For A Good Time, Call... (5 page)

I
woke up on the bathroom floor. Which wasn't completely unheard of,
though it had been a really long time since that happened. The weird
thing was the fuzziness. In my brain. Like I was hungover. I didn't
get hungover. You wouldn't be able to drink the way I drink if you
woke up with a blinding headache, feeling dried out every morning.

I
pushed myself off the tile, sitting up and looking around with my
sleepy eyes. My throat hurt, a strange mix of pain and burning. I
brought my hand up, noticing the bruise around my wrist and feeling a
second of horror before the memory came back. Had I been so drunk
that I had passed out? And been... assaulted in some way? I glanced
down at my shirt and had the blindingly bright image of his hands
pulling the zipper down.

Then
it came flooding back, making me feel an awful cocktail of anger,
fear, regret, and shame that made me dizzy. I crawled across the
floor to the padded stool in front of my sink, pulling myself up onto
it and looking at myself in the mirror.

It
wasn't pretty.

My
hair, as per usual, even without a bed to roll around in, was a mess.
It had fought the confines of my hair tie and there were wavy strands
falling around my face. My lips looked swollen with a hint of purple
beneath the pink. Easy enough to cover up with a little lipstick. My
throat was red and purple and blue. A pretty rainbow band completely
across the front, tapering off to visible fingerprints at one end. My
eyes looked bloodshot. I turned on the tap, washing my hands,
pretending to ignore the blue bands around my wrists, then scrubbing
at my face. I furiously brushed my teeth to try to get the taste of
him out.

I
stood up, noticing I was barefoot and completely at a loss for how
that might have happened. I needed a clock and some coffee. How much
time had I actually lost?

The
smell of fresh coffee hit me as soon as I stepped into the hallway
and I instinctively retreated a foot back into the bathroom before
taking a deep breath and realizing that Fourteen must not have left.

Hunter.
I should start thinking of him by his name since he saved me from
pretty definite rape only a few hours before. And then brought me
back to my apartment when I was in some kind of PTSD daze. Where he
had laid me on the floor and... oh fuck. He'd seen the self-injury
scars. Great. That was just great. Now I was going to get his damn
sympathy. I didn't need that shit. Little did he know, my digging
blades into my skin was a hell of a lot less traumatic than what
drove me to do it in the first place.

Oh
well. I was going to have to face him sooner or later. It would be
good to just rip the bandage off and get on with me day. I'll take a
cab home from now on when I come home in the morning. No biggie.
Future crises averted.

I
took a deep breath and headed into the hallway, not caring about my
crazy hair and smudged eye makeup. I wasn't trying to impress my
neighbor. Besides, I needed to face him so I could kick him out and
get ready for my day.

He
was in my kitchen, sitting on top of my counter, drinking coffee out
of one of my mugs and reading a newspaper that was definitely not
mine. “Just make yourself at home,” I grumbled, reaching
for a coffee cup and filling it.

“I
picked up some bagels,” he said, gesturing toward the brown bag
on the counter. “I didn't know what kind you liked so I picked
up a variety.”

I
felt my eyebrows draw together. He... went out and bought me bagels?
Why the hell would he do that? “Why?”

“They're
not free. I want payment in sex,” he said, looking over when I
didn't laugh. His brows drew lower over his eyes like he couldn't
understand why I was asking.

I
reached in the bag, searching around. Maybe it said something about
the company I kept that such a small act of kindness like picking up
breakfast after a somewhat traumatic event, was shocking. And since I
only kept my own company... it said something about me. About how
messed up I was. I dug out an egg bagel, all plump and yellow. “Thank
you,” I said, the words sounding clumsy on my tongue.

He
nodded. “There's cream cheese and butter in those little
containers,” he said, gesturing to the throw away condiment
containers on the counter. I bowed my head as I cut open the bagel
and spread butter on it. He watched me the whole time, his head
turned toward the side looking at me, no doubt, like I didn't make
sense. I knew I didn't. “You alright?” he asked after I
had chewed a small bite.

I
shrugged a shoulder. Non-committal. Unwilling to admit I was just
pushing this morning's events into the vault with all the others.
Just more things to drown at the bottom of a bottle. Just more things
to spend my life running away from facing. “I've had better
mornings,” I said, picking up my coffee.

“That's
it?” he asked, looking almost angry. “Four hours ago, you
were minutes away from being raped out front of your house and
you've... had better mornings?” At my blank look, he hopped
down off the counter, walking over to me and grabbing the coffee cup
out of my hands and put it on the counter behind me. He reached out,
his hand lining up over the bruises on my throat, hovering away from
my skin for a moment. I guessed to see if he would find a reaction.
When he didn't, he pressed against the sore marks. “Seriously?
This means nothing to you?”

Please.
It would be nice if the worst thing that ever happened to me was a
hand pressing into my throat. But I assumed for most women... that
was horrifying enough. “You wont hurt me,” I said
instead, looking up into his light eyes.

“Why
would you say that? I busted a guy's face in last night. Right in
front of you. You have no idea what I am capable of.”

I
reached up, watching my own hand like it wasn't attached to me
because I couldn't possibly be doing what I was doing. I rested my
hand over his on my neck. Just a whisper of a touch. But a touch
nonetheless. “You might be capable of a lot of things,” I
said, looking back up into his eyes. “but not this.”

I
saw him take a breath. Slow, steadying. His hand softened on my skin,
brushing over the bruises before falling. My own hand fell down at my
side. “No. Never that,” he agreed, taking a step back. He
shook his head, as if clearing it of some nagging thought. “So
you're fine?”

“I'm
fine,” I agreed.

