I shrug, as if it doesn’t matter. It does, but I don’t blame her for my prison stay.
She finishes her cigarette, relishing each drag as if she hasn’t had one in a long time. Then she stubs it out and asks, “What happened to your car?”
“It got seized as evidence and sold at an auction.”
She shakes her head at the irony. “That’s messed up.”
“Neta,” I say shortly. For real.
“You were stupid to fight him. He was bigger than you.”
“But he didn’t win, did he?”
She skims my torso, reassessing me. Not as a threat, but as a man. I remember how she looked at me before the fight. She watched me take off my shirt with interest, biting the edge of her knuckle. “You know what else is messed up?” she asks, lifting her gaze. “Oscar had another girlfriend. I found out after he died. She was six months pregnant.”
Shit. I took a dad away from two kids. “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe you did me a favor.”
I don’t think so. I don’t believe she’s glad he’s dead, either. Oscar might have been a cheating son of a bitch, but she loved him. It’s written all over her face. Her eyes get watery and her chin wobbles with emotion.
“Do you need money?” I ask.
“Why do you care?”
“Because life around here is hard, and I made it harder for you.”
“I have a job, vato. I pay my own bills.”
“Doing what?”
“I work at Club Suave.”
Club Suave—the singles bar where April used to be a cocktail waitress. I can picture the sexy uniform and fishnet stockings on Noemi.
I can picture them off her, too.
She moistens her lips anxiously and my pulse thickens. There’s something between us, a twisted sort of attraction. She invited me in. Her expression is challenging. I think she might do me just to make Oscar roll over in his grave.
I’m game.
I move closer and put my hand on her waist. Her quick intake of breath is the only encouragement I need. I press her back against the counter and kiss her. She tastes like cigarettes and I don’t give a fuck. Because she responds to my touch, and it feels good. It feels good to be wanted, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons. It feels good to thrust my tongue into her mouth and bury my hands in her hair.
It feels good to take her to the bedroom, and forget about Meghan.
Chapter 6
Meghan
I’ve been trying not to think about the letter.
Between going to class, working at The Hop and studying for midterms, I’ve had zero free time to wallow in memories of Eric. I haven’t unpacked the bag of clothes. I haven’t unpacked my feelings.
I know I should just trash everything. I can’t bring that stuff into the apartment I share with Chip. He’d turn his nose up at the thrift store clothes, and if he found the letter he’d go apeshit. Better to throw the whole bag into the Dumpster and wash my hands. Right now it’s like a body in my trunk, waiting to get discovered.
My morning class goes by in a blur. I forgot my laptop and had to take notes by hand. I’ve been so scattered lately. I’m afraid I’ll fail my abnormal psych midterm. Now that graduation is just around the corner, I’m questioning everything. My major, my relationship with Chip, my future goals. I think I’m having an existential crisis.
I don’t even know what I’m going to do next year. If I’m serious about being a psychologist, I have to apply to grad school. I feel like I’m sabotaging myself by losing focus at a critical moment. I’m overwhelmed and distracted. All I know is that there’s something wrong with me, and it started before Eric came.
My best friend, Kelsea, texts me about meeting at the library. I reply with an affirmative, relieved to stay on campus.
I don’t want to see Chip. I’m worried that he’ll be able to read the turmoil and uncertainty on my face. I shouldn’t have kissed Eric. That brief touch was hotter and more intense than anything I’ve done with Chip. Guilt washes over me at this realization. According to my former church, having impure thoughts is a form of cheating.
I head to the library and sit down at my usual table, trying to refocus. I open my book and start reading the assigned chapter.
“Hey, slut!”
My best friend slaps a colorful flyer on the table and I almost jump out of my skin. Is she a mind reader or what? Several heads turn to look at us. Kelsea doesn’t seem to notice the disapproving glares. She grabs a seat beside me, grinning.
