by Mj Fields
I look at the bed. “You should change those fucking sheets. Unless you’re saving them to use in your twisted, little fucking plan to ruin my life.”
I hear a strangled sob and look back at her.
“I wouldn’t … I wouldn’t ever … I—”
“I don’t believe a damn word you say, little girl.”
“I’ve never been a little girl.” Her voice shakes in anger as she reaches up and bats her tears away.
“What the fuck is that?” I point to her side where an obvious bruise is marring her skin.
She pulls her shirt down and sniffs as she says, “I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m—”
“Enough fucking lies!”
When she jumps, I reach out to grab her before she falls over the box behind her, but she steps back into the damn thing and cries out in pain.
“Jesus Christ, Ray. Will you …?” I stop when I realize what I called her.
“I’m fine. I’m okay,” she says, choking back tears then whimpering when she steps out of the box. “Excuse me for …” She stops mid-sentence and hurries to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
I hear her sobbing quietly, and it damn near breaks my heart, but there isn’t a damn thing I can do, or will fucking do, I remind myself.
Restless, I pace back and forth in front of the door until I finally knock once. “I have things to do, Keeka. Can we end this shit?”
A few seconds later, I hear her blow her nose, and then I hear water. A couple seconds after that, she walks out.
“What’s the fucking bruise from?”
She shrugs.
“The damn truth is all I ever asked of you.”
“The accident,” she says, tugging the shirt down.
“Fuck. What the fuck? Jesus—”
“I’m fine. I’m—”
“Stop fucking lying to me! Just stop!”
“Okay. It hurts?”
I can’t help laughing, and not because it’s fucking funny, but because it’s fucking pathetic.
She scowls at me, giving me the fuck you look, and that pisses me off.
“Lift your fucking shirt.”
She does … all the damn way.
“Cover your tits, for fuck’s sake.”
She clenches her eyes shut and whispers, “You’re so stupid.”
“No, I’m not fucking stupid. You played me. You—”
“I was talking to myself!” she yells as she opens her eyes and releases her shirt.
“I wanna see the damn bruise, not your barely Bs. Do you think you can handle that? Or do you want me to spell it out for you?”
When she glares at me, I immediately regret my word choice.
In an eerily calm voice, she tells me, “I want you to leave.”
“And I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“I asked, why?”
“I have no fucking clue why I should give a damn, but you got hurt in my truck, and you have my DNA all over this place—”
She reaches out and shoves me before limping over to her bed where she tears off the sheets and blanket while muffling pain-filled sounds. Then she turns around and throws them at me.
“Take them and get out! Just get out!”
I scoop them up. “Good. Fuck you. Or better yet, un-fuck you.” I walk to the door and pull it open. Then I walk out and slam it behind me.
Looking down the stairs, I will myself to leave. I beg my feet to move while trying to ignore the slamming and crashing I hear in the apartment, but I can’t. I can’t fucking do it.
I drop the sheets and blankets on the floor, turn around, and walk back inside.
“Why?” She throws her hands in the air. “Why are you here?”
I don’t answer her. I shut the door behind me, walk to her closet, and pull out her other set of sheets.
“I can do that!”
I don’t stop. I make her fucking bed. Hell, I even change her pillowcases and toss the others in the hall. Then I grab her other blanket and toss it on the bed.
“Lay the fuck down,” I tell her as I stomp toward the tiny fridge, grab the bag of ice out of the freezer, and wrap it up in a tea towel.
When I turn around, her hands are on her hips and her B’s are pointing at me.
“I’m being a good fucking guy right now, so lay down so I can look at your fucking side and see if you need to go to the damn hospital. And if you do, I’m going to take your ass there.”
When she doesn’t move, I drop the ice on the table, take three steps toward her, scoop her up, and watch her face contort in pain, in anger, and I am sure in some sort of sadness, caused by what she has lost because of her lies; what should have never been hers to begin with—me.
I set her on the bed, and she rolls to her side.
“Reda already stopped over. It’s fine.”
I pull her shirt up, making sure not to expose her any further to me.
“It’s not fine,” I say, pressing lightly on it. “I can almost guarantee you have a cracked rib.”
“And they do nothing for it at a hospital. It will be fine. I will be fine.”
“Well, that’s fucking great, because I sure as hell won’t be,” I admit to myself out loud as I place the bag of ice gently on her side.
“You will. You’ll be great,” she whispers. And fuck if that doesn’t hurt.
I swallow back what is threatening to come.
“You need pain meds.”
She rolls to her back and looks at me. “Reda gave me something. I’ll be fine. She said I’d sleep.”
I reach up to push her hair away from her face, but then I pull away before I do.
“I’ve never been a little girl, and I would never do anything—anything at all—to hurt you or what you’ve worked so hard at becoming.”
“You should have fucking told me, Ray.” I shake my head and close my eyes.
“Then what? Huh? You would have told Lou, and I wouldn’t have a job, and—”
“You are putting him in a terrible position. Don’t you see? He could lose his business.”