He
exhaled a breath through his nose, short, almost like a snort but
without the noise. “You're all kinds of fucked up, Sixteen,”
he said, grabbing his paper and heading out of the room. I heard the
door close before I exhaled.

All
kinds of fucked up. He had no idea.

But
that didn't mean I couldn't at least... try to be a somewhat decent
human being toward him. Especially since he had been nothing but nice
to me so far. Not everyone needed to be kept at a distance.

I
showered, took my calls, packed up some panties, and ran out the door
around five. I would miss out on a few calls, but I needed to get
back home and then back out before it got dark. Tonight especially.

I
walked into the store feeling oddly self-conscious. Which was stupid.
Among the shitstorm of awfulness of my childhood, I did get an
education on manners. Whether anyone who met me would believe it or
not. My grandmother had sat me down and pounded the rules of decent
society into me. As ironic as that was at the time.

I
remembered the lesson on new neighbors. You should always go over and
introduce yourself. Bring a baked good. But only if you made
something really well, really memorable. My grandmother said this,
knowing I knew damn well that she had never baked a thing in her
whole life. There were servants for that. But her housekeeper made
the best peach cobbler this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

But
if you were not culinary inclined, she would say with a very pointed
look at me and my mother, then you should bring a plant. Then, any
time they had to water it, they thought of you. Which was so
ridiculous even to my nine year old ears that I had to bite my tongue
to keep from smart mouthing her.

In
the end, I picked out the manliest pot I could find: a white skull
and picked out a three-pronged cactus plant to be put in it. The girl
at the counter was actually willing to transplant it for me and I
took it feeling foolish.

Would
it really be that hard to do a nice thing? Was I so messed up that I
had to feel like an insecure child when I stepped just slightly out
of my comfort zone?

In
the end, it didn't matter how I felt. Plant in hand, I walked past
the dried bloodstains still on the road and sidewalk, into my
building, then up to my floor. I stopped out front of fourteen,
taking a deep breath, before reaching up and knocking on the door.

Eight

The
damn couple across the hall was what woke me up, arguing at four in
the morning like maniacs. I got up with a sigh, heading out onto the
balcony for a cigarette. And that's when I saw her. Walking down the
street, drunk again, but able to keep a straight line.

The
guy came out of nowhere, slamming her against the wall and out of my
view. I should have reacted then. But with her active sex life, I
just figured it was one of her guys surprising her with some quick,
rough, outdoor sex. I couldn't judge them for that. It sounded like a
good time.

Then
I heard her yell. Loud enough for the dogs in the building to stir.
“I don't give a fuck who you are.” And I was running.
Through my apartment, into the elevator that was too damn slow in
that kind of situation, then out onto the sidewalk.

“Shut
up. You like it,” the guy had said, reaching and groping her
breasts.

I
lost my shit.

I
had been so good for so long, keeping myself calm, keeping myself out
of situations that could trigger the all-consuming rage that could
pop up. That I had trouble reigning in once it started. But in that
moment, all the control slipped away as I barreled toward the guy,
grabbing the back of his neck and hauling him into the street.

I
spared Sixteen the barest of glances to make sure she wasn't hurt,
and then I went apeshit on the guy, straddling his middle and banging
my hands into his face. I forgot how good it felt. God, how fucking
good it felt. To feel you hands smash into soft flesh. To hear the
bones underneath snapping. There wasn't a high like that in the
world. At least, not for me. Not for someone with my history.

I
was out of breath before the alarm started ringing in my head. Loud.
Shocking. I sat back on my heels, looking down at the torn flesh, the
swollen eye sockets and lips. The mess of a mangled face I had
created. And I couldn't say I hated the sight.

I
dragged him back onto the sidewalk with the full realization of what
I had done. What the repercussions could be if I got caught. I pulled
out my phone and snapped a picture of Sixteen: her eyes huge and
scared, the marks already forming on her neck, the bruised and fat
lips, the open blouse. It would be proof enough that he got what the
fuck was coming to him.

I
slipped my phone into my pocket, trying to keep my eyes on her face.
When she wouldn't, or couldn't, cover herself, I let my eyes drop for
the shortest possible amount of time while I zipped her up. Then I
had to pick her up and carry her up to her apartment. It was strange
to see a woman like her, a woman who seemed so badass and untouchable
be so completely vulnerable.

I
carried her into her bathroom and set her on the floor, turning to
wash the blood off my hands. Like I had done countless times before.
Watching it lighten and swirl around the sink before going down the
drain.

I
heard her moving and turned, watching as she rolled onto her side,
curling up into herself. Her skirt hitched up and her full left thigh
became visible. I knelt down on the floor behind her, reaching out.
Unable to stop myself from touching them. The dozens of red, pink,
white marks from a careless blade and self-loathing hand. I knew she
had issues, but damn.

It
took more than most people realized to sink a blade into your own
skin. The sensation of animalistic self-preservation is hard to
overcome. You had to really need the rush of relief to be able to
make yourself do it. Sixteen had some demons. And instead of facing
them, she was burying them. In all the sex, in the alcohol, in the
splitting of her own flesh. She was spending her life punishing
herself.

She
fell asleep quickly on the floor and I didn't want her to wake up in
her bed, confused, and freaked out at how she got there. So I left
her on the floor. I took off her shoes before going into my apartment
to change into something less bloodstained before coming right back.

Because
on top of everything else, she shouldn't wake up alone. Not after
that kind of night. I slipped out around eight to grab some food
after getting a look inside her refrigerator. I came back, ate a
bagel, made a pot of coffee, and read the paper. Sure she would wake
up sometime around ten or eleven.

But
she came out a few minutes later, looking exactly as awful as I
thought she would. Her hair falling out of its band, her eye makeup
smudged out toward her hairline, her throat and wrists bruised
painfully.