As my phone buzzes for the eighth time with another text, I flip it over on my thigh and turn my attention to the street. I watch the traffic through the multiple dirty windows to my right. Hadley’s concern for me would be comical if it weren’t torturous. She’s defending Wilder, telling me he denies being out to get me, as she puts it. She doesn’t see him marking his territory. And I have problems? Shit. The bastard nearly died for her. Hadley has an allure that has brought three men to the edge, with one teetering on it and another sailing right over that fucker.
I don’t know if I speak for the other two, but for me, it’s not about her looks, her body or whatever. She’s no supermodel. Christ. That sounded bad too. I’m not a total douchebag. Don’t get me wrong. Hadley is beautiful, but I’m more attracted to the person she is, and as fucked up as it sounds, the unintentional pain she inflicts on me erases some of the darker pain. I now have a bond with her that I can’t explain. Though, the bond may be more real than I previously thought.
I thought my life would be different by now. Instead, it’s worse than my own fucking nightmares. I live in a crack house next to a dead hooker, lost my sister to a disease that took over 30 years to kill her, accidentally fathered a kid with a woman I can’t stand, and possibly one with my best friend, who’s the woman I love but can never have. A laugh a minute here.
Even if humor is my relief, I still struggle every day with pain. Torment and bliss rolled into one, Hadley became the torturous reason I got out of bed each morning. I’m damned if I do and you know the rest. But I’ve never been to the point where I wanted to end it all. It’s not my style. I’m around for the duration, however long that may be. No matter what, I’m an optimist, believing things can always get better—subscribing to the life philosophy of Howard Jones—a tragically underrated musician who also had the coolest hair ever. But through it all, Hadley has made me forget shit while accidentally reminding me of who I used to be. I don’t know. Maybe I fell in love with her because of that—a paradigm for my psychologist parents to evaluate. If they knew.
I can’t say that I’m entirely innocent. I brought it upon myself. I’m a man. What right do I have to complain? I mean, I was hoping something might happen, but...it did, and it didn’t. When you’re 18 and naïve, it doesn’t matter how strong, fast or smart you are. If you’re not careful, someone will take advantage of you. And then I was lampooned for it. Kind of like a pop quiz I was forced to take, and when I failed, the rest of the failures in the class mocked me for it. Every fucking day I remember. Every fucking day I fixate over how it’s changed me, inside and out.
I guess in the totality of it all, I’m still in one piece, and I’m a functioning adult most days. It’s just that, after years of living in a fog, I hadn’t expected to meet a woman who essentially pulled me into the clear and made me see things for the first time. Somewhere in the process, I fell in love with Hadley. I wish I could turn it off. But I don’t know how. And maybe I don’t want to. I’m fucking scared to death to revert to the old pain that will no doubt flood back and bury me again.
I made a monstrous mistake when I slept with Shasta. She saw me. I’m not talking about her seeing my dick or my ass. Shasta saw me. I couldn’t hide the cobweb-like fear that clings to me or the crushing degradation I wear like a shiny badge. Though, I think she’s too dense to see all of it. Fuck, I hope she is.
Two dirty-looking kids run past me, yelling and slamming dryer doors, pulling clothes from baskets and waving them like flags. Just generally being little dickheads. I resist the urge to trip the bastards. That still probably wouldn’t get the attention of their 500-pound mother, who is sitting on two chairs, twisting and turning, displaying her ass crack for all of us to behold. She stuffs her pie hole with mechanical precision from a crumpled bag of Doritos as she loudly relays to Monica how those lowlife assholes at Big Lots refused her Wells Fargo credit card, even though she still has 100 bucks until she maxes out that fucker. Jesus Christ, lady. There’s texting for a fucking reason.
Someone out there has mercy on me because my dryer buzzes. Standing, I stuff my phone into my front pocket and grab the empty laundry bag I was sitting on. The little shits run past, almost stepping on my Gallianos, which I’ve managed to keep clean for this long. These shoes will go out in a blaze of glory and not by these jerkoffs.
I pile my sheets into the bag, only washing them this trip. Usually, I have to bring along clothes hangers for all my dress clothes because I hate ironing. But I still do that shit just so I look crisp and put-together since I don’t normally wear a suit jacket. I save those for when I have to be in court with that reject Amos.
