by BB Easton
Hans grinned.
There it is. A smile. Mission accomplished.
“The guy driving it has a brother on the police force. They let him right through the barricade when he told him we were looking for a lost little girl.”
“A lost little girl, huh?” I giggled. “That was pretty badass. Thank you.”
Hans’s eyes softened. “I love you.” He shrugged. “You sure nobody fucked with you?”
I shook my head. “Nah. Nothing worse than any other concert. I did meet a psychic though! His name was John, and he said that we’re gonna be together forever!”
Hans shrugged, unimpressed. “I already knew that.”
“Well, maybe you’re psychic too. Quick, what number am I thinking of?”
Eleven eleven.
“Four.”
“Yep. Totally psychic.”
Hans smirked and gave me one last lingering, toe-curling kiss before grabbing his bass and joining his bandmates in a hard-rock rendition of “Baby One More Time” by Britney Spears.
I laughed as Trip twirled an imaginary pigtail and serenaded all the drunk girls on the sidewalk, who were too busy singing their hearts out to Britney to expose their breasts.
Feeling awkward just standing there next to the band, I sat cross-legged on the floor of the flatbed with my back against one of the side panels and lit a much-needed cigarette. As I exhaled, I felt my body relax—the coke all worn off, the alcohol all danced out—and smiled up at my very own wish come true. I was onstage with LDH, and nobody had their tits out.
But, even through my bliss, something tugged at the back of my mind. A nagging little pull that whispered, Check your phone.
Sliding it back out of my purse, I peeked at the call history to see who all the missed calls had been from. Sure enough, there were five from Hans, but the other three? Those had come from a number I didn’t recognize.
An international number.
March 2000
“No.”
“No? What do you mean, no?”
“I mean hell to the nah is what I mean. You can’t just up and leave me here.” Craig crossed his arms and leaned against the dumpster behind Pier 1 Imports, glaring at me as if I’d just left him for another man.
And in a way, I guess I had.
“Craig, you’ve been working here longer than me. You’ll be fine.” I lit a cigarette and took a few steps away from the back door that we’d propped open to keep the smoke from wafting in.
“No, I won’t. Who am I gonna throw pillows at now? Who’s gonna dance to the ‘Thong Song’ with me after we lock up every night? Did you know that you were the only person here who knew that my hair was Sisqo platinum? Everybody else thought I was tryin’ a be a black Eminem or some shit.”
I smiled and shrugged. “Who’s Sisqo?”
Craig pointed directly at my nose. “Woman, I’ma smack that grin right off yo face.”
“You’ll be okay, babe. I still have two weeks left. And after that, I can give you my employee discount at Macy’s. They’re putting me in the street-wear section. All the Phat Farm and FUBU you want, twenty percent off.”
That made Craig’s lips curl up, just a smidge. “They got Sean John?”
“Pssh. Sean John, Ecco, Rocawear—”
Craig held up one hand and adjusted his waistband with another. “Stop it, girl! You’re gettin’ me hard over here.”
“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”
We both burst out laughing, but Craig’s smile faded fast. “Macy’s is so far away though,” he whined.
“I know, but it’s right by Hans’s house. Now I’ll be able to see him after work instead of just at school and on the weekends.”
“Damn, girl. You really got it that bad?”
“Yeah, I do,” I said with a wistful smile.
Craig pushed off the dumpster and took a step toward me, motioning toward the cigarette in my hand. I handed it over.
“You sure this don’t have nothin’ to do with a certain skinhead-lookin’ motherfucker who keeps callin’ your phone?” Craig took a long drag from my Camel Light before handing it back.
“Knight? Why would I get a new job because of him? He’s in Iraq.”
“For now. But he’s gon’ be back, and when he get here, where do you think he’s gon’ show up first?”
Craig and I both turned our heads toward the employee parking lot.
There was a time when finding Knight’s rusty white monster truck parked out there when I got off work had been an exciting thing. Then, it’d become a scary thing. Then, it’d become a reason to lock the door and call the cops.
