by BB Easton
“That’s racist,” Juliet blurted, sticking her finger in the air. Then she burst out laughing.
“Oh my God.” I cackled. “You are so wasted.”
“I’m sorry, Hansie.” Juliet pouted. “You’re not racist. You’re pretty and nice, and BB wants to sit on your pretty face.”
I groaned and pressed my forehead into Hans’s bicep. “Just stop talking. Jesus.”
Hans snickered. “Thanks, Jules.”
As we crested the top of the hill, Old Willy sprang from his perch on the corner and hobbled over to us, limping worse than usual.
He looked Hans up and down, then spoke to me. “Missy, I done saw somebody snoopin’ ’round your car tonight. Big fella, driving a truck with them big ole monster tires. He drove down the highway here”—Willy pointed out to the main street—“and I guess he spotted your car ’cause he done turned around right in the middle of the street and came flying down here.” Willy pointed down the side street where my car was parked. “Drove by real slow like, then pulled over down there and cut his lights off like he was gonna wait y’all out.”
My blood curdled in my veins.
Hans’s arm tightened around mine.
Juliet laughed inappropriately.
“Are you okay, Willy?” I asked through the suffocating lump in my throat. “You didn’t try to…”
“I’m fine, missy. I went and stood right next to your car and glared at the sumbitch till he took off. Y’all should be real careful though. That fella had eyes like a gotdamn demon or somethin’. I said ten Hail Marys after he left.”
Like a zombie, I thought, picturing the almost-colorless irises and eyelashes of one Ronald McKnight.
“Thanks, man,” Hans said, placing a hand on Old Willy’s shoulder and sticking a few dollar bills into his hand.
“Thank you, sir. Y’all have a blessed night now.”
We walked over to my car in a daze. Knight was supposed to be in Iraq. He had written me a letter after the accident, confessing that he was the one who’d caused it and said that he was signing up for a second tour of duty. Now he was snooping around my car two months later? It didn’t make any sense.
“That motherfucker is worse than herpes,” Juliet snapped as she headed for the passenger door. “He just will not stay away.”
“You know this guy?” Hans asked, searching my face as we came to a stop next to my car.
“Yeah.” I didn’t elaborate. There was no possible explanation that could make the situation sound anything other than worse.
We go way back. He was my first love, but we can’t be together because he’s mentally unstable and extremely violent. Oh, and thanks to the Marines, he’s now a trained killer, too. But don’t you worry about him. Just because he beat the shit out of my last boyfriend and ran us both off the road doesn’t mean he’ll do it again. He probably got it all out of his system.
“You gonna be okay?” Hans’s eyebrows were pulled together, creating a deep V-shaped wrinkle between them.
I nodded. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
Hans looked at me like he wasn’t convinced but wanted to avoid the topic of Knight about as badly as I wanted to avoid the topic of Beth. “Will you call me when you get home?” he asked instead.
I nodded again.
Hans pulled me in for a hug, but something was off. Something was very, very off. Even though we were touching, it felt like an invisible curtain of sadness had been drawn, separating us from one another.
“Thanks for coming out,” Hans said, smoothing a hand down my goose-bumped arm.
Then, he was gone.
It felt like high school all over again. Everybody was my friend until they saw Knight coming. Then, poof, they disappeared.
Knight had alienated me from every friend I’d ever had, except for Juliet and Goth Girl. He’d chased off every guy I’d hoped to date and beaten the shit out of the ones who didn’t take the hint. He’d claimed he didn’t want to ruin my future, yet he wouldn’t let me have one with anybody else.
I felt suffocated. Suffocated and paranoid and pissed off.
I barely spoke on the drive back to Juliet’s house. Of course, she was so drunk, she spoke enough for both of us. Mostly about how dreamy Hans was and how funny Trip was and how psychotic Knight was and how, if she ever saw him again, she was going to kick him in the balls.
After I dropped her off, I drove home in silence. No radio. No CD. No mix-tape. My brain was a tangled ball of questions, and every string I pulled, trying to unfurl the mess, only drew the knots tighter.
