“We have to get back to pre-game practice,” Chip says. “I just wanted to say hi.”
“Do you have time for a picture?” Kelsea asks.
“Sure,” Chip says, shrugging.
It’s our turn at the wall, so we let them cut in line. Chip does a thumbs-up for sluts and his friends make okay signs. I don’t think they care about the event, but it doesn’t matter. They’re star athletes with thousands of followers on social media. Whether they believe in the cause or not, their attendance is a big deal.
I start to relax, because it’s nice of Chip and his friends to show support. Especially since he wanted me to come to his game instead. Maybe I’ve been unfairly harsh. Eric’s return has kept me on edge, second-guessing my future with Chip.
When the boys are done, Chip offers to take pictures of me and Kelsea. We stand in front of the wall, striking silly poses.
“Get closer together,” he says.
I frown at his instructions. We’re already hip to hip.
“I mean, like, put your lips together.”
Kelsea walks toward him and snatches her phone back. “Nice try, pervert.”
Chip’s teammates laugh.
“We’ll finish this later,” he says, pointing at me and Kelsea.
“In your dreams,” she says.
Chip has mentioned his threesome fantasy to me on more than one occasion and I’ve told him it’s never gonna happen. I know he’s just showing off for his friends, so I roll my eyes. “Get out of here,” I say.
He kisses me goodbye and grabs a handful of my ass, palming the bare skin where the shorts meet the back of my thigh. I slap him on the shoulder and he laughs, jogging away.
Kelsea gives me a disgusted look.
“What?” I ask.
“Why do you put up with that?”
I don’t have an answer, but the question rankles. She doesn’t understand. She’s never even had a steady boyfriend.
“I’m serious,” she says. “Most girls let their boyfriends get away with stuff because they’re idiots, or they’re crazy in love.”
“So?”
“You’re neither. You’re not an idiot, and…”
I’m not in love with Chip. Not the same way he’s in love with me, at least. He acts like a jerk to get my attention, and he’s insensitive, but there’s no doubt in my mind about his feelings. He’s not deep or mysterious or difficult to read. He’d never reject me the way Eric did.
“He’s crazy in love with me,” I say. “That’s why I put up with him.”
Kelsea arches a brow. “So he strokes your ego?”
“Getting stroked feels good. You should try it sometime.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, did that ass-grab feel good? My mistake.”
“I don’t want to argue.”
“You don’t want to analyze.”
“What’s there to analyze?”
“He doesn’t respect you,” Kelsea says.
“He’s immature,” I counter.
“He groped you against your will and asked us to perform for his friends. It undermines the whole idea of the event.”
I think that her expectations exceed reality. That’s why she never goes on second dates.
Instead of continuing the debate, I walk around the corner of the building to make a sign. One of the volunteers set up a table with poster board, markers, and wooden slats. Kelsea writes respect on hers.
I choose a simple message for mine as well: NOT ASKING FOR IT.
Some of the signs are serious, like NO MORE RAPE and MY BODY, MY CHOICE. Others have a lighter tone, such as SLUTS RULE! GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN and CONSENT IS SEXY.
One of the participants writes VAGINA POWER on her sign, which breaks the ice between me and Kelsea. We both laugh, enjoying the spirit of the event again. Then I notice Eric standing near the wall with a pretty dark-haired girl. She’s wearing a navy blue tank top and red bandanna, like Eric’s poster.
He’s already got groupies. Beautiful Latina groupies.
Kelsea follows my gaze. “Did you read the comments on his photo last night?”
I did, and I wish I hadn’t. I’m jealous of the women fawning over him, which is ridiculous. I’ve never cared about the cheerleaders who flirt with Chip.
Eric is different. He makes me feel too much. Every time I see him I die a little inside. Today he’s wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans. He looks good in his clothes, comfortable in his skin. When he glances my way and nods, my stomach twists. He’s the same troubled boy I fell in love with, wrapped in an even more enticing package.
Of course he seems extra tempting now that I’m questioning my relationship with Chip. The grass is always greener and all that. It doesn’t help that the two of them are total opposites. Eric is a former gang member with the soul of an artist. He’s got layers.
Chip’s just got…muscles.
“Let’s start the walk,” I say, even though it’s not quite four o’clock.
To his credit, Eric doesn’t linger with the fangirls. He strides ahead of the group to keep watch and appears to takes his security guard job seriously. Kelsea leads the march, holding her sign high. I’m right behind her. The energy in the crowd is electric. We strut down the street with pride, cheering each other on. Cars honk and men holler, but I don’t hear any insults. Our voices drown them out.
Fine Ink is the first stop along the route. There’s a big orange thermos and paper cups on a table by the front door. I help Kelsea fill cups with lemonade. Some of the girls go inside to look around or make appointments. Rose has a stack of coupons offering a “slut special,” which is fifty percent off body piercing.
Although Eric stands at a distance, he still gets bombarded by scantily clad women. They want pictures of him in front of his poster. He agrees to take a photo with the Rosie lookalike. Her upper arm is painted with a thorn-studded heart, like the poster.
They’re adorable together.
