Thursday July 14, 2005 12:14AM

There are no cabs in sight, not one. It’s odd. Usually, I can find one at the cross streets on Seventh, but as I walk along the block there’s nothing. Well, not nothing, there are plenty of people—all crowded onto the cobbled sidewalk, already inebriated, anxious to get a head start on their weekend drinking—but there aren’t any cabs.

I contemplate returning to the bar, to the warm bosoms and fake smiles of the redhead and the blonde. A threesome could be really fun tonight, a good way to take my mind off of…well…everything. I close my eyes and let myself imagine it for a moment, then think better of it and tug my cell out of my back pocket to call the cab dispatch office. I nearly yelp with surprise when the phone chirps in my hand, announcing the arrival of a text. It’s from Nicole.

You owe me one.

Grinning, I type a reply: I owe you two. I’ll buy you a couple beers next time I see you.

“Make it a couple whiskey shots, and you’re on.”

This time I do yelp when I hear that gravelly femme-fatale voice coming from somewhere behind me. Slowly, I turn to find Nicole standing a few feet away from me, giving me a wicked grin. Well fuck me sideways ‘til Tuesday, this is a surprise.

I watch with a combination of fear and awe as she saunters toward me. Goddamn, the woman is hot. I thought it the first time I laid eyes on her, and I’ve thought it every time I’ve seen her since. She exudes sensuality. Every gesture and movement she makes lingers, a slow seduction. And I can’t seem to drag my eyes away, watching the hem of her short skirt ride the tops of those tight thighs as she moves.

Shit. Did I just lick my lips?

She’s not even your type, I try to remind myself…again. Yeah, but she’s so damn pretty. No, scratch that—with her delicate features, puffy plum lips, big green eyes, lean, lithe body, and legs for fucking days—she’s nothing less than gorgeous. Just the sight of her gets my heart pumping. It probably doesn’t hurt that she’s wearing a latex dress. Sweet baby Jesus, the thing is practically painted on. I go a little lightheaded as all of my blood rushes south.

“Well, hello there,” I say, then want to kick myself. Well, hello there? Really? I give her a grin, trying to play it cool, but I have no clue how to play this at all; which is new. This shit usually comes so easy for me. I’m a Grade-A Casanova, a fucking legend at the game of seduction. If there were a certification course in The Chase, I’d be the goddamn instructor. So how is it that in a matter of seconds, this woman has thoroughly scrambled my brain and turned me into a bumbling idiot?

Nicole’s grin turns wicked, and she bats those long eyelashes at me, laying the ground work for my undoing. Jesus Christ, the woman is terrifying. She’s a clear and present danger, a maneater, a praying mantis, a black widow. And me, I’m the poor bastard unwittingly tangled in her web, about to have my head bit off.

“About those drinks, can I get a raincheck?” I try to save myself from impending doom. “I was just about to catch a cab and head home.”

“I can give you a ride.” Oh good lord, the double entendre.

I tilt my head, watching her with suspicion as I ask, “Why would you want to do that?”

“Maybe I don’t want to drink alone.” She cocks a hip, and the breath rushes out of my lungs as that skirt inches up a bit further north. “Do you have anything to drink at your place?”

I nod dumbly, speechless.

“Well, then…”

I shake some sense into my head, “Actually, I can stick around here for a couple more.” I nod toward the bar I’ve just left. Nicole’s grin turns wicked as she follows me inside, where I find us two stools at the bar. As I sit, I glance across the way to the blonde and redhead, they’re watching, and they’re not smiling anymore. I look away, to Mags when she approaches to take our order.

“Two shots of Jack—”

“Jack?” Nicole frowns at me, then turns to Mags. “Make those Jameson, not Jack.”

I raise an eyebrow, and Nicole slowly crosses those long legs, then says only. “Trust me.”

Trust? That’s a tall order. When Mags brings the two shots over, Nicole pushes one in front of me. I eye the drink with suspicion, and not because it’s Irish rather than Tennessean whiskey, but because it’s trouble. This little fucker will be to blame for all the bad decisions I make for the rest of the night. Wasn’t me. Oh no, not my fault. Blame the drink.

Nicole lifts her shot as she asks, “What should we drink to?”

I have no idea. I shrug.

“How about to trying new things,” she says as she clinks it against mine. Speechless, I just nod and follow her lead, then nearly choke on my own drink as I watch her throat move when she swallows.

Nicole sets aside her glass and turns her whole body to face me, her crossed legs the only thing between me and the bottom hem of that rubber dress. Christ, who wears a rubber dress in July? Shit, I’m staring at her crotch.

I look up with a jerk of my head to find Nicole watching me. For a good long minute, neither of us speak; neither of us do a thing. We just stare at each other. Then, slowly, she tilts her head and lifts her hand like she’s going to touch my face. Instead, she reaches for a lock of my long hair. I flinch, surprised, then watch as her delicate fingers twirl and play with the ends that fall close to the bottom of my pecs.

During the summer, I almost always wear my hair in braids, but after the day I’ve had, I couldn’t be bothered. In a brief trip home for a shower and change, I only had the energy for a comb through before I tugged my clothes on and came to the bar. It’s dry now, and shines in the warm lights over the bar.

“You have nice hair,” she says.

I blink. I swallow. I clear my throat as if to say something, but I’m speechless. What do you say to that? Thanks?

“It’s so black, it’s almost blue.”

I nod, and the movement sends more of my hair falling around my shoulder to brush against her hand. She strokes her fingers through a few strands and the sensation makes me lightheaded. Distracted by her touch, I nearly yelp when she places her other hand flat on the top of my bar stool, right between my legs. I shrink away to avoid the fingers-brushing-against-my-cock form of physical contact. I’m already mostly hard, and I’d rather she didn’t know it.

Nicole notices me cower, and her grin turns mischievous as she leans right into me. Her tits brush against my chest, and her mouth hovers at my ear for a long moment, and all I can sense is where she’s touching me and the sensation of her hot breath against my cheek. Then, with that phone sex voice of hers, she purrs, “It’s funny that you called me a peach. I’ve been told I taste like one.”

Fuck. Me.

With that, I’m fully hard and salivating like Pavlov’s fucking dogs. I nearly bust out in a choking cough fit, but manage to keep it together, maintaining my outer cool even as my inner letch wants to dive to his knees and learn the truth of that statement firsthand.

With the deadly grace and patient prowl of a panther, Nicole straightens up, pulls her hand off my chair, and slowly slides her ass back onto her stool.

Eyes wide, heart racing, cock hard as fucking steel, I watch her every move, practically panting. Holy fuck, she’s seducing me. I’m being seduced. This rarely happens. I’m usually the seducer, not the seducee. Gotta say, the view from this side of the fence doesn’t suck.

Getting off on the idea that this goddess wants me enough to chase me, I get some of my swagger back. I give her my version of a wicked grin, and ask, “Does that offer for a ride still stand?”

****

I burrow my hands under that tight rubber skirt and clasp my palms to Nicole’s bare ass as I pick her up. She wraps her strong legs around my waist. Jesus, her body is so hard yet so deliciously soft. I can’t wait another minute to be inside her, yanking her strip of a thong aside as I push my way in. I slam her back against my fridge, and she moans loud and low from both impacts.

Incredible. She feels incredible.

I drive deep into her and moan at the feel of her tight little pussy gripping me. She moans, too, and I love the sound of it. I want to hear it again. I fuck her harder, faster, anything to get a reaction out of her.

Even though I’ve got her suspended against my fridge, she still manages to take charge. Hugging her arms around my neck, she grabs fistfuls of my hair and yanks. My head falls back and I hiss at the pain. It hurts so fucking good. When she bites me on the neck, I howl and almost come.

Holy fuck.

I stumble and we both nearly hit the deck, but I recover and turn, flattening her back on the kitchen table. I pull her arms off my neck so I can stand up straight with her laid out like a feast before me. I grab at the top of her dress and tug it down until her tits pop out. I fill my mouth with one and my hand with the other as I proceed to fuck the everloving shit out of her. She arches up and screams out when she comes for me, and the sound of her ecstasy is a gift I savor.

Then she pulls away from me.

I frown, but in an instant, she’s turned the tables again, pushing me backward until my ass hits the chair by the wall. Before I can recover or complain, she springs onto me and seats herself back on my cock, her knees planted on the chair on either side of my lap. She rides me hard and fast. And my God, I had no idea how fun all that muscle could be in bed…or in the kitchen, as the case may be. I groan when she pins my neck between her arms, grips the chair behind me, shoves her tits in my face, and rides me like a bucking bronco.

I look up at her and find her staring down at me, watching me lick and suck her tits as she fucks me. When we make eye contact, she holds my stare, and I wouldn’t dream of looking away even if I could. In that moment, it’s like I connect with her, fully fucking connect, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

In that instant I see her, feel her, taste and smell her, but I want more. I want to know her. The thought terrifies me and I nearly lose my erection. But then she smiles, and it’s got to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I come right then and there, then watch in awe as she rides my orgasm to her own.

Damn that was good. No. Better than good, that was—

In an instant, her expression flips from bliss to blasé, and I feel a chill on my lap when she moves off of me. Standing in the middle of my kitchen, she pulls her thong and skirt back into place, and pops her top back up over her tits. I try not to frown, watching her redress.

Crap, we’re both still fully clothed—myself, with pants wrapped around my ankles like an idiot. I raise my ass up to tug my jeans back on, tossing the condom in the trash bin before I button up the fly.

I’m usually so much more suave, taking my time, enjoying all the sights, sounds, and flavors before I move in for the kill.

Not this time. The instant I had Nicole in my apartment, she b-lined for the kitchen, looking for a beer. I practically tackled her as I fell to my knees and pressed my face between her legs, desperate for a taste.

A peach, indeed.

But now…shit, things are awkward, and not in the usual, “thanks for the tumble, maybe I’ll call you” sort of way. More in the, “where do we go from here?” sort of way.

It’s so fucking quiet in here. I feel the need to speak, to say something really clever. But what do you say after you’ve just nailed the ex-girlfriend of your best friend’s new boyfriend? And, insult to injury, it’s some of the best sex you’ve ever had in your life?

I reach into my back pocket and yank out my smokes. As I light up, I offer one to Nicole. She shakes her head and crosses the room to my fridge, yanking out two long necks. She slides into the chair across from me and pops the caps off using the edge of the table and her fist.

Hot.

“So.” Nicole takes a sip of her beer as she pushes the other one across to me. “What was the emergency today? What sort of accident did Ariana have?”

I nearly choke on my beer and raise my eyebrows at her. She wants to talk about Ari? Now? “Uh…”

Nicole watches me closely as she takes a long sip of her beer, then slowly licks her lips.

“She was hit by a car,” I mumble, mesmerized by that mouth.

“Oh shit.” Nicole actually looks genuinely concerned for Ari, and that makes me like her, which is funny, considering I just fucked her. “Is she okay?”

“She’s banged up pretty bad, but she’s tough. She’ll be okay.” I shrug, if only to mask how much the day’s events have affected me. “Thanks again for the phone numbers.”

Nicole stares at me for a moment, then stands and opens her gullet as she chugs the entire bottle of beer. Hot. “Well, listen, this has been fun, but I gotta go.”

Uh…okay.

I feel oddly bereft as I walk her to the door. I think I want her to stay. I kind of want to sit with her, maybe smoke and drink with her, or, I don’t know, fuck her again or just watch some shit on TV.

I frown. The hell is wrong with me?

At the door, I search my head for something clever to say, but nothing comes to mind. We stand for an awkward moment, with her just on the outside of the threshold. Finally, I give her a thin grin and lamely offer, “Drive safe.”

Nicole cracks a little half smile and slowly turns away to leave. I surprise us both when I clasp her hand in mine and pull her back around to face me. Then, I kiss her.

In the first instant that our lips meet, I realize it’s our first kiss. And, man, I am such an ass for completely skipping that step earlier during all the sex.

In the second instant, as her velvet soft lips move against mine, I realize I really like kissing her. She tastes so damn sweet, and those lips…Christ on a biscuit, those lips are pure heaven. I cinch my arms around her waist and pull her against me as the kiss grows in intensity. Her hot breath punches into my mouth as I slide my tongue into hers, taking her with long, languid strokes.

Holy. Christ! Kissing shouldn’t feel this good. Kissing has never felt this good. This feels too…right. It’s almost—fuck me—it’s almost romantic. With an abrupt jolt, Nicole and I both pull away and blink, dumbfounded and breathless.

“I have to…” She backs away, her shaky hand going to her lips.

“Okay.” I slowly nod.

“Go,” she finishes on a gasp, then turns and leaves.

I never once take my eyes off of her, and I’m disappointed that she never once turns back to look at me. She just saunters off, those killer hips swishing with each step she takes to leave me.

I have to physically clutch onto the doorframe to stop myself from jogging after her, finding her at her car, bending her over the hood and sliding home again.

Home? I frown, then shake my head to dislodge the thought. What the hell just happened?

Saturday December 11, 2004

I’m pretty sure I can make out Vincent Van Gogh’s self-portrait in the grain pattern of our wood floors. My eyes have drifted out of focus, but I fixate on the face in the floor.

Behind me on the couch, Greg runs his fingers through my hair, as he flips through channels on the television. This is our ritual, our together time. He’s been home for six days now, and with the jetlag finally worn off, we easily slip into our regular routine—dinner followed by couch time, his feet on a pillow on the coffee table, my head on a pillow in his lap, his fingers gently stroking my scalp and trailing down my back as we watch old movies.

I remember this being the highlight of my day. The warmth of Greg’s lap under my head instilled me with a sense of calm. The tender touch of his fingers twirling strands of my hair sent shivers down my spine. I’d moan at the sensation of his touch, and he’d grin as he’d keep petting me.

I still moan at random intervals, but the reason has changed. The reason escapes me. The reason for the entire ritual escapes me. The sweetness, tenderness, and need for constant connection that originally started this shared practice have all abated. Now it’s just habit. It’s an endless, mindless repeating of a distant memory, like a residual haunting. It’s as if Greg and I aren’t here anymore, but our ghosts remain, continuing to pantomime the nuanced details of our daily lives together.

Oh Jesus, Ari, stop being so fucking maudlin.

I groan then wince when Greg’s fingers reach a particularly stubborn tangle. He tries to be gentle as he works out the knot but the unexpected tugs and pulls send pricks of pain through my scalp and down my spine. I feel the pain acutely, and I revel in it. I need it. I need the feeling of something. Even if what I’m feeling is pain, it’s better than feeling nothing—

“What’s with you?” Greg murmurs as he turns off the television.

“Huh?” My eyes snap into focus. What I thought was Van Gogh’s scruffy red beard and long, sharp nose are actually just knots in the floor’s wood grain.

“Talk to me, Ari. It’s like you’re a million miles away.”

I spring up, surprising him and tangling his fingers in my hair. With a bit of a tug of war, we break apart and I slide to the next cushion on the couch, facing him and watching him closely as I ask, “Do you love me, Greg?”

He blinks. “Of course I love you.”

