Rooke

by Callie Hart

  “You’re a problem solver, boy,” Duke always tells me. “Your brain doesn’t work like anyone else’s. You can tell what’s wrong with a watch or a clock just from holding it in those hands of yours. I’ve been running this shop for close to eighteen years now. I never met anyone like it.”

  It’s not just watches. I can fix nearly anything mechanical or electrical, given a few hours and a vat of coffee to keep me chugging along. Before the whole juvi thing, Dad was grooming me for a spot at MIT. He was convinced I was going to graduate early and that I’d be designing spacecraft for Nasa by the time I was in my early twenties. Then, when I was arrested, all hopes of attending such a prestigious school went flying out the window and so did any interest he had in me.

  I plant myself at my desk, quickly going through the paper packets that are overflowing from my in-tray, each packet stapled closed and marked up with Duke’s messy, barely legible cursive handwriting: Cracked face; remove four links; water damage; change battery; pressurize. All easy fixes for the most part, newer watches that simply need a little maintenance. Boring jobs that can be completed without my full attention. I look for something a little more interesting to work on this morning, though. Something that will challenge me, allow me to stretch my mental legs, so to speak. Stiff workings. A slow mechanism. Something that will take longer than five minutes to finish.

  There’s nothing too mind blowing for me to tackle, so I settle on a beautiful antique silver pocket watch that an old woman brought in earlier in the week. It just needs a service, a cleaning of the inner workings and a treatment for the metal work—tiresome, boring stuff that I’d normally find dull, but the sheer beauty of the piece makes the task rewarding. By the time Duke shows up, I have the pocket watch in pieces, laid out before me on a velvet cloth, and my fingers are nimbly cleaning.

  “Freezing out there,” Duke states as he appears through the door from the main shop. “Free-zing. I don’t think I can recall a November this cold in, well now, let’s see, must be twenty-five years at least.” He’s always trying to remember the last time it was this cold, the last time it was this windy, sunny or rainy. As far as I can tell, it’s been twenty-five years since Duke can recall most, if not all meteorological events taking place. Personally, I seem to remember that it was cold as fuck yesterday. Duke unwinds a thick grey scarf from around his neck, revealing yet another scarf underneath, red this time, with a fine white stripe. This red scarf he leaves in place, bolstering it up around his ears, tucking his chin into the material as if trying to warm himself.

  His family came to the States from Antigua when he was just a baby. The only language he’s ever spoken is English and yet his speech is heavily accented, as though it isn’t his mother tongue at all. “Well, look at you, already hard at work and all. I wondered if you’d even come in today,” he tells me.

  “Why wouldn’t I come to work?”

  Duke slaps his hands down on my shoulders, laughing. “Because it’s your birthday, young man. People shouldn’t have to work on their birthdays.”

  For a moment I act stunned, a look of shock spreading across my features. And then… “It’s not my birthday. It’s not my birthday until March.”

  “Oh. Oh my.” Duke rubs the back of his neck with both hands, pacing up and down. I stop what I’m doing, covering the pocket watch’s internal workings with a piece of velvet, and then I turn on my swivel chair to face him.

  “The fuck is up, man? You’re freaking out.”

  “My memory’s going,” he moans. “It’s definitely someone’s birthday today. If it’s not yours, then I don’t know whose it is!” He’s practically wailing. In his green corduroy blazer and his dusky grey slacks, he cuts a rather theatrical figure as he wears a hole in the carpet, frantically pacing from one side of the room to the other.

  “Fuck, dude. Stop. Stop. Here.” My leather jacket’s hanging over the back of my chair. I reach into the pocket and pull out the small white envelope I stashed there before I left the house. “Happy Birthday, you miserable cunt. I hope you got breakfast in bed this morning.”

