by Dani Wyatt
At least, I think that’s what we are. He’s decent looking in a middle-aged sort of way. He could use some polish, but I could see how someone would find him at least dateable. I know he wants more from me than friendship.
But, I’ve not wanted anything like that with anyone, ever. Not since Steven decided to crap all over a needy, vulnerable, teenage girl’s crush.
It was more than a crush; I thought I loved him. And worse, I thought he loved me. Lesson learned.
But this last week I’ve felt that wanting again. I can’t fight off the looming sense of dread I have when I think about going farther down this road with Beckett.
I flip the light switch turning to see Jeremy staring at me at me.
I quickly spin and fiddle with a loose piece of yarn on the cuff of my sweater.
He walks over and takes an apple out of the basket on the kitchen table and bites into it with a loud crunch.
Help yourself.
My chest is tight because I sense he’s withholding information. I get the feeling he gets off on this kind of macabre power play.
“What? Is it Jordan? Something about Jordan, right?”
“Yes.” He takes another casual bite of the apple and smacking his lips together as he chews before continuing. “I want you to know I’m doing everything I can to help you. I made some calls yesterday to see if we could delay the court date. I pulled in as many favors for you as I could,” He pauses to shake his head. “But, they won’t budge. Mostly, they think you need to be in a more stable living situation.”
“More stable? How is this not stable?” I look around the apartment. Bruce is meticulous. This place could be a show model for the damn complex. “I’m in a good neighborhood. We keep the place spotless.”
Just don’t go in my room. Canvases are stacked and leaning everywhere. I have sheets all over the floor, splattered with paint, and my clothes are heaped inside the closet in wads and crumpled balls.
“Yes, more stable. They think you need to be on your own. Not living with a homo.” The disdain in his voice makes me sick.
I cross my arms and squint at him, hoping he takes the hint and dials that down.
“This is a nice apartment. Bruce is a roommate and a great human.”
“I’m just here to give you the truth, sweetheart.” He’s back on his feet, stepping toward me, his voice full of patriarchal condescension, and settles his hands on my shoulders.
“So, what should I do? I can’t afford to move out. I could never afford a place as nice as this.”
“Well, that’s what we need to think about. You need to show the court you’re stable and have the means to provide. They like normalcy. I will never tell anyone about your other job, either. That would lose the case for you for sure.” I can’t believe when he smiles and takes another bite of the apple.
“Should I quit the club? I need that money, but I’ll quit dancing if it will help.” I hate the desperate choke in my voice. I realize I’m still clutching the strap of my backpack. I drop it to the floor and lower myself in a heap onto the sofa.
“Why are you dressed like that? Why aren’t you wearing your scrubs?” Jeremy ignores my question.
“Like what?” I smooth the sweater down and cross my legs because his intense stare is making me feel like I’m on the stage wearing my wings.
“Those jeans. A sweater. You look nice.” He squints his face in disapproval when he sees my mismatched socks. “Where were you?” He closes the space between us, and I pull my arms around my waist.
“What should I do about the other job?” I don’t really care to discuss where I was, and I want to stick to the more important topic. “Should I quit or what?” I snap at him, trying to redirect the conversation.
“No, don’t quit. You need the money. Just understand, I’ll keep that between us. I’ll keep that a secret. You can trust me. Just . . .” He sets the half-eaten apple bite-side down on the coffee table and looks directly at my chest before lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Start thinking about making a more stable presentation. We have to present the very best version of you we can.”
I feel almost like he is touching me with his eyes, and an unpleasant tension rises in my stomach.
I also see something distinctive in the front of his khaki pants, and a panic begins to bubble up. He’s let me know in the last few months that he would like our friendship to be more, but I just haven’t been ready for anything like that. Clearly, he is.
In one day, I’ve created two very visible erections. I’m completely unsure how I feel about that.
I want him to leave. He’s never given me a reason to be frightened of him, but right now a rush of heat is covering my cheeks, and my ears are ringing. I feel cornered.
