Trouble (3 page)

“No,” I tell her firmly, grabbing my bowl and her empty one. I dump out mine and angrily rinse them before I stuff them into the small dishwasher. I’m so glad my apartment came with one.

“No?” She asks, standing at the opening of the small kitchen, her hands on her hips. She saunters up to me and purses her lips. “Why don’t you tell me no after a blow job, sweetie,” I gape at her and watch her start to go down on her knees. I put a hand on her shoulder and push her back from me, watching her fall on her ass on the floor.

“Jesus, I said no!” I tell her, backing away from her. She managed to get my fly halfway down
, and I zip it up quickly. “Look, you can stay here, but I don’t want you taking a step in my bedroom!” She’s crying on the floor. There are tears streaking down her face, and I hope I didn’t hurt her. Serves her right, though.

I don’t help her up off the floor. Instead, I walk around her and grab my sneakers from by the door. I check to make sure my
wallet’s in my back pocket and grab a jacket off the hook near the couch. She’s up on her feet with one of her flip flops in her hands, and as I close the door I hear it hit the wood. I narrow my eyes and walk briskly to my bike.

It’s probably not a
smart idea to leave an angry, prostitute, biker chick in my apartment. But I have a client to tattoo.

“Hey Caleb, you’re late!” I shrug a shoulder as I pull off my jacket, my hair a mess from riding. I went to a funeral last night; I can’t be late for one session?

“
Ronnie’s funeral yesterday, got home late.” I grumble as I march past the shop owner, a man in his late forties with short, graying hair. He’s bulky like an ex-marine, probably because he is one. And he’s also a great boss, so I can’t complain too much.

“I know, kid. How’d it go?”
He puts a strong hand on my shoulder, and I stare straight ahead at the row of tattoo guns. “That bad?” I work my jaw, and he gives me a gentle squeeze before he lets go.

“Where’s the client?” I ask, looking around the shop. I’m five minutes late
. It’s not
that
late.

“In the back getting dressed, she’ll be out in a few minutes.” I settle down at one of the chairs and start prepping. Like I said, Carl’s an ex-marine, he wouldn’t put up with a dirty shop. I’m cleaned up and ready to go when Delilah comes out from the bathroom wearing nothing but a strap across her breasts and a small pair of shorts. The strap is to keep her covered during the process; the
shorts are just for show.

“Delilah,” I greet her by name, watching her curvy body moving across the room.

“Caleb,” she says my name like she says it in the bedroom, her red lips curving up into a smile.

“What’ll it be today?” I ask her, looking at the lettering tattooed across her back. Delilah has a strange system going.
Whenever something profound happens in her life, she has it written across her body.

“The year and then the word ‘clean’.”
I blink a few times and look at her to make sure I heard her right. She smiles at me, and I lift up a corner of my mouth to grin back at her.

“Congrats,” I tell her.
I get to work on the tattoo as she turns around. There are numerous dates lining her back and not one of them says clean. She’s been an alcoholic for years, probably started when I was around fifteen. Delilah’s about six years older than me, twenty seven.

“Thanks,” she says as I start. It takes me less than twenty minutes to tattoo the numbers and words on her.
She likes it simple, like someone is writing in a diary. I show her my work in a mirror, and she nods in appreciation. She smacks a loud kiss on my cheek, but I push her away, not tonight. I’ve got company back at the apartment, and I don’t need a cat fight. Something tells me there would be one.

“Not tonight,” I tell her, smiling down at her.
She pats me on the arm and heads up front to pay Carl. I clean up shop and pocket the tip she gave me. It’s not standard, but Delilah always tips, one way or another.

“Heading home already?” Carl asks, counting the cash from Delilah as she heads out the door. He looks after her and
then at me. He knows that I’ve taken her home on the back of my bike a few times. We’re both adults.

“I am, but not with her. Listen, I’m in a bit of a pickle, Carl.” He stops counting, drops the cash, and motions for me to sit in one of the plastic waiting chairs. I sit down and let my legs splay out as I relax. I rub a hand over my head, a nervous habit.

“Spill, Caleb. You know I don’t like trouble, son.” I bite my cheek as I think about how to explain, and then I just spill it.

“Yesterday was rough.” I begin, letting out a breath. “I went looking for a fight afterwards and ended up running with a chick on the back of my bike. Someone else’s
chick,” I finish, closing my eyes. It sounds extremely bad when I say it out loud.

