For A Good Time, Call... (10 page)

“Okay,”
he said, shrugging a shoulder. “but it's an open invitation.
That's going to scar. Maybe an inch or so but it should heal neat.”

“What's
one more scar?” I mumbled to myself, but judging by the look of
pain on his face, he heard me. Which was only made worse by the
knowledge that he had seen my thigh.

“What
do you say you go get cleaned up and I'll take you out to breakfast?”

I
could. I mean my job didn't exactly demand that I answer every call.
Hell, I didn't answer to anyone but myself. But I knew I shouldn't.
We were already too close for comfort and I couldn't risk whatever
careful balance I was keeping with my new found social skills and my
normal hermitage.

“Or
I can just whip up a quick omelet and let you get back to your day,”
he said, sensing my hesitance.

“Alright,”
I said and before I could change my mind, he was walking out of the
bathroom and closing the door behind him.

I
grabbed a towel and planned to take a quick shower, but as soon as
the water hit my skin, I knew I was in for. I needed the water
scalding and I needed to scrub and re-scrub yesterday away. My
father's words always felt like they left a coating on my skin. Like
I was covered in them. Like they would sink in and become a part of
me if I didn't wash them away. Also, not to mention the alcohol and
the vomit and dried blood and god only knew what else.

By
the time I finished, my bathroom was a cloud of smoke. I dried myself
off and realized with panic that I had neglected to actually bring
any clothes with me into the bathroom. I wrapped the towel tight
around me, holding the knot for good measure and snuck toward the
door.

He
was probably just busy in the kitchen whipping up some kind of
awesome concoction. If I made a run for it, he wouldn't even see me.
I pulled the door open and darted out, running right into a giant
wall of man.

I
yelped, trying to spring away, but his hands landed hard on my
shoulders, holding me still. “Sorry I ah...”

“Forgot
to grab clothes?” he asked, his voice sounding amused.

I
was way too close and way too naked. This couldn't be happening. No
f'n way.

“You're...
you're supposed to be making me food,” I stammered.

“Yeah,
I got all the food out on the counter and everything and then I heard
that water and I couldn't stop thinking about you in there... one
room away from me... all naked and soapy.”

“I'm
not naked or soapy anymore,” I said, not able to look above his
chest. If I looked up, I might give in. I might just let it happen.
And that... well that couldn't happen.

“Not
soapy, no,” he said, his hand dropping lower and touching the
top of the towel. “But you're just one... tug,” he said,
grabbing the edge and holding it. “from naked.”

I
slowly pulled air in through my nose, trying to pull some
self-control in with it. But words failed me once again and my hand
went up to cover his, holding it still.

“Look
at me, Fee.” My eyes went up slowly, looking at his shirt, then
his throat, his chin, lips, nose. Then finally, eyes. Impossibly
blue, almost see through. “There you are,” he said, his
other hand sliding up the side of my face, his thumb stroking across
my cheek. I felt my mouth fall slightly open, watching him, stuck in
that moment. “Kiss me,” he said and I felt the demand
settle in my belly.

And
then I was going up on my tiptoes and pressing against his chest. His
hand slipped from the towel and slid around my back, settling between
my shoulder blades. My hand moved up his chest, touching the stubble
on his cheek, sneaking back into his hair and pulling him downward.

One
kiss. It wouldn't hurt.

Even
as I told myself, I knew it was a lie. Because kissing Hunter was
like stepping into the sunlight after being in a cave for a year. It
was blinding. It was warm. And, most of all, it was comforting.

His
lips met mine with a fierce kind of passion, reckless and needy. My
teeth bit into his bottom lip, digging in and pulling. This wasn't
tentative. This wasn't new. We had already done our exploring. I just
wanted more. I wanted everything. My tongue slipped into his mouth,
stroking his as my hand grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him
closer. My other hand dropped from the towel, wrapping around his
shoulders.

His
arms slid down my back, one wrapping hard around my hips, the other
around my ass. Pulling my closer. My breasts were pressed against his
chest, painful but it felt good. I could feel his hardness pressing
at me through his jeans, pushing into my belly. Reminding me of
things I forgot I wanted.

God,
how I wanted.

I
sighed against his mouth. His hands moved, reaching down and grabbing
my ass, pulling me up and off my feet, crushing my heat against his
erection. My head fell back on a gasp and his face moved downward and
sunk into my skin. First his lips. Then his teeth.

He
put my feet back on the ground, one of his hands moving between us,
grabbing my breast through the towel. Squeezing. His thumb rubbed at
my already hardened nipple for a second before grabbing it between
two fingers and pinching. Hard. Enough to make my eyes fly open and a
half-groan, half-cry escape my lips.

“It's
so sexy how fucking hot you get so easy,” he growled, pushing
me back against the wall. He grabbed my arms, pinning them above my
head then continuing his assault on the sensitive skin on my neck.
One of my hands moved down his back, slipping under his shirt and
touching the hard muscles of his back. “So sweet,” he
said, running his tongue over my earlobe.

His
hand touched my thigh. The outside of my tattoo, stroking the soft
skin on the inside of my knee. Small circles. Moving slowly upward.
His fingers brushed the hem of the towel that just barely covered my
crotch.

No.
Yes, oh god yes. But no.

I
wretched my hands from his hold, slamming them against his chest and
shoving him. Off-guard, he flew back a step, stumbling slightly. I
clutched at my towel, my hands shaking slightly. Across from me,
Hunter leaned against the wall, raking a hand down his face. “What
the fuck, Fee?” he asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

I
sighed, looking down at my feet. I was frustrated. Unbearably
frustrated. And angry. At myself. At the monster who made me how I
am. And sad. For all the things I could never have. But above all...
“I'm sorry,” I said, knowing it meant nothing. But it was
everything.

