Only Trick

by Jewel E. Ann

  Tamsen laughs. “Maybe when my prince charming sweeps me off my feet. Besides, I’m going to text you every day; you’ll be glad I’m not here so at least you can shut off your phone when you get tired of hearing from me.”

  “Okay, ladies. Enough already. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  “Did Trick open the door when you went up to tell him goodbye?”

  Both Grady and Tamsen shake their heads. “He just hollered ‘thanks for coming.’”

  Tamsen laughs. “At least you can’t be mad at him; he’s still sort of spending time with you.”

  “Or he’s cheating on you with you.” Grady snickers as they walk out the door.

  The house takes on an immediate silence … loneliness. All I keep thinking about is the approximate two hundred hours that it can take Trick to complete a drawing. I have no idea how much he’s been sleeping, but I doubt it’s that much. Maybe if I’m lucky I might get to see him in another week or two.

  *

  Jellied toast with eggs and cayenne gets me a kiss on the cheek as he opens the door just enough to accommodate the diameter of the plate. Catch of the day from a restaurant near the shopping district gets me a wink as he grabs the sack and shuts the door. But dinner … okay, I skip dinner and offer him dessert instead.

  I knock on the door.

  “Hmm?” It’s become the usual response.

  “Hungry?”

  “A little. What did you bring?”

  I shake my head at the fact that we’re having this conversation through the locked door. “I brought what used to be your favorite.”

  The lock clicks and the door opens a fraction. Trick’s lips part as his eyes roam over my naked body. “Our bedroom, five minutes,” he says, shutting the door.

  Five minutes turns into fifteen, but I don’t complain because all that matters is he’s in our bed giving the real Darby, not a sketch, his full attention. Foreplay doesn’t make an appearance tonight. There is no sipping the martini; it’s a shot glass of sex … bottoms up—literally. I have to concede, although it’s quick, Trick’s precision is g-spot-on.

  Damn him!

  He kisses my forehead, slips on his jeans without fastening them, and walks out of our bedroom. Just as soon as my body floats back down to Earth, I am going to be really pissed at him—for something. I’m sure when my brain begins to form coherent thoughts again I’ll know what that something is.

  *

  It’s become quite clear that Trick has found a way to feel productive again. I suppose it’s unrealistic to think our most worthwhile contribution to society is mind-blowing sex. After a lonely night in bed and leaving Trick’s breakfast by the guest bedroom door, I get ready to find my non-Trick purpose. As I open the front door I’m greeted by Declan in shorts and a muscle shirt with his hand fisted like he was just about to knock.

  “Hey.” I smile.

  “Hey. Sorry, are you on your way out?”

  “Yes, I was just getting ready to …” Find my new purpose? “… run some errands. What’s up?”

  “I didn’t know if you were serious about helping me with some of my online classes, but if you were—”

  “I’d love to!” I grimace at my own eagerness. I’m a newlywed; I shouldn’t be jumping at the opportunity to get out of my house and hangout with the neighbor guy, but I am because I’m just that bored.

  Declan’s eyes grow big. “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  He nods. “Okay, great. When’s the best time for you?”

  I shrug. “Now works.”

  His head jerks back. “Now? Weren’t you needing to run some errands?”

  I wave a dismissive hand, closing the door behind me. “It’s nothing important. Your place?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He gestures with his head toward his house. “So what’s Trick doing today?”

  I slip on my sunglasses. “He’s drawing.”

  “Drawing?”

  “Yes, he’s an artist.”

  “Wow, that’s awesome. What’s he draw?”

  “People.”

  “Well he’s come to the right place. Todos Santos is an artist’s paradise. Is he going to sell his sketches?”

  “I think so. Although he’s working on a drawing of me right now. I don’t think he’s planning on selling it, but honestly I haven’t asked.”

  When we reach Declan’s, he gets us drinks and snacks, grabs his laptop, and takes us out back. “So what made you want to become a PA?”

  Slipping off my sandals, I curl up on the chaise lounge. “I job shadowed one my senior year of high school. She did basically the same procedures, diagnosing, and treating that the physician did but she worked three days a week. You don’t see too many part-time physicians. I don’t know if I’ll ever have children, but if I do I’d like to have the option of working part-time. Then there’s the option to change specialties without going back to school. Physicians can’t jump from surgery to dermatology without going back to school but PAs can.”

  “What was your specialty?”

  “I worked in the ER.” I grin. “An adrenaline junkie of sorts, but for me it was the challenge of putting together the broken puzzles.”

  “You must be good under pressure.”

  I nod. “Yes, in my job I was. No one makes the right decision one hundred percent of the time, but I’ve been good at going with my instincts.”

  “Confident?”

  “Yes. It’s hard though. Sometimes you can be overly confident. I work with some people who think they can do no wrong. For myself, I try to find that balance.”

  “You ever kill anyone?”

  I laugh. “Looks like we need to work on your medical nomenclature. Have patients died under my care? Yes. It’s unavoidable if you work in the ER long enough.”

  After another half hour of small talk, we start working on his school work. I shoot off a quick text to Trick so he doesn’t wonder why my car is still at home but I’m not.

