Chapter Eleven
Harley
The first thing I do after I shower in the morning is locate a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Not for Trey. But for me. To separate myself from how I used to dress, used to look, used to play. I need to feel as comfortable in Converse as I do in Mary Janes.
As I do in evening dresses.
In trenchcoats and leather.
I can’t be like Layla all the time, at least not the Layla I was last night with Cam.
I want to be the person I am with Trey. I want to be that girl. Real and true and honest and scared.
I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and apply only the barest of makeup — gloss and a dab of blush.
But it’s hard, so incredibly, unbearably hard, to resist doing everything I can to look pretty, to be the prettiest girl in the room, as my mom taught me, as my tattoo reminds me.
So I go through the motions.
I linger over the powder, eyeshadow and mascara in my makeup bag, wanting — longing — to put on a perfect face. I pantomime the moves. Foundation dotted on the chin, the cheeks, under the eyes, then the forehead. Makeup brush spreads the foundation smoothly, then the makeup wedge to spread the powder. Blush next brushed onto the cheekbones, then eyeshadow, three to four applications so the eyes stand out. Then eyeliner on the lids. Mascara next, a full five minutes to achieve the right length, the right fullness above and below. Five minutes to make the eyes pop.
Mascara is the most essential of the five makeup vitamins — foundation, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick and mascara. Mascara is the hardest to apply, takes the longest, but reaps the most rewards. It’s the difference between a finished look and one that says I just don’t care.
I care. I care deeply. Painfully.
Too much.
I close my eyes, grit my teeth, hold the pink tube tightly in my fist and then let it go. It drops to the bottom of my makeup bag with a dull clank as it hits the powder case.
I zip the bag shut. I look myself over in the mirror. My face looks naked. It’s jarring and I feel jumpy, jittery. I remind myself what Joanne would say. Change is supposed to feel weird. You don’t get to the other side by feeling the same way you felt before. But knowing what’s coming this afternoon from Miranda to my mom’s house — a black-and-white reminder of who I was and what I did — it’s hard to imagine I’ll ever get to the other side. I want to cover myself up. I want to hide my new self. I want to slather my face with makeup.
I also just want to be me.
But I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who I am. I am two people. Torn and tattered in split halves.
I leave the bathroom and return to the living room. My apartment is quiet and the sun is barely rising. The first pink slivers of dawn peek over the horizon, pulling the night away. It is early, but I want to get ahead on my debt.
Kristen is probably sleeping, and Trey is still here, stretched out and gorgeous on the couch. He sleeps on his stomach, his cheek pressed into a pillow, one arm hanging off the side of the couch. I kneel down and reach for his arm, not quite touching, but tracing the air near his shoulder, outlining the sunbursts.
Did he mean what he said last night?
Does he have three brothers he’s never told me about?
He knows all my secrets. All my terrible truths. I want him to trust me. I want him to tell me about the marks on his body. I want him to feel safe with me. I want to know him as deeply and as truly as I think he knows me.
I need to resist Layla to do that. I bend closer to his arm and brush my lips ever so softly, ever so gently against his shoulder. A wisp of a kiss, a hint of all that I might feel for him.
A wish.
Then I grab my computer bag, head for the nearby diner, order a strong coffee, and steel myself for the next sordid chapter in my Memoirs. Soon, soon, I’ll be done.
Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict…
Page 198…
Most of the time I was requested to wear my school girl uniform. But there were a few other outfits my clients liked. Some wanted me decked out in evening wear regalia so I could be the arm candy attending fancy parties, events and galas with them when they wanted the full girlfriend experience. But there was one client in particular – let’s call him Morris, shall we? – Who wanted me in something else.
Who wanted me in leather.
With a leash.
Those were the times I prepped elsewhere. I couldn’t undertake that kind of prep at home. So I’d arrive at the five-star hotel in my trench coat and heels, the risk of being seen part of the thrill. But I was never seen. Sunglasses were my best friend, along with doormen whose palms had been greased by my man.
