My Soon-To-Be Sex Life (6 page)

I moved forward, edging away from his body, pushing the door open so I didn't have to get too close. A blast of winter air stole my breath and a shiver worked its way up my inner core. Warmth radiated from Eric's shoulders, his solid chest, tempting me to lean in and steal some of that heat for myself.
We don't snuggle up to strangers
, I told my traitorous hormones.

Well, not anymore.

“Charlie,” Eric said my name with a hint of smugness, “someday you won't be running away from me.”

“You wish,” I huffed, but the doors closed on his grin. The urge to bolt back inside and see him again was immediate. And strong.

“Shit. I don't need this right now,” I mumbled under my breath.

“I'm sorry, brat,” Grace said, hopping in place to keep warm, “this is all my fault. I wanted to treat you to a good meal, get in some bonding time…and now we're starving and coatless…”

At her words, I sighed, shook my head and wrapped my knuckles against the cold metal doors.

“Yeah?” Eric's voice said, although he didn't open the door, not even a smidge.

“We need our coats,” I yelled, “we left them at our table.”

“Unless you go and get them yourself, you're out of luck, Princess. I've got a job to do. Come back tomorrow.”

We were on our own.

“How perfect.” Grace linked arms with me as she navigated patches of black ice in high heels. “Too bad we didn't leave a glass slipper behind, that would have been more romantic than down-filled jackets.”

“No glass slippers here.” I wagged a leg, showing off my army surplus finds – steel-toed military boots I bought the day after my spill on Roach's stairs.

“Lovely,” Grace said on a laugh.

“Don't knock 'em. They're the only things holding us upright.”

“We're fine,” Grace said, really leaning on me now that I bragged about my no-slip grip. “I have my car keys, my purse, we're parked right over there…it's all good.”

“But I'm still hungry.”

“I know it's a grease pit, but there's a burger joint on the way home –”

“You had me at
grease
.”

Monty's front door was unlocked. I barely leaned on it as I padded all my pockets, looking for my keys. When it swung wide, I fell into the house. I half expected to find Monty laughing as I stumbled on my feet, but the hall was empty.

Though I'd eaten my fill of toxic burger, the hollow feeling settling in my stomach wasn't totally related to the poor food choice. Coming home to an empty house was just wrong. My breath hitched in my throat. Had I really thought of Monty's as home? That had to stop. Like now. Seemed like I was giving up on Mom or befriending the enemy. No matter how Monty had begun to grow on me.

This wasn't home.

And it never could be.

I flicked on the light and scanned the living room. An utter disaster. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought someone broke in and trashed the place, but this was how Monty lived.

Shabby chic with a side of slob.

It appeared Monty's little shack had been overlooked by the unscrupulous, but there would be a face-smacking lecture on home security when he got in. Really, in this day and age you couldn't go around leaving your front door open, especially on a Saturday night in the dead of February.

I slammed the door and flipped the lock, rolling my shoulders against the tension threatening to setup shop in my neck. The old bastard was way too trusting, or oblivious to the slow decline of the neighborhood. Mom would never have been able to afford a house anywhere else in town. One of her proudest moments was buying our bungalow, tarnished only by Monty's close proximity.

And now I was living with the old coot.

I pushed aside heavy velvet drapes, and waved to Grace from the large window. I was inside. Safe. She honked her horn and drove away. Good thing she hadn't known or Grace would have insisted on doing a sweep through all the rooms.

Which I did, my pulse racing ever so slightly as I locked the back door.

I headed down to my basement hideout. Thankfully, no one skulked in the shadows. The house was clear. This time.

Who would make sure Monty's was safe when I left? I probably wouldn't see him again after Mom was back on her feet and I went home.

The idea of some future lack of Monty made that hollowness in my gut expand into a deep pit of angst. Or maybe I was getting an ulcer. How superfantastic.