  Me: Helping Declan with his school. If you decide to take a break, I’ll run home!

  A half hour later I get a response.

  Trick: OK

  By the time Colby, Wes, and Mallory show up, we’ve put in almost four hours of tutoring. They invite me and Trick to dinner, but I decline this time, knowing that Trick will not be socializing until he’s completed his project. The eerie silence drowns me as I open our front door. A little part of me was hoping he’d been making dinner, watching TV, or even doing yoga, which he hasn’t done in days.

  “Trick?”

  No answer.

  I go upstairs and knock on the door.

  “Hmm?”

  I sigh. “Let’s go out for dinner.”

  “Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

  I lean my forehead against the door. “Please.”

  “Tomorrow.” His voice is absent of emotion.

  “Well I’m going.”

  “Ok.”

  Clawing at my scalp, I shake my head. This sucks. I don’t give a shit how fabulous this picture of me is; the resentment is going to take away from my full appreciation of it.

  “Oh, and I’m taking your Ducati. Any special instructions before I leave?” I call on my way down the stairs.

  The bang upstairs sounds like the doorknob impaling the wall.

  “What did you say?” Trick stands at the top of the stairs in his jeans, no shirt—eyes wild.

  Mentally willing the smirk on my face to hide, I turn around. “Welcome to the world again.”

  “You’re not taking my bike.”

  I shrug. “Who’s going to stop me?”

  “Darby.” He squints his eyes.

  I grab my purse and his key from the counter then sprint outside and around the corner to the carport.

  “Darby!” Trick yells, chasing me in his bare feet.

  I yank off the cover and grab my helmet. He jerks my helmet from my grip along with the key and picks up the cover from the ground.

  “Not happening.”


  “Take me for a ride, please.”

  “Tomorrow.” He walks off toward the house while I fight back the tears.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The brain is complex and some things just can’t be explained, such as the woman I’m drawing. I have to remember her. For God’s sake, I’m drawing her! It’s effortless for my hands to keep adding details; they know every single one. But what I really want to do is bang my head against the wall because she’s so familiar. I know her, but how? Is my memory coming back or just fucking with me?

  I’m pissed, and paranoid, and … confused. Then there’s Darby. I can hardly look at her. What would I tell her? I’m drawing a woman sleeping who’s naked. I don’t make shit up. I don’t draw things I haven’t seen. My sketches aren’t imagination, they’re recollection. I’ve been with this woman. Fuck! I can even hear her voice, but not her words.

  I need a trigger—a name, a location … something. It’s not finished, but as is the case with most of my work, I’m not sure it ever will be. I find details run to infinity. Eventually I just have to move on to something else. Sliding my phone from my pocket, I take a picture of my drawing and send it to Grady with a message.

  Me: Recognize her?

  Grady: Should I?

  Me: I fucked her.

  Grady: I hope not recently ;)

  Me: Cut the crap. I drew her but I don’t know why. I know her but I don’t know how. I’m fucking miserable.

  Grady: You have a beautiful wife and a promising future. Forget about the woman.

  Me: That’s just it! I can’t forget what I can’t remember.

  Grady: Thought you were drawing YOUR WIFE!

  I don’t respond. There’s nothing left to say. I’m an asshole now and I’m pretty sure I was back then too.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Something is wrong with Trick, but I don’t know what. His obsession with sketching me is going too far. He won’t let me see it. He won’t come out of that damn bedroom except to shower and go to the bathroom. He’s even slept in there for the past five nights. I’ve turned into his personal maid—doing laundry and catering food to “his” room. The motorcycle ride? Never happened. Sex? Haven’t had that either, and I refuse to stand outside his door naked again looking like I’m begging for it.

  I still haven’t looked for a job. Declan keeps me busy in the afternoons tutoring him. He insists on paying me, and although I try to refuse, he won’t take no for an answer. I value his friendship along with Wes, Colby, and even Mallory’s to a certain extent. I’ve had dinner with them now two different nights, without my husband, and I’ve spent several mornings watching them surf. They’re all really good at it. I enjoy feeling like their equal and I know telling Declan that it’s ridiculous to pay me because I don’t need the money would taint that. So I conveniently use the money to buy more snacks and drinks and contribute to the meals we have together.

  This morning I have to do a double take when Trick comes down the stairs before I have a chance to finish making breakfast and leave a plate outside his door.

  “Morning.” He smiles and kisses me on the top of my head.

  “Good morning. Breakfast?” I hold out his plate.

  “Nah, I’ll eat when I get back.”

  “Back?”

  He grabs the key to his motorcycle. “I need a few supplies.”

  “O-kay.” I set the plate down. “Trick?”

  He stops with his back to me.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Noth—”

  “And don’t say nothing! That’s all I’ve heard over the past week!”

  “We’ll talk later.” He continues out the door.

  My appetite dissolves, engulfed by my anger. As soon as I hear him speed off, I run upstairs and turn the knob. It’s locked. Of course it is.

  I hurry to my bathroom and find a hairpin. It’s a simple push lock so it easily opens. I expect to see an easel, sketch pad, or something, but there’s nothing. Opening the closet, I rummage through everything.

  Nothing.

