Unattainable

by Madeline Sheehan

  “He just doesn’t understand me, you know?” Charlotte whimpered and burrowed closer to me.

  You’re right. He doesn’t understand you. I’m the only one who understands you. ME!

  “Did you just say me?” Charlotte questioned, pulling her face away from my neck and staring up at me.

  “Uh, yes. Me totally understand that he doesn’t understand you. Me understand.”

  I patted her back lamely and tried to think of something un-caveman-like to say next.

  “What did you guys fight about?”

  I couldn’t care less but I’m a good guy and good guys ask these sorts of questions.

  Charlotte sighed and scooted away from me on the couch, brushing her long brown hair out of her face. “I don’t know. I don’t even remember. It was something stupid. I shouldn’t have come over here and unloaded all of this on you. He really does love me and he’s a great guy.”

  She looked up at me with wide, expectant eyes, waiting for me to agree with her that he’s a super human being. Yeah, not gonna happen.

  He’s a troll who gets to touch her whenever he wants. He can burn in the fiery pits of hell for all I care.

  Charlotte kept looking at me with those gorgeous eyes, and I caved under the pressure.

  “You’re right. He’s awesome. I’m sure you guys will be fine.”

  Someone get me a bucket to barf in.

  ~

  I’m jealous, irritated, and horny after holding her so close to me all night and smelling her skin. She always smells like cherry almond. And since I’m slightly obsessed with her, I know that’s because of the lotion she uses: Jergens Original Scent. No, that’s not weird at all. Shut up. It’s probably weird, though, that I stroke the snake using Jergens Original Scent. How about we just pretend I never shared that little tidbit, okay?

  My best friend, Tyler Branson, called me when I was on my way home from consoling Charlotte, and he could tell by the sound of my voice that I needed help, so he made an emergency trip to my apartment.

  “I think what we need to do here is make a list,” Tyler tells me after he swallows a mouthful of beer.

  Tyler was my college roommate. I met him on my first day when I moved into the dorms. I walked into our room with my mom and dad carrying boxes of my crap behind me, only to find him standing naked in the middle of his bed, hanging a poster of Megan Fox on his ceiling.

  Tyler likes being naked. Tyler thinks everyone likes seeing him naked because he’s under the impression he has the body of a Greek God. Tyler learned within seven seconds of meeting my mother that women will point and laugh at him when he’s naked. Tyler has been in love with my mother ever since.

  “Seriously, bro. We need to make a list. I’m tired of seeing you moping around on your period every single day. You have the most epic job in the history of the world, and that alone should make you happy, but I get it. You need the girl. We’ll get you the girl,” Tyler reassures me as he rummages through the junk drawer in my kitchen for a piece of paper and a pen.

  “How’s a list going to help Charlotte fall in love with me?” I question him as he finds what he’s looking for. He smoothes out a crumpled piece of paper on my countertop and writes in big, bold letters across the top: How to Make Charlotte Bang Me.

  “That is so not the purpose of this. I don’t want her to bang me,” I complain.

  Tyler stares at me with one eyebrow raised.

  “Okay, fine!” I relent after a few seconds of his stare-down. “That’s not the ONLY purpose. I can’t just come right out and tell her I love her; she’ll have a heart attack. We’ve known each other since birth and this is going to come out of left field. I need to figure out a way to ease her into it.”

  Tyler sighs in annoyance and crosses out the last part of the title and scribbles on the paper again. He turns it around to show me.

  How to Make Charlotte Bang Me Love Me. And Turn into a Giant Pussy.

  “You’re such a dick.”

  Tyler shrugs. “Whatev. You’re still a pussy. Okay, item number one…”

  He pauses, tapping the end of the pen against his chin while he thinks.

  “Ooooh, I’ve got it! Show her your penis,” he says aloud as he writes on the paper.

  “What?! No! That is not going on the list,” I argue as I try to take the page from him.

  He jerks away, rolling his eyes at me.

  “This is absolutely going on the list. Chicks need to test out the merchandise before they can make a decision. Do you honestly think she’s going to love you if she thinks you might be harboring a pinky-peen in your pants?”

