.”
I jerked his hand, but he didn’t budge, soldiering toward his Ducati.
“Pretty please with a cherry on top,” my purr turned flirty—raspy, even—as sixteen-year-old Grace took the reins over my mouth.
“Of course there’d be a cherry on top. You put everything else into this pie.”
My heart, bloated with glee and soaked with laughter, began to deflate. It was nearing late afternoon. Truth was, I wasn’t too hot on another Frito pie either. I just didn’t want to leave. To go back to Sheridan. Let the West and Grace bubble burst. I wanted to continue being careless and happy. To feel beautiful—or at least not hideous—for a few more hours.
West stopped by the Ducati, handing me my helmet. I quickly changed from my cap to the helmet, shoving both my ball caps into the bag I was given by the salesman.
We rode back to Sheridan in silence, my hair whipping my neck and shoulders. When we reached Sheridan limits, West took a turn toward downtown, to Main Street.
“It’s my birthday today,” he said out of nowhere.
“What?!” I shrieked into his ear. My voice was muffled by the wind
and helmet. “It is?”
He grunted, “Yeah.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-two years young.”
“Holy shit.”
“Way to make me feel good about it, Tex.”
“You bought me a gift on your birthday. This is all wrong. Stop. Stop right now.”
He stopped by the Albertsons grocery store. I ran inside without taking off my helmet, then came back out with a bottle of tequila wrapped in a brown paper bag and some birthday candles. They were the cheapest kind, but better than nothing at all. I hopped back on, wrapping my arms around him.
“To Sheridan Plaza,” I instructed.
“Have you started drinking without me? Why would I do that?” He whipped his head around, his stormy eyes zeroing in on mine through his helmet.
“I’ve never been there,” I admitted hoarsely.
He tore his helmet from his head, the engine still running, and scowled. I was lucky I still had my helmet on, because West St. Claire’s face so close to mine, his lips a breath away from my mouth, was the definition of seduction. A film of sweat made his tousled, gold-brown hair stick to his temples and forehead and his carved cheekbones glow under the sun.
“You’re shitting me.”
I shook my head.
“You grew up in Sheridan and never been to the Plaza?”
I nodded.
“Fine. But you’re not allowed to go there by yourself. Promise me.”
“No promises.” I wiggled my eyebrows, throwing his rule back in his face. “Tit for tat. Why don’t you want me to go there?”
“The place is a cum dumpster.”
“Isn’t that where you hook up with all your lady friends?” I kept my tone light.
“Hence why it’s a cum dumpster. It’s no place for a lady.” He pushed his helmet back on and kicked his foot forward, getting back on the road.
When we reached Sheridan Plaza, West parked at the back, leading me inside. The ground floor was empty, save for a few soggy mattresses, cigarette butts, and red Solo cups strewn about. We took the concrete stairs up to the second floor. The left wing, which was probably meant to be a food court, was vast and empty. There were gym mats scattered around, framed by crates and boxes to create a ring, with enough space around it to contain at least a hundred people. The right wing of the floor consisted of small rooms that were supposed to be the stores, where there were yet more mattresses in each small alcove. Like filthy individual motel rooms. No wonder people liked coming here. The place was a makeshift brothel.