Random Acts Of Crazy

by Kent, Julia

  To my everlasting, supernatural horror, I would have preferred aliens over what came next: the voice of the last man I fucked shouting, “Get your naked ass off Darla right this fucking second, or I’ll shoot!”

  Trevor

  The first time I stared down a searchlight, it was the Wayland cops catching me and some friends on the baseball field at the high school, chugging cheap beer someone’s older brother had gotten for us. We thought we were so badass, a bunch of ninth-graders breaking all the official rules, getting chewed out not by our parents, but by the cop, about how our permanent records would be ruined and we’d never get into a top-10 school. The fucking cop was worried about our chances at Harvard because we drank a few cans of beer.

  Can you blame me for sucking down every drug I could get my hands on for the next four years, to find some sort of escape from being so tightly controlled that law enforcement officers were like school counselors?

  Call it a hunch, but I had a feeling this cop didn’t give a shit about whether I’d be able to get into Harvard or not. Holy shit, was that a shotgun he was pointing at us?

  It was.

  Being naked, with my face against Darla’s bare belly, was about the most vulnerable situation I could be in. Add in a shotgun, which made my raging boner become a sack of tiny potatoes, and the first deep rumblings of fear coursed through me. I really could die right here, right now, without ever seeing my family again. Never perform on stage again.

  Never make love to Darla. Ever.

  Because some yokel cop pointed a gun at us.

  “Jesus H. Christ, Davey, get that damn gun off us,” Darla shouted, struggling to prop herself up on her elbows as I backed off her, slowly, my skin cold now from the night air. “Way to kill the mood.”

  The light and gun lowered slowly, the man peering out at us. He was wearing a uniform and a badge, and had a beer belly that made standing up defy the laws of physics. “You OK, Darla Jo? What’s this guy doin’ to you?”

  “You know him?” I whispered.

  She struggled to pull her pants up, face flushed and loose, with a touch of anger and embarrassment I began to resent – not that she didn’t have every right to feel all that, but the intrusion made my fists clench and my temper rise, protective and defensive of her. I wanted to be the one she was thinking about right now. More than that, I wanted to be in her right now. Darla was so responsive, so eager, and so willing – man, if we had an entire night together, and, preferably, an actual bed…the places we could go.

  My needs were very basic these days. Pants. A bed. I might as well have been galaxies away from Sudborough, where camping meant no mints on the pillow and denying a kid his cell phone for an hour was akin to waterboarding.

  “I do, indeed, know him,” she hissed furiously, fingers clumsy as she struggled to button her pants. “What the hell are you doing here, Davey?” she called out to the cop.

  “I got off my shift and was driving by and saw your car. Figured it broke down again and you needed some help.” Davey frowned at me, his features already drawn into a deep scowl by nature, it appeared, which meant the frown made him look like an angry lunatic. Tall and big in a way most men weren’t in my area of Massachusetts, he had a beer gut but arms and legs that were normal, a bit muscular but mostly gone to pasture. Coloring like mine, but the blue eyes were a rheumy and yellowed, faded like something that spent too much time in beer-soaked sun. He was older than us – maybe thirty? – and the adrenaline that fear had pumped through me receded like his hairline, fading into a bald calm.

  “Get some clothes on, man,” he sputtered, turning away.

  “I can’t,” I answered honestly, reaching for the blanket, which I wrapped around me. It felt like a lifeline, to finally have something that I could use to cover myself. Simple pleasures. Stripped down to nothing, I was finding myself more than I ever had while I was surrounded by so many riches. Seriously – give me Darla, pants, a good burger and some condoms and I had found the meaning of life.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” he bellowed, marching toward me. The way he walked told me a great deal; I could outrun him easily, and this was going to be more about using our wits than any brawn.

  Except for the wild card of his shotgun.

