Reckless Point (10 page)

I felt the climax approaching and tried to draw it out.  I rose and fell, rose and fell, lingering over the precious sweet spot and making all kinds of noise about it.  The pulse of the orgasm lingered for a long time and Marco waited, wanting me to get my fill. 

My long hair fell forward, tickling my sensitive nipples.  Marco finally pulled himself out of me, repositioning my body so that I was on my hands and knees.  I felt weak, spent, and still I loved it when he plunged into me from behind, seeking and quickly finding his own moment of bliss. 

As we rolled into the soft grass together, Marco buried his head between my breasts, my name on his lips.  I stroked his shor
t hair, damp with sweat, and felt a strange curl in my gut. 

Marco gently kissed the hollow of my neck and I remembered my own cold words the other night on his dark porch. 

“It was just fucking.”

No, it wasn’t.  Not anymore. 

“I didn’t know,” he murmured.

I kissed the crown of his head.  “What, baby?”

“That she was sick.”  Marco placed both hands across my breasts and rested his head on his hands.  His face was sad and bewildered.  “She came to see me once at that hellhole in the desert, about a year into my time.”  He swallowed.  “I hated that she was there.  I told her I hated that she was there.”

I waited, wanting to hold him and
soothe the pain in his voice but not wanting to interrupt. 

“She asked me why.  I’d kicked a guy’s face in, Angie.  So bad he would never look like a normal man again.  And yeah, there was a reason.  There’s always a fucking reason.  But that’s not what she was asking me in that small
, hurt voice.  She meant all kinds of other why’s.  Why did I leave, why didn’t I call, why didn’t I ever come home?” His dark eyes fixed on me intently.  “We’re alike, Angie, you and me.  You’d never guessed that, did you?  I wanted to get out of here too.  I could fucking taste it.  All this provincial
Peyton Place
shit, I hated it.  I saw how you used to look at all of us, as if we were already memories.”

“Marco,” I started to say, but he silenced me with a kiss.

“No, it’s all right. There’s no shame in wanting something better, Angela.  I set out to find it too.”

“But you didn’t
find it,” I said and then wanted to take the words back.  But Marco only smiled wryly. 

“No,” he agreed.  “I didn’t.  Mom made Damien swear not tell me about how bad off she was.  She didn’t want me ripping myself apart when I couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t even be here.”  His face crumpled.  “He finally stopped listening and flew out to Phoenix on my release day.  And I let my big brother herd me onto the first cross country flight to Boston, back to our dying mother.
  She was already unconscious, so doped up on pain meds she couldn’t even see me.”  He paused.  “She passed away three days later.”

Marco’s agony
cut me.  I felt my own tears coursing down my cheeks.  He noticed and brushed them away gently with his thumb before settling once more with a sigh on my chest. 

He had talked about something better. I knew all about it.  The elusive search for a superior life.  I’d seen Marco nearly every d
ay for a long stretch of years.  And even though we rarely spoke it seemed we knew everything about each other.  I wanted to tell him that I didn’t think there was anything better than him.  But I said nothing, afraid the words would sound hollow and insincere.  And then realizing a bigger fear.  That I would sound like a clingy, mewling little fool. 

After a time Marco raised his head.  We made love quietly, softly, next to the
burbling chatter of the creek.  Marco waited for me to climax languidly before finishing.  As he rolled onto his stomach and stared thoughtfully into the water I touched the letters on his back.  Seventeen.  Perhaps he had chosen the tattoo in a fit of despair over lost youth.  Because what was true for Marco was true for everyone.  We could go to the place we called home. But we couldn’t go back in time. And sometimes in a way that was like being unable to go home.

We lay quietly for a long time and finally broke out Grace’s s
andwiches.  Marco looked puzzled as he held the tiny juice box in his large hand. 

“Why the hell does your mother even have these?
  There’s no more school lunches to pack.”

I shrugged.  “Who knows?  Maybe she’s still shopping in 1980.” 

He poked a hole and took a sip.  “It was nice of her though.”

“Grace is
a nice mommy.” 

As we quietly ate our lunch I realized that though we were both still naked I felt no shame about it.  I was only warmly comfortable in my own skin
, a new sensation for me, one I was learning to appreciate.  Marco never looked at my body with anything but undisguised desire.  I knew he wanted me even if he’d only just had me. 

I picked a few blades of grass out of my hair and fluffed it over my shoulders, enjoying the way
it felt over my breasts.  Marco lounged nearby, staring at me, and then rising to attention. 

“Again?” I teased, pointing.

“Always,” he answered, taking what he wanted. 

It was after four by the time we reluctantly started to dress. 

“I need to check on the bar,” Marco explained. 

“Can I see it?”

He pulled his shirt over his head, regarding me with surprise.  “Sure, if you want.” 