“Shit, Caleb, whose?”
Carl comes around the counter and sits down in the plastic chair next to me. I don’t bother opening my eyes to look at him.

“I don’t know
, some guy named Big Man in Rochester. She looks clean, but I can’t be sure. And I’m pretty sure some people are going to come looking for me.” I don’t know if they’re going to come out this far looking for their property, but it’s a possibility.

“No more members for you to tattoo, Caleb.
Can’t risk it.” I nod, glad that he understands. He puts an arm on my shoulder like he did before and lets out a long breath. “She got a home?” He asks, and I shake my head. As far as I know from what she’s said, she doesn’t.

“No, no home. She’s pretty screwed up though, offered sex in exchange to be able to stay for a few days.” Carl
grunts next to me, and I open my eyes to see his expression, it’s hard and calculating.

“
Course she did, it’s how run down women with low self-esteems get by, son. You didn’t accept.” He says it like a statement and I don’t bother confirming. Carl knows me; I’m not that kind of guy. I fish my keys out of my pocket and stand as Carl stands. He gives me a quick, hard hug and then I walk out the door without looking back.

I gun the bike to life and stop at a fast food place to pick up some burgers and fries.
I secure the bag on the back of my bike, underneath the helmet, and take it easy back to the apartment. When I pull up into my parking space there’s no one outside, and it’s starting to get dark. I pull the bag out from under the helmet and pull out my keys.

When I open the door the first thing I catch sight of is a skirt on the floor by the closed bathroom door. I flick on the lights and squint as I realize that
all
her clothes are on the floor by the bathroom. Dropping the bag on the coffee table, I go to my bedroom next and flick on the light. No one there, but the bed is neatly made, and all the trash is gone from my dresser. Everything has been neatly wiped down in the few hours that I was gone.

I have a sinking suspicion and go to my closet,
yep, all my dirty laundry is gone. I thought I smelled laundry detergent. When I turn around, I wonder where the hell she’s at. I check the kitchen area, and finally come face to face with the bathroom door again. How long has she been in there?

“Hey!” I call out, knocking on the door. I hear something clatter into the sink and frown, what the hell? I go to open the door
, but it’s locked. “Open up the door!” I shout at the wood standing between me and my tormentor.

“Give me a minute!” I hear her shout, and then I hear the sink running. “Shit,” I hear someone mumble and cross my arms over my chest. I wish she’d open up the door, is she doing drugs in there? I’m going to get kicked out of this apartment
, and the cops called on me by the landlords if they find out that she’s doing drugs.

“Come on, the burgers are getting cold!” I try to entice her with food, and apparently it works. I hear her curse and the sound of the water turning off.
Then when she opens up the door, I get an eyeful.

There’s a girl standing in
my
bathroom with
my
shirt on. I’ve never let any of the girls I brought home wear my clothes, it was too personal. She’s wearing nothing underneath. I can tell because all of her underthings are lying on the floor with the skirt. I want to tell her to take off the shirt, but that would give her the wrong idea.

I take a
close look at her and see that there’s a feint bruise on her neck, fingerprints. She has a bite mark right under her ear that looks like it hurt when it happened. The girl must have the wrong idea when I’m looking at her and starts to inch up the shirt. I grab her wrists and get in her face, a snarl coming out of my mouth.

“I said
no
.” I tell her, letting her wrists go and turning away from her. To distract myself, I peel open the bag and pull out my fries and double cheeseburger. I turn on the television and avoid the news stations. I don’t want to see anymore crashes. I settle for reruns of Star Trek and ignore the girl as she sits down next to me.

The way she eats her fries, it’s like she’s making love to them.
She makes moaning sounds as she shoves them in and acts like she hasn’t eaten fast food in years. Maybe it has been years.

“What’s your name?”
She asks when she’s done her fries. I don’t know if I want to be on a name basis with her, maybe I could just call her Girl or Woman?

“Caleb,” I finally relent, realizing that would be pretty juvenile.
I sip on my soda and see her smile out of the corner of my eye. “What’s so funny?” I ask as I finish off my own fries. She bites down on her cheeseburger and doesn’t answer. So I clean up my meal and glance at the time on the cable box. It’s past eight, and I’m exhausted.

