Under The Covers

by Baker, Max Q.

  Feeling horrible, my mouth gaped as I stared at her. Her eyes were welled with tears. I had no idea how she could see to drive, and the car became erratic. “Maybe you should slow down,” I suggested, but she wasn’t listening.

  Mags continued, “So in the end, I got used to not caring about anything or anyone. Very deeply and passionately not caring. Even now. It hurts me to love. The moment I start to feel anything good, I feel the pain of whatever lesson might come next to make me stronger.”

  “Mags,” I said, cautioning. She didn't respond, so I repeated, louder, “Mags!”

  "What do you think? Did it work? Am I tough enough for you?" She snuck a glance at me out of the corner of her eye. The car did a wild swerve until her eyes were back on the road. I thought we were going to be wearing a tree for permanent pajamas.

  “OK! OK! That’s enough!” I shouted. “Let’s pull over for a minute, and cool down.”

  “I’m good,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “I’m fine.

  "You want to go home? Call it a night?" My gut told me we should. She was raw. A live wire.

  “I told you I’m fine. Don’t make me say it again!”

  I gulped hard and tried to control my breathing. She might have been hard-wired not to know the meaning of fear, but I wasn’t. And I was terrified.

  Quietly, she added, “I assume you know that is personal. I have never told that to anyone before. And I do not want it repeated to anyone ever again. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t know how to say this, but your daddy is a twisted sadistic prick. Someone ought to have done something to that man.”

  “He taught me to be strong. Now promise me you will let it go and never repeat it to anyone, ever, anywhere.”

  “I do. I promise. You have my word. As long as we both shall live.”

  Mags calmed and eased her foot off the gas. Sniffing, she told me, "You’re a good person, W2. And you're a better judge of people than you think. You’re good people yourself. Better than your friend Robby would like you to be."

  I didn't know what that meant either, but I let it go.

  Somehow, we got to the restaurant in one piece. Everyone else had already eaten, and asked us what happened. "We took a different way, and went off the road. Got stuck in a ditch for a spell," I said, more or less telling the truth. I asked if there was a dessert menu.

  Mags eyes were still red from almost crying.

  "Are you both OK?" asked Bo, not reading between the lines, sounding genuinely concerned.

  Ryan teased, "Fancy the dirt and grass stains being uniformly on your backs."

  Robby was tapping his foot. His hands were clamped together, chewing on a fingernail as he stared at Mags in silence. I knew he wanted her, but he was keeping himself in check, for my sake.

  Amane watched Robby with equal determination.

  Bo suddenly understood the reference Ryan had made, and said, "Oh. You had a little impromptu outing."

  Amane asked, "Doesn't it ever get old? Doing it as much as you probably do?"

  "You have to build on your strengths, Amane. Singing would not be yours, God love you." Mags smirked and winked.

  Amane looked like a mongoose, pissed and red in the face, holding back her bared teeth. She looked at me, and asked, "And is she as good as she thinks she is?"

  That put me in an awkward position. Mags definitely took what she did seriously, and she was the best I had ever known. If I did not give her the credit she deserved, there would be hell to pay. But if I said that in front of Bo, what would it mean for my future? How could I tell the girl I wanted to be with that I was currently with the best sex I would probably ever know? I said, "Mags has no false illusions about what she can do. Beyond that, I don't kiss and tell."

  Mags bit her lip and smiled, her eyes twinkling, glancing up at me. She mumbled "Kesha" so quietly that probably no one else heard it. She was pleased with the answer, as ambiguous as it was, and pleased with the reference to one of her girl's songs.

  Chris made the mistake of spewing out some of his generic information. "Sex addiction is no different from other addictions. The person suffering from the addiction has no control over the compulsion. They suffer until they get their fix, whatever it is. And they often loathe what they have to do to satisfy the addiction."

  Mags went dark. She faced Chris, her voice sober, low, and cold. "I am not an addict. I choose what I do. When, and to whom. I define my identity. No one and nothing else has that power over me."

