by Lane Hart
“Can I help you with something, kid?” a deep baritone voice asked from somewhere above me.
“Nah, bro. I was just leaving,” I answered to his black boots pointing toward me.
I picked up the last of my sketches and stood to find a big motherfucker holding one of the pages in his hand. He had a few inches on me, which was saying something considering I was six foot three. The black T-shirt he wore stretched to capacity and barely contained his overabundance of muscles behind the folded arms across his chest. Dude was massive and didn’t reach to hand me back my sketch once we were face to face. Why motherfuckers always had to make everything so fucking hard was beyond me. I just wanted my drawing so I could leave, find a place to sleep, and get back on the road. I did not need the bullshit today.
“Wanna give that back to me, bro? Just trying to see my way out. Don’t want no trouble.”
“Name’s Mace Fox. This here’s my place, and the only trouble you’ll find around here, my friend, is no fucking trouble,” he boasted with confidence.
“Good to know. Now, if you’ll hand over—” I reached out, and he pulled back.
“This your stuff? It’s good.” He waived around the page. “What’s your name, kid?”
This fucking guy.
“Dread.” I let out on a deep breath and prayed for patience. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
“You looking for work, Dread? Could use some fresh meat ‘round here.”
He adjusted his stance and waited for me to answer. What could I say that would make this big fuck give up and show my ass to the door? I’d wasted enough time shootin’ the shit with Mace Fox, who obviously wasn’t used to taking no for an answer. Fuck it. Tell the truth and shame the devil, they say. Think I’ll go with that and put an end to this shit.
“Look…” I started. “I’m an ex-con with less than two months left on his parole for aggravated assault. I can sketch, and I can draw, but this place?” I suddenly felt the urge to laugh. “Is not for someone like me. I appreciate the introduction and all, but it’s time for me to vamoose. Get me?”
Fucker still wouldn’t take the hint.
“Hey, Slim!” he called to one of the men waiting to get a tattoo. “Come’ere, son.”
The guy walked over to where we were standing and looked me up and down like he wanted to rip my head off. Every fool in this place was built like a brick shithouse and no doubt skirted around the lines of the law. He might have thought I was soft, but I was nobody’s punk bitch. I returned his grit with a hard glare of my own.
“Weren’t you looking for a new leg piece?” Mace Fox asked. “Take a look at that.”
He handed the guy my sketch, and the man went apeshit.
“Fuck yeah, that’s the one. Motherfucker. Makes my dick hard just looking at it. You gotta hook me up with that, Fox. That is the SHIT!”
Slim, as he was called, jumped around on one leg, waiving his hands in the air as if he were rooting for his favorite football team on opening night. I nearly choked on my own spit when that fool bent at the knees and started twerking in front of everyone like a new-made bitch. The fuck?
“No can do, son. Dread here don’t like my shop, so he’s moving on to greener pastures.” Mace Fox told the guy, bursting his bubble and putting an abrupt end to his dumb-ass dancing.
“Fuck that.” The big dude reached into his pocket and produced a wad of cash. “I’ll give you five hundred for that sketch, right here, right now.” He shoved it toward my face.
“Ah… I don’t think—” I tried to say no.
“Fuck, man. Twist my arm, why don’t cha. Okay, six hundred, but that’s as high as I’ll go.”
He reached out his hand with the stack of cash and waited for me to take it. Six hundred dollars for an old-ass sketch I did years ago of a bulldog taking a shit on a Russian flag? Hells yeah, I’d take that fucker’s money, then get the fuck outa town before he changed his mind and demanded it back. He snatched that shit outa Fox’s hand so fast I thought he was going to rip it in half. He took off with it into the crowd of onlookers, showing it off like a new father would share pictures of a newborn baby.
The fuck just happened?
“The Masonry is the best fucking tattoo shop within a two-hundred-mile radius,” Mace Fox swaggered. “I only accept the best artists in my place regardless of where they came from or what road they had to take in order to get here. I got work for you if you want it. My customers like your stuff, and I like your stuff. The rest? We work out in the back end and when the time calls for it. You feel me?”