I pressed the button for the elevator, shot up several floors to the penthouse level, and knocked – sexily of course, I’d been trained to knock sexily, and yes, there is a way to do this – on the door of his suite.
Once inside, the trench coat came off and the collar went on. Not on me. Never on me. On him. Black, leather, spiked. I attached the leash to it. Then, wearing a painted-on leather skirt, a skin-tight bustier and heels, I walked Morris around the suite.
Like a dog.
He was on all fours, he was naked, and he liked it when I pulled hard on his collar. He was a naughty boy, and he needed lots of corrections when he sniffed chairs and rugs in the suite. But if he was a good boy, a perfectly well-behaved pooch, he’d receive his reward. I’d take him to the balcony, remove one high heel, and let him lick and suck my perfectly manicured toes.
Funny, the things high-ranking political advisers want to do behind closed doors, isn’t it?
Kiss the feet of call girls.
Trey
The sun beats cruelly through the windows. A mean yellow ball blaring at me. A reminder to get the f*ck up.
My mouth is like cotton, and I lick my lips, desperate for a drink of water. My head pounds, but it’s nothing that a stiff cup of coffee won’t cure. I sit up on the couch with a groan and kick off the blanket. I look around for Harley, but the living room is empty. Hunting for my shirt, I find it on the other side of the coffee table, in a heap on the carpet.
A faint memory flicks by of taking it off last night, tossing it somewhere, then wrapping myself around Harley. Then the rest of the night floods my mind, and my brain is filled with the best wake-up images ever. The sweet smell of Harley’s neck, the way she trembled when I touched her stomach, then her on top of me, grinding against me.
I’m pretty sure I fell asleep two seconds after she came, which is the best send-off into sleep I can think of. To be honest, though, I must have been really drunk to let that happen. Not that I don’t want her riding me when I’m sober. But I don’t know that I would have gone there if not for the beer. I hope to hell she doesn’t regret it. I pray she won’t regret me.
I yank on the shirt, head for the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of water. I down it in one gulp, then fill another glass and drink that up too.
Better. Now I’m not so parched. I look for a clock and find a radio by the sink. It’s almost noon. It’s Friday. I need to be at work in an hour, and I need to shower. Then I realize my mouth tastes like a sock.
I hate morning breath even when I’m alone, but if there’s a chance she’s still here, I better brush my teeth now. I head for the bathroom. The door is open and no one’s in there. It’s a tiny bathroom, with squeaky faucets and a streaked mirror.
I check out the toothbrushes. One’s red. One’s green. I have no clue which is Harley’s. She’s the kind of girl who likes red, but then Kristen wears red glasses. I shrug. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll buy them both a pack of new toothbrushes as a gift. Yeah, I’m classy like that.
I take my chances and grab the red one, squirt some toothpaste on, and a minute later, I have minty fresh breath.
“That’s my toothbrush.”
I startle when I hear Kristen’s voice.
“Sorry,” I say as I return the toothbrush to the cup holder. “I’ll get you a new one. Where’s Jordan?”
“At work,” she says, then walks away.
“Where’s Harley?”
“I don’t know. I’m going back to bed. I don’t have class, and I have to work tonight at the restaurant.”
Well, that’s that. The morning has its own stark way of erasing all the good that darkness brings. Story of my life. I head back to the living room, find my boots, tug them on, lace them up, then grab my phone and stuff it in my back pocket. I snag my backpack from the floor – seems like eons ago that I sat on the front stoop drawing and waiting for her. But she’s nowhere to be seen, and she didn’t leave a note.
I sling my backpack on my shoulder, run a hand through my messy hair, and head for the door, computing how quickly I’ll have to haul ass across town to shower, then race back to work. I reach for the handle, but someone’s unlocking and opening the door. I step back quickly, but even so, she nearly bumps into me and grabs my arm to steady herself.
“Oh, sorry,” she says. Then, in a softer voice, meeting my eyes briefly. “Hi.”
