In the Nick of Time (11 page)

“Leeee meee alone!” Jazz spouted, then turned on a dime, his loose, ratty white socks slinking down around his toothpick-like ankles, as they had nothing of substance to hold on to. The boy started to walk away and break free from the confrontation.

I’m thirsty. He’s got the goods. This should be easy…

“Get your retarded fuckin’ ass back here, Jazz!”

Nick lunged for him again, this time grasping the slick neck of the icy bottle with a death grip. They struggled a bit as Jazz’s eyes bucked and danced with untamed wildness. The guy let out a shrill scream, like the sound some exotic Australian beetle would make in one of those boring nature programs he was forced to watch in school. He just about lost his grip of the thing as the walking tree branch and he fought, practically losing their footing in the mayhem. But then, he’d finally won, and snatched his prize away with a satisfied grin, leaving the ebony praying mantis breathing hard and barely standing.

Taking several steps back, he quickly undid the cap, almost slicing his thumb open in the process. He brought it to his lips and took the first cold gulp, and then the second. The fizz tasted like a reunion with his homeboys; the sweet, intoxicating flavor was their party and the way it burned going down, the next Outlaw heist they’d score that evening. Jazz stood before him, helpless. His droopy eyes told the whole goddamn story. Nick wasn’t sure what he was feeling right then. Must’ve been that thing Mom called guilt. He took another gulp of the thing and fell into his mother’s words…

‘Nicky! You don’t have a guilty bone in your body. It must be broke or you weren’t even born with it. I need to have you X-rayed!’

She was right; he NEVER felt guilty but right then and there, as he looked into Jazz’s sagging, sad eyes, he kinda did…yeah…and he didn’t like it, not one damn bit. It made him feel all jellyfish like inside, soft, gushy…remorseful. Who needs it?!

And where’d it come from?

He took another sip, but it didn’t taste as good as the first three generous gulps. He turned away from the kid, focused on the Johnny Pump, thought about breaking the thing open, but he couldn’t shake the shame. Then, he looked back at Jazz and this sinking, quicksand feeling overcame him. The teenager with the mindset of an eight year old just stood there watching him, his smooth, soot colored cheeks glossy with tears…

Awwww fuck… He’s cryin’!

“Here, man…” He handed the damn thing back to the boy. Jazz looked at him suspiciously, his thin eyebrow raised on his short forehead just so.

“Come on, take it! I told you I only wanted a taste. What cha tryna say? I’m a liar? I ain’t no liar… Now here!”

The boy hesitated a second or two longer, then reached out, gingerly taking the bottle from Nick. He clasped it close to his chest, lest he change his mind. He stood there and watched Jazz turn away, then walked swiftly down the sidewalk, checking over his shoulder every now and again. He couldn’t stand it anymore, so he turned away too, and headed in the other direction.

Maybe I am a bad little son of a gun just like Mom says…

Nick moved away from his childhood deliberations, sliding his naked body against the thick, luxurious sheets given to him as a Christmas gift from a coworker during Secret Santa several years earlier. It was the grand prize, and he’d pulled the lucky number. He tossed and turned like a giant snake caught in a cotton bag. He didn’t know why he’d thought about Jazz that morning…or was it afternoon? He’d called in sick since Eric decided to do the shit he’d done, and that had been two days prior, of that he was certain. After hours of dancing in a drunken stupor, his bubble burst when all the cocaine was gone and only a half a six-pack of beer remained.

He knew what he had at all times; inventory was important. He’d gone through his stash like a thief, pillaging his own supply, robbing himself blind. Anything to make the bite of yesteryear not feel so bad. The past had big ass teeth, and it would come to him and ask to suck his damn blood in the most polite of ways. If he refused, it would torment him anyway, and the only way to make that motherfucker understand that no meant no was to turn his mind off. So, that’s what he did.

He rolled his thick tongue around in his mouth, trying desperately to widen his eyes and focus. Several minutes later, he suddenly heard murmuring beside him, and startled at the sight. A languid, beautiful woman with skin the color of slightly overcooked toast lay beside him. Her long, wild, lustrous curly black hair spiraled over one eye as she showed a garish grin framed in smudged pink gloss. Stretching her long limbs, she lifted upward and gave him an ‘all-knowing’ nod of approval.

