Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (7 page)

“What?”

I stuttered before I spoke, embarrassed and cursing myself for it. “I have no car,” I said.

“What?”

I opened the door a crack. Steam hit me and I could just make out her nude silhouette behind the fogged glass walls of her shower. Although I was reasonably certain that I had no semen left in my body, I wanted nothing more than to be in that shower with her.

“I have no car,” I said again, louder. “You drove me here, remember?”

Her silhouette shifted, and I got a perfect profile of her breasts as she tilted her head back and began rinsing her hair. Probably hit that pose on purpose. “Take mine,” she said without skipping a beat.

“What will you drive?” I asked.

“I’ll be fine. Just take my car. Keys are on the dresser.”

“Okay,” I replied.

I stayed fixed in my spot for a beat. Was I hoping for a friendly goodbye? I watched her silhouette continue doing its thing as though I was never there, as though I’d never been here.

I shut the door softly, grabbed her keys on the dresser, and left.

Angela’s car was nice. New-car smell and all. It prevented me from cracking my burger for fear of dripping anything. Didn’t even touch a fry, which, as we all know, is damn near impossible.

I decided to snoop a bit instead. Nothing major, just a peek in the glove compartment here, a yank on a visor there. I don’t know what I’d thought I’d find—like I mentioned, the car smelled as though it left the dealer yesterday.

I’ll call you when I need you,
she’d said, right after we fornicated for hours like two sex addicts on a conjugal. Talk about a cryptic kick in the nuts. Where did that leave me? I had left this afternoon with the intention of finding answers. And I got them. And they sucked.

And now there were
more
questions.

I’ll call you when I need you
, she’d said.

Need me for what?

(
You know what, stupid.
)

Do I?

(
It won’t be for more pussy, that’s for sure.
)

So then what do I do?

I said it aloud. “So then what do I do?”

I didn’t have to work until tomorrow. But who knew when she’d call? I may end up sitting at home with my thumb up my butt for days, waiting to hear from her.

Eat and sleep. I needed to eat—the smell of the fries was becoming maddening—and I needed to sleep. Although I had slept late today, I did not sleep as many hours as I would have liked (not to mention I was spent from sex), and I was notorious for sleeping when things were at their worst. Sleep was a pleasant escape to that uninhibited world I so endlessly pursued. I even welcomed nightmares and outlandish dreams because they would force me to
act
and
feel
on the spot as opposed to endlessly ruminating about what may be. No fish-bowl glasses of the world; no numb-wetsuit attire. You were there, in it, reacting without thought. Living for the now. Being in the now.

(
Ahh…such seemingly unattainable qualities, now being given to you like a gift that’s ticking.
)

“No,” I said to myself. “No, it’s all wrong…not like this.”

(
But it
is
like this. Sorry—no refunds.
)

Nope. This is all wrong. You don’t know shit. Shut the fuck up.

(
I’m your fucking conscience, douche bag. I know a thing or two about you.
)

Yeah, and you’ve done a bang-up job so far; I’m the epitome of stability.

(
Hard for me to speak when I’m being constantly drowned in whiskey and cast off to some fantasy world pussies like you conveniently create.
)

Fantasy world? What the hell are you talking about?

(
Oh, you know…that safe little place you visit when fantasizing about how
dark
and
disturbed
you are? What you’re capable of? Nothing but an armchair quarterback if you ask me. Except it looks like you might actually be thrown into the game pretty soon, yeah? See what you’re really made of? What will we call Fantasy World after that?
)

You’re fucking nuts.

(
Need I point out that you’re talking about yourself?
)

Fuck you. I need to sleep.

(
I agree—my flight to Fantasy World is leaving soon anyway. Maybe I’ll be back sooner than you think.
)

Take your time.

So sleep it was—after food of course. It was either that or get drunk, and as badly as I wanted to drink, I knew well enough to stay sober in case Angela called tonight.

(
Admirable—perhaps my flight will be delayed.
)

Perhaps a 600 pound silverback will sodomize you while you wait and see.

(
Again—talking about yourself.
)

Fuck off.

Pele wandered in as I was channel-surfing. He meowed as he always did when first entering a room. Cat-speak for:
I’m here; the party can start, bitches.

I patted the sofa and he hopped up. I patted my stomach and he climbed on. In less than a minute he was curled up on my belly, purring louder than some men snore. I scratched his head and he purred even louder.

“Not a care in the world,” I said to him. “Lucky bugger.”

I drifted in and out over the next couple of hours, periodically waking for only a few seconds when the pitch in the television changed. When my cell rang, I woke for good—mainly because it made me jump; which made Pele jump; which resulted in him using my nuts as a springboard.

Doubled over and cursing my cat, I picked up my cell and checked the caller ID.

Paul.

I flipped open my phone. “What’s up, man?”

“How’s it going, brother?”

Paul was undoubtedly my best friend. Actually, my only friend.
True
friend. I had drinking buddies, but they were just that. Of course I drank with Paul, but we would still be inseparable if we gave up booze and stuck to lattes.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

I loved Paul, always told him everything. Things I was even afraid to tell my therapist.

So I decided to tell him nothing.

I had no idea what Angela was really capable of, where this whole fucked-up craziness may lead, and I didn’t want Paul involved in any way, shape, or form. Just
knowing
may be too much at this point, and putting him at risk was simply not an option.

“Nothing,” I replied. “Just a shit day.”

“Nothing a few cocktails can’t fix.”

Christ was he right.

“I gotta work tomorrow,” I said.

