by Max Henry
“I like this guy,” the assistant says, thumbing in my direction.
Jane opens her mouth, and I know she’s going to spout some shit about not enough money. “My shout,” I cut her off.
The death-stare she levels me with tells me I’m in for a storm later, but fuck it—who doesn’t enjoy a rough ride?
I PASS my bags of shopping over to Malice, and smile. “Thanks for this.”
“Hey, I’m just proud of you for doing it. Take all the time you need.” He leans forward, and kisses my forehead. “I’ll be over in the food court somewhere, playing with your new phone.”
I sigh, and nod. I can do this.
“Here goes nothing,” I say with a flourish, and turn for the coffee shop.
I spot my mom near the back, sitting by herself in a small booth. A glance over my shoulder confirms that Malice has left for the food court. The sight of him with my bags brings a smile to my lips.
Mom lifts her head as I approach, and the same compassionate smile I saw as a kid graces her mouth. “Sweetheart.”
“Mom.”
She stands, seemingly undecided if it’s appropriate to hug, or offer a more formal greeting. I can’t shake the fact that the time apart put a damper on our relationship. As much as the lost time saddens me, I’m not at the stage where I can freely show her affection just yet.
I take my seat to give her an out, and grab hold of the table number. Anything to keep my hands occupied.
“Your father wanted to come, too. I told him that you might feel a little overwhelmed if both of us were here.”
I nod. “Probably.”
“Is he nice?” she asks. “Your friend?”
My eyes shoot up to hers. I guess I didn’t hide Malice as well as I thought, then. “You saw him, huh?”
“I saw you two walking around earlier, but thought I’d let you have your time first.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. I’m not sure what I would say if she asked any more about Malice. Explaining how we met means I have to explain why I left Dylan. I can’t go there yet. I can’t deal with her disappointment, with her hurt, and possibly her anger.
“So, how is Dad?” I cycle the conversation back to her.
She answers politely, like one would a long-lost friend. It suits me just fine. Talking with her is enough, given we haven’t done as much in such a long time. A couple of times she tries to bring the questions back to me, but I deflect, and push them right back. After a while I think she gets the message as she stops asking.
“Do you have your phone on you?” Mom asks. “I’ll give you my mobile number.”
I shake my head. “I left it with Malice.”
Her eyebrow shoots up. “That’s an interesting name.”
“Nickname.”
“Oh.”
“I know the home number,” I appease. “I’ll keep in touch.”
“I know it’s hard, after so long,” Mom says, grabbing my hand. “But don’t be too much of a stranger. We have a lot of missed time to make up for.”
We do, but I can only do so much at once. I should be ecstatic that I’ve reconnected with her, with Dad, but I’m not. The joy is bittersweet, tainted. With the renewed contact come all the emotions I buried for so long as being ‘abandoned’. I can’t turn that stuff off overnight, as much as I’d love to.
We say our goodbyes, and I watch as she walks away until I can’t see her any longer. I feel relief, but at the same time I feel a strange emptiness I can’t pinpoint. The victory is hollow, and all I can think is that my anger toward Dylan for pushing them away, for stopping them from seeing me without my knowledge, is somehow tied into this.
As usual, Dylan manages to ruin whatever joy I should get from life.
Even if he isn’t physically here.
THE SMILE still pulls her mouth wide as we walk into the house, Jane carrying her six bags of clothing. Personally, I’d be happy seeing her with fistfuls of bags, but one step at a time.
“I’m nervous about this,” she confides as she joins me in the living room.
“Why? You look kinda excited to me.”
“I am.” There goes that nod to the left. “But it’s a little overwhelming. I haven’t been out since . . .”
I reach out, and tug her closer while she looks off into space.
“Come to think of it, I can’t be sure when I last went out. The days all roll into one, you know?”
“Sure do.”
Her arms wrap around my middle, and she rests her head against my chest. I like this side of her—a lot.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I don’t respond. Instead, I stroke her hair. The auburn waves fall down her shoulders, so silky, and soft. Her head wriggles against me, and the same fuzzy feeling I get from a dog nuzzling in like that takes me over. I want to hold her, and protect her—gain her trust.
“Where are we going?”
“When?” I ask.
“Tonight, doofus.” She pulls her head back, still holding my waist.
True. One hug, and I forgot I offered her a night out. I just wanted her to have the damn dresses, and it seemed the only explanation at the time that would have her agreeing.
“I’ll find out where the guys are going. We can meet up with them if you like?”
Her eyes spark, and she grins the largest one I’ve seen yet. For whatever reason, seeing the guys has her roaring to go.
“I’d love to.” She lets me go, and I fight the urge to tug her back to me. “Let me go get ready.”
I nod, and watch her hustle up the hallway. We’ve still got a few hours to go, but on the way out of the mall we stopped for her to get some make-up. She told me it was something that fucker wouldn’t let her have. I don’t think she needs it, but I know it’ll make her happy. So I agreed to hang around while she drew all over her hand with lipstick, and read every damn packet there was on the shelf.
In the time it takes her to perfect the application of her war paint, I shower, change, feed Rocco, and make a list of things we need from the supermarket tomorrow. I scroll through the channels on the radio, cursing the fact this fucking house doesn’t have a TV.