  Duke damn near snatches the envelope from my hands, eyes filled with excitement. Christmas, New Year, his birthday: Duke’s like a kid when it comes to celebrating holidays of any kind. He tears open the envelope, making short work of the paper. Inside his birthday card, he pulls out the two tickets to The Book of Mormon I bought for him, holding them aloft like they’re two golden tickets to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. “Yes!” he shouts. “Fucking yes! Now he can’t say no. Now my miserable Grinch of a boyfriend has to go with me to see a show. Thank you, sweet boy. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He rains a shower of kisses down on my head, and I hunch my shoulders, screwing my eyes shut, growling out loud. Duke gets the picture and stops. He’s the only man in the world who’d get away with doing something like that. Anyone else would lose a motherfucking testicle.

  “Do you know what he bought me?” he wails. “The man I have lived with for nearly fifteen years? The man who I cook and clean for on a daily basis? The man who makes me clip his toenails because his back is too bad for him to reach his own damned feet?” Duke pauses. He clearly expects me to take a guess.

  “I have no idea.”

  “He…bought me…a toaster oven. Agoddamnmotherfuckingtoasteroven! He knew I wanted a pair of brand new red patent leather Spats. Instead he gave me something that I will never use. I mean, who uses a goddamn toaster oven these days? Go to Subway, you cheap ass, miserable, ungrateful, half deaf…”

  Duke continues to rant about his boyfriend’s general ineptitude in very colorful language for at least another five minutes. I sit and pretend I’m listening, while I’m really watching him flail his arms around wildly like a maniac. How the fuck did I come to know such a bizarre, outlandish, wonderfully over-the-top human being?

  “And then,” he says, leaning forward, sticking a pointed finger in my face. “He tells me that I have to take my own damn car for an oil change today. On my goddamn birthday. Can you believe it? Can you seriously, honestly believe the gall of the man?”

  “I seriously, honestly can’t.”

  “Thank you. Thaaank. You. Mmm. I thought I was going to have a heart attack on the way over here this morning. Oil change my ass. Whew. Would you like a top up on your coffee, sweetheart?” On the days that I’m surly and grumpy, Duke calls me Eeyore; he says I’m just like the sad donkey in the Winnie the Pooh books. On days I buy him tickets to The Book of Mormon and I console him on the pains of having such a thoughtless partner, I get called sweetheart.

  “That would be great,” I tell him, holding out my coffee cup. “Thanks.”

  Duke lets his arms fall limp by his sides, my mug swinging in his hand. His head falls back as his eyes turn toward the ceiling. “Lord have mercy. I can’t even remember the last time Simon said thank you to me.”

  I feel like suggesting that it might have been twenty-five years ago, but Duke storms out of the room in a flurry of arms and scarf before I get the chance.

  ******

  She could taste herself all over him. It was an unmistakable flavor that made her head spin. Why was that so exciting? Why did tasting her pussy all over his mouth make her heart beat so fast? It made no sense. Guys had gone down on her before plenty of times. She’d lain on her back constructing to-do lists and thought about the groceries she needed to pick up the next day, and when the guys were done she’d told them thank you very much and then thanked god even more the experience was over. It had never been fun. But with James, everything tilted on its axis when his head was between her legs. The things he could do with his tongue were criminal. She trembled just thinking about the unfathomable depth of her orgasm a moment ago. She’d had no idea it was even possible for her body to react that way, shaking and convulsing, her hands clawing at the skin of his back. It had left her more than breathless, and now, kissing him, tasting her pleasure on his lips, she could already tell that—

  It’s really hard to turn th
e page of a book when you’re jerking off. I didn’t know that until today, when I finally hit the juicy part of Sasha’s book. Jake’s still at work, and since I’ve been home I’ve done nothing but flick through the pages of The Seven Secret Lives of James P. Albrecht and stroke my dick. It’s absolutely fucking crazy. I’ve watched my fair share of porn, let me tell you, but I had absolutely no clue reading about sex could be a turn on. It made me feel kinda stupid at first, reading scenes that contained words like wet, and pussy, and throbbing cock, but after a very short while I realized I was getting a hard-on. Next thing I knew, my pants were unbuttoned and I was having to stop myself from coming.

