Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (2 page)

Do
a movie. I imagined having sex and watching a movie simultaneously and came up
with “do a movie”.

Bishop’s
laugh explodes from his mouth, full of sonic power and reminding me of an
accordion, long and winding, with colorful notes. I match his laugh with my own
short chuckles.

“You’re
brave. Seriously. These days girls still wait on guys to make the first move.
On everything it seems.” He plucks his phone from a front pocket and
shows a calendar. He rolls to the current day and month. “I’m free
on these days,” he says, indicating Wednesday, Saturday, or Sunday.

I
pick Wednesday. If we wait too long, the interest might fade. And I’m no
scared girl.

“Tomorrow,
then. It’ll be after seven, if that’s okay with you.”

“You
have work?”

“Long
day. From eight A.M till six.”

“That
sucks.” Caddy’s waving me over. He wants to leave, and since we
came in his car, we have to. “I’ll text you later, but I really
have to go. Is that—”

“Yeah,
yeah, I’m not a slave driver and you’re not servant. Don’t
worry, we’re busy people.” As I turn to leave, Bishop catches my
arm. He winks. “Don’t bail though. It sucks when that happens
too.”

I
pat his shoulder. “Have faith,” I say.

“So?”
Caddy says at the swinging glass doors. “So? What happened?”

“Something
good.”

“And?”

“And
you owe me Chinese money.”

“He’s
fine, isn’t he?”

“Not
bad.”

“Give
him some credit. I know he got your panties wet.”

I
smack Caddy’s neck, but he’s right, so I go easy on him. “We
barely have anything in common though.”

“First,
you spent nearly an hour talking to him.”

“Did
not.”

“Look
at the time.”

Caddy’s
right again.

“Besides,”
he says, “science says it’s not about what’s in common, but
how far your are. Proximity is important in relationships too.” He
fetches his keys from his shirt, and our grand station wagon beeps unlocked.
“Did you know he’s rich, too?”

“No,”
I say, clicking on my seatbelt. “That’s not what normal people talk
about when they first meet each other.”

“Well
he is, just know that.”

“I
don’t need money.”

“That
sounds super familiar. Like when we graduated familiar.”

“I
don’t need another man’s—boyfriend’s—money
because I can make my own.”

Caddy
turns into the lot, and we swerve out. Overpasses careen midair, crisscrossing
the cityscape. I dial on some dad rock to keep peace with Caddy’s more
eclectic tastes.

“He
likes the Beatles too, so you’ll get used to them soon.”

“It’s
really weird how you know everything about everyone. You should’ve gone
to the CIA instead.”

“I
did apply,” Caddy says, turning the wheel rightward. “But see, I
know how much they pay, and for that lifestyle, it’s nothing at all to
talk about.”

In
addition to Caddy, I share the apartment with Piranha. She’s plastered Americana everywhere. Upon entry, you’ll get a have Uncle Sam glaring at you as you
pass through the foyer. Then there’s the flags. There are flags pinned in
the living room. Upholstered on the couches. Our cutlery is all American. She
sourced them domestically, from start to finish those damned knives and spoons
and forks are all-fucking-American. She’s good for businesses but
horrible at personal finance, considering how expensive those pots were—a
month’s worth of rich kids paying you for biology homework.

Her
major: American History. This is after studying American Literature. She found
out in “regular” literature, you had to study material from Britain too.

“You
guys are finally home,” Piranha says, shoving a hot tray of muffins at
our throats. Caddy and I have to finagle the tray onto the table where it can
cool down, and it’s not but a nanosecond before she’s peeling off
our shoes for us. “It’s getting cooler. You two should switch to
socks.”

Caddy
sighs. I let my sigh come right after for added effect, but Piranha, the
oblivious girl that she is, simply ducks into the kitchen for her American
plates. Three muffins go on a plate, to which she says, “Good American
appetite,” her savvy translation for bon appétit.

“Piranha,”
Caddy says, “you’re fucking insane but a Swiss knife at life. I
love you.” He chomps easily into one of the muffins. I sample the last,
and yes, the muffin has a stinging lemon zest followed by a punch of blueberry
and licorice.

“American
knife,” Piranha says. “You both were gone so long, I had to do
something to fill up the hours.”

During
freshman year, Piranha would make these horrendous mackerels. She'd forget them
in the refrigerator for weeks and Caddy and I would have to dredge out the
stinking remains. The amount of complaints we received had to be over five in
one week. The RAs never let up. 