  There’s really no use in arguing with him at this point. Tyler is going to do whatever the fuck he wants. It’s best to just humor him. It’s not like I’m ever going to really use the list so who cares?

  “Fine. But it’s not going as number one.”

  Tyler smiles in victory and crosses out what he wrote, moving further down the page and rewriting it with a number five in front of it.

  “There. Not at the top, not at the bottom. It will give you plenty of time to work up to the showing of the penis and then plenty of time to recover after you show it to her and she starts rocking back and forth in the corner, weeping silently.”

  Reaching across the counter, I punch him as hard as I can in the arm.

  “Fucker! I bruise easily! What would Claire say if I told her you were abusing me?” Tyler questions as he rubs the spot on his arm where my fist connected.

  “Shut up about my mother.”

  “No can do. She’s going to be mine one day. You should just start calling me dad now,” he says nonchalantly.

  Ever since the day he met my mother—naked—he’s been in love with her. For seven years I’ve had to endure him leering at her, making inappropriate comments, and imagining all the different ways my dad could die so he could console the grieving widow.

  “I’m going to punch you right in the ball sack if you don’t shut up,” I warn him.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, young man.”

  I decide against beating the shit out of Tyler at this time. The faster he makes this stupid list, the faster he’ll go home—to his parents' basement where he currently lives. No, I’m not kidding. He’s a walking, talking epitome of a guy that refuses to grow up. He has a bachelor’s degree in Japanese studies (a surefire way that he will never get a real job), works part-time at The Gap, and has never had a serious relationship.

  Remind me again why I’m even thinking of taking advice from him?

  “Okay, I’ve got a better idea for number one. Go shopping with her.”

  He writes out his new number one while I stare at him questioningly. When he looks up after writing it down, he stares at me like I’m an idiot.

  “Bro, chicks love shopping. If you go and ooh and ahh over every pair of shoes she picks up, you’ll be in her pants by the time you get to Auntie Anne’s Pretzels,” he informs me.

  I don’t even bother explaining to him, yet again, that my main purpose in life isn’t to get in Charlotte’s pants. Sure, it’s something I dream about. Well, wet dream about. And the reason for my earlier Google search, but it’s not the ultimate goal. I want her to love me. I want her to see me as something other than a friend. I want her to realize that we’re soul mates.

  Fuck. Maybe I am getting my period.

  “Alright, item number two. Take her to The Cheesecake Factory,” he states as he continues to write.

  “Why The Cheesecake Factory?”

  Tyler shrugs as he taps the pen against the counter. “Chicks dig The Cheesecake Factory. It will show her that you can be all fancy and shit. Oooooh, oooooh, oooooh! Tell her she can order whatever she wants. That’s a total cool-guy move,” he tells me excitedly.

  Alright, so this isn’t too bad. I can handle a day of shopping as long as I’m with Charlotte. And The Cheesecake Factory is delicious.

  “What else?” I ask as I go around the counter and stand next to him as he
writes furiously.

  “Dude, this is going to be epic. I am such a fucking genius. You better name your first born after me or something,” he tells me as he continues making the list, quickly coming up with ten things that he swears will have Charlotte in love with me by the time I finish all of them. We work together, crossing things out and moving them around until we have a pretty good list of things for me to do to win Charlotte over.

  I know I’m going to regret this. Somehow, some way, this is all going to come back and bite me in the ass, but I’m desperate. I know I’m a chickenshit and should just come right out and tell her, but that’s not happening. This needs to be handled delicately. Tyler is the only person who knows how I feel about Charlotte. If anyone finds out about this before I’m ready… Well, let’s just say having my mom tell my eighth grade English teacher at conferences that when I was little I used to walk around telling strangers my dad had a huge wiener will seem like the best day of my life.

  Yep, totally going to regret this.

  Sneak Peek: Fraternizing by C.C. Brown

  Copyright©2013

  Chapter 1

  Alex

  "Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!"