Irony has a laugh at my expense when she walks in the room right as I land on “Foxy Lady”. I chuckle, and she looks to the radio, then me before cracking up also.
“I hope that’s your way of giving me a compliment,” she says.
I shrug. “Take it how you want.”
“You look good.” Her observation appears to have taken her as much off-guard as it did me. Her eyes fall to the floor the second she finishes saying it.
“You look better.” I smile. “ At least you’ll take the heat off me, though. Gets tiring being the sexiest person in the bar all the time.”
She smirks—head tipped to the left and all—then socks me in the arm. Jeez. Twice in one afternoon she’s openly touched me. A week ago I would have needed to pry her arms from over her body.
I don’t know what’s sparked the change within her, but I sure as fuck ain’t complaining about it. This side of Jane: her humor, her laughter, and her confidence are a breath of fresh air.
“Tigger and Bronx are already at the joint, so let’s head out, huh?”
She nods, and takes my offered arm. “Are all your friends the same as you? I mean, with unusual names?”
I shake my head. “Nah, babe. Malice isn’t my given name.”
“Oh.” She giggles as I let her go to walk out front ahead of me. “I thought your parents must have had a sense of humor.”
“Not a good one.” I laugh, pat Rocco on the head, and shut him in the backyard. “It’s a nickname I picked up a while ago.”
“Can I ask your real name, then?”
Dammit. I knew this day would come. “Do you have to?”
Her face drops. “I guess not.” Jane gets into the pick-up, leaving me standing with my arms resting on the roof, cursing my stupidity.
I drop in beside her, and take her hand. “Don’t do that
—take everything so personally. It’s embarrassing, is all.”
“It can’t be that bad. I went to school with a kid named Jack Horner. Imagine the stick he got.”
I die inside, knowing I never should have opened my fucking trap. Why did I tell her Malice isn’t my real name? I should have run with it. Fuckwit.
“Promise you won’t laugh?” I double-check.
She gives me the most sincere nod, yet I can still spot the tiny tweak at the corners of her lips.
“My birth name”—I cover my face with both hands—“is Alice.”
The darkness is comforting, and I choose to keep my hands in place while silence surrounds us. Then I hear it. The tiniest of noises, but she did it. She laughed.
I drop my hands, and look at her: red-faced, smiling, and holding her hand to her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she finally blurts out in a run of words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but that . . . sucks!”
“You’re telling me.”
“Why the hell did they call you that?”
“Alice Cooper? I don’t know. I never asked in case the answer was worse.”
She snorts, and shakes her head. “That’s cruel.”
“Yeah, well. Let’s say it was the start of why I grew to resent my father as a teenager.”
“Only your father?” She snickers, but the faux pas isn’t funny to me. I’ve gone and revealed another little part of myself.
“Yeah.”
“Jeez. Your mother gets off lightly.”
“Happens when she’s dead.” I start the pick-up, put it in gear, and punch the accelerator.
She’s staring at me; I’m not blind. I can figure out her expression from what I can see in my peripheral.
“I’m sorry I started that conversation, Malice.”
I shrug. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”
“How old were you?”
I sigh, and grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “Six.”
She doesn’t offer any more words, and I love that about her. She knows that useless ‘I’m sorrys’, and ‘that must have been hards’ won’t change the fact my mother died.
Her hand rests atop my leg, and I let go of the wheel with one of mine to place it over hers.
“Tell me about Tigger and Bronx. What am I in for?”
I can’t help but smile at her blatant change of subject. I give her hand a little squeeze, and start to tell her about the guys who will make sure she doesn’t forget tonight in a long time.
THE MUSIC resonates deep in my chest, and my hips start to sway of their own accord as I walk. It’s been so long since I was allowed to let loose that I forgot how easy the beat takes you over. A three-piece band plays on a low stage at one end of the bar: two guitars, and a harmonica. The bluesy, country music they play is fast, and capped with a heavy bass. I like it. I like the way it makes me feel. I like the fact it makes me want to let go.
Malice walks ahead of me, holding my hand as we weave through the crowd. His friend puts a hand up in the air to signal us over, and I narrowly miss taking out a young girl as we rapidly change course.
“Hey, ball-sack!” the guy yells.
I cringe at how uncomfortable Malice looks at the crude greeting. He thumbs in my direction, and cocks an eyebrow at his buddy.
The man smiles, and with the snap of my fingers, I like him. He’s broad in the shoulders, and sports short, thick hair. But his smile lights up his eyes, and he comes across as the kind of guy who’s everybody’s friend.
“Jane, this is Bronx.” Malice points to the culprit. “And this dirty old man scoping the talent, is Tigger.”
Tigger holds up his middle finger whilst eyeballing the dancing women on the floor. He wriggles in his seat, looking as though he’s ready to burst. The lack of manners should shock me, but I like it; I like that they’re comfortable enough to be themselves around me.
We take a seat, and my feet itch to move some more.
“What you having?” Malice shouts near my ear.
I shrug. I haven’t had anything other than the odd wine or beer in years. I don’t remember what I like best. “You choose.”