Then
she brought in anchovies. And then salmon. And then
piranhas
.

Those
piranhas were the first edible meal she ever made.

I
throw off my pants. They fly on my bed like two streamers, secretly declaring
excitement.

I
have some hot guy’s number. Bishop’s number.

Now,
in general, I’m a queen at scoring all kinds of men. Humans are desperate
creatures when they lack sex. There’s an entire slew of guys out there
who would fuck anything floating on a pair of heels because their cocks tell
them to. I think that’s why people hate “sluts” and
“bitches” so much. Girls like me, who are freer than prudish
counterparts, lower the power of others, who would prefer to wait for a prince
or daddy-king. Except he’s probably not going to wait, he’s going
to go to girls like me.

My
hand shivers on my phone. My image stirs in the reflective glass.

Can
I imagine him and me together? An all—I hate to say the word—
American
good boy plus a deviant bad girl who’s business is essentially the
peddling of intellectual dishonesty? 

I’ve
chased riskier prospects.

XXX—XXX—XXXX

The
phone rings, the low burr…burr…burr…and I sit by my phone,
turning it on speaker mode. If it’s not on speaker mode, he’d feel
too close. I’d become self-conscious and choke.

“Hey,”
I say when he picks up. He picked up! “I was just calling to say I had a
really good time meeting you today and I’m super excited for
tomorrow.”

You
can hear Bishop smiling. The beautiful laugh carries over the poor connection,
and even then, his laugh is gold. “Really? I could’ve sworn I bored
you silly with all my talk.”

“No,
not at all. You were fantastic. What’re you up to?”

“Just
cooking some dinner. Having pasta tonight. What’re you up to?”

“Just
sort of sitting at home. My roommate’s fixing us dinner. American
fettuccini.”

“Ah!
You’re trying to one-up me aren’t you? Fet-to-chi-ni.”

I
giggle into the phone, teasing out the most melodious sounds my vocal chords
can produce. I want him to believe in me as a fantasy as I do him. Infatuation
is a powerful experience.

“Not
at all, not at all. It’s a very long story. More tomorrow. We’re
still on for tomorrow, right?”

A
pause.

“Yes,
I’m excited. I hope you are too.”

And
the pause unleashes a torrent of mesmerizing highs. I stare at the ceiling to
ground myself. He’s talking to me and so interested. This isn’t a
stupid college hookup, this will be an actual date, one that might probably not
go bust.

“I’m
stoked. Absolutely. We’ll meet for dinner after you work?”

“I’d
love to.”

“Great.”

“Well,
my pasta’s ready.”

“Right.
Mine is too.”

“Thought
you were having fettuccini.” And he smiles, mocking me for my blunders.

“Yeah,”
I say, “have a good night.”

In
college, guys would be easy lays. Some dudes could’ve gone without the
pulse— all you needed were breasts and a vagina—and they would
sleep with you. That’s how I acquired most of the test banks for my business.
At the start, I slept in the highest ranks. Frat boys, party animals, football
players, soccer, recreational, league, whatever. Penis plus answers equaled a
quick lay and investment in my future.

Women
would sleep with me too. Bi-curious or lesbian. I should really say that
answers equaled a quick lay and investment in my future, but men were the usual
pickings.

In
the years after starting up, I renounced my “sluttish” dominance
over the school and yielded to the younger, prettier “whores” on
the up-and-up.

All
the while, I’ve sought, in the back of my head, a guy, to sleep with and
care about. To share intimacy, conversation. To have my back. Nothing more than
one single man to lavish affection over and to cook for and to squeeze cheeks
with and all the girlish nonsense you find in romance novels. I want Him,
wherever he is.

Dating
is so masochistic though. The standard advice will either be to wait for
miracles or to “put yourself out there” or some permutation of the
aforementioned. I’ve done both. Admittedly not always well, but after
college, I tried. Fine, twenty one isn’t spinster mode, but when
you’ve had a collection of non-connections—a sex-buddy conveyor
belt— you’d want true companionship too, aside from the platonic.

It’s
not even like there’s only One Compatible Man out there. Several exist.
Like Caddy says, proximity is important. I just haven’t been running in
the right circles.

“We’re
trying to ease our way out,” Caddy says over his plate of American
fettuccini. “Suddenly stopping your main source of income isn’t
easy.”

“I
know. I know. I’m sorry to be such a pain sometimes. I know. But you
guys, it’s dangerous, don’t you think? It’s a dangerous
operation.”

