Reckless Point (4 page)

I shook my head.  “Tony’s in Hartford these days
.  Working in a warehouse or something, trying to stay out of trouble.”  I pushed my thick hair behind my ears and softened my voice.  “Hey, I’m sorry about your mom.”

He didn’t answer, only lowered his head and stared at the cracke
d cement.  I started to reach out to touch his arm.  His incredibly tanned and well-muscled arm.  But I pulled my hand back before I got halfway. 

“She was always a real nice woman
,” I said. 

Mary
Bendetti had raised her two boys herself.  I’d always gathered that behind it all was a sad story which didn’t bear discussing.  My folks weren’t ones to gossip, but I’d finally heard from Krista that old man Bendetti was a mean son of a bitch, much older than his wife and prone to a violent temper which got the better of him when he keeled over during a bar fight in Springfield. 

I meant what I’d said to Marco about his mother.  Mary
Bendetti looked old long before her time with her grueling schedule at the bar, trying to scrape together an existence for her family.  She was soft spoken didn’t even raise her voice at me when I was three and picked all of the yellow marigolds out of her window box garden.

“Here, sweethea
rt,” she said, plucking the last two out herself.  “You don’t want to miss any.” 

But s
he was fierce when it came to her sons and never stopped trying to rein in wild Marco.  I’d heard she found the first lumps in her body five years earlier and though friends like my mother urged her to seek more aggressive treatment, Mary would shrug that she didn’t have time.  Her house was long since empty but she had the bar, always the bar.  My father used to say that bar was like a son to Mary, that she would die for The Cave.

 
“Yeah, she was a nice woman,” Marco finally said so softly I barely heard him.  Then he seemed to shake off his gloom, crushing one cigarette and immediately lighting another. 

I liked my lips.  “Hey, can I
bum one of those?”

Marco handed me the one he had just lit and retrieved a fresh one from the back.
“No good to keep a lady waiting,” he said, watching me while I inhaled. 

I could not say what I was thinking
when I grabbed that cigarette.  The second I recklessly took a deep inhale the smoke burned my lungs and I began to cough violently, dropping the cigarette in the street and attracting the attention of the pastel-clad potluck crowd a few dozen yards away.  My mother was among them and I didn’t miss her frown when she saw Marco looming over me. 

He patted my back lightly, his chuckle deep.  “You don’t smoke.” 

I shook my head, feeling so fucking foolish I might have been fifteen again, a listless nerd girl sidling up to the cool kids.

Shit. 

I hadn’t felt like this much of a goddamn daft idiot since, since…yesterday.  Without looking at Marco again I turned away and cut through all the crowded gaiety to get to my house. 

There, in the comfort of the hideous yellow and avocado-colored kitchen I poured a large glass of cool tap water and drank it down in big gulps.  I was unhappy with myself.  As if the whole specter of the Brian mess didn’t make me feel inadequate
enough, now there was adolescent awkwardness and Marco Bendetti haunting me. 

“Angela.”

I hopped and shrieked and dropped the glass.  Marco had let himself in through the side door and was standing under my mother’s gigantic rooster wall clock.  He looked so much larger standing there in my parents’ bright kitchen.  His eyebrows rose as he surveyed the mess on the floor. 

“You okay?”

“Fine.”  Well really, I felt entirely out of sorts, like maybe if I ran in three separate directions and screamed for a while everything might make a little more sense. 

I pulled the dustpan from the upper cabinet where it had resided for a good thirty years and bent to deal with the
broken glass.  My face was hot and, I was sure, quite red. 

You see, it just wasn’t fair.

I mean, you graduate, you move away, you leave all the old insecurities behind and grow up to earn a nice paycheck and even join the mysteries of sex.  But what does it matter?  Marco Bendetti could still say a few meaningless words and you’re instantly altered into a lake of throbbing lust. 

T
he old equations never changed, it seemed.  No matter how you tried to rewrite them. 

I began industriously sweeping up glass shards, trying to ignore
the fact that the boy nicknamed ‘Banger’ had become a hell of a man and was now hovering over me and taking the broom out of my hands.  The brief jolt of his touch gave my panties another workout as I wiped my hands on my dress and tried not to stare at the way his muscles bulged out of his shirt. 

