by Grace, Pella
I’m not touching anything.
“Whose car is this?”
Cash smiles, relaxed in his seat, driving. His eyes stay on the road.
“Mine.”
“How …” I glance around, unable to believe him. “No offense, but how could someone stocking groceries afford all of this?”
“Easy—I sell drugs and pimp girls in my spare time.” I’m staring, silent, until he exhales. “Jesus, Lilla, you’d really believe that?”
“I don’t know you very well.”
Deeply inhaling. I’m getting on his nerves. I think. He changes the music we are listening to, switching to something slow with very loud bass. It vibrates against my seat. I’m not really into it. He seems to like it. He’s also not smoking in this car, simply toying with the cigarette between his fingers.
Yeah, he cares about this car.
“I sold one of my first paintings when I was eighteen. It made me a nice chunk of change. I saw this GTO sitting in someone’s yard, wasting away like all things busy people cast to the wayside and decided to save it. Restore it. My dad called me an idiot and didn’t speak to me for two weeks,” he chuckles at the memory. “He thought I needed to save it for college.”
“He was probably right.”
Cash rubs his forehead, coming to a stop at the red light.
“It never ceases to amaze me how many people assume just because you have an expensive piece of paper in your hand that you will somehow lead a better life. I know how to paint. I know how to create some of the most profound shit you might ever be a witness to with my hands.” Cash glances around the car, as proof. “Tell me why I need someone to validate that with a degree of some sort?”
“I think it’s meant to show how serious you take your craft? That someone who has vast experience and knowledge would approve of you. What you know. Also, to further that knowledge. Shape those skills.”
“Then what is life for?”
My mouth sticks. His smirks.
The red light turns green.
“I don’t mooch off of my parents, Lilla. I work in my dad’s store to be a good son. The economy is in the shitter. Grocery stores aren’t exactly flourishing. If he doesn’t have to pay someone to work there, that’s extra cash he gets to put in his own pocket. Or someone else’s pocket.”
“You work for free?”
“Depends what you define as payment. I feel like the best paid employee, right now.”
I smile, looking down to my hands, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“Sorry.”
He shrugs, shifting gears.
“Don’t get me wrong, I was spoiled to shit when I was little, when things were good. I didn’t get this kind of swagger from growing up broke, Lil.”
I roll my eyes when he winks.
***
As soon as we park and exit the car, Cash lights the cigarette he’s been holding. We’re in a parking garage and I have no idea where he is taking me. He leans against a cement wall, taking slow drags, watching the other people in the lot. Most of them are girls. Girls dressed up to go somewhere. Laughing. Girls a lot closer to his age.
Their clothing is sparse, to be kind. I feel out of place. I wore the black dress he requested, but it feels more like something you’d wear to a job interview rather than a date and headed where these other people are going. I don’t even have cleavage.
Two girls pass us, walking toward the elevator and he doesn’t hide his ogling. He grins, nodding to one of them as she checks him out.
“Tell Heath I’ll be over to see him soon,” he calls out.
“What about me, Cash?” she tosses back.
“You couldn’t handle this, Sweetheart. Keep walking.” The girl giggles, holding onto her friend as they reach the elevator.
He smiles, facing me. “Heath has been trying to date that girl for three years. You believe that shit?” He takes another drag before allowing the cigarette to fall to the floor. Another classic car passes by, his eyes follow it, waving to the man driving. His radio is twice as loud as Cash’s car, echoing off the walls of the parking garage.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask nervously.
Cash reaches out for my hand. “I told you. Dancing.” He tugs me along, heading for the elevator.
A group of girls pack the elevator with us. Cash holds me against him, wrapping his hands around my waist from behind. The girls are loud and their skirts too short. I’m glad he’s standing behind me. I don’t want to see if he’s looking at them. Of course he is. Everyone is looking at them.
I follow where he leads us, my feet following without hesitation until we reach the entrance of a night club.
Cash looks back, silently questioning as I pause.
“What’s wrong?”
“I … I didn’t think this was the type of dancing you had in mind.”
Cash half-smiles, stepping closer. “Where else do you go to dance, other than a club, Lilla?”
“I don’t know. I assumed that it was going to be somewhere more private.”
“Like a closet?” he teases. “What’s the real problem, Honey-girl?”
“I stopped doing this type of stuff when I was—”
“Twenty-four?” Cash makes a face. “Do you want to dance or not?”
“I don’t want to be the old hag everyone snickers about at the bar. Like I did when I was your age.”
“Who cares, Lilla? Have you looked around? You honestly think any of these people will be sober enough to remember you by morning? Even if they were, I repeat—who the fuck cares? I don’t. I give zero fucks. I’m here for three things: drink, dancing with you and hopefully coppin’ a feel of what’s under that dress.”
He holds out his hand for me.
“Come on, maybe you’ll get lucky and the DJ will play a Mariah song.”
“That’s not funny.”
Still holding out his hand, not willing to give up. I sigh, rolling away the tension in my shoulders.
I follow him to the door.
***
“What do you want to drink, Lil?” He hollers over the loud music.