“Well, okay. Thanks. I’ll see what I can do to find my own place.”
He puts the backs of his fingers to his lips. I can’t be sure if he is covering up a smile or just wiping away the remnants of the apple’s juice.
“Good.” He puts both his hands on his cheeks. “Just start thinking of ways to make you the best version of you we can.” He drops his hands by his side, spins and flops down on the sofa next to me.
If he says “we” one more time, I’m going to kick him. I’m not some damn science fair group project.
He runs a hand through the course brush of his hair and lets out a huge sigh as though all of this is such a burden for him.
He is seven or eight inches shorter than Beckett. I didn’t realize he was kind of short until today. Now with him sitting so close, he smells like he just came out of the kitchen of some greasy diner.
He also wears a fanny pack.
“Is that it then?” I level my voice. He knows this is the most important thing in my life, and he seems so flippant.
“That’s it,” he says casually. He lays a hand on my knee with a condescending pat.
I grit my teeth fighting the urge to pull my leg away as he takes a breath to continue his pious pontification. “Just remember, I’m the one helping you. If it weren’t for me, you would have no shot. I’ll help you make this happen. You just need to listen to what I tell you. I care about you. Probably more than anyone ever has. I’m always thinking of ways to get you what you want, just remember that, okay?” He pats my knee again, stands up and stretches like he’s bored.
His question is clearly rhetorical since he shows no interest in whether or not I’m going to answer.
I get to my feet blowing out a slow breath and tugging my sweater down. I take a step forward hoping it will urge him toward the door. He pauses at the kitchen table, lifts another apple and stuffs it into his jacket pocket, leaving the half-eaten one sitting where he left it. He looks at me like I’m some shelter dog waiting for a stay of execution, then steps right in front of me.
I can smell whatever made the greasy spots on his tie. He leans down and kisses my cheek. His lips are there two seconds longer—and a bit wetter—than would be considered a platonic peck.
“Bye. I’ll see you at the club.” With that, he’s out the door, and throw myself face down on the sofa. The pressure behind my eyes has me trying to remember where I put the bottle of Advil.
He made all this fuss to come over here for five minutes and tell me I shouldn’t live with Bruce? That shit could have been sent in a dang text. I groan and let out a scream into the sofa cushion.
After a few minutes of self-pity, I get up and trudge to the bathroom.
I run a bath and try to get lost in the sound of the rushing water. I stare into the bubbles until my vision is blurry and I think of Beckett’s smile and the same tingling that settled solidly between my legs when he kissed me takes over.
I realize pursuing a new relationship with Beckett right now would definitely not put me in the column of “more stable.” The court paperwork I need to complete to petition for adoption asks about current relationships and having someone new in my life right now would not strengthen my case. Especially someone I know so little about.
/> I knew I should have kept a professional distance with Beckett. I knew. Tomorrow, I’ll have to straighten it out. No matter what, nothing can come before Jordan. Nothing. Not even those Monet-blue eyes or those hands that make me think that maybe there is a safe place in this world for me.
He didn’t answer my text about my scarf, so maybe that’s a good sign.
I mean, he has been out of the country with a bunch of other men for the last eighteen months. Even he said so. I’m sure he’s just crazy horny, and I was the first and most convenient target for him.
I’m sure that’s it. Tomorrow, it will be all business.
As I let the scalding water cover me, my near-white skin turns sunburn red. I’m up to my neck as I lay my forearm over my eyes, trying desperately to push out the vision of Beckett’s chipped front tooth.
STOP.
After Jeremy’s visit, I stared at the ceiling of my bedroom until three in the morning. But, I’m up and out the door with purple circles under my eyes and lead in my feet. I slog through the day and regret that I’ve obligated myself to the reading gig again. By 3:15 I’ve thought of every excuse I can to call and cancel, but I don’t seem to be able to make the call.
