by Vivian Cove
“Jesus Christ, would you listen to yourself? I swear to god, you’re acting like you did this morning before he popped your cherry.”
“He did not pop my cherry! The road had already claimed me long, long ago. He means nothing, alright? NOTHING!”
Candy shakes her head. “Look, you can pretend all you want but it doesn’t change shit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Yeah, you do. You’re still too afraid to admit you like the guy.”
What? What?? What???? “I do not like him! I hate him!”
“And not only do you like him,” Candy continues, “but you liked what he did to you.”
I put my hands over my ears and stick out my tongue and make la-la-la-I’m-not-listening-to-you noises.
“AND YOU WANT IT HIM TO DO IT TO YOU AGAIN!” Candy yells.
Alright, that is it! I unplug my ears and ball my hands into fists. “I do not want it to happen again, do you know why? Because while Damien was doing his thing it might have been nice, but right now, I feel like an oversized, Jackson Pollock themed birthday cake someone picked up at the strip mall. Guess what? The party’s over. I’m all eaten except a few misshapen hunks at the bottom because after indulging in two slices drunk Uncle Lester just started scooping cake up with his hands. And everyone who had once enjoyed me is now off cursing about how much cake they ate, wondering if that cake was really all that good in the first place, and realizing that even if it was the best cake they’d ever had there is no way eating so much of it was worth the swelling in their stomach and the sickness rising up in their throats. So I’m just sitting there, a deformed, abandoned, despised cake, next to the deflated balloons, melted ice cream, and the trash bin full of American flag themed paper plates. It’s only a matter of time before the yellow jackets show up!”
Candy scowls. “Damn, girl.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Damn. I was once a sugary palace of goodness. Now what am I? A lumpy carcass of high fructose corn syrup, burnt up one-time-use wax candles that have already been licked, and childhood dreams that have been popped by Damien.”
“No, I mean damn, that was seriously detailed.” Candy presses her cheek to my forehead, concerned. “You don’t feel warm.”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“Alright, first things first. Damien does a lot of crazy shit, but he does not go around to children’s birthday parties popping their balloons, eating their cake, and breaking their dreams.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Um…yes I do.”
“Why? Do follow him around, Candy? All the time, everywhere he goes? If not, how can you really know?”
“Christ, are you listenin’ to your crazy self?”
“Look, you’ve never had Damien at your birthday party. Do you know what he used to do at every single party Cheyenne put on for me as a kid? He’d come over and all of a sudden, all the girls would be more interested in him than in me. He’d just sit there like a king while they hand fed him cake and ice cream. And then, all of the girls who were supposed to be my new friends wanted Damien to open my presents for me. And he’d be all, No, these are Princess’ presents, I couldn’t ever open them but maybe I can help her. And then he’d pat his thigh and ask me to sit on it. And every single girl would turn around and give me the stink eye.”
Candy swallows. “Now that you mention it…I do kind of remember that.”
“Yeah, I bet you do! Because the first birthday I invited you to—the first birthday I celebrated here—you turned around and gave me the stink eye too!”
“We weren’t besties yet! You can’t hold that against me.”
My little preadolescent heart shatters from the memory. “You chose the Demon Spawn over me!”
“I did not!”
“You sure as shit did! Do you honestly not remember offering to open my presents for me since I didn’t want to, and then crawling into his lap?”
“I don’t remember that,” Candy says, her face guilty.
“Yes you do! Cheyenne had to freaking rip you up off him. You were digging your nails into his skin. You left scratch marks! We had to get out the first aid kit, and while Cheyenne was applying hydrogen peroxide soaked cotton balls to his bloody neck, you tried to crawl back on him again so you could fix it!”
“I was a kid, okay? Kids do stupid shit.”
“You were an animal Candy! You bit one of the little girls who tried to stop you!”
“Look, that’s all in the past. There’s never been anything between me and Damien. Never.”
I glare at her. “Except at that birthday party.”
“Where I was like ten or something!”
“Yeah. Ten. So you’ve been plotting this with him for almost a decade.”
Candy sighs. “Alright, we’re starting over. I haven’t been plotting anything with Damien, and tonight didn’t go how either of us planned.”
“Obviously!” That’s my response to the second part. The jury’s still out on the first.
“But it wasn’t a total bust,” Candy continues. “Damien had to admit his feelings for you. He finally got through to you.”
“Yeah, he ‘got through’ a little too well. How the hell am I supposed to look at him now?”
Candy slaps her thigh. “Like any girl who’s had a wild one night stand with a sexy guy. You hold your head up high, tease him till his balls are ultraviolet, and then cock your finger when you’re ready for round two.”
“There will be no round two,” I stammer. “This was a one-time thing. Damien thinks of me as just a quick fuck.”
Candy raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Did he say that to you?”
I swallow. We’ve got stuff to talk about, Princess. When I get back. I’m sorry to leave you like this. It shouldn’t be like this our first time. That’s right. He’d said “our” first time, like it had been his first time too. But it hadn’t been his first time. Did I need to remind myself of all the awful nights spent listening to his headboard pound against the wall between our bedrooms like it was trying to break it down?