“You decide.”
Cash leans closer. “I’m sorry, that’s not on the menu.”
I groan, looking back to the bar. I’m not really a drinker. And when I do drink, it doesn’t take much to tip me over and pour me out. A few girls across the bar have something pink and fruity.
“Whatever they’re drinking,” I point.
Cash orders for us, taking a beer and two shots for himself. I watch him count out money and hand it over.
He looks at me, sliding his wallet back into his jeans, glossing his eyes over my dress. A long finger calls me closer. Two steps in his direction. He shimmies the bottom of my dress up higher, too high, revealing my thighs. Next, his fingers pull at the fabric around my waist, tugging down the top of my dress to show a little lace from my bra. A little cleavage. His eyebrows bounce in approval.
Drinks in hand, I follow him up the steps, going into a lounge area.
The other clerk from the grocery store is sitting alone, head-bobbing as he watches two girls dance together. We sit next to him. Cash taps beers with Heath and I am given a wave. A grin.
Cash gets a grin, too.
I feel warm.
They make small talk for a while, until the girls from the parking garage come over. Cash keeps my hand in his, sipping at his beer until the conversation is lost and Heath and the girls slip into their own world. I am gulping this drink down too fast, nervously using it as something to keep myself busy.
Cash orders another drink for me when a waitress comes around. The two shots sit on the table before us. He picks one up and hands it to me, gathering the other for himself.
“To dancing—whether it’s on rooftops or shitty clubs,” he toasts.
I clink my glass to his and follow his lead, tipping it back.
Cash smiles, relaxing into the couch, pulling me against his chest. It’s dark and I’m apprecia
tive, because his mouth is suddenly near mine. The loud music dissipates, the percussion a backdrop to the warmth of his breath. The slight scruff on his face. He taps his lips to mine three times before he pinches my chin between his fingers.
“This is ours.”
He takes one last swig of his beer and then pulls me up. The song is slower and I’m so, so grateful.
I like his hands on the small of my back and the soft pecks in between whispered lyrics I watch his lips produce. His arms around me. The way girls half my age look at him and he doesn’t look back. Right here. He’s right here.
Three more drinks and I am brave enough to dance to a faster song. Then another and another. Two more drinks and all I know is Cash has to carry me in his arms to the car. The motion is terrible, but amazing.
Gingerly, he sets me on my feet as we find the parking garage. His car. I slump into the leather seat and laugh without knowing why or caring. He puts the music super loud and I suddenly love it.
I have no idea what it is but I freaking love it.
The music dims. “You hungry?”
I laugh louder than needed. “Are you kidding? I could eat twenty-four hours a day nonstop.”
Cash smiles, touching my cheek affectionately. “Want to go to my place? I could cook you something.”
I take off my seatbelt, turning toward him. “If you’re trying to get in my underwear you could just say ‘Lilla, I want to have relations with you’ —oh my word!—relations! Who thought of that word? So stupid! Relations. Relations! We are gonna have relations.”
He cups my cheek. “I should’ve cut you off five Lemonade Shooters ago. Not that I don’t find you adorable, Honey-girl.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Because it’s the truth. And you deserve the truth.”
“How am I a Honey-girl?”
“You’re sweet. Delicious.”
“I want a turkey sandwich with mustard and French fries.”
Cash laughs and I love it so much. Shifts gears. I lean against him, head on his shoulder.
“Lil, put your seatbelt on. I’m already driving a neon sign. I really don’t need to get pulled over, considering I’d probably flunk a fucking breathalyzer. Please?”
“Drinking and driving is very bad, Cash.”
Cash shakes his head. “I’m good, just not legally speaking.”
A yawn escapes me. “I’m sleepy.”
***
His keys jingle as he unlocks the door, allowing me entrance into his apartment. Three steps and I’m rendered still as lights flick on, illuminating something unexpected.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Lil. I’m sure you were hoping for Xbox, empty pizza boxes and dirty laundry everywhere?”
Pretty much.
But no.
This place is … honestly? It puts my house to shame.
Two leather sofas. A glass table with some sculpture thing in the middle. Neat stacks of magazines and, of course, art on the walls. It smells great too. A little lemony and floral. Shiny hardwood floors. Can I move in here?
I hear the friendly sound of a fridge door opening.
My stomach speaks up.
Cash’s head is ducked down, looking for something.
“If you have to pee the bathroom is down the hall,” he pulls away from the fridge with an arm full of things, nodding towards a darkened hallway.
I do have to go, but honestly? I’m really just super curious about what that room looks like.
And you know what?
It is just as nice as the rest of his home. Sigh of epic proportions. Everything is gleaming clean and organized. He even has nice hand towels. Crap, I don’t even have nice hand towels. Who is this weirdo guy?
Ugh, my mascara is super smeared and I look like a raccoon.
When I’m finished fixing my face and hair, and spying on what’s in his medicine cabinet and small linen closet, I go back to the kitchen. He has a beer in one hand, taking a sip as the other hand flips something over in a pan. The stereo plays low in the background.
“You said turkey, right?”