I looked him directly in his eyes hoping I could see the lying in the words he was spitting. He held my gaze, never once shying away or blinking back with deception. One look around this joint, and I could clearly see that the men respected the place, respected its owner. The way I saw it, I had two options: Tell him to fuck off, pocket my six hundred dollars, and keep it pushing, or take a little time in this one-horse town and see how much green I could make before it all went to shit. Settled. I thrust my free hand toward my mew boss and formally introduced myself.
“Name’s Jerome Red.” Mace Fox smirked and grabbed hold with a firm grip. “I’ll stick around for a piece, see what comes of it. No promises.”
“Fair enough,” he grunted with a hard pound on my back. “Welcome to Remington, Dread. You need a place to lay your head for a while, I know just the spot.”
Guess I was staying.
Michelle
That had to have been the longest day of my life. Thank God it was over. After I’d finished mopping the bathroom floor and dumping the blackened water from the bucket, the damn toilet in the ladies’ room suffered the same fate as the men’s. I’d hate to think it was sabotage, but I also couldn’t rule it out since I noticed Mrs. Brooks had little popcorn kernels on the front of her blouse when she came out of her office to inspect the cleanup. She had a front row seat to my misery and took great pleasure in enjoying the show. She even went so far as to tell me I’d missed my calling and should have considered a career in the janitorial field, to which I promptly replied, “No thanks.” My clothes were dirty, my hair was a wreck, and I smelled like three different types of baked-on shit. I couldn’t wait to get home, strip out of these clothes, and take a nice long soak in the bathtub till my skin pruned.
Ahhh, the simple pleasures in life.
Voices inside the kitchen when I entered the door stopped my heart cold. One I recognized as belonging to Mrs. Lafontaine; the second was considerably deeper, sultry and smooth. It hugged my frazzled senses like a vice and warmed me from the inside out as if I’d just finished drinking a steeping cup of herbal tea. How odd my reaction to someone that I hadn’t even seen yet. My hands started to shake uncontrollably, and I found it difficult to breathe. Jesus, Michelle, get your shit together. Could be the fucking cable man, for Christ sakes. I stepped inside the kitchen, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach in an audible whoosh.
Cable sure had changed, and that was so not Jim Carrey.
“Ah, Michelle, you’re right on time. I wanted to introduce you to your new housemate, who’ll be staying here for the foreseeable future. This is Jerome Red, and he’s going to be renting the room across the hall from you…”
Mrs. Lafontaine was speaking, but I couldn’t hear a damn word she said. I was too busy watching—no, staring—at this walking billboard for male masculinity. He had so much going on I didn’t know where to start. He was tall, towering over my poor landlord, who didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by his stature. Everything about him was a complete contradiction. Tattoos, bright and intricate, could be seen on every part of his body that wasn’t covered by clothing, including his hands, yet he had the face of a supermodel. Sandy blond hair that fell haphazardly across his forehead, sun-kissed skin from spending too much time outdoors, and a pair of blue eyes that any woman would kill to have looking back at her from hovering above. No way could I live with this man. Mrs. Lafontaine must’ve lost her damn mind.
Holy shit. She left me alone with… Ohmigod, what was his name again? Fuck. Fuck. This was a disaster. Not only was I on my own, in my house, with a complete stranger, I hadn’t been listening when Mrs. Lafontaine introduced us.
He was going to think I’m crazy.
He was going to make fun of me.
He was going to—
“Might wanna close your mouth, baby girl, before you catch a fly in it.” What’s-his-name smirked. “You ready to go, or do you need to change out of those clothes first? No offence, but you smell like yesterday’s trash pickup.”
“Um… what? I don’t—”
“Babe, focus, will you? You’re starting to freak me the fuck out. The old woman said you’d show me where the convenience store was. New around here in case you forgot. Need some shit, and I’m too fucking tired to go exploring today. Ready to hit the sheets if I can find some.”