  I can’t help but ask myself the question: is this what Sasha does when she reads books like this? Does she pour herself a glass of wine and sit on her couch, growing hotter and hotter under the collar as the characters get closer and closer to one another? Does she pretend the guy, James, is kissing her mouth with her pussy all over his lips? Does that make her wet? Does that make her touch herself, slowly sliding her hand beneath her panties so she can tease her clit as she reads? Fuck. The image is too hot for words. Call me ignorant, but I had no idea this sort of thing existed. I know chicks get horny. I know they get turned on enough that they’ll lynch you for sex sometimes, especially if they’ve got a few drinks in them, but that’s different. This is a grown woman, a sexual woman, seeking out her own pleasure. And fuck me if the idea of it isn’t driving me insane.

  An hour later, I’m still teasing the fuck out of myself when I receive a text:

  Corner of 2nd and 5th. Black Mercedes. DROP OFF AFTER MIDNIGHT.

  It’s 11:15 now. Well, shit. That’s that, then. Looks like my fun is over. I toss the book underneath my pillow and grab my go-bag from underneath my bed. I’ll be back to finish what I started here later. Outside, huge puddles of water flood the sidewalk, reflecting the sodium orange burn of the streetlights. The location that was texted through to my phone isn’t far away, but I usually like to stake out a boost before I commit. Smart to wait, smart to watch. You never know if someone’s going to show up all of a sudden and ask why the fuck you’re jimmying open the driver’s side door of their car. It starts to rain again while I’m walking. When I reach the corner of 2nd, I stand in the shadows of a doorway, pop the collar of my leather jacket, and I light up a cigarette.

  People see me leaning in the doorway, but they pretend they don’t. Conversations stop as nervous eyes take me in. The jacket. The tattoos. Especially the tattoos. Hipsters all over the city have full sleeves these days, but full throat tattoos? Hands, covered in ink? That takes a certain level of dedication most pretty boys shy away from. Passersby notice me, and they recognize danger. I’m not a safe person to acknowledge. Even a gang banger quits shouting into his cell phone and speeds up a little when he sees me.

  I hover, and I take my time. It’s almost twelve by the time I decide it’s safe to make my move. The Mercedes is right where the text said it would be. It’s a new model, bound to be alarmed, so I don’t go for the obvious. I hold off on sliding the length of flat steel down the gap between window and door and instead I use a long-bladed knife to force open the hood. Takes less than a second to cut the necessary electrics and slam the hood closed again. Now time to pop the door.

  To say I have experience at this would be the understatement of the fucking century. There are fools out there that take a full thirty seconds to get a car open. Me, on the other hand? Two seconds. Three maybe, if I’m off my game. An onlooker seeing me approach the driver’s side of a car would see the vehicle’s owner letting himself in and driving away. I’m that fucking good.

  I make short work of the Merc’s interior electrics. The engine purrs as I start it up. I drive away calmly, responsibly, the way a normal person would drive. Thirty minutes later, I pull up outside my destination feeling pretty fucking smug. I passed three cop cars on the way over and not a single one of those bastards paid me any attention.

  A tall, shadowy figure emerges from the garage I’m parked outside, hood pulled up against the rain and prying eyes. A tap on the window.

  “Jericho ain’t here, man,” the guy by the window tells me. Tall. Skinny. High as fuck, by the looks of things. He twitches nervously. “He told me to drive the car ‘round back when you got here. Said he would pay you tomorrow if you come by at four.”

  I narrow my eyes, staring at the guy. He twitches some more, then scrubs at his nose with his palm, shivering. “Okay, man. Sure.” I get out of the car, and I brace myself. I know exactly what’s coming next.

  Sometimes, I’m not the only person to get a text like the one I received earlier. Sometimes, the message is sent out to two or three people, depending on the job. If someone shows up at a boost after someone else has already arrived, it’s expected that you’ll move on and find another job. Common courtesy among thieves, if you will.

  This guy doesn’t look familiar, I didn’t see him over on the corner of 2nd and 5th just now, but I’m willing to put money on the fact that he was there. He saw me and bailed, only he didn’t want to walk away from the paycheck. He figured he’d come here and wait for me, then snake the job right out from underneath me. It’s not the first time it’s happened. Won’t be the fucking last either, I’m sure.

  He’s desperate.