I kicked off my boots and made for my bed. At least things were in order down here. Things were in their place. My things. My place. Since the basement was unfinished, I had sectioned off a room-sized area by stapling tie-dyed sheets to the exposed wood beams in the ceiling. An old fridge served as my dresser, clothes folded neatly on the wire racks. Stacked milk crates of all colors formed makeshift bookshelves, loaded with a combination of schoolbooks and trashy romance novels I bought at a garage sale.

I dive-bombed my bed, a bouncy pull-out couch, and instantly regretted it. The mattress was thinner than a panty liner and my hip connected with the bar that spanned the width of the couch. I rolled around until the pain faded, springs poking willy-nilly into my body despite the buffer of several comforters.

I turned on one of a dozen or so old boomboxes lining the floor. Monty kept finding them in his garage. “I know how you young people like your music,” he'd say and hand me another.

He had no concept of iPods and their strange smallness. To him, the bigger the better – the easier to fix. Monty used to be an electrician with his own shop. He had loads of appliances and God-knows-what kicking around.

I tried to stay awake until Monty showed, but the radio static lulled me to sleep.

The next morning I walked into the living room, ready to give Monty a piece of my mind, but all thoughts of lecturing him about stranger danger and keeping the house locked up fled when I stood in the entranceway. I asked, “Who's the bitch?”

The female in question scrambled from her somewhat compromising position – flat on her back on the brown shag carpet, legs spread wide – to face me on all fours.

Monty sat on the couch watching TV; he'd been rubbing her bare belly with his foot. He put on his slipper and introduced us. “This here's Mona.” The fingers he ran down her sleek neck had a slight tremor. “I was hoping you two would get acquainted. She's been hiding in my room, too scared to show herself until today.”

I held out my hand, and looked directly into doe-brown eyes glazed with residual pleasure. Mona leaned forward, her tongue hanging out ever so slightly, and opened her mouth as if to speak.

Then she bit me.

“Call her off,” I exclaimed, aiming a low kick at the foot high, two-foot wide Beagle trying to consume my hand.

I missed. She took another chomp. “Rotten little…oww…”

My wails sparked her interest. She disengaged her jaws and threw her head back, howling.

Monty laughed and added his own yips, inciting Mona to produce increasingly higher pitches so it sounded like she was being gutted alive – which wasn't such a bad idea. In the end, I cleaned and bandaged my perforated hand in the time it took for them to get bored with the whole barking at the moon thing.

After they settled down I said, “I can't believe I've been here for weeks and haven't heard Mona the Orgasmically Loud Dog.” Mona lay at Monty's feet, panting rapidly. Her breathing grew labored. I grew concerned. “Is she okay?”

“She's fine. Just hungry. If I don't feed her every few hours she gets fractious. Who's a hungry bear, now?” Monty cooed to the gasping dog.

He talked to her like mom talked to me last week at the hospital. Yikes, they were more alike than they knew. Mona resumed her position, moaning in ecstasy, perhaps how she got her name in the first place, with Monty's woolen-sock-clad foot rubbing her belly.

“I'm going out for a bit.” I said. “Can I borrow one of your jackets?” Monty had a bewildering array of winter stuff stashed in the porch closet. Most were items he'd picked up from fallen comrades – guys who bit it at the old folks home. He was crazy frugal.

“Take what you need,” he said. “Didn't cost me a thing.” He glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “It's awful early to be out. And cold. You need a ride somewhere?”

“No. I'm walking. It's not far.” I pilfered a knee length military style navy jacket. It was huge on me. I added a few cardigans underneath for extra bulk.

“Your mother call this week?”

“No.” I wished he would stop with the questions. Sweat dampened my armpits. The wool cardigans itched.

“You going to visit her?”

I shrugged. It was my scheduled day to drop by but I hadn't decided if I was ready for the inevitable emotional wringer waiting beyond the hospital doors. Last visit with Mom ended with me shoving my boob at the nearest hottie. Who knew what treats were in store this time?

“Wanna talk about anything? School? Your mother? Boys? Your mother?”