I don’t wait a beat before I follow up with, “Why?”

Greg frowns. “Ari, you’re my wife. Of course I love you. What kind of question is that?”

Now I frown. “Wife—that’s a role, not a reason.”

Greg’s frown shifts into a grin, like he’s laughing at some inside joke. “Come here.”

My frown deepens and I don’t move, still waiting for an answer to my question. Greg shifts slightly, turning to face me. He clasps a hand around my leg, and gently tugs me toward him. I let him pull me into his embrace, settling on his lap, my legs straddling his waist. With one hand, he pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. With the other, he cinches me tight against him.

It feels good, being this close to him. I rest my head on his shoulder and breathe in the scent of him, fresh and clean like soap and winter wind.

“Look at me, Ari.”

I lift my head and he gently clasps his fingers on my chin, positioning me so I can’t help but look him in the eyes, fine lines radiating out from the corners when he gives me a seductive grin.

“I love your big brown eyes. I love that little gap between your two front teeth. I love that you dip your pizza in ranch dressing and drown your tacos in salsa.” He presses his lips to my neck and gives me a feathery kiss as he takes a deep breath. “I love the way you smell.” His tongue darts out and tickles the spot just below my ear. “I love the way you taste.” I shiver from head to toe and let out a shaky breath. Greg chuckles quietly, the sound rumbling through his chest like thunder. He pulls away to look me in the eyes again, using one hand to stroke my temple, then he gives my head a little thump, thump, thump with his thumb. “But mostly I love all the crazy shit you’ve got going on up here.”

I giggle.

“I love your laugh.”

I sigh, a bit breathless, then yelp when he cups my ass in one of his palms.

“I love your ass.”

I gasp when his palm slides so far down my ass that his fingers splay between my thighs, and proceed to tickle and tease me.

He purrs like a big cat, “And I love that gasp.”

Without another word, Greg kisses me. There is no hesitation, no awkwardness. Like a ballet, our kiss is perfect, precise, practiced; a well-choreographed pas de deux. After twelve years together, I know his mouth and his kiss intimately. I know to zig when he zags. I know that he starts gentle, the pressure in his lips soft and tender. I know that he likes to lick into my mouth with darting little dashes of tongue. Then he palms the back of my head, tangling his fingers in my hair, and groans into my mouth just before the kiss changes, grows deeper. I know to match his increased intensity stroke for stroke, nibble for nibble as our maneuvers grow more ardent and fervid.

We are proficient lovers of one another.

Normally, there is a comfort in that, a sense of rightness in each masterful maneuver. But not today. Today, there is no comfort in our practiced coupling. Each flawless kiss suffocates, each seasoned touch chafes, our studied embrace constricts. I wiggle against him, twisting away from his mouth at the same time that I grab two fistfuls of his hair. Freshly cut, finely coiffed, his honey brown locks feel soft in my hands. I pause for a moment to stroke his head, then grab again and yank. With a squeaky yelp, Greg’s head ratchets back, and I latch onto his neck like a vamp. Starting just below his ear, I bite, suck, and lick my way up to his strong jaw.

Nothing about the way I kiss Greg is studied or choreographed. I attack him, feral and ferocious, a cat pouncing on her prey. Little growls emit from the back of my throat as I lick my way into his mouth. My teeth gnash against his as we each fight for control. His hands fist my hair now, too, locked with me in a power struggle as we challenge one another with bites and licks, nibbles and tastes. As if to make a point, I give his hair another decisive yank and bite down on his bottom lip, suckle the soft flesh into my mouth, then let it go with a wet pop.

Greg groans, and I feel his response, instant and rigid against my thigh. He pulls his hands from the tangle of my hair, and slides them down my back to cup and squeeze my ass with bruising force.

With more purr to my voice than I’ve ever heard before, I whisper a command into Greg’s ear. “Take me to bed.”

His response is one decisive shake of his head, and words spoken so low they rumble in his chest. “I’m taking you right here, sweet thing.”

We’re like a couple of teenagers, all arms and elbows as we strip each other in a frenzy. I hear a tear of fabric when Greg pulls my shirt over my head in one jolting yank. I paw at his jeans and he tugs at my bra, a tangle of fumbling fingers working to spring clasps, pop buttons and yank zippers.

With one swift shift, he’s got me flat on my back, stretched across the cushions of the couch. With another jerk of motion, he’s yanked off his own t-shirt and he’s wrestling his pants down his hips. I help, using my feet and fingers to push his waistband down to his knees so he can kick his way out of the rest of his clothing. I yank what’s left of my own clothes off, and when we’re both naked, he slinks up over me like a leopard stalking his prey.

Then…nothing.

He stops, frozen over me in a stiff plank, not kissing me, not touching me; just watching me. He’s always liked the look of anticipation that dawns over my face right before he fucks me. He savors it now, a smug grin on his lips as I wiggle beneath him, my frustration like an itch. I open my legs wide, twisting them up on his back, as if to climb and mount him from below. The smug grin only grows.

Catching me by surprise, he suddenly lets his weight fall onto me. Greg is a lean man, tight with muscle, but not overly large, yet still he crushes me beneath him, the air in my lungs leaving in a whoosh. Before I recover my breath, Greg spears me in a sudden rush, burying himself to the hilt.

The feeling of him filling me sends a warm rush of energy through every synapse in my body, lighting me up like a Vegas sign. I love that about sex, it has the singular power to give me everything I need, right when I need it. Like being zapped with a pair of defibrillator paddles, I’m jolted out of arrest. My senses come alive with stunning acuity, suddenly able to taste and feel and hear and smell and touch everything.

I moan and arch my back, pressing my breasts against him as he moves first slow and then faster and deeper inside me. I shiver and curl my limbs around him, pressing up to meet his hips with each stroke. Greg grunts and moves fast onto me, into me and I feel myself about to come. I clasp my hands around his hips, digging my nails into the small of his back when it hits. I come, hard, and holler up at him, holding his gaze when I’m able to keep my eyes open.

Greg loves to watch me come, and when I do, it usually brings him with me. It does now, too. His eyes grow large and he groans low and long, then jabs into me a couple more times before collapsing on top of me, spent.

We lay naked, wrapped in a knot of legs and arms our faces cocooned in a tangle of my hair. When we’ve caught our breath, he shifts to the side and gently arranges me above him so he’s no longer crushing me. I rest my head on his chest and brush my hand over the smattering of his chest hair. At the sensation of his fingers running along the curve of my lower back in slow, sexy strokes, I sigh and nestle tighter in his embrace.

“Jesus,” Greg exhales a loud gust of breath. In a drowsy, sex-laden whisper he adds, “Christ.”

I stretch like a cat, still wrapped within his arms, feeling flushed and hot, but reveling in the sensation of his sticky, sweat-slicked flesh against mine.

“What’s gotten into you?” He closes his eyes and starts to smack his lips in that way he does right before he drifts off to sleep. Still, he’s talking. The words fall out of his mouth with a yawn as he absently rubs at the hickey I’ve left on his neck, “I think you’ve left marks.”

I grin wide as I catch sight of the pink and purple bite and suck marks dotting his throat, finding a strange sense of pride in leaving my mark on him.

With a laugh, he asks, “Is that what you meant by trying new things?”

Without thinking, I throw out a casual reply, “That… and other stuff.”

Greg shifts his head to look at me, a smirk on his face. “Other stuff, eh?” There is a devilish glint in his eyes, and I realize why when he slips his hand down my backside and gooses my naked ass. Of course, the final frontier would be Greg’s first thought. He’s asked to be my back door man more than once, actually begged a couple of times, and my answer has always been a firm “no.”

I squeal with surprise and squirm in his arms, croaking out an awkward, “That hadn’t made my list.”

Greg chuckles, sliding his hand back up to safe territory, and I relax again. But as I start to think about it, I open my mind to the possibility. Why not say “yes” next time? The only thing to fear is fear itself…and pain. But it can’t hurt that much, can it? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and venturing into butt stuff would surely be a big leap, a bootylicious bounce if you will, toward living a life of bluster, moxy, and gusto, right?

Lost in my thoughts, I almost miss Greg’s yawned question, “There’s a list?”

I nod.

“What’s on it?”

There isn’t actually a list in the strictest sense of the word, nothing has been committed to paper as yet. It’s more like a Möbius strip of thoughts, ideas, and fantasies that has floated around in the back corners of my mind. But a few ideas do continue to surface, such as, “Well, I want to get drunk. I’m twenty-nine and I’ve never been drunk. That’s kind of pathetic. So…yeah…I want to get drunk.”

“Mm hmmm.” He mumbles drowsily, only half-listening. The stroke of his fingers on my back slows and occasionally stops as he teeters at the edge of sleep.

“Also, I’d like to kiss a girl.”

Greg’s eyes rocket open and he blinks once, twice, a third time before a smile creeps across his lips. “You want to kiss a girl? Really?”

I nod.

“Any specific girl in mind?”

I shake my head.

“Hmm.” His hands squeeze my hips, and I’m pretty sure I feel a suddenly-there semi twitch against my thigh. “Well, when you find this mystery girl you want to kiss, can I watch?”

Now I’m the one who’s speechless, blinking, stunned and a bit amused by his nonchalant response. I’ve just told him I want to kiss another person, a person who is not him, and he thinks it’s hot? Then again, we are talking about a woman, and men so rarely feel threatened by women.

“What if I were to say that I wanted to kiss another guy?”

Greg stills completely. His fingers stiffen on my hips and his eyes narrow as he stares at me. I stare back, not wanting to be the one who blinks first. Ultimately, though, I blink and look away, then back at Greg. His brow furrows and his eyes narrow when he asks, “Any specific guy in mind?”

I shake my head, no.

He clears his throat, “Why do you want to kiss another guy?”

“I didn’t say that I want to kiss another guy, I just asked what you would say if I did?”

Greg frowns, “What are we talking about here, Ari?”

“In all your travels, have you ever met a woman who you wanted to…be with?”

Greg’s frown deepens, goes dark. “Are you asking me if I’ve ever cheated on you?” Before I can answer, his hands tighten on my waist and he insists, “I’ve never cheated, not once, Ari Beth. I wouldn’t do that.”

“But surely you’ve been attracted to other women, right? You’ve thought about it, right?”

“Big difference between thinking about something and doing it.” He answers without answering, and gives me that frown again—pursed lips and furrowed brow, all pinched and squinting as if he’s trying to see through the skin and bone and catch a glimpse of what’s in my head.

“What if we were to agree that it’s okay to act on those desires?”

Greg freezes, his body as rigid as a block of ice. He clears his throat and quietly asks, “Are we really having this conversation?” He shifts beneath me, gently detangling our limbs, then sits upright, “Because if we are, I need to…I need a beer.”

I look him in the eyes and slowly nod.

With a fortifying breath, like he’s about to dive underwater, Greg rises to his feet, slides his boxers back on, and walks silently into the kitchen.

I remain unmoved for a moment, flat on my back, alone and naked, staring up at the stilled ceiling fan overhead. With a jolt I sit upright, looking for my clothes. They’re strewn about the room, my jeans inside-out in a pile by my feet. I wrestling the denim to extricate my underwear, then hurriedly pull them on. They’re inside-out, but I don’t care. I need cover for this conversation; any cover will do.

From afar, I hear Greg holler, “You want a beer?”

The words “no, thanks” balance on the tip of my tongue, but when I open my mouth to answer, “Yes, please,” comes out.

Greg returns with two bottles of Shiner Bock, handing me one as he walks past me to settle onto the far cushion of the couch, a gulf of leather between us. He leans closer and extends his hand, the one holding his beer. I hesitate before clinking my glass against his, surprised by the casual toast. He lifts his bottle and takes a long sip. I follow his lead and frown at the strange taste. Why do people drink beer? It’s not very good.

Greg’s lips lift in a brief smile before he schools his features and asks, “What’s going on? What is this all about?”

I take a deep breath, and before I can stop myself, I blurt it out, saying the words that once said cannot be unsaid, words that once voiced could change everything…

“I want to open our marriage.”

Greg blinks, thinks, and then finally—after what feels like hours—speaks. His reply is quiet, just a whisper of a question. “Why?”

I begin to panic beneath his cool hard gaze, babbling as my only defense. “It was the funeral that got me thinking…I started thinking about all the amazing things your grandpa had done in his life, all the crazy stories. By contrast I realized how…small my life is.” I pause when I see Greg flinch, masking his expression behind his beer as he slowly takes a sip. “I don’t mean small. I just mean…” I groan, frustrated that I can’t seem to express myself coherently. “I’m not putting any of this on you. I love you, Greg, you know I love you. I’ve loved you since I was seventeen, and that hasn’t changed. But sometimes I feel like we’ve limited ourselves by committing to each other so young. Or maybe it’s just me—I’ve limited myself, I’ve closed myself off to the world outside.” Another pause as I swallow hard, not able to get the lump out of my throat. I look down at the bottle in my hand, the drink inside, and take a long pull. I nearly choke on it, swallowing with a cough and sputter as I set the bottle aside and shift to sit against the arm of the furniture, facing off with Greg. He does the same. We both pull our legs to our chests, as if our knees are armor and can provide an adequate defense of our hearts in this bizarre jousting match. “I think I just want to open myself up…I want the space…the freedom to experience the world around me, on my terms, and I want to give you that freedom too.”

“And you think opening our marriage will give you the freedom you need?”

“Us. It will give us more freedom. And yes, I think it will.”

“Why can’t you experience the world with me, with just me?”

My spirits sink. My fortitude collapses like a house of cards. I try to swallow the lump in my throat as I mumble a weak, “Yeah, you’re right.” I rest my cheek on the tops of my knees, staring at the growing ring of condensation forming around the base of my beer bottle. “I don’t know what I’m on about. I’ve just been in a weird mood lately. Forget I said anything.”

“No.” Greg sets his beer aside too and brushes his fingers across my shins to get my attention. “Ari, I’m not arguing with you. I’m just trying to understand where this is coming from. Because let’s be clear, what you’re asking for is permission to fuck other guys, right? That’s the bottom line.” Greg’s tone isn’t angry or harsh in any way. Even as he says the word ‘fuck’ he enunciates clearly, his tone phlegmatic. It’s as if we’re entering a debate, and he’s formulated his rebuttal with his usual academic dispassion.

I look him in the eyes, trying to read him. And that’s when he surprises me with the hint of a sweet, supportive smile. It’s exactly what I need to regain my courage and continue this.

I take a deep breath, and he does too. I steel my spine, sitting up straight and proud, and he adjusts as well. I stare straight at him, not flinching, blushing, or glancing away when he levels those warm, whiskey-colored eyes at me. When I open my mouth to speak, he slowly nods as encouragement.

“I’m almost thirty, and I feel like I’ve done so little. I skipped all the normal parts of being twenty-something. I’ve never been drunk, never been to a raging party, never had a one-night stand or a threesome, never gotten high…” I watch Greg for any sign that my words are hurting him, but there’s nothing. He listens with a stoic, statue-still expression plastered over his face. So I continue. “I’ve created this comfortable bubble, and existed within it for as long as I can remember. I’m restless. I want to explore my boundaries, try new things.” I shrug and twist my fingers into an uncomfortable pretzel. “I think there are parts of life that have passed me by, and I want the chance to experience them, to experience all parts of life.” I take a fortifying breath. “I guess I just want to shake things up a bit.”