Why the fuck is Knight still in town?
Where the fuck is Hans’s girlfriend?
Why hasn’t anyone but Goth Girl mentioned her if they’ve been together for four years?
Goth Girl wouldn’t just make up a fake girlfriend.
Maybe I should just ask him about her.
No. No, no, no. Then he’ll tell me it’s true, and then I’ll have to stop flirting with him, and flirting with him is kind of the highlight of my pathetic fucking life right now.
Maybe they broke up and Goth Girl doesn’t know.
If they’re broken up, then why the fuck hasn’t Hans kissed me yet?
Maybe he’s just not that into me.
Or maybe he was going to, but then Knight scared him off.
So, he either has a girlfriend, he isn’t that into me, or he’s a pussy. Awesome.
Should I even call him when I get home?
He’ll probably be driving home by then. Maybe he’ll have the music turned up and won’t hear his phone ringing. Maybe I can just leave a voicemail…
It turned out that I could have left a voicemail because my call went straight to fucking voicemail. So, I hung up instead.
Asshole.
I’d gone to bed wallowing in despair but woke up squealing in delight when I found not one, but two missed calls from Hans and a voicemail blinking up at me from the phone on my nightstand. A voicemail that I might or might not have listened to so many times that I made myself late for work. By the time I got to Pier 1 Imports with a blue apron around my waist and a big, dumb grin on my face, I could recite the whole thing from memory.
“Hey, BB. Sorry I missed your call. My fucking phone died, and I was stuck at some club in Buckhead with Trip. He gets so amped during a show that it takes forever to bring him down. This place had a pole in the middle of the dance floor, and Trip wouldn’t leave until he figured out how to do some pole-dancing move called a Flying Brass Monkey.” Hans chuckled. “Man, I wish you guys had been there. Juliet would have pissed herself, watching Trip work a pole.”
Hans’s voice faltered during the second half of his message. I could almost picture him biting his thumbnail and staring off into the distance as he spoke.
“Hey, I don’t know if you have plans next weekend or if you want to hang out again, but…the guys are trying to convince me to have some people over. My parents just bought an RV and are going on a two-month-long road trip, so…it’ll just be me here.” He paused. “You could…spend the night…if you want. I mean, most people probably will. There are, like, five empty bedrooms and a shitload of couches, so it’s not a problem. Just…let me know. Okay? ’Kay, bye.”
’Kay, bye.
My body did weird, involuntary things every time I got to his sign-off. My muscles tensed like I was holding in a scream. My feet shuffled. I pressed my lips between my teeth to squelch my smile. Just hearing him say it in my head at work had me diving behind display shelves so that I could have my full-body freak-outs in private.
I didn’t know what had taken place between our awkward goodbye and that voicemail, but I didn’t fucking care. Whatever Hans’s hang-up had been—Beth, Knight, even me—he had clearly gotten over it. And I couldn’t wait to be over him—in a reverse missionary or maybe a nice side-saddle position—that weekend.
“Girrrrrl. You ain’t been back on yo feet more than a minute, and you already dancin’ around here like you done got yo’self some D.” Craig, my favorite cow
orker and Sisqo impersonator, was leaning against the pillow wall, giving me the look. “You don’t waste no time, do ya?”
I grabbed a pink satin pillow with beading around the edges and threw it at him. Craig caught it and tucked it under his arm.
“For your information, I haven’t even slept with him yet.” I raised my chin and eyebrows, trying to look haughty.
“Yet.” Craig laughed. “Homegirl, you gon’ have that man pussywhipped by the end of the week.”
I couldn’t contain it. I balled my hands into fists, pressed them against my mouth, and did a little wiggle. I lowered my fists just enough to whisper, “He just invited me to spend the night next weekend.”
Craig put a hand in the air and did a little back bend. “The all-mighty Craig knows all. Can I get an amen?”
