by Delia Steele
“Yeah, shit. I meant to get up, but I never set the alarm.” Looking down, I see my phone beside my hand. I remember trying to call Clay and check the log. The log shows the last call lasted 1:17:03, meaning Clay listened to me sleep before he hung up. He listened for a long time. Smiling, I pick up the phone and notice it’s now 6:47 p.m. “I can be ready and down there shortly. You don’t need to be late.” I pull the towel tight so I can get up and move around without showing Chico my goods.
“Nah, car’s in use. I got a guy doing a run for your pops right now. I need to ride wit’cha.”
He isn’t asking; he’s telling me, and I don’t like it. Rolling my eyes, I motion to the door. “You’re going to be late. I need to change and do my hair. Go wait in the living room, and don’t bother the fuck out of my gran or she’ll knock your fucking jaw out of place.” He smiles, and yes, it’s still fungus-infested and nasty. I shudder.
Running around the room, I find some cute, red, high-waist jean shorts and a black vest-style top that’s held together by chains in the back. It’s revealing, but it doesn’t matter. This is my normal attire when I’m not at the diner or on a business trip. I know it’s going to get chilly, so I search for a pair of boots I might have laying around here. The only ones I find end up being thigh-high leather boots with gold chains around the ankles. I throw in my huge, gold, hoop earrings and drop about fifteen gold bangles on my wrist. I apply my makeup as best I can while I jump around to get my feet in the stiletto boots. Once I finish the high, inside zip on both boots, I smack my lips once. Ready! As I look in the full-length mirror, I notice a significant difference. I wore this outfit a month ago to the movies with Clay in Atlanta, and it looked fine. Now, looking at my reflection, I look more like a harlot. I grab my bright red lipstick and apply it. Fuck it. Might as well go all out, right? I pop my lips twice more and grab my black leather choker, snapping it into place as I leave my room.
“Ready! Let’s go,” I say to Chico, who is just staring at me like I am hatching an alien out of my forehead. “LET’S. GO. STUPID!” I say again in slow motion, hoping he’ll understand me this time. I roll my eyes and tap the face of my watch as he becomes coherent. I swear… Why do I surround myself with fools? WHY, LORD, WHY?!
We end up making it to Shooters about ten after seven. Chico went flying through the door with his stick slung over his shoulder, leaving me to find a spot. I was taken aback at first because most guys throw themselves all over me, catering to my every need. For Chico to act like I am a nobody is odd… Yet it feels good. I am just normal here. At least to the ones who have no clue who I am.
My phone chirps before I make it from my car to the door. When I see it’s Clay, a pain stops me in my tracks. I miss Clay. I’ve avoided him lately because he picks up on my foul mood easily. By now he’s bound to know I’ve been at Gran’s all week. I’m sure my mother has called him and given him the rundown. I want to hear his voice, but I don’t need the third-degree tonight. I just want to have fun. I look through the glass front of Shooters and see Chico slapping hands with some guys and laughing. His life seems so easy—if you can overlook what he does for a living. I wish Chico wasn’t employed by my father. I wish he was free and doing something more respectable. I can’t see him and not remember the happy kid he was. I think I see him as Charlie on purpose because the guy he is now—Chico—makes me sick. However, he’ll have to do. He is the only person who seems to have time or room for me in his life. He is here, and he isn’t family. And he didn’t leave me to run off with Rory. It’s the best I have. Besides, it’s what I deserve.
I send Clay’s call to voicemail and silence my phone before sliding it into my pocket. I plan to enjoy my night. Tomorrow, I will go home and pack for my days in Atlanta. Mother feels I need to go check the books yet again. I’m not dumb. She thinks sending me there to “work” will keep me happy. She’s wrong; it does just the opposite. Having to turn around and leave after only a few days is just another reminder that they all moved on and I am still in Monroe Falls. It gets harder to swallow every time. I shove the door to Shooters open and stroll in with one agenda: HAVE FUN!
There are guys standing everywhere—names marked in bright chalk on a board at the bar—and girls wearing less than what I have on. I scan the room and work myself towards the bar. I need a beer to endure this shit hole.
“Get over here, Mando, and bring ya boy a beer, please.” I cut my eyes over at Chico. He isn’t even looking at me. Already back to fist bumping and talking to people. After I get my beer, I head over to a stool close to his table. “Hey, baby, where’s my beer?” he asks as he reaches for mine. Oh, hell no!
