Xander
I ought to let her walk out of here. I ought to leave her to her own devices. If she wants to act like some melodramatic actress then I ought to be fine with that. I don’t know her. I didn’t know she existed until less than half an hour ago. And she tried to use the kid on me. There’s no denying that. She turned his little face to me and tried to make me look so that I’d fall under her spell. It’s pathetic, the sort of thing only a manipulative woman’d do. No woman who really cares about her kid would pull shit like that. I reckon the whole thing’s a scam. That ain’t Arsen’s kid, Arsen’s old lady. He would’ve mentioned it.
Yet the kid does look like Arsen, and there’s no denying the Cormac story. I walk to the front door without meaning to, which is damn strange ’cause normally I never do anything without meaning to do it. I take some cash with me, around a grand, and then run down the stairs two at a time. The sunlight blinds me as I walk onto the street, a solid ball that seems to exist only to make it more difficult for me to see. Kayla is across the other side of the street, loading her kid into an old-looking sedan, spots of rust on the fenders.
She glances up just as she secures the kid in his chair, and then paces around the car and goes to the driver’s seat. She’s seen me, but maybe she don’t want anything to do with me now. As I jog across the road to her, I feel my body stir at the sight of her, all of her, lit up in the sun. She has the kind of hair a man can easily imagine running his hand through, the kind of legs a man can easily imagine being between. Bad thoughts, man, bad, bad thoughts, but bad thoughts are sometimes the easiest to think.
“No need to go off in a fucking temper tantrum.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head. “Are you always such a jerk?”
“Here.” I toss her the bundle of cash. “How jerkish is that? That ought to keep you going for a couple of days, at least.”
She looks down at the cash and then up at me, clearly wondering whether she can take money from me after what just happened. But then she makes the choice that most do when faced with cash or anger: she pockets the cash. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “Although I still think you acted like a real asshole up there. There was no need for that, was there? I mean, what’s your problem?”
“That’s a long list, Kayla. But I can tell you one of my problems.” I step forward so that my body is pressed almost against hers, an inch of space between us. “You’re about the sexiest, most beautiful lady I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”
For the first time in ten months, my mind is empty. I take her face in my hands and lean in. She purses her lips at the last moment, her body relaxing. I’ve never been much of a kisser but goddamn if this don’t feel good. Her mouth is soft, her tongue warm. It makes me wonder what else she has that is soft and warm. She’s nervous at first, kissing me softly, but then she lets out an animal-like growl and bites down on my lip. She’s the one who closes the distance between us, pressing her crotch against my leg, grinding up and down on me. I slide my hand down her back. I need to feel that tight ass, to squeeze it hard and feel how perky it is, to spank it, if she’s into that sort of thing, to bend her over and—
The baby’s screams cut through the passion like a machete through muscle. Kayla cringes away from me and I do the same with her, standing a few feet apart now instead of inches. She opens her mouth to speak, closes it, and then opens it again. “I don’t know …”
“No,” I say. “Neither do I.”
“I don’t … Thank you for the money.”
She gets in her car, manages to get it going after a few coughs and judders, and then pulls away from me. I watch the car go, reaching instinctively for my bottle of whisky before I remember that I didn’t bring it down with me. I stand here for a long time trying not to let my mind stray to what just happened. Then I head back up to my apartment, still blotting my mind, which is easier when a man’s drunk than when he’s sober. I take another drink but the whisky tastes sour after the taste of Kayla’s mouth. I’m still rock-hard for her, is the crazy thing, and she left five minutes ago. I think about jerking off but I can’t be bothered. It seems pointless when I just had the real thing pressed up against me, moaning, gasping. She lit up for me like a firecracker. I wish she was here now so that we could both lose ourselves in the other person. I want to feel that ass, man, just feel that sweet tight ass …
I work out for a while, doing some pull-ups and curls and presses, but not even working out gets my mind off her. I can’t let my mind go down that road, I just can’t, but it’s true, ain’t it, that if Arsen saw what I just did, he’d be pissed off with me? A brother don’t take his dead brother’s old lady. That just isn’t how it’s done. I’m the same old Xander who kissed Marie Keller in front of him, the same old Xander who bullies his little brother just ’cause he’s terrified of his old man. I bring the whisky bottle to my lips, and then lower it. Bring it up, lower it. I don’t sip. I can’t sip. Sipping seems pointless when I’m already so drunk. I need something else. I need some sort of release. I need Kayla’s body, but that’s precisely the thing I shouldn’t be thinking about.