  I make a point of turning my back on him as I close the door of the Mercedes—I’m not scared of you, motherfucker.

  When I turn back around, he does not look happy. “Hey, man, what are you doing? I told you I got to move it ‘round back.”

  “I’m not giving you the car, you stupid piece of shit. I’m going to give you three seconds to get the fuck out of here, and if you’re still standing there when I’m done counting then I’m gonna beat you so hard your face is going to cave in.”

  The guy in the hoody sneers. His teeth are a mess. His eyes are bloodshot. He needs a fix, and he needs it bad. The last thing he’s going to do is walk away from me. He reaches into his pocket and slowly draws out a long flick knife, the silver of the wickedly sharp blade glinting in the darkness. “Pushy rich boy. You think I don’t know who you are? This is my job. I already told Jericho I’m bringing it in.”

  I eye the knife. It’s a savage thing. Looks like its brand new, never been used, though. Either that or this tweeker takes exceptionally good care of his steelwork. “How are you gonna use that thing on me?” I ask.

  He frowns. “What?”

  “How? How exactly are you going to use that blade on me? Are you going to try and stab me in the ribs? Neck? Stomach? How’s this next part going to go down? I’m interested.”

  “I don’t know, asshole. It’ll land where it lands. However I get you with it, you’re gonna end up dead. Better you just walk away.”

  If there’s one thing I learned in juvi, it’s that you don’t walk away from a fight. No fucking way. It’s stupid, I’m aware that it’s stupid, but my pride just won’t allow it. I take a step forward, and the tweeker laughs. It’s an ugly sound that echoes down the abandoned street.

  “All right, man. All right. If this is what you wa—”

  I lunge forward, my index and middle fingers bent at the first knuckle, hand outstretched. It’s a quick, sharp movement, a jab that takes the guy by surprise. My knuckles drive deep into his throat, crushing his larynx in one brief, explosive movement. See, this is the thing. These shitheads take one look at me and they see this huge, hulking dude, broad-shouldered and so very fucking still, unusually still, and they make assumptions. They think I’m slow. They think, ‘man, this one’s going to come down hard.’ Only problem is that I am actually lightning fast. I’m not what they expect at all. I’m like a goddamn snake when I strike, and it’s usually fucking fatal.

  The tweeker goes down. His head makes a sickening cracking sound as it connects with the sidewalk. I suck a breath in through my teeth, shaking my head. “Ooooh. That sounded like it hurt.”

  “Fuck…you…man.” He can’t breathe properly, he’s clutch
ing at his throat, and I find myself wondering absently if I’ve done some serious damage. You can collapse a man’s oesophagus if you hit him hard enough in the throat. He can sustain serious damage that will leave him eating through a tube for the rest of his life. Do I care if this bastard needs a tracheotomy right now, though? Is my conscience bothering me in the slightest? That’s a resounding hell no.

  “Help me…up, man,” the guy gurgles.

  I fold my arms across my chest and I study him for a second. He’s flailing on his back like a bug. The knife he was holding a moment ago is on the ground three feet away, still rocking on its hilt as raindrops hit the blade. No sense in hitting him again. He’s well and truly down and out. I take a step forward, and I hold out my hand. He takes it, and as I’m pulling him to his feet, he does something profoundly stupid. He swings wildly with his other arm, snarling like a wolf, aiming a sloppy right hook at the side of my head.

  I let go of him and block his strike, then I’m on him. He should have accepted the help and fucking disappeared. He should have bailed and chalked this one up as a bad experience. Instead, he’s tested my patience. I hit him hard enough to feel bone crack. The tweeker’s legs buckle, but he somehow manages to straighten himself out and remain on his feet. Not for long, though. I slam my fist into his face again, and he slumps to the ground, lights out. I slowly stand over him, and I consider taking hold of a handful of his hair and repeatedly pounding his head against the concrete.

  “Rooke?” I look up. Jericho’s right-hand man, Raul, is standing in the now open doorway of the garage, staring at me with his mouth open. “What the fuck, man? You’re kicking the shit out of someone right outside the place? Bad fucking form.”