“He doesn’t even call me that much.” I shrugged. “And it’s not like I answer or anything.”
Craig gave me the side-eye and plucked my cigarette out of my hand. “You might think you runnin’ toward somethin’, but I know you, girl. You runnin’ away.”
“Whatever,” I huffed, trying to act unaffected by his statement. “The only thing I’m running away from is this guy I work with who refuses to buy his own damn cigarettes.” I snatched what was left of my Camel Light back with a smirk, took one last drag, and flicked it toward the dumpster.
“Ah, man. Why you gotta be like that, B? I thought you was my suga’ mama.”
Now that was laughable. Thank God Macy’s was going to pay me an extra two fifty an hour. Cigarettes were about all I could afford on minimum wage.
“I’m not your sugar mama, but I will hold the door for you, Your Majesty.”
I opened the heavy back door and smiled as Craig breezed past me, straightening his invisible crown.
I really was going to miss him.
Before letting the door close, I turned my head and glanced at the back corner of the parking lot one more time. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I did it. My heart slammed against my ribs as image after image began flashing behind my eyes. Knight’s truck lurched up on the curb. That one streetlight illuminating his pallid, murderous face. My manager driving off and leaving me there with him. Him screaming at me, dragging me into his truck, hog-tying me with the seat belts. Him telling me he was leaving for the Marines.
Him actually doing it.
“Stop. Stop. Stop!” I snapped my fingers three times, and like Dorothy clicking the heels of her ruby slippers together, I was back, and it was all just a bad dream.
“What?” Craig asked over his shoulder, already halfway across the warehouse. He must have seen the frightened look on my face when he turned around because he immediately began patting himself down. “Shit. Is it a spider? It’s a spider, ain’t it? Don’t just stare at it! Help me out, B!”
Craig spun in circles, trying to look at his own backside, as my cackle echoed through the warehouse.
“Relax. It wasn’t a spider,” I said, sauntering past him toward the break room. “It was a cockroach.”
April 2000
“So, how do you know this guy again?” Juliet asked as I backed out of her mom’s steep driveway.
She had her hair in skinnier braids than usual. I wondered if she’d gotten it done just for the party. She looked amazing. She’d even caked on her signature smoky eyeliner, which had been sadly absent ever since Romeo was born.
“He’s Steven’s drug dealer.” I smiled, trying to soften the blow.
“Awesome. And does Hansy-Poo know you’re hanging out with drug dealers while he’s away?”
“Hansy-Poo hasn’t called me all weekend, so Hansy-Poo doesn’t get a say in whom I do or don’t hang out with.”
Juliet’s mouth fell open. “He what?”
I gave Juliet a disgruntled look and turned left onto Highway 78, heading toward Atlanta.
“Let me get this straight. Your man is in Panama City Beach, during spring break, with a bunch of single dudes, and he hasn’t called you once? It’s Sunday! He’s been gone since—”
“Friday. Yeah. I’m aware.”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“No.” I tight
ened my grip on the steering wheel. Saying it out loud made me feel so stupid.
Juliet snorted. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“So, you’re testing him.”
“Yeah. And he fucking failed.” There was so much sass in my voice I wanted to slap myself.
“So now you’re going to a party at a drug dealer’s house to, what? Punish him?”
“No. I’m going to have fun. Remember fun? I sure as fuck don’t. Ever since Hans got signed, all I do is go to school and go to work and wait by the phone for him to call me and tell me when he’s back in town.”
“Why don’t you just go with him? You used to.”
I could feel my cheeks begin to heat.
Because I always fuck things up. Because I’m too jealous. Because I get wasted and disappear and get into trouble by myself, and then we both get upset with each other.
“I have to work on the weekends.”
“Pssh. You could get off work.”
“I have to study, too.”
Juliet snorted again. “Yeah, okay.” Mercifully changing the subject, Juliet asked, “So, this is a party…to watch a TV show?”
“Not just a TV show. The Sopranos. And it’s the season finale. There is no way I’m watching this shit at home by myself.”