“A bit?” He lets out a small laugh and I do, too. Saying all of this out loud sounds absolutely ridiculous, but there’s no turning back now.

“Yeah. You know me and my gift for subtlety.”

He gives me an awkward smile. It looks funny on him, but it is what I need in order to finally relax. “Ari, for someone in their twenties, you’ve done a lot with your life. You know that, right? You’re a published author, for Christ’s sake. That’s more than most people can say.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile that creeps onto my lips in appreciation of his kind words. I don’t know what to say, so I just shrug and then hate myself for shrugging. What a lazy expression a shrug is, and this is no time for lazy expressions.

“Okay.” Greg chews the inside of his lip, deep in thought. “Let’s say we agree to this, hypothetically. Would there be any ground rules?”

Ground rules? Holy shit, are we really talking about this? “Of course there would be…ground rules.” I answer before I’ve thought it through.

“Like what?”

I have no idea. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” He hardly takes any time to think before he blurts out, “Not Jake.”

“Jake?” Jake. As in my best friend who I think of as a big brother, that Jake? Uh. Okay.

“I don’t think I can deal with you being with him. Also, we need to promise each other that any extra-marital activity will be safe. I know you’re on the pill, but outside of us, it’s different. We should always use condoms when we’re with anyone else.”

I’m stunned silent. I don’t know where I thought this conversation would go, but I wasn’t expecting it to go here. Though it does seem fitting that Greg would completely gloss over my ethereal ideas of freedom and space, and focus entirely on practical details like rubbers and safety.

Then again, I don’t know why I’m surprised. Greg is an engineer, a scientist, in more ways than just his career. He approaches all aspects of his life like it were a chemistry experiment, with the objective detachment of an observer. Add part A to part B, get a reaction. It seems he’s approaching this concept of opening our marriage with the same discipline, working the problem, offering solutions and suggestions with a cool dispassion that I’ve never been able to muster.

I nod and finally squawk out a hoarse, “Okay.”

“Do you have any ground rules for me?” It’s as if my idea has become his. He’s driving this now.

I almost shrug again and stop myself before I finally add, “I…I don’t know. Can I think about it?”

Greg shrugs and nods. No shrugging, I want to shout. Maybe that should be a ground rule.

There is a prolonged silence as we both stare at the other’s knees, not able to make eye contact. Then Greg speaks, and I’m not exactly sure what he means when he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“We can open the marriage. But if it starts to cause problems between us, we close it. You and me, Ari, that’s what’s important here.”

Funny. I never thought we’d get this far in the conversation, so I’d never really given any of this serious thought. The longevity of our open marriage was not something I had even considered. How could I not have thought all of this through before bringing it up?

Jesus. I’m such a child. I’m a little girl disguised in a woman’s body. I’m like one of those kids who manages to graduate high school never having learned how to read. I’ve managed to get older, without ever actually growing up. And now, here I am, negotiating the terms of an open-marriage with my husband as if I’m even remotely capable of such a grown-up concept. But I better get capable, and fast, because apparently this is happening.

“Okay,” I say flatly.

“Okay,” he repeats with a slow grin.

This is surreal.

Should it hurt that he’s not more upset, jealous, or possessive? His detachment is almost an affront, and it takes me a moment to remember—this was my goddamn idea!

“Okay,” I repeat, sharing his grin with a breath that tousles the hair around my face.

Without a word, Greg holds my gaze as he reaches his hand toward me and strokes the top of my bare foot with the back of his fingers. It’s a small gesture, but it’s exactly right for the moment. I slip my hand down and link my pinky finger with his.

We sit like this for a moment, and then, completely in sync, both dive at each other and tangle together—a furious, twisting mass of lips and limbs. As we kiss and touch and explore each other anew, I feel a growing and nearly overwhelming rush of nervous energy. It is euphoric, this promise of freedom. It fizzes and bubbles and explodes through me like uncorked champagne.

I climb on top of Greg and he lets me, a sly grin on his lips as I tug his boxers out of my way. With awkward fingers and the sound of torn fabric, he pushes my underwear to the side and…we both groan when we connect once more. I move fast and hard. I plant my hands on his chest, arch back and open up my lungs, crying out in ecstasy. Oh holy fuck. More than just uncorked, the bottle is shattered into a million pieces, as if christening some new sea vessel.

This is going to be a wild ride.

Wednesday July 13, 2005 9:42AM 

“Ari’s been hit by a car.”

What?

I bolt upright in bed as panic hits me like a swift kick to the chest. The air punches out of my lungs, and my throat closes up. I nearly drop the phone in my panic. “What?” I croak. “Is she—”

“She’s okay.” Greg pauses, lets out a ragged breath. “I mean, she’s going to be okay—she’s got to be okay. I don’t know…they won’t tell me anything—but—she has to be okay.”

Shit. My traitorous brain flashes me back to that terrible night all those years ago, the night I’ve worked so hard to forget. The night I’ve spent decades drowning in drink, drugs, and pussy.

I’m a boy again, listening to my grandmother over the phone, her voice trembling with worry. I’m a useless child, fisting my hands in my lap during the maddeningly slow drive to the hospital.

I look around the dim bedroom of my shitty apartment, desperately seeking something to ground me. Or better yet, to convince me this is all a terrible nightmare, and if I could just wake—

I find it, my proof-of-nightmare, there in the bed beside me: my ex-girlfriend, naked and sprawled across the tangle of sheets. What the fuck is Rebecca doing here? I stare at her, taking in the sight of her smeared makeup and her blonde hair, tufted and tangled from sex and sleep. Flashbacks of the night before flicker through my mind like a pornographic slide show.

Shit.

I look down at myself to see that I, too, am naked, bearing a few new bruises, and there’s a used condom hanging from the tip of my limp dick.Fuuuuuuck.

This is definitely a nightmare. I frown at Rebecca, and she frowns back at me, cranky to have been awakened by the call. I look back at the phone clutched in my hand, held at arm’s length like a snake about to bite me.

I hear Greg mumble on the other end of the line, “Someone should call Alex, but I don’t have his number.”

My hands start to tremble. I squeeze them into tight fists. The phone groans with complaint as I pull it back to my ear and ask, “Where is she?”

“Brackenridge Hospital.” Greg’s voice teeters over each syllable.

“What happened?” I stand on wobbly legs, tossing the condom in the trash as I aimlessly circling around looking for a pair of clean jeans. Jesus, why didn’t I do the goddamn laundry yesterday? Fuck it. I grab the first pair I can find, cinching the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I yank them on. Not bothering with my boots, I slip my feet into a pair of ratty flip-flops and grab the closest t-shirt I can find as I head out to the living room.

Keys. Cigarettes. Lighter…lighter…where’s my fucking lighter? Screw it.

“What’s going on?” Rebecca asks from the hallway, leaning against the wall, making no attempt to cover her nakedness.

“I gotta go. Let yourself out.” I reply as I turn and head for the door.

“But…” Rebecca moves toward me, cocking her hip in defiance. She arches her back so her tits perk up and out toward me in temptation. “I was hoping we could—”

I pay her absolutely no attention, all of my focus directed at forcing strength into my trembling hands, willing them to turn the doorknob.

When I’m finally outside, the repressively hot and humid July air dampens my skin and drowns my lungs. I jog down the stairs and across the grassy expanse of the apartment complex’s common grounds toward the parking lot where I left my truck.

I can hear Greg breathing hard on the other end of the line, like he’s been out for a jog, too.

“Greg, talk to me, brother. What happened?”

No answer, just more of that labored breathing.

“Greg—”

“Someone should call Alex, but I don’t know his number—” He’s repeating himself, only this time he adds, “—and Ari’s phone was…crushed.”

Crushed. Crushed?

That word, that one awful word, sends a cold-as-ice panic through me, freezing my damp skin and the air in my lungs. I stop mid-step and shiver, stunned and lost as terrible imagery plays out in my imagination.

I force myself to calm down, taking deep breaths and working to steady my hands in order to open my truck door. I sit inside for a moment, staring blankly out of the windshield, then get my wits about me again. I force the key into the ignition so I can crank the thing and haul ass out of the parking lot and south toward the hospital.

“Greg, what the fuck happened?” I yell this time, trying to snap the bastard out of his fugue state.

Greg’s silence hangs heavy, and I punch the accelerator pedal down as I run a yellow light. But it’s not long before morning traffic jams me up. I curse and hit the horn for no good goddamn reason. Everyone and everything standing between me and my destination is an obstacle that needs to get out of my fucking way. I want to be by Ari’s side now. I want to know that she’s alright now. I need to see her smile and hear her call me an idiot for worrying and giggle in that way that she does right fucking now.

She has to be okay. She. Has. To. Be. Okay. “Greg, fucking talk to me. What happened?”

“I was going to work…” He takes a deep breath, and I nearly lose my shit, on the verge of shouting at him to spit it the fuck out. Fortunately, he starts talking again. “Ari was walking to the café on the corner. She was going to write. I pulled out of the driveway and turned my head back toward the intersection. That’s when I saw the guy. He ran the stop sign. She didn’t even see him…” Greg’s voice drifts off into nothing, just those shaky breaths again.

“You saw it happen?”

Greg lets out an audible shudder. Yeah, this is not a conversation to be had over the phone.

“Listen, brother, I’m ten minutes away.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll talk to you then.”

“Okay.”

“Hang in there.”

“Okay.”

I hang up and drive, focusing on the lanes of the road, the gauges on the dash, the bumpers on the cars around me. I focus on anything and everything I can, so that my mind doesn’t wander to thoughts of what might have happened to my best girl.

But the traffic isn’t enough of a distraction. My mind races with horrific imagery. I picture the absolute worst scenarios—Ari’s smile fading just as she hits the windshield, or worse, her smile disappearing just as she goes under the wheels. I picture her bleeding and broken…crushed.

A pathetic whimpering sound fills the cab of the truck. It takes me a few seconds to realize that it’s coming from me. I sound like I’m the one who’s been hit by a car, broken and bleeding and mewling in agony.

Thankfully, I arrive. In the hospital parking lot, I circle like a vulture, looking for a spot. When I finally find a space, I barely pause to pull the key from the ignition and don’t bother to check that I’ve locked the doors. I haul ass across the asphalt toward the sliding glass doors of the emergency room.

Stepping into that waiting area is like stepping back in time. I’ve taken great pains to avoid places like this for most of my life, and for a very good reason—the smell. Hospitals have a very unique scent that I despise. As those wide doors slide open with a gasp, I’m overwhelmed with the combined scent of death and disinfectant.

To be fair, I’m probably just imagining the stench of death. No one else seems to be reeling, their eyes wide with horror. I’m the only one panicking over the chemical miasma.

God, I fucking hate hospitals. I want to kick myself for being weak when I need to be strong. Instead, I center my mind and focus on the task at hand—walking. My flip-flops make their cheery little thunk, thunk, thunk sound as I cross to the nurses’ station. When I spot Greg standing against the far wall of the waiting room, I course correct.

Christ Almighty, the guy looks like death warmed over. His hair stands on end in places, like he’s been pulling at it. His light eyes are bloodshot with dark circles underneath them. His skin so white, he’s practically translucent. His tie is gone and the top button of his shirt is missing like it’s been yanked open. Worse than all that, though, is the blood. There’s a patch of dark red staining the front of his white Oxford shirt, and the cuffs of his sleeves are practically dripping red. His hands are stained too.

Ari’s blood. Fuck. My knees wobble and nearly give out. I support myself on the wall beside Greg, though all around us there are empty chairs. I can’t think straight or concentrate enough to actually sit down.

Greg looks surprised to see me. He blinks his bloodshot eyes and slowly emerges from his fog to nod at me, sounding stoned when he says, “All they’ll tell me is that she’s in surgery.”

Surgery. Fuck.

Greg moves his arm up like he’s checking his watch. He hasn’t worn a watch since college. He’s not wearing one now. Absently, he says, “Could be a while before we know anything.”

I nod, not really sure why.

“I called her parents. Talked to her mom. She’s…they’re going to fly down.” Greg’s face pinches tight, and he starts to tug at his hair again. “God…she started crying…” A whole lot of silence stretches between us as we both think about what this news is probably doing to Steve and Kathryn Goody.

As I stand there next to Greg, I feel lost, adrift, and I want to grab onto something, feel something, do something. I stare at the ivy plant in its pot on the end table in front of me. I want to shatter it into a million tiny pieces with my fists and feet. I want to take out the table too, and the chair beside it, and the one beside that. I want to lay waste to this whole fucking place.

God, I really fucking hate hospitals. I’ve lost too many people to these godforsaken shitholes. Please don’t let me lose another.

“—to reach Alex?” I turn to find Greg talking to me. It snaps me out of my stupor and gives me something besides horror and loss to focus on. Thank Christ.

I blink at my best friend, a little surprised that he’s so anxious to get in touch with Alex. Not that I have anything against Alex; he’s a great guy. But he’s Ari’s new boyfriend. Considering that Greg is Ari’s husband, it seems a bit…odd. Then again, all of the shit between my friends has seemed a bit odd to me lately.

It’s been eight months since Ari and Greg mutually agreed to open their marriage and give each other “space.” I’d made it clear to both of them, repeatedly, that I thought the idea was colossally stupid. But did they listen? No. Eight months later, Ari’s now in love with another man, Greg is fucking his secretary, and Ari and Greg are on the cusp of a divorce.

Absently, Greg adds, “I’m sure she’d want him to be here.” Reason number eight-million-six-hundred-thousand-and-twelve why I love this guy like a brother; he’s not a selfish shithead. He truly loves Ari, and wants what’s best for her. And right now, what’s best is to surround her with her people—all of her people.

I nod, knowing that he’s right. “I don’t have Alex’s number.”

Greg furrows his brow, trying to concentrate. “What about that friend of hers with the colorful hair? Fuck, what’s her name?”

“Sheryl.” A.k.a Sher Nobyl, a wickedly cute little roller derby dynamo, and Ari’s new best friend. “I don’t have her—” Oh shit. I have a crazy idea. “Actually, I think I can get their numbers…maybe.” I fish my phone out of my pocket. “Give me a minute. I’ll see what I can do.”

Greg nods absently and I bolt for the exit. Outside, I listen to the sweet sound of those big glass doors sliding shut behind me, and take a deep breath of the sweltering summer air. Clearing the awful antiseptic stench from my nostrils works wonders for my mind. Still, I need a goddamn cigarette. I yank my smokes out of my back pocket and shove one between my lips, relaxing a bit with the familiar feel of it. Oral fixation to the rescue.

Shit. I don’t have a lighter.