I stretch, and I step off bus number 23 that brought me from Windfield to the closest stop near Beckett’s loft. It’s only four o’clock, and it’s getting dark already. March is a strange month.
One day the sun is shining, and you think the daffodils are about to poke their heads through the dirt, then the next day, clouds have blocked out the sun, and you feel like it’s the start of the apocalypse. You just never know where you stand with March.
There is a thin layer of ice that crunches under every step as I make my way down the sidewalk. The heat in the bus wasn’t working. I would question whether or not I have toes if it weren’t for the stabbing pain in each step.
I didn’t think when I left the apartment for Windfield at 6 AM that what was a sunny morning could turn to an ice storm by two o’clock. The flat bottoms of my worn, leather ankle boots are worse than wearing ice skates.
I steady myself with one hand along the rough bricks of the empty buildings as I walk, or I’ll be on my butt in two seconds. I’m using the majority of my brain power concentrating on each tentative step. I’m trying to remember if I put rocks in my backpack as I lean forward a few inches to compensate for the ballast.
I let out a deep breath of relief as Beckett’s building comes into view. I set my eyes back down on the sidewalk. I’m rounding the corner and run smack into a wall of man with a filthy, blue blanket draped over his shoulders.
“Oh, damn it!” My feet slip around in figure eights under me, and my heart jumps into my throat.
It’s all flailing arms and adrenaline as I lose the battle with gravity, and my head is the last thing to hit the sidewalk with a “thud.”
Everything goes blinkity-blinkity starry white for a minute and the pain from the back of my head bolts down my neck as I lay flat out, staring up at the haze of mist and ice coming out of a nearly black sky.
“Owwww,” I whine and bring my arm over my face, accepting my prone position for the moment.
“Wow, you okay?” It must be the blue-blanket guy talking, but I have my eyes squeezed shut, trying to process the pain without crying.
“Yup.” I snip.
I’m lying. I’m not okay. I now understand what they mean when they say blinding pain.
I am also not sure if I’m happy someone else is here with me or not because I can’t see him right now. But, I can smell him.
It’s not a good smell. Sour, sweet and sweaty. Whoever this is has not seen a shower in a while.
“She okay?” A different voice. A man, he sounds like Carl Maulden with marbles in his mouth. I hear crunchy, heavy footsteps near my ear, and I squint open my good eye to see both men leaning over me, inspecting me like I’m mana from heaven.
“She’s pretty,” Stinky, the blue-blanket guy, says.
I open both eyes because I don’t like the way that sounds. When I can focus, I see the bloated face of guy number two swivel around, looking down the sidewalk one way, then the other and back again.
“Grab her hands.” His voice is garbled, I barely make out the words, but when hands grip my wrists, it comes together.
“Hey. I’m okay. Don’t—” I pull back on my hands that are now in his grasp.
“Legs, you get her legs.” Stinky blue blanket says to the mountain of man at my feet.
My eyes are wide open now. This isn’t happening.
I can see the second guy is enormous. Like 5X enormous and professional basketball player tall. He’s grimacing, and there are only two teeth in the top of his palate, and both look like swamp water.
He’s wearing a worn, filthy parka and the pockets are bulging. His hair is hanging down around his face beyond his neck in greasy, brown tendrils. As he sucks in a breath, I see him draw in a length of his hair between his lips, and he does nothing to try to spit it back out.
“Stop it! Let go—” I’m screaming. The kind of scream that scrapes like barbed wire on your vocal cords.
Blue-blanket has my wrists in a grip tighter than I would expect. He looks sick—yellow eyes and brown teeth and gray skin.
I try to jerk free but the weight of my body is straining my shoulder sockets, and I get no leverage. I kick at the wall of man clutching my ankles. The two have me dangling like a hammock between them, and I now see where they’re headed. They are taking me up a stairway into an abandoned building kitty corner from Beckett’s place.
I’m jerking my head and my body as hard as I can until I see white stars in my eyes from the strain. I haven’t stopped the ragged screams. My voice is raw. I’m not screaming words anymore, just sounds.