I tighten the drawstrings, and again, those kids head toward me for another round. Looking over at their mother, who continues her gabfest and has moved on to a large bag of M&Ms as she loudly declares she needs more medication for a herpes flare-up.
I’m dead. I can’t even land in hell right.
I step into the kids’ path, causing them to ram into each other. The taller blond one looks up at me. There’s some kind of juice-stain mustache happening on his face amid the freckles. The smaller kid has glasses and a dark-colored smear of some kind on his cheek. Keeping my nausea in check, I say, “I hear if you’re super loud for your mom, she’ll give you candy.”
The older one, who no doubt has a future career in scouring rest stops for spare change to buy the quality hookers, squeals, “What? Really?”
“Na-uh. She said no more.” The younger one cranes his neck past me, checking to see if I’m lying—future peeping Tom. He’ll do well as the lookout for his cellblock.
I grin and swing my white bag over my shoulder, and they look at me like I’m Santa’s head elf granting them an early gift. “You bet. Later.”
As I go out the door, I hear those kids screeching about candy.
Sometimes I can be a dick too.
Giving my reflection one last look in the bathroom mirror, I straighten the fishnet on my head for the third time and pinch at my Legal Eagles T-shirt, pulling it away from my chest. When you’re broke and run out of dryer sheets, static electricity is an unrelenting bitch. I’ll be glad for the reprieve of not having to wear Rodwell, 3 for a while. Shaking my head at myself and adjusting the belt threaded through my Polo jeans, I sigh and head out.
Passing Flo’s apartment, I’m fast, grateful when she doesn’t appear. Is this what my life has boiled down to? Avoiding certain people everywhere I go? I’ll be a hermit in no time.
Reaching the second landing, I nearly run into Flo, trudging up the stairs. Goddamn it. I clutch the rusted metal railing and assess the height from here. It’s only high enough to put me in a wheelchair forever.
I try to avoid eye contact as I pass her, but the mint green waitress uniform she’s wearing surprises me. I didn’t think she worked anywhere but Dock Street. I then notice the name tag: Gert. That sounds like an occupational hazard disease that requires a shitload of antibiotics.
She grabs my bicep, stopping me. Her droopy eyes go from my T-shirt to my hat. “A man in uniform. I like.”
I jerk away from her, needing three showers now. “Not mine. Stole it from Goodwill.” That’s the shit I come up with on the fly? Jesus.
“A bad boy. Even better.” Fucking hell. I can’t win with this broad. She smiles, and her remaining meth-eaten teeth practically crackle beneath her dry lips. Happy place. Happy place. “I bet your girlfriend loves that.”
“Nope. I’m on my way to repent my sins, hoping she’ll forgive me.” Just shut up, idiot! But the truth is stranger than fiction. I regain my momentum and stomp down the echoing steps.
She yells, “Choirboys are the best bad boys!” I’m convinced Flo has zero turn-offs. I’m also convinced she’s explored bestiality, without the kennel fee.
As I start my truck, I vow to find a new place to live, far away from here, stat. Juarez sounds nice.
Once at the field, I park on the street in front of Val’s red Buick. When I exit my truck, Nic
o gets out of Val’s car on the passenger side. Usually, he arrives in his blue Camaro alone. Sweet car. I’d drive something like that if I weren’t so practical. Or broke. Aside from his Levi’s and Adidas shoes, he’s also wearing a Legal Eagles shirt and hat. Nico grins as he walks over and I say, “Damn it, Ferrara. I can’t believe we wore the same thing. Again.”
He laughs, fist bumping me before I grab my glove and bat. “How embarrassing.”
I notice he’s shaved off his goatee. He’s now a clean-shaven Italian-Puerto Rican hybrid. Not bad looking and not a smug asshole like two other men I know, who shall remain nameless. I look at his jaw with a grin. “What’s with the shorn scrotum?”
Nico rubs his jaw like he forgot he shaved. “Just a change of scenery.”
“Like anyone checks you out.”
“True.” Well, that’s a little sad, but I guess we have something in common. “You ready for this, Gregger?”