“Amen,” I whispered over my fists. I didn’t even know why I was whispering. I think I was so excited that if I didn’t whisper I’d be shouting about my booty call to the entire Sunday afternoon Pier 1 Imports clientele.
“I have to call him, Craig. I still haven’t told him that I’m coming.”
“Oh, yo gon’ be coming all right.”
Smack. Another pink pillow, that time right to the face.
I skipped off to take a smoke break and call Hans back when something occurred to me. Turning around, I said, “Hey, Craig? You remember Knight?”
Craig turned to face me, his features hard as stone. “That neo-Nazi-lookin’ motherfucker who used to be lurkin’ around by your car all the time? The one I had to call the cops on when he and your man was beatin’ the shit outta each other in the parking lot? Yeah, I remember.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why?”
“Will you let me know if you see him? I…I don’t think he went back to Iraq.”
One Week Later
I followed Hans’s directions to the letter, but I still quadruple-checked the address when I pulled up. It couldn’t be the right house. It was a goddamn mansion. Or at least, it was to me. The place was a two-story brick bunker with a recessed two-story entryway. The double front doors looked like they’d been handcrafted out of solid cherry, as did the shutters and matching rocking chairs on the front porch. The chandelier above the front doors though—that thing looked like some kind of reclaimed wrought iron from the Byzantine era.
The driveway, which was the width of most major highways, led straight to the front steps, then hooked to the right where a three-car garage jutted off the front of the house, creating an L-shape. Cars had begun to gather in front of the garage, so I parked my little black Mustang among them, relieved that they weren’t all Porsches and Ferraris.
I stamped my cigarette out into my ashtray, not wanting to soil Hans’s pristine white driveway, as something like dread began to seep into my blood. I’d only been in a house that grand one time, and it hadn’t ended well. I could still hear the sound of breaking glass as Knight smashed every cabinet door with a fireplace poker. I could still see the blood dripping from his forearm as he pulled out a framed photo from his mother and stepfather’s wedding. I could still smell the urine running down his stepfather’s leg as Knight choked him with his own necktie. And I could still see the crazed look in his mother’s eyes as I shielded him from her shaking pistol.
Bad things happen in pretty houses.
Run away while you still can.
Rich people are not to be trusted.
You don’t belong here, white trash.
“Stop,” I blurted, snapping my fingers.
I looked around and blinked a few times to clear the fogginess that always accompanied a flashback. “It’s gonna be fine,” I said to no one. “It’s gonna be totally…fucking…fine.”
Grabbing my purse—which I’d stuffed with a toothbrush, some toiletries, and a change of clothes before running out the door, telling my parents I was spending the night with Goth Girl—I got out of the car. The sound of music and people talking and laughter drifted up the hill from the backyard, and I blew out a sigh of relief. The backyard! I didn’t have to go inside the house at all!
With a spring in my step, I rounded the side of the estate and bounced down the grassy hill. I could see the lake at the bottom of the slope, just through the woods, the setting sun splashing it with pinks and oranges. It looked like something from a postcard. Not real life.
Definitely not my life.
The house was three stories tall in the back, thanks to a daylight basement. It had a large screened-in porch off the main floor and an even bigger stone patio underneath. The most notable thing about the patio, besides the built-in stone firepit, was the fact that it was covered in living room furniture. Someone had dragged an expensive-looking brown leather sofa, a love seat, a big screen TV, and a recliner out of the house. Hell, there was even an unplugged lamp on one of the end tables just for looks. These motherfuckers partied hard.
I spotted Goth Girl and Goth Guy first. They were sitting on a swinging bench out in the backyard, just beyond the patio, and appeared to be engaged in some kind of heated conversation. When Goth Girl’s eyes landed on me, they flared, just for a moment, before she half-smiled and waved me over.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in her signature deadpan.
“Hey, Victoria! Good to see you too. I’m fine. Thanks for asking,” I replied in an overly cheerful voice.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just…didn’t expect to see you here.”
“It’s cool.” I smiled a little too brightly. “Hans invited me. Do you know where he is?”
Goth Girl extended a milk-colored finger in the direction of the patio. “At the bar.”