“I don’t want to stay out late. Come on, let’s go to Mick’s and have a few drinks like gentlemen.”

He was being very persuasive. It’s easy to deprive yourself from a night of drinking when there was no offer on the table, but the thought of missing out on a good time with an eager friend bordered on the absurd. Still, we continued the dance, both of us knowing I would eventually cave.

“I’d wanna be home pretty early,” I said, praying he wouldn’t ask why.

“Why?”

It made me sick, but I lied to him—sort of.

“Well, I have to work…”

“And…?” he cooed, knowing me too well, the fucker.

“And I’m kind of waiting for a call.”

“From who?”

“Some girl at work.”

Kinda true, right?

“
Aaaahhhh…
” he said. “Do I know her?”

I needed to bury this thing now.

“Nah—it’s not like that, man,” I said, as blasé as possible. “It’s one of my managers. It’s a work thing.”

“You are aware of the primary purpose behind a cellular phone, yes?”

“If it’s noisy in the bar I might miss the call.”

“So put it on vibrate, let it tickle your balls. Win, win.”

I laughed.

He said: “You want me to pick you up?”

“No, that’s alright. I’ll meet you there. Give me an hour to get showered and shaved.” This seemed most logical to me; if Angela
did
call tonight, I would need to be able to move about freely without having to rely on Paul for transportation.

“Alright,” he said. “Do a good job though—I hear it’s like 70’s porn down there.”

“Your sister’s a liar.”

We laughed and hung up. I took my time getting ready. Checked my cell several times to ensure it was completely charged. I was not sure whether or not Angela even had my cell phone number, but something told me she would find me when she needed to. I also noticed—peeking out my bedroom window—that her car was no longer in the parking lot where I’d left it.

The moment I entered, I collected on my bet. Ironically, Paul was a people person, the complete opposite of me. He was so utterly likeable that even a complete xenophobe (fear of strangers; I looked it up) would not hesitate to jump into his lap upon meeting him for the first time. I envied him at times, not so much for who he was, but for his outlook on life—the glass wasn’t just half-full for my friend, it was half-full with liquid gold. How we became as close as we did was a paradox I never bothered dissecting. Why would I? Paul was like a windfall from a relative you never knew. You don’t dig too deep into that kind of thing, you just enjoy it.

“What’s up, my brother?” Paul said as I approached, getting off his stool to give me a hug.

I returned his hug and added a firm couple of pats on his back. It was good to see my friend.

The girl he’d been chatting with smiled and said to him, “It was nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you later?”

Paul smiled back. “Definitely.”

Both of us looked at her ass as she walked away.

I said: “I smell or something?”

“She’s shy,” he said. “And yes, you do.”

The bartender appeared. Tall, good-looking dude, built like a superhero. Probably took home a different girl every night.

“What can I get you, man?” he asked me.

“Shot of Beam and a lager.”

He nodded and left.

“Coming strong out of the gates,” Paul said. “Thought you had to work tomorrow.”

“Let’s worry about that tomorrow.”

The bartender brought my drinks. I pulled out my debit card and handed it to him.

“Wanna keep this open?” he asked.

I pounded the shot then took a heavy pull on my lager. “Yeah—” I pointed to my empty shot glass. “—and an encore on that please.”

The bartender nodded, spun, plucked the Beam bottle from the shelf, spun back, filled my shot glass, then spun back again and replaced the bottle on the shelf.

I threw back my second shot and took another swig of my beer.

“Dude, pace yourself,” Paul said. “What about that phone call from your manager? You wanna talk to her hammered?”

(
Yeah, Calvin—what happened to staying sober in case Angela called tonight? Guess my flight to Fantasy World will be right on schedule—that is if I don’t drown first.
)

I squeezed Paul’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine, man. Just taking the edge off.”

(
So sad. You just can’t help yourself, can you? How does the saying go? One drink is too many; a hundred is never enough?)

“Day was that bad, huh?” he asked.

I nodded. “Could have been better.”

“Anything you wanna talk about?”

I raised my beer to his. “Nah—I’m good.”

He raised his beer and we clinked glasses.

“You sure?” he said.

I shook my head with conviction. “I’m good.”

The fact that I knew Paul would definitely introduce me to the girl was probably one of my favorite qualities in his character. There was no doubt the man loved women, but he also loved his friends, and his friends always came before pussy. So many friends claim unbridled loyalty, but the moment a pair of tits bounced in their face you were a stranger, a threat to Mission: Laid.

Not Paul. Not ever. The man could be in bed with Salma Hayek, I could bang on his door, tell him I needed help, and he would instantly pull out (probably apologize to Salma) and come to my aid.

“Calvin, have you met Stacy?” he inevitably asked me, knowing very well I hadn’t.

I smiled and shook her hand with a polite grip. “Very nice to meet you, Stacy.” Then, looking at Paul, but loud enough for Stacy to hear: “She’s beautiful.”

Paul splayed his hands with a pleasant face that read coincidence. “I was just telling her the same thing.”

Transparent attempt at denying compliment in 3…2…

“Stop it,” she said, gushing smile asking for seconds
.

Paul went on, feeding her her seconds. Plenty of dessert too. She smiled, giggled, blushed, chortled, and every other type of fawning verb for the next five or so minutes as Paul did his thing, mercifully limiting my contribution; he knew I was only there in body, my mind elsewhere. Not an unusual thing for me, and something Paul was more than familiar with. Many times he was able to hook me before I drifted too far, reel me back into a better place. It was his gift; something no one else had been able to do throughout all twenty-nine years of my life.