Tears slide down her face. “I guess I just thought, if someone found out, I would be the one in trouble. I’d go to jail. But you know what, Trucker? Jail is better than Hell.” She looks away.
Now I can’t help pushing her hair away and wiping her tears.
The whimper that escapes her this time is that of need. I should know. I’m the one who created it.
She presses her cheek against my hand and yawns. “I’m really tired. You should leave. I promise you that I will never ruin anything for you, ever. I want you to be so happy. I just ask that you do the same for me. I like my job. I’m good at it. And I’m … I’m … I’m almost done paying off her … her … burial.”
“Shh …” I wipe away more tears. “I won’t say shit, okay? Just … Just … Jesus Christ, now I’m stuttering.”
She closes her eyes. “Don’t you dare carry my worries. Be great, Trucker Cohen. I knew you were destined for greatness the moment I saw you.”
When I wake up to, “The fuck, man?” she’s wrapped in my arms.
I open my eyes to find Logan giving me the what the fuck look that matches his words.
“She got hurt,” I whisper as I untangle my arms and sit up. Then I lift the side of her shirt and show him.
When he opens his mouth, I place my fingers over mine. “Shh …”
He points to my phone, and I see it’s dead.
She whimpers when I get up, and we both look at her as her eyes flutter, adjusting to the light. When she opens them fully, her lower lip pops out, and she looks at me like she’s hurt.
“He has my truck. I’m done with classes. I called him; no answer. Called you; same thing. I came over; the door was unlocked.”
She doesn’t even look at him as she shakes her head. “Why are you still here? You hate me.”
Her words catch me off guard. I don’t answer.
&
nbsp; “Look, Keeks.” Logan sits down on her bed, and I glare at him. He responds with an eye roll. “Trucker has big things in store for him and, well, you seem to have placed him in a pretty fucked-up situation.”
Out of my peripheral, I see her look away from me and down as she shakes her head.
“Told him the same thing. You’re a good chick, so he has no worries, right?”
She looks at Logan. “I’m not … I’m not … I’m not …”
Fucking embarrassing.
I give him a warning look not to say a thing.
“I wouldn’t … I—”
“And that’s perfect. You both have shit to lose, so we’re square.” Logan stands up. “And we’re out.” He nods to the door. “We have shit to do. Let’s roll.”
“The box is yours.” She swallows hard. “It’s all yours.”
“This one?” Logan asks, walking over and picking it up.
She clears her throat. “Uh-huh.”
He walks to the door and looks at me. “See you down there.”
I get up off the bed, a million things running through my head, and none of it makes any sense.
“I don’t know what to say except sorry.”
“Guess that’s it then.” I shrug then walk to the door.
“Trucker?”
I look back at her, and she smiles. “I wish nothing but great things for you.”
Fuck, I think as my chest tightens. I manage a, “Back at ya.”
She nods quickly then clears her throat. “Thank you for the best moments of my life.”
Jesus fucking Christ. This. Fucking. Sucks.
I swallow back whatever the fuck these feelings are and say, “Thank you for the best season of mine.”
She cocks her head to the side, holds her hand over her chest, and nods.
I want to turn back, scratch behind her ear, and tell her to get ahold of me when she’s eighteen. I want to tell her maybe in five years. But the way I feel right now, the betrayal, the hurt, I never want to go through this shit again. Not ever.
After shutting the door behind me, I grab the blankets and sheets from off the floor and walk down the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Now do I…
Keeka
Who would have thought a broken heart would hurt so badly?
My mother.
But I’m not her. Though, now I can imagine what it was she did to lessen the hurt. She moved on. She moved on and allowed her heart to be broken over and over and over again. Even if she wasn’t mentally ill, just one chip to the heart changes everything.
Trucker seems to be doing the same thing she did. Not only does it hurt like hell, but it scares me for him.
Standing behind the bar, I watch as the football team works the crowd for another fundraiser. Just like the last one … tonight the cover charge will go to the charity of choice. Unlike the last time, there is a silent auction table set up.
The one that draws the most attention is a drawing of Trucker Cohen, my drawing, the one of him naked in the chair. It’s wrapped in cellophane and the area in which his penis would be showing is covered with a sticker that says “Boom” with three exclamation marks.
Trucker hasn’t approached the bar once, though Logan has a few times. He has given me kind smiles and is generous with the tips he leaves, but every time he tries to strike up a conversation, I pretend I can’t hear him and make myself laugh while saying stuff like, “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”
Trucker’s dancing with a group of women who are groping him, and unlike other times, he doesn’t try to move away. And when he kissed one of them, I knew he would be okay. Me, on the other hand, I would never be the same.
“You and Trucker?” Lou asks.
Taking a deep breath, I force a laugh. “Boys will be boys, right, Lou?”
He looks at me as if he’s concerned.
“Girls will be girls, too. I’m thinking a basketball player next.” I wag my eyebrows.
He throws his head back and laughs.
When I’m not mixing drinks, I watch the stage to amuse myself. Bad karaoke does the trick. But when Trucker, Logan, and some of the guys start singing “Glad you came,” the air inside the club changes, and so do the actions of the women, some of whom I have already watched have intimate interaction with Trucker, throwing bras and flashing the guys.