No. I totally did not. “Maybe not in those words exactly, but I know that’s what he meant,” I tell Candy.
Candy rolls her eyes. “Uh huh.”
“Seriously!”
“You’re hopeless,” Candy mutters. “I’m withholding all the chocolate I bought until you tell me the truth.”
My ears perk up. “Chocolate?”
“Yeah. I made the cab stop and got some peanut butter cups on the way back.”
“You did?!?” Why were these not already in my belly? WHY???
Candy gives me a pitying look. “Girl, you have got to stop giving in whenever someone waves candy in front of your face. It’s a $1.50 treat that you consume in under ten seconds, not a diamond ring.”
“But I can’t eat diamonds,” I pout.
Candy shakes her head, laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking of how dumb Damien is. All he had to do all these years was stick a candy bar down his pants and you’d have wrestled him to the ground and ripped those pants right off him.”
“I would not have!”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Alright, maybe I would have, but after I woulda just taken the candy bar and run off.”
Candy gives me a look of disbelief. “Yeah right. If Damien’s even half as big as the legends say…”
I can feel my cheeks turning a very telling shade of red.
Candy laughs. “Come on. Let’s have some ice cream and watch a movie and you can tell me all about the awesome and pretend it was awful.”
“It was awful,” I whisper.
“Uh huh,” Candy soothes, patting me on the back as we head back to my room. We really did need to fix the busted down doors, but there was plenty of time to do that after girl talk and chocolate.
Plenty of time.
I mean, putting off somet
hing big like that rarely led to disaster, right?
Chapter 3
So, fixing a door is kinda hard.
You wouldn’t think it would be. (Or maybe you’re smarter than Candy and me, and you totally think it would be). You see, doors are awkwardly shaped. It’s annoying to hold them up and keep them still while trying to put it back together.
“What the hell!?” Candy groans.
“What the hell yourself,” I reply smartly.
Huffing, Candy lets the door fall on her shoulder. “Did you just look at me like you were proud of what you said?”
I swallow. It looks like Candy didn’t think my smart reply was actually all that smart. “No.”
“Yes, you totally did.”
I frown. “Look, are we gonna argue over whether or not my retorts are awesome—”
“They aren’t,” Candy butts in.
“Or,” I continue, ignoring her, “are we going to get these doors hung before my dad gets here?”
“I’d love to get these doors hung. What’s taking you so long?”
“Hey, this is harder than it looks.”
“Coming from the girl who said this would be easy peasy because she’s so good at fixing motorcycles and a door is so much simpler than a motorcycle!”
I bite my bottom lip. “Yeah, about that. I’m not so sure motorcycles are actually more complex than doors anymore…”
“What the fuck? It’s like four screws!”
“Yeah, but this whole thing is awkward as hell.”
Candy groans. “My tum hurts. We totally shouldn’t have eaten all those candies.”
I spin on her. “Blasphemy.”
“No girl, the only thing that’s blasphemous is the size of your ass.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you making fun of my big, beautiful butt!”
Candy rolls her eyes. “Point is, I shouldn’t have let it happen.”
“Oh yeah? Well then I shouldn’t heave let Sharknado happen!”
After our initial pow-wow in the washing room, Candy and I had decided to engage in a little bit of girl talk before getting shit done. So I’d gotten out some snacks and Candy had picked a horror movie from the stash she left in my room and we talked about life and love and stupid Damien during Sharknado.
We could have probably spent our time a little more wisely.
Just saying.
I mean, it was between my dad coming home to find two busted bedroom doors, or Sharknado. When I pointed this out to Candy, she’d looked at me like the choice was so fucking obvious that you shouldn’t even try to argue over it, and then proceeded to slip in the DVD of Sharknado. Again, my freaking “best friend” had led me in the wrong direction when I was emotionally weak and vulnerable and damn I needed to stop being so distracted whenever she handed me a candy bar in the middle of an argument.
Though she’s sweating and groaning, Candy still tries to defend herself. “What the hell? I can’t talk sex and boys without a horror movie playing in the background, you know that!”
I glance at the golden horizon. “All I’m saying is that we’re gonna have Bikernado if we don’t get this shit solved fast.”
Candy looks out my window at the rising sun, panicking as she no doubt images a group of muscular, tattooed, badass bikers riding their roaring motorcycles up a tornado. “Okay, okay. Back to work. Let’s not waste time with this stupid shit any longer!”
I nod as she hikes the door back up on her back and start screwing, or at least trying to. But screwing had been my downfall this evening. Screwing Damien, screwing around with Candy, and now unsuccessfully trying to screw this awful door back together!
Fuck screws! I finally take the back of the screwdriver and start wailing on the screws like its a hammer. Hammers were more straightforward. They got shit done.
Candy looks at me like I’ve gone crazy, and would have undoubtedly told me about it, but at that exact moment we hear something even more terrifying than a tornado filled with nature’s greatest predators ripping through our neighborhood. It’s the battle cry of motorcycles returning home after a night of debauchery.
“Get this freaking door up, girl!” Candy yells.
I panic and start stabbing the screwdriver into the wall, trying to attach something to something, but all I end up doing is making holes in the doorframe.