Who tha fuck is this in my bed?!

Nick didn’t recall exiting his bedroom, let alone his apartment. He also didn’t remember letting anyone in, making a pussy call, or anything of the like. Worst of all, she wasn’t someone he’d had over before; he
never
forgot a face. She looked vaguely familiar, but he’d never looked the lady in the eye before. Something was amiss…

This was his one true calling. His mind was a steel trap when it came to the visual. He could look at a person one time, high or not, and have their entire form mapped out, down to freckles, moles, and all the inconsequential details that most overlooked. He knew when a woman had dyed her hair—the roots always told the truth no matter how good of a job it was. He knew when a man was freshly shaved simply by observing the fella’s skin, their scalp, the way they smelled; and he knew when a bastard was a drug addict, a functional drunk, or all of the above. He knew his own kind, though he never claimed them as part of his family in the public eye…

The woman, seemingly reading his mind, pulled the sheets over her beautiful naked body and said in a sly whisper, “We met online a while back. You called me last night, told me to come over, so I did.”

“Jesus Christ!” His throat constricted, grew tight like a vise as his mouth became impossibly dryer. Flashes of himself fucking around on his phone came and went from her admission. He had no recollection of the actual conversation, but she must’ve been telling the truth, for at the foot of the damn bed sat two torn golden condom wrappers. He reached for his cellphone, scanned the thing, and noted his latest browsing history. Sure enough, he found her profile picture and their conversation. He began to read it, but her voice distracted him, stopped his internal investigation.

“Do you think we can check out the—”

“Shhhh!” he scolded as he raised his hand, continuing to read the nonsensical words he’d coaxed her with, to get the pretty little thing into his bed. He’d been a regular ol’ Don Juan last night, full of lies, craziness, and angelic words to get what he wanted,
when
he wanted it…

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she barked, flinging the sheets off her form. “You didn’t seem
that
drunk when I came over. You are the one who asked me over here, not the other way around.” She pointed at herself while her attitude grew wings and flew close to his face, wishing to smack him down to the ground no doubt. “I got in here last night, and you were like a totally different person than you were online. You were a good fuck, don’t get me wrong, but you said some really crazy shit. You’re a real ass, you know that?!” she hissed.

“What did I say?”

“What does it matter now?” She raised her perfectly arched brow along with her voice.

“Because you mentioned it so I want to know.” He shrugged.

“You kept talking about some guy named Jonathan and you called me a whore, too.”

“Oh…” What else could he say? He sounded like a damn nut because he was. No sense for him to state the obvious.

“I’m leaving and don’t worry about seeing me out,” she huffed as she got to her feet. He turned away from her and set his phone down. Closing his eyes, he simply tried to sweet talk a budding headache into going away and leaving him alone. It refused, and banged on his temple like a landlord about to serve an eviction notice. He turned back towards her, mulling over what to say. She looked over her shoulder a time or two, then slid her ivory sweater over her large breasts. He cast his attention towards his mirror, catching her reflection. She had some of the largest nipples he’d ever seen…

Nice.

“You shouldn’t come over to strange guys’ houses.” He yawned and crossed his arms as he contemplated lighting up a cigarette.

“What tha hell do
you
care?” She kept her back turned as she slicked her belt into her jean loops.

“I’m supposed to care about everybody. I’m a cop… Seriously though, you could get hurt. I coulda been some weirdo. Well, you probably think I am one anyway, but you know what I mean.”

She burst out laughing.

“You told me you were a dentist…”

He offered a half grin.

“Sorry about callin’ you a whore. I honestly don’t remember. Anyway,” he ran his hand up and down his knee, warming it to his touch, “I’m sure I said a lot of stuff last night that wasn’t true.” He got to his feet and walked into his master suite bathroom. Glancing at her a time or two as she combed her hair with her fingers, he tossed cold water on his face. “How’d you get over here?” he called out as he ran his fingers along his hairline, inspecting himself just so.

…Time for a haircut.

“I took a cab.” She grabbed her large tangerine snakeskin purse and slung it over her shoulder.