  I sigh with my hands fisted on my hips. Dropping on all fours I look under the bed.

  Nothing.

  Sitting back on my heels, I feel a pang of defeat mixed with anger, until my eyes focus on the corner of something sticking out between the mattress and box springs. I tug on the corner, sliding out a large sketch pad. The first page is blank, and the second, and the third. My frustration grows as I flip through each empty page with impatience.

  Oh. My. God.

  On the back page is a sketch of a woman … a naked woman and it’s not me. My breaths come quicker as panic and anger overtake my entire body. He lied to me. Why would he lie to me? Who is this woman? This. Naked. Woman.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but I can’t even stand up. My legs feel numb from sitting on them for so long and my eyes are glued to her. The jealousy of knowing he’s been spending every waking hour, and many while I’ve been sleeping, drawing her … thinking about her … fantasizing about her. I think I would feel less cheated on if he’d spent an hour in a cheap hotel with a hooker.

  “Darby …” His normal, strong voice floats through the air with an edge of caution—a hint of vulnerability.

  I don’t turn to look at him. I can’t. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I laugh—the alternative is too painful. “Brilliant. You don’t know. She’s pretty fucking detailed for you to not know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Two words that are supposed to be a white flag, a concession of wrong doing, the catalyst to a truce—those two words unnerve me. They are the last two words I want to hear. We haven’t even come close to a surrender. I hate him for thinking he can throw out those two fucking words! One of the worst feelings is when “I’m sorry” feels like a slap in the face.

  I glare at him. “What are you sorry for? Lying to me? Ignoring me? Fucking cheating on me!” I heave the sketch pad in his direction.

  “I didn’t lie.” His gaze slips.

  My eyes widen. “You told me you were drawing me!”

  He shakes his head. “I told you I was trying to draw you.”

  “You and your stupid semantics.” I stand, blood relieving the tingling in my legs as I point to the sketch pad by his feet. “Has it ever occurred to you that what you don’t say says a hell of a lot more than what you do say?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Then why did you? Why have you spent all this time drawing her instead of being with me? Are you going to sell this? Is this our rent money?”

  He shakes his head, defeat written all over his face, slumped posture. “I had to draw her.”

  “Why?” I whisper, defeat pulling me under.

  “Because she’s part of my past that my subconscious is sharing with my hands. I feel like my brain is trying to remember, but … I just can’t.”

  I wipe away a few tears. “Why is she naked?”

  He shrugs. “It’s just the image I have of her,” he whispers, head bowed, no eye contact.

  I step past him.

  “Darby?”

  I don’t stop. He can’t say anything that will make this right, not now. When things start to crumble they can’t be put back together until the debris settles. Right now … I’m still crumbling.

  I walk up the beach until I see our neighbors catching their morning waves. Declan wades to shore and holds up a friendly hand, heading toward me.

  “Good morning.”

  I force a smile. “Hey. How’s the water?”

  “Amazing. When am I going to get you out here?”

  “I don’t surf.”

  “Well, there’s always a first time.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are we still on for today?”

  I nod. “Yeah, same time?”

  “Sure, or you can come a little early and we can grill out lunch.”

  “We’d love to.”

  I freeze from the sou
nd of Trick’s voice as Declan focuses his attention behind me.

  “Hey, Trick! Finally came out of your cave, huh?”

  “I did.” His words are clipped.

  Declan’s forehead wrinkles with confusion. I’m sure he can feel the iciness between me and Trick even with the sun shining on us. “So … lunch for six today?”

  I force yet another smile and give him a slow nod.

  “Great, see you in about an hour.” He jogs off toward the rest of the group.

  “Come.”

  I dig my feet farther into the sand. “I’ll come when I’m damn good and ready.”

  “You’ll see your boyfriend soon enough. For now you need to come home with your husband.”

  I find my feet in seconds, toe to toe with him. “I’m going to forget you said that because I. Love. You. I’ve been helping Declan study. Period! The difference between us is I would rather be with you. I choose you, even when you break my fucking heart.” I pivot, trudging my way back to the house.

  *

  I lock myself in our room for the next hour and thankfully Trick lets me be. The visit to the beach was to once again lay claim to me … another pissing contest, only Declan doesn’t get it. He acknowledges I’m a married woman and shows no interest in me beyond friendship. Why my egomaniac husband can’t see that is beyond me. For someone who shows insane talent for recognizing detail, he only sees what he wants to see when it comes to me.

  When my hour is up, I breeze past Trick in the kitchen and head out the front door. He catches up to me before I reach the path to Declan’s. Without saying anything, he takes my hand. I don’t squeeze back; instead, I let my fingers fall limp in his, like a child not wanting to hold their parent’s hand across the street.

  “Welcome!” Colby says with a huge grin as we walk up the back stairs.

  Declan and Wes flip the fish on the grill and Mallory jumps up, still wearing her bikini.

  “Hey, Trick. Haven’t seen you at yoga lately.” She adjusts the ties to her top, hiking up her cleavage.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow.” He smiles, and I don’t look at him long enough to see if he’s focused in on the Weiner Mobile. Mallory’s rack will probably be the next thing his hand just has to draw.