“Well, thanks for the help, I guess. I think I’ll go change.”

Marco didn’t answer me as he deposited the glass remnants in the mustard colored garbage can.  I rounded the corner and stood in the living room for a few seconds with my back to the paneled wall.  I needed a moment. 

True, I’d been secretly hoping to engage in some
bawdy sexual abandon to recover from Briangate.  But was I really considering Marco?  He’d been a wild one in high school and time seemed to have intensified his rough edges.  I recalled his brief mention of prison and shuddered deliciously. 

I’d never taken a bad step in my life. 
Staid guys, reliable guys, nice guys, were my goal.  And, well, look where that had gotten me.  The brand of Office Cuckold. 

I was betting Marco
Bendetti didn’t fuck with the lights off. 

With a
small headshake I turned down the hallways towards my bedroom.  Who the hell knew what was going on in Marco’s head anyway?  Sweeping broken glass off a puckered linoleum floor might have just been his version of friendliness toward an old buddy’s sister. 

My hand reached the doorknob at the exact second I realized he was right behind me.  I turned around, rather startled.  Marco looked at me mildly. 

“My room,” I said, motioning inside. 

He nodded.  “I know.”

“You know?”

He shrugged.  “Sure.  I’ve been through your place enough times with Tony.” It was a tad unnerving the way he peered into my innocent lilac-themed bedroom and grinned.  He lowered his voice.  “Of course I couldn’t tell your brother about how I used to rifle through your underwear drawer.”

My ass hit the door jamb.  I couldn’t breathe.  “You did?” 

He nodded and brushed past me into the room.  “I did.” 

The bedroom was small and in two steps Marco stood squarely in the middle of it.  He looked around curiously as if he were visiting a strange new country and then peered out my window at the colorful activity in the street.  When he turned to me and smiled I knew he had seen me watching at the window the night before.  And that he had watched me too. 

“Good year,” he said, motioning to the ‘Class of ‘82’ felt banner which hung over my closet. 

“For some people,” I said. 

And then I did it.  I shut the door softly behind me. 

Marco heard the click and his expression changed.  He passed a hand over his chin, regarding me thoughtfully.  Then he shook his head with his old cocksure smile and spoke teasingly.  “I haven’t had a good fuck in a while.” 

My back was against the door.
I was deadly serious. “I can be a good fuck.”

Perhaps he’d meant to shock me with such crude talk
but I could tell that in fact my response had shocked him.  I cast a long appraising look at his pants, letting him know that I liked what I saw.  And that I’d meant what I said. 

Before I even raised my eyes
Marco was on me, his rough hands groping my breasts, his hips grinding deeply against mine so I could feel exactly how hard he was.  His tongue instantly invaded my mouth and I responded with equal urgency.  Marco forced a knee between my legs and I opened my thighs willingly, feeling the hem of my gauzy dress ride up. 

I grabbe
d his muscular backside and pulled him more closely against me.  Then with a shock I felt his fingers inside my underwear, pushing and massaging until I was damn near to climaxing. 

Marco abruptly
broke the embrace and forced my head up to meet his eyes.

“Angela,” he warned
.  “Last chance.” 

I knew what he meant.  Last chance to pull away, last chance to say no.  Because once he started Marco
Bendetti sure as hell wasn’t going to stop.  I didn’t want him to stop. 

Wi
th a tug he unleashed his immense organ and suddenly I was a little uncertain.  I’d wanted this and wanted it bad but, as he tore my panties away, I was dimly aware that this was a whole new level of risk and I wavered.  It seemed I wasn’t quite far gone enough to abandon all sense. 

Until I felt the tease of his shaft between my legs.  He was lingering lightly at my entrance, just th
e tip, perhaps expecting me to call the whole thing off.   I was wet.  I was pulsing.  I was ready.  And I couldn’t stand it.  I hauled myself up using his wide shoulders as leverage and wrapped my legs around him.  Marco considered that an invitation, exhaling as he pushed himself into me. 

A small cry escaped my lips as I felt the full brunt of his impact.  It was hotter, more immediate than anything I had ever known.
I opened wider and felt Marco harden even more in response.  There was a twinge of worry in the back of my mind but as I spiraled closer to orgasm it was lost.  I didn’t care about the risk.  I didn’t care if Marco finished inside of me.  In fact I wanted him to. 