He glances to me briefly. I don’t respond beyond a simple nod of my head. I’m just sort of … observing this whole ordeal.
How the hell did I end up in the kitchen of a produce clerk, watching him make me a turkey sandwich? A toasted turkey sandwich.
Can the man get any better?
Drunk. Snooping through his stuff? Wondering why …
I point to his face.
“One of your eyes is blue and the other green. I never noticed that before. How is that possible?”
His lips smirk. “It happens when a pretty girl is near me.”
“Funny.”
He flips the sandwich in the pan. “Not trying to be. It’s the truth.”
“It’s amazing.”
“You should see what my other body parts do around pretty girls.” He laughs into his beer bottle.
“Very mature, Cash.”
“Not trying to be.”
He slides a sandwich onto a plate and hands it over. I follow him into the living room and we sit, sunken into an enormous bean-bag chair. I sort of love it. He turns off the stereo from one remote, using another to flip on the flat screen.
I pick at the edge of my sandwich. “Not to be rude, but I’m just curious about something, Cash.”
He takes a bite of the food, keeping his eyes on the television.
“Mm?”
“If you can afford all of this stuff, selling your art, then … why can’t you just give your dad money? Help out the grocery store’s financial situation?”
He settles on an action movie, lowering the volume.
“My father has a really bad problem with pride.”
“He won’t take your money?”
Cash shakes his head. “Plus, while all of this looks cozy, I’m not exactly rich, Lilla. The store is in serious debt.”
I nod, going back to my food. He remembered the mustard. I relax into the beanbag, feeling the filling form around my body.
“I haven’t sat in one of these since I was nine.”
He takes a sip of beer, before passing it to me. “One of the perks of dating a kid.”
My heart sours. “That’s not what I meant. I like it. It’s comfy. I like everything in your place, actually. Even the art I’ll never understand, drunk or not drunk.”
Cash smiles, sinking down into the chair. “You don’t have to understand everything. If you like it, then, you like it. Why complicate shit that isn’t complicated?”
“I just thought artists had some underlying meaning for things they paint.”
“I do,” he nods, “but it doesn’t always have to be obvious, or even meant for people to see at full face value. Sometimes it’s nice to have a secret only you know.”
My insides flutter. I pass him back the beer. My eyes look to the large canvas on the wall. A lot of red and black splotches.
“What does that one mean?”
“To who?”
I roll my eyes. “To you.”
“I slept on the beach for three hours during the hottest part of the day. For six hours straight all I saw was fucking spots,” he laughs.
“Why would you need to paint that?”
“I liked that beach, but I am opposed to painting palm trees?” He shrugs. “I told you, not everything has some deep-seeded meaning.”
“Which one has a deep meaning to you?”
“Those aren’t on display, Honey-girl. Not in this room.”
“Where?”
“Finish your food, Lil. I’ll show you later.”
***
I’m lead up a small staircase to a floor above the main living area. It’s like two different worlds. Messy and chaotic. Papers everywhere. Stacks of canvas and paint. Cash clicks on a lamp that doesn’t own a shade. Takes a seat on a paint-splattered wooden stool. Watching as I snoop through his things. There’s just … so much. I don’t know where to start. Softly, his voice f
inds me.
“They told my parents when I was little, I had a problem—the shit they call ADD—these days? Wanted to pump me full of drugs just because I didn’t act the way they thought I should. Poppy didn’t buy into it though. She knew I was special. My mind just worked differently than other kids.”
“Better,” I encourage, holding up a piece of paper that has a girl’s face sketched in charcoal grey. It’s amazing. So detailed.
Cash’s face lights up, liking my words. “That’s why I’ll take all of my father’s crap and put up with that shit grocery store. It makes my mom happy. I owe her my life. Literally.”
“No one noticed me when I was a kid. I was just another snotty-nosed nobody,” I tease.
“You were probably the cutest little girl. Boys chased you on the playground, didn’t they?”
I stay silent.
He grins, nodding. “Yeah, I knew it.”
“I’m sure you were a nightmare. With those eyes.”
He gets up from the stool. “A dream, you mean?”
I set the paper down, wanting to play this game. Dance this dance.
“No, I’m sure I was right the first time.”
I’m swept up in his arms, only to be laid down on the piles of paper crinkling underneath us. He crawls over me, looking down. His fingers dig into the sides of my knee, making me jerk with laughter.
“What about my eyes, Lilla?”
I go for the age stuff. “Are you seriously tickling me like we’re five?”
He answers with action. Smart.
The alcohol is still speaking in my absence. “I could think of other things you could do in between my legs, Cash, other than tickle me. Very mature things.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t tempt me, Lil.”
“Like this?” I lock my legs around him.
“I don’t fuck drunk girls.”
“I’m fine. Just not legally speaking,” I laugh.
“The fact that you are asking me to fuck you on the dirty floor is evidence to the contrary.”
“Maybe I just want you.”
He kisses my nose. “Who doesn’t?”
“That’s the only reason I came in the store. I wanted to have an affair with someone.”
Cash dips his head into my shoulder, laughing softly. “Shut up, Lilla.”