  He seemed surprised by her anger. "Oh. I didn't mean you." It sounded sincere.

  The deadly daggers did not leave her eyes. "I don't need dessert, thank you. I'm quite satisfied already. W2, may I take you back to your car?" She held out her hand to me.

  She was seething. I hadn't seen her this fired up before, and it made me nervous. She was going over the edge tonight. "We'll see you guys," I said awkwardly.

  Chris tried to apologize, but he spoke to the back of Mags head as she turned away.

  My eyes lingered on Bo's for a moment longer, noticing the increased size of her pupils, and then I left, following Mags.

  ***

  In her Viper, as she drove me back to my car, Mags said only four words. "I'm not an addict."

  "I never thought you were."

  [ Our Mission Statement]

  The next morning, before I had to go to work, Bo made another unannounced early-morning pass to my home. She was carrying what appeared to be a present, about the size of a shirt-box from a department store.

  First, she asked me if Mags were ok.

  I told her she was, but vaguely admitted that Mags had been having a bad night. I said Chris had really struck a nerve.

  "He didn't mean it like that," Bo told me. "It was just Chris being Chris, spewing off random facts."

  "But it was the association. Mags was deeply offended to think any of us thought of her that way," I explained. (Mags and I had spoken on the phone for a little while after we had gotten home.)

  "But she's better?" she repeated.

  "She's cooled off. Yep."

  "Good. I worry about Mags," she said.

  "Don't we all?"

  I was wondering about the gift-wrapped box that Bo had been holding in her hands, and glanced at it, to see if she wanted to explain.

  Bo cleared her throat, and said, "Oh. This?” She smiled shyly. “I wanted you to have this. Maybe I shouldn’t be giving you gifts, but it's just a little thing."

  Hesitantly, she handed it to me. It was heavy. Heavier than a shirt.

  "I didn't get you anything," I told her. "I don't even know if there's some occasion here I'm forgetting."

  "That's ok. No occasion. Just something I wanted you to have, that's all. I actually wanted this to be bigger, but time was a factor."

  "What's it for?" I asked. "You don’t have to give me anything." I tried to be nice removing the paper. I didn't want to tear it off into a million pieces in front of her. It looked like she had spent some time wrapping this; it was all pretty and tidy.

  Inside was a small painting she had done. It was a pair of Sandhill Cranes, facing apart, but with their heads tilting backwards, looking over their shoulders at one another. Their long necks and arched beaks formed a subliminal heart. It was as if they were posed, forced to be apart, but wishing they were not. Not unlike me and Bo.

  "This is very nice," I told her, feeling a little overwhelmed.

  She reminded me of the story I had told her. "You said you liked it here because you could see the Sandhill Cranes; how they always came back every spring on their way up north, and how it made you feel more secure knowing they would always come back."

  "Yeah, I remember telling you that." I looked at her painting for another moment, and took a chance. "They look a little romantic, don't they? I mean, they're givin' each other the eye over their shoulders, now aren't they?" I flashed her a smile.

  She scrutinized it, too, then agreed, "They might be." Then added, "But it's so hard to tell wi
th migrating birds. Their smiles might be painted on."

  I took down a small cross from my wall, and hung her picture there.

  "Your Ma's gonna give you a whoopin'," she told me in her best imitation of a Southern accent.

  "Haha. I'll get another nail up there and put the cross back. Right now, I want yours."

  I stared at it for a moment, her second painting to me. Without turning around, I asked, "You ever feel like somehow we've known each other forever, and our lives won't be complete until we find some resolution to all this?" That was one of those moments where I probably should have kept my mouth shut.

  Bo was silent, so I turned around to face her. She was twirling her hair around her finger nervously. "Yes," she said.

  "When I'm around you, it doesn't matter what I say, or even if I don't say anything. It all feels so right," I told her. "No offense to Mags." I added, "Or Ryan."