I scan the sidewalk, looking for the obligatory “smoking area,” which is usually just one trashcan with an ashtray mounted on top standing at least fifteen feet away from any doors. I find it to my left, an ash-can placed beneath a small awning to protect smokers from the sun and rain. And, thank Christ, there’s a woman there lighting up her own cancer stick. She’s in scrubs, probably a nurse, and from the look of her tangled ponytail and weary posture, she’s been on shift for a while. I approach with a slow, steady gait, unlit smoke hanging out of the corner of my mouth.

The nurse glances my way, does a double take, then grins. I get that a lot. One of the advantages of being the only six-foot-two full-blooded Cherokee Indian in Austin, Texas—I stand out in a crowd. My Indian warrior look has helped to get me laid more times than I can count. Right now, though, I’ll settle for it helping me get an infusion of nicotine. And that’s exactly what the pretty nurse with the messy ponytail gives me. It only requires a sidelong glance and a suggestive raise of my eyebrow, and the woman silently leans toward me, ready to light my fire.

After one, then two long draws from my cigarette, my nerves settle a bit. I give the nurse a friendly thanks, fill my lungs again with the sweet relief, and start scrolling through the contacts on my phone. It doesn’t take long to find who I’m looking for. She’s in the “A” section under “Arson Nic.”

Nicole Rollins.

The fiery-hot yet cold-as-ice derby chick booked my band, Nebulous, to play the halftime show at the roller derby championship bout last season. From my first interaction with the woman, I found her to be utterly fascinating and incredibly intimidating—an enigma.

Everyone in town calls her a “crazy bitch,” probably because of the brutality she brings to the skate track. As a derby skater, she’s infamous; strong, fierce, fast, and violent—probably the best skater in the premiere derby league she helped to create.

It’s this league-creator side of her that I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. In working with her to book my band, I found her to be neither crazy nor a bitch. Intense, yes, but also smart, professional, courteous…and really fucking hot.

My strange attraction to her, in and of itself, is part of the enigma. Nicole Rollins is not my type. She’s the opposite of my type. I like my women soft. Still, I’d found her athletic beauty distracting, her big green eyes bewitching, her raspy come-hither voice sexy as hell, and the sway of her hips mesmerizing. A definite snake charmer, that woman. But off limits, because when I first met Nicole a year ago, she’d had a boyfriend—Alex Balfour. Alex, who dumped Nicole for Ari a few months later.

My, how things have changed.

In light of all the drama, I doubt Nicole will appreciate my call now. I stare at her number for a moment, take another long, soothing drag off my cigarette, then dial and flinch as it rings.

This will be interesting.

“Hello.” The voice on the other end of the line is vaguely feminine, but it sounds like she’s just gargled with a cup full of gravel.

“Nicole?”

Duh, jackass. Of course it’s Nicole. You just fucking called her.

“Yeah.” She sounds annoyed and about to hang up.

“Hey, listen, it’s…uh…it’s Jake Sixkiller…from Nebulous. You booked my band back in—”

“You’re Ariana’s friend, right?” she cuts me off.

I take a deep inhale of my coffin nail…annnnnd exhale. “Yeah.”

“What do you want?”

“I need… Listen, this is going to sound really shitty, and I’m sorry, but I need Alex’s phone number, and Sheryl’s number, too.”

There’s a long pause. You could park a tank in the middle of that pause. Then she laughs. But it’s not a good laugh. Her laughter is empty, brittle, utterly lacking in humor and good cheer. “If you want Alex’s number, why don’t you ask Ariana? You know, his girlfriend, the one he dumped me for.”

Yep. I figured this would be like pulling teeth. “Please, Nicole. Just—”

“Fuck you, Jake Sixkiller from Nebulous. Don’t call me—”

“Listen, Ari’s been in an accident. I need to get in touch with her friends.” I cringe at that last part. I figure my use of the word “friends” will not sit well, and with good reason…

“Friends?” She lets out another hollow laugh. “That little bitch stole my guy, and you expect me to—”

“Okay, first of all, don’t ever call Ari a bitch. If you think that about her, then you obviously don’t know her at all. And second of all, be a fucking decent human being, for fuck’s sake. At least give me Sheryl’s number.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I want to believe you’re not the colossal cunt everyone says you are. Prove me right.”

I cringe, prepared to hear her hang up. Instead there’s another long pause: a big, wide, deep, ugly pause.

“Whatever.” That’s all she says before I hear the dreaded click of her hanging up.

“Fuck!” I shout at the phone, then wince and shrug in apology to the nurse with the messy ponytail, who frowns at my outburst.

Internal voice, Jake, use your fucking internal voice: “Motherfucking, cocksucking, asslicking fuckity fuck fuck!”

I pace and smoke, trying to think of who else would have the numbers I need. Ryan, the bass-playing boy wonder, seems to know everyone in Austin. Also, I’m pretty sure Steven Lowe is actively fucking around with Sheryl. I could call him to get her number, and maybe Sheryl has Alex’s—

My phone chimes to announce an incoming text. I flip it open, and…it’s a message from Nicole. No words, just two phone numbers.

Hot damn! I owe that woman a beer. I text her back a quick, TY! You’re a peach, then hit the first number and listen to it ring.

“Hello?” It’s Sheryl. I don’t know Sheryl very well, but in my interactions with her, she’d always struck me as a bit flighty.

“Hey, Sheryl, this is Jake Sixkiller, Ari’s friend.”

“Oh.” She giggles like she’s being tickled. “Hiya, Jake.”

“Listen, I have some…uh…Ari is in the hospital. She—”

“Wait. What? What—”

“She was hit by a car. She’s in surgery right now. I’m here with Greg. I’m calling Alex next. I just wanted you to know. You’re one of her closest—”

“Which hospital?” Any hint of humor is gone from her voice, and hearing her concern raises her up a few pegs in my estimation.

“Brackenridge.”

“I’m on my way.” There’s a rustling sound on her end, and I go to hang up, but stop when she cuts through the ambient noise to say, “Hey, Jake, thanks for calling me.”

I nod and finish my cigarette. “Sure thing.”

Okay. That was the easy one. I hit the second number and nervously tap my foot as I wait through the rings. One…two…three… I’m preparing myself for voicemail when Alex answers, all business. “Balfour.”

“Alex, it’s Jake.”

“Hey man, what’s up?”

Fuck. “Listen, it’s Ari…she’s in the hospital.”

“What? What happened? Is she okay?” Jesus. The guy’s tone of voice sounds awful—pain with a side of panic.

“She’s been hit by a car. I don’t know a lot of details, just that she’s in surgery—”

I hear a jangly, metallic rustling sound on his end, the pace fast and frantic—no doubt his toolbelt bouncing against his hips as he bolts for the door at his job site. “Where?”

“Brackenridge ER.”

With that, Alex hangs up, a man on a mission to get to his woman.

I stand there for a moment, listening to the dead air left in the wake of Alex’s departure and watching Greg through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room. He’s listing to the side, like a capsizing ship.

I take a deep breath of the stifling summer air, and steel my nerves for the trip back inside this awful place. I would rather not set foot in a hospital ever again, but Greg looks like he’s about to teeter and fall. I’m needed, so I walk to the sliding doors, trigger the motion sensor, flinch at the sterile stench, and take my place at Greg’s side: a shoulder to lean on.

****

“Where is she? Is she okay? What happened?”

Greg and I both look up at the sound of Alex’s voice. Expecting information, he jogs across the waiting room and comes to a full stop in front of me. When I don’t have anything to tell him, he turns his pleading gaze to Greg.

It occurs to me that this is the first time they’re meeting—Greg, Ari’s soon-to-be ex-husband, and Alex, her new love. Seeing them together, I’m struck by how different they appear.

On the surface, Greg has a classic-Hollywood sort of elegance; a stark contrast to brawny working-man Alex. Greg is built lean, like a runner, not a lifter. Alex is taller, more muscular, and tanned from years of working outdoors. Greg’s expensive haircut and clean-cut face contribute to his debonair look. Alex’s jaw is covered with dark auburn stubble, which adds to his rugged appeal, as does the nasty scar that marks one of his eyebrows. Alex is decked out in work boots, beat-up jeans, and a neon orange safety vest over his white tee shirt. It’s a clear contrast to Greg’s buttoned-down business attire, though the refinement of Greg’s style is dramatically offset by the smears and stains of Ari’s blood.

I watch as Alex looks his rival up and down, wondering just how awkward this face-off will be.

There’s a moment when they make eye contact, and seem to come to some sort of accord—a peace between the two men who love Ari most in the world, aside from me and her dad. There is no overt hostility, or even discomfort. In this awful place, in this awful situation, they are united in the common goal of being here for Ari when she needs all the love and support she can get.

Alex notices the blood covering Greg’s hands and clothes. Cursing, he turns pale, looking like he might be sick. He takes a deep breath, looks Greg straight in the eyes, and asks, “What happened?”

Greg’s initial haze lifts, and when he speaks, it is with a clear voice and calm cadence. “…She was crossing the street and a little blue car, a Honda Civic I think, ran the stop sign. He saw her at the last minute and tried to avoid her. I think that saved her. Instead of hitting her straight on, he clipped her. She went up onto the hood, then rolled off to the side.”

Greg rubs his bloody palms together, and his face pinches like he’s picturing that moment over and over. I don’t envy that. As much as I wish I had been there to help Ari, I’m glad I’ll never know what that moment looked like.

Greg continues, “The driver stopped. He called 911 while I tried to take care of Ari. She’d fractured her left leg. That much was obvious. Also, she had a big cut on her arm, which was where most of the blood came from.” He pauses and looks down at his red hands, flexing his fingers into tight fists. Fissures and cracks form in the crimson coating of Ari’s dried blood.

What little color Alex had in his face drains out, and he wobbles on his feet before collapsing backwards into one of the chairs behind him. He bends forward like he might puke. With his elbows on his knees, his hands in his hair, he stares down at the tile floor, practically catatonic.

Greg and I exchange a glance, then park our asses, too. And this is how we remain. It seems like hours, days, weeks, while none of us move or even speak. We sit together, but alone—each trapped in our own heads, yet imagining the same horror.

****

“What happened? Is she okay? Can we see her?”

Greg, Alex, and I all look up at the sound of Sheryl’s voice. She stands a few feet away, her hands braced on her hips, a frown marring her pretty little pixie face. As small as she is, she looks even smaller now. It’s the boots, or lack thereof: she’s wearing a pair of basic sneakers which don’t give her the height boost her patent leather platform boots normally do.

More than just smaller, she looks entirely different from herself today. Instead of her usual leather, latex, and spandex, she’s wearing green scrubs patterned with little tacos. She’s not wearing any makeup, either, and her shock of hot pink hair is tied in a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

It occurs to me that I’ve never seen Sheryl out of costume, because that’s what her style is—costumes and masks. Today, though, the mask is off and the real Sheryl shows through.

“We don’t know anything yet. She’s still in surgery,” I answer.

Sheryl frowns, then harrumphs as she drops into the seat beside Alex. Looking at him like a big sister helping out her little bro, she laces her fingers through his and squeezes her palm against his. “How are you holding up, big guy?”

Alex glances at Greg and me, then grimaces and squeezes Sheryl’s hand when he says, “She’s strong. She’ll be okay. I have to believe that.”

Sheryl nods at him, then looks across the aisle at Greg’s bloody hands and clothes. “What happened?”

Greg explains again. Sheryl asked several pointed questions making it clear she has some medical training. Greg isn’t able to answer them, making it clear he does not.

I sit quietly, trying to ignore them. I sing songs in my head—Cherokee versions of old gospel songs from my childhood, stupid pop songs from the radio, Slayer—anything I can think of, so I don’t have to listen to Greg outline the litany of horrors again.

I tune out all the sounds around me, focusing instead on the sights, mainly the sight of us all together for the first time. We make quite the motley crew—Greg in his bloody shirt, Alex in his construction safety gear, Sheryl in her veterinarian garb, and me…shit, my shirt’s on inside out and backwards.

I yank my shirt off, flip it right-side out, and slip it back on. Iron Maiden, and it’s relatively clean. Cool.

I look up to find that all eyes have turned to me—including messy ponytail nurse at the front desk—as if my impromptu strip tease is the most interesting thing in the room. I shrug and smirk at the peanut gallery.

When I’m dressed again—show’s over, folks—messy ponytail wanders off, and Greg, Alex, and Sheryl all turn their faces down to the floor, staring at their feet again. I stare at them, at us—all of Ari’s people in one place.

I grimace at the clear divide between us. Here on one side of the aisle sit Greg and me, the old guard—her once and former lover and friend. And across from us, on the other side of the aisle, there’s Alex and Sheryl, the new guard—her now and future lover and friend.

Once upon a time, I’d thought I was irreplaceable in Ari’s life. Now, staring my replacement in the face, I’m less certain.

It’s been almost thirteen years now that I’ve known Ari, and I still remember every detail of the day she walked into my life. I’d just smoked a fat joint in the stockroom of the bookstore where someone had the bad idea to give me the title and responsibility of “Assistant Manager,” when Ari strutted right up to me and asked me for a job.

She looked like a vampire: all gothed out with jet-black hair, porcelain skin, a lace and velvet dress, and thick, heavy combat boots. She was trying so hard to look mean. It was adorable. I remember I laughed in her face, but only because I was really high and thought she was joking. When she frowned and then asked me again, I hired her on the spot.

I’d fallen instantly in love with her on that day. I was way too old for her, of course, twenty-two to her seventeen, but I’d loved her in all the other ways a man can love the people in his life.

Greg was slightly less scrupled when it came to the age gap, and he effectively put the kibosh on my affection for Ari ever turning romantic. Regardless, the moment Ari walked into my world, it got better.

Through the years, Ari has been my sister, my friend, my shrink, my confessor, and my voice of reason. She’s made me laugh and cry and holler and hug and share and feel in ways I never knew I was capable of. She’s made me marvel at the good parts of my life and the amazing people within it—chief among those people being her.

Sitting here now, looking across the narrow aisle at Ari’s new life, her new best friend and her new love, the prospect that I could lose her looms over my head like a dark cloud.

I frown. I don’t want to be on this side of the aisle. I don’t want to be part of Ari’s past. I want to be in her past, present, and future. I consider changing seats, getting up and crossing the aisle to sit beside Sheryl.

But what about Greg? I can’t leave him behind. But I can’t exactly shoehorn him into Ari’s new life, can I? Would Ari want that? Would Greg want that? I glance over at Greg, who’s eying Alex—as if he’s come to the same conclusion I have.

****

“You’re her husband?”

Greg nods vacantly at the doctor, whose light blue scrubs are spotless, pristine. I take comfort that he’s not covered in blood like Greg is, then start to fret again when I wonder if he changed his clothes before coming out to talk to us. Do doctors do that…wardrobe changes between the operating room and the waiting room—

“And you are?” The doctor eyes me over the patient chart in his hands.

“Her brother.” Well, it’s sort of true, in a her-parents-love-me-like-a-son sort of way. Greg nods, backing me up.

Doc turns to Alex next, and it’s all eyes on him as he fidgets and frowns. Oh won’t this be awkward; I wonder how many patients have a husband and a boyfriend. Then again, this is Austin.