Oh shit. That voice slays me with its sweetness. I’m a dead man walking when she looks down at her shoes in a strangely shy way. And maybe it was the beer lubricating us night, but right now, regrets or no regrets, I want more. Because not only was last night the hottest thing ever, but now my heart is thumping like a jackrabbit for one simple reason that has nothing to do with sex, and has everything to do with how I find it immensely cute that she’s shy right now. I want to swipe my thumb across her lips and tell her not to be embarrassed, because she’s beautiful and sweet and kind and funny and has the biggest heart I’ve ever known, and that no one has ever cared in the way she has. Because she gives a shit about me.
She lets go of my arm. I wish she hadn’t let go. The slightest contact from her is electrifying.
“Hey,” I say, and I’m probably grinning like an idiot too, and damn, I’m glad I brushed my teeth.
“I got bagels,” she says, and thrusts a brown paper bag at me. “Sesame seed. Just-out-of-the-oven from the bagel shop around the corner. Your favorite.”
This girl knows me too well. I reach into the bag as my stomach growls. She laughs first, then I join in. “I guess you’re a mind reader. And these are definitely my favorite. I need to get to work soon. Mind if I eat and run?”
“You can even eat on the run if you want. Don’t let me hold you back,” she says playfully.
“I’ll stay a minute,” I say, though I really want to stay all day and night. Call in sick, curl up with her, watch a movie, kiss her more, touch her everywhere.
She’s in jeans again, like last night, and a black t-shirt with an upside-down monkey on it in pink. She wears her Converse sneakers, and she has two leather bracelets on her wrist. I love it when she dresses like a hipster instead of a schoolgirl.
“You look nice,” I say, but then I want to kick myself, because I really want to tell her she looks hot and sexy and smart and strong and independent and not the least bit like her mother’s daughter. But I’d probably sound like a guy who’s spent way too much time in therapy, and I’ve got to maintain some degree of dude cred.
“Thanks,” she says. “So do you.”
I take a bite, then look down at yesterday’s clothes. “You like the day-old, Harley?” I tease.
“Yeah. And I suppose now I should let you know those are day-old bagels too,” she fires back, but she can’t hide the smirk.
“May I never ever hear you use the adjective day-old to describe a bagel you’ve given me.”
“I’ll have to keep you on your toes then. Always worried about such a horrid breakfast possibility,” she says, leaning against the wall in her entryway as I eat more of the bagel that’s fresh and hot and perfect.
“So what are you doing today?” I ask, and it’s nice to slide right back to the joking, the teasing, the way we are. I don’t know what’s next, but I know I can’t lose her, and right now, I feel like I still have her as a friend. That’s what matters most, I remind myself. Not how much I want to have every inch of her.
“I have to go to my mom’s. Intercept that package from Miranda. Besides, my mom wants me to come by anyway. She wants me to work with her this summer. Be an intern or something for her articles,” she says. “I don’t have anything else to do.”
“You could take summer classes,” I suggest.
“I guess.”
“You said you miss creative writing. You could do that. Go back to the fun stories you want to write. Your animal tales and magic stories and whatnot. Take a writing workshop for real. Because you don’t even like the kind of reporting your mom does.”
She shrugs. “I know. But I need to do something,” she says. I hope she’s not thinking about other ways she can earn money. The ways she was considering last night. But then, it’s not as if one drunken grind on me is enough to make her change her stripes, is it?
“Hey. I have a question, Trey. About last night…”
I stop eating, look at her, and she’s the Harley I’m crazy about. I should just kiss her again. But I don’t know if everything changed last night, or nothing. I don’t know if we’re coming or going. Harley is both my best friend and my biggest fear. I need to put my armor on, protect myself from her. But I don’t know where I left it.
“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. Waiting for her question. Hoping she’s going to say she’s done with Cam, done with her past, and she wants me as much as I want her. If she said that, I’d tell her. If she told me I was the only one, I’d chuck all the damn rules, and tell her I think about her all the time, and it’s not obsession, it’s not addiction, it’s something.
Something real.
“You said you had three brothers, Trey. You never told me that before.”
The moment slips out of focus and the room blurs.
That’s not what she’s supposed to say.