  "You're finally talkin' sense Waylon-Willy Billy-Bob Bowden." She blinked several times and continued the hair twirling. Finally she spoke up again. "When you sent me that message through eBay, every rational part of my mind said I should ignore you and get as far away as possible. But I remembered you. I had liked something about you that first time we met. It haunted me. And I had to see you again, at least to be sure. And then I had to invite you out, at least with my friends. To be sure…"

  "And here we are now," I smirked. "With you in my bedroom. Giving me paintings. That's plural. That's serious, right?"

  "We can't be together," she reminded me. "Not now, anyway."

  "I figger'd," I said. I knew that too. It was still a blow.

  "Best we can do is be the best friends we can," she said.

  It sounded like a mission statement. But it was OUR mission statement.

  To be the best friends we can.

  [ Chris’s Choice ]

  A week later, everything was back to normal with the gang. Mags had gotten over having her feathers ruffled. Everyone had reminded her repeatedly that you couldn’t take anything Chris said too personally. His sense-of-context was completely different from everyone else’s. Literally.

  It was Chris’s night to choose what we all did, and he darned near dropped every jaw in the room when he said he wanted us to go see the Atlanta Roller Girlz. Turned out that nerd-boy loved roller derby, and the local Atlanta team was one of his guilty pleasures. He insisted we had to do it because – not only was it his pick - but it was to celebrate his birthday. Once we recovered from the surprise – because it seemed so out-of-place for Chris – most of us were totally into it. Robby, Mags, Bo, and I were set for a night of butt-kickin’ good times and serious athleticism. Amane and Ryan were clearly not sure why ANYONE would want to see a roller derby; and they kept muttering, “Well, it’s Chris’s Choice.” And “Happy birthday.” Luckily, the Roller Girlz venue had a generous BYOB policy (plastic or can only, no glass!), so we were able to warm up the nay-Sayers with a generous helping of booze. By the end of the night, even Ryan and Amane were having a good time. They wouldn’t say they’d ever go back, but at least they had smiles on their faces. It was a good game, and the home team won, which is always nice for us local Georgia-folk.

  When we left and were heading back for our cars, Mags suddenly shouted, “Raging Cock!” and started body-slamming us as we walked on the sidewalk, trying to knock us into the street.

  Ryan started shouting, “Stop. You’ll get someone killed!” But then Bo joined in as well, embarrassing Ryan. He added, “At least keep it on the sidewalk!”

  Mags plowed into Robby and Robby held up his hand, shouting, “Don’t think that jus cuz y’er a girl, I’m not gonna hit ya’ right back!”

  That made everyone stop and stare at him, thinking that was pretty harsh and wrong. No one took kindly to a man beating a woman.

  He realized what he had said, and corrected himself, “That came out wrong. I just meant THIS!” And then he gently body slammed into Mags; and she and he went at it for a minute while we watched them get in each other’s faces; bouncing back and forth. I let him have his fun, then I punched him in the back of his head and told him to knock it off.

  Inspired by Mags and Robby, I saw Bo grit her teeth and line me up like a bull in the ring, snorting and stamping her foot. I held up my hands, and said, “Oh, no you don’t.” But she charged right for my gut. Ryan tried to stop her by reaching out and grabbing for her shoulders, but he knocked her off-balance and she fell to the sidewalk instead, landing with a painful thud.

  “Ow!” she hollered, rubbing her ass as I helped pull her to her feet. “Is my butt swollen?” She bent over so we could see it.

  “Look’s fine to me,” I said with a big grin. Robby seconded it, giving it a generous stare.

  Chris added with his occasional off-color humor, “I don’t know. Was it always that big?”

  “I’d appreciate you not checking out her butt,” Ryan huffed, trying to be light-hearted and a good boyfriend at the same time.

  Suddenly, I started to lose it. I don’t know what came over me, maybe the booze, maybe the adrenaline from the night, maybe the deep-rooted disgust and jealousy over Ryan. I turned around, and went blank, my eyes staring as I pushed him in the chest. “Yeah? You’d appreciate that? Well, who the FUCK are YOU?”