“He’s her other brother,” Greg blurts out, surprising everyone. Alex frowns, but doesn’t argue, and slowly nods. The doctor frowns, glancing between me and Alex, no doubt wondering at the contrast between my Cherokee red-man tan and Alex’s white-man complexion and auburn hair.

I improvise. “I’m adopted. So what’s up, Doc?”

Alex turns back to the doctor to give him a hurry-up-and-speak nod. Sheryl flutters in with an armful of donuts and a round of coffee for us all. We unload her haul as Greg again takes care of the introductions with the doctor. “Sheryl is her sister.”

The doctor looks weary, but doesn’t seem to want to delve into the truthfulness of our family ties. He just nods and looks back at the chart in his hands, “As I was saying…” He then starts to rattle off a whole lot of blah-blah-blah. I hold my breath, waiting for the doctor to get to the part where he says, “Oh and by the way, miracle of miracles, Ari doesn’t have a scratch on her, darndest thing. Also, she’s hungry for blueberry pancakes and asking for you, Jake.”

That part never comes.

Instead, I hear things like “set fracture of tibia…three bruised ribs…observation for signs of concussion.” With a strange grin, the doc muses, “She’s lucky, actually. Had the car been going much faster—”

A tremendous pressure starts to build in my chest and my lungs squeeze shut, not able to draw in breath. I press my palm to my heart and wince.

Sheryl notices and wraps an arm around my waist. I frown down at her, surprised by her sweet support of me. She doesn’t know me from Adam, yet she’s letting me lean on her like a crutch. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Ari has always had a knack for surrounding herself with the very best people, after all.

I give her a small grin as I force myself to breathe, with Sheryl quietly assuring me, “She’s okay, Jake. Our girl’s going to be okay. Are you going to be okay?”

Numbly, I nod.

“When can we see her?” Alex asks, his voice steady even as his hands shake at his sides.

“She’s still unconscious from the anesthesia, and when she wakes, she’ll be a bit groggy from the pain medication, but you can visit her now.”

The doctor instructs us on how to find her room. We thank him, collectively, then turn as one, the old guard and the new walking in perfect sync, a surreal lock-step as we haul ass upstairs to see her.

On level three, it’s a hurried scan of room numbers until we finally find her. The door is open to her room, and at the first sight of her, I feel equal parts sick to my stomach and elated beyond measure.

First thought: Jesus, she looks like road kill.

Second thought: Thank fucking Christ she’s not actual road kill.

Ari’s face is a patchwork of scrapes and angry bruises. Her arms and hands are just as shredded, with one arm covered in thick bandages and the other a pincushion for the IV. Suspended at the end of the bed, her left leg is in a giant cast, with her little toes sticking out the end, the trim nails painted bright purple.

Seeing her like this is a total mindfuck. My brain seems to misfire, and my eyes deceive me. In a blink, I don’t see Ari at all—I see my mother.

In a flash, I’m in another time, another place, a different hospital room. Instead of Ari lying before me, battered and broken, I see my mom’s comatose body supine and still, a shell of herself, surrounded by an array of beeping and blinking machines.

I stagger in my step, nearly knocked on my ass as I blink and rub my eyes, confused and pained by what I’m seeing, both in the here and now and in the past. While I stumble, Greg goes stock still as if frozen to the floor, and Sheryl winces and wobbles.

Alex, though, doesn’t hesitate, not even for a millisecond. With an assertive gait, he rushes through the door to Ari’s room and kneels at her bedside faster than a vampire drawn to a juicy vein. He clasps one of her hands and whispers words into her ear. I want to look away, feeling like an intruder in their private moment, but seeming unable to look anywhere else.

Greg, Sheryl and I slowly inch inside the room and stand awkwardly at the foot of Ari’s bed. There aren’t enough chairs, just two for the four of us. What’s the protocol here? Who gets to sit—old guard or new guard? We all shuffle awkwardly from foot to foot until Sheryl speaks, her voice cracking the silence like a whip. “I’m going to find a couple more chairs.”

She disappears, and it’s just me and Greg, doing the awkward shuffle as we watch Alex tenderly pet Ari’s hair with his calloused fingers. There’s a bang behind me and I turn to see Sheryl wrestling a chair through the doorway. The thing is twice her size and probably weighs more than she does. Greg is quick to help, maneuvering the thing into the room while Sheryl disappeared to find another one. When she brings that one in, I help and one by one we each sit. Alex remains at Ari’s side, holding her hand, while Sheryl, Greg, and I dot the corners of the room.

I don’t know how long it is that we wait—it feels like eons. The beeps and blips of Ari’s machines remind me too much of the past. I lean forward and dump my head in my hands, covering my ears so I don’t have to hear that steady rhythm.

“Hey,” Alex says, and I perk up. He’s staring at her hand in his. “She’s waking up.”

We all rocket to our feet and circle her bed, watching closely for any twitch, any sign of life. There’s a flutter of her eyelashes, then another. She opens those big brown eyes, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold.

She looks around the room, confused and wincing from the glare of the bright lights. I step back to the doorway and flick off the switch to the overheads, so the only illumination shines in through the large window at her side. When she sees me and the others, her confusion and panic seem to ebb.

Alex moves close to her again, and she turns to him, her lips hinting at a smile.

“Hey there, Little Hare,” he purrs as he runs his fingers gently through her hair again. “Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?”

She blinks away any remaining confusion, then nods, flinching as if the movement hurts her. Alex flinches too, like her pain hurts him. Ari sees the torment on his face and slowly lifts her palm to his cheek. With a hint of a smile, she whispers in a raspy, coarse voice, “I’m okay, baby.”

Alex slumps with relief, looking practically boneless without all the tension and panic to hold him upright. On a gust of breath, he sighs, “Thank fucking Christ.”

Ari smiles at him, this time a genuine full-wattage grin. It is pure gold, brighter than the sun.

Alex moves in and kisses her temple, because the rest of her face is a maze of bruises no man could navigate. Her eye lids flutter and she grins to herself as he whispers some sweet secret into her ear. When he pulls away, Ari pinches the fabric of his dayglow safety vest between her fingers. When she speaks, there is a hint of humor in her tone. “What are you wearing? You look like a traffic cone.”

Alex chuckles when he answers, “I hope you like it. ‘Cuz if you keep playing in traffic, I’m buying you one and making you wear it every time you leave the house.”

Ari giggles and looks at him like he’s her brave knight pledging to slay the dragons that threaten her. And shit, it feels awkward to stand here and watch their private exchange.

“I should go,” Greg whispers to me and fidgets, taking a step toward the door, obviously sharing my discomfort.

“Greg, wait,” Ari calls out.

Greg stops in his tracks and nods as she beckons him forward with her bruised fingers. “Do you need anything? I can bring you something from the house, just name it—”

“Thank you.” Ari’s eyes tear up.

I feel a lump form in my own throat at the sight of it. Shit. How close did we come to losing her today?

She reaches out, and when he steps closer, she squeezes Greg’s hand, her voice watery when she repeats, “Thank you.”

“I…uh…” Greg’s eyes water and he looks down at the floor. He shakes his head, then sets his jaw in a rigid line when he looks back up at her and clears his throat. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

When Ari smiles, Greg does too, but still it’s weird to see them like this. For years, they were inseparable, a unit; all of us were the Three Musketeers. Now, they look so awkward and distant, even as they hold hands.

On the other side of her bed, Alex stands and faces Greg. The two men have sat together for hours now, waiting for news about Ari, waiting for her to wake. And never during that time did they actually do the whole meet-and-greet thing. Now, with Ari’s fate known, with her smiling eyes watching them, they shake hands for the first time.

It’s Alex who takes the lead, stretching his hand out, spanning half the distance of Ari’s bed. Greg looks down at it, then extends his own hand—which he’d had the good sense to wash clean of blood a few hours ago. Ari tears up, clearly touched by the silent peace accord between her soon-to-be ex-husband and her new boyfriend.

“Hey guys, don’t bogart the babe,” Sheryl hollers as she clomps forward and makes her way to Ari. It’s just the right amount of levity to calm everyone’s twitchy nerves. Dialing back her usual bone-crushing action, Sheryl gives Ari a hug that is downright gentle. It looks weird.

“Sher Bear!” Ari grins at her friend, then asks the room, “jeez, was there an article in the newspaper? How’d you all know I was here?”

“Jake.” Alex and Sheryl answer in unison.

Actually, it was Nicole who helped me get in touch with everyone, but I don’t say that, because, yeah, awkward.

“Hey, Jake.” Ari levels her gaze at me as I hover by the door like a creeper. She gives me that heart-stopping grin of hers. Despite all the black and blue, her face is as sweet as an angel’s, and that smile just about levels me to the ground.

“Hey, Two Shoes.” I take a step toward her, then another, approaching with caution, as if walking too hard could do her harm.

“I tried something new today.”

“Heard about that.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

“Heard that, too.” I smirk. “And here I thought your days of experimentation were over.”

She giggles, and the sound soothes my jangled nerves. Man she’s tough. Just one more thing to love about her.

“You once told me you’re not as breakable as I think you are. I have to say, I completely believe that right now. Look at you. You’re the fucking Queen of Road Rash, but nothing can break you.”

“Well, technically…” Ari points at her broken leg in a cast.

“Aw, you’re just bent, little sis, not broken…never broken.” I give her a wink and swoop in for a hug, trying not to hurt her as I gingerly drape my arms around her. In return, Ari squeezes the ever-loving shit out of me, then grumbles that I’ve hurt her.

Her grousing is sweet music to my ears. The breaks and bruises will heal. What matters is her feisty spirit, her genuinely sweet smile, and the twinkle in those big brown eyes—to lose those would have been devastating.

Sheryl again interrupts the touchy-feelies with her usual delicacy. “So what the bloody fuck happened, diva? ‘Cuz if your goal was to get everyone in the same room, you could have just asked. Am I right, guys?” Even Greg nods and laughs at that one.

“Well, I was crossing the street, and this guy ran the stop sign, and then blammo.” Ari uses her fingers to demonstrate the scene like action figures. I don’t miss when Alex blanches, both of us seemingly picturing the live-action version and not liking the view. Greg goes pale, remembering the live action version and not liking the view either.

“Shit.” Sheryl speaketh the truth.

“My baby,” the strained and reed-thin voice comes from behind me. I turn with a start to find Ari’s parents standing in the doorway, looking haggard and stricken by the sight of Ari in that hospital bed. Jesus, they got here fast. I check the time on my phone, surprised that nearly the entire day has slipped by while we sat and waited.

But now, at the sight of her parents, Ari’s mask of bravery slips. The adrenaline she’s been coasting on tanks, and with an exhausted whimper, she crashes. “Mom,” Ari whispers softly—cue the waterworks. Ari’s always been a hell of a crier. Not just quick to tears, but once she starts, it’s like a crack in the Hoover Dam. Which is perhaps why seeing her brave-faced and so jovial after such a trauma feels a bit…off. It’s when Ari doesn’t cry that you have a reason to worry.

In a flash Ari’s mom is at her bedside, hugging her only child against her chest and rocking her. My own eyes water at that. At the other side of her bed, Alex nervously jumps to his feet and makes room for Ari’s dad to sit on his daughter’s bed. The big man cups the palm of his hand on the back of her head and whispers quietly to his little girl.

Alex, Greg, and Sheryl stare down at the floor, like they’re trying to give the family some privacy, but I don’t. I can’t seem to help myself—I watch them. I’ve always watched them. I’ve always been fascinated by the dynamics of other families. Not to mention that the hospital happy ending playing out before me is too good to look away from.

As if to spite me, my brain burps up a noxious cloud of toxic memories. Awful images of my mom in a room not much different from this one. The indelible impression of my brother seizing on the floor, his hand still clutched in mine, trembling like a puppet wiggling at the end of a string. The controlled chaos of the nurses and doctors trying to save him. The feeling of Uncle Eli’s arms wrapped around me, crushing me, while I clawed and fought against him—

Fuuuuuuck. I close my eyes and rub at the lids, trying to wipe away those awful memories. Fucking hell, I hate hospitals. The fact that I’ve been here for the better part of a day is clearly starting to mess with my head.

“I need to get out of here.” Greg mumbles at my side, his thoughts mirroring my own exactly. He turns to leave just as Ari introduces her parents to Alex.

“Yeah, man, I’ll come with you.” I murmur back. A bit louder, so the room can hear me, I say, “We’ll give you guys some privacy. Call if you need anything.”

“Greg,” Kathryn calls to him as he moves toward the exit, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He slowly turns on his heels, and freezes as he watches his mother-in-law approach with warm eyes and a sweet smile. Ari has her mom’s smile, and I can’t help but grin at the sight of the familiar expression. Kathryn surprises Greg with an embrace as she whispers, “Thank you for calling us, sweetheart, and thank you for…being there…and—” she steps back, taking in the vision of his bloody attire, and blanches, but quickly recovers. She grasps both of his hands in hers. “Just, thank you.”

Greg swallows hard, looking a bit lost as he slowly nods.

Next, Kathryn turns her attention to me and frowns. “Jake, honey, are you okay? You look a little pale?”

I nod. “It’s been a long day, Mrs. Goody, but things are looking up.”

She wraps me in a hug, and as her warmth envelops me, I feel at peace for the briefest moment. Steve follows his wife over to us and offers us each a solid handshake, before returning his attention to his daughter and the new people in her life.

I look to my left and find Greg is already gone. I have to jog to catch up with him in the hall as he marches toward the exit of the hospital, “Hey man, you alright?”

Greg stalls out in his pace and turns, his head hanging heavy from his shoulders. “Yeah, I’m fine.”Fine. Right.

“Want to go out tonight and get completely shitfaced?”

Greg chuckles, then nods, “God yes.”

****

“Two shots of Jack.” As I order, I wink at Maggie, the cute little tattooed and pierced bartender. She winks back at me, then glances and grins bashfully at Greg. With his casually-refined clothes, hair neatly combed back off his face, and his tragically sad eyes, he looks the spitting image of Montgomery Clift tonight. He doesn’t notice her. As he stares at his own hand tracing a pattern in the wood grain on the surface of the bar, he doesn’t seem to notice much of anything. With a shrug, Maggie turns away to tend to our drinks. I nudge Greg with an elbow to his side. “You were saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything,” Greg stubbornly grumbles as he watches Mags deliver our drinks. Since our parting at the hospital, he’s showered and changed out of his bloody clothes. But he still looks like a wreck, like he’s the one who’s been hit by a Honda. When Maggie moves on to other customers, Greg picks up his whiskey shot and stares into it like it’s a crystal ball. Then he shrugs and smirks at me. To the din of bar chatter and The Scorpions rocking us like a hurricane, we do our shots without a toast.

Only then does Greg start talking. “Man, shit sucks.”

As he starts, I settle into my seat for the long haul. Greg has this way of not sharing a damn thing about himself until the whiskey starts to flow, and then it’s an all-out emotional-upchuck. Cue the word vomit: “We were fine, you know. I mean, maybe a little stale, but isn’t that what marriage is supposed to be like? You settle into a comfortable—”

“Numbness?” I add helpfully.

