Push (16 page)

“Don’t stop,” I say.

I cannot take my eyes off him, even as I come. My body twists around him, drenched with satisfaction. Waves of pleasure roll off me, sinking my body to the floor.

The carpet is rough against my skin. David pulls out of me, but he remains on his knees between my straightened legs. His breath steadies, and he swats a hand sharply against my backside. The sting is a sharp counterpoint to the contentment flushing over the rest of my body.

“Ouch,” I say. “What the fuck was that for?”

“Making us late,” he says.

“Fuck you,” I say, still lying on the floor. “You started it.”

“No. You did.” I turn back to look at him, and his hands are on top of his head, in surrender. “Christ, Emma, you in those panties...”

“Ahhh,” I say with a coy smile, “so that’s it. It’s just your underwear fetish again. I see now that it has nothing to do with me—or those countless perks I was promised.” I writhe against the floor in hopes of inciting another touch.

“It has everything to do with you,” he says, standing up and zipping his pants closed. “Everything.”

I smile at him, gather my clothes, and head back to the bathroom to clean up. The place is filthy. I don’t think anyone has taken a brush to the toilet for centuries. Gross. I try not to look around too much as I wipe myself clean with the last few stubby squares of toilet paper left on the roll. When I am finished, I dress and walk out to the car. David is putting the last of four cases of beer into the trunk, and as he closes it, he looks up at me. Then he walks to my side of the car and opens the door.

We drive for fifteen minutes, and after quickly choking down a drive-thru burger, we pull into a parking lot situated beside a tall apartment building. I know we’re on Carson Street—wherever that is—because I saw the sign when we turned the corner. David shuts off the ignition, and we get out of the car. He opens the trunk, stacks the cases of beer on to a folding dolly that was stashed in the backseat, and begins to wheel it toward the door. When we are about halfway there, he stops and turns to me.

“Emma,” he says with pause. I can tell he has more to say, but I already know what it is about.

“No worries, David. I’m cool. I’m not gonna leave without you. Really.” I can tell from the look on his face that my words are exactly what he wants to hear. “We just confirmed my girlfriend status on the floor of your friends’ house. I’m not going to rile the troops. No surprises from me, I swear. Stop acting like I’m a fucking daisy or something.”

He lets go of the dolly and kisses me quickly on the lips.

“Okay,” he says, “and I am well aware that you are not a fucking daisy.” He is smirking at me now, and I feel better.

Before I know it, David is pulling open the door to the apartment building and wheeling the dolly of beer down a ramp into the basement. At the end of the hall is a double metal door. I can hear voices and music inside. He raps on the door, and Brad opens it. When Brad sees me, he smiles from ear-to-ear.

“It’s about fucking time you got here,” he says to David. Then he turns to me and holds out his hand for a shake. His eye is no longer black and blue. I look at David as I shake Brad’s hand and say a brief hello. I still want to knock him across the chin for his little stunt with my shoe, but I know David would prefer I keep quiet, and so that’s what I do. Brad lets go of my hand, and David and I walk into the room.

He was right. This is far from a couple of guys sitting around a table playing poker. It is clear that this is a finely tuned game. I’m certain that it is both professional and illegal. I’m also certain that I’m not supposed to be here. There are about two dozen felted tables around the room, each with its own group of players—all of which are male—and its own dealer—all of which are female. Scantily clad females. Beautiful, scantily clad females. There are also a handful of half-naked waitresses walking around the room toting drinks. I am the only other woman here, and I suddenly feel out of place. Very out of place. At least I am not in my work clothes, I joke to myself.

As I stand here gaping openly at all the goings-on, David walks past me, pulling the dolly toward the bar in the center of the room. A few steps into his trip, he turns back to look at me. His eyebrows go up and he shrugs. I see his lips forming the words “told you.” It makes me smile.