“I want.”  I kissed him tenderly, growing serious.  “Thank you for bringing me here.”

His tone was flippant.  “I hope the ride was what you dreamed of.” 

I frowned.  “No, I mean it.  This is a special place and you chose to share it with me.”  My voice grew soft.  “I love that you did that
, Marco.” 

Marco picked up the open beer can, pouring the contents into the dirt, his head down.  He turned and took one last look at the creek.  Then he climbed onto the bike
, kicking the engine to life.  “Let’s get going, Durant.” 

“Right,” I sighed, pulling Marco’s helmet and jacket back on. 

He drove back to Cross Point Village even faster than he had driven out of it.  I held him tightly, trying to tell myself to have faith that Marco knew what he was doing.  Trying to tell myself to have faith in Marco, period. 

The light had grown softer by the time we reached Cross Point Junction.  People headed home early, excited for the holiday.  Of course all Cross Point business would be shut tomorrow.  The lethargic parade through the center of town hadn’t been seen since I was a kid but there were still fireworks over at the high school.  The Hennessy boys used to drive down south every year in search of the good stuff.  I supposed they still did. 

Marco rode slowly down Main Street, past the town hall and the cannon, past my father’s store.  He turned onto Maple, riding up on the sidewalk before slowing to a stop halfway up the street. 

It was the oldest of the low brick buildings on Main Street.   The others had been expanded from their original modest structures to include second floor apartments but The Cave was structurally the same as the day it was built. 

For decades
it had been a regional bank where all CPV’s most upstanding citizens kept their penny hoards.  Well, until was wiped out by the events of 1929.   Then the building stood sadly vacant for several dozen years until the late 1950s when Grandma’s Attic opened as antiquing came into vogue by rich city folk. 

“Hey honey, let’s
take a drive out to the sticks, purchase a colonial era writing desk for peanuts and laugh all the way home about the ignorance of these gnarled-tooth hicks.”

When Mary
Bendetti bought the failing Maple Street establishment around 1970 it was an act of desperation.  A widow with two young sons to support in a withering half-forgotten alcove of the nation.  I supposed it was pity which moved Alan Durant to use his influence as town selectman to allow the requisite permits.  He never said so, but I imagine he would have reconsidered had he known it would usher in a new era of low rent dives along the stately row.  Often I’d caught him exiting the drugstore and squinting down the street as if he were hoping if he just tilted his head that way a little bit all the motorcycles and hard music and broken characters would disappear.  

Marco had improved the exterior slightly with a dark blue awning over the entrance and a flashy white sign with tall black lettering. 
The door was open and I heard a cascade of crashing and cursing from within.  I climbed off the bike and saw Marco gazing irritably into the dark interior. 

“Hey,” he yelled, dashing inside.  “What are you assholes doing to my place?”

I lingered uncertainly by the cracked curb as a male voice shouted an obscene greeting.  Marco laughed. I looked around and quickly counted at least fifteen other bikes squatting outside the other Maple Street bars even though it was nowhere near dark. 

“Come on
,” Marco emerged, grabbing my hand.  “I thought you wanted to see.” 

“I do.”  I let him pull me into The Cave and found myself in the midst of drop cloths and the heavy smell of
wood lacquer. 

Chris and Gavin Boyle had been cheerful and dim-witted ten years
ago. Irish twins, as the story goes, ten months apart and both a year ahead of me in school.  They’d thickened over time and wore identical brown mullets with greasy moustaches.  Chris Boyle, I remembered, was one of the boys who’d squatted in my side yard one ancient night and listened to Marco compliment my tits. 

Gavin Boyle was the younger and vaguely more serious brother.  He took a long sip from a Budweiser bottle and spoke coolly.  “Keep your skirt on,
Bendetti.  We’ll be done on Thursday like we promised.” 

Marco ran a hand over the shiny bar, yanking on it to test its solidity.  “Installation looks good,” he said. 

Chris knelt and pulled up a drop cloth.  I averted my eyes away from his pudgy ass crack.  “Floor’s done too.  We just got to do the painting on Wednesday and she’ll be all ready.” 

“Wednesday?  What happened to tomorrow?”

Chris scowled good naturedly.  “Aww, you don’t expect us to labor on our nation’s birthday?”

Gavin patted Marco on the shoulder and looked down at the fresh hardwood covering the floor.  “It’ll be done, buddy.  I swear on my brother’s left nut.” 

“Hey,” Chris complained.  Then he cocked his oafish head in my direction.  “Who’s your lady?”

Marco drew an arm around my shoulders possessively.  “
Come on, you dickheads remember Angie.” 

Gavin belched.  “Angie who?”

I let out a sigh of exasperation.  “Angie Durant, Gavin.  You guys grew up two streets away, used to trail around after my scoundrel brother.” 

