Willa
Before the conversation starts, I tell myself I’m here for work. If I’m not going to tell anybody about Diesel, the least I can do is remember our interaction so that one day, when I decide to do the right thing, I’ll be able to document it. I’ll be Truman Capote, who claimed his memory retention was over ninety percent.
“You came,” he says.
I think of last night, hand between my legs.
“I did,” I reply.
“I’m surprised, I’ve gotta say. I reckoned you’d want to stay clear of a man like me so near to your office.”
“How do you even know where I work?”
He smiles at me, and then pats the sleeve of his leather. “I’ve been thinking about yesterday,” he says. “Our kiss ended too soon.”
“I didn’t end the kiss,” I say. “But don’t try and kiss me again. It won’t work if you haven’t forced vodka down my throat.”
“Forced?” He laughs. “Forced is a weird work to pick, Willa. And I thought your business was all about words.”
I look around the alleyway. In the corner, a trash bag overflows onto the concrete. In another corner, a condom clings like a raindrop to a metal bracket. Graffiti is our wallpaper and old, ignored trash our scented candles. “Is this where you bring all your dates?”
“Is this a date?” he shoots back.
I spread my hands. “You brought me here. You tell me. I was happy at work until your lackey came to disturb me.”
“You seem annoyed,” he says. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not great when it comes to reading women’s emotions. But you seem annoyed. That’s obvious.”
“Annoyed?” I growl, letting out the frustration I’ve felt all morning. I feel like spitting. “That word doesn’t really cover how I’m feeling, to be completely honest with you. I’m homeless. Soon to be homeless, anyway. I’m staying in some shithole motel where I can hear people screwing in the next room. In two days, I might take that as my bed.” I gesture to the trash bag. “So yeah, maybe I am annoyed.”
“But you seem annoyed at me.” I know he knows, just by looking into his dark green eyes. He knows why I’d be annoyed with him. Does he want me to play some kind of game?
I take a step forward and look up into his face. “You’re kidding, right?” I snap. “You’re really, really kidding.”
“What am I kidding about, Willa?”
“You know why I’m annoyed with you!” I slap the front of his leather. He doesn’t even flinch, just stares down at me calmly. He doesn’t even move. He’s carved from rock. I slap him again, harder. There’s no difference. “You can’t stand there and tell me you really, really don’t know what’s going on here. You’d have to be an idiot, Diesel. Diesel. I feel so stupid calling you that.”
“You have something you want to say.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, I do. You burned down my apartment building. It’s so obvious I can’t believe you’re actually making me come out and say it like this. You burned down my apartment building; that’s it. It’s so obvious! I don’t know why you did it. Maybe you have some weird biker reason for wanting that building gone. But you did it.”
I think he’s going to admit to it, but then he pushes away from his bike and walks to the other end of the alleyway, his back to me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not wearing a wire, Diesel.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he repeats, turning back to me. “What you’re saying makes no goddamn sense. Me, burn down a building?”
“Whoever did it,” I say, ignoring him, “made the effort to make sure he wouldn’t be hurting anybody. Physically hurting anybody, at least. He seemingly didn’t care about making them homeless.” I watch him, trying to get a rise out of him. His face twitches but he stays silent. “Maybe he thought he could justify it by saying he’d reimburse anyone without insurance. Fine, that’s a nice gesture, I suppose. But it doesn’t change the fact that he burned down the building they live in, making them homeless.”
“Let someone else do it, then, and see how those people end up!” he explodes, shaking his head. “Let Grimace give the job to one of the psychotic fucks who’ll burn the place to the ground with fuckin’ babies in there! Let—” He cuts short, bringing his fist to his face like he’s going to bite it. Then he lets it drop and makes a growling sound from deep in his throat. “Goddamn, Willa.”
“So you did it,” I say. “You can’t take it back now.”
He stares at me silently.
“You really think I’m here to spy on you.”
“We don’t know each other at all.” He shakes out his arms as though trying to calm himself down. I’ve seen boxers do the same on TV. “We met last night. You can’t expect me to spill out my guts for you.”
“I expect no such thing,” I say. “And I want no such thing. I just want the truth.”
“So you’re going to be homeless soon?” he says. “You don’t have anybody to stay with, or anything?”
“So you’re just going to pretend like this conversation is over?”
“No family, no friends?”
I feel myself blush, even though there’s no need. “No,” I mutter.
“Shit,” he says. “That sucks. Well, I guess there’s only one thing for it, then. You’ll have to stay with me.”
“You’re joking,” I say. “This is a joke.”
“I don’t joke about serious business, and this is serious business.”
