Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  hour period? I tiptoed past, not wanting

  to bother them, or Cole, who I thought

  must still be asleep. But no. The couch

  was empty, the bedspread folded

  neatly. He wasn’t there, hadn’t even

  bothered to say good-bye. Disappointment

  clawed. I went into the kitchen, noticed

  the glasses on the counter, dishes

  in the sink. When did that happen?

  CLUTTER ALWAYS BOTHERS ME

  But the irritation I felt at the state of

  my kitchen bordered on irrational.

  I knew it, but couldn’t say why.

  I unloaded the dishwasher. Loudly.

  And, even more loudly, started

  loading the crusty dirties. Hey!

  Stop! I planned on doing that.

  I jumped at the voice, strange but

  not, falling over my shoulder; spun,

  pointing a fork like a tined bayonet.

  Cole’s eyes glittered humor. Careful.

  I’m trained in hand-to-hand combat,

  you know. Put down the weapon.

  Slowly. Better yet, give it to me. Please.

  I handed him the fork, which he put

  in the dishwasher. “Jesus. You scared

  the crap out of me. Where did you

  come from? I thought you’d left.”

  He shook his head. Everyone was

  still asleep when I woke up, so I sat

  outside and . . . wrote. Hope you don’t

  mind I borrowed a piece of paper.

  “Of course not.” It wasn’t the paper

  that bothered me as much as the idea

  of him rooting around for it. “In fact,

  you don’t even have to pay me back.”

  He smiled. Maybe I want to. Then

  he looked at me so intently I had to

  turn away, inventing some necessary

  chore. “You a coffee person? I think

  I could use a cup.” I reached up

  into the cupboard for the Folgers.

  Let me help. The weight of my long,

  still-damp hair lifted suddenly. Mmm.

  You smell good. His lips brushed

  my neck, and it was like stepping

  outside in a thunderstorm—a hint

  of lightning initiating goose bumps

  in places both seen and hidden.

  I turned into him, and he lifted me,

  sat me on the counter. Wrapped

  my legs around his ripped torso,

  pulled me into him until the pulsing

  between my legs rested against

  the throbbing beneath his breast bone,

  zero between them but silk and skin.

  It was nothing I’d ever experienced

  before, this sudden blush of desire

  so intense I couldn’t believe it belonged

  to me. And significance infused our kiss.

  I think we both knew it then, though

  it took time to acknowledge that some

  brilliant stutter of fate had connected

  us in such a profound way. I can’t speak

  for Cole, but for me, the world as I

  understood it to be ceased to exist.

  In that exact moment, I couldn’t have

  reasonably claimed to have fallen in love

  with him. But in that exact moment,

  I still wasn’t sure I believed in love.

  Anyway, it was enough to be snared

  by passion so intense, it bordered surreal.

  Swept away, unable to swim and barely

  finding air, I would have let him carry

  me into my bedroom, make love right

  then and there. Instead he pulled back.

  Not quite in unison, but staggered closely,

  we both had one thing to say. “Wow.”

  Wow.

  THAT KIND OF FOREPLAY

  Without follow-through is a huge

  turn-on. While Darian and Spencer

  spent the day following through,

  Cole and I wandered the hills

  of the San Diego Zoo. The air

  was winter-spiced but I barely

  noticed. Everything about me

  felt warm. And, while I studied

  the animals, I noticed other things.

  Like how Cole’s hand was nearly

  twice as big as mine. And warm,

  when it gloved my exposed skin.

  Like how I tucked completely

  under his arm, the sculpture

  of his biceps. Like the way

  he adjusted his stride, my legs

  no match for his, until we walked

  in perfect step. Like how he liked

  the big cats best, especially

  the jaguars, who paced in short

  strokes of sun. Every time we stopped,

  we kissed, and lacing every

  kiss was desire, rising up big

  and bold, voracious as a leviathan.

  LEVIATHAN

  Sleeps. Dreams fitfully

  of sand, unstained from

  horizon to horizon, while

  overhead

  silence floats in mirrored

  sky. Disturbing. No pleas.

  No screams. No sound

  of distress. Not even

  the drone of

  tear-muffled prayer.

  Leviathan wakes. Yawns.

  Stretches haunch and claw.

  Cocks his head and finds

  the ghostly moan of

  danger, distant,

  but alive. Leviathan cracks

  a smile, reveals fear-sharpened

  fangs. Sheds the shadow

  of nightmares

  born within hibernation.

  Leviathan embraces blood

  hunger. Rises, lifts into

  the startled blue, dragon

  on the wing.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  DARIAN LIVES

  At Camp Pendleton. Like most military

  bases, the sprawling chunk of oceanfront

  California is pretty much self-contained,

  with schools, fast food, golf, and religion

  just beyond spitting distance from jets and

  helicopters, tanks and heavy artillery.