“Still,
stopping immediately just can’t be a possibility. Violet’s got the
entire operation going on and it’s hot.”

Piranha
mumbles something while sipping from her glass. “I guess,” she
says. “I want us to be safe.”

“And
your looking out for us is super appreciated,” I say, “but
don’t ask questions about stuff you don’t want to know. It’s
better off you’re not worrying. For all of us.”

After
dinner, Caddy confers with me. We go over the normal business stuff, like
projected income, where we’re headed in terms of growth, competitors. You
have to be on top of the market to compete at a high level. Piranha sits in
amongst the sheets of data even though she has nothing to do with the finances.
She feels left out otherwise.

“If
we were ever busted, you know you’ll be an accomplice,” I say.

“American
law doesn’t say anything about this. At least not that I know of.”

I
sigh. Caddy’s sigh ensues.

Chapter 2

My
problem with guys is that I have sex experience but no relationship experience.
Thus every boy who breaths near me becomes an intense fantasy, a walking dream
incarnated from multiple letdowns and projected whims.

He
can’t be muscles and no brains. He can’t be brains and no bum.

I
want both.

So
I await for my potential brains and bum at a local taco joint. The place is run
by Mexicans who’ve immigrated recently. The waitresses speak English
badly, but the food steams piping hot and tickles your nostrils with aromas
most home at a five star restaurant. I order a taco for myself, and the food
arrives before he does. Five minutes, ten minutes—has he stood me up?

Bishop
strides through the entryway, twenty minutes late, apologizing as if admitting
sin to Blessed Virgin Mary.

“I’ll
pay tonight, don’t worry. I just got tangled in the horrible thing at
work. Lots of drama, yikes.”

“It’s
okay.” Though I’m disappointed, I won’t deny the loin-jumping
fever roiling beneath my skin. You could call me a nympho, surely. I restrain
myself. If relationships are the goal, then the personality has to shine too.
“What exactly do you do for work, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I
run a business too.”

“Really?
That didn’t come up yesterday.”

“It’s
sort of an embarrassing one, very stressful. Don’t like to talk about it
much. I’ll spare you the office drama.”

“I
can tell you it’s the same about my work. People angry, people yelling at
you. It’s actually time to start up for my last quarter of the year.
We’ve been doing well though.” Our waiter arrives and Bishop
orders. He apologizes to her too, as if she were a saint. “You’re a
kind man,” I say. “At least you’re sorry about being
late.”

“The
people who aren’t are killer, aren’t they? They show up like
nothing’s happened and expect you to cater to them. Then they think they
can boss you around like it’s nothing.”

“Infuriating.”

“Anyways,
you look great tonight.”

“Yourself
as well.” His leather belt cinches a tiny waist and his cardigan
emphasizes the broadness of his shoulders. He scoots his feet close to mine,
and I use the cramped table-booth setting as an excuse to knock ankles.

“I
speak so much, I don’t get to hear your side. Tell me more about
yourself.”

“Just
an average girl living. Five foot eight. Did cheerleading in high school and
moved around a lot as a girl. My dad was an offshore rigger. My mom was an
accountant. They live in New York City now, in Brooklyn.”

“I’ve
got family in the Bronx. Don’t know them though.”

“Do
you?” I grin. “More in common then.”

“You’re
not going to eat?” He points to my taco.

“I
don’t like eating when others aren’t. Unless you’d like to
share? I can’t finish it all.”

“Are
you sure?”

Bishop’s
nose startles me. It’s a heavy slanting feature under the lamplight, a
stark contrast to the comforting plainness of his eyes. I could climb his face
if it was a mountain. There would be water and gravel, silt and grit.

His
ankles knock mine again. Occasionally, after tearing into my taco, or wiping
his mouth, he’ll beat his knees outwardly. Our feet shuffle in the
limited space, but it’s a casual, ready dance, inviting one another to
play. Without shoes we might instigate a game of footsie or tickle one another
gently.

“You’re
pretty kind too. I came in late, twenty minutes late, and you’re
accepting of me like nothing. And you offer me your food.”

He
offers me some of his when the waiter sneaks up on our table again.

He
ordered chorizo in a sandwich, and I munch immediately, hungering to taste his
offer.

“It
tastes like ham, grilled on the outside, but with an aftertaste of heat.”
Juices run down my mouth. I blush, and Bishop reaches over, sopping the fluids
up.

“Your
taco was good.”