Her face was disapproving, but she at least kept her mouth shut about Beth this time. I’d been bracing myself for another lecture. When it didn’t come, I dialed back my attitude.
Turning to Steven, I said, “Hey, thanks for letting me crash at your place when I was so sick that night. That was really nice of you. There was no way I would have made it all the way home.”
Steven’s face paled at the mention of that night, probably because he’d been having a little sleepover of his own—with Pigtails and a few grams of coke.
Goth Girl’s face paled too, if that was even possible. Snapping her head toward Steven, she spat, “BB spent the night again? When were you planning on telling me?”
“Jesus Christ,” Steven barked. “Calm down! She was there with Hans. I barely even saw her. You act like I fuck every girl who steps foot through my door!” Even while he was defending himself, Steven managed to give my body a once-over with his eyes.
Fucking creep.
“Because you do!” Goth Girl screeched.
“Shit, guys,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
But they weren’t listening to me anymore. They’d picked their lovers’ quarrel back up right where they’d left off. I backed away slowly and turned toward the patio; at which point, all the air was sucked from my lungs.
Louis, Baker, and Trip were sitting on an Italian leather sofa with brass grommets, their feet kicked up on the unlit firepit, wearing nothing but swim trunks. But, behind them, leaning against a stone wet bar and talking to a couple I didn’t recognize was Hans fucking Oppenheimer. And he was wearing nothing but a pair of Adidas athletic shorts.
Black ones.
The sight of him made my mouth water. I’d never thought of Hans as being athletic, but with that much of his body on display, there was no doubt that he could have been a professional athlete of some kind. Maybe a soccer player? He had legs a drag queen would kill for. And those abs…
Slurp.
“Yo, LDH! You got company, bro! And she looks thirrrrrsty.”
I turned and glared at Trip, who had obviously seen my little drool session based on the evil grin he was sporting. His bare torso was already impressively sunburned, except for a sloppy white outline around a huge tattoo above his navel that read ROCK STAR. The bottle of Korbel in his right hand was almost empty, and the joint in hi
s left hand was snatched away by Louis.
Baker peeked through his curtain of hair at me and said, “Sup, BB?”
Louis gave me a half-smile and a two-finger salute.
I took a deep breath and prepared myself to walk the last few steps over to Hans, but before I could turn around, two thick arms—one tattooed, one not—crisscrossed over my chest from behind.
Stubble grazed my ear as Hans leaned down and murmured, “Hey, Bumblebee,” so that only I could hear.
He smelled like all the best things about summer—earthiness and alcohol—and I sank into him like toes into sand.
When I turned around, I kind of wished that I hadn’t. Shirtless, sun-kissed, wet-haired Hans was a lot to take in that close.
“Did you find it okay?” He smiled, the whiteness of his teeth making his skin look even more tan.
I nodded. Speaking would have diverted too much energy away from the job at hand: Operation Stop Drooling.
“Do you want a drink? These fuckers have been at it since noon, so you’ve got some catching up to do. I got you some Jack and Coke, but we have beer too.”
Aw! He remembered what I’d ordered at the Tabernacle!
I nodded again and let him steer me over to the bar where a skinny guy in a short-sleeved button-up shirt and glasses was talking to a girl with short blonde hair. It looked a lot like mine, but she wore hers pushed forward and flipped up in the front. She was wearing no makeup, a vintage-looking Yankees jersey, and khaki cargo shorts.
“BB, these are my neighbors, Kevin and Dani.”
“Ugh.” Dani scrunched up her nose at Hans. “You make it sound like we live together. Gross.”
“Whatever,” Kevin said. “I’d make an awesome roommate.”
“Yeah, if you were a Yankees fan. No one who cheers for the Braves is allowed under my roof.”
Kevin smirked. “Which is exactly why you’re still single.”
“Oh, really?” Dani snapped back, puffing up her chest, which looked like it was probably being constricted by a sports bra under that baggy jersey. “What’s your excuse? Your face?”