“I
don't get it,” he said, his eyes piercing into me. “The
walls are fucking thin, Sixteen.” At my blank look, he let out
a short humorless laugh. “I hear you, Fee. Everyday. With all
your men.” He rushed across the hall, pushing up against me,
leaning down in my face. Intimidating. He was really intimidating
when he was angry.

And
then I understood. He thought I was a slut. He thought I was easy.
And yet I was toying with him. I was teasing him. “Hunter...”
I said, trying to sound reasonable.

“No,
don't,” he said, slamming a hand against the wall.

This
was the Hunter from that Tuesday morning. This was my dark savior.
The savage beast who pummeled a man's face in. This was not my
Hunter. The one who cooked me dinner. And gave me the safety to sleep
through a night. The one who glued me back together.

This
was a rabid pitbull straining against his leash. I wondered
fleetingly who would win as I saw him close his eyes and take a long,
steadying breath.

We
stayed that way for a long time, him still and silent, me apt and
fascinated. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His fist clenched and
unclenched at his side. Then his eyes slowly opened.

The
leash won. He pushed off the wall, taking a step back. “Your
omelet is in the microwave,” he said and turned and walked out
of my apartment.

Out
of my life. Because I didn't think I would ever see him on. Not after
that. Not after letting me see him lose his cool like that.

I
walked to the kitchen, finding a omelet with cheese, mushrooms, and
spinach, and sitting down to eat it.

He
had showed me some of his damage. And he was ashamed of that. Little
did he know, I wasn't someone who could judge. So what if he had
anger issues? I had ripping myself open issues. And alcohol issues.
And daddy issues. And brother issues. And grandmother issues. I was
the long island iced tea of damage: everything but iced tea included.

Honestly,
I was happy to see the flaws in him. It is hard to not feel like a
sad sack of awfulness next to someone who had proven himself to be
nothing but pretty damn perfect. A good cook, a concerned citizen, a
fair friend. And so ridiculously good looking on top of it all. It
was too much.

I
liked the screwed up Hunter better.

It
was a shame I wasn't going to be seeing him again.

Twelve

My
bathroom floor and I have had an on and off again relationship for a
long time. He was the keeper of my nastiest secrets. My cool,
comforting companion on nights when I find myself stuck at home.

I
hadn't heard from Hunter in a week. Another Sunday. Another private
alley. Another call to my grandmother.

“You
really should listen to your father,” she told me, her voice
accusatory. “He is a great man. He understands the scripture.
He's just trying to guide you.”

“Yes,
Grams.”

YesGrams.YesGrams.YesGrams.

I
had a bag of groceries at my feet and a half-assed idea to pick up
cooking. So I had to go home. And once I was home, I wasn't going
anywhere.

I
heard nothing from his side of the wall. No hammering or sawing at
six in the morning. No talking. No TV. No nothing. I had a rush of
panic at the idea that maybe he had left, moved on. But I saw the
pile of cigarette butts in his ashtray on the balcony get higher
everyday. He was still around. He just didn't want to give me any
excuse to go to his apartment.

Which
was for the best. That was what I kept reminding myself. Five, ten
times a day. It was for the best. Things could go back to how they
used to be. Me, myself, and I. Drunken stumbling me. Solitude.

You
gotta protect the world from you, Fiona. No one deserves to have to
deal with you.

My
internal monologue had taken a turn toward the negative lately. True,
my head has never been a happy place to be, but suddenly it was
becoming a landmine filled field of self-loathing. I could hear his
tone slipping into my subconscious. Because that's how good he was.
One phone call and I was different.

I
made myself spaghetti which came out too tough and the sauce too
watery, deciding that maybe cooking wasn't a science but a skill. One
I obviously did not possess. But I ate it and drank a bottle of wine.
Wine. Which was weird for me. I bought it thinking it would keep me
from going out and drowning in a bottle of something harder. I didn't
keep liquor in my apartment. That was just asking to become a day
drinker. A full-blown alcoholic.

I
got a warm tingling sensation once I finished the bottle, a nice warm
feeling. But it didn't last. My mood soured and the alcohol latched
onto the negative internal dialog like a life preserver. And I was
spiraling downward.

So
there I was with good old bathroom floor, in hot pink undies and a
black and white striped bandeau crop top... looking every bit the
mess I felt like. I had a pile of clean gauze next to me with some
witch hazel and the glue. Just in case.

I
had always heard that the first cut was the hardest. It was something
I never agreed with. The first cut is full of promises. The rush of
good feelings. The shock at seeing the skin open and weep. For me,
the first cut was the easiest. Every cut after felt like I was
chasing a pipe dream. Like trying to get drunker. Or higher. When you
knew it wasn't possible. There is always a cap. But those who are
really dedicated keep trying anyway.

I
was really dedicated to self-destruction.

The
razor blade touched my skin and I slipped into the mindset. It has to
be a different
mindset,
because no one in their normal, everyday brain would cut themselves
open. It was a strange limbo of a feeling that I could get drunk on
some nights.

This
was one of those nights.

Twenty
minutes later, my hands were shaking as I pressed witch hazel soaked
gauze against the cuts. I didn't get my rush. No matter how many
times I tried. No matter how hard I pushed. I felt all the more
despondent, dropping the gauze and curling up on my side.

I
couldn't cry. That was what I wanted to do right then. Just let it
out. Purge the feelings in something other than blood for a change.
But he could have the blood. He couldn't have the tears. I laid there
for a long time, staring at the legs of my bathroom table, watching
as they slipped in and out of focus, the wine making me tired as I
came down.

Before
I could think to fight it, I was falling asleep.