“Hit the sheets?”
“Yeah. Bed… sleep… tired. Don’t you hear good, or are you one of those special people?”
I stood there like a complete idiot trying to come to grips with what this man was saying. Apparently, Mrs. Lafontaine had told this hulking stranger that I would take him somewhere, alone, without checking with me first to see if that was okay. It wasn’t. I could strangle her for putting me in this position knowing my history, or at least enough of it to grasp that this was a very bad idea. What the hell was she thinking? The good news was, through all of my internal debate, I finally remembered his name. Now, to turn down his request as gently as possible without appearing batshit crazy.
“Look, Rome. I’ve had a long day and—” I tried to explain.
“What did you call me?” His eyebrows shot to the top of his hairline.
“Rome? I called you Rome,” I whispered. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to—”
“Babe. Shower. Change. Now. I’ll be waiting for you to finish. Don’t take too fuckin’ long. I’m dead on my feet,” he demanded.
I hesitated.
“Tick-tock, babe. Time is money. Get that ass moving, unless you want me to carry you up those stairs? Either way, I’m down for it. Whatever gets us there faster.”
He snapped his fingers in my face, causing me to audibly squeak like a little mouse before I turned and ran up the stairs to where the bedrooms were located. I slammed the door, locking it closed, and slid down to the floor on my butt in total disbelief. Rome was expecting me to be ready soon. Dare I risk finding out what would happen if I wasn’t? The shower was as good a place as any to try and figure out how to deal with this new load of king-sized crap on a cracker.
Why me?
That was the only thing I could think of as I stood under the harsh spray of hot water and washed away the layers of shit that hid in places I didn’t know were possible. I’d been living here for over three years now, and Mrs. Lafontaine had never once mentioned renting out the second room in her guest house. There was more than enough space for two, a full-sized kitchen with an island, a living room and a den, plus a bath and a half. I’d gotten used to thinking of this place as all mine, and now she was forcing me to share it? Of all the tenants she could have chosen, why him? He didn’t exactly strike me as someone who could be a standup guy with high morals. He was covered in tattoos, for shit’s sake. That’s always a dead giveaway. The way he stood in that kitchen, big and bold, unapologetic, he was hardly bothered by me at all. And why would he be? I was the one with the ridiculous hang-ups, the phobias, and the inability to trust another human being. Hank would be so disappointed if he saw me cowering in the shower instead of facing my fears. In the survivors group, we often spoke about leaving the past behind us and living life to its fullest instead of as a perpetual victim.
Old habits were hard to break, I guess.
I jumped out the shower and grabbed a towel from off the rack behind me. I’d never bathed so fast in my life. What was that all about? Subliminally, my body was hurrying even though my mind was stalling. It was as if Rome had some kind of mind control over me, forcing me to follow his instructions even though I really didn’t want to. Had to be a fluke of some sort or a by-product of too many therapy sessions. Learning new ways to cope with my unfortunate circumstances was the whole reason I’d started attending the survivors group. Resisting the techniques had already cost me one potential friend slash companion. The stakes were much higher now. Considering I was going to be rooming with Rome, I had to try harder lest I’d find myself on the street sleeping in an ally once Mrs. Lafontaine got a whiff of my objections. I formulated a quick plan that hopefully would work like a charm. The local Target was right down the road a bit. I’d go with him there, then loose him in the children’s toy section. Once it was safe, I’d run back to my room, lock the door, and pretend I wasn’t home. By the time he figured out I was gone, he’d forget all about me and realize I wasn’t worth his time.
Simple.
I threw on a pair of jeans with an oversized hoodie and a pair of Chucks. I was going for the “drop your spare change in my empty coffee cup look” as not to draw too much attention to myself and comfort when it was time for me to bolt. My hair was a lost cause. Its thickness and length prevented me from even attempting to dry it, which usually took at least forty-five minutes on a good day. Rome was not so patiently waiting for me downstairs, so a messy bun was my only recourse. Satisfied that I looked a hot mess, I tiptoed down the stairs and peeked around the corner to see if he was still standing inside the kitchen.