After the photo, Eric glances at the lemonade station but doesn’t approach us. He returns to his security detail, incognito.
“Go give him some lemonade,” Kelsea says.
“Why me?”
“Because I need to get more cups.”
She probably wants to swish her skirt at Tank, so I grab a drink for Eric and weave through the crowd. I spot him in front of a café two doors down, under the shade of a ficus tree. An hour before sunset, it’s still warm and sunny.
I hand him the lemonade. “Here.”
“Thanks,” he says, and drinks it all in one tilt.
I watch his smooth brown throat work and my mouth goes dry. He’s wearing the silver chain again. I’m struck by a vivid memory of that cross dangling from his neck in my bedroom as he thrust inside me. He’s got a tattoo of praying hands on his chest and religious script written in cursive across his collarbone: Perdoname Padre, porque he pecado.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
He tosses the empty cup into a nearby trash can. “Nice shirt,” he says, arching a brow. “Is that supposed to symbolize something?”
I’m sure he knows exactly what the rooster decal means. He’s feigning ignorance to be funny. Or maybe he wants to hear me say cock. I’m not going to, but the thought excites me. Being near him excites me.
It’s always been this way between us. Dangerous. Combustible.
“Everyone likes your posters,” I say, changing the subject.
“Do you?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. “They’re really good.”
“Which is your favorite?”
“The hitchhiker.”
He smiles with pleasure and my cheeks heat. The Rosie poster is excellent, and so is the punk rock girl, but the nude hitchhiker just does it for me. It’s kind of naughty and passionate, an ode to the female body. Every brushstroke a physical caress.
God. I need to get out of here before I embarrass myself further.
“How did your midterms go?” he asks.
“They went oka
y.”
I probably passed them all but I don’t feel confident. I’m not ready to face the future or make any big decisions. Maybe I’m wasting my parents’ money on the wrong major. I wish I knew what I wanted to do with my life. Like Noah.
“You should apply to an art school,” I say. “Get financial aid.”
“Felons can’t get financial aid.”
“Oh.”
“I’d have to save up my money.”
“Are you going to?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
He seems sincere, and I’m struck by a strange feeling. It goes deeper than sexual chemistry and wiggles underneath my resentment toward him. I admire the way he’s overcome so many obstacles. He had a tough childhood, joined a gang and went to prison, but he was never a bad person. He deserves a fresh start. He’s ten times the man Chip is, with a fraction of the opportunities.
The realization makes me happy and sad at the same time. I don’t know what to say or how to process my feelings. Before I figure anything out, the crowd swells around us. I pick up my sign and start walking.
The next slut station is less than a mile away. There’s constant honking and catcalling. We keep marching on. One of the ladies in the crowd belts out an amazing rendition of Aretha Franklin’s smash hit. Her voice gives me chills. At the salon, we’re greeted with more drinks—passion fruit tea and ice water. There are free samples of makeup and nail polish. I find some red-tinted lip gloss and apply it liberally.
The last stretch of the walk is the longest, and it’s getting dark. We’re off schedule because the group is larger than Kelsea anticipated and we stayed at each business for over thirty minutes. My throat is hoarse from cheering and my feet hurt. We enter a party zone with several sports bars. Although we weave around groups of people and avoid the men when we can, some come out to whistle as we pass by.
The catcalls grow louder and less complimentary. Men are emboldened by alcohol and the cloak of evening.
“It’s a pussy parade,” someone yells.
Kelsea hooks arms with me and the other girls follow suit. It’s difficult to hold up signs, step around obstacles, and form a united front at the same time. We’re almost out of the danger zone when I hear a splash and a female shriek. I stop to look around. There’s a busty brunette at the edge of the crowd, soaked to the skin. A man with an empty mug is hovering near her.
Eric appears beside the brunette, his face dark with fury. “Are you okay?”
She nods tearfully. Another girl wraps her in a sweater.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Eric says to the guy.
“Sorry,” the guy says, smirking. “I thought it was a wet T-shirt contest.”
I make my way toward them, sensing doom. Eric is going to knock the guy’s block off. Before I can reach him, two more bar patrons step outside. Now there are three burly rednecks squared up with Eric.
“Keep going,” Kelsea yells, waving the ladies on. They shuffle forward. Maybe the lack of audience will calm the situation down.
Nope.
Fists start flying and glass shatters on the sidewalk. I scream for Eric, but I can’t find him in the chaos. Then he’s right next to me, pulling me away from the scene with Kelsea. We get out of there in a hurry and catch up with the rest of the girls. When I glance back, a bouncer is breaking up the fight.
“What happened?” I ask Eric.
“I don’t know,” he says, releasing my arm. “The guy took a swing at me and missed. Then he got jumped by the other two.”
“You’re lucky they went after him instead of you,” Kelsea says.
“Yeah,” he says and frowns at me. “You ran toward the fight.”
“I was going to help.”
“You could have gotten hurt.”
“What about you?” I counter. “You’re the one on parole. You could’ve gotten hurt and arrested.”
His expression becomes shuttered. “Don’t ever step into a throwdown.”
“I’ll do whatever I want.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes with annoyance, but he doesn’t argue. He just gives me a dark look and jogs back to his sentry spot at the front of the crowd.