“Angie Durant,” he said softly.  “
Well suck my balls and call me a lemon, you living back here?”

I
shook my head as Marco glanced quickly at me.  “Nah, just visiting.” 

Chris seemed to have difficulty processing the conversation.  “You move back in with your folks?”

“No Chris, I live in Boston.” 

“Boston,” Gavin snorted.  “Shithole full of haughty fucks.” 

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, at a loss as to how to answer that. 

Marco’s fingers played on my shoulder.  “Hey, why don’t you guys wrap it up for the day?” 

Gavin belched again.  “We already have.”

“
Well, then get lost.”

A nasty smile spread across Chris’s face as a light bulb flickered in his ca
vernous head.  “You guys fucking around?”

“Aw dammit
, Chris.” Gavin glared at his brother.  “Sorry Angie.  There’s no filter there.”

“It’s all right,” I shrugged.  “And yes, we are.” 

Marco chuckled. 

I put a finger to my lips.  “
Shh, don’t tell Tony.” 

Chris looked around nervously.  “Tony.  Where is Tony?”

Gavin looked up from where he had been tossing things into a battered tool bag. 

“Tony is long gone,” I said
with a sigh.

Chris nodded with relief as Gavin stood and began nudging him out the door.  “It’s a tr
ip seeing you again, Angie.  You know, you get tired of this guy, you can-“

“Hey,” said Marco irritably
, “why don’t you boys just quit while you’re marginally ahead?”

“Fair enough,” Gavin nodded. 

“Bye!” yelled Chris before Marco pushed the door closed in his face. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, but he was smiling. 

“Another blast from the past.”

“I can give you a blast
,” Marco whispered, holding me hard. 

“You’ve given me several.
  Just in the last few hours.” 

“You complaining?” he aske
d, backing me into the bar and breathing heavily. 

“No,” I whispered, feeling him against me. 

Marco pressed himself firmly to my body but didn’t go further. 

“What’s that?” I asked, motioning to a white-sheeted object in the far corner. 

“Jukebox.”  Marco stepped away from me and pulled the sheet off.  “Mary’s pride and joy.  She had it restored in Boston just before I took off after graduation.” 

“Does it work?”

“Of course.”  He reached around and plugged the cord in.  The machine hummed to life. 

“There anything good in there
?”

“You got a dime?”

“No.”

Marco smiled and pulled some change from his back pocket.  He started flipping the selections around and then laughed, pressing a button.  A moment later I knew why. 

“Very funny,” I said as the opening notes of Merilee Rush’s timeless version of ‘
Angel of the Morning’
filled the bar. 

Marco moved toward me.  “Come here.” 

His arms went around my waist as mine reached up, resting on his shoulders.  Marco kicked some of the sheets away from the fresh wood floor as we softly swayed.

“You’ve done a good job,” I said, looking around. 

“Hmm. Yeah, luckily Damien is free with the checkbook.  As long as I can promise a good return.” 

“I thought you guys were partners now.” 

“We are.  And he’s been great about letting me jump right into management, especially because if he’d had his way we would have sold the
place.” Marco’s hold on me lightened as he spoke thoughtfully.  “But let’s face it, he’s the guy with the means.  I’m just the penniless prodigal with nowhere else to go.” 

I tried again
, pulling him close.  “Really though, he must have a lot of faith in you.” 

Marco held back, fixing
me with a sharp look.  “I’m not feeling sorry for myself, Angela.  Just speaking the truth.” 

I leaned in, kissing him on the neck
.  “She’d be pleased,” I said.  “That you took it on.” 

He didn’t yield, staring darkly into the corner
.  “You knew her well, did you?”

I backed away, a little unsettled by the coldness in his voice.  “No.  But she loved you, Marco.  And she loved the bar.” 

He nodded slowly.  “Yes.”  He stopped moving to the music and absently took my hands in his. 

“
Hey,” I said, squeezing his hand.  “It’s getting late.  How about grabbing some dinner?”

Marco shook his head.  “Nah, I’m not hungry.  Think I’m going to stick around here a while and go over a few things.” 

I brought his knuckles to my lips.  “Will I see you later?”

He stared at me.  “Do you want to?”

“Of course.” I touched his cheek, a bit puzzled by his sudden change in mood. 

“All right, then.” His face broke into a smile which melted what was left of the frost around my heart. 

Shit, he has me. 

“I’m going over to the store to visit with my dad a while.  Why don’t you drop by the house when you’re done doing what you need to do?” 

“I will, Angie.” 

The final stanza of
‘Angel of the Morning’
was fading. I started toward the door and turned back, my mind screaming at me not to say the words. 

Think them if you must.  Just don’t
fucking say them! 

“Marco?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m
crazy about you.” 

I closed the door behind me before he could answer.   Especially because I wasn’
t sure he would.