“Not really.”

Monty reddened. “God damn! I hate this parenting crap.”

I decided enough was enough and slammed him with a few questions of my own. “Want to tell me where
you
were last night? And why you left the doors open?”

Monty took out his teeth, gave me a gummer grin, which could have meant anything, and popped the dentures back in his gob.

“This isn't exactly a posh area of town, Monty. You're an old fart, an easy target. Next time, lock'er up before you decide to go see the strippers, or whatever you were doing until all hours.”

He turned away as dramatically as he could while still rubbing Mona and keeping his butt firmly planted on the couch. He grabbed the remote and flicked through channels. “Just get your skinny ass home by dark.”

One more question from him and I might have buckled. One more crinkle of those tired old eyes and I might have blurted out the whole sordid mess – the list, the photo, the elevator, the groping. Instead, I left M&M to their black and white movies and belly rubs.

I set off for the restaurant, and the guy I couldn't get out of my head.

The snowballs came out of nowhere.

I'd been blithely trudging the sidewalks, picking my way through the half-melted, soggy remains of a blizzard, (people who don't shovel = pure evil), when great balls of snow pummeled me from all directions.

I crouched, covering my head, and eyed the landscape for an escape route.

“Cease fire!” a kid's voice rang out in the otherwise empty street.

I spotted his legs as he hid behind a parked SUV sporting huge, traction-enhanced, chain-wrapped tires. If only that worked for boots.

“We just hit an old man!” another boy yelled from behind me.

An old man? Where? I peeked out from under my arm, but the only victim on the street was me. Then I remembered Monty's loaner – in my hat and with the rest of my hair tucked under the bulky coat, I must have looked like a frumpy, fat old geezer.

Like Monty.

I lost it - chortled so hard I lost my breath. I braced my hands on my thighs, coughing air back into my lungs.

“He's having a heart attack or something. Call 911!”

I heard the crunch of many feet heading my way as the boys got brave and came to check me out. No longer laughing, I searched the ground and there it was, glimmering in the morning light - the most magnificent patch of snow. Unspoiled, protected by an awning, it had melted to the perfect snowball consistency. An adequate snowball is impossible without the right kind of snow. Every kid knows this, has memorized the texture, the required moisture ratio. Once learned, it is never forgotten.

I stooped and quickly gathered enough white stuff for a few good rounds. Though I hadn't indulged in years, I squeezed and pressed without thought, running on pure adrenaline.

When Crunchy Feet got close enough I spun in slow mo and then let my balls loose in rapid-fire succession.

“Retreat, retreat!” the boys cried, veering off, rivaling jets in complex aerial maneuvers.

I showed no mercy.

My exuberant movements sent my hat flying, revealing my long auburn locks in a typical oh-my-God-it's-really-a-girl moment.

The boys gasped.

“It's Charlie,” squeaked the closest one, and I recognized Owen under the scarf he'd wrapped around his head.

I growled, baring my teeth.

Blindsided by an ice ball to my shoulder, I began to panic. Ice balls – the ultimate snowball. Only the patient and truly heinous can master their construction – the snow is packed and melted, and packed again. Gradually it becomes a solid sphere of ice, in much the same way coal is compressed in the depths of the earth for millions of years to form diamonds.

I pin-wheeled and nailed a stop sign with my face.

The boys gasped again.

I saw squiggly comets for a few seconds.

“Which one of you little fuckers threw that?” I screamed.

No one answered - they had taken off while the world was still coming back into alignment. But Owen's time would come. I'd see him at supper. I had hours to come up with a retaliation plan.

And so it was I arrived at Eric's not-so-Italian, Italian restaurant in a flasher-style coat, my hair matted and wild, a trickle of blood oozing from my temple.

Someone who must have been his mom answered the door, she had his nose.

“Hi,” I said, with a brilliant smile. “Can Eric come out to play?”