Greg frowns at me. “I wasn’t numb. I loved her. I still love her. Fucking hell, I still love her. But she wanted to open things up and, honestly, the idea excited me, and—then the whole thing with Kate…shit, that was such a fucking mistake.”

Welcome to the Greg and Ari Show. I’ve been in the live studio audience for almost thirteen years. Lately, it’s been a fucking soap opera. “What’s the story there? Are you and the secretary no longer a thing? Because, I thought you were in love with her.”

“She’s my assistant, not my secretary, asshole.” Greg huffs and takes a swig of his beer, then the tension in his shoulders melts away when he admits, “I thought I was in love with her, too.” With a shrug and another swallow of drink, he adds, “Turns out, I had it all wrong…what love is.”

“What is love?” I ask with a chuckle.

Greg frowns at me. “Christ, Jake, if you start singing that Haddaway song, I will break your nose.”

I chuckle as I take a sip of beer. The thought had occurred to me, but tonight is not the time to burst into song. I raise an eyebrow, but remain silent, waiting for Greg to share whatever insights he has to offer.

“I think…I used to think that love was about the good times. I thought it was just about being happy with someone, or at least being content with them.”

“It’s not about being happy?”

“Well, of course everyone wants to be happy, but the good times…that’s the easy part. The real shit, the true test of mettle, that only comes out during the bad times. That’s when love really matters. And I…I fucked it up. I took things for granted. I took her for granted.” Greg presses his palms to his bottle of beer and holds the thing out like he’s reading the label. “And when things got bad, I didn’t even notice. I stopped paying attention years ago. I figured, if I’m content, then she must be, too. I didn’t put any work into it. I didn’t think I had to. All my life, things have come easy for me. It never occurred to me that this wouldn’t.”

Can’t argue with that. Greg’s led a remarkably charmed life, especially when compared to mine. “This?”

Greg scowls at me, but answers. “Marriage. Love. You know, all that shit. I never thought that it would require…work, you know?”

I roll my eyes at him, “For a smart guy, you’re kind of an idiot. What did you think all those marriage vows about sickness and health and richer and poorer are about? Marriage is supposed to be about the good and the bad times, or did no one ever explain that to you?”

“Yeah, but that’s my point.” Greg’s eyes seem to twinkle, and he shifts on his seat to face me, ready for a debate, ready to let the analytical parts of his brain take over from the emotional parts for the first time today. “We’ve got plenty of money, and we’ve both been healthy. We never had those obvious sources of stress to contend with. Most couples fight about, what; money, sex, kids…well, the money and sex have always been good, and no kids, so—”

“If the sex was so good, why was she in such a hurry to fuck other dudes?” I don’t know why I say it. It’s a needlessly cruel observation, and one I’m sure Greg has spent many nights wondering about himself. Still, I find it frustrating that Greg could have been so blind to what was really happening in his own marriage. When his wife had asked to open the marriage, he’d jumped at the chance rather than taking a moment to wonder why she was asking. But that’s nothing new for Greg; he’s never been one to worry about the emotional shit. He’d just assumed that all was well at home, never noticing that his wife was withering away in the house he’d bought her, fucking Rapunzel wanting to let down her hair.

Greg scowls at me again, “If it were just about sex…it wasn’t about the sex.”

“And Kate, how does she fit into this?”

He groans and finishes his beer, then orders another and another round of shots. “Kate…Kate was about the sex. I conflated my curiosity of the newness, my sexual attraction to her, and my genuine admiration of her into some big emotional…thing, then confused that thing, whatever it was, with love. And I’m not sure exactly what Kate felt toward me, but it wasn’t love.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think lately.” Greg grimaces and takes a drinks of his fresh beer. He pauses in deep thought for a moment, before adding, “This morning, when Ari was hit…all I could think was, ‘I’m going to lose her. I’m going to lose her.’ And then, when we got to the hospital…seeing Alex, seeing her with Alex today, it all became really clear. I’ve already lost her. I mean…shit, that sounds awful…that came out wrong. I’m not equating her leaving me with her dying, I just meant—”

I frown. “I know what you meant, brother.”

With a relieved exhale, he muses, “I had the love of an amazing woman, and I didn’t even realize how lucky that made me. And now look at me…getting drunk in a bar, pining over everything I’ve lost.”

Welcome to my life, Greg. I drown that pathetic bout of self-pity with another chug of beer, then grab one of the shots. Greg grabs the other and with false cheer in my tone, I go with an old toast, one we made up one night back in college. “To the two hottest guys in the bar.”

Greg remembers it too, and graces me with a nostalgic smile as he raises his glass to clink mine. “To them, whoever they are.” We both chug our drinks. With a low groan, Greg rubs his hand over his face and then forces a smile in my direction as he asks, “Enough about me, what about you? Anything new?”

“I fucked Rebecca again last night,” I admit with a heavy sigh.

Greg chokes on his beer. Laughing and coughing as he pounds on his chest, he adds, “Well aren’t we a fine pair?”

Can’t argue with him there. I glance across the bar to a blonde and redhead who’ve been giving us their come-hither looks for about fifteen minutes now. The redhead is cute in the face, and the blonde has a massive set of tits that jiggle when she fake-laughs. I turn to Greg. “Speaking of a fine pair, there’s a fine pair of ladies making eyes at us, ten o’clock. Shall we fuck them?”

“Yes. Let’s…” Greg toasts the air and then downs the rest of his beer. “Or…no, wait. I forgot. I have to go home, curl up into the fetal position on the bathroom floor, and weep until I pass out.”

“Sounds like a party. Wear a condom.”

Greg smirks at me as he ambles to his feet and tosses a couple of twenties on the bar for Mags. With a nod to me, he turns and leaves without another word.

In his absence, I find that the heavy weight of my mood doesn’t lift. If anything, my mood worsens. Without Greg here to cry in my ear about losing Ari, I’m left to my own thoughts, and lo and behold, they stray to Ari as well.

We could have lost her today.

The weight of that reality settles on my shoulders like Atlas’ burden. What would I do without her? I close my eyes, and in an instant, my traitorous mind morphs my thoughts back to those memories of before, images of the woman I did lose. I see my mom lying in her hospital bed, non-responsive, sallow in color, the left side of her face covered in thick bandages, a tube shoved down her throat to push air in and suck it back out of her lungs. There’s an empty space where her right leg should be, severed just above the knee. The car had landed on her, crushing the limb beyond saving—

I blink and rub my eyes, wanting to wipe my memories away, then look over at the blonde and redhead. How much work would it take to get them into a threesome? The way they’re looking at me, not much. So why does the thought of it exhaust me?

Too tired to fuck? That’s a new one.

I stare at the bottom of my glass, contemplating leaving, but where would I go? Back to my apartment, to stare at the bottom of a different glass…or bottle? Alone? But I’m alone here, too. Always alone. I glance across the bar at the blonde and redhead again, recognizing the opportunity for what it is. I don’t have to be alone; not for tonight, anyway.

With a groan and a sigh, I gulp down what’s left of my beer, leave some money on the bar for Mags, stand on stiff legs, and weave my way through the crowd. As I near the two women, they straighten their postures and paste inviting grins on their plump lips. I grin too, and nod at them as I near. I consider my evening options for a moment, consider the prospect of burying my sorrows in them.

But at the last minute, I continue past their corner of the bar and head out the door to find a cab ride home.

Next Chapter

Sunday November 14, 2004

I am not a sad person. I have never been a sad person. But have I ever truly been a happy person? If I am a happy person, wouldn’t I know? But how do you know something like that? What are the signs, the symptoms of happiness?

These are the cold, cruel thoughts that ricochet through my head, leaving Swiss cheese holes and torn bits of gray matter in their wake. This is the jagged-toothed self-doubt that gnaws at me like a dog with a bone. This is the fallout from my little epiphany bomb, dropped that sad day as I stared at the lifeless face of Greg’s grandfather.

On the dawn of my twenty-ninth year, my eyes were opened to the revelation of my own eventual demise, my finite mortality reflected back at me from the grave. And those thoughts were not buried alongside Charles Elton Hendricks III. They infected me, they infect me still—growing, feeding, eating away at me like a necrotic wound.

Frustratingly, the thoughts that ping and pierce my mind like little bits of shrapnel, are neither helpful nor actionable. They come at me in the form of useless bumper sticker sentiments like:

Life is short. Live it.

Are you Carpeing your Diem?

Don’t worry, be happy.

But I am happy, aren’t I? I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m not unhappy. Doesn’t that count for something?

I shake my head and frown as I turn the corner and walk further through the neighborhood of mid-century ranch-style homes. On my left, I spot the remains of some poor, dead creature flattened in the middle of the road. I hold my breath, not wanting to breathe in the carrion scent that calls to the buzzards circling above. Thankful that I have my dreary thoughts to distract me from the morbid tableau, I quicken my pace until I’m far enough away not to smell the rot when I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp air.

If happiness is not binary, not black and white but rather a spectrum of gray, then what shade of gray am I? Am I charcoal, gunmetal, slate? Maybe my happiness is taupe. Is taupe even a shade of gray, or is it more of a beige? Hell, maybe my shade of happiness is beige. For fuck’s sake, please don’t let my happiness be beige. If I could choose, I’d opt for a heather-gray sort of happiness, flecks of light and dark blending together to form my own personal shade of middle of the road. But what is that emotion, the one in the middle? When you’re neither overwhelmed with joy, nor drowning in sorrow, do you simply wallow in some muddy shade of numbness?

Oh Jesus, talk about wallowing. I roll my eyes and laugh out loud at my whiny inner monologue. I cross a footbridge over the creek and move deeper into the small city park nestled within the urban neighborhood, and ringed on the far side by the freeway.

Clearly, I’m in a funk. This is nothing new. It always happens when Greg goes away on business. I suck at being alone. It’s a character flaw. Alone, I tend to retreat into my head, and that’s only ever a good thing when I’m writing. This time, though, seems worse than usual. Just one week into Greg’s two-week stint in Singapore, and I’m already going on daily hours-long walks so I don’t suffocate as the walls close in on me.

I hug my jacket closed as I approach a bench near the edge of the water. It’s Beatrice and Samuel Dickson’s bench, dedicated in 2001, or so the little brass plaque screwed to the green metal slats reads. Settling onto Bea and Sam’s bench, I let the quiet babble of the brook soothe my addled mind.

After a moment’s repose, I pull my notebook out of my satchel, click my pen into writing mode, and hover the tip over the page. Nothing comes. The black ballpoint leaves little tick marks on the crisp white paper, but no words make their way onto the page. After too long waiting for inspiration to strike, I give up and rip the page out of the binder—when you’re blocked, no writing is just as much garbage as bad writing. With a huff and grumble, I wad up the page and stuff it back into my bag, then pull my feet up onto the bench and hug my knees to my chest, gently rocking myself as I take in the scenery.

It’s too late in the year for most of the birds, but the crisp, chill wind blowing through the spindly branches of the dormant trees is enough white noise to distract me from my dreary state of mind. And down on the leaf-strewn ground, a ginger-toned squirrel busies himself with the task of finding and burying pecans for foraging later in the season.

At the sound of a shrill whistle behind me, the squirrel scurries up a nearby tree. I yelp and cover my head with my hands as I twist around to identify the source of the unnatural sound.

Jake.

Shielding his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun, Jake stares up at the tree where the squirrel fled. With his long hair down past his shoulders and wearing his old leather jacket over a ratty Megadeth t-shirt and aged black jeans, Jake looks much like he did when I first met him over a decade ago. Still tall, dark, handsome, and cocky; and the ensemble makes him look about ten years younger than his actual age. It’s a good look for him, and popular with the ladies. With another shrill burst of breath between tongue and teeth, he whistles long and loud as he turns his face down to ask me, “Did you see the testicles on that big, brassy son of a bitch?”

I blink, stunned. “Huh?”

Not waiting for an actual answer, Jake stretches his left arm out to brace on the back of the bench, then with a swing of his weight to the right, he leaps over the back in a single bound, and flops onto the seat beside me with a harrumph. “That squirrel’s balls were huge. Like, a third of his overall body weight. Can you imagine if humans lugged around cahones like that?” Jake chuckles as he stretches out and lights a cigarette. He offers me a drag, as he always does, and I refuse, as I always do. With another low whistle, he shakes his head and clutches at his crotch as he posits, “It’d be like sporting a pair of watermelon in my Fruit of the Looms.”

I blink again, and Jake chuckles, succeeding once more at his favorite pastime, the Stun-Ari-Speechless game.

“Well,” Jake crosses his long legs at the ankles and blows a puff of smoke into the wind before asking, “How’s it hangin’?”

The sound I make resembles “meh,” which earns me a cockeyed scowl from Jake.

“I’m gonna need more words outta you, sister, unless you want me to do all the talking.” With a cocky grin, he pauses to give me a window to start talking, which he promptly closes with, “Did you know that Brass Balls up the tree there has a bone in his penis. A legit ‘boner,’ the lucky little fucker.” He chuckles to himself, before continuing. “Actually, most mammals have a baculum; that’s the Latin name for penis bone.” Another brief pause for a puff of smoke. “In fact, humans and spider monkeys are the only primates who don’t—”

“Are you happy?” I interrupt.

“—have a boner bone.” Jake finishes, then frowns. This time, he’s the one who’s stunned speechless.

I stare at him, intent, waiting for an answer.

“Happy?” With a shrug, he mumbles, “Sure,” then takes another drag off of his cigarette.

“How do you know?”

Jake cocks his head to the side to give me a proper scowl. “The fuck are you talking about, woman?”

“How do you know that you’re happy? It’s a simple question.” I hug my legs tighter to my chest and rest my chin on my knees, watching him as he considers his answer.

And consider it, he does, furrowing his brow as he takes a long drag on his cigarette. After a moment, he offers, “I don’t know, I mean, I’ve got great friends, a pretty decent band, I can pay my rent each month, I’ve got my health…” After a long exhale, he cocks an eyebrow and adds, “Plus, I’m ridiculously good looking, practically drowning in eager pussy, and I’ve got a girlfriend who can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. Happy doesn’t begin to cover it, darlin’, I’m fuckin’ ecstatic.”

I roll my eyes, “Deep thoughts with Jake Sixkiller. I should have known better.”

Jake chuckles, but soon his expression grows serious. He extinguishes his smoke on the sole of his boot, and turns to face me, assuming the thoughtful pose of a therapist on the clock, “What’s brought all this up, little sis?”

With a huff, I rest my cheek against my knees. “I…it’s just…I’m not…I don’t…”

This time it’s Jake who waits, statue-still as he watches me closely, his keen eyes taking in every stammer and twitch.

“I don’t think I’m very happy.” I sigh, and Jake frowns, so I quickly add, “but I don’t think I’m unhappy either. I think I’m…neither…which is what scares me. It’s like I’m, I don’t know, just sort of existing without…feeling, like I’m numb. Which seems like utter bullshit, right? I mean, I listen to your list and I nod and I say to myself, ‘yep, yep, uh huh, me too.’ I have a great family. I have Greg. I have you. I have a roof over my head and I don’t have to work some shit job to pay for it. I have my health. I have…plenty. So why am I not, you know, more…happy?”

