Not Looking For Love: Episode 1 (7 page)

After what feels like the whole day, the credits start rolling, and the lights come on. I shoot up and walk out of the theater, hardly glancing back to see if he follows. I know he's right behind me, I can feel his warmth and smell his cologne.
 

I turn to him as soon as we're outside, making him stop and step back a little. I know what I want, that hasn't changed, and he's not saying no this time.
 

"How about we go to your house now?" I ask in my best imitation of Kate's purring voice.

He chuckles. "Here we go again."

"What do you mean?"

"How about we have some dinner first?" he asks and walks past me
 
toward the food court.
 

"Oh, I see, so it's definitely dinner and a movie first with you," I joke, jogging a little to catch up to him.
 

"Something like that." He stops and is all serious now.
 

"You know, I don't think I've ever heard a guy say that before." I don't know why I'm saying these things, I sound maniacal.
 

A smile plays on his lips, doesn't quite touch his eyes. "Me neither, but it is what it is."

I hate those words; my dad uses the same phrase. And things shouldn't just be what they are. We should be able to fight through anything.

Scott must notice the annoyance in my face, because he adds, "Besides, I don't actually have any food at my house," and winks.

I watch him wolf down his hamburger, stirring the ketchup around with a fry on my plate.
 

"Eat," he urges between bites, so I take a bit of the fry. It's cold and tastes like paper, and I can't wait until he's done.

"You'll have to drive though," he says, wiping his mouth on a napkin and tossing it on the tray once he finally finishes eating. "I'm between cars at the moment. That is if you still want to come."

The nonchalant way in which he says it pisses me off. I can't believe he can be so flippant about it.
 

"I don't get you, I really don't," I say and pick up my tray of barely touched food and stuff it into the trash.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

I storm off toward the escalator, not caring if he follows. I didn't want a date, I wanted him to pin me against that fence and do me. I don't want to talk to him, don't want to get to know him. I just want the world to stay still through the night.

The wind is gusting outside, dark grey clouds roiling overhead. He stops by the entrance and adjusts his cap. "Alright, Gail, I'll see you later."

"No!" I actually stomp my foot down. "I know you are interested. And I did everything you wanted, so you owe me." I'm poking my finger into his chest with each word.
 

 
"What do you want from me?" he asks, but his voice is husky. Somewhere, deep down, my insanity turns him on. Or maybe I turn him on, and he's willing to look beyond my insanity. It comes to the same thing either way.
 

I grab his hand and pull him
 
toward my car. "I'll show you."

The ride to his apartment takes about fifteen minutes. It's on Main Street of a small fishermen's village, above a bakery that is dark and shut down for the night, the sign in the window still announcing croissants and lattes.
 

"Maybe we should get some condoms," Scott says while I'm locking up my car. "Unless you already brought some."

"Why?" I ask. "I'm on the pill and don't have an STD. Do you?"

"No, I don't" he says, "But I could just be saying that."

"I don't care," I say. Fate can just slap me around some more; I'm done cowering.
 

The entrance to his house is a peeling grey door in a narrow alleyway that smells of piss and trash. Who lives above a bakery? The scene unnerves me a little, and flashes of getting raped and strangled enter my mind. My heart starts racing and blood rushes to my head, my cheeks burning. But the fear doesn't make me want to flee; no, it makes me want to stay.

The stairway smells like yeast and butter, and I imagine it must smell a whole lot better in the morning, once they start baking the bread.

I stop just inside the door, once we reach Scott's apartment. He has to brush up against me to close it, since the entry way is so narrow.
 

"Or should I leave it open? Do you want to go?" he asks.
 

I brush my hand down his arm, feeling his bicep. "No, I'm just waiting for you to offer me a drink and show me around, so we can finally get done with the niceties."

He slams the door shut, tosses off his hat, and has me pinned against the wall before I even finish gasping. "You really don't want to play nice, do you?"

I grasp his shoulder blades and dig my nails into his flesh. "Not with you I don't."

"You are so bizarre," he breathes into my hair and moves to release me. I clutch him harder, bumping into him. He's hard; I know he wants it.