“Errric?” The woman dragged out the syllables in slow, dentureless Monty speak, and examined me from weathered boots to raised-by-wolves hair. I resisted the urge to pat down my unruly locks. “I'm sorry, dear.” She shook her head. “There's no one here by that name.”

“You know,” I prompted. “Eric. Tall. Messy brown hair that kinks up at the ends.” I cocked my head. “He works in the back, with the pasta and the spaghetti. Look, it's early and you're not open and I'm not at my best, it's been a kooky morning, but could you please tell him I'm here?”

A gust of wind blew over my shoulders, sending a blast of cold around me and through the open door. A shiver caught me off guard and I pulled Monty's coat tight around my waist. The woman's lashes flickered in sympathy. She took a step back and I thought I had her. I'd tapped into her mother instincts. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she abandoned me to the harsh weather.

Then, unexpectedly, her just-like-Eric's nose twitched, nostrils flared. Instead of welcoming me inside, she narrowed the gap in the doorway.

Clearly the lady had smelt something unpleasant, and insinuated it was me. Uh oh, she was one of those. Some people, especially older people, can't handle it - wet kid smell. I'd even noticed the distinctive odor a few times from Owen, so I understood the repulsion.

I inhaled a bit to see how bad it was and got a nose, mouth, lung blowing whiff of my own stench.

Filthy McNasty.

Monty obviously didn't waste money on dry-cleaning his fresh-off-the-corpse finds before hanging them in his closet. Cheap bastard. No amount of warmth was worth this. Snow and dampness had sunk deep into the aged wool, awaking a putrid blend of B.O., Brylcreem, and Gold Bond.

I didn't know how to explain the injustice, the reek
was
all me, and yet it wasn't ME. Where was a jug of Febreze when you needed it?

“Look, forget Eric.” I moved away from the door, sparing her further Charlie-fume exposure. “He's not the issue anyway. My friend and I were here last night and forgot our coats at our table. Eric said he would put them aside for us.” I waved a hand along my torso. “As you can see, I'm wearing a loaner and it's not quite up to par.”

The woman's lips twitched. “Eric putting coats aside.” She shook her head. “If that were true, my dear, I would know about it. I know everything that goes on in my restaurant. There are no stray articles of clothing here.” She examined the gold watch on her wrist. “We open at nine am and not a second sooner. There's much to prepare, excuse me.” She shut the heavy colonial door in my face, not with a slam, but with polite finality.

Conversation over.

So much for my inherent charm.

I stood, unsure of my next step. This wasn't how my mental run-throughs went last night when I'd storyboarded the idea, plotting it like a romantic comedy. In those, Eric either:

1. Answered the door himself and dropped to his knees, overcome by me in my glory.

Or

2. We encountered each other on the street where he had been tromping through the snow, asking random women to try on my coat. Complete with a bird-singing, mouse-humming Cinderella montage.

Never once did I imagine he'd be AWOL.

I moved along the brick exterior to peer through the restaurant's windows. I pressed my face to the glass, blocking the morning sun with my hands, but the blinds were shut and I couldn't see inside.

Another shock of wind blasted me with my own stink.

Damn. Now I really wanted my own coat back and it had nothing to do with Eric or his tight butt in those hideous polyester pants, or the way his shoulder muscles moved under his chef uniform. Or the way he kept catching me when I fell.

Or…

I returned to the door, frustrated, furious and in need of fumigation. “Hey in there.” I banged on the thick wood and kicked at the brass footplate. “I want my coat and I want it now.” Nothing. “Okay, I'm seriously not thrilled. I may have to write the paper about this, a letter to the editor.” Still nothing. “Your spaghetti's not that good you know. You use canned mushrooms, don't you? I can tell. I bet you don't even make your own sauce, you sneak around and buy it from the grocery store.”

“Shh…” a quiet voice rumbled from inside, “if she hears your threats, she'll use her connections and then there will be much trouble.”