I follow David, who is now lifting the cases of beer up on to the bar. But before I can get to him, one of the waitresses throws her arms around his neck and plants a kiss on his lips. I am frozen in my tracks, a swell of rage building in my chest. I want to rush at her, to knock her off of him, to smash her down to the floor. But I don’t because I promised David that I wouldn’t freak out. Damn her. The kiss is blissfully brief, because the moment their lips connect, David calmly pushes her away. He says something to her, and she lets go of his neck instantly. He drops his hands on to his hips, and she starts to laugh, throwing her head back and sticking out her chest. When she stops laughing, she looks over at me and then back at David. Then she slinks away from him, sending me a small wave as she goes. I want to flip her the finger, but instead I plaster a psychotic “girlfriend smile” on my face. One that I hope conveys both attitude and arrogance. One that I hope David sees, too. It is my way of telling him that I am not about to let some half-dressed whore ruffle my fucking feathers.

Now it seems that I have something to prove. I vow to not get visibly fired up at all tonight. I’m going to lay myself down for him. To show him that I can handle whatever is about to be dished out. I promised him exactly that, but up until now, I thought it was a moot point. I didn’t think anyone would be able to fire me up. But clearly this poker game isn’t what I thought it would be. I’ve got one sentence to say to David, and I need to say it before I see anything like that again.

“Don’t make me kick your fucking ass,” I say, looking him dead in the eye. He is wearing a look of utter surprise.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a smile in his voice. He grips my wrist for a second and skims his thumb across it. I am sure he can feel my skin burning. When he lets go, I grab a beer from the counter and turn on my heels. I want to watch.

Despite feeling incredibly out-of-place, I decide to wear my confidence like a goddamned badge. I’m not going to cling to David tonight. I’m going to treat this poker game like it’s precisely where I belong. I don’t know how to play poker, and I’m not sure they’d let me play anyway, but I do know how to drink. And flirt. And pretend.

David spends a good amount of time behind the bar, unloading the beer and pouring drinks. Then he moves around the room, chatting with the gamblers, checking in with the dealers, swapping wads of cash for chips. He talks easily with the waitresses who all seem to know him very well. They are flirtatious and engaging, and I know that he is watching me carefully from across the room to see my reaction to their touches and smiles. But I see now that it is part of the game going on here tonight. It is more than a poker game. It’s an atmosphere of energy, sex, money, alcohol and business. Watching David is mesmerizing. He is exuding light, and whenever he glances at me, I feel my breath stick. Suddenly I am feeling very fucking lucky to be this fine-ass man’s girlfriend. I want to stand next to him, to touch him. I want everyone here to see that he is mine and I am his. But I don’t, because I don’t want to be
that
kind of girlfriend. The word “covetous” pops into my head because it is precisely how I am feeling.

I’ve been leaning against the wall drinking beer and watching for the past hour and a half. I decide I’m done with the wallflower shit and step out into the room.

Two hours later I am drunk as hell, sitting at a table right next to Carl. My ass alarm is sounding loud and clear, but it doesn’t stop me from chatting Carl up because I know that David is here, standing right next to me. Carl might be a fat prick of a landlord, but he is funny as shit. Telling stories, playing cards, slurping down shots, smoking cigars. He is riotous. Unfettered. Gregarious. I haven’t laughed this much ever.

I think David is enjoying seeing me let loose, though I’m not sure how he is feeling about me sitting so close to Carl. He puts himself between us the moment Carl leans a little too close, and his hand spends a minute or two on my shoulder every time another male sits down at the table. David hasn’t said a word to me all night since his “yes, ma’am” hours ago. But he is watching me like a hawk.

Groups of men have been coming and going through most of the night. Brad seems to be a doorman of sorts, deciding who is allowed inside and whose drunk ass to kick to the curb. It is a role he must take seriously because he hasn’t cracked a smile since we got here. There are another three or four men here that seem to be part of the operation. I recognize them from David’s bedroom. David is clearly good friends with them, but he doesn’t introduce me to any of them. I know they recognize me from that night, though, because they all smile knowingly when our eyes meet. I think David is right—they would like to have a crack at me. And they would gladly take him down for the opportunity.

As Carl is telling us a hysterical story about a female-only dirt bike race he once staged, Brad opens the door to let in another small gaggle of men. My eyes fly open when I spot Matt in the group. Matt! He is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, smoking a cigarette and smiling at the friend he’s walking in with. I see a long, dark tattoo on his right forearm. What the fuck? How did I not notice that before? Long sleeves. He always wears long sleeves. I glance up at David, who is also watching the men walk in the door. He looks down at me and raises his eyebrows. Ahh. I can see on his face that he has known the douche bag all along. I shake my head at David, and he gives me a shrug. Then he walks over to Matt and they talk. Matt looks over at me and raises his chin. I give him a sheepish wave and narrow my eyes at David. What the hell is going on here?