"Fine, show me around your apartment and offer me a drink first," I yield and release him.
 

"No, that's alright," he says and takes my hand to pull me along. "I don't have anything to drink except water, and you can pretty much see the whole place from here."

He flips on the light as we pass from the narrow hallway into the main living area. It's just the one room, with a small kitchen, a table with two chairs, and his bed. A big screen TV dominates one wall, and his bed is really just two air mattresses stacked one atop another.

"You don't even have a real bed," I say. The apartment is littered with yawning cardboard boxes, and a suitcase in the corner looks like it's puked up his entire wardrobe.
 

"I just moved in like a week ago."
 

It's all such a sad mess really, so transient, and tears ball up in my throat. Why do I suddenly want to comfort him and tell him he can turn this place into a home, with just a little effort? Why can't he be the sexed-up, dumb gardener from my fantasy?

I grip his hand tighter and pull him toward me, wrapping my free arm around his waist. I crane my head up and lick his neck, tracing the hard edge of his collarbone. He tastes like summer, salty and warm. He places his hand on my lower back and pulls me toward him, his erection stabbing my stomach. I bite down on the cord in the side of his neck, making him gasp. I kiss the spot lightly. He grabs my butt, lifts me, and carries me to the bed. Finally.

I pull him down on top of me, making the air mattress wobble. He's staring at me with those deep eyes, dark blue now, and looks like he's going to say something. I jerk up, take his bottom lip between my teeth, and pull down. I don't want him to speak. I want him to fuck me.
 

He loses his balance, and for a moment, he's crushing me, the weight unbearable. I love it, and it's all I want. But he regains his balance quickly and lifts off. I bite his lip harder, making him wince. I want him angry.
 

"Stop biting, Gail," he mumbles.
 

"Make me," I mumble back and bite harder still. The hunger and shadow I saw in his eyes earlier returns.
 

He forces my legs apart with his knee and kisses me, hard and hungry. His tongue is in my mouth, and I wrestle it, wanting to see what else he's got.
 

His phone buzzes somewhere deeper in his pocket, tickling my thigh. He doesn't seem to notice, and I sure as hell don't want to be interrupted. The buzzing stops.

He pulls his tongue from my mouth and kisses my neck, right in the soft spot below my ear, where the jaw meets my neck. His lips are soft, like velvet, and his breath so hot.
 

His right hand is snaking up my shirt, across my belly, so softly it tickles. I sigh and arch my back. His phone is buzzing again, and his hand disappears from under my shirt as he digs for it in his pocket and tosses it across the bed. He's suckling on my ear now, and I buck my hips up, wrapping my leg around his hips as his tongue enters it again. It makes me moan loudly, and I want more.

I reach down and grab his ass, pulling him toward me. He licks my neck again, tracing the line of my jaw up to my lips, his fingers kneading the soft skin on my side.

This is moving too slow. I don't want love. I move my hands between us and frantically try to unbuckle his belt, but it won't come loose. His phone buzzes to life by my ear a moment before someone kicks at the door.

"Scott!" a man yells on the other side of the door. "Pick up the fucking phone. I know you're home."

"Shit!" Scott reaches for the phone.
 

I yank him back by his belt. "Just leave it."

He pries my fingers from his belt and gets up, heading for the door. "This'll only take a moment."

I lean back on my elbows, the cold he left behind boring into me. There's a large, black stain of mold where the wall meets the ceiling, and I don't know what I'm doing here.

Scott cracks open the door and jerks back a little as whoever's on the other side tries to force it open all the way. Scott manages to stop him.

"What do you want, Michael?" Scott asks harshly. "I'm busy."

"It's time, let's go," the man on the other side of the door barks. "She can wait."

"What do you mean, time?" Scott asks. "It's Sunday."

"Shit got moved up some," Michael says. I don't like his voice, it sounds menacing and cold. "Do I really need to remind you again that you have no choice in this, little brother?"
 

I don't want this man to see me lying here, so I stand up to go to the kitchen, which is not in direct sight from the door.
 