“First off, don’t touch my beer; you ain’t drinking anything of mine with those teeth. When was the last time you brushed them nasty chomps? And secondly, I ain’t ya baby! Get that shit out’cha head, homie. I don’t give this shit to just anyone,” I motion towards my spread legs, “so take yo nasty ass on over to the bar and get your own damn beer! K, thanks.” I turn towards the corner, giving Chico my back. As if I would ever let him call me “baby.” I may ignore Clay’s calls, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love him…and only him. My ignoring him is me loving him. He doesn’t deserve this shit. I just hope he’s smart enough to walk away when the time comes because I doubt I could ever leave him. He is so wonderful to me. Too wonderful.
My eyes catch these guys over in the corner. They are punching this machine that tests their strength, but they are so drunk they are barely connecting with the machine. I smile, watching the dramatic scene with each one trying to outdo the other. They look like Springer rejects. I slide off my stool and stroll over to them, standing with my hip cocked out and my beer dangling between two fingers. I watch and wait. It doesn’t take long for them to notice me. One of the guys may as well be mind-raping me with the way he’s watching me. That’s fine, as long as he doesn’t touch me.
“What can we do for you, sexy?” the most sober of the bunch asks me.
“I want a turn.” I nod towards the machine. “I’ll bet a pitcher of beer I can outhit all of you.” Smiling and pouting my lips out in a sassy pose. They burst into laughter, but I don’t falter. I know I got this. I am sober and pissed; they are drunk and seeing double. “Well?” I say, setting my beer down on the ledge and stepping up to the machine. “Don’t be a bunch of pussies. Someone drop a quarter in.” I crack my knuckles and make a scene of stretching my body in a lithe dancer’s pose. I am about to school these drunk trash bags. The quarter drops, the boys hoot, and the machine lights up. All the red dots connect, and I watch and wait. The second the board lights up ‘GO’, I pull back with every ounce of hate and anger I have in me. I remember every time my mother has said “Poor Rory” or “You should be more like Rory.” I remember every time Rory had issues picking Rome and I had to watch him pine over her. I remember when she chose Ashley as a friend while I was in school. I remember my father calling me names and being ashamed of me, while my mother refused to stand up for me. And I see Chico, out the corner of my eye, handing some guy in the corner a tiny bag. He thinks no one notices, but I see it all. Chico should still be Charlie, my friend. He shouldn’t be Chico, my father’s Number One drug dealer. I take all that rage, pull my arm back, and let it fly. I hit the speed bag so hard I scream in pain, but the bag flies up into the machine, and with every beep of the strength number growing, the guys get quieter. We stand watching as I rub the pain from my hand. The machine dings repeatedly, and the entire bar goes silent. Everything seems to be in slow motion as I look around. All eyes are on this machine. A few seconds later, the thing goes crazy—the light on top twirling and sirens wailing. My eyes go huge as I read the screen. I not only beat these loser bastards, but I have also just set a new record. I hit that bag, and got a score of 1,567. I smile because, for once, my bullshit life has given me something to be proud of. Suddenly, arms grab me from behind and lift me into the air. “That’s my girl!”
I laugh and jerk out of Chico’s arms. �
��That was fucking awesome, right?!” I screech at him and jump into his arms for a hug. In this moment, he is my best friend again. But all good things come to an end.
The guy from last night bursts my bubble. “Well, makes sense, yo. When you grow up a thug, you need to know how to bust faces. I bet Balt put that tight little ass in all kind of shit growin’ up. I wouldn’t be surprised if she couldn’t serve us all our balls.” He grabs his junk. “I know I’d let her suck on mine if she wanted.”
Without a coherent thought in my mind, I snatch up my beer bottle and jump at the drug-infested idiot. Chico catches me midair, but not before the very end of my bottle kicks his forehead one good time.
“You piece of shit motherfucker! Balt didn’t do shit for me growing up. You fucking carpet-munching little bitch-ass fucking cum bucket! I fucking hate you! I hope you fucking overdose! You prick-ass fucking bastard.” I twist out of Chico’s arms and drop to the floor. “Fuck you, too, Chico! Find your own ride home. I’m too good for this shithole.” I spit at the punk’s feet as I walk away. As I pass the sweet owner behind the bar, I mouth, “I’m sorry.” But I never slow my stride. I can’t be here; this isn’t for me. I could kick his ass and feel good about it, but I want to go home. I want Clay. I need someone who respects me.