  “Davey, get the fuck out of here,” Darla charged. From the way she used her voice and the arm that stretched out, pointing to his car, it was clear she had no fear for the cop, and a part of me cringed in horror as I rose up in awe. Hot damn, she was one tough, determined woman. No sickly, gym-toned BU girl would defy a cop like that. She might call Daddy and get his lawyers to chase like yippy dogs after the police force, after the fact, but face-to-face confrontation like this, no holds barred? No fucking way.

  I was charmed, and another piece of me – not the erect rod that pushed against the thin blanket, either, though it was completely under Darla’s spell – fell a little further for this amazingly open, completely real chick in front of me.

  A half grin tugged at my mouth and I tried to suppress it, feeling an alternating current of sappy lust and protective anger, the two feelings like oil and water. Stepping closer to her, I made sure Davey knew I was here, and I wasn’t backing down.

  And that’s when I got a good look at his badge.

  “Security? You’re a mall cop?” I barked. Laughter poured out of me. “Since when do mall cops get shotguns?”

  His face screwed up in anger and Darla shot me a look that screamed shut up. Oops. “Since I’m off duty and carry it around for protection. And I’m the one who should be laughing,” he protested, shining the light up and down my body, the reflection off the Mylar nearly blinding. “I’m not the naked man going down on the ex-girlfriend of the guy with the shotgun, Mr. Alien Man.”

  Fuck. My mouth got me in trouble again.

  Wait. Ex-girlfriend?

  Darla’s eyes widened and she shook her head tightly at me. “Ex-girlfriend?” I mouthed.

  She shrugged. “Slim pickings,” she whispered.

  No shit.

  “What I do is none of your business, Davey,” she shouted back, blowing air out of her mouth to push a loose batch of curls off her forehead. She reached over and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the car.

  “It’s my business when I find some naked stranger attacking you,” he protested, fumbling after us and already panting after 200 yards of fast walking. My legs barely felt the near-run she was pulling me at, her body fueled by sheer anger.

  “The fact that you cannot tell the difference between attacking and making love is one of the many reasons I dumped you!” she screamed back.

  I came to a dead halt. “Huh?” What the hell did that mean, and why did it make me want to punch him? Clearly not watching, he bumped into me from behind, then ricocheted back a few feet, nearly falling on his ass. “Darla,” I said in a low voice. “Did this guy hurt you?”

  “Me?” he squeaked, his tone an octave higher suddenly, a protesting sound. “Hell, no!”

  “Davey couldn’t hurt me because he couldn’t find anything to hurt, Trevor,” she explained, searching her purse for the key to the car. “He could have used that searchlight in his hand, a GPS device, an iPad with Google maps and a bright, glowing red light on the hood of my clitoris and still missed the mark.”

  “Hey, what the hell does that mean?” Davey protested.

  “See?” she said, smiling, her face a fake grimace of sarcasm. Finding the key, she opened the car, leaned over, unlocked my side (no power locks?) and I climbed in.

  “Get some clothes on!” Davey shouted to me, impotently standing there, shining the searchlight right in my eyes just because he could. The shotgun in his other hand made me nervous but Darla didn’t seem to care. “I’m gonna tell your mama about this, Darla. It’ll be all over town in a few minutes.”

  S
he placed her right hand over her heart and mocked him. “Oh, my reputation is about to be ruint! Absolutely ruint by Davey telling everyone in Peters that he caught me fucking a stranger on the Interstate.” The weird way she shifted her accent, like an overdone drawl meant to mock him, whooshed right over my head, but it meant something to her. And to Davey, who glared, beady-eyed and furious. She started the car, the pug-pug-pug of the engine’s rev a relief; it meant escape.

  “It will!” he screamed, red-faced and bulging-eyed.

  She put the car in reverse, backed up, and then pointed it toward the parking lot’s exit. “Davey Rockland, I’ll tell you what. You go spreading the truth around town. What you’re saying is true, and I don’t give a shit about the truth. It’s the lies I care about.”

  He stared back, dumbfounded.

  “So here’s a bit of truth I’m happy to share with the town.” She held up her pinkie finger, raised her eyebrows, and stared directly at his crotch.

