‘Well then, why don’t you move your ass and get something ready?’
‘Go tell your mother to move her ass,’ Penny spat, before turning and stalking off to the kitchen.
Having Marcus over for lunch was weird. The whole apartment seemed smaller with this giant around whose head virtually grazed the ceiling. Penny’s grandmother looked tinier than ever standing next to him.
Penny’s heart, on the other hand, swelled with his every step, bite, word or silence. She was more and more afraid of him, and not for the obvious reasons – like the fact that he was arrogant, unpleasant, argumentative and barbaric in his behaviour. No, she was afraid of getting too used to his presence, of starting to depend on seeing him. Too much about him was becoming familiar to her: his smell, a combination of citrus-scented soap and tobacco; the way he arched an eyebrow or took a drag on his cigarette as it hung from his lips, the smoke filtering around her, before snatching it up again; his solid arms, and shoulders so majestic it seemed as if they could hold up the sky.
Penny had to watch herself, emotionally at the very least. She simply could not allow her heart to go lurching around like this, like a drunk slamming into every wall that presented itself.
When lunch was over, her grandma settled down on the couch to watch her favourite soap. Marcus looked across the table at Penny and said, ‘Well, you’re good in the kitchen, I’ll admit that.’
‘Thanks for the compliment, I guess.’
‘No, I’m serious – you’re good. Next time you make that pasta, bring me some too, yeah?’
‘Anything else, sir?’
‘After lunch I always have other needs, but you’re not the right person for that.’
‘You’re so crass.’
‘How old were you the first time you did it?’
Penny swayed as if someone had pushed her. ‘Excuse me? What does this have to do with lunch? Mind your own business, pervert.’
‘So how old were you?’
‘Where on earth do you come up with these questions?’
‘I’m just asking what comes to mind.’
‘You can’t always say everything that comes to mind, you know!’
‘You’re right, not everything, but come on, it’s an innocent question and it’s part of what a boyfriend should know. How old were you? Or maybe you’ve never done it and you’re just posing as an experienced woman?’
‘I’ve done it all right, but I don’t want to tell you.’
Marcus started to light a cigarette, but then stopped. ‘Let’s go to my place so I can smoke and you can tell me your darkest secrets.’
The most sensible answer to that would have been a colossal ‘no’, but Penny’s good judgement had flown to the four winds recently, and so, abandoning all caution in the face of blind desire, she nodded and followed him.
They quickly made their way up to his attic room, where Marcus lit up what must have been his hundredth cigarette of the day. He sat on the bed, his back against the wall. Penny kept her distance, perched on the arm of the couch and pretending not to look at him. All of a sudden she mustered up her courage and offered him another deal.
‘I’ll answer your stupid question if you tell me one thing about yourself.’
Marcus frowned. ‘You go first.’
‘If I go first, you could back out if you don’t like my question.’
‘So you’re scared?’
‘You said I’m smart, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, you’re that all right. So tell me all about your scandalous past. Or, if you want, we can tell everyone at the party you lost your virginity to me. I’m sure your bitchy former friends would love that little detail.’
‘Only bitches, never friends, and they’re so bitchy they just might ask.’
‘Meanwhile, tell me how it was. I’m very curious. I can’t imagine you engaged in such shallow behaviour.’
‘Horrible emotionless sex with any old passing stranger is mindless and shallow, yes, but when you truly love someone, it’s tender and overwhelming – it’s romantic, and you should know that since you have Francisca.’
‘Ha! I’m always horny. I’m never gonna be romantic in bed, and Francisca is more than fine with that. But anyway, you haven’t answered my question yet.’
Penny bit her lip, staring into the corner of the room. She could invent whatever she wanted, couldn’t she? The best thing about lies was that they didn’t have to fall within the limits of the actual truth. So she tried to imagine her ideal situation, the one she’d really set her heart on, and pretended it had already happened.
‘I was very much in love – very much. My heart exploded whenever he walked into a room. It was all very natural and beautiful. He was my ideal man. There was beautiful music in the background, and scented candles and flower petals on the bed. There are no sordid details to tell. Love made it all pure and innocent.’
For an instant Marcus looked distracted, as if he wasn’t even listening, then he stared at her as if she were an alien.
‘So what happened to this perfect guy?’
‘He’s . . . um . . . he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yeah, he was sick – leukaemia – but I don’t want to talk about it. It still hurts too much to think about. Your turn now.’
Marcus smoked in silence for a while, staring out of his skylight. ‘I’m disappointed. I was hoping for something . . . a little spicier.’
‘It’s your turn,’ Penny repeated.
‘You wanna know about my first time? Better you don’t, little girl, or we’ll ruin this romantic atmosphere full of princes, petals and sighs.’
‘That wasn’t my question.’
‘What was it then?’
‘Whose ring do you wear around your neck?’
Penny immediately regretted her question when she saw Marcus leap from the bed and nervously stub out his cigarette. Clearly agitated, he ran his hand down his neck to tuck the leather thong with the ring on it out of sight under his shirt, before stepping close to her – too close – and pushing her back against the wall. Penny felt the full warm weight of his muscular body leaning into her.