“You were right,” Kelsea says.
“About what?”
“He’s not that nice.”
Chapter 12
Eric
I’m still sweating from the close call when we arrive at the last venue.
Matthew told me to keep my distance, stay calm, and not get involved in any altercations. I failed on all three counts, but at least I didn’t actually fight. I also identified one of my triggers: violence against women.
When I saw the girl dripping wet on the sidewalk, I just lost it. I couldn’t stand by and let some asshole pour his beer on her for kicks. Who the fuck does that? I wanted to beat the shit out of him. If his friends hadn’t done the job for me, I would have.
In hindsight, it was too strong of a reaction. I could have moved the girl along without stepping up to him or cursing in his face. I wasn’t in control of my anger. I need to dial down the aggression before I get in trouble again.
Meghan was part of the problem. I saw her with Chip earlier. I think that’s one of the reasons I snapped. He grabbed her ass like he owned it. I might do the same thing if she was my girl, but not to be insulting. Not in front of her friends. Not to put her in her place or show her who’s boss. I can’t stand the sight of him disrespecting her.
By the time we arrive at The Q Room, I’m cool. The nude hitchhiker poster is displayed on a sandwich board by the entrance. There’s a round metal tub filled with ice and cold drinks. I grab a bottle of water and stand aside, watching the crowd.
The girl who got doused with beer comes over to thank me. She’s pretty, and she might be interested in showing me some private gratitude, but I don’t encourage her. My eyes keep straying to Meghan.
Even in a sea of hot young women wearing next to nothing, she stands out. Her shorts are short, her legs are long, and her tits are spectacular, but she’s not showing that much skin. The sexiness is in her style. Her hair is slicked back, her makeup simple. I think she’s going for a tomboy look, and it’s strangely hot.
She looks like a quirky art piece. That I want to fuck.
I pull my gaze away, pulse racing. Maybe I’m no better than her boyfriend, eyeing her like she’s a piece of meat. But it doesn’t feel superficial to me. I’m attracted to the person on the inside, too. I always have been.
She’s the girl who saw past my tattoos and hard exterior, years ago. She’s the one who believed I could be a real artist with a promising future. She’s the mediator who tried to prevent Kelsea and Matthew from arguing the other day. She’s the peacemaker who ran toward a dangerous altercation just now, without hesitation.
I suspect that Chip doesn’t notice her unique qualities, or care. He doesn’t get her. He just wants a trophy girlfriend, and she’s beautiful.
Kelsea thanks everyone for participating and they do a group hug. A woman with short, rainbow-colored hair comes out of the bar to say hello. She offers a free shot to anyone twenty-one or over. This announcement is met with wild cheering.
Some of the girls are underage, or they can’t stay for whatever reason. They call it a night and walk to the bus stop across the street. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, so I stand by the front entrance and study my poster. I’m pleased that Meghan said it was her favorite. I’ve fantasized about painting her nude on countless occasions. I used to sketch her body from memory in my cell, over and over again.
Matthew’s phone vibrates in my front pocket, interrupting my thoughts.
“Bueno,” I say.
“Where are you?”
“The Q Room.”
“How did it go?”
“Good.”
“No problems?”
“Not really. Some guy dumped a beer on one of the girls.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
�
�What a fucking asshole. What did you do?”
“I got her out of there.”
“You didn’t say anything to him?”
“We exchanged a few words.”
He grunts in response. “Where’s Kelsea?”
“Inside the bar.”
“She’s not walking back to SDSU?”
“I think a bunch of the girls are staying here to dance or whatever.”
“Can you see inside?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay,” he says after a pause. “You can leave.”
“Do you want me at Fine Ink?”
“No, we’re about to close. Just go home.”
Sweet. I’m off duty. “What about your phone?”
“Give it to me Monday.”
I end the call and put the phone in my pocket. Venturing inside wouldn’t be wise. Kelsea and Meghan are capable of getting home without my assistance. They don’t need me to babysit. On the other hand, it seems rude to leave without saying goodbye.
Fuck it.
I’ve never been to a gay nightclub before, so I’m not sure what to expect. I picture drag queens and sailors and burlesque shows. It actually looks the same as some of the straight clubs in TJ. There’s a dance floor on one side and a long, mirrored bar on the other. The main difference is the clientele. It’s mostly women.
I like it.
I don’t see Kelsea or Meghan on the dance floor, but the place is packed. I show my ID at the door and head toward the bar. The lady with rainbow hair greets me with a smile and a handshake.
“I love your poster,” she says, leaning close to be heard above the din. “I want to buy it.”
“It’s already yours,” I say, surprised.
“I’m going to frame it and put it on the wall.”
I’m flattered by her enthusiasm. She insists on giving me forty dollars, which I accept because why not? She asks me to sign the poster, so I go outside with a marker to make it official. When I come back in, Kelsea and Meghan are at the bar. They’re both flushed and giggling, already tipsy.
Kelsea squeals as if I’m her long-lost brother instead of a casual acquaintance she parted ways with less than an hour ago. “Eric! Do a shot with us.”
Against the Wall Page 9