He wasn’t.
“You done primping and shit, or do you need time for your nails to dry?”
His strong voice caught me by surprise, and I stumbled the rest of the way down the stairs and into the foyer. Rome gave one quick look at my insane outfit and walked out the door. He didn’t hold it open for me to go first, he didn’t wait to see if I followed, nor did he have the common decency to apologize for his snarky comment. I was just about to balk for a second time when something completely unexpected happened that changed my entire outlook.
“Is that your car?” I asked, completely taken aback as I watched my new housemate insert a key into the driver’s side door and unlock it.
“Damn straight, it is,” Rome barked with pride. “You got a fuckin’ problem with it?”
“No, it’s just…” How did I answer him without appearing shallow? “It’s a brown station wagon… with wood paneling on the doors.” I inadvertently snickered.
“Your fucking point?” he sneered.
“Nothing. It’s just that—” I never got the chance to finish my sentence.
“Know what? Don’t need no help finding the place after all, baby girl. Keep your stuck-up ass on the curb and the fuck away from my ride.” He spat on the ground next to where I was standing. “While you’re at it… stay the fuck away from me.”
Rome jumped into his car and sped off down the road, going the wrong way, I might add, leaving me totally stupefied as to what had just happened. He was the one who’d insisted that I tag along in the first place, then one tiny observation, and poof, game over. What did I say that was so offensive that caused a big guy like him to get his panties in a wad? One thing was crystal clear: Rome didn’t have a sense of humor, and for this new roommate arrangement to work, I was gonna have to tread lightly or risk more than I bargained for. Stay away? Not a problem, chief. Just call me the girl on the milk carton from here on out.
Dread
Bitches.
As much as women hated the use of that term, they more than lived up to it. My timid little housemate was no exception, even though she tried her best to hide it. Some people were naturally suspicious of dogs, strangers, hell, the fucking mailman if he didn’t deliver on time. Me? I would never trust a woman for a motherfuckin’ thing, and th
at’s my word. They were the most cunning animals in the world when it came down to getting what they wanted. Lying came easy to them. Straight faced, shedding tears, convincing words of love, whatever it took to get the job done, and they had no qualms with doing it. They mastered the art of storytelling mixed with sprinkles of deception all while wielding the greatest weapon forged by the devil himself.
Their pussy.
They’d let you have it, give it to you good, but that was just the trap to keep you begging for more. Soon as you thought you owned that shit, she’d flip the script and lower the pussy boom. That cunt was only on lease with an option to buy, and your dumb ass never had the coin to secure the contract. Women were always looking for bigger and better, just like what’s-her-tits back at the apartment. Once she got a look at my ride, she’d locked her knees up tight, saving that sweet pussy for another fool to come along to try and claim it.
It wouldn’t be me, that’s for damn sure.
Bitch was off limits from here on out.
I could’ve kicked my own ass on the way to Masonry Ink the following morning. She’d had me going the minute she’d walked in looking torn up from the floor up. Her innocent doe eyes and shy demeanor when she’d called me Rome instead of Jerome, she was in full pussy game mode, playing me from the start. Yeah, my dick had twitched, I won’t lie. I’d pictured her on her knees with a mouth full of my cock while I ripped a plug out of that gorgeous red hair just before I snaked farther down her throat until she choked. Tight little body with a heart-shaped ass perfect for spreading open wide while I fucked her hard from the back. Bitch was good, convincing even, till I remembered it was all one big con. The pussy trap, I called it. Took her ass ten minutes to show her true colors, laughing at the car that took me three years of hard work to save up for. My ride wasn’t sexy, but it was all mine, and I’d be damned if I let some bitch make fun of it ‘cause it wasn’t up to her standards.