‘Don’t you ever ask me that again,’ he growled, bringing his face down to her level.
They locked eyes for a moment, in silence. Marcus’s irises had turned silver, and his cold expression said everything there was to say. Penny felt like she couldn’t breathe – and not because she was afraid of him, but because she was quite overwhelmed at the strength of her feelings. She wanted to kiss him, wanted him to kiss her. For an instant, it seemed as if Marcus was about to answer her silent need, as if he had read the message of her thoughts, her parted lips, her ragged breath. Penny slowly licked her lips as if her tongue were seeking something more, but the moment was all too brief. After his flash of confusion, Marcus actually shook himself. Then he stepped back and looked at her with some indefinable measure of hostility or resentment, his brow creased and his breath, like hers, a little faster than normal.
‘Time for you to go,’ he said, before turning his back on her and shutting himself in the bathroom.
12
MARCUS
It’s not hard to find women. I’m spoiled for choice. So I go out back with one and take her without so much as a kiss. It’s a one-off fuck, not exactly enough to satisfy my hunger or this strange and primitive desire that’s been eating me alive, but it’s something.
Suddenly I hear someone coming from the alley. I turn around and swear. It’s Penny. What the hell is Penny doing here?
She’s just standing there, staring at me, then she runs away like I’m some demon who steals the souls of the innocent.
I calm myself down, tell my boss I’m leaving and go look for her. She must have sprinted to be so far ahead of me. My inner voice tells me, Everything’s OK, so long as she got home safe. If you don’t find her dead on the sidewalk or raped in an alley, she’s probably in bed right now making a list of all the reasons why you’re such a fu
cking asshole.
I guess I should just go home, take a shower, go to sleep and not care what Miss Penny Miller thinks of me.
So why do I climb up the fire escape?
I can’t say – I don’t have all the answers. I just know that I go up to the second-to-last floor and knock on the window.
And then I see her, her eyes staring through me like poisoned darts. Pervert, foul beast, lout, and who knows what else she’s thinking about me. Not that I care, I’m me – I can’t keep my cock out of action for too long. I’m a regular, living, breathing man after all. I’m not attracted to any particular quality she has – it’s no more than some primal urge, OK? She’s a woman, she’s not repulsive, she has two legs, a pussy, an ass and a mouth. I love to tease her and rile her up – it gets me going. If that makes me an animal, then so be it.
That night, I write to Francisca. I write and crumple up the paper and then I try again. I repeat this tired exercise half a dozen times at least before I can finally throw down a couple of acceptable thoughts. I’ve never been a scholar, but this time the discomfort is not from my dislike of a blank page and a pen.
I feel guilty.
Why would fucking some random slut make me feel guilty? I’ve always done it with no issues or regrets, so what’s different this time?
Only when I finally sign the letter do I realise what the matter is. Damn it to hell.
I don’t feel guilty about that girl whose name I don’t even know.
I feel guilty because when Penny asked me to take her to her reunion, she offered me two hundred and fifty dollars, and when I asked her where she got the money, she led me to believe she’d provided some kind of sexual service to a man, and for a second there, I was thinking, Tell me who he is so I can kill him.
She was joking, but that’s not the point.
The point is that until I realised she was joking I did want to kill him.
But why do I care who she blows? It’s enough that she pays me, right?
It doesn’t make sense, it definitely doesn’t make sense, and things that make no sense make me nervous.
Kicking the bag for an hour is the only thing that makes me feel better, blow after blow after blow, and then I punch it until my arms are on fire and the attic seems like it’s about to explode under the weight of my fury. In the end I’m exhausted but my head is clear and I go to sleep sweaty, and the thoughts that torment me are gone.
I agree to take her to her stupid party. The money is good. I’m not thinking of anything else – I don’t have to think about anything else. Anything I do for her is simply another contribution to my slush fund. I just have to make sure she stays alive until next month and then I’ll get the fuck out of here.
She and her grandmother are like characters from some sappy film. How can people live like they’re prisoners of a life that never changes? How does Penny not want to run and run from here? She takes care of the old woman like that old woman was her child. Penny does everything – I can tell from her hands. She has the hands of someone who has always worked and will always do so: rough, tired, chapped. So when does she get time to live a little for herself? She sleeps, eats, breathes and works. And that’s her whole life?
I know I’m one to talk. As someone who spent the last four years in prison, it might seem hypocritical, but I did have a life before that. Skidding, twisted, hazy, violent, but a full life nonetheless. I’ve seen things, done things, changed things, broken things, killed things, but I’ve never stayed stuck in one place.
Seems like Penny’s been in that apartment for centuries, and now she also takes care of a half-gone grandma. Doesn’t she ever just want to leave it all behind?
I don’t know why I ask her to come up to my place. There are so many things I don’t know or understand these days. I only know that while we’re talking about how to pull one over on her former classmates, I find myself wanting to learn more about her. Specifically, of course, I wanna know how she is in bed. The best way to find out is to fuck her, I guess, like that’s ever gonna happen. Even though I want her bad, it’s simply not going to happen, OK? So all I can do is ask her some intrusive questions. She’s telling me about her first time, but I realise I can’t really imagine her with this perfect man she’s describing – so nauseatingly romantic; pathetic like some character killed off early in a movie. I can’t imagine it simply because, while she’s talking to me and I’m following the movement of her lips, I’m seeing her naked in my mind’s eye all right, but I’m the one on top of her, inside her. I think it’s better I don’t ask Penny any more sexual questions. I’m a jerk. A real jerk. My own worst enemy.