  Some spouses use their housing allowance

  to live off-base nearby in one of San Diego’s

  neat, suburban neighborhoods. The thrifty ones

  bank that money and stay with generous

  relatives. But from the start, Darian wanted

  to cozy up to other military wives.

  They understand what I’m going through.

  Like I don’t. Like a marriage license

  somehow ups the ante on emotion. Pissed

  me off when she first said it, and it still

  makes me mad that she might actually

  believe it. It’s a chink in the once-solid

  armor of our friendship. That makes me sad.

  Anyway, on base I can get by without a car.

  Her beater Civic broke down not long

  after we moved here. She’d mostly

  made do bumming rides from me.

  But after her wedding, she decided

  to quit school, move into base housing,

  and play housewife. How can she stand it?

  THEY SAY MILITARY WIVES

  Are, overall, a lot more fit

  than other women in their age

  groups. Uh, yeah. The gym spells

  relief—stress relief, Mommy duty

  relief, and serious tedium

  relief. Looking at Dar, I can

  see she definitely spends time

  utilizing the workout facilities.

  But is that the only way

  she relieves tension and

  boredom? Better to know

  for sure than to keep guessing.

  I c
an’t ask her now. She won’t

  discuss the subject here. Not

  in front of these three women.

  Military wives talk, Celine said,

  and Darian knows that’s true.

  She came with them, but maybe

  she’ll let me take her home.

  I look at Celine, whose seniority

  makes her the de facto team

  leader. “Would you mind if

  I drove Dar back to the base?

  We haven’t had time to catch up.”

  SHE GLANCES AT THE OTHERS

  But they are caught up

  in their own conversation

  and don’t notice a thing.

  Carrie: . . . heard the draw

  down is going to happen

  sooner than they thought.

  Meghan: Is that good or

  bad? I mean, are you ready

  for a full-time husband?

  Carrie laughs. Maybe not.

  But don’t worry. There’s

  always another shithole . . .

  I tune back out. Trying to

  second-guess the brass is

  a fast track to disappointment.

  Celine smiles, as if reading

  my mind. Then she shrugs.

  I’m good with you driving

  Darian back as long as she

  is. We both look at Dar, who

  is slow dancing with the guy

  from the bar. Slow grinding

  might be a more apt description.

  “I’ll ask as soon as the music stops.”

  I’M HALF-WORRIED

  Darian will be pissed at the interruption

  but instead she seems almost grateful.

  You really want to drive me home?

  Crazy! You can stay over, if you want.

  It’s the guy who gets pissed. Hey, he slurs.

  You’re supposed to come home with me.

  Darian is all Darian. Why? Because I danced

  with you? How does one equal the other?

  Because of how you danced with me.

  He starts moving his hips, a bad imitation.

  You know what I mean. He grabs for her,

  but she isn’t nearly as drunk and easily

  sidesteps his reach. Fuck off! You couldn’t

  get that teeny pecker up if you tried.

  The guy’s cheeks puff out and his face

  blossoms crimson. He takes a step forward

  and I yank her backward. “Come on, Dar.

  We’d better get going or your husband

  will get back before you do.” We both smile

  at the joke and I take her arm, steer her

  toward the table. The other ladies watch

  intently, no doubt trying to decide if full-on

  intervention is called for. So does

  a beefy man, clearly labeled “bouncer.”

  One look from him moves Drunk Guy

  back to the bar, muttering a fast-flowing

  stream of obscenities. Darian laughs

  it off. Wow. He got a little testy, huh?

  Carrie and Meghan titter. But Celine

  is thoughtful when she says, Some men

  would get more than testy. Maybe you

  should think about that. She stands.

  My babysitter turns into a pumpkin

  at midnight. You girls ready to go?

  The three offer lukewarm good-byes,

  head out. “What about you? Ready?”

  Just about. Gotta pee first. Off she goes,

  unaware of, or at least paying minimal

  attention to, the way Drunk Guy watches,

  scooting toward the edge of his barstool

  as if he just might follow her. Bouncer

  definitely notices and shoots a warning

  glare. Thank God he’s on it, or I’d be more

  than a little afraid of the walk to my car.

  WE MAKE IT SAFELY

  And I rush to lock the doors.

  Still, I don’t hurry too quickly

  to back out of the space. Last thing

  I need is to bump into something.

  I don’t feel inebriated, but who knows

  how close to .08 I might be after three

  drinks, approximately one per hour?