  It was all I heard as I threw back tequila shot after tequila shot. My head was pounding with every chant that left those fuckers' mouths, and I knew at any second I was probably going to puke every ounce of that shit up, but through the incessant bangs in my head I told myself not to give these assholes the satisfaction. I would keep that shit down if it killed me.

  "Come on, Staff Sergeant select. Throw 'em back, motherfucker!"

  God, I loved my brothers, but half the time I hated them.

  Like now.

  Finding out I was selected to pick up staff sergeant in the Marine Corps was not only a reason to celebrate, but a reason to get downright trashed. These guys, my brothers in arms, promised me from the second I received the good news that tonight would be the night that I cleaned the bar out. And by the looks of things, they weren't lying.

  Coyotes was jam-packed. Not only was it a Friday night, but with selection news being thrown around, and being stationed in the fucking boonies of Twentynine Palms, everybody had a reason to come out and party. This place was the Marines hangout. There was always the Enlisted Club—or E-Club—on base, but fuck it, we were too restricted there, and these fuckers wanted to kill my liver tonight, so to town we went.

  The usual suspects had packed the bar. As always, there were the boot—the new Marines who waited every payday to come blow their money on alcohol, only to have to sit in their lonely-ass barracks rooms playing Call of Duty and other simulated war shit when they ran out of money. Who was I to stop them? They hadn't seen a lick of combat and wanted to live it through their television screens. Have at it.

  Then there were the military groupies, tag chasers, or whatever name you felt like calling them. Yes, they exist. All they want to do is fuck anything in uniform in hopes that they can land themselves some benefits and a stay-at-home gig. They scour military hangouts in military towns, and in Twentynine Palms any bar is a military hangout. Normally, I steer clear of these "ladies," but occasionally my weakness prevails and I end up giving in, but I always protect my shit. Babies with one of these types would be my worst nightmare come true.

  Tonight they were all over the place. Tiny miniskirts barely covering the cheeks of their ass, pieces of material used to cover tits, and plenty of makeup, hoping to attract some dude in need of a quick fuck with hidden, long-term consequences. Most of them, in this town anyway, were divorced from a Marine and hoped to nail another one. They disgusted me to no end, but hey, sometimes I just needed a quick lay and if they were available, why not?

  Then, there were the guys like me. The single Marines who had been around for a bit, just letting loose and having a good time. Even if that fun meant I might end up in the ER getting my stomach pumped, I didn't care. I was moving up the ranks faster than I could have ever imagined.

  When I set out to join the Marine Corps, it was sheer luck that I got in, and it changed my life for the better. My career in the Corps was owed to my recruiter who worked tirelessly for me, pulling so many fucking strings. He made sure that I knew that his name was on my shit and that he would find me if I ever embarrassed him. I knew then that I had made the right choice and that I wanted to uphold the Marine Corps mantra of Honor, Courage, and Commitment. I've poured every ounce of my being into my career; volunteering for combat deployments, leading junior Marines, mentoring, and now teaching.

  Being an instructor at the School of Communications was not my dream assignment, but I took it in stride because like anything with the Corps, they assign you where you're needed. I knew that, and although it wasn't what I wanted, it was where I was needed. So when the orders were passed down to me, I packed up, shut my fucking mouth, and did what I was told to do.

  Picking up staff sergeant in just six short years wasn't on my list of goals. I knew it could happen, but I never expected it to happen. Now that it had, I was beyond fucking thrilled and needed to party the way these assholes intended because it was worth it. The pain and suffering I would feel in the morning was well worth the bullshit I was putting my body through tonight.

  "This night is to Sergeant Alejandro Cruz, staff sergeant select!" Riley shouted, throwing back another shot. I took another, but winced as the burning liquid made its way down. I was damn near sure that after fifteen of these little shits, my insides were being singed with every drop.

  Sergeant Christopher Riley, or Riley as we called him, was one of the guys I had known the longest. I'd met him in boot camp and instantly hated him. He was loud, goofy, and always in my space. I'd grown up fighting guys like him, but after our brawl in boot camp one night after the lights went out, I grew to respect him. He was a skinny white boy, too pretty to be a Marine, I thought, and even though I kicked his ass he held his own and made me work for it. After that night, we actually forged a friendship, eventually becoming roommates.