When the song is over, I excuse myself, knowing when I see them all over Trucker and him all over them, I may not be able to fake a smile, fake a laugh, or make a joke about something not funny at all.
I’m not fine.
My heart is bruised, broken, and I care about him so much, so very much.
In Lou’s office, I sit in his oversized, black leather chair and spin so my back faces the door. Then I pull my knees to my chest and close my eyes, picturing the place where the sun meets the sand, where I feel safe and warm.
I hear the door open and shut.
“Sorry, Lou, just taking a break.”
When I hear footsteps move closer and smell an all too familiar scent, I look up to see Trucker in front of me.
“You hiding in here?” he asks, leaning back against the wall.
“Just taking a break,” I say, putting my legs down.
He steps forward, and I swallow hard.
“You enjoy yourself tonight? Enjoy looking at something you can’t have—me?”
I stand, and he steps into me.
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m fucking hard, too.”
He grips my hips, and I look away from him, trying to hide what his touch does to me.
“I haven’t fucked in weeks, Ray.”
My heart speeds up when he calls me the name I wish could be mine forever.
“I want you so fucking bad right now, and I can’t fucking have you.” He leans in, his lips ghosting mine. “You did this to me, to us.”
I close my eyes and inhale, and then I walk around him.
“I know you fucking want me.”
I turn at that and look at him. “What do you want from me, Trucker?”
“I’m drunk, and hard, and you fucking gave me back bras and a phone, and all those fucking pictures, and …” He stops and a growl leaves his chest. “The fucking necklace? Why the fucking necklace!”
I open my mouth to respond, but he covers my mouth with his.
His kiss is rougher than before, his touch harsher. The feelings behind it mirror mine.
I need him, want him, and when I touch him, he sinks his teeth into my lip then pulls back. “Can’t fuck you. But you … you can fuck me.”
I push him back, and he falls into the chair. When I hesitate, he starts to stand.
“I can’t take the hurt anymore. You have to … You have to smile, Trucker. If you do, it would make it all worth it.”
“Then make me smile … Ray.”
I drop to my knees then unbutton him, unzip him, and pull him free. I lean in and kiss his broad head. Then I lick him from root to tip.
He fists my hair and thrusts into my mouth over and over again, harshly, too. When I gag and pull back, he reaches down, grabbing me under my arms and lifting me up.
Once on his lap, I grind against him, hoping to ease the burn between my legs, only to find it increasing. Therefore, I push off against his chest, stand up, and then pull my shorts off one leg before straddling him.
I grip his cock, and he growls, “What are you gonna do if I tell you no?”
I rub him against my saturated center then slam down on him, taking him fully as I cry out his name into his neck.
“You gonna sit there or fucking ride my cock?”
I rise up and slam down on him over and over again until he tries to still me by gripping my hips. I grab his hair as harshly as he is grabbing me and rock back and forth on him until I feel him swell, hear him hiss, and then I feel his cum fill me.
Panting against him, realization hits that we are in Lou’s office. I quickly move off him.
As
I fix my clothes, he tucks his wet dick into his jeans then walks out of the office without a word.
The bar is pretty busy tonight, and I’m grateful to be busy. It keeps my mind off of the fact that I'm eighteen now, and all I can think about when I’m not here is how badly I want to call Trucker and ask him if we have a chance now, even though I know there is only six weeks left until his classes end, and seven weeks before graduation.
He is leaving, which is exactly what I want. I want him to leave, to follow his dreams, but I also want more moments with him.
What stops me from calling him is that the pain in missing him, missing us, has intensified since the night of the fundraiser, even though it hasn’t been him and me; it has been him drunk and me being needy. That one moment weakened my strength and will forever overshadow the day after the accident, when he left after showing he cared.
That night, after work on my birthday, I sat on the ledge and drew a moment darker than the one with him. It was, after all, the anniversary of her death.
The entire week after my eighteenth birthday, I spent in bed, missing a week of work because I had literally made myself sick.
When Reda made me go to the doctor, it costs me a lot of money, and I couldn’t afford it.
When the doctor’s exam was finished, she told me that she thought I was depressed, because I had no fever, no cough, no nothing. I insisted that I wasn’t depressed. Sad, maybe. I told her I knew the difference, and she ordered blood to be drawn to send out to a lab.
Refusing to allow myself to crash, I went back to work. I smiled. I busted my ass to prove to Lou that I was okay and that I was a good employee, worthy of this job and his trust.
Today, I still feel like hell, but I’m pushing through. That’s what I have always done.
I haven’t heard a word from Trucker. Haven’t even seen him in the bar. I know he is here on Thursday nights, though. Reda told me that they have been coming in. I act like it’s no big deal, but it is. It hurts that he’s avoiding me. He knows I have Thursdays off.
Tonight, as a few men sat talking about him, I allowed myself to feel sad again, to miss him again, even though I knew he wasn’t the same Trucker I met in September.