Scott glances back at me, and I get the sudden urge to tell him it will all be alright. As if I know. He's still pushing the door closed with his leg, but he tucks his shirt into his pants.

"Fine," he says quietly.

"Be downstairs in two minutes," Michael says and Scott finally closes the door.

"I have to go," he tells me as he comes back into the room. He's looking past me at the unpacked boxes.
 

"No, you don't." I have no idea why I said it. I know nothing about why he has to go, or why his brother was just kicking down his door.
 

"Yeah, I do," he says, more steel in his voice now, though his shoulders are still slumped.

"I'll wait then," I say and sit down hard on one of the chairs.

He looks up at me hopefully like it's all he really wanted to hear. But his eyes change color, and the shadows make them black. "If you want."

He turns, grabs his phone off the bed and strides out.
 

The walls start pressing in as soon as the door clicks shut. I wrap my arms around my stomach and move to the window, so I don't have to stare the walls down. Scott jogs out of the alleyway and slides into a black sports car idling by the curb, parked right behind my car. The tires screech as Michael pulls out, and they're gone.
 

The buzzing of the fridge behind me is the only thing that breaks the silence. I'm all alone in this whole building, and the world is spinning so fast now, as though it's making up for all that lost time. This apartment is not even lived in, and it's growing colder by the minute. Scott's saliva is drying on my neck, tugging my skin together. I don't belong here in this sad little apartment. I can have that at home. Something cracks behind me and before I know it, I'm grabbing my purse and running down the stairs, though the alleyway, digging frantically for my car keys. I lock the doors as soon as I'm inside and drive away too fast, ignoring the stop sign at the end of the block.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next day, rain is coming down in sheets. I glance out the window a few times, hoping, dreading maybe, to see Scott's truck in Kate's driveway. But, of course, it's not there. Today's no day to work in the garden.

Did Scott expect me to stay last night? Did he want me to?

I pour myself the first whiskey soon after breakfast. Mom's coughs have been echoing through the house since dawn, battering at the last fragile pieces that still hold me together. I crack open her bedroom door, but the room is dark, smells of pine and stale sweat, dust, old linen. Edna chases me away, saying to let my mom rest, that she just gave her a shot of morphine, and it barely took.

I want my mom to wake up. I want to watch a movie with her, eat lunch, or go shopping with her. I pace up and down my bedroom for most of the afternoon. Kate calls a few times, and even Brandon sends me a text apologizing for yesterday, but I ignore them both. I can't speak, I can't cry, and I can't stop pacing.

Dad comes home at six, visits mom for a few minutes, and unpacks his pads and folders on the dining room table, saying he missed his train and already ate in the city. He holds the whiskey bottle up to the light and shakes his head at me. "How much did you drink?"

"Some." I must have drunk ten glasses today. But I'm not drunk, and I'm not calm.
 

"So, have you reconsidered going back to school?" he asks and sits down at the table with a grunt.
 

I'm twirling my fork in the plate of cold spaghetti Bolognese, the glistening clumps of meat turning my stomach.
 

I get up and dump the nearly full plate in the sink. "I'm taking the semester off."

I run up the stairs, ignoring his warnings to keep it down.

Mom's coughs rattle me like they're scraping the life from my chest, not hers. I rush to her room, kneel by her bed, and massage her back. Her lids flutter open, but it's all yellowish white underneath, and her face twists in pain. She doesn't see.

"I already gave her almost the maximum dose today," Edna complains to Dad by the door.

"Give her the rest then," Dad says.

I stand up and get out of Edna's way.

Mom was so well yesterday. Her cheeks rosy, she'd laughed. How can she be so sick today?

Dry sobs overtake me. I'm clutching my chest, rocking forward and back, willing the tears to stay in. I lose the battle as Dad's bloodshot eyes lock on mine. His sorrow pierces me hard, merges with my own, and grips my throat until I can't breathe. He strides over and tries to hug me, but I run from the room. There's nothing he can do, nothing he can say. Nothing I can do for him and nothing he can do for me. This horrible pain is love turned ugly, turned monstrous and deadly. And I can't take it.