“Maybe you’re about to start on the rag. Cuz, you know, sometimes you get a tad bit…emotional, and—”

“One more word and I swear I’ll punch you in your goddamn squirrel sac, Jacob Mitchell Sixkiller. I mean it.”

“Right,” Jake smirks, “because that’s something a menstruating woman would never ever threaten to—”

“Jake.” I frown, and he drops the sexist dickhead act, nodding to me in deference. I continue, “I think I’m going through a mid-life crisis—”

“Twenty-nine is only mid-life if you plan to die at sixty, little sis. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Semantics. My point is, I’m going through a…thing. I’ve been taking stock, and while I have all these things in my life that should be enough to make me happy, all I can seem to focus on are the things I don’t have, the things that are missing. I mean, not…things…just…like…”

“Like what?” Jake prods gently. With a snap to his spine, his head rockets forward, and his eyes bulge out as if he’s been slapped and goosed at the same time. “Oh fuck me, are you talking about babies? Are you trying to get pregnant? Is that what this is about?”

I frown. No. It’s not. In fact, in the month since the funeral, as I’ve assessed my wants and needs, the thought of having a child with Greg never once occurred to me. And now, facing the concept head on, it still doesn’t entice me. I slowly shake my head, no, and Jake seems to exhale a slow breath as he recovers and relaxes.

Rugrats are not what’s missing in my life; that much I know. I’ve never once felt a twinge of want for babies. When the Fairy Godmother of Maternal Instinct started bonking ladies on the head with her Wand of Baby Want, she must have missed me.

But the fact that babies was the first conclusion that Jake jumped to is telling. At twenty-nine, I’m supposed to want kids, aren’t I? That’s the norm, that’s the life path most taken, but here I go to beat feet through the bramble and bushes off to the far left, wanting not babies, but—

“Then what is it that’s missing? What are we talking about here?” With a silent tilt to his head, he implores me to continue, to share my deepest thoughts.

In that moment, I want to tell him everything. I look into his warm eyes and I see my best friend and closest confidant, the person I’ve shared just about everything with over the last decade. I want to stare him straight in the eyes, not flinching or stammering as I open my mouth and spew the truth of what I’m feeling like a geyser, saying to him, “I want to live. I want to breathe free. I want to explore my limits. I want to try new things. I want to taste and smell and touch the world around me. I want to see it all with fresh, open eyes.” I catch my breath, the excitement bubbling through me even though I’m only saying these words in my head. With new air in my lungs, I raise my imaginary voice even louder as I boldly declare, “I want to fuck and suck and scream and come. I want to travel the world and dance naked in the rain and howl at the moon. I want to love and lust and laugh, I want to hurt and scorn and cry. I want to feel…everything.” Shit, I think I’m tearing up. I turn my face down, busying my hands by tugging at the laces of my boots, tying them into double knots.

Jake reaches forward and clasps my fists in his. “What’s going on? What aren’t you saying?”

I panic. What can I say? I can’t tell him any of this. Every time I open my mouth to speak the truth, I see a flash of images: Greg’s face on the day we met; his smile on the day we married; the look he gives me when he makes love to me; the way he grins as he kisses my forehead before he leaves for his long trips…

Everything I’m feeling now is a betrayal of him. Doesn’t the mere fact that I want more than what I have suggest that what I have is not sufficient, that Greg is not enough? I snap my lips shut like a child about to cross her heart and throw away the key that will unlock all her secrets. There is no way I can voice any of these thoughts or desires. In fact, I’ve already said too much. Jake isn’t just my best friend, he’s Greg’s as well. The two of them have been practically inseparable since they were fourteen years old. What sort of nonsense was I thinking when I called Jake and asked him to meet me, explaining that I needed to talk. I can’t talk to him about any of this stuff. I can’t—

“Ari Beth, babe, talk to me.” Jake’s thumbs stroke the backs of my hands and his eyes are filled with worry as he tries to coax me into clearing my chest.

I can’t bear that look in his eyes, so I open my mouth, stammering through a vague, “I don’t know, I guess I just want…new…experiences.”

“Experiences?” Jake queries.

“Yeah, experiences.” I sigh, wanting to end it there, but knowing from twelve years of friendship, that there is no way Jake will leave this alone. So I expound with yet more vagaries. “Don’t you ever feel like you’re missing out? Like you’ve missed out? Like you took a wrong turn somewhere and now you’re on the wrong road and you’re miles away from where you want to be and you’ve had your face stuck in a map the whole time, so you haven’t even been looking at the scenery as you’ve gone by.”

Jake blinks, frowns, and reaches his hand up to feel my forehead for a fever.

I can’t help it; I chuckle at the gesture. “I sound crazy, don’t I?”

Jake’s face relaxes into an easy smile and he holds up his fingers a pinch apart to illustrate that, yes, I do sound a little bit crazy. I chuckle again, but it’s a hollow sound and Jake hears it, too.

With a slow shake of his head, he gives me a subtle shrug and admits, “I’m sorry, little sis, but I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”

Of course he doesn’t. I’m talking to a man who has never said “no thanks” ever in his life. Jake is a marvel to me, always has been. Fearing nothing, he will try anything at least once. We are opposites in that way: him guided by curiosity and a live-fast-die-young approach to life, and me ruled by fear. Since the death of his family when he was just a kid, Jake’s thrown caution to the wind, living life to its fullest, fully aware that it could end at any moment.

I’m vaguely aware of the same thing, so why am I so fucking reserved? Throw caution to the wind? Ha, what a joke. I wrap myself in caution, like it’s a fuzzy blanket on a cold night. All my life, I’ve taken the safe road, the path of least resistance. And where has it gotten me—chaffed and smothered by the boundaries of my safe little life.

I scratch at my too-tight skin like a methadone patient until Jake stops me, frowning deep when I pull my hands away and yank the sleeves of my jacket low over my fists. Hugging my arms around my legs, I start to rock myself again.

Jesus H Christ, I’m acting like a crazy person.

I shift positions, kicking my feet out in front of me to stomp my heels flat on the ground, stretching my spine ramrod straight, and clasping my hands tight in my lap. Jake frowns, clearly concerned, as he asks, “Are you okay, Two Shoes?”

Two Shoes, Jake’s nickname for me. It sounds like an Indian name, but actually it’s a reference to an Adam Ant song he used to sing to me, Goody Two Shoes. It took exactly one week working at my first job at the bookstore in the mall, Jake the pothead assistant-manager and me the hardworking high school senior who restocked the shelves three nights a week, for my name to transform from Ariana “Ari” Goody, to Goody Two Shoes, to just plain Two Shoes. The nickname stuck. Two Shoes is the name Greg knew me by when we first met. There are people in the various bands that Jake has performed with over the years who only ever knew me as Two Shoes. And I didn’t mind. It never bothered me. It had always been accurate; I was a Goody Two Shoes, and stubbornly proud of that fact.

But now, I’m not proud of it. Now, I do mind. Now, it does bother me. I don’t want to be a good girl, a goody two shoes. I don’t want to live a cautious, safe life just to get to the end and look back with regret at every adventure I didn’t take. I want to be more like Jake and Grandpa Chuck, to live a life of bluster, moxy, and gusto.

I clear the lump from my throat, and answer, “I’m fine, Jake. I’m just…fine.”

Jake watches me closely, his keen eyes taking in the full scope and measure of me, seeing right through me. His jaw moves into a rigid line, back and forth, like he’s chewing on the gristle of my lie and can’t quite swallow it.

I stare back at him, unflinching and unblinking. I don’t say another word. I don’t trust my voice to hold up much longer. Finally, with a huff, Jake shrugs and turns away from me. We sit that way, side-by-side, staring forward at the creek and the woods and the squirrels going about their business. Neither of us speak and the silence is like a weight on my chest. Sitting so close to my friend, yet sentenced to this strange solitary confinement.

I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to confess and lessen this burden. Instead I cross my legs and inspect my fingernails. With another heavy sigh, his silent yet vocal display of disapproval, Jake reaches into his back pocket and produces his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lights up and takes a long drag.

This time, for the first time in as long as I can remember, he doesn’t offer me a puff.

This time, I want one. “May I?” I ask, holding my hand out.

Jake glances over, clearly confused. “Huh?”

I point at the burning tip of his cigarette, my eyes imploring when I say, “I want to try it.”

“Smoking?”

I nod.

“No.”

“What?”

“No.”

“But…” I huff and twist on the seat to face him, waving a hand in the air, full of righteous indignation as I say, “You always offer—”

“And you always decline.”

“Well, this time I’m not declining, so gimme.”

“No.”

“What the hell, Jake?” My voice ratchets up to a yell and my head snaps in a surly, daytime talk show display of spunky attitude. “Some friend you are.”

Jake sputters and turns in his seat to face me, his own righteous indignation flaring up like a flash fire. “Is this what you’re talking about? Is this the new experiences you want to try? Nicotine addiction? That’s just dumb, Ari.”

“If I’m dumb for wanting to try your cigarette, then what does that make you? I mean, besides a giant asshole.” I huff and cross my arms over my chest, pouting and pissed.

Jake slumps against the bench and hisses his breath out through his teeth like steam escaping a kettle. “I’m sorry. You’re not dumb.”

The last of my steam seeps out, too, and I sigh with more exasperation than I actually feel. “I’m sorry, too. You’re not a giant asshole, just a medium-sized asshole.”

Jake tries to hide the hint of a grin that curls the edges of his mouth. After a moment, he slowly lifts his arm, extending the hand holding the cigarette toward me.

I glance at him, surprised, taking a moment to realize he’s extending a cancer stick olive branch. I beam a thousand-watt smile at him, squealing like a kid on Christmas as I awkwardly accept the small gift.

Before he can even get halfway through his instructions for how I’m supposed to work the thing, I’ve stuck the filter end between my lips and sucked in a deep breath. Then I nearly cough up a lung and my breakfast…and last night’s dinner.

When I can finally breathe again without dry heaving, I hear Jake chuckling at my side. I raise my watery eyes to scowl at him.

“How’s that new experience treatin’ ya, Two Shoes?”

****

I catch the phone on the fourth ring, just as the machine tries to pick up. Juggling the thing in dishwater-soaked hands, I finally manage to pinch the receiver between my cheek and shoulder and breathlessly answer, “Hello…hello?”

Greg’s voice sounds distant, but 10,000 miles of separation will do that to a voice. “Everything okay? Sounds like you wrestled the phone from the jaws of a tiger.”

“Yeah, Austin’s changed a lot since you left last week. Tigers everywhere.”

That earns me a chuckle from the other end of the world.

“How’s Singapore?” I ask as I make my way back to the kitchen, scrubbing the sauce pan I’d used to make dinner.

“I haven’t had much time to explore, but so far my impression is that it’s big and crowded.” With a shrug in his tone, he tacks on, “You’d hate it.”

I smirk, but try to hide the irritation in my voice when I ask, “Why do you say that? You never know, I might love it.”

Greg scoffs, clearly skeptical, but wisely changes the subject. “So what are you doing, and more importantly, what are you wearing?”

That earns him a giggle. In my sexiest voice, I inform him, “I’m in the kitchen, bent over the sink. I’m wet…dripping, wearing your Slayer t-shirt.”

That gets me a low groan, like a tiger growl, and the rustling noise on his end of the line suggests he’s moving the phone from one ear to the other. “Which one?”

“South of Heaven, duh.” It’s my favorite t-shirt in the entire house. He knows this. “And I’m not wearing any underwear.” That part’s not true. I’m actually wearing my most comfortable granny panties, in addition to a pair of his old sweatpants rolled up three times at the ankles, and fluffy winter socks covered in little snowmen.

I can tell he appreciates my editorial decision by the hitch in his breath. “Keep talking. I need to hear your voice.”

And so I do. I tell him about my last few days—grocery shopping, trying to write, lunch with Jake, trying to write again, renewing my driver’s license, smoking my first cigarette—

“What?” He squawks, and I giggle at the strange, almost squeaky sound.

“Jake let me have a drag off one of his cigarettes.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“Why?”

“Because…I wanted to try it.” Before he can ask “why” again, I continue with, “It’s this new thing I’m trying, where I try new things.”

I can practically see the scowl on his face when he grumbles something incomprehensible under his breath.

Feeling an urgency to defend myself, desperately seeking his approval, I expound, “I’ve been thinking…the funeral got me thinking. I mean, you know, we’ve talked about this before—”

“Ari, he was ninety-two.” Greg’s pat response—math. We’d had this conversation a couple of times before. It always ended here, with Greg explaining that his grandfather had lived a good long life and thus my tears were misplaced. What Greg has never grasped, and I’ve failed to properly explain, is that my tears are not for Grandpa Chuck.

The thing is, it’s that very same math which Greg relies on as the basis for his logic that is the basis for my turmoil. On that day in October, I’d turned twenty-nine as I stared down at Grandpa Chuck in his cherry box, dead at ninety-two. We’re inverse, Grandpa Chuck and me.

It was then, the moment when I’d done the math, that my epiphany bomb exploded—a moment of clarity so bright it hurt my eyes, frying my retinas so that nothing would ever look the same again. Grandpa Chuck and me, we were inverse in every way. He’d lived a life filled with epic stories. Me? My life has been small and safe—all soft edges and sanitized surfaces. I have no stories, epic or otherwise.

Drying my hands on a dishrag, I switch the phone from one ear to the other as I walk the cordless from room to room, pacing as the walls close in, scratching at my too tight skin again. “I’m not talking about Grandpa Chuck. I’m talking about me.” I groan, “I mean…life is short, I want to live it.”

Oh great, now I’m speaking in bumper sticker sentiments. I half expect Greg to laugh at me, but all I get from his end is silence. I wait, hoping he’ll say something, anything, but there is only that heavy, thick silence settling like a dense fog between us. As if the 10,000 miles wasn’t separation enough.

“Greg?” My voice sounds meek, like the squeak of a mouse.

“Yeah?”

I search for something to say, finally settling on a new subject, “When are you coming home?”

He clears his throat, then answers in an even, emotionless tone, “I have a meeting with the site engineers today. I’ll know more then.”

I nod, even though he can’t see it.

“It’s getting late there. I should let you get some sleep.” That emotionless tone again.

I nod, then mumble a quiet, “Okay.”

“Good night,” Greg says, about to hang up.

“Greg,” I nearly shout.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

There’s a pause, a hiccup of time between when I say it and when he says it back, but when he speaks there’s the hint of his smile in his soft words and gentle tone. “I love you, too. Sweet dreams, sweet thing.”

Next Chapter

Wednesday July 13, 2005 12:45AM

“Bottoms up,” Ryan says, and lifts a shot glass to his lips. Dillon and I follow his lead, and drink the round of whiskey shots someone bought for the band. I’m not sure who our whiskey benefactor is tonight. Not that it really matters—there’s always someone buying drinks for the bands.