“And
your chorizo. Good choices for the both of us.”

We
crumple our napkins and relax into our seats, admiring one another. Bishop
keeps his eyes trained on the most hated corner of my face: left side.

A
scar runs the length of the cheek there. It’s not deep or cragged, but it
is noticeable by virtue of nearly everyone in my life pointing it out.

“My
dad did that to me,” I say. “One night he just swung and pow. Scar
tissue.”

“I
wasn’t even looking at that.” Bishop brandishes his hand at me.
“No, no, I was thinking is all. Not about your scar—it’s
hardly visible, not at all.”

I
stare him down. My gaze penetrates through and he admits fault.

“I
was thinking that it’s fitting. I mean, really, really, truly, I
don’t mean to offend you in any way. But the way it sits, the way it
melds into your skin, the way your eyes hang over it. The scar fits you.
It’s like a molten flower almost.”

I
choke on leftover chorizo, heaving over to laugh. “That’s a valiant
description, sir. You haven’t offended me. It’s hard to compliment
a girl.”

“The
way it is to approach a man.”

“Sort
of,” I say. “You going to take me home now or what?”

Bishop
pulls out his wallet, leaving a ten dollar tip on our twenty dollar bill. He
helps me out of my seat and opens the door. His convertible lies in one of the
nearer stalls. “If you’re so adventurous.”

I’ll
admit, I’ve been in some seedy places. Sex with strangers used to be my
forte. Sliding in the back of a van would be commonplace on a boring Saturday
night, the proper spice to electrocute myself out of ennui. Danger, unknown.
Men who could kill you.

Absolutely
dangerous, not recommended. I packed mace every time, had 9-1-1 ready at hand,
even though the police were more likely to find a body ditched roadside.

The
most dangerous sexual encounter was the anniversary of my father cutting me.
The boy, [Spade], was a totally unhinged creeper. He had droopy cheeks and a
pointed, cone-shaped head not unlike a spade. It’s mean in hindsight, but
once I told him that he would be the type to shoot up a school. Jerk comment.
It didn’t please him to know my base opinion about his hygiene either. He
breathed “wrong”, like a carbine firing off in the distance. You
heard creeper Spade was around before he showed his face. The creepiest part
was when he charged me after sex.

“Fifty
bucks, bitch.”

“This
was an equal transaction.”

“You’re
a prostitute,” he said. “I’m pretty much your pimp now,
getting you every guy over.”

I’d
sapped him of all the recourses he had. I wasn’t going to pay when
we’d agreed on a deal: answers for sex, sex for answers. We argued until
he launched an attack, fists aimed at my throat.  

I
sent him staggering backwards with one side kick to the thigh—I’d
taken Muay Thai lessons in college—and when the boy tried pinning me
down, I rolled him into oblivion, mounting him as if he were a horse. I did
Brazilian jiu-jitsu too. Didn’t call the cops at the time, though I
should’ve. Half of me wanted to spare him the humiliation, second wind,
second chances sort of deal. Another reason I took pity on him was because he
looked similar to my father. Guys who look my father used to receive the bitch
in me. I’d be cruel.

Now
my father, he taught “discipline” a la cruel beatings. I failed an
exam once. English Literature. I can recognize a beautiful passage on paper or
when it’s orated at some fancy speech or press conference. Beautiful
passages where everyone just stops to recollect their lame thoughts into
formidable, “meaningful” thoughts in vain effort to gain personal insights.

Like
the average person though, I’d forgotten whatever insights I’d
formulated. Exam came, I failed. Dad’s brutal punishment for came
relentlessly after every “failure”. Sit on your hands. Have someone
take a belt buckle to your chin. Your teeth loosen from the pressure. Smack.
Lash. There. The metal whirled audibly through the air, a diabolical torture
device, except it was so mundane, so ordinary. I feared the ordinary which
became extraordinary: my own parents.

How
did Dad cut me? Failing one exam led to failing another which led to failing
the entire class and retaking it over the summer. By the end, even though
I’d finished with a B, Dad took out a butter knife…and pinched. The
exact assault I can’t recall, but the pain was like a pinch. Immediate
and annoying, then gone, the skin having fallen away, opening an ugly fissure
on my cheek.  

I
was trying too. I hid the fissure with gauze and said I fell at while working
out. And I wasn’t pushing for F’s, D’s, and C’s, but
genuine As. It’s just C’s were the most likely to appear. Mom would
scold, threaten.