Stuffing my glove beneath my arm, I shrug, leaning my other elbow on the edge of the truck bed, dangling the bat between my fingers. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Nico looks up and down South Sheppard Street and then says, “After yesterday... You and Finn got into it some. Everything okay?”
I snort, twisting my bat. “He’s a dick. Wilder has never liked me. Nothing new there.” Behind me, I hear more car doors shut.
“Why?”
I look across the street to the grassy dirt area, where most of my coworkers are parked. “Because I’m friends with his wife.”
“I think it’s more than that, Gregory.” A hand goes to my bicep, and when I look away from the parking lot, Val smiles at me. Her hair billows beneath her hat like a blonde cloud. “Don’t you think?” Shame. That’s what I feel when I look into the woman’s eyes. It’s not that she pities me. Rather, it’s the shame I should feel for the lack of shame I have regarding Hadley.
“It’s not anything...Val.” I take a stab at lying to her face, but she knows better. Damn her—not really. I love Val.
“Maybe Finn thinks so.”
“Because I’m friends with Hadley? He needs to get over it.”
“What am I missing here? Did something happen recently?” Nico asks, eyeing the both of us for answers I won’t give.
Val’s kind smile never wavers. “How would you feel if you were in his position?”
“Let me think about that. He’s a daredevil who moonlights as a sportscaster and is loved by most of Richmond. His awesome wife, who has a spectacular best friend, gave him a beautiful daughter. I’d say his life is pretty great. Don’t you think?”
“You can have a great life, too. I heard Amos talked to you.”
“Some.” As Val and Nico wait for me to elaborate, I avoid them by averting my gaze to the field, where the other team is practicing. I can’t tell Val to her face that I turned down Vaughn’s offer. If I see her reaction, it’ll make me change my mind.
As I shift, I notice a woman hanging back. Val turns, waving her over. “Sweetheart, come meet someone.” The ash-blonde chick with chocolate-brown eyes steps forward. Val proudly smiles, putting her arm around the taller woman and pulling her closer, says, “This is one of my favorite paralegals, Greg Rodwell. Greg, this is my daughter, Alessandra—Ali.”
I switch the bat to my left hand and offer her my right. “Hey. Nice to meet you. Your mother talks about you all the time.”
She slowly pulls her hand away from herself and lifelessly takes mine with a pinched smile. It’s as if she’s on her deathbed, being forced to sign a new will before she croaks. Everything about her screams snob, from her weak handshake, her upturned nose, her small but perky tits, to her bored expression. Total opposite of Val. Interesting.
Only taking my hand for two seconds, she drops it. Nico says, “We dragged Ali with us since she’s visiting. Mom wanted her to see our last game.”
Val laughs, rummaging through her canvas bag. Her life is in that bag. I also bet I could find Amelia Earhart in there. “Why not, Nicky? She can see how well we work as a team and hopefully win this game.”
Nico tosses his black-and-white stripped glove from his left hand to the right. “I’m just saying she’d probably enjoy a root canal more.”
Ali aims her annoyance at Nico. “You don’t speak for me, Nicollo.”
I snicker. “That name. Seriously, Nicky.” Besides his mother, he actually lets me get away with calling him that. I’m proud of that fact.
“Like you can talk, Rod.” He’s got me there.
“That’s not my fault.”
Val laughs, scolding, “It’s an Italian version of Nicholas. I just changed the spelling some.”
“Little Saint Nick,” I tease. “I won’t make jokes about your small sack.”
“Gregory!” Val laughs, though. She loves me. At least that isn’t debatable.
Close to rolling her eyes, Ali says, “I’m going to find somewhere to sit.”
She heads toward the field alone, and Nico says, “At least pick our side.”
“Yeah. I’ll try.”
Nico shakes his head and turns to his mother. “We should’ve left her at the airport.”
Val readjusts her bag, watching Ali. “Now, Nicky. She’s just not into softball.”
“Neither are you, really, but you’re here.”
Val laughs, and Nico returns to the car, opening the rear passenger door. I help him out by carrying a bag of plastic cups and his glove, adding to my shit I’m already carrying. He removes the yellow-and-red water cooler from the floor of the back seat, and we head to the field. Seeing the other team warming up in their orange shirts, we go to the nearest dugout, where Betsy and Shasta are gabbing. As soon as Nico sets down the cooler, his phone rings. Probably another delinquent sucking up his Saturday. I never see him not working.