He winks, and leaves me with his friends to head for the bar. Bronx moves around a stool to take Malice’s place, and he bumps his shoulder to mine.
“How do you two know each other?”
I look to the dance floor, trying to spot what Tigger has his eye on. Anything to buy some time while I figure out how to answer this. “Um,” I falter. “We bumped in to each other one day.” I shrug.
Bronx nods knowingly, his bottom lip scrunched up. “Fair enough. Hope the mongrel hasn’t been spinning lies about us.” He winks, and smiles.
I can’t stop myself from returning the grin. “Only enough for me to know I need to watch my back—or should I say, ass around you two.”
Bronx tips his head back, and laughs. “Yeah, that’d be it. He’d tell you we like to smack a woman’s ass, but not that we’re a bunch of good fuckers who’ve put up with his shit for too many years already.”
“Expect the best, plan for the worst.” I wink this time.
He nudges my shoulder again. “I like you.”
Malice returns to the table, and places a clear drink down before me.
“Vodka, and lemonade,” he informs me. “Start off with something sweet, not strong.”
“Like her men, huh?” Bronx ducks a flying elbow from Malice. He slips off the stool, and makes a grand gesture to Malice to sit.
I laugh, and take a sip of my drink. It goes down easy—too easy.
In a flash of color, Tigger springs from his seat, and stalks through the crowd toward a group of women.
“Should we be worried about that?” I ask Malice, tipping my head at the determined Tigger.
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “He’s always like that. Probably spotted something he likes.”
I nod. “Kind of looked like he was about to deck somebody.”
“He always looks like he’s about to deck somebody.” Malice chuckles. “You’ll get used to his intensity.” He watches me close, eyeing the way I’m wriggling to the beat. “You wanna dance?”
I’d love to, but I know my ribs aren’t yet up to being crushed in the crowd. “Maybe next time.” I turn my head to find Tigger, and the enormity of the bar dawns on me. There are at least a hundred people here. A person could get lost in this crowd. A person could also hide among them.
Panic grips me in its bone-crushing vice. What if Dylan is here? After all, I’ve never known where he goes every Friday. Who’s to say he’s not out every night now? What if he’s watching me? Planning how he’ll get to me?
My heart pounds with such a ferocity that my ribs ache. I cringe, and knock back the last of my drink. Malice looks over as I slam the empty vessel on the table.
“You after another already?”
I nod, and plaster my best ‘nothing’s wrong’ smile on. He narrows his eyes a fraction, but twitches a smile, and leaves for the bar.
“Everything okay?” Bronx asks, sliding in beside me again.
“I haven’t been out in a while, is all.”
He pulls his head back, and cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Why’s that so hard to believe?”
“A girl as pretty as you? I would have thought you’d be out every weekend, living it up.”
“It’s not quite the same when you’re on your own.” I shut him down fast, and look back over the crowd.
People jump, and move to the song. The constant movement makes it hard to track the people I’ve checked, and those I haven’t. I’m aware that ignoring Bronx beside me is the height of rudeness, but I’m determined. If he’s here, I’m finding him.
Where are you, Dylan?
“What’d you say this time?” Malice takes Bronx’s seat, and slides a fresh drink over.
“Nothing. I swear.” He lifts his hands.
Tigger emerges from the mob of people, and slumps on to
the spare stool. He mumbles, and then springs up as fast as he landed to head for the bar.
“What’s his problem?” Malice asks Bronx.
“He had a squealer on Tuesday. I think it might have been one too many.”
“Shit,” Malice says, looking at the table. “That stuff always screws with your head.”
A squealer? “Are you all butchers?” I ask.
Bronx nods, and looks sideways at Malice. Something passes between them.
“Yeah, we are.” Malice rubs a hand over his head, and downs his drink. “How about a slow dance?” he asks, holding out a hand.
I throw back the new vodka drink, and take him up on the offer. We walk over to the dance floor, and find a spot near the edge where I won’t get elbowed, or shunted around. He wraps his hands around my waist, and pulls me close. Our hips connect, and desire courses strong through my veins.
We sway, and move to the beat; Malice’s arms protect my ribs. The ache is there, but I’d dare say the alcohol has helped dull the pain tonight. People move around us, but I’m lost in our little bubble. Our square foot of dance floor is ours alone, and I relish it.
Until I hear a voice that sends chills across my skin.
“What are you doing here?” he roars.
I pull back from Malice, and search the crowd. Why? How? People move between corners of the club, some dance, and others jostle as they talk amongst their groups.
“Told you that you couldn’t get away.”
Sweat beads on the nape of my neck. My eyes dance across the faces around me. Finally, I pin the man the voice belongs to—and it’s not Dylan.
“Good to see you though!” The mystery man pulls his friend into an embrace, and I push back the tears.
It’s not Dylan.
“Jane?”
I realize Malice has been repeating my name the whole time.
“I’m sorry,” I say, brushing him off. “I need to sit down.”
I push through the people that stand between me and my stool, in betwwen Bronx and Tigger. Malice drops onto his after me, and stares across the table.
“What happened out there, Jane?” He watches for my answer.
Bronx pushes from the table, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.