The door re-opened, revealing the busboy from last night's kitchen adventure. The guy Grace had wanted to pet. Up close, I could tell he was a few years older than me, but still, for Grace, definitely jailbait.

He joined me outside, carefully adjusting the door to rest on the latch so he could get back in.

“Connections? Like Mafia connections?” I laughed. My breath smoked around my head. “Right. That's mildly amusing.”

Busboy crossed his arms against the invading chill. He didn't look amused. In fact, he seemed grim.

“Mafia?” I breathed.

He gave a sharp nod.

I let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“What happened to you?” He grimaced.

“It's a long, painful story and I don't want to get into it. What I need is Eric,” I said. “I mean, I need to see him. He's got something of mine. Well, mine and my friend's….”

“Your friend?” Bus Boy looked up and down the avenue. “The blonde nymph? Is she here?”

Nymph? His word choice and Italian accent lent more romance to the moment than it deserved, but still, I'd have to tell Grace.
Nymph.
She'd love it.

“Does she hide from me?” His lips formed a sexy pout. “No woman can resist Tony. I will find her or leave-a-this world.”

Uh oh, Tony had it bad. Grace had skills. No wonder she struggled with monogamy - power like that would give Mom's Valium addiction competition.

“You seem like a nice guy and everything,” I told him, “so I'm going to say this flat out.” My eyes scrunched up in sympathy. “Grace is married.”

“Grace. My amazing Grace is married?” Busboy ran a hand through his well-moussed hair. “You shitting me?” he asked, accent gone. Vanished. Non-existent.

“Nope,” I said. “Your window of opportunity closed a few months ago. She met a guy on the internet.” I didn't tell him the marriage was rocky, no use getting his hopes up. “Does that fake accent really work with women?”

He shrugged. “You'd be surprised.”

“I'm guessing there's no mafia don in the family either?”

“I'll let you in on a secret,” Tony said. “We're not Italian. We don't understand half of the staff we inherited when we bought this place. We're Scottish, Irish, a little of this, a little of that, basically, we're mutts.”

I nodded. “The canned mushrooms make sense to me now.”

“See, a place like this can only survive if it's got loyal regulars.” He rubbed his arms for warmth. “It's a fucking blizzard out here and I have to re-organize the freezers today. Another few hundred bucks and I'm in Mexico. Can't come too soon.” He cupped his hand over his mouth, blew on them for warmth. “Anyway, my uncle decided to keep the Italian Stallion theme going for a while. Doesn't mean he won't try to change the menu. I personally talked him out of a Thursday night Haggis special.”

His teeth started to chatter. “It's too damn cold, I'm going in. One second.” He dashed into the restaurant, and returned with coats draped over his arm. “Here, I saw where Eric stashed them.”

“Thanks.” Immediately I shed crotch rot coat and held it aloft. I'd be a virgin forever if I stayed wrapped up in that thing. “Got garbage?”

Tony, if that was his real name, made a face and retreated into the doorway. “Back there.” He jerked his thumb toward the alley.

I started off. If I had the time and the inclination I could probably sell the coat on eBay, marketing it as the modern chastity belt.

“Eric works nights,” Tony called after me. “He's usually here after six.”

I waved my hand and I kept walking.

“Come back anytime. Bring Grace. Tell her I said hi. Tell her I think she's beautiful. No, tell her she's the most beautiful woman in the world!” He yelled louder. “What should I tell Eric?”

“Nothing!” Good Lord, why would I want Eric to know I showed up looking like roadkill?

“You think he's cute?”

“Nuh uh.”

“You want him?”

I said nothing and rounded the corner. I laid the coat to rest in a double-wide industrial garbage bin. The sleeve flopped over the lip of the dumpster is like a drunken arm draped over a toilet. An image I'd seen before and didn't need any reminders.

In a flash it is Mom's arm after she changes her mind, wants to live, and shoves her fingers down her throat to prove it. I remember the retching that woke me from a dream. A nightmare. Dad was dead. We were alone.

But my eyes had opened and it was real.