“What part of town do you live in?”

“El Barrio…” He paused, lifted his chin a little higher, and turned back in her direction.

“
¿Cómo te llama?
”
(What’s your name?)

“
Me llamo Denise.
”
(My name is Denise.)

“Hi Denise,” he chuckled. “Nice to meet you.” He walked back into his bedroom, picked up his gray slacks, and slid them on. He didn’t miss how her dark eyes drifted to the ground, taking notice of his police badge lying underneath the pants he’d just snatched from the floor.

Her lips curved in a smile.

“So you really
are
a cop? Fuckin’ hilarious. I’ve never messed with a cop before.”

He didn’t say anything, just buttoned his white Polo shirt and checked himself over in the mirror.

“You’re Puerto Rican, too?” She grabbed her green overstuffed bomber coat and slid it on, pushed the hood back, and finger combed the curls around her ears once more.

“Half. My mother was Puerto Rican. My father I believe was Sicilian.”

She nodded in understanding. After a few moments, they made their way towards his front door, side by side, as if on one accord.

“Seriously,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “I can take it from here.”

“Nah, I can walk you out.” He ushered his dark hair out of his face with a sweep of his hand.

“No, it’s fine, Rick. I’d prefer it this way, really. I could see on your face you had no idea who the hell I was. That’s my fault I guess…” Her lips twisted as her expression turned slightly jaded.

“Nick…my name is Nick.”

She burst out laughing, but he could tell the woman wasn’t the least bit amused at his revelation. Denise clutched the doorknob and opened the thing, causing a burst of light to enter and bathe them in the new day. He winced, felt like a damn vampire as the outdoor sunlight glowed and bounced along the nearby piles of hard snow.

“You’re right. I need to be more careful,” was all she offered before she disappeared out the place. He watched the woman with the rounded ass bounce down the sidewalk, her coat hood flopping up and down. Her carefree black hair sprang with each step she took. When she became nothing more than a tiny speck in his like of vision, he closed and locked his door, and simply stood there with his palm on the thing, waiting… for what, he wasn’t certain. When he’d mustered the courage, he turned and looked around his place.

Everything was as it should be, in its place. He walked past his kitchenette, paused, double-backed, and grabbed a trash bag from under the sink. From the living room decorated in earth tones, he returned to his contemporary style bedroom. He placed his hands on his hips and turned from side to side. The trash bag rustled in his grip as he moved about, hanging there like one large pocket ready to be filled with trick or treat candy…but it wasn’t Halloween, though he’d scared himself half to death. He began the process of tracing his steps, picking up things here and there…

At least I used a rubber; coulda been worse I guess.

He dipped low, clutched the wrappers, only to find a third one on the other side of the bed. Along his jaunt, he found a half bottle of lubricant, the contents spilling into his carpet, making a gooey mess.

“Shit!” He snatched it up, pitched the damn thing in the trash then burst into his bathroom. He tossed the bag onto the tiled floor, grabbed a cloth, and thrust it under the hot water. As he stood there, turning the rag to and fro, sharp, fragmented images began to flood his brain. He recalled sitting on his bed, looking for a score. Just as the image became clear, it was replaced with him jumping happily from a knock at the door—special delivery; his pussy pizza had arrived. His chest tightened with anxiety as the memories became crystal clear…

Denise had stepped inside. They spent little time in conversation before he led her back to his bedroom. They laughed about some things, quickly undressed, and before long, he had her legs open wide and was fucking the daylights out of her…

“Ouch! Son of a bitch!”

He was thrust out of his daydreams as the warm water became scorching hot. He shut the valve off, dabbed some soap onto the cloth, and headed to the small oil spill in the middle of his carpet. Dropping to his knees, he cautiously dabbed at it, careful to not push it further down into the fibers. He kept lightly tapping at the clear fluid, trying to break it down, but his body and mind were the ones deteriorating. Sucking in air, he paused, tried to see straight, past the tears forming in his eyes, but soon, his vision was completely impaired. He remained on his knees—a position of prayer—his back arched as he trembled and clutched the rag as hard as he could trying desperately to gather control of himself.