by Emma Chase
She smiles. “Arrested, but never convicted.” Then she tells me about the time she, her cousin, and Kate got caught breaking into their local roller-skating rink after hours and had to be brought home by the town sheriff. Her mother wasn’t thrilled.
“Have you ever had sex in a public place?” I ask, partially because I’m curious . . . and partially for future reference.
“Mmm . . . public place, yes—but I don’t think anyone actually saw us.”
I run my fingers through her hair, the sunlight accentuating the red highlights, making it more fiery than golden.
“Have you ever had sex on your motorcycle?” she asks. And I hope that’s for future reference too.
“Yes. It’s not as easy as you’d think. But, it’s something everybody should try at least once.” Then I ask, “What’s your favorite color? And how do you take your coffee?”
“I don’t have a favorite color—it changes, depending on my mood. And I don’t drink coffee. I try and stay away from caffeine, it’s bad for your skin.”
Dee is a foodie. She mentioned going to the farmers’ market in Brooklyn later, to stock up on fennel and lemongrass and some other shit I’ve only heard of in gourmet restaurants where presentation is more important than taste. That’s not my idea of a great meal. But she swears her homemade granola doesn’t taste anything like rabbit food.
“Is everyone in your family devout Catholics?”
I chuckle. “Devout is kind of a strong word, but we all go to church.” I think about it a little more, then say, “Well, all of us except Drew. Besides weddings and baptisms, he hasn’t willingly stepped inside a church since we were kids.”
She turns on her stomach, resting her chin on my chest. “What made him the black sheep? Did he find a six-six-six tattoo on his scalp or something?”
I smile, because I’m sure several of our ordained teachers held that very same opinion about him.
“No. Drew and God had a falling out when we were about ten years old. That was the year Steven’s mother, Janey, was diagnosed with breast cancer. The parents sat us all down, told us she was sick, that she’d be getting treatment from the doctors, and that we had to pray as hard as we could that the treatment would work.
“Drew didn’t take the news well. He couldn’t understand why, with all the dickheads in the world, God had to afflict someone as nice as Janey with a terminal illness. Anyway, she did chemo and eventually went into remission. But when we were in high school, the cancer came back hard and she was gone within a few months. She was the first person I knew who died. By the time I was born, my grandparents were long gone. My aunts and uncles are still around, but Janey went at age thirty-nine, which, even as a kid, seemed young to me.”
Delores’s mouth turns down in sympathy.
“But the real kicker came at her funeral. Steven’s father, George, was just wrecked. And, unfortunately, useless. That left all the heavy lifting to Steven. He made the big decisions, he played host to the guests at the three-day wake. He was sixteen years old—Alexandra and he had started dating a few months before Janey passed.”
I watch a flock of three sparrows, flying with precise synchronization as I continue the trek down memory lane.
“So, on the day of the funeral and burial, there’s an early viewing—just for immediate family. Steven wanted to be there first, to have some private time with his mom. Drew and I went with him for moral support. And the priest at St. Mary’s at the time was Father Gerald—he was a real old-school, arrogant, prick of a priest, you know? He comes in where the three of us are sitting, and he tells Steven his mother died because she wasn’t pure. That if she had been holier, God would have saved her. Then he said her death was also a sign of our lack of faith. That if we had believed more, God would have answered our prayers.”
Dee’s mouth falls open. “That’s terrible. What did Steven say?”
“Nothing. He was too shocked, too grief-stricken to say anything. Drew, on the other hand, has always been quick with a comeback. So he gets up, gets right in Father Gerald’s ugly face and says, ‘Fuck you, Father, and the donkey you rode in on. Isn’t there an altar boy somewhere you should be trying to ply with sacrificial wine, so you can get laid?’ ”
The corners of Dee’s mouth turn up. “The more I hear about this Drew guy, the more I’m starting to like him.”
I nod. “Father Gerald turns, like, frigging purple and is just about ready to smack Drew a good one when John, Anne, George, and my parents come in. So Gerald holds off, only to try and get Drew booted out of school the next day. He said if he didn’t apologize, he’d have him expelled. Although John didn’t like what the priest had said, he leaned on Drew to apologize for being disrespectful. But he wouldn’t give—refused to say sorry to such ‘an evil fuck.’