He takes two large steps and then all at once he’s standing over me, making me crane my neck back to look up at him. I remember his smell, the feel of his lips … for a passing moment it’s like he’s kissing me again. He leans down so that his lips are close to mine. And then he leans in, closer, closer, and my body is aching, aching for him, hungry for him. Just like last night, when my fingers moved despite myself, now I stand on my tiptoes, close my eyes, purse my lips. When I kiss, I kiss air.
I open my eyes and see him standing a foot away from me, arms folded, looking cool and distant. “Is that a yes or a no?”
Frustrated—sexually and otherwise—I fold my arms, so that we’re facing off. Gunslingers, but instead of guns we have scowls. Scowl-slingers, then. “That was mean,” I say. “That was really, really mean. And how can I agree to move in with you? Like you said, we don’t know each other at all.”
“Come on, I’m a classy kind of guy. You can’t expect me to kiss you here. My place, though …”
“A classy kind of guy?” I roll my eyes dramatically, tipping my head to bring the point home. “You could’ve fooled me.” I’m smiling, I realize, flirting. I’m smiling at and flirting with the man who burned down my apartment building.
“I don’t want you on the street,” he says. “That’s the fact. I promise I won’t try anything with you.”
“You just lied to me,” I say. “You just lied right to my face.”
He smiles, shrugs. “I never claimed to be an angel.”
“You never claimed to be a devil, either. In fact, so far you haven’t claimed to be anything.”
“Are you going to stay with me or not, Willa? I don’t like to ask twice.”
“Well excuse me for inconveniencing you.” I shake my head at him and put heavy irony into my voice. “I’d never want to do that. That would be an unfair thing to do.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. I still want an answer, though.”
“Tell me your name,” I say, taking a step forward. I want to be close to him again, to feel his breath on my face, to feel his arms around me, his lips pressed against mine. But I’m not going to make the move if he isn’t. “I don’t even know your name and you want me to move in with you.” I offer him my hand. “I’m Willa Holloway. It’s nice to meet you.”
He takes my hand. “I’m Diesel. It’s nice to meet you.”
Snatching my hand away, I snap, “I asked for your name, not your nickname.”
“I told you. My name is Diesel. Legally.”
“And your second name? Nobody has just one name.”
“I do.”
We watch each other for a few seconds in silence. I’m exasperated. I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere. And yet I’m also imagining what it would be like to take this man up on his offer. It’s crazy and it makes no sense, and yet I am drawn to the idea. It’s the kind of thing you hear about in magazines and in articles online, but which you’d never actually do.
“I sleep on the couch,” I say. But it’s like somebody else is speaking. This isn’t the Willa I know. “Or a spare room if you have one. You don’t touch me. You don’t look at me. We’re roommates, nothing more.”
“So you’ll be paying rent then?” He’s joking, I can tell. He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “I can give you my address or pick you up after work, your choice.”
“Pick me up,” I say, thinking, what the hell am I doing?
“All right, then. Meet me here after work. What time do you finish?”
“Half past five.”
“All right, then.” He climbs onto his bike.
“Aren’t you going to wear a helmet?” I ask.
He winks at me. “I only have one helmet, and I reckon I’ll give it to the lady. Climb on. I’m giving you a ride back to work.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I feel at a loss. I was going to be a journalist here. I was going to remember and document, observe, not get swept up in it. Even as I ask the question, I’m walking to his bike, taking the offered helmet, and putting it on my head.
“Hang on.” He takes off his leather jacket and hands it to me over his shoulder. That’s when I see the scars on his arms, crisscrossed and pale, starting at his wrists and disappearing in his T-shirt. “Take this.”
This is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Scratch that. This is one hundred percent the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. My only consolation is that lunchtime isn’t yet over. The office should still be empty. When I’m in the helmet and the jacket, I wrap my arms around his belly, holding onto the tight-packed muscle. Diesel kicks the bike and then I’m sitting on a vibrating hunk of metal. I’d be lying if I said the reverberations, along with the firmness of Diesel’s belly, don’t make me wish I was in bed.
He rides me halfway to work and then stops in another alleyway. The ride is short, around half a minute, and I’m frustrated when I have to climb off and let go of his belly.
“It would’ve been quicker to walk,” I say, “when you account for the time we’re wasting now.” I take off the jacket and the helmet and hand them to him.
“Quicker, sure, but not as fun.” He leans against his bike. “Go on then, Willa. I want to watch you walk away.”
I walk out the alleyway, feeling Diesel’s eyes on my ass and liking the feeling way more than I should.
When I get back to the office, suddenly the attention doesn’t seem so bad. The copy doesn’t seem so bad. Nothing seems as bad as it did half an hour ago.
Even Brittany’s pouting doesn’t annoy me. All I have to do is avoid thinking about if I’m making a terrible mistake.