I glance at the hot-pink flyer in front of me. It says slut walk in bold letters above several provocative images of women. One is a punk rock singer wearing black panties and tape over her nipples. Another is a blonde with a bouffant, hitchhiking nude. Censor bars cover her chest and crotch. I lift my gaze to Kelsea, who glows with pride.
The slut walk isn’t about my impure thoughts. It’s an annual event to protest rape culture, slut-shaming, and victim-blaming. Women in cities all over the country participate. Kelsea just found out about it a few days ago. She asked me to help her organize a march and I couldn’t say no. She’s relentless when she latches on to a project.
“What do you think?” she asks.
Her enthusiasm is infectious. She’s got wild, wavy black hair, mischievous blue eyes, and a complete inability to sit still. It’s like her petite body can’t hold in all of her energy. Right now she’s bouncing in her chair.
“It makes a statement,” I say.
“I didn’t want it to be too serious, you know? I’m going for a ‘sluts are fun’ theme.”
“Nailed it.”
Kelsea drums her palms against the tabletop in celebration. She reminds me of a Muppet on crack. “I need to add the event information and a brief explanation of our cause. We can do that tonight.”
“Tonight?”
She frowns at me in exasperation. “Don’t tell me you forgot again.”
“Oh shit,” I say, clapping my hand over my forehead. I’m supposed to volunteer at the women’s resource center tonight. It’s a place for female students to socialize, get help, and share information about health or safety issues. Kelsea covered for me the last time I spaced on it.
“I’ll hang out with you,” Kelsea says. “We can read creepmail together.” Creepmail is the worst part of volunteering. The center focuses on women’s rights, so campus creeps love to email us insults and send anonymous dick pics. Some of the messages are just dumb. Others are kind of scary.
Kelsea puts the flyer in my bag. “What are you studying?”
“Nothing,” I say, closing my book. “I can’t concentrate.”
She smirks knowingly. “How did it go at your brother’s?”
I pack up my things with a sigh. I need to talk to her about Eric, and I’m hungry anyway. We walk to the café for a snack. When we’re at an outdoor table, away from eavesdroppers, I describe Eric’s run-in with Chip.
Kelsea’s eyes light up. “He really said he’d killed a rival?”
“Yes.”
“Like, implying Chip might be next?”
“I don’t think so. It was just sort of a jab.”
“I love it,” Kelsea crows. She hates Chip. “How does he look? Is he all muscley and tattooed?”
“He is, but not the way you’re thinking.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“Not like Tank,” I clarify.
Her lips part with surprise. Tank is Kelsea’s not-so-secret crush. He’s a burly, bearded biker who works at her dad’s tattoo shop. Kelsea tried to lose her virginity to him in an epic fail when she was seventeen. Although the gentleman declined, the two of them have been eye-fucking each other ever since.
Kelsea shuts up for a few seconds and drinks her green tea. Just what she needs—more natural energy. “My dad hired Eric, right?”
“Right.”
“Perfect,” she says, removing a Google map from her bag. University Avenue is highlighted in pink marker. “Fine Ink
is on the slut walk route. We’ll stop by and ask them to host a slut station.”
“Slut station?”
“I’m going to invite a few businesses to sponsor our event by providing cold drinks. Sluts need refreshment.”
I laugh at her wording, though her idea is clever. It’s pretty funny that Kelsea has appointed herself an official slut spokesperson, considering the fact that she’s still a virgin. I think she’s saving herself for Tank.
“Tomorrow we’ll pass out flyers along the route,” she says, pointing out possible locations for slut stations. “We should make some posters, too. Big posters.”
I agree to go with her to pass out flyers. Then I remember that I have plans for the weekend. “What time is the slut walk?”
“It starts at four.”
Chip has a game about the same time.
“Don’t tell me you can’t go,” Kelsea says.
I scroll through the planner on my phone, wondering how I can be in two places at once.