But then she asks me about the ring I wear around my neck, and it pisses me off to no end. I always get mad when someone asks me about it. Even I have a few secrets I’d rather keep to myself, you know.
But when I hold her up against the wall, I can feel her trembling all over. I look at her, and her eyes are burning and her lips are like flowers and her chest is heaving, and . . . I don’t care anymore about the cord around my neck or all the secrets. I just know I want to kiss her, lick her, touch those fresh petals with the tip of my tongue, and part them to let me enter. Damn it, I want to get inside of her in every which way.
I don’t have to go along with this feeling. It’s just some pointless, drunken, drugged-out, fucked-up reaction, even though I’m stone-cold sober and haven’t smoked anything besides cigarettes for years and no one fucks with me ever. I can’t try to kiss someone beautiful like Penny without feeling my ears hissing and the floor dropping out and my dick asking, begging, torturing me as it turns hard with a will of its own. I need to find some way out: either I leave here or I fuck her. Maybe after I fuck her and get it out of my system, I can go back to thinking of her as just some faceless and nameless pussy, huh?
13
She had no money for a new dress and nothing remotely suitable to wear. It was time to improvise. Fortunately, her grandma had plenty of vintage clothes – were they back in style? If so, Penny would be wearing an original, not some recycled imitation.
Penny and Barbie were similar in size, so when Penny tried on one of Barbie’s dresses in front of the mirror, she saw how her grandma had probably looked as a young woman – slim, innocent, but feisty – though Penny’s hair was shorter, and her smile didn’t come as easily as her grandmother’s. The dress was a sunny yellow colour, tight at the waist, with a hoop skirt like a downturned flower, and three organza petticoats that tickled her skin and made a rustling sound when lifted. That combination of softness and roughness reminded her of Marcus and the kiss-but-not-a-kiss he had given her – more of an injustice than a kiss really, punishment for her sin of curiosity. So what was the big secret regarding that ring?
She had the strong impression that he’d come to hate her, though she didn’t know why. For the several nights following that afternoon and leading up to the party, Marcus had acted with apparent complete indifference to her when walking her home. For her own part, she had made no attempt to talk to him, and so they had walked together but each was locked in their own silence, two pissed-off statues with their hands in their pockets. Every time, Penny would watch him out of the corner of her eye, wondering how many more random women he might have given his body to behind the club, and precisely what he might be feeling in his heart when he was with them. And then she’d wonder exactly what he’d written in the letter to Francisca, and if, when he finally read her response, his soul would come alive again and he would at last break this hateful silence reserved only for Penny.
And as she wondered all these things, she felt sad – discarded like a stale piece of bread no one had cared enough to eat.
Losing her nerve while she was getting ready, Penny was suddenly tempted not to go out at all. What was the point? Marcus was ignoring her and was bound to be on his worst behaviour at the party, proving that it was all just a pathetic charade, and then Penny would only become more depressed.
She studied herself
carefully in the mirror. The dress adhered nicely to her figure; it was cute. She wore a rhinestone headband, also from her grandma’s vintage collection, which for once held back her strands of pink hair. She looked pretty – not quite ‘stratospheric pussy’, as Marcus would no doubt have put it, but she was far from unattractive. Still, she felt depressed.
I had to ask for a whole night off from work for this stupid party and I’m only going to come away humiliated. Well, I’m not going. They won’t even miss me.
But when she left Barbie’s room, teetering on a pair of white-and-yellow-chequered heels, she saw Marcus standing there – her grandma had let him in without even warning her – and nearly fell over, like a circus performer on stilts.
‘Just look how beautiful you are, my darling!’ Barbie said with love and pride.
Penny replied with an equally adoring smile, certain that she could walk out in a banana costume and Barbie would still find her beautiful. Marcus, on the other hand, seemed little inclined to pay her any compliments at all. To be honest, he hardly looked at her, whereas she was studying his every detail. Her heart broke a little more every time she looked at him.
He was dressed in dark grey jeans and a cream-coloured woollen V-neck that clung to his body like a second skin. A few tattoos peeked out from his collar, just enough that he looked fierce and hot. On his feet he was wearing butch black biker boots, and to complete the ensemble, a long leather coat that had seen a lot of action, wild like his eyes. The bastard was to die for, totally irresistible. And he knew it. Her former classmates might have boyfriends with big wallets, but she knew that as soon as they saw Marcus, they’d want to rip his clothes off.
Those idiots are gonna die foaming at the mouth with lust – I just hope I don’t die before they do.
She smiled at him out of habit, but he merely glanced briefly in her direction and snapped, ‘OK, let’s go.’ Penny grabbed her favourite coat – the old pink woollen one with the buttons shaped like flowers – and followed Marcus out the door on the way to an unforgettable evening.
Trying Not To Love You Page 11