Candy inhales sharply.
I go still.
Because at that moment, I hear something even scarier than the roar of motorcycles—the sound of Candy breathing. Why is that so scary? It means the motorcycles have stopped.
Cursing, I run to my window. Men are getting off their bikes. Tons and tons of men. Way more men than just those in our club.
“What the hell’s going on?” Candy asks over my shoulder.
“Don’t know,” I whisper back, watching them trample the lawn in front of the shop.
“Why are there so many bikers here?”
My heart thumps in my throat. “I don’t know Candy!”
And then I see him.
It’s just his back but I know. He moves around a bike the same way he’d moved around me—calmly and skillfully, seducing it without even trying. He’s not as old as some of the other men in his club, but something about him radiates power and demands respect.
Then, he turns.
It is him. I grip the windowsill as my stomach drops. I squeeze my thighs together. I stop breathing.
He squints in the morning light, thumbs looped in his faded jeans as he studies our compound. His hair’s a little longer than it should be. I remember how silky it was, how it felt in my hands as I pushed his head down into my…
Oh God. Had I really done that?
“Who is that?” Candy whispers, voice husky.
I don’t need to ask who she’s talking about. I know. There was one very important event I’d left out of our conversation about last night. And while Candy was usually pretty understanding, she would not forgive me from holding back on the details of my little encounter with him.
I breathe faster, unable to look away. I don’t know his name, but I’ve had his mouth on me—his tongue in me. And now he’s using that tongue and mouth to…talk to my dad.
Oh fuck.
I leap away from the window before either of them sees me.
Fuck!!!
Candy falls back with me. “It will be alright, okay? Just chill.”
No it won’t be alright. Nothing will ever be alright again!
“They probably won’t even walk past here. I mean, why would they walk those boys through the club’s living quarters?”
I shut my eyes. Breathe, Annie. Listen to Candy. What she’s saying makes sense. Why would they come through here? I mean, it wasn’t like they were gonna have a badass biker slumber party!
The side door to the living quarters slams open. Candy and I share a look of horror as a stampede of men in boots echoes down the hall.
Oh fuck! The doors!
Candy and I double time it into the hallway just in time to meet the mob. Three guys stand between us and the mass of bikers: the man who ate out my pussy last night, the guy who’d taken my virginity last night, and my father (who I thankfully did not see last night).
I’m in my pink bunny slippers and old, thick, balled-up gray sweatpants that have Can’t Touch This scrawled across the thigh. Sexy, right? Well, what if I also had a neon green T-shirt I got from bench warming for the JV basketball team in 8th grade? And what if our mascot had been a nasty purple bumble bee? And what if that bumble bee was doing a slam dunk above a hoop that had SLAMMIN! written across the top?
When a girl finds herself in front of a guy she recently had intimate relations with (or two guys, but who’s counting?), she does not want to look like she went home, got into her most comfortable clothes, and stuffed her face with chocolates while crying to movies and holding her best friend, even if that’s exactly what she did.
Luckily, the carnage from Damien’s pre-sex rampage is sli
ghtly more surprising than my get-up.
My dad crouches, running his fingers over the splintered doors. Damien’s looking at me, the look on his face clearly saying: Oh fuck, I shoulda cleaned that up.
My twitching eye comes back, and I hope it communicates: Yes, you should have cleaned up your mess instead of leaving me alone to try to console myself with chocolate while watching sharks in tornados rip innocent people to shreds!
More bikers are starting to congregate at the end of the hallway, loudly wondering what the fuck is taking so long. My dad wipes his hands on his jeans as he stands, scowling.
Oh shit. He knows. “Um, daddy…” I whisper.
He turns on the president of the Judas’ Sons MC. “You.”
The guy’s eyes turn dark. It isn’t a panty melting darkness, its’ one that promises violence. “I suggest you chose your next words carefully.”
“What did you do to her?” My dad yells, stomping on the broken doors.
The man’s lip curls as he glances at me. “Her? I’ve never seen that ‘girl’ before in my life.”
Did he just say girl as if it had quotation marks around it? I know he’s just trying to pretend like we don’t know each other to avoid drama, but that was seriously harsh! I’ve never heard anyone refer to me so dismissively. It feels like he just knocked the wind out of me, but I know I have to stop this. My dad is stepping forward, about to do something incredibly stupid, and it’s all my fault.
I shut my eyes, ignoring the pain in my chest, and leap between them. “Stop it, dad! This man had nothing to do with this!”
My father’s face twists with confusion. “Annie?”
“Annie?” a deep voice behind me whispers. Suddenly, a strong hand grips my shoulder, turning me around.
He looks down at me with complete shock, eyes taking me in like he’s seeing me for the first time. And I realize, at that moment, that he actually did not recognize me before.
Fuck! I wish I’d known that! I woulda hid in my closet. My face is all splotchy from crying, and the make-up my tears hadn’t quite washed off is even splotchier. The weird places where it’s decided to migrate itch—the edges of my nose, the center of my cheeks, my freaking chin. And did I mention my shirt is neon green, a color that looks good on precisely zero people? And that I’d used said neon green t-shirt as a handkerchief for the past few hours?