Kelsea jumps to her feet. “You’ve been so flaky lately! Does Chip have you on a short leash or what?”
“That’s not fair. I’ve been busy.”
“Doing his dishes. And his laundry.”
I can’t deny the accusation. I’m more upset about the unequal division of labor in the bedroom, but I don’t say that. I haven’t told Kelsea about our unsatisfying sex life. It’s embarrassing, and she’s super judgmental, despite her lack of experience. The bottom line is that I made plans with her first. I don’t really want to go to Chip’s baseball game, either. I’m just not sure how to avoid a big argument with him. Maybe I can pretend I’m sick.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
She squeals and hugs me before she sits back down. “I can’t wait. This is going to be so awesome!”
We spend the rest of the afternoon studying outdoors. Then we continue to the women’s resource center. It’s a slow night, so we have plenty of time to make flyers. Kelsea posts the information on social media sites and we watch the comments roll in. She gets a good response. The vast majority of replies are positive.
Hells yeah! I’m ready to get my slut on! #slutwalk
Others, not so much:
#slutwalk? How about a Slut Run? Let’s chase these sluts down and give them what they’re asking for!
A chill travels down my spine when I read the threat. I remember the night of the bonfire, when my coworker followed me away from the party and held me down underneath the pier. I’m lucky Eric intervened.
Kelsea closes the screen. “Rule one of the Internet. Never read the comments.”
“Right,” I say, trying to shake it off.
“Are you sure you want to participate?” she asks. She’s one of the only people who knows about the attempted rape.
“Absolutely,” I say, because I do. I want to march down the street in short shorts and strut my stuff. Not just for fun, but for equality. For all the girls who’ve been blamed for wearing the wrong clothes after they were assaulted. For all the girls who drank too much and paid the price, like I did.
My main concern about the event isn’t my personal history, which I rarely even think about. I’m not broken or traumatized. The bigger issue is Chip. I know that lying to him and sneaking around won’t solve our problems.
At the end of the night we close the center and lock up. Kelsea lives on campus, so I walk her to the dorm before I continue to the parking lot. The space is well lit, with emergency phone booths at regular intervals, but I hurry toward my car with my keys in hand. Maybe I’ve read too much creepmail, because I feel uneasy.
I get in my car and drive to Chip’s apartment. It’s a modern, spacious two-bedroom, within walking distance of the most popular college bars. His parents pay the rent and utilities. I do the majority of the housework. Chip buys me everything I need and then some.
I park next to Chip’s space, which is empty. He’s not home yet. The Dumpster is about twenty feet away. I pop the trunk, deciding to get rid of the “body.” Then I realize I don’t have the key to the gate around the Dumpster. They’ve been locking it at night because some homeless guy was sleeping in there. Throwing away the clothes would be stupid, anyway. I can donate them to Goodwill. Before I close the trunk, I retrieve my love letter from the bag.
I continue to the upstairs apartment and let myself in, setting my stuff on the table. Then I stare at the envelope. It’s smudged with fingerprints and smells faintly of cherry ChapStick—because I sealed it with a kiss, of course.
God.
I know I should burn the letter, right here and now. Instead I open it with shaking hands. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I remember my feelings very clearly. I missed Eric desperately and ached from wanting him. I fantasized about the afternoon we spent in bed together and the songs we listened to in his car. I replayed “In My Room” by the Beach Boys over and over again. I also had every Beyoncé and Jay-Z collaboration on repeat.
I’d wallow in the music and imagine him touching me. Then I’d touch myself and cry.
While I’m standing there, lost in thought, I hear footsteps on the stairs outside. I stash the letter in my messenger bag and rush into the kitchen. I feel like I’ve been caught naked. My cheeks are hot, my heart racing.
Chip left a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. I turn on the water and try to look busy.
He opens the door and tosses his gym bag on the floor. As I scrub a plastic cup, industrious, he comes up behind me. He enjoys watching me do domestic tasks and groping me while my hands aren’t free. Sure enough, he grabs my hips and kisses my neck.