“And then, Anne started to cry. She sobbed about how if Drew got expelled it would ruin his life, and where did she go wrong. That’s when Drew caved—’cause he just couldn’t handle making his mother cry.
“He wrote a letter of apology to Father Gerald and jumped through every hoop the old bastard gave him for penance. That’s why Drew can quote the Bible—word for word—because Gerald made him copy it, down to the last punctuation mark, every day after school. Anyway, by the time his punishment was lifted, Drew was convinced Catholicism was just a racket and that God doesn’t give a shit about any of us.”
Dee tilts her head and regards me thoughtfully. Then she asks, “But you don’t believe that?”
“No, I don’t. I asked Sister Beatrice if what Father Gerald had said was true. That if we had had more faith, would God have answered our prayers.”
“What did she say?” Dee asks.
In my best Irish accent, I reply, “She said, ‘Matthew, m’boy, the Lord answers every prayer . . . but sometimes, the answer is no.’ ”
Dee thinks that over for a moment. Then she says, “Well . . . that kind of sucks.”
I grin. “That’s what I said too.”
Then I wonder aloud, “What about you? Did you grow up religious?”
“Yeah, you could say that. My mother’s always been a spiritual grazer. A taste of Mormonism here, a scrap of Protestant there, but nothing ever stuck. She was interested in Kabala way before Madonna made it all the rage. These days she’s into Buddhism—worked out well for Tina Turner.”
It’s late afternoon by the time we walk back to my bike. I put the folded blanket and camera in the hard-top compartment. And the scent of fresh chili dogs from the sidewalk cart reaches my nose, making my stomach growl. I take out my wallet and ask Dee, “You want one?”
She looks at the hot dog like it’s a loaded gun. “Ah . . . no. I prefer to live past the age of fifty, thanks.”
I order mine with extra chili, then respond, “The sidewalk hot dog is New York.” The same could be said for a slice of pizza.
“The sidewalk hot dog is a heart attack in a bun. Do you know how many nitrates are in that?”
“That’s what makes it taste so good. You know, for someone who claims to be all ‘carpe diem,’ you’ve got a lot of hang-ups.”
She caves. “Okay, fine . . .” She tells the vendor, “One please.”
“You want chili?” I ask.
“Sure. Go big or go home, right?”
I smile. “I like the way you think.”
We stand next to my bike eating our dogs. When Dee is done with hers, a dab of sauce lingers on her chin. Instead of telling her, I take care of it with my mouth.
“Mmm . . .” I smack my lips. “Tastes even better on you.”
She laughs. It’s a great sound.
Our last stop of the day is the farmers’ market in Brooklyn. She was limited by what could fit in the Ducati’s pack, but Dee said having me around for the trip was worth the second trek she’d have to make later in the week. I help her carry the groceries into her apartment, and I’m about to ask her out to dinner when she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me full on the mouth.
&n
bsp; Dinner can fucking wait.
I drop the bags on the floor and go right for her ass. Gripping and kneading, her black pants a thin but annoying barrier. Her hands bury in my hair while I lift her and wrap her legs around my waist, giving my rigid cock the contact it craves. I suck on her bottom lip as her hands massage my shoulders, relaxing warmth spreading from her fingertips. I scrape my teeth along her jaw and swing us around, pressing Dee’s back against the refrigerator. She moans as our hips rub and grind.
We’re both panting hard as I nibble on her neck. Then she moans, “Matthew . . . Matthew, I need . . .”
My lips move against her hot skin. “God, me too . . .”
“I’m . . .”
The next thing I know, Dee pulls out of my grasp and shoves me on my ass in her haste to run down the hall. I lay on the floor, breathing heavy, trying to process what the hell just happened—when the unmistakable sound of upchucking emanates from the bathroom.
Bet you weren’t expecting that, huh? Makes two of us.
My stomach rolls as I walk down the hall—the sounds of Dee’s sickness making me really fucking queasy. I brace a hand on the doorframe. “Are you all right?”
She sits in front of the toilet, a tissue covering her lips, her eyes closed.
“Do I sound all right, genius?”
“No.”
She moans . . . in the not-awesome kind of way. “You and your stupid chili dogs. I think they were bad.”
Like any accused man, I launch a defense. “They weren’t bad. If they were bad, I’d . . .” And I can’t even finish the sentence. Because heat closes in on my face, and my stomach twists around on itself, and I’m diving for the plastic wastepaper basket in the corner.