Dimly I realized I was likely to sport some serious bruises from the pounding my back was taking agai
nst the door. I moaned and Marco quickened his pace. 

H
e breathed in my ear, plunging harder. “Christ, you feel so good.  You know how long I’ve wanted to fuck the hell out of you, Angela?” 

Who
would have though such crass language could make a proper New England girl shudder to conclusion that much faster? 

Distantly I heard the whine of the screen door.  My mother’s high pitched voice echoed from the kitchen as she complained to my father that no one was eating her onion dip.  I bit my lip to keep from screaming as the waves of bliss pulled me under. 
I heard my father’s voice call my name twice and then give up.

Marco
kissed me hard, thrusting impossibly deep.  Then I felt it.  The hottest spurt of irresponsible pleasure that I had ever known.  My hips ached from abuse but still I widened myself further as the tremors consumed us both. 

When Marco finally withdrew I uttered a little moan of complaint.  My legs buckled and only his quick hands kept me from falling to the floor. 

“Steady,” he grinned wryly. 

I pulled down my dress, blushing.  Already I was suspended in utter disbelief by what I had just done. 

“I can be a good fuck.”

God almighty in a tin cup
on Tuesday, had I actually said that???

His kiss caught me
off guard.  It was deep and passionate, full of insincere promises. I melted into his arms.  Hell, if he was game to take me again, I was ready. 

Instead, Marco zipped himself back into his pants, gave me a little wink and quietly exited my bedroom.  I stared after him.  I
was fairly sure my parents were no longer in the house.  If I was wrong, things were about to escalate quickly. 

After several moments of quiet I assumed Marco had managed to exit the house unscathed, which was a good thin
g for both of us.  I shudder to consider the shock Grace and Alan Durant would suffer if they caught the neighborhood bad boy zipping his fly up as he left the bedroom of their virtuous (in their minds, anyway) daughter. 

Raucous
laughter drifted in from the party outside.  If I didn’t make an appearance soon my folks were sure to come looking for me. I couldn’t exactly explain that I needed a break after having just screwed Marco Bendetti against my bedroom door. 

I took a deep breath.  Then another.  The room began to spin
.  I thought about calling Lanie in search of advice. 

“Hey
Lanie, how does a girl behave after casually boning the boy across the street?”

But I cou
ldn’t explain this, not to Lanie, not even to myself.

After replacing my dress with a pair of jeans an
d a plain white t-shirt, I used a scrunchie to tie my hair into a ponytail and slipped on a pair of red flats.  I would have to fake it.  I would spend the next handful of hours in a blur of smiling until my cheeks ached while feigning interest in nonsense like Aunt Becky’s new tennis bracelet. 

“Angela,” my mother frowned as she centered a
jello mold on the table.  “You changed your clothes. Where have you been?”

I popped the tab on a Coke.  “Well, you can see I changed my clothes.  That’s where I’ve been.  Changing my clothes.” 

I sounded idiotic but my mother was too distracted to notice.   My gaze wandered across the street several times to where Marco was bullshitting with a few blowhards I dimly recalled from high school.  I looked at their moving lips and tried to imagine their conversation. 

“Remember Angela Durant?  Ye
ah, Tony’s sister.  Screwed her brains out.  Just now
.”

A folded vinyl lawn chair was propped up against the
food table.  I grabbed it and set it up in the shade of a weeping willow tree in front of the Johnson’s house.  I was staring sullenly at the freshly cut grass and trying to banish unmentionable thoughts, like how Marco’s body felt as he sank into me like a knife into butter, when Krista skulked to my side. 

“Hey Angie,” she said, plopping down on the grass with her arms crossed.  

I tried not to roll my eyes.  “Hey Krista.”

“Your mom is holding Ethan.” 

“Who is Ethan?” 

She gave me a withering look.  “My baby.” 

“Oh yeah.”

The smug expression
had returned.  I wonder if it was ever wiped away for more than one hour out of twenty four.  I would guess that Krista wore that self-satisfied sneer even in her sleep.  “Your mother loves babies.  She can’t wait to hold her first grandchild.”

“Well, she’ll likely be waiting awhile.”  I nodded over to where her husband standing alone and diligently consuming a plate of hamburgers.  “Keith looks good.”