  Darian, I’m pretty sure, is beyond

  legally drunk. It isn’t far to the gate,

  maybe fifteen minutes, driving right

  at the speed limit. Not enough time

  to plumb her in depth, but I have to

  say something. Let’s start with trite.

  “So, what have you been up to?”

  She sighs and leans heavily back

  against the seat, making it squeak.

  Not a whole lot. I’m taking a couple

  of courses online. Might as well

  get my BA. Never know when it

  might come in handy. How’s school?

  “Not bad. Except for Chaucer.

  It’s kind of lonely living by myself,

  but after you, any other roommate

  would be totally boring.” I smile,

  because it’s so true. I know, right?

  Good thing your parents want

  to help out. Are they used to the idea

  of you and Cole yet? My dad’s always

  been good with Spence and me, but

  five years later and Mom still thinks

  I’m crazy. Of course, she’s married

  to Dad, so I guess that makes sense.

  In addition to ranching and rodeo,

  Darian’s dad is in the National Guard.

  He’s been deployed several times.

  The Guard isn’t just Weekend Warriors.

  Sometimes, they get called up,

  regardless of age or points earned

  toward a calf roping championship.

  Darian’s mom thinks the military

  is most of the reason he’s so mean.

  “My parents don’t agree with a lot

  of my decisions. But you’re right.

  At least they’re willing to support

  me in them. Not sure how I’d pay

  back a student loan as a rookie social

  worker. If I can even find a job once

  I get my degree.” We reach the gate

  and Darian starts to dig in her purse

  for her ID. But the cute young MP

  sticks his head in the window. Don’t

  worry. I know who you are. He grins,

  waves us through. Why does that

  not surprise me? “He knows you,

  but do you know him?” It’s a joke,

  but not, and that’s how she takes it.

  SHE IS SERIOUS

  When she answers.

  I’ve made it a point to get

  to know lots of people here,

  including men. Especially

  men, in fact. Life is simpler

  when you’re in charge, even

  though you need to make others

  think they’re driving the tank,

  if you know what I mean.

  I do, and it’s not very pretty.

  But it is truthful, so that’s a good

  start. I have more questions.

  We pull up in front of a row

  of pretty, well-kept town houses.

  Darian directs me to a short

  stretch of driveway. I’d let you

  park in the garage, but Spence’s

  Harley takes up more space

  than you’d think. She laughs.

  They say buying a big bike is

  a guy’s way of making up for

  certain personal inadequacies.

  Not true in Spencer’s case, at least

  not if you’re talking about cock size.

  I cringe at her straightforward

  language. She has changed in

  the last few years. Changed a lot.

  AS KIDS

&
nbsp; Any curse word beyond “jackass”

  would have resulted in a bar of

  Ivory in the mouth from Dar’s mom,

  or giant belt welts from her dad.

  Funny, but my parents never said

  a thing about my language, not

  that I ever used bad words within

  their earshot, and rarely beyond it.

  I don’t have a real problem with men

  cursing, unless they go overboard.

  But lipstick-framed profanity somehow

  seems wrong to me. If you hear it

  escape my mouth, you’d better run.

  It means I’ve totally lost it and I’ll

  probably throw something, too.

  I have to admit I got a kick out of

  Dar’s “teeny pecker” comment tonight.

  “Teeny cock” wouldn’t have had

  quite as much power, in my modest

  opinion. I lock the Durango’s doors,

  follow Darian inside. The two-bedroom

  town home is compact but pretty.

  At least it would be pretty if she kept

  it a little neater. As it is, dirty glasses

  and crumpled wrappers decorate

  tables and countertops. “Uh, Dar?

  Is it the maid’s day off, or did you

  invite your neighbors’ kids for snacks?”

  LAUGHTER SNORT-CHOKES

  Simultaneously from her nose

  and throat. Thus my decision

  to leave child rearing to others.

  Kids are fucking messy, no doubt

  about it. She gestures for me to sit

  on the beige microfiber sofa. Goes

  over to the wet bar, pours Campari

  and soda for herself, three fingers

  of some upscale (but likely bought

  duty-free) Añejo tequila for me.

  One velvet sip and I am convinced

  that Jose Cuervo is a wannabe. No.

  Take that back. A total imposter.

  “W-wow . . .” It’s a hoarse imitation

  of the word. “That’s excellent.”

  Right? It’s not what you know,

  it’s who you know, et cetera. She

  rewards me with a long, assessing

  stare. God, it’s great to see you.

  How come we don’t get together

  more often? Not like you live across

  the universe, or even the state!

  Valid question. Why don’t we get

  together more often? Why the heck—

  hell—do friends have to grow apart?

  THE GREAT THING

  About long-time, all-time friends

  is, no matter how many hours