I throw on a shirt and some jeans, pull on my boots, and go down to the street. I’m not so far gone that I don’t know that I shouldn’t drive, so I walk down the street, hands in my pockets, heading for a neighborhood I shouldn’t be heading for. The sun’s out and people seem happy, like they always do when it’s bright and smells of spring. The Rockies loom, but the Rockies always loom, reminding us that we’re human. I stroll through a park, hands by my sides, twitching. I wonder what Arsen would’ve done if he’d watched me and Kayla just now. Maybe he would’ve fought me, ran at me and punched me right in the face, and I would’ve let him, just lay there as he laid into me. That would’ve been fair. It’s bullshit, kissing her like that, it’s not fair to him, to his memory. But then, how much could he have loved her if he never mentioned her? Now I’m justifying, just like when I told Marie Keller not to pay any attention to his crying; he’s just a silly little kid. Disgracing his memory. What sort of brother am I?
And yet she felt so, so good, and she seemed willing, and it isn’t the same as fucking my brother’s old lady if my brother was still alive. At least maybe I’m hoping that’s true, ’cause if that’s true I get to do it again. The sun is too bright, the world is too warm, and my tongue is too dry. Everything is boiling; the whole world is on fire. I go to a food stand, one of those healthy ones that do fruit and vegan stuff, and get a banana, an apple, and a liter of water. Sitting on the bench, getting myself ready—inside and out—I devour the food and neck the water.
I have to ask myself an important question: If I really think I did nothing wrong with Kayla, why am I willfully walking, alone, into a neighborhood where I know for a fact there’re drug dealers who are no friend to the Angels? I let the question work its way around my head, filling my thoughts, but then I push it away. The answer is too obvious, too pathetic. And yeah, sure, maybe I do deserve to be punished, but that doesn’t mean I have to lay it out like that, wallow in it. I have a job; just get it done.
I stroll down one of the nastier streets in Denver, whistling a tune, until I come to two men at the corner of the road who are dressed like fellas who have just auditioned for a gangster movie. All checkered shirts and baggy jeans and so much jewelry they’re turned to beacons in the afternoon sun.
One of the men is black and has his hair in cornrows. He’s the bigger of the two, so I approach him. “What’s up, man?” he says, looking shifty as hell.
His friend, sunburnt so badly his face has turned red, stands with his hand withdrawn slightly, as though winding up for a punch. “I don’t like the look of this motherfucker.”
“I’ve been hearing whispers, fellas, whispers I don’t much like the sound of. I’m a forgetful bastard, sometimes, and I left my jacket at home. But this town belongs to the Asphalt Angels and I don’t much like hearing that kids can swing by here and get a hit of any damn poison they like. I don’t mind if some little bastard wants to come by here and try some weed, but meth, heroin, coke? Never trust shit that’s made in a lab, and never give shit that’s made in a lab to kids. Don’t fucking interrupt me.” My voice takes on a biting tone when the black guy makes to shout something. Maybe I’ve got some dread in me, ’cause he shuts his mouth. “Here’s the deal. You stop dealing the hard shit to kids and I don’t bust your heads open.”
“Are we really gonna listen to this shit?” the white guy roars, swinging at me with a knuckle-duster.
It’s a clumsy hit, the sort of hit I could dodge easily if I wanted to, but I don’t. I step forward and take it on the chin. I let both of them get a few hits in until my nose is dripping blood and I’ve got a cut just above my eye, and only then do I start to fight for real. I tool the bastards up and get them on their heels. After a while they decide it’s too much for them and run away, shouting all the while that they won’t forget this, they’re the hardest men in this block, blah-blah-fucking-blah.
I go back to my apartment, wondering if that made me feel any better.
Then I take a drink.