I drive past the turn for the trailer park and make my way over the tracks, back into Spring Lake. It’s like a time warp. You don’t notice it at first, but after days in the gray world of the park, SLC is like Oz. It’s all bright and cheerful, but it’s a charade. I know what really happens over here, and it’s not much different than over on the East side of the town.
Hitting the garage door opener, I slide into my spot beside my father’s huge Hummer. I make my way upstairs, ignoring everyone and everything. I don’t need to see them. I have a drive that is going to take me away from here for a few days. I throw a few things to wear—one nice suit in case I have to doll up—and my night stuff into a bag. Thank God I have double everything between here and Gran’s. I’ll call her and let her know I’m heading out. I just need to get to my guy. I am spinning out of control, and I hate it.
-Headed to Atlanta for a few days!
I shoot a group message to everyone: Rory, Clay, Mom, Gran, and not sure why, but I let Chico know as well. Within minutes, I am in my car with the top down and the radio blaring, Nothing but dust and Monroe Falls in my rearview. My past behind me where I want it to be. Ready or not, Atlanta, here I come!
Chapter Three
I see the Welcome to Atlanta sign, and for the first time in days, I smile. My man is so close that my legs are twitching and my thighs are quivering. This trip wrapped itself up fast. It’s usually a three-hour drive, but today, it took me two hours and twenty minutes. I need to be here. I stick to the bypass as I roll through Atlanta. The lights call to me, but Clay’s home has a back entrance, and tonight, I just want to get to him. I’m supposed to be here on business to check the books, but we all know Rory keeps those books in check better than even I could. Rory was never big on living the city life, but she has adjusted well. Saige was Rory’s priority and she was Rome’s, so they made it work. All of them. Including Clay.
I fly past the exit and make my way towards my oasis. It’s amazing that after all these years I am still not here…still not where I want to be. But I can’t do that to Clay. I’m not strong enough to let him go even though I know he can do better. He will get tired of me and break it off eventually. He has to. Clay has made a great life for himself here: co-owning the garage and towing service, loyal friends by his side…a real life.
Clay has a nice spot out to himself. It’s a small place, but it’s his. I click the garage opener and pull into my spot beside Clay’s truck. He had the same one in high school. Funny, I never noticed until now, even though Clay’s family likely has more than mine does, he has never acted that way. He’s a simple, down-to-earth guy. I grab my bag and head inside, hitting the button to shut the door back. The house is dark, and the TV is off. Clay is either in bed already or gone out. He didn’t expect me until tomorrow morning, but after the night I had, tonight was the better choice for me. I needed to feel something besides anger, and he is the only thing real in my world. My only comfort. Besides Gran.
Working my way through the house, I notice the nice glow coming from the bathroom. When I turn into the doorway to the bedroom, I see him sprawled out on his stomach in all his manly glory—body golden brown from long days in the sun, muscles straining against his lean figure, begging to burst free. And, oh, that tight ass! His body is covered in a glow of either sweat from a hard day at work or a fresh shower. I assume the latter since he is in nothing but a pair of Carolina blue basketball shorts. He is so beautiful to me. I lean against the doorframe, refusing to move. I need to take in this site. Appreciate what I have. Because one day, I won’t be so lucky.
Clay’s home is much the same as he is: simple, clean, and manly. I look around the small room. It’s tidy, and the furniture is sparse. There’s a bed on a simple frame and a dresser that doesn’t match, no curtains or souvenirs from places I know he has been. The only picture in the entire room is the one by his bed—one of us from the first year we hooked up. Two kids having fun. I think I knew, even back then, that I loved him. He was sitting on the floor, watching me on the sofa at Rory’s. I had my head hung back and my eyes closed, laughing at his goofiness. We were so young in that picture. His body still boyishly scrawny, unlike the marvelous man he is lying before me.