“Do
you want Dad you find out? Do you want Dad to see?” Then she’d
slap, hard against my wrist, right where Dad had struck. “You need to
learn how to be aware,” she’d say.

Thus
started my scrounging around for test banks. A’s to keep them at bay. I
wasn’t successful until after high school. No one likes girls doused with
baggage. I did manage to graduate early though. That one failure of a class led
spurred on my education. I learned to drive, took community college courses,
sped up my credits earned and nabbed my diploma at sixteen. Dad and Mom tried
another beat down, but I stole their car, a noisy truck, one that sputtered out
of life upon arrival to college.

“How’s
life with your parents,” I ask, “if it’s not too much to
divulge.”

“I’m
not with them now. But they were challenging and strict. They liked to compare
me to other kids a lot though.”

“Competition.”

“It’s
stiff no matter where you go. Business, love, life, everyone’s vying to
be number one. Everyone wants their kid to be number one.”

His
hand rests on the console between us.

I
swat it away.

“Two
hands, mister!”

“Sorry,
sorry.” He plants his hands on wheel, though I climb the console and
plant a kiss on his cheek. Heat suffuses across his skin. The idea of tearing
away the barriers—the steel, the leather, the clothes—courses
through my mind. I want sex but I have to temper myself. Have to temper these
urges.

I
linger before pulling away.

Bishop
swipes at his cheek. “You’re soaking wet. What a sloppy
kiss.”

We
stop at a red light. He turns to me and jolts across, planting one firm kiss on
my scar.

I
refocus on his personality. Kind, sweet, apologetic. Focus on the cerebral,
Violet.

“I
don’t want ruin anything between us,” I say at the green
light’s appearance. “I like you a lot but don’t want to
rush.”

“Understandable.
We’re in no rush.”

“But,
are you down for cuddling?”

Bishop
grins. “You’re a very strange girl.”

On
online forums there are guys who want a cuddle buddy. It’s too bad American
(sigh) social mores constrict the genders so. Men must be stoic and
uncomplaining. Women must be emotional and chaste. To crisscross the roles
means confusing society. It means existing outside of
society—homesteading on unknown territory, all the while people whisper
and gossip about you. How odd, how queer, she’s living over there and not
here!

How
strange.

“I’m
telling you now though I didn’t plan on taking you home. You charmed me
though.”

“I
have that capacity. My secret is castrating goats at home and casting spells in
the bathroom.”

Bishop
flicks on and off the vanity light above himself. He growls, tilting the wheel
evermore rightward.

“Two
hands, beast, two hands, road.”

Bishop
leaves the vanity light on. We pull into a driveway and he says, “You
don’t seem like a girl who casts bloodcurdling spells. Worrying when
we’re home already.”

I
wave his comment aside. “Are we going to go in now or are we going to
warm car seats?”

Recessed
lights blast white onto a sprawling carpet. He has portraits set alongside a
mantle, presumably his family members. As Bishop introduces me to the various
rooms—hello comfy couch for cuddling, hello plush master bed for
fucking—he takes the time to detail the history of the place.

“The
dead buried under here fought in wars. Some Native American conflict in the
past. Huge battle. Can’t remember the name, but it was pretty sad when I
read about it. All the dead under our feet."

"We're
always trudging on dead people though. All those human beings before us right
between our toes. Kinda gross."

Bishop
hesitates as we pass a dark room. I peek in and see various tarps covering
boxes.

"I
moved here only two months ago. Still have stuff laying around for no
reason."

"Maybe
I could help one day."

Bishop
tousled my hair. "You could. You might get hurt though."

"Heavy
stuff inside?"

"Very
heavy stuff."

Bishop
stops at the couch again where we collapse. He clicks on the ceiling fan, and
it sweeps through its rotations, moderating our temperatures at a low seventy-five
degrees.

"Where
did you grow up?" I ask.

"I
spent most of my life in south Colorado. I grew up on a farm, believe it or
not. Very rural town, all ranchers. Everybody says y’all all the time.
We’re not even Southern."

"Funny.
What's the day-to-day like?"

"Honestly?
Pretty damn boring. There's never any excitement. Everybody knows your business
too. No privacy. Constant talk and chatter. You figure one day, waking up or
something, that the radios would blast all your personal information. "

"I
always thought it the other way. Comforting and homey and where everybody loves
each other."

"It's
not so much the location." Bishop wraps his arm around my shoulder and
squeezes. "It's more about the people, and the people I knew were not the
best. I really didn't find community there."