Matt and his friends swap money for chips and sit down at a table to play. I try to climb gracefully out of my chair, but I end up stumbling away. I can hear Carl and his table mates chuckling softly at my drunken gawkiness. I am clearly more intoxicated than I thought. My head is light, and despite my confusion about Matt, I feel euphoric. I feel perfect.

But I also have to pee. As I am walking toward the hallway at the front of the room that I suspect leads to the restrooms, I feel a hand grab my arm and turn me around. My dizzy head moves faster than my eyes, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that it is David who has stopped me. His hand is still holding my arm, and I see fire racing across his face. What’s this? He must be angry with me for getting so drunk, for sitting so close to Carl, for flirting and doing shots and waving to Matt. Oh, he’s mad. He’s really mad. I haven’t seen this from him, and frankly, I’m surprised at the intensity of it.

Both his hands are holding me now, gripping my upper arms. Steadying me. His face looks cross, and his brow is tight.

“You promised,” he says sharply. “You can’t leave.” What?

“I’m not leaving, you ass. I’m taking a piss.” Relief brushes across his face, and his eyes briefly close.

“The bathrooms are in the back,” he says with a sigh. And then his arms are around me, and his tongue is sweeping into my mouth. Right here in front of this room full of people, he is kissing me like a fucking porn star.

When he pulls away, he tells me that he thought I was bailing because he didn’t tell me about knowing Matt. He tells me what I already know—that this gambling ring is private. And illegal. No one is supposed to talk about it outside of Tuesday nights. Outside of this room. They could all go to jail for a very long time if they let the wrong person in the door. I lean into him and joke that I’ll be sure to keep all their shenanigans under my hat.

“Shhhh,” I say, with so much drunken silliness that I want to punch myself, “it’s all good, baby. I got your back. Because you, David Calgaro, are one fine-ass man.” I pat him irreverently on the chest, and he shakes his head at my sloppy drunkenness. My neck feels floppy, and I roll it backwards and start to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he says with a grin.

“Me. I’m funny,” I say, poking myself in the chest with my own index finger. “When that half-dressed girl kissed you earlier, I wanted to wring both of your fucking necks.” Oh, this is bad. I am going to say more than I should. I am about to engage in the whole so-drunk-it’s-embarrassing thing. “I wanted to knock you both to your knees. David, I don’t give a flying fuck about your knowing Matt. It’s business. Whatever. But what I do give a flying fuck about is you. You, David Calgaro. I give a flying fuck about you.” Oh, sweet Jesus. What am I doing?

David is grinning at me. No, he’s laughing at me, and my face starts to feel the heat of my own embarrassment. I am blushing, and he likes it.

“Go, take your piss,” he says, after a beat. “Then, come find me. I’ll see your flying fuck and raise you an indescribable benefit.”

When I come out of the bathroom, David is sitting at the card table with Carl and a few other men. He has a stack of chips in front of him, and I get the feeling he is about to kick Carl’s ass. He looks at me as I walk over to the table. Carl hands me another drink.

David motions for me to bend down so he can tell me something. In a whisper he says, “I’m going to score one of those benefits for you right now, Emma. Whatever you want.”

I shift my head so that my mouth brushes against his ear. “All I want is for you to give a flying fuck about me, too,” I murmur. I look straight ahead. I don’t want to see David’s face for fear he might be snarking at my drunken declaration.

But instead of laugher I hear, “Already done.” And I feel myself tighten inside.

“I’m glad to see you two found each other,” Carl says loudly. “You’re quite the pair.” His eyes move up and down my body before falling on David’s face with a scandalous grin.

“Fuck you, Carl,” David spits. “Keep your mouth shut and play.”

“Rent’s due the first of every month, sweetie,” Carl says to me. “Don’t forget. I wouldn’t want to have to kick you out.” It feels like a threat.