I drop down softly and crawl up the bed, hovering over Clay, and start moving my lips slowly up the backs of his legs. He barely twitches and mumbles something unintelligible. I continue up his bare back and whisper kisses across his chiseled shoulders, sliding in beside him. I find myself surprised that the movement doesn’t startle him; he hasn’t really moved at all. I run my hand through the short hair on the side of his head, and then trace a finger along his jaw. Clay is such a beautiful creature. Not the mouth-watering, sex-me-up hot, but rather a mysterious beauty—one you want to climb inside of, hoping to decipher his secrets. Especially the one hidden in his pants. From the dirty blonde hair atop his head to those faultless, innocent eyes—that are nothing like Chico’s dead fish eyes—Clay draws you in with more than just lust. His attractiveness compares to Rome’s, but it’s on a whole other level. Where Rome gives me a bitch boner, Clay pulls at my heartstrings. Of course, that could simply be because I’m in love with Clay.
“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper as I trail my hand down the exposed part of his side and slowly towards the crease of muscle at his hip. The lower my hand slides, the more he starts to move; and the more he moves, the more he mutters. The contrast of our skin isn’t as obvious nowadays; he is as bronze as I am. I notice his head and hips aren’t the only things starting to move. His shorts are drawing tight as his one-eyed pussy pirate starts to wake up. He shifts, causing my hand to slip from his hip. He runs his hand under his body and adjusts himself before rolling to his back, giving me more access. It’s only a second before he is snoring again. I gently rub him through the material of his jersey shorts, and he picks back up with the moving. This time, though, he lets out a groan; and instead of adjusting, he starts palming his junk, involuntarily nudging my hand out of the way. In that instant, it goes from a game of seduction to an all-out Mandomania moment! I just can’t resist fucking with him. Clay is as modest as I am licentious. The one time I caught him touching himself, he was so embarrassed he didn’t speak to me for four straight days. I know it’s childish to fuck with him like I do, but I never said I acted my age. I lean in low and softly blow across his bare chest while I skim my finger over his pecs, letting low moans escape my lips every so often. It takes no time for him to react. His hand contracts around his penis, gripping it tightly, and his body softly bucks with need. “I want you so bad, baby,” he groans out. His eyes drift slightly open, but I can tell by the glossy film over them that he isn’t with me…not yet. Another strangled grunt rips fr
om him as his hand moves faster up and down his shaft. With a more forceful buck, his body bumps mine as I whisper in his ear, “I’m here.” In a matter of seconds, the glossy dream-induced gaze is gone and his eyes are wide open with realization. He lies there staring at me, refusing to let the grip go, knowing if he lets that monster go, I could very well make this much worse for him. I wouldn’t right now, though. The look of love in his eyes has me ensnared. I see the corner of his lip tip up, and within seconds he is tickling me and moving his weight on top of me.
“When did you get here, love?” I look up into his eyes. I know he is pretending he isn’t embarrassed. The pink flush of his cheeks is giving him away, though.
“Just a few minutes ago. You looked tired.” His hands frame my face as he lets his weight trap me against the mattress. This is my guy—the perfect gentleman.
“You look more perfect today than when you left here last. I’m so glad you’re home.” As he lowers his lips to mine, I let the moment take me away. Though, it doesn’t escape me that he referred to this as my home.
Clay slides his hands down my sides, lightly scratching at my skin, leaving a tingling trail of desire in their wake. My emotions are everywhere. I feel like a ship in a hurricane’s waves. I crave him, I need him, I adore him, I hate him, I resent him, but mostly…I don’t deserve him.
“Make me forget, Clay. It’s been a bad week.” I feel his mouth as he works his way down my body, following the trail his hand just made. He licks and nips at my skin as he goes.
“Love, you smell like smoke,” he notes curiously as he dispenses of my clothes.
“Yeah, I went out for a bit and then decided I wanted to be here.” It was explanation enough. My red lace thong slips down my legs, and his face replaces them, covering my coo-cah cave! My back bows off the bed, and my mind soars with pleasure. Clay is a manly man, but he knows how to please his girl. He is so tuned in to my body. He always makes sure I get mine first. I glance down over my arched stomach, and our eyes meet. Every touch from that moment on is magnified, sending me reeling, hands digging deep into his satin sheets. I let out a scream filled with longing as I come. Before I can recover, his body is pressing against me and his Mandoconda is penetrating his willing victim. He slams into me hard, hitting his mark. His arms are under mine, hands gripping my shoulders. He pulls me to him as he pushes himself against me, harder and deeper. I meet him thrust for thrust. The heat of our bodies is producing sweat beads that cover us from head to toe, slickening our skin-to-skin contact. The friction, mixed with the groans and moans of lust and love, is enough to send me over the edge again. My body convulses with pleasure before melting into a blackout.