  He blanched. “You wouldn’t.” His face was slack and defeated, the shotgun at his side the way you might hold a purse, or a backpack, the searchlight pointed down and his paunch even bigger as he sagged.

  That giant head of ragged curls and blonde love turned and stared at me, her eyes reflecting the massive war of emotions that must be raging inside her – lust, fear, anger, betrayal, arousal, contempt, hatred, and so much more. Wild and uncaged, she was fighting for something I didn’t understand, and the petty, schoolyard nature of their banter made me want it to end so we could go back to our little bubble and, mostly, so I could take her and fuck her nice and slow, until we were both tired enough to stop.

  Which would likely be never. Did never stopping work for her?

  “I already did, but he doesn’t know that.” My grin came without warning, and my hands reached for her neck, body stretching over the gearshift to kiss those red lips, to take in more of her essence, to connect and –

  Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Davey was in his car, which was about as crappy as Darla’s, the shade of old, faded shit with a candy apple red replacement roof. “I’m gonna tell your mama, Darla. Picking up aliens in the corn fields on I-76.”

  “Watch out, Davey,” she shouted back. “He has one hell of an anal probe.”

  Screech. Davey peeled out and Darla descended into a fit of giggles, which then shifted into great whoops of laughter and then – just about what I expected.

  Tears. I put the emergency brake on and pulled her to me, nestling her in my arms the best I could, across a gear shift. Her hot face slid against my chest as her tears lubricated my skin, her body heaving a bit with sobs. Mumbled words made no sense through her sniffles, until she sat up and looked at me, eyes red-rimmed and feral.

  “Welcome to Ohio! The heart of it all.” Maniacal laughter as she avoided my eyes and seemed to come down off her angry high, deeply embarrassed for something I didn’t understand. As far as I was concerned, she was amazing, someone I enjoyed spending time with and wanted to get to know better, weird life and all. So much of my life back in Mass felt robotic compared to this, like I was attached to a lung machine that breathed for me, a computer that decided what I ate, studied, thought, did – felt. Here, though, I could take deep breaths, could feel a bit dizzy, but had as much space and air and time as I wished.

  And I could feel whatever I wanted, and right now, I wanted her.

  A kiss was the only answer I had, and for Darla, that seemed to be enough. Given what I had on me, that was all I could really give. Literally, because I wasn’t giving up the Mylar blanket or my hat. Once a man gets a taste of luxury, he wants to hang on to it. As she melted into me, a hunger for all that she was filled me with desire, a raging powerful sense that I was enough.

  And if this crazy, blasted-out trip was about learning that lesson, then thank God for contraband peyote and brash blondes.

  Chapter Four

  Darla

  The feel of Trevor’s soft lips on mine mixed with my own salty tears nearly snapped me in two. God damn Davey and God damn Mama and God damn this podunk town where nothing good ever happened and I felt like the only ambitious crab in a pot full of slacking motherfuckers who grabbed at me with their claws and dragged me back in, over and over, every time I tried to do one God damn thing that made me feel better about myself, or to experience a flash of brilliance about life outside of this God damned place.

  Right now, Trevor was like a god, even though I knew he wasn’t. Not really. And he would disappear as soon as his friend Joe arrived, so I needed to ignore the crabs (OK, that just sounds weird…) and take my chances while I could, savoring every second of those sweet lips, his gentle hands, his caring soul and his hot, hot body.

  Time to get even realer and show him where I lived. My bedroom door had a lock on it, and with a loud enough fan and some music, I could fake a sense of privacy so we could make love and I could pretend it would last forever.

  Or, at least, an hour. I could live with an hour. Was it too much to ask for an hour of pleasure with the lead vocalist of Random Acts of Crazy, Trevor’s tongue caressing me randomly right now, his hands on my hips and one palm sliding up the hot skin of my –

  “Stop,” I gasped. “Let’s go to my place and we can have a, you know.” The word escaped me, my mind still reeling from the pleasure of what we’d almost done, his lips on my navel, aiming lower, how it felt to be touched as if my pleasure were his only goal. So far, he hadn’t said a thing about his own needs, and I’d imagine he had a case of blue balls that made Veruca Salt look tiny.