“Hey, babe,” he says.
His breath smells like beer but his body feels nice. I’m already sort of aroused from thinking about Eric. Chip lifts his hands to cup my breasts, finding my nipples hard. He groans against my neck.
I dry my hands on a towel and turn around to kiss him. Love the one you’re with, right? He’s handsome and well built. His desire is unmistakable, swelling against my belly. There are no mixed messages with Chip. I twine my fingers through his hair and kiss him like I mean it. I’m testing him, maybe. Testing our connection.
But I can’t feel something that’s not there.
He breaks the kiss and studies me, breathing hard. His hair is mussed from my hands. “Where were you tonight?”
“At the center,” I say. “I texted you.”
“Oh. Right.”
I should probably ask where he’s been. But he doesn’t like to be questioned—and I don’t care.
His gaze settles on my messenger bag. “What the fuck is that?”
My stomach drops as he pushes away from me and crosses the room. In my haste to hide the letter, I left the flap open. The corner of the envelope is visible. I picture Chip reading it and freaking out. Instead he grabs the hot-pink slut walk flyer.
“It’s an event Kelsea’s organizing.”
“Kelsea,” he says with a curled lip. The distaste is mutual. “You’re not doing it.”
His controlling attitude annoys me, but right now my focus is on luring him away from the letter. When I’m in the mood, I don’t mind taking orders in the bedroom. So I brush past him and remove my shirt, letting it drop to the floor.
“I do what I want,” I say over my shoulder.
His eyes darken and he follows me.
Chapter 7
Eric
I show up early for my first day at Fine Ink.
Matthew puts me straight to work on the most unpleasant tasks he can think of. I scrub every inch of the ladies’ restroom even though it doesn’t look dirty. Then I tackle the men’s, which needs a bit more attention. I clean every nook and cranny. I make the fucking urinals sparkle.
When I’m done, Matthew just grunts and says, “Now the windows.”
An hour later, he comes out of his office to check my progress. He frowns at a barely there speck on the glass. “Do them again.”
> I do them again. Better.
While I’m cleaning, a few customers come and go. Two nice-looking older women have appointments with Matthew. I can’t imagine what kind of body art these rich ladies are getting. Business picks up in the late afternoon, after I finish the windows. Gina arrives and starts sketching something. Then a guy in a leather jacket and motorcycle boots makes his entrance, carrying a helmet. He’s got short, dark hair and a full beard.
Rose introduces him. “This is Tank.”
I shake his hand. He’s tall and intimidating, but he seems pretty laid-back. He continues to his station to get ready for a client.
“Train him,” Matthew says to Rose. “I’ll answer the phones.”
Rose rises from behind the desk to give me a tour of the facilities. She shows me how to restock everything the artists need, where the extra supplies are kept, and what kind of equipment is used. There’s all sorts of fancy professional shit in the back, like an autoclave to sanitize the tattoo needles.
In the front of the building there are three small stations with dentist-type chairs, and a private room with a stainless steel table. “Most of the body art is done in here. No nudity is allowed in the open areas. Matthew specializes in areola tattoos for women who’ve had reconstructive breast surgery. Those appointments usually take place in the mornings, behind closed doors. Nipple and genital piercings are done in private also.”
Whoa. “Genital piercings?”
She nods. “I do about one a week. Belly buttons and tongues are the most popular, but clit and labia piercings are catching up.”
I find this hard to believe, but she looks serious. I’ve seen maybe one porno with that kind of bling. I’m afraid to let my thoughts wander too far in this direction. Picturing pussies has a predictable effect on me. Even fresh from wearing myself out with Noemi yesterday, I might get aroused. I stare at the silver studs in Rose’s cheeks and wonder about the rest of her. Then I glance at Matthew, who’s on the phone.
“You pierce clits?” I ask in a low voice.
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