“So, you just called this guy up and invited yourself over?”
“Yep.”
“Are Victoria and Steven coming?”
Shit. I didn’t even think about the possibility of them coming. God, I hope they’re not there. Victoria would totally tell Hans.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I turned left onto a side street, then pulled up to the gated entrance of the Midtown Village apartment complex.
I looked at the code scribbled underneath my handwritten directions and typed it into the keypad. The sleek wrought iron barricade swung open without so much as a squeak. The complex inside consisted of about six geometric, ultra-modern gray buildings, and the parking lot was filled with cars that probably cost as much per month as the rent of the apartments they were parked in front of.
I mentally renamed the place Bachelor Village.
We parked in front of the three hundred building, adjusted our lipstick and bra straps, and then made the hike up four flights of concrete stairs to the top floor.
Taking a moment to catch our breath, Juliet and I squared our shoulders, and with a nod, I knocked as loud as I could.
The door swung open almost immediately, revealing a very posh, very sloshed Jason.
“BB! What’s up, girl?” He was sporting a drunk, sleepy-eyed smile, a rumpled white dress shirt with blue pinstripes, and a crisp pair of flat-front khakis.
Upon seeing his pants, I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand.
“Oh no!” I squealed. “I forgot to wear my khakis!”
Jason laughed so hard he doubled over, propping himself up on the doorknob. When the door began to swing open, I thought he was gonna go down for sure.
“Whoa, man.” I caught him by the elbow. “Somebody’s excited about the season finale, huh?” I cast a nervous look back at Juliet, who shrugged in response. “Thanks for having us. Do you mind if we come in?”
Jason stood up and looped an arm over my shoulders. The gesture seemed friendly, but I think he really just needed me for stability. “Of course! Come in! Come in!”
The apartment was gorgeous. Super-high ceilings, thanks to being on the top floor, stainless steel hardware, sleek lines, gray everything. Except the couches. Those were black leather.
The entryway had hallways jutting off both sides, leading to two separate bedrooms and bathrooms, and the main living area was just through the foyer. Jason walked me into the living room where about six dudes were lounging on various pieces of furniture, drinking and yelling at a baseball game on Jason’s big screen.
“Errrybody!” Jason slurred. “This is BB and…” Jason looked down at us with glassy eyes.
“Juliet,” I finished for him.
“Buttercup and Juliet!”
The guys all cast us a quick glance, then did a double take when they realized that we had vaginas. Two dudes, dressed as preppily as Jason, leaped to their feet and motioned to their now-vacant seats on the couch.
“You guys can sit here. We were just going to play pool.”
“Thanks,” I said, leading the way to the couch.
Juliet followed behind. I could feel her bristle with defensiveness. She kind of hated people, but she loved to drink and desperately needed a break from Romeo, so…she’d get over it.
“What kind of whiskey are you guys drinking?” I asked, noticing a few highball glasses on the coffee table. I took the middle seat on the couch so that Juliet wouldn’t have to sit next to a stranger.
“It’s not whiskey! It’s scotch!” Jason announced, stumbling through the living room into the stainless steel kitchen.
“Scotch is whiskey,” a voice next to me mumbled.
I turned my head and found a guy with an extra-disinterested expression on his face and light-brown hair flipped up in the front, staring at the TV. He had a nice profile—button nose, square jaw—but instead of a beer, he was clutching a bottle of purple Gatorade.
And instead of khakis, he was wearing pajamas.
Okay, maybe not pajamas, but, like, workout clothes. To a party. Weird.
“Is it good?” I yelled back at Jason. “I’ve never had it.”
Jason reappeared holding two highball glasses, spilling over with amber liquid. “It’s fuckin’ delicious.” He smiled. Then, he took a sip from each of them and plopped into a vacant leather recliner, spilling half of his precious beverages on his oxford cloth shirt.
Pajama Guy chuckled. I turned to look at him again, and that time, he met my gaze. His eyes were almost turquoise, framed by long sable-colored lashes.
“Is he always like this?” I asked.