  Wait, Veruca wasn’t the big round blue one. That was…that was…that had felt so good I couldn’t think….Violet Something. Violet…Violet…. The word. Snap out of it, Darla, the other word!

  The word. Four posts. Mattress. Box spring.

  “Bed!” I shouted. “The Mylar blanket and the occasional whiff of the stale bathrooms was lovely and romantic and all, but a bed would be even better.” My mind raced as the words came out of my mouth, because the trailer where me, Mama, and my uncle lived? I wasn’t sure it was much better, after all, than a Mylar blanket and that unidentified smell.

  Eek.

  I was all in, though, and if he turned his nose up at the way I lived, then who cared? He’d leave soon and I wouldn’t have to deal with any of his judgment, right? Just reveling in what I’d already gotten from him, what he’d allowed me to give, would keep my mind and heart occupied for a good, long time.

  Anything else right now would be extra.

  Trevor seemed to like extra.

  As I pulled out from the parking lot, he wouldn’t stop looking at me, his eyes drifting across my features. Self-conscious, suddenly, in a brand new way, I forced my eyes on the road and made my heart calm down as much as possible, letting myself revel in being admired. Saying anything right now would interrupt him, and that would be the comfortable thing to do, right? My inner critic told me to put myself down, that my wild, matted blonde hair and my too-tight jeans that stretched over hips wider than a goal post were turn offs, that he was only staring at me because he was stupid enough to be caught naked on the Interstate, hundreds of miles from home, or because, because, because…

  A calmer core inside told me to shut than damn inner critic off and let my inner goddess (no, not that one) shine through. Maybe that’s what Trevor saw right now, as we plugged along I-76 until we reached my exit, the glow of the gas station lights drawing me like a moth to a flame. My entire life consisted of the same eight or so highway exits, the same twenty or so roads, and all I’d ever known was embedded in these corn fields, the flat horizons, my few ventures out to go to an indoor water park or to Cedar Point.

  How strikingly different his life must be from mine! I’d managed a few classes at the state university extension, but life and money and more heaping doses of life got in the way. My Aunt Josie had made it out, shakin
g off the crabs that snatched at her ankles in the big pot of Peters, Ohio, her escape my model in how to find my way to Something Better than working shifts at that very gas station that pulled me closer to our trailer.

  Trevor’s warm hand sat on my thigh now, resting there as if it had every right to the skin. That was a feeling I could get used to right easy – having him claim me, acting as if I were his and he could just touch me and tell the world I was taken. Taken. How full that felt, so complete and rich and real. Men in my world didn’t elicit these emotions in me, rendering instead a sense of tolerance, a mild appreciation to be taken out for a cheap Friday prime rib special, to be escorted to the latest action movie at the cineplex, and to be ridden in the backseat of a car or in their shared apartment because, well – because.

  What else do you do with a life you didn’t choose and can’t get out of? You adapt and take whatever crumbs you can find so you don’t let your soul or body starve.

  Trevor burst out laughing suddenly, the rich baritone exuding a combo of sleep deprivation, mystification, incredulity and a touch of madness. The sound made me smile and it was contagious, too – we devolved into a cluster of giggles until he gasped and said:

  “I am so glad that you, of all people, picked me up on the road.”

  “Well, Jeffrey Dahmer was busy.” Damn, there I went. Deflecting and making silly jokes when he paid me a compliment. I looked down and wondered what on earth he saw in me, dirty jeans and fat thighs pouring out over the sides of the bucket seat. Stop that, Darla, my wiser mind shouted. He likes you because he just does. Enjoy it. Let the man make his own choices.

  He’s choosing you.

  “He’s dead,” Trevor said, nodding.