Grey

by Aundrea Ascencio

"I know what you're trying to do," Chantel snapped at him. "Don't assume I'm totally clueless. It's not going to work. It never will."

  "Shh." He held a finger to his lips. "Just shut up and enjoy silence."

  Before Chantel could argue, Roswell stepped into the room from the garage. "I have some good news and I have some bad news. Good news is it's fixable, and I can have it done by tomorrow. Bad news is, there's a lot of damage replacement on the driver's side that might require some extensive work."

  "Like what?" Chantel asked.

  "Replacing the window is already going to be a pretty penny out the door, but some of the glass shards got jammed into the window track and it might need to be replaced. There's a lot of scratches and scuff marks on the door too. You might need to get that touched up. Out the door, I can set you up with about 500?"

  "500?" Chantel cried.

  "At least. Paint job alone typically costs about 2 to 300 because I have to sand off the old paint and apply a new coat, so I'm taking a cut for you here," Roswell told her. "That's the best price you're going to get anywhere around here."

  "I can do without the paint job," Chantel said. "Just stick to the window."

  "It won't make much of a difference. I'm practically giving you the paint job for free."

  "I can't afford to pay that right now," Chantel answered, grabbing her purse to leave. "I'll have to find someone else."

  "You said you could have it done by tomorrow?" Eric asked.

  "Saturday, at the latest."

  "No, I'll pass," Chantel said, fishing out her car keys. "Thank you-"

  "Do what you got to do to get it fixed," Eric interrupted. "I'll take care of it. But make it 300, and I'll double what we were talking about earlier for your trouble."

  "I don't usually make deals like that, but I'll make this one exception because the lady needs it done. I just need your signature here, and your payment information on this side. Fill that out while I print out the receipt."

  "Eric, no," Chantel immediately protested once Roswell was gone. "I'm taking the car somewhere else."

  "Too late. I already wrote on it."

  Chantel ripped the pen out of his hand and said firmly, "I don't know why you're doing this, if it's some sick kind of psychological game you're playing, but it ends here. I can handle my own business."

  "And go after Mouse for your window? I was there when it happened, which makes me partly responsible for the damages. Just be happy I came willingly and you didn't have to drag me to court."

  Chantel couldn't argue with that. She needed that window fixed and could do nothing but watch powerlessly as he scribbled his information on the paper.

  "So is this what guilt looks like?" she asked. "All the crap you did to me last year. You think you can just wave some money in my face and sign it all off? You can't, Eric. Nothing can take that away, and after all this is over, I don't want to see you again. If you ever come near me, you better be ready to fight because I will tear you apart. I may not be able to do it myself, but I've got friends in high places. Watch. Your. Back."

  She snatched her bag off the chair and marched out of the room, unable to tolerate the stench of vodka any longer.

  Eric watched her leave in silence before turning back to the auto repair form. He waited pensively over the line that asked for his signature. It wasn't Chantel's threat that made him pause and think. There were larger issues out there, bigger than the problems of Chantel Pari and the sheltered little bubble she believed she was so secure inside.

  By signing that paper, he knew he'd be risking everything, and that her life, or rather a life with him lurking nearby, would continue to become difficult. It wasn't he that was her enemy. She had nothing to fear. It was the people who dared to cross her that he made his enemies, and the realization of that hadn't become apparent to him until he had fought Mouse. What other chaos could he bring to their lives? What other friend would he have to fight because that person crossed the line with her? She was a danger to his life as he was to hers, and there could only be hell to pay for it.

  It was better for her and for him if he walked away, but the girl's window needed fixing. He'd have to take care of it like he said he would, and after it was done, he would then need to muster enough self-discipline to overcome his yearlong obsession for Chantel Pari before things got out of hand.

  He glanced down at the auto form again, sighed, and scribbled his signature across the line.

  Deal.