“Only every time he drinks.” It sounded like a joke, but Pajama Guy didn’t smile when he said it, so I couldn’t be sure. “I’ll get you guys something,” he offered. “What do you want?”
“I guess I’ll try the scotch, if there’s any left. Hey, Jules, you want some scotch?” I asked my BFF, smacking her on the thigh.
Juliet wrinkled her nose at Jason, who looked like he was on the verge of passing out. “Uh, no. A beer is fine. Thanks.”
Pajama Guy nodded once, set his sports drink down on the coffee table, and stood up. I thought he was going to go get us some drinks, but he stood in front of the big screen instead.
Every dude in the apartment stopped what they were doing and stood up with him. Juliet and I shared a confused glance.
Then, Pajama Guy shouted, “Fuck yeah! Run, motherfucker! Run!”
The announcers on TV said that somebody on the Braves had just hit a home run. The two guys on the love seat did karate chops and high kicks in celebration. The two guys over at the pool table—which, in Jason’s bachelor pad, had taken the place of a dining room table—high-fived. And Jason slept through the whole thing.
When Pajama Guy returned with our drinks, Juliet looked happy to have a distraction from the two guys sitting on the love seat next to her. They looked like brothers and had been putting the moves on her pretty hard while he was gone.
“So, how do you know Jason?” she asked, desperate for a new conversation.
“We went to high school together.” Pajama Guy gestured toward the guys on the love seat. “So did the Alexander brothers over there—Ethan and Evan.” He pointed at each one as he said their names. “And Allen—he’s out on the balcony.”
“Who are those guys playing pool?” I asked.
“That’s Bryan and Scott. They work with Jason. Hopefully, not too closely.” Pajama Guy raised an eyebrow and looked over my shoulder at Jason.
Dude had the driest sense of humor. I couldn’t tell if he was being funny or being an asshole.
“That’s cool that you guys have all been friends since high schoo
l,” Juliet replied, desperate to keep the conversation going. “BB and I went to high school together, too. Until this bitch had to go and graduate early.” Juliet shot affectionate daggers at me with her eyes. “What high school did you go to?”
“Peach State.”
“No shit? So did we!” I blurted out.
“I know.” Pajama Guy looked directly at me.
There was something in his stare that told me there was more to that comment, but before I could probe him further, somebody switched the channel and The Sopranos opening credits began.
Jason leaped out of his chair, as if being woken from the dead, and thrust what was left of both of his beverages into the air. “Fuck yeah, muthafuckas!”
Allen, the guy on the back porch, came flying in, shoving his flip phone into his pocket just in time. He was a stocky dude whose kind eyes were magnified by thick glasses.
“Is Amy gonna let you have your balls back tonight?” Ethan called from the love seat.
“Fuck you, bro. I’m not whipped,” Allen snapped back. “Amy just had a bad day.”
“Whhh-pssh,” the two brothers said in unison, pantomiming a whip being cracked in the air.
I giggled. I couldn’t help it.
Allen looked at me and furrowed his brow. “Hey,” he shouted in recognition, “did you go to Peach State?”
Oh God, here it comes.
“Yeah! You had a shaved head, and you dated that Knight guy!”
There it is.
I forced a smile. “Yep. That’s me. I’m BB. This is Juliet.”
“What’s up?” Allen smiled at us, then shifted his attention to Pajama Guy. “Ken, you remember Knight, right? That skinhead—”
“Yeah, I remember,” Pajama Guy interrupted in a clipped tone.
So, Pajama Guy’s name is Ken, and evidently, he’s not too keen on Knight either. Interesting.
“Would all you bitches shut the fuck up?” Jason shouted, swaying on his feet. “It’s the fuckin’ S’pranos.” He threw both hands in the direction of the big screen, sloshing scotch all over the carpet.
A hush fell over the apartment as we watched Tony Soprano get food poisoning, have a sex dream about his therapist, murder a guy on a yacht for being an informer, and throw a party for his daughter’s high school graduation, all in the span of fifty minutes.