Which just makes Dee vomit more.
And I think of Lardass and the Barf-o-rama story from Stand by Me. And I’d probably laugh at the entire situation, if I didn’t feel so frigging awful.
Eventually, we crawl into the bed and lay next to each other—me stretched out, Dee in the fetal position.
“This is all your fault,” Dee whimpers.
“You’re right. You’re so right.”
“I hate you. No—I don’t mean that, I like you so much. I think I’m dying, Matthew.”
“You’re not dying. But I might be dying.”
Even though we’re naturally stronger than women, it’s common knowledge that men are ten times more affected by illness. Just ask your husband or your boyfriend.
Dee opens the drawer of her nightstand, jostling the bed as she pulls something out.
“What are you doing?” I groan. “Stop moving.” It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever said that to a girl.
“I’m writing a note to Katie to have you fucking arrested for manslaughter if I die . . . and the hot dog man as an accomplice.”
“You’re a cold woman, Delores.”
“Better you learn that now,” Dee says, even as she moves closer to me. I rub soothing circles on her back until she rolls over and takes my hand in hers. And we stay like that until we both fall asleep.
Chapter 9
It’s amazing how close you can feel to a person after you’ve suffered through the torture of food poisoning together for twenty-four hours. That kind of intimacy can take months—even years—to achieve. I now know Dee’s cum face—and her puke face.
We both call in sick Monday morning, both of us still feeling wrung out. We take separate showers and I borrow a pair of her cousin’s sweatpants. Normally I’d have issues with going commando in another guy’s drawers, but these were clean and folded in the back of Dee’s closet, so the time lapse from the last time Warren wore them makes them okay. Plus, the idea of putting on my clothes from last night feels nasty.
Delores sits next to me on the couch, her Stompeez rabbit–clad feet on the coffee table, wrapped in a fluffy, purple robe that would look light-years from sexy on another girl. But because I know there’s nothing but smooth, bare flesh underneath it—it’s hot.
I flick on the television and we try to agree on a movie to watch. The problem is, Delores has a vagina, which means her taste in movies ranges from awful to nonexistent.
Don’t scowl at me—I’m only stating what every man in the world knows. The reason shitty movies like The English Patient and The King’s Speech win Academy Awards? Women have chick-boners for Ralph Fiennes and Colin Firth. Sure, Braveheart won a bunch of well-deserved awards, but it wasn’t just because it’s the perfect movie. Mel Gibson, anyone? Enough said.
Dee defends a horrible chick flick suggestion. “I like best friend movies—they’re very empowering. Thelma & Louise, Beaches, Steel Magnolias—that one’s my favorite. I always imagine Kate and me like Ouiser and Clairee when we’re old.”
“What’s a Steel Magnolia? More importantly, what the fuck is an Ouiser?”
She looks simultaneously surprised and appalled. “You’ve never seen Steel Magnolias? Are you even human? It was one of Julia Roberts’s first movies.”
I throw up one hand as I object. “No—no frigging way am I watching Julia Roberts! Drew went through a whole year of Julia Roberts as a kid and he still hasn’t recovered. To this day, Pretty Woman quotes come flying out of his mouth uncontrollably. Not happening.”
“Then what are we going to watch?”
I scroll through the on-demand movies until I spot a winner.
“Conan the Barbarian. The greatest love story ever told.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Normally I’d be into Schwarzenegger-flavored eye candy, but I’m not in the mood. Let’s watch Steel Magnolias.”
I shake my head. “No. It’ll be two hours of my life I’ll never get back.”
Delores tucks her feet under her and rises to her knees. A sly, persuasive smile slides onto her face, which I’ve come to recognize as a sign she’s in the mood to get busy. She leans over me; I angle my head back to keep eye contact.
“Are you feeling better, Matthew? ’Cause I’m feeling a lot better.”
I do a quick mental rundown of my faculties. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Her smile gets wider—more suggestive. “Then let’s make a bet. Whoever can make the other person come first gets to pick the movie? What do you say?”
It’s clear to me why Delores is such a successful chemist—she has such an amazingly innovative mind.
I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip thoughtfully. “I say this is a bet I’m going to really enjoy winning.”
She tilts back and slowly opens her robe. “Not as much as I’m going to enjoy making you lose.”