That’s not what I’m supposed to hear.
That’s not what anyone’s supposed to know.
Because we don’t talk about that. We don’t talk about them.
The floor starts spinning, and my stomach plummets to the ground. There’s a ringing in my ears, and it spreads through my whole head, rattling hard against my skull. I said that? What the f*ck is wrong with me? Why the hell would I have said that?
“What do you mean?” I ask in a strangled voice, as if there are rocks in my mouth.
She reaches for me, touches my shoulder, rubs gently. “I asked you about your tattoos.”
I close my eyes, shrug off her touch. No f*cking way I said that. This can’t be happening. This moment is a stitch in time, a hiccup. A massive f*cking mistake we’re all going to forget in seconds when it’s undone. Because there is no way way I am standing here in yesterday’s clothes with this girl who was with her pimp last night, then with me, and then I told her about the three brothers I never knew. My family that no longer exists. The reason why I became all sorts of f*cked up.
I open my eyes, shake my head, adopt a false smile. “That’s crazy,” I say wishing I were an actor so I could pull this off.
She shoots me a worried look. “Crazy? Why?”
“Seriously, Harley. You should not believe the shit I say when I’m drunk.”
Then I grab my phone, check the time, and shake my head. “I gotta jam. I’ll be late and I have ton a of shit to do. I’ll catch up with you later. At the meeting or whatever. Thanks for the bagel. It’s awesome.”
* * *
A breeze blows through Michele’s open window, and it feels like a crime that there’s a gentle, warm wind right now. It should be sleeting, hailing, lashing cold, cruel rain at me, like a punishing.
“He died in my f*cking arms. My little brother. He died in my arms. How do I tell her that? How do I say that?”
“Like that,” Michele says in a kind, calm voice. “Just like that.”
I drop my head into my hands. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t f*cking relive it,” I mutter. I don’t look up. I don’t want to look up. She’s the only person I’ve told, and it’s hard enough to look at my shrink when I talk about them. But I had to see her. I called in late to work and tracked down Michele for an emergency appointment. “It was so awful. Knowing he wasn’t going to live. My parents letting me hold him. And it wasn’t the first time it happened.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “It’s incredibly hard.”
“And I could never say that to her,” I mumble into my hands because they still cover my face.
“But you’re saying it to me. You’ve told me. You can do this, Trey.”
I raise my face. I bet I look like hell right now. A pathetic man. Boy. Man-boy. I don’t even know. “Because you don’t know me. Because I pay you. Because you have to listen.”
“I want to listen. That’s why I’m a therapist. I want to help.”
“You probably think I’m a loser,” I say, and I don’t know why I’m egging her on or fishing badly for compliments, but maybe it’s because my compass is off, the needle all skittish, pointing this way and that way, and I desperately need to right myself. I need an anchor. I need her to be that right now.
“I don’t. I would never think that. I think you are a bright, sensitive, caring young man, and I want to help you believe in yourself, and feel better about all the possibilities. And I know you want that too. That’s why you called in late to work. That’s why you asked to come in. Because you aren’t willing to settle for less from yourself. You want to grow and learn. And the possibility I want you to consider is what would happen if you told Harley?”
I shake my head, narrow my eyes, and run my hand roughly over my chin. I need to shave. I need to get my act together. “I’d f*cking break down and cry. Because I would feel it all over again.” I stab my chest with two fingers, knocking them hard against my sternum. Watching him die, after my other baby brothers had died, it was like two giant hands cracking open my chest, reaching in, and hunting for my heart. “It would be like it’s happening again. And I have done everything I can to move on.”
“You have,” she says, nodding. “You’ve also turned to women and to sex and to conquests to move on. And that hasn’t entirely helped, has it?”
The question is an arrow piercing me, cutting through my flesh and blood, exposing nerves and guts and the frightening truth of the last few years of my life. When sex became a numbing agent for the pain.
“No,” I whisper, my voice broken shards of glass.
“Maybe it’s what you need then. To feel it again. To go through that pain. To know you can say it and you’ll survive.”