Betsy puts her hands on her hips while Shasta crosses her arms, first looking away and then assessing me like she’s taking notes for an exam. Too bad neither of us studied for that pregnancy test. Betsy says, “Hi, Rod. It’s so nice to see you show up for something once in a while.”
Bypassing the human dildo, I glance at Shasta as I set my bat against the fence. Her hair is now a shade of reddish blonde. She changes her hair color more than Betsy changes batteries. I ask, “Is she here?”
Shasta irritably regards me like I just yakked on her shoes. “Who?”
Betsy hysterically laughs, and I wish it were socially acceptable to drop kick her. It’d be totally worth a short stint in jail.
“Who?” I repeat. “Birdy.” I don’t know why it’s so hard to say her name. Maybe it’s because Shasta came up with it. Maybe because it’s bizarre. Maybe it’s because I’ve heard worse. Finley. I still need a name for her that doesn’t give me an ulcer.
Betsy steps closer to me and loudly asks, “Isn’t it funny how she named your kid after this place?”
Byrd Park?
Oh, shit. No. Come on! This was the one place that, even if Shasta is here, didn’t remind me of what I did with her. Bloody hell. What did I do to somebody in a past life?
“Yeah, right,” I mutter but look at Shasta all the same. Most likely boasting to Hadley of how she’s bounced back from pregnancy, her Legal Eagles shirt is knotted to the side, calling attention to her belly button. She also cut a V into the collar of her shirt, showcasing her tits. It’s low enough that you can almost see their price tag.
Shrugging, Shasta pretends to examine her manicured nails. “Why do you care if she’s here?”
I look to the people taking seats on the bleachers and lawn chairs. I don’t see Shasta’s mother or many babies here. “I do care. She’s my...” Sperm spill, as Shasta said one time. Yeah. I tend to do that a lot. But the one with Shasta was my biggest disaster.
Shasta huffs some more. “What a load of shit, Rod. You can stop looking for her. She’s not here. You wouldn’t even know which baby is yours anyway. Right?”
“I would know.” A cloven-hooved baby named Birdy would probably stand out.<
br />
Betsy says, “You need to meet your kid. Stop with the excuses. Man up.” I suppose it’s also socially unacceptable to introduce her face to my bat.
Shasta’s gaze roams over me, maybe struggling to remember what I look like naked, not that she paid much attention and because I didn’t show her my dick. “I’ll be bringing her to Brandon’s. Be there.”
Val sets down her bag on the bench and is beside me in a flash. “He’ll be there. Don’t worry about that. I’ll see to it.”
She squeezes my arm hard, and I choke out, “Yeah.” Forget Betsy. I’ll take a bat to the face. I wonder if Val would do it.
“Really?” Shasta’s eyes widen as I scrutinize her. What the fuck did I see in her? I suppose she’s pretty, in a rabid wolverine sort of way.
Betsy says, “I guess we’ll hold our breaths.” Only if you promise to float far, far away, bitch.
I impatiently glare at Betsy until she concedes and finds someone else to harass, which happens to be Brandon. And of course, Shasta also scampers over to him but keeps a distance since his wife, Diana, is not far, finding a place to put her lawn chair.
Val turns to face me. “You’re a good boy. You can do it. I’ll be there if you need me.”
I sigh but smile at Val, even if I disagree. “Thanks.”
Val touches my cheek and then goes to her bag, pulling out her glove. Past her, I notice Amos and Crick outside the fence, where Crick is doing practice pitches. I hope Wilder doesn’t plan on keeping Scanlon in the whole game if he needs a damn break. Sounds like something that prick would do, though.
Leaning on the fence, I watch the Road Hogs practice—some asphalt company. Their pitcher is an Amazon, taller than everyone here. That height would’ve been a benefit to the outfield, but I guess if she has the best arm of the team, she’s where she needs to be. But how in the hell do I avoid hitting high ones? They’re all high!
The metallic ricochet of a bat hitting a ball fills the air as arms wrap around my torso, and a chin rests on my shoulder. A boldly sweet perfume tickles my nose, as does her hair. She whispers, “Ready to kick ass?”
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