“Really?” I’m trying to act surprised but at this point I don’t even know what we’re talking about. He just said licking. And so now all I can think of is him, slowly nibbling his way down my body, pressing his mouth hard against me as I clutch handfuls of his hair . . .
“It’s okay, I’ve got my dinner right here,” he says, as I let out a low moan. Holy fuck. He’s going to make me come before we even pull into the parking lot. I spread my legs even wider, letting him slide a finger up into my core. I’m so wet, so turned on. “I’m gonna make you come again and again tonight. That’s a promise.”
Suddenly, I think of Vincent. I press my legs closed. “You know, your brother told me he heard everything. Of, us…you know . . .”
Dax moves his hand back to the stick, then looks over at me, slightly amused, but not ashamed. “That perverted little prick.”
Why the hell am I the only one who feels uncomfortable about this? “So, you’re okay with that?”
“No. But I’m also not going to stop being with you in the privacy of my own room. What do you want me to do, tell him to get out of the house?” he asks. He sighs heavily and bangs a first against the steering wheel. “It’s not like I can get my own place. Not with my dad as bad as he is.”
I know that. I share a wall with my parents’ bedroom, so now I’m wondering if my mom heard me the night we were there. I’d had that pillow clamped over my face, but still, it felt so damn good I couldn’t be quiet. “And your brothers don’t really like me much,” I say. “I feel like an intruder whenever I’m at your house.”
He waves it off. “They’re like me. Not good with change. They’ll get used to it. Give it time.”
As we pull into the parking lot of Murphy’s, I tell myself to shut up and stop complaining. After all, he’s doing the best he can.
“Stay here,” he says, climbing out of the truck.
I’m relieved, to tell the truth, because the place is so scary. Having Dax with me would give me courage, but even so, the place is frightening.
I watch as he walks toward the box-shaped, windowless building and disappears inside the door with the neon Coors sign on it. A few unsavory characters are hanging out in the lot, smoking and talking really loud. Moments later, Dax comes out, supporting Mr. Harding on his shoulder. The man is a lot thinner and grayer than the last time I saw him. He’s probably my father’s age, but he has deep lines on his face that make him look a lot older. He has his son’s emerald eyes, but his are glassy and unfocused.
I scramble out of the truck and into the cramped back seat to allow Mr. Harding to climb into the passenger’s seat. I hear him slurring words of anger at Dax: “You din’ hafa come an’ get me. I was fine! Can’t a guy haf a good time?”
Dax doesn’t say anything. He helps his father into the car, slams the door, and jogs over to the driver’s side.
The stench of booze and cigarettes makes my eyes water the moment the door is closed. In front of me, Mr. Harding lolls his head to the side, clearly having trouble keeping upright. He drops his head to his shoulder and his bleary eyes slowly focus on me. “Hi, there, darlin’,” he says in a charming drawl. Now I know where Dax gets it from.
My stomach starts to churn. I’ve “met” his dad a couple of times, but he likely doesn’t remember that, not because of all the years that have passed, but because he wasn’t exactly conscious. Most often, when I’d come to the garage, he’d be locked in the office, “doing the bookkeeping” with a six-pack. After we’d talk, the last thing Dax ever did, each night, was wake his dad and help him into his truck. I always thought it was sweet, the way this rowdy, tough bad boy would take care of his father like that. After Dax and I broke up, though, I heard through the grapevine that Mr. Harding had gotten sick and Dax had taken over all the books.
Dax says, very simply, “You remember Katie, right, Pop?” He looks at me through the rear view mirror as he prepares to pull out. “Katie, this is my dad.”
His dad throws a hand over the seat, I guess for me to shake. I shake only the tips of his fingers. They’re ice cold. Then he says, “Donahue?” There’s a long pause. “Henry and Gloria’s girl?”
I swallow. “Yep.”
He laughs, long and hard, which dissolves into a hacking, wheezing cough. By the time I’m thoroughly confused, he says, “Went to high school with your dad. He was always so high and mighty, talking about how he was going to move away and make his mark on the world. And what did he do? Moved right back here.”
I freeze. It’s weird to think my parents were ever right where I am now, ready to start their careers and conquer the world.
To me, they’ve always been teachers.