Gigging musicians don’t make a whole lot of actual cash money in Austin, but if booze were currency, we’d all be fucking rich. This is our third round of free whiskey shots tonight, a pretty good haul for a Tuesday night show.

I glance at the time on my phone. It’s tomorrow already, and I have two guitar lessons to teach. I need to make it an early night. I might still look young and pretty, but at thirty-five, I’m getting too old for this shit. Plus, if I want to make it home safely, that needs to be my last drink of the night. With the whiskey warming its way down my throat, working its way into my bloodstream, I turn to Tom and ask for a water.

“Jake, what’d you think of the set?” Ryan asks.

I turn to look at the guy and almost squint at the sight of him. For a bass player, Ryan is very pretty. I’d argue that he’s the best looking guy in the band. He’d counter that I hold the title, and with my tall, dark, and handsome Indian warrior qualities, I’ll admit I’m certainly a contender, but he’s a Ken doll. Long, lean, and blonde—he rocks the sun-kissed, land-locked surfer look. And tonight, wearing his favorite leather pants, his bare biceps and bits of his naked chest peeking through the flaps of his leather vest still glistening with a sheen of stage sweat, he practically glows. For tonight at least, he’s clearly got a lock on the title of hottest Nebulous member.

I shrug. “Seemed off to me.”

With the music blaring from the stage, I see the question on Dillon’s lips more than hear it. “Off?” he asks, peeking at me from the far side of Ryan. Too busy nursing a beer with one hand and cupping a cute redhead’s pert ass with the other, Dillon’s only now paying attention to our post-mortem conversation about the show.

A dead ringer for the Muppet ‘Animal’, our drummer Dillon is definitely not in the running for prettiest member of Nebulous, and that’s a badge he wears with pride. Now he blinks at me, his dark eyes peering through a mess of curly reddish-yellow hair, his wide mouth hanging slack, and covered neck-to-toe in a colorful and confusing display of tattoos. When he speaks again, I imagine Frank Oz’s Muppet voice croaking, “Off how?”

“Not you two,” I shout to be heard. “Me. I felt off.”

Ryan and Dillon played great; they always do. We’ve been playing together for five years for a reason. They’re some of the best at what they do. But tonight, I sucked. I missed a key change on one of our oldest songs, and my vocals felt off throughout the set.

I know they noticed it, too, and they’re kind enough not to mention it. No one else in the room seems to have noticed, though.

I glance around the space; the packed crowd now headbanging to the headlining band, some outfit out of Baltimore, wrapping up their tour of the Southwest this week. It’s a crowded show for a Tuesday night, and the packed room reeks of sweat, booze, and the faintest whiff of skunk weed.

The stage in the far corner is lit up with red and yellow lights, and the bar is topped with tangled strands of Christmas lights, but in between is a darkened sea of people undulating and shifting to the sounds coming from the stage. When the band hits a particularly high-energy part of the song, a pit opens up in the center, all punching arms and kicking feet.

I look back at Ryan and Dillon, and yell to be heard over the din when I say, “I’d like to work on some new material.”

Ryan raises a brow and Dillon closes his mouth, giving me a slow nod. It’s Ryan who says, “We haven’t written anything new in almost a year. You getting bored or something?”

I don’t answer, at least not out loud. But I let the question sink in, and yeah, I suppose I am bored. Maybe that’s the problem with my performance. It’s certainly a convenient excuse for my poor showing tonight, anyway.

In that instant, Ryan’s girlfriend returns from her visit to the lady’s room. She sidles up to him and gives him a sweet grin and a kiss on the tip of his nose. Ryan’s focus shifts entirely to her. She’s gorgeous, just as blonde and bronzed as he is, and he’s completely, faithfully in love with her. Seeing them should be inspiring, the embodiment of relationship goals. But relationships have never been on my list of goals, and I’m in no mood to watch the contented lovebirds chirp and peck at each other. Nor do I want to watch Dillon work his “Animal” magnetism on the little redhead.

With another shrug, I tilt my head back and suck down what’s left of my water. As I swallow the last drops, Ryan elbows me in the gut. “Incoming, dude.”

I know what he’s talking about in an instant. Rebecca has entered the building. My shoulders tense up and my stomach tangles in knots. I turn slowly—anxious, but not excited to see her.

In all her beautiful, blonde, and curvy glory, I find the vixen leaning against the bar to my left. She’s in a scrap of a little black dress that perfectly hugs her hips, and pulls taut across those tantalizing tits. She’s gorgeous, and as much as I hate to admit it, she holds power over me. We’re polar opposites, so of course there’s some sort of magnetic pull deep down inside me, an undeniable attraction to this woman—this body, those lips, that wicked little tongue.

There was a time when I thought I could love her, but now, for the life of me, I can’t remember why. We’d given it a try, only to find out that we couldn’t actually tolerate each other for more than about a week. Sadly, it took us almost three months to come to that stunning revelation—the worst three months of my adult life.

Rebecca had been angry when I broke things off. She’d thrown a fit in my apartment, broken a couple of the records in my collection. I’d hated her for a while. Then, one night, I bumped into her at a show and fucked her in the bathroom. I’d thought it was a final goodbye, a farewell fuck. But if that was the case, why have I fucked her half a dozen times since then?

As I stand here staring at her, something in my posture must shift. I don’t feel the change myself, but I see the recognition of it in Rebecca’s eyes. She sees my gaze drift up and down her body, drinking in the sight of her, and she knows I’m under her thumb.

Behind me, the boys must recognize the change as well. They groan with irritation. They’ve never liked Rebecca. Not that they’ve ever said a word about it. We’re not that kind of friends.

Unless you’ve been playing music together since grade school, bandmates inhabit a weird non-space on the friendship spectrum, somewhere around coworker or neighbor—except that we’ve all seen each other naked at least once during our various tours. Despite the nudity aspect, we generally stay out of each other’s business. We see everything, but say nothing; it’s one of the unspoken rules of band life. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil… even when one of us is dating a succubus and could really use an intervention.

Ignoring the rest of the band completely, as usual, Rebecca focuses her clear blue gaze on me. She licks her lips and says, “You were good tonight,” a purr in her voice.

Liar. I ignore the compliment and give her a half grin as I lean into the bar, gesturing for Tom to bring me more water.

“Water? Really?” Rebecca scoffs. “Don’t you want a shot? I’m buying.”

“I have to drive home,” I grumble.

Rebecca leans toward me, presumably to hear me better. This close, I catch a whiff of her perfume. I never liked the stuff. It overwhelms my senses and burns my nostrils. Yet the familiar scent triggers some sort of cruel sense-memory stimulant and sends a rush of blood from my brain to my cock.

“Then maybe we should have shots at your place.” Never one to beat around the bush, her frankness is one of the things that first attracted me to Rebecca. Looking back, though, I’m at a loss to remember the other things.

Well, the sex. Definitely the sex. The sex was great. The sex is still great.

But aside from the dubious desire to fill the space between her legs, there was never much more to us. In all honesty, I never really liked her that much.

My hands shaking, I twist the cap off my second bottle of water and guzzle a good portion of the contents, trying to cool off and reclaim my faculties. With a refreshed gasp, I wipe my mouth dry on my arm, which is still a little slick with stage sweat, and frown at Rebecca. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow. I should head out.”

If she’s disappointed or angered by my rejection, she doesn’t show it. With a smirk and a shrug, she gives me a “your loss” expression and turns her attention to Tom behind the bar, who can’t seem to take his eyes off her tits. She orders a whiskey shot. Tom pours two and drinks with her. Poor bastard. Good luck, dude.

I turn back to Ryan and Dillon, who are both riveted by the drama playing out before them. “See you at practice Thursday.”

They both nod as I grab my guitar from against the bar and head out the back door to the alley where I’ve parked my truck. It takes me a few minutes to lug my amp out to the truck, lift it into the bed, and tie it down. Then I slide my guitar in beside it and climb into the cab.

I crank the ignition and toggle the headlights on, illuminating the end of the alley and the figure standing about twenty feet in front of my bumper.

Rebecca. She stands perfectly still, a statue of a goddess bathed in light. Though I’m sure she can’t see me from the blinding beams in her eyes, she’s staring right at me, practically right through me.

Fuck me. I stare at her a good long minute, weighing my options, then I do exactly what I know I shouldn’t do. I slide across the bench seat, unlock the passenger door, and swing it open, wide and inviting.

A corner of her mouth quirks up in a grin as she saunters toward the truck and silently slides into the seat beside me. Without a word, I squeeze my fists on my steering wheel as I wait for her to fasten her seatbelt, then accelerate toward the end of the alley to Red River street.

Rebecca leans closer to me as she fiddles with the buttons on the radio, and I get another nose full of that perfume. The scent fills the cab of the truck, and I’m tempted to roll down the window for some fresh air. I refrain, squeezing my grip tighter on the wheel as I turn onto Seventh street, aiming for the interstate.

There is a part of my brain still working, and that part nags me with questions like: why am I taking her home with me? Why do I continue to fuck this woman, even when I know there’s no future in it?

I glance over my shoulder before changing lanes and frown as I spot the bag of cocaine she’s pulled out of her purse. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She smirks at me as she fishes a fingernail into the powder and brings it to her nose.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell—too loudly for the close quarters of the truck. I tone it down a little and continue, “You’re snorting fucking cocaine in my fucking truck as we drive past the fucking police station?”

Rebecca answers my question with a hearty snort, sucking a second bump into her other nostril.

“Rebecca, put that fucking shit away right goddamn now, before you land us both in jail.”

“Relax,” she mumbles as she pinches her nose and sniffs again. Then, cheerily oblivious, she holds her stash toward me and offers, “Want some?”

For fuck’s sake. “Rebecca, I’m not asking, I’m telling. Put that shit away right now, or I’m dumping you by the side of the road, and you can walk your ass home.”

With a frown and an exasperated huff, Rebecca closes up the baggie of drugs and stows it in her purse. I drive the rest of the way home like I’ve got a stick up my ass—perfect lane position, signaling a good half block before turning corners, no racing through yellows or rolling through stops.

I hold my breath until I pull into a spot near the mailboxes at my apartment complex. Rebecca silently lets herself out of the truck and sways those hips as she makes her way to my unit, likely expecting me to follow like a dog. She’s forgotten I have a load to carry.

In a supremely passive-aggressive move, I make Rebecca wait for me to make the two trips up and down the stairs with my guitar and amp before I unlock the door to let her inside my apartment. When I finally slide my key home, she’s wilted by the heat and perturbed by the wait. I’m perversely pleased, and a little creeped out with myself for it.

Not waiting for me anymore, Rebecca leads the way into my space. I lug my gear to the corner of the living room where I’ve set up a weight bench and piled up my stack of books to read on the road.

Like she lives here, Rebecca makes her way to the kitchen, finds my whiskey stash in the place it’s always been and the shot glasses on the shelf below. She pours two generous shots and sets them on the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room.

In no rush to join Rebecca, I toss the contents of my pockets onto the coffee table, tug my shirt off over my head, and pull my hair out of its braids as I kick off my boots and tug off my socks.

Rebecca pushes herself up onto my kitchen counter, slowly crossing her legs in a way that makes it abundantly clear there’s nothing under that dress. Is that supposed to be some sort of enticement?

When I don’t respond as she’d hoped, she huffs with boredom and leans across the counter to grab my favorite lighter, using it on a cigarette she’s pulled from a pack in her purse. With a long, slow exhale, she blows a stream of smoke through perfectly puckered lips.

It’s the lips, that mouth, which do the trick. Slowly, I cross the room to join her. Silently taking one of the two shots, I drink it down before she can come up with something to toast to. I watch as she drinks her shot. When she’s done, she pours another pair. We each drink again.

I don’t know why I’m letting her get me drunk. Maybe I’m just not in the mood to be sober. Maybe I’m tired of the running commentary in my brain urging me to stop this nonsense. Maybe I just want a little mindless fun, a brain haze while I have my cock sucked and fucked.

I reach for the cigarette in Rebecca’s hand, tugging it from her fingers to take a deep drag of it, then toss it over her shoulder and into the sink. It hisses as it extinguishes somewhere in the stack of dirty dishes.

Without a word or a moment of foreplay, I take Rebecca’s hand and tug her off the counter, leading her toward the bedroom.

****

“So beautiful,” Rebecca sighs. She smooths her fingertips across my forehead, down the long line of my nose, across the flat plains of my cheeks, and finally traces the rigid line of my jaw. “And so cruel.”

I frown up at her. She’s still sitting astride my hip, my cock still warm but wilting inside her. “What?”

“Beautifully cruel.” She sighs again, sounding far more melancholy than I’ve ever heard her before.

“You think I’m cruel?”

“Your eyes are cruel; deep and dark and hard. No one else can see it, though. Just me.” She rests her palms against my cheeks, her fingers tangling slightly in my long hair. She rubs her thumbs across the stark ridges of my cheekbones, just beneath my eyes, which are wide open with fear.

She’s making me nervous. This talk is too intimate. I don’t trust her to be this close. Her thumbs pause in their caress. She frowns at me as she asks, “Why did we break up?”

Suddenly, my discomfort ratchets up to terror, a bone-deep fear that Rebecca might poke my eyes out with her thumbnails.

I push myself up to sit. The movement effectively dumps Rebecca off of my chest and onto the tangle of sheets at my side. I move to my feet and walk to the kitchen, tossing the used condom in the trash as I make my way toward the fridge. I grab a beer, consider getting one for Rebecca, hesitate, then pull a second beer from the fridge before heading back to the bedroom. I find her digging through her purse and tugging that little baggy of coke out again.

“When did you start doing that shit?” I ask, nodding at her bag of blow as I hand her a beer.

She smirks at me. “When I was fifteen.”

My eyes go wide. Really? She’s been a cokehead this whole time? She was a cokehead while we dated? How did I not notice? “Well, see, there’s a good reason why we broke up. I obviously wasn’t paying any attention to you.”

Rebecca nods thoughtfully, agreeing, then snorts a bump of coke and washes it down with a slug of beer. “But we were good together—”

“We were awful together; all we ever did was fuck or fight.” I take a sip of my beer as I lean against the wall, in no rush to get back into bed with her.

I watch with disinterest as she snorts another bump and takes another sip of beer. She sets it all on the side table before turning onto her hands and knees and crawling toward me across the bed.

Her grin is mischievous, promising so much. My cock twitches at the sight of her ass wiggling, her breasts hanging heavy, swaying between her arms with every inch of progress she makes toward me.

“See?” Rebecca grins at my thickening, stiffening cock, and bites her bottom lip. “Little Jake misses me.”

I roll my eyes, take a chug of my beer, and set it on the dresser before I walk to the edge of the bed, my cock right at her eye level. “Little Jake is an idiot cyclops with a gluttony problem. And can we stop calling my dick little?”

Without another word, Rebecca slides Little Jake—worst dick name ever—into her mouth. She opens her throat, hollows out her cheeks, and sucks me so deep that I, too, forget why we ended things.

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