  "I don't think I can take much more. Fuck, you guys are killing me," I stammered out, half drunk, half mortified. I didn't want to bitch, but I was beginning to feel the effects of my limits being reached, and it wasn't shaping up to be pretty.

  "Fuck that. We're clearing this place out tonight!" Jensen yelled, shoving another shot into my face.

  Brandon Jensen, Jensen for short, was one of the first guys I met when I checked in to the comm school. I instantly liked him, making him my roommate as well. He was a lot like me. He loved the Corps, and it was evident in the way he carried himself. He, unlike a lot of the guys I had run into over the course of my six-year career, believed in the rules and regulations and set out to uphold them at every turn. I quickly realized that looking at Jensen was a lot like looking at myself only he was taller, part Mexican with some black mixed in, and probably a little more good-looking than I was. Chicks seemed to flock to him, and while I caught my fair share, Jensen was like a pussy magnet. They lined up, but he was always selective, which made me respect him even more.

  "Don't pussy out, Cruz. You've earned this shit," Smith chimed in, patting me on the back.

  "Yeah. Plus, you're paying for this, so you better drink up," Newsome threw out, causing me to turn my drunken gaze on him.

  Part of me wanted to lunge across the table at him, yet another part wanted me to sit my ass down since my head was spinning out of control by this point. All liquor and no food was making me feel like a lightweight. I hated it, but I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep up the tough-guy charade.

  "Don't pay him any attention," Jensen said, helping me into a seat and shoving a beer into my hand. "He's paying tonight. He just doesn't know it yet."

  I sat back in the chair and sipped the beer in my hand. Being overly intoxicated to the point of almost blacking out left me no other choice but to be a bystander in this very crowded bar.

  Smith and Newsome were two peas in the same pod. Caleb Smith and Andrew Newsome were both from s
ome small podunk town in Nebraska and joined the Corps together. After being sworn into the buddy program and going through boot camp, Marine Combat Training, and comm school together, they were separated but finally made their way back to one another in the form of comm school instructors. They were a couple of bullshitters but pulled chicks just like the rest of us. Their beach boy looks had me believing they were from California or Florida when I first met them, but they convinced me they were from Nebraska and we've been friends ever since.

  "Check out those girls over there," Riley pointed out. He wasn't near as wasted as I was, but he was still completely fucking awkward. I tried my hardest to focus in the direction that he was pointing in, but all I could make out were a couple of groupies. Riley laughed and smiled, hitting me on the shoulder, asking me if I wanted one.

  "Fuck no," I quickly responded, throwing back more of the beer. There was no amount of alcohol that could make me want to get inside of anything he was pointing at. One of them had a tattoo that I could have sworn had the rank and last name of another fucking guy. Groupie if I ever saw one.

  "You good here, man?" Jensen asked. Some random Asian chick was wrapped around his arm, standing behind him.

  "Yeah, I'm good. Go on."

  With Jensen's caramel-brown skin and those pretty-boy green eyes, women were always on his ass. He didn't discriminate and, unlike sorry-ass Riley, Jensen's chick looked respectable.

  Some Jay-Z song came blaring through the speakers. While I bobbed my head, humming lowly to the words, two chicks I had never seen before caught my eye as they sauntered out onto the dance floor. They didn't look like groupies, but you could never be sure. One was a well-built Latina with long thick brown hair, full pouty lips, sporting a warm golden complexion. She had a banging-ass body, and while her jeans hugged in all the right spots, it was her friend that caught my eye. The long legs on this fucking blonde beauty were on full display. Thoughts of throwing those damn things around my waist and pounding my way into her were beginning to consume me, making me suddenly sweat like a fucking pig. Was it the alcohol, or my dreams of fucking the shit out of Blondie that had my shirt soaked and was making me lose all of my bearings? She danced with her friend, swaying those petite hips, and making me think of a million and one ways that I could use them for my satisfaction.