  Though Eric had done what he promised, and the matter of who would pay for Chantel's repairs was settled, Chantel was not satisfied. She didn't trust Roswell to stick to the contract, and worried that if Eric wasn't around, Roswell would find some way to cheat her into paying a higher price or sell her car from under her.

  She made it clear to Eric that merely writing his credit card information on a piece of paper was not enough, and that he needed to actually physically be at Roswell's shop to see the job through.

  Despite Eric's argument that he had other plans that weekend and that babysitting her car was not his responsibility, she insisted that if it wasn't for him, she wouldn't be in that situation.

  She threatened him with calling the cops again, as she had not yet made any report about the vandalism and sexual assault of that night.

  Grudgingly, and not without his fair share of rage, Eric finally agreed to her demands, but under the condition that she stop pulling the cop card on him every time she was losing an argument.

  Chantel thus agreed to settle any future differences with him one-on-one, and to not involve the police, but only under the condition that she come with him every time he went to Roswell's shop.

  She wanted to eliminate any opportunity he might have of sneaking away and making secret deals with Roswell about her vehicle. She had both eyes and ears open, and even Roswell couldn't help but notice how tightly she had Eric by the balls.

  "Not that it's any of my business," Roswell said as he and Eric worked on Chantel's car in the garage. "But what's up with you and the black chick?"

  "Don't call her black. She'll call you a racist," Eric warned him.

  Roswell snickered and shook his head. "So you going to answer me or what?"

  "Why? You jealous?" Eric asked. "Afraid I won't call you anymore?"

  "It's unexpected, I guess, especially from you. I don't see the connection," Roswell said.

  "Does she bother you?" Eric asked. "I don't see why it matters who she is."

  "The chick walks around my garage like she pays rent, like the fucking Gestapo," Roswell said, quite humorlessly. "Does she know who she's talking to? It'll be a cold day in Hell when a woman disrespects me like that."

  "You ever read Dante's Inferno?" Eric asked him. "It's all ice, man. All ice."

  "Alright," said Roswell nodding. "It's your business. I'll respect that. But if you need my help, you know where I am, bro. I trust your judgement, but I can't sit around here and watch her make a bitch out of you. I got too much respect for you."

  "I appreciate it." Eric didn't encourage the topic further than that, but Roswell couldn't get around his puzzlement, and waited a whole ten minutes in silence for Eric's defensiveness to subside.

  When the right moment came around, he resumed, "Here's how I see it. If she's not your girl, and she's not making a bitch out of you, then you either keep her around because you're fucking her under the radar, or you want to be fucking her. It's got to be one of those two options."

  "None of the above," Eric replied.

  "Bullshit," Roswell declared. "My guess is it's not the first option because she wouldn't be here if you had already got some of that. So it's got to be option two. You haven't hit it yet. What are you waiting for, bro?"

  "Nah, she's not my type," Eric replied.

  "But that ass is. A perky ass is a perky ass, no matter what color it is. You know what I'm talking about. Don't bullshit me. I see you drooling after those plump cheeks every time she walks in here," Roswell told him. "If for once yo
u could keep your eyes on the screwdriver in your hand—the metal one I mean—then we could get something done around here."

  "Quit your bitching, bro. I'm out here doing your job and I'm not even getting paid for it."

  "You're getting something out of it. Don't play dumb, man. You just haven't found a way to get your sad little wank in there and tear that fat ass up," Roswell commented. "Don't tell me you forgot how to do it. I'll go in there and show you if I have to. We'll make a party out of it. Party. That's what you need. You need the right kind of party. I got some potent ass shit in my truck that I try out on all my bitches when they're asking me for a job. This shit will knock her out flat. It never fails."

  "I don't even want to hear about that stuff, bro," Eric said dismissively, shaking his head. "If that's how you handle things, fine, but I don't agree with that kind of stuff."

  "Before you knock it, let me just say that it's not as complicated as you think. This stuff, you don't even have to slip it in her drink. You can lace it up into anything, man. It's that versatile. See, what I like to do is...."