I scan the street, desperate for another sign of life.
Desperate for Beckett.
“Stop! Please! Please . . .”
I catch a glimpse of Beckett’s building, and I don’t see lights in Mr. Fitzgerald’s apartment. Even in my terror, I notice the glass is broken in the bottom of the windows.
I’m screaming words again. No, not words, one word.
“Beckett!! Beckett!!” My voice cracks as tears stream out of the corners of my eyes, into my hair.
“Shut her up!” The linebacker at my feet growls.
“How can I shut her up and carry her?”
There is a sledgehammer pounding in my head, and I’m beginning to spin, about to vomit. The smell from the first guy gagging me and the second one isn’t much better.
“Drop her hands and shut her up! I’ll drag her.”
“Help!” The jabs of pain in my throat scream with me as I know this is the last scream I may get out before I’m inside that building. The scream is barely out of me before my head clunks like a brick on the cement steps. More stars dance in my eyes and pain bolts down my spine. Two more steps and I will be inside that door, and beyond that, I see a stairway going somewhere I do not want to go.
Pain shoots behind my eyes and bounces around inside my head. I know if they get me in there, I might not come out. Or, I won’t want to come out.
Blue-blanket is trying to cover my mouth with a hand so dirty, I can’t imagine where it’s been. His fingernails are grown out and encrusted with filth.
I grab at everything. I smack my frozen knuckles into the jagged, rusty door frame, and another wave of intense pain covers me, but I grab on with all my strength.
My fingers are slippery, and my grip is gone. Tears sting my cheeks, and I take one more look at the two men smiling down at me.
My eyeballs bulge with my effort. I wrap both hands just above the ankle of the disgusting man holding his hand over my mouth. I dig my fingernails in with all my might, twisting them and pulling at his leg, hoping he is still on the icy steps. I’m kicking and jerking my body furiously.
“Owww. Bitch!” I make one more desperate effort pulling with all my might and digging my fingernails into his leg, but it’
s no use. Blue-blanket is inside the doorway, kicking at my hands, breaking my grip.
“This is going to be good.” The huge man tugs my ankles one more time, and I’m through the door, my head sliding across the floor. My hair picks up food wrappers, crumbling cement and broken glass along the way.
“I like when they fight.” The one at my ankles says to the one at my head. Then he looks down at me. “I like when you fight.” He smiles, and his hair is still stuck in his mouth. His face is covered in a matted, uneven beard, and all I can think of is please God, don’t let him kiss me.
My muffled sobs are quiet under the hand over my mouth, and my backpack is sliding up under my neck as I use what power I have left to kick, but the hands are like shackles. The massive monster at my feet outweighs me four times over. I can’t believe this is happening.
“I want to be first. I found her.” The skinnier guy’s voice goes up, and I can hear his excitement. Like I’m a ride at the amusement park.
“You get the first on the pussy. I get the first on her ass.”
God, please. Oh, my god.
They both drop me at once. Then it’s all hands. They are on my pants, tugging. I hear laughter and excitement. Fingers drag at the collar of my shirt and then it’s open.
Please, I want to die. Not this, please God. Just let me die.
I close my eyes and stop crying. I think of the night Steven pulled my pants down the same way. I remember he laughed, too.
Everything is muffled. I am no longer here. I’ve given myself away to darkness. Nothing matters anymore.
I wonder quickly what it would have been like with Beckett. How he would have made love to me. I know now that will never happen. Ever.
My pants are open; fingers are pinching at the outside of my bra. I choke on the vomit coming up in my mouth as a rough hand starts down inside my panties.
There is a loud bang, a crunch of metal on metal, and footsteps, loud and fast, and then the hand is off my mouth, and I hear the boom of something hitting the rusted, open, metal door and then lots of yelling. The voices layer on top of one another, I can’t decipher how many there are. I’m terrified in a way that feels it can never be completely undone.