It was close. If this were NASCAR, it would’ve been a photo finish—just seconds apart. But . . . Dee was the winner. She got to pick the movie. Although, I wasn’t exactly crying about my defeat. If you gotta lose a bet, that’s the way to do it.
Anyway, Steel Magnolias is well under way. And it just reinforces my opinion about women and films, because nothing is fucking happening in this movie. It starts off with a wedding and now it looks like Julia Roberts is going to die. Other than that? Just a bunch of girls talking and getting their hair done and talking some more.
Dee sits beside me in rapt attention while the lady from Smokey and the Bandit—she’s Julia Roberts’s mother—starts talking to her friends at the cemetery. Dee’s nose is already red and her eyes are watery. I turn back to the film and listen as the woman starts to scream and cry and ask how her grandson will ever know how much his mother loved him.
And out of nowhere I start to think about Mackenzie and—God forbid—if something ever happened to Alexandra, how Mackenzie would feel. Who would tell her, how much she would miss out on. Steven’s a great guy, an awesome father, but a mother—especially a fierce mother like Alexandra—that kind of love is different. More.
Irreplaceable.
And even though Dee’s apartment doesn’t seem dusty, some particles must have gotten in my eyes. I rub them, to get the irritation out.
And I sniff. Goddamn allergies.
“Are y
ou crying?” Dee asks me with surprise and laughter in her voice.
Disgustedly, I turn to her. “No, I’m not crying.”
Then I look back at the television screen. Where Julia Roberts’s poor, distraught mother is screaming that she’s fine, when she’s obviously not. And about all the things she’s able to do that her kid never could.
Jesus Christ, this is depressing.
“It’s just so fucking sad!” I blurt out as I gesture to the television. “How can you watch this shit and not want to blow your head off with a twelve-gauge shotgun?”
Dee covers her mouth and laughs into her hands. “The fact that it can make me cry is one of the reasons I love it so much.”
Okay, that? That is like saying I love the table in my parents’ front hall because I’m gonna stub my toe on it every frigging time I walk past barefoot.
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes it feels good to cry. It’s cathartic. You’ve never cried over a movie?”
I’m offended that she even feels the need to ask.
I shake my head, but then stop as I remember. “Rocky Three. I cried during Rocky Three, but that doesn’t count. Anyone who doesn’t get choked up when Mickey dies has no soul.”
She shrugs. “Never seen it.”
“You’re missing out. Have you seen Predator?” She shakes her head. “The original Escape from New York?” Another negative. “The Warriors?”
“Nope.”
Then a thought occurs to me. “Wait, your cousin grew up with you and your mom, right?”
“From the time I was about six years old, yeah.”
“So you had a boy in the house—how is it you’ve never seen any of these classics?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
Dee shrugs. “Billy was happy to watch what I wanted.”
Sure he was. It’s then that I decide to take that poor male role model–deprived bastard under my wing.
By Monday night, I’m well enough to return to my own apartment. You’d think after almost two full days away, I’d miss it—be glad to be home. But it feels . . . quiet. Boring, even.
I develop the pictures I took with Dee at the park. And while I wait in the darkroom, I think about the last time I was here. With her. Her wet mouth, the stroke of her soft tongue, the way her cheeks hollowed out when she sucked me dry.
As my memory runs wild, I just barely contain the pussy-whipped urge to call Delores and implore her to come over. I succeed, but only because we already made plans for her to hang out here Wednesday night.
As far as I’m concerned, Wednesday can’t come soon enough.
On Wednesday afternoon, I meet Alexandra downtown for lunch.
The weather is mild, so we sit at a sidewalk table outside. I take a bite of my burger while Alexandra crunches a salad with grilled shrimp. Then I tell her, “So . . . I’ve met someone.”
Growing up with Drew, I always regarded Lexi as my older sister, but the fact that we didn’t share the same genes, or actually have to live together, made our relationship much less contentious than the one she has with her brother. She looks out for me, but she doesn’t “mother” me the way she does with Drew. She gets annoyed by my screwups, but she doesn’t feel responsible for them. For me, it’s the best of both worlds—all the benefits of a big sister without the pain in the ass headaches.
“From what I hear, you and my brother ‘meet’ lots of women.”
I grin. “This one I like.”
She nods. “Once again, you and Drew ‘like’ a whole bunch of poor, unsuspecting ladies. Why is this one worth mentioning?”