  However, before Roswell could finish that thought, the garage door leading into the office opened, indicating that Chantel was out of the restroom. Both he and Eric habitually stopped talking when she was around. They went back to work in absolute silence, which Chantel often noted with annoyance. She could sit there for a whole hour in their midst and they would not exchange a single word, but when she left the room even for a minute, she could hear them laughing and joking through the walls. She was almost certain they were plotting against her while she was absent, and made a habit of limiting her bathroom and snack breaks to keep an eye on them.

  She strolled around the garage with her hands locked behind her back, inspecting their progress on the repairs. They pretended not to see her, but Chantel could see Roswell hiding in the corner with his tool drawer, desperately trying not to burst out laughing. His face and ears were a tickled strawberry pink, and she hoped he exploded with the effort.

  She moved on to examine the detached handle and lock of her driver door. Then she studied the soft cream yellow color that Roswell had picked out for her door. It was a shade lighter than her original color, but she decided to save that complaint for another inspection.

  At that instant, her attention shifted from paint shades to the new window Eric was positioning over the window track of her door. She scrutinized that briefly, before her eyes finally came to rest on Eric. She watched him intently through the window glass that separated them, as if it were a magic lens that would allow her to see his most guarded secrets. It was a moment before Eric finally looked up from his work and met her gaze. She waited for him to look away, but he continued gazing at her, more reassured and relaxed than she was about it.

  Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she looked away and turned her attention to the posters Roswell had taped on the walls. Most of them were naked models posing next to classic muscle cars. She raised an eyebrow at a topless black model cupping her breasts as she laid over the hood, spreading her thighs to reveal her scanty orange G-string, which left nothing to the imagination. Roswell snickered louder when he saw the appalled expression on Chantel's face.

  She quickly moved on to the mirror nearby. For a while, she busied herself by primping her makeup and tousling her curly hair to encourage more volume. However, eventually she found Eric's reflection in the background of the mirror. His concentration was dedicated entirely to the fitting of the new window, and this time he was unaware that she was watching, which gave her liberty to take her time. She watched his hands most of all. They were nice for guy's hands. There was a certain balance of grace and firmness that coaxed the window into place. Hands like that could fix anything.

  Once the window was set, she watched his green eyes scan over the edges to make sure everything was sealed tightly. Then his eyes found hers again through the mirror, and Chantel quickly averted them. Embarrassed at being caught again, she fidgeted her hands awkwardly and marched out of the garage.

  "Stuck up bitch," Roswell muttered spitefully.

  "Only when she's around me," Eric replied. "It's my fault though. We got off to a bad start a while back. She's never going to get over it."

  "I swear, if you say something faggish right now, you can fix your own damn car," Roswell warned him. "None of that I've never felt this way about a girl bullshit."

  "No, but I think you're right," Eric said. "I do want to fuck her."

  "Legally, she's got to say yes."

  "She'll say yes," Eric replied. "And if I play it the right way, she won't want nobody else's unless it’s mine. I'll make her believe she can't have it better anywhere else."

  "And then what? You're just gonna get bored and drop her like you did that Tara chick."

  Eric shrugged. "I didn't say anything about long term. I got other priorities waiting for me in Colorado," he said. "I don't need any extra attachments."

  "That's the Eric I know," Roswell approved. "Pump and dump."

  "She doesn't think it could happen," Eric said. "She thinks she's so much better than I am. I just need one night and the right moment. She won't know it hit her."

  "I don't know," Roswell doubted. "She's a straight edge. The wine and dine type. You can tell just by looking at her. She's not dropping any panties for nobody unless he's offering her a ring."

  "You haven't seen what I've seen," Eric told him. "She can't stop looking at me. She wants it. She's just got a lot of pride, like me. But she's also naïve. The whole nice guy thing's got her stumbling over herself."

  "Well, you've always been a manipulative bastard."

  "Keeps things interesting."