“There’s a blanket in the closet you got the sheet from, but I guess you know that.” I pull off my shirt as I walk into my bedroom and close the door against the noise of the television.
As I pull off my pants and slide into bed, I hear the noise in the living room cease and the door to the closet creak. Then I hear the deadbolt on the door being checked twice and roll over to put a pillow over my head at that moment.

When the sun’s morning rays come up and hit me in the face, I realize I never asked her name. I’m sprawled across the bed with my head under two pillows and my feet hanging off the end. I shimmy to
the edge and manage to sit up without falling off. I grab my pants from the floor and pull them on. It’s Monday now, so I don’t have to work today.

I stretch and pull open my bedroom door. She’s lying just like she was the day before. Her ankles are crossed with her legs up on the couch, her head on the arm. She has one arm dangling off and her other strewn across her stomach. The shirt is dangerously high and shows a little of her ass. I narrow my eyes and grab the blanket off the floor. I’ll have to turn down the thermostat
so she covers up.

When I get closer
, I see the bruises on her inner thigh and stare at them. They’re purple and ugly, painful looking. The skirt covered them, barely, but my shirt doesn’t. I swallow roughly and look at her peaceful face, the one without a mark on it. Why would someone stay with an abuser? I don’t get it. I fling the blanket over her and silently promise myself I won’t push her or grab her again, it’s too much like what she’s used to.

As soon as the fabric touches her legs she pulls them down and curls up under it, tucking it under her chin in her sleep. I don’t bother walking softly as I go out to the kitchen. There’s
barely any cereal left, and the only thing I can find in my fridge that remotely looks edible are the eggs. So I pull those out, whip them up with a little milk, and pour it all into a pan. I sprinkle some salt and pepper over them, like my mother used to make.

By the time
I have the first batch on a plate, I hear her footsteps across the gray, carpeted living room. She has the blanket wrapped around her, her hair sticking up at odd angles and framing her face. The way she’s standing there reminds me again of my sister and I feel something soften inside of me. I quickly firm it up and square my shoulders. She can stay for a few days. That’s it.

“It’s
Daisy,” she whispers, her voice groggy from just waking up. I hold out the plate to her without a word and clank a fork onto it. She takes the plate from my hand and sits down at the tiny table. I watch her eat the eggs as I make my own, leaning against the counter periodically.

“You need clothes, Daisy.” I try out her name and find that it fits, no matter how redneck it sounds. She shrugs one shoulder absentmindedly as if having clothes isn’t a prerogative. Does she think she’s going to continue walking around in my shirts?

“Don’t have money,” she tells me matter of fact. I pull my wallet out of my jeans, the ones I had on yesterday, and pull out a few twenties. I toss them on the table in front of her and eat my eggs out of the pan with a fork. Definitely caveman style, but I’m not going to let having a girl like her change my ways.

“Don’t have transportation,” she says it in the same tone that she used before, and I put the pan in the sink. I run some water to fill it and soak it before I put it in the dishwasher.

“I’ll shower,” I mumble, stomping out of the kitchen. Why did I bring her home? I ask myself that over and over again until I’m showered, sitting on my bike, with her arms wrapped around my middle. Her fingers bunch in my shirt as I roar the bike to life and I feel the helmet rest against my back. I may not wear one, but I have no idea how old she is, and she reminds me of my sister.

I don’t want her death on my hands, too.

The nearest mall is about a half an hour away. I weave in and out of traffic safely, not like I used to. When we come up to a red light my world freezes. Behind me, I hear the Jake brake of a truck go off, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise up. I steer the bike to the right and ride up onto the sidewalk, my heart pounding in my chest. I watch the truck pull up to the red light where I was just at, the driver staring at me.

It’s the first time I’ve seen a truck since the accident, and the sound alone makes my heart climb into my throat, my palms becoming sweaty. I feel Daisy sit up
, and she follows my gaze to the truck. She looks confused, and I feel the same. I lean over the handlebars of my bike and try to breathe, my forehead hitting the cold metal.

A small hand snakes up onto my shoulder and I don’t realize
it’s Daisy’s until I finally open my eyes to look over at the delicate fingers. My bike has stalled, and the light has changed from red to green. The truck is long gone, so the sound I’m hearing must be coming from my mind. I start my bike and try to stop my hands from trembling, but just before I put my hand down on the handlebar I see it shaking.