Krista glanced at me sharply to see if I was full of shit.  Of course I was.  Keith French had descended into beer-gutted lethargy about ten minutes after the last strains of Pomp and Circumstance finished rumbling through the dingy high school gymnasium. 

But I smiled at my cousin to let her know I didn’t mean any harm.  Another dollop of shit.  Of course I did. 

“We’re all doing well,” Krista said haughtily and tossed her teased blonde hair.  “Speaking of looking good,” she said and whistled low, looking at Marco. 

At that moment my eyes locked o
nto Marco’s.  He gave me a brief smile and turned his attention back to Tom Hennessy. The former homecoming king turned Cross Point Village cop was now pudgy and prematurely balding. He laughed at something Marco had said. 

“He’s all right,” I finally said, keeping my voice placidly noncommittal. 

Krista leaned over conspiratorially.  “He was my first, you know.”

I’d forgotten
. “First what?”

“Very funny Angela.  Anyway, I told
Keith that one night when I was pissed at him.  He just about punched a hole through the living room wall. Broke two knuckles.  Like it fucking matters.  I mean, it was all so long ago.” 

“It was all so long ago,” I echoed, though for me it had barely been an hour. 

Krista looked at me but didn’t say anything. 

“You happy, Krista?”

She was startled.  “What?”

“Are you happy?  With all of this; the bland husband, the tedious child rearing, squatting for all eternity in the same
eyesore of a place?”

Krista was unamused by my heartfelt line of questioning. “What the fuck is up with you?  Too goddamn
good for all of us now, huh?”  She stood, wiping blades of grass from her tapered jeans.  “We used to be friends, Angela.” 

It would have been a great parting line.  If it were true. 

“We never were,” I called after her. 

She turned, her lip curled. 

“Friends,” I explained.  “We never were.” 

And
for once Krista Kaminski French had not a thing to say. 

It was well past dark when people finally started taking their toys and going home.  The teens and the drinking crowd would be going full swing for hours yet but the
potluckers were yawning their way out.  With dull satisfaction I noticed that every crumb of my carefully baked pies was gone. 

At one point I noticed Marco had taken his cooler and his muscles and returned indoors.  I could see his silhouette shadowed behind the yellow curtains in his living room.  It looked as if he was fiddling with the television.  Curious, because someone had begun bla
sting a boom box at the Gilliam house and once upon a time Marco was never one to turn his back on a party. 

Except you already gav
e him a hell of a party
. 

I must have put up a good front because Grace and Alan seemed completely oblivious that anything was amiss.  My mother was purple-faced over the fact that her Currier and Ives cake plate was now sporting a sizeable ship over the old grist mill and my father was busily trying to br
eak a world record for Most Crap Shoved Into a Hefty Garbage Bag. 

“Well,” I said finally, wiping my hands on my jeans.  “I’m super tired so I’m going to call it a night.”

My mother looked at me oddly.  “You feeling okay, Angela?  You’re very pale.” 

“Genetics.”  I touched my face.  It felt cold.  “Actually Mrs.
Kilbourne’s fried chicken disagreed with me a little so I’m going to lie down.” 

My father looked up
, staring at me curiously as my mother decided she was satisfied with my answer.  “Good night,” she said tenderly, and blew me a kiss. 

“Good night, Angela,” my father said with an odd edge to his tone.

The trek back to my bedroom was a full blown walk of shame.  I felt like a piece of dog sh
it.  Worse than dog shit.  Elephant shit maybe. 

After flopping on the bed I stared at the low ceiling for a good two hours.  It stared back at me.  I heard my folks climbing the stairs heavily to their bedroom.   Gradually, as one day prepared to melt
into the next, the outside murmuring of voices and the distant music of someone’s Journey cassette began to dissipate. 

But my heart still pounded like a jackh
ammer.  There was no way I was going to find any tranquil sleep tonight.  I pulled on a pair of flip flops.  Though I wasn’t legally obliged to explain anything, I didn’t want to risk any questions.  I knew my dad was bound to hear if I tried to sneak out the front door.  Tony had tried that trick often enough and never seemed to learn that it always came to grief.

So I did what I had never had a reason to do in my unto
uched adolescence.  I opened my bedroom window and crawled through it.