  "Tell you what. I'm throwing a kickback tomorrow. If you get her to come with you, I'll buy you back this case of beer," Roswell offered. "If you end up fucking her that night, I'll cover the bill for these repairs, and I'll give you double what we agreed on."

  "Double and a half."

  "Nah, man, you got to drill every orifice of that body for a price like that."

  "Done," Eric shook on it. "All three holes. Triple the price."

  "No bribes. No intoxication. She has to come to you willingly and I want proof. That's the deal."

  "How am I supposed to prove that?"

  "I don't know, but you better figure it out. I'm not just handing over three free shares of my best shit out of the goodness of my heart. You got to work for that, son. Make me proud."

  57 Minutes

  To begin, Chantel wanted to understand what she was listening to, which can be a challenge when someone's constantly screaming in your ear. So she turned off Eric's music.

  Eric wanted to slit his wrists when she switched the radio to her favorite R&B album. So he turned off Chantel's music.

  Chantel then threatened to throw his mp3 player out the window, and Eric threatened to break her window again if she touched his stuff.

  Thus, on that fine, crisp, and sunny morning, they rode back to campus together in silence, a heaviness only graced by the sound of happy birds singing outside their window.

  Of course, peace and quiet was a challenge for Eric, much to Chantel's annoyance. He reclined his seat all the way back, pushed on his dark aviator shades, and whistled and drummed his fingers to a beat in his head.

  Chantel clenched the steering wheel tightly. Unfortunately, she still had to endure 57 long minutes before she could throw him out of her car.

  After a while, he got bored with whistling and started flat out beatboxing into his hands.

  "Oh my god!" she roared. "Why? Why must you do that?"

  "Congratulations on getting editor, by the way," he said abruptly. "I meant to tell you that sooner."

  She ignored him.

  He kept quiet for five minutes after that, but she was fooling herself if she thought he'd keep it up.

  "You know what your problem is?" he said. "You don't know how to relax. You're too uptight. You just can't go with the flow."

  "I am
not uptight," she protested.

  "You're a control freak. You can't just let things happen. It would kill you to let go for just one second of your life."

  "So you're my shrink now?"

  "Just an observation," Eric said, folding his hands behind his head. "We got a whole forty-five minutes before we get to campus. We can talk, you know. It doesn't have to be like this."

  "And your idea of small talk is to point out other people's flaws?" she asked. "Do girls really dig that? Hey, girl, you know what your problem is? You're fat and ugly. Do something about it."

  "One, I do not sound like that, and two, I would never say that. Not to her face."

  "Oh, but it was definitely ok to call me a nigger in front of everybody last year?" Chantel demanded. "What's wrong with this picture?"

  "Which brings me to my next point," he went on quickly. "You won't let bygones be. You hold on until you're paranoid, and then you start misinterpreting benign shit and making conclusions that are completely out of context of-"

  "Did you or did you not call me a nigger last year-"

  "I know what I called you, alright?" he snapped irritably. "That's not the point."

  "So the devil wants to teach me about vices," she said. "How typical."

  "The devil?" he asked, grinning. "You've seen the devil to know that I look like him?"

  "I only need to see you to know he exists," she remarked.

  "Damn, do you ever stop? You're missing the point," he said. "As a friend, or as an acquaintance, or whatever the hell you prefer to see me as, I believe it is in your best interest to stop stressing the fuck out. Let things fly. You might end up being a happier person. Hell, you might end up being a better editor."

  "You don't know anything about being editor," she said. "I can't just let things fly. Not when other people depend on me. That's why you wouldn't know anything about it. You don't care about anyone but Eric. That's your biggest flaw."

  "You know what else is wrong with you," he went on. "You're so wrapped up in your own little perfect world that you have no idea what's going on out there in real life. You have no experience. You write about your own bland idealisms, when there's more out there than just getting Dean's List and fighting over who gets to run your damn fiction club. You know absolutely nothing about anything, and that's why your writing sucks."