  “Whoa. Hold it!” Ryan held up his hands, afraid I was going to punch him.

  “You don’t get to say what I do. Do you understand me?” I was one step away from a dark precipice.

  Robby was hooting. He was sure I was going to kick Ryan’s ass.

  Chris stared, mouth open in amazement, practically drooling.

  Mags, of all people, called out to me. “W2! Stop!”

  I saw that my fist was in the air, poised, ready to strike.

  Ryan wasn’t fighting back. He was cowering, stunned. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, scared.

  Mags ran to my side and touched me. “Not worth it.”

  I felt a breath escape my body and the tension made my heart pound. I stepped back, but told Ryan, “For the record, that butt stare was by invitation. YOU don’t get to tell me what I do, or who I look at.” I walked over to Bo. There was a dirt stain on her pants, so I said, “Let me get that for you,” and wiped it off, taking my time to clear it, my hands gratuitously fondling her ass. Bo stood in tense silence. Ryan’s eyes were bugging out of his head, but he kept his mouth shut so that he didn’t encourage Bo to take it any further.

  Mags was a different case. She watched, disappointed, seething, and disrespected.

  Robby whistled. “Well, Lawdy! THIS is gettin’ interesting.”

  Mags pulled me aside, away from the group, and in a terse hushed whisper, she demanded, “Exactly what would you call that?”

  “Which part?” I was still riled up.

  “When you are with me, you do not disrespect me. Is that clear? What you do on your own time, is your business.”

  I looked deep into her eyes. It wasn’t only about respect. She was hurt. She knew my feelings for Bo had not changed over the months. If anything, they had gotten stronger.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I lost it. I can have a bad day too, can’t I?”

  “She deserves him. And you deserve me,” she told me. “Do NOT pull that shit ever again in front of me. I want to help you,” she offered. “But you need to open up to me.”

  Mags had never said anything like that before, so I wasn’t sure what she meant. I nodded with as much sincerity as I could muster. “Thank you.” (It seemed better than my usual Yep.)

  Amane had been standing beside Chris; holding back, observing everyone, saying nothing. Chris gently bumped her shoulder and said, “See? Roller Derby is fun.” He grinned from cheek to cheek, filling the gap in his beard with big white teeth.

  [ A FundRaiser ]

  Ryan had to go away for a few days. Part of me thought it was because he was a chicken shit and didn’t want to deal with physical confrontation. But the real reason didn’t matter. He was gone. That was
all I cared about.

  That was when Bo dumped a surprise invitation on me.

  "You have any interest in going somewhere with me?" she asked playfully, almost embarrassed.

  I perked up. I was always interested. "Where and when, Bo. Where and when?" After admitting - in not so many words - that we had feelings for one another, any excuse to spend innocent time together was precious.

  Apparently, her mother was unable to attend a casual fundraiser due to prior conflicts, so she had asked Bo to go in her place. It was purely for appearances. Bo - understandably - did not want to go alone, or at all. That's how and why I ended up there.

  Thanks to Ryan for being away at the right time.

  ***

  I felt cramped in her Mini Cooper. It was roomy enough, but I felt like my face was too close to the windshield. To be fair, this had nothing to do with the Cooper specifically. It was small cars in general. She didn’t drive as fast or dangerous as Mags, but somehow I was more terrified.

  While I clung to the door with white knuckles, Bo suddenly asked me, “So what was the deal with the other night? After the derby.”

  “The deal?” Then I remembered snapping at Ryan and groping her ass. “I don't know. I was drunk.” I shook off the question.

  “I’ve seen you drunk, but I’ve never seen you almost hit someone.” She didn’t mention her ass.

  I was hoping the whole day wasn’t going to be one long public service announcement about that incident. It was fixing to put me in a mood. “I was in a bad place. Wasn't nothing.”

  She did not let it go. “Everything OK with you and Mags?”

  “As good as it gets.” I was drumming my fingers on the door now, impatient.

  She kept digging. It was getting more personal. “Were you jealous for some reason?”