4. Blake
4
BLAKE
“Something bothering you, babe? How can I fix it?” Janessa coos, kissing her way down my chest. Her hand finds my dick and starts stroking me. “How about you relax and let me take over? I’ll have you forgetting your troubles in no time.”
We’re lying in her bed, minutes after midnight. We spent most of the evening messing around. First in her living room, then again after we ordered takeout from the Chinese spot that delivers. I fucked Janessa so hard, we knocked over the half-eaten containers on the coffee table. It’s been on and off for hours.
But as the heater in her bedroom kicks out lukewarm air and she tries to start up another round, I’m checked out. The sex was good enough. Janessa’s sexy and playful; she’d have any guy hard as hell in seconds.
This would be the case for me if I weren’t distracted.
If my mind weren’t on one thing and one thing only.
Earlier, on the side of the road, I’d seen Korine McKibbens for the first time in a decade.
It’s a shock to the system. She’s the last person I imagined I’d run into, even if she’s also the person I’ve missed the most.
Most people born in Pulsboro live and die here. They attend the local colleges and then become the adults and pillars of the community their parents and grandparents before them once were. It’s a long generational lineage through the decades.
The few that do leave, rarely, if ever, return. The ones that go cold turkey on Pulsboro—cut everybody from town out of their lives without a word—are almost always gone for good.
Korine barely said so much as goodbye before she left.
It’s been assumed she’d want nothing to do with Pulsboro for the rest of her life.
She’s married.
That piece of information spins inside my head. It’s one of the most distracting aspects of our run-in. Korine McKibbens—what the hell is her married name, anyway?—is forever off-the-market. She’s a taken woman. Even worse than a boyfriend and a fucking fiancé.
She’s got a husband .
Laying in Janessa’s bed among the wrinkled sheets that smell of sex, I begin to imagine what he’s like. Tension gathers in my jaw, and I glare up at the ceiling. Janessa’s busy stroking my dick and kissing me all over. I barely register her touch, too focused on Korine and the man who put a ring on her finger.
I bet he’s tall. Athletic. She always liked a guy that was physical and good with his hands. He’s probably got some lucrative career if they’ve bought a house. There was a brand-new men’s three-piece suit in the backseat of her car.
The image of some prick with a spotless suit and a neat part in his hair materializes in my mind.
Does he make her happy? Does he make her laugh? Does he have her trembling with pleasure the way I used to make her?—
I cut the bitter thought off midway through. It’s not appropriate. She’s a married woman, and that should be respected.
It doesn’t matter what I think or how I feel, because she chose him. He’s the man she wanted. End of story.
That’s what I tell myself anyway, despite my feelings to the contrary.
“Mmm, babe, touch me,” Janessa purrs. Her wild chocolate mane cascades over her shoulders as she moves. She’s climbed on top of me, rocking her hips. The heat of her pussy rubs against my dick and should turn me on.
I barely respond, my gaze above her on the ceiling and my mind miles away.
She grabs my hands and places them on her breasts. Her hips rock faster and faster in her attempt to turn me on and make me hard. As soon as she takes her hands off mine, expecting me to grope and knead her breasts, I’m dropping my arms to my side.
It doesn’t even register how rude and neglectful it must come across.
“Babe,” she pleads, bending forward to kiss my lips. “Babe, don’t you want me?”
“Korine—”
The name tumbles out of my mouth when I don’t mean for it to—the disconnect between my brain and the rest of me never more real than in this moment.
“Korine?!” Janessa screeches, freezing her efforts. She shoves her hands at my face. “Who the fuck’s Korine?!?”
“Janessa,” I correct. “I said Janessa.”
“You said Korine , Cash!” she yells. She makes a sound of disgust and then hops off me. “Who’s that, huh? Is that some other slut you’re banging? Is she one of those Tits on Heels bitches at the club?”
I sit up, trying my best to be calm. Janessa’s taken to flitting about the room in search of her clothes and mine, sorting through her hospital scrubs and my t-shirt. She picks a robe off the floor and wraps it around herself. My jeans she tosses at me with such force they smack into my chest.
“Get out, Cash! I can’t believe I fell for your games again.”
“Janessa,” I say in an even tone, “we’re not exclusive. We’re just messing around.”
Wrong thing to say.
“JUST messing around?! Is that all it is?” She produces a squawk worthy of a bird and stomps around her room some more. “Get out, get out! I don’t want to see you anymore!”
“It’s half past midnight. Can’t we talk about this? We’ve still got some General Tso chicken leftover?—”
“GET OUT, BLAKE CASH!”
Her scream must be heard by every other person in the apartment building. If she keeps screaming bloody murder like this, somebody’ll overhear and call the cops.
Then I’ll have a whole other kind of problem.
I hold up my hands and slide off the bed. “Fine, Janessa. But if I go, I ain’t coming back. This is the end.”
“Go back to Korine! Whoever the bitch is!”
I slide on my jeans and pull my t-shirt over my head. Janessa chases me out with more screeches and stomps of her bare feet. The second my boot crosses over the threshold, she slams the door shut with enough force to rattle the wall.
Wait ’til Mace hears about this.
He called it. He already wasn’t her biggest fan.
I head down to my Harley parked at the curb of her apartment building. The street’s dead silent. No traffic coming through and no other soul outside.
Standard, even for a Friday night in Pulsboro.
Except for Larson Lane where all the bars are, the town’s usually asleep a few hours into the night.
The Steel Saloon’s probably still teeming with life. I could stop by and hang with some of the guys. Swinging my leg over my bike and sitting down on the seat, I decide against it.
There’s always tomorrow night if I want to spend time at the saloon.
After my surprise run-in today with Korine and this blow-up with Janessa, I might as well call it a night.
My Street Bob rumbles taking off down the block. The misty fog roams the dark streets. Wandering around Pulsboro this late makes you feel like the only man alive.
The quiet forces you to think. The cold keeps you on edge, with your lungs barely able to take a breath.
I pass through town, ignoring the one street I never go down. The same street we’d driven down on a night like this years ago but a street I haven’t gone down since.
I stop at the gas station a couple blocks from my place. No other cars are filling up and only the clerk is inside the convenience store a few feet away. I slide off my bike and reach for the gas nozzle.
My phone buzzes. Glancing at the screen, I expect to see Janessa’s name. I don’t expect Mom’s.
When are you going to come see your father?
I roll my eyes, start to reply, then think better of it. There’s no use when it’ll never change anything. They’ll see me how they want to see me. Mom fires off another text as if sensing my indecision.
You can’t ignore us forever, Blake.
My teeth grind together on their own. I pocket my phone and head straight for the gas station convenience store. The door dings above my head as I push it open and earn a look from the clerk. He’s bored behind the counter, fiddling with his cell phone to pass the time.
Artificial light bathes the store front to back and every aisle’s fully stocked. All the sugary and salty treats you could ask for. Rows of magazines and spin racks of souvenirs and other on-the-go knickknacks, like phone batteries and mini umbrellas.
I go for the far back, where the refrigerators are.
There’s every beverage you could thirst for. A dozen different brands of water. Just as many flavors of soda and juice. But it’s the beer that steals the show.
That forces my gaze.
It happens within a blink of my eye. The hunger taking over. The instant, unbearable hunger that rushes me and makes the scene around me feel like it’s shifted. I’m standing in the middle of a warped tunnel where everything in the store’s a blur except for the refrigerators that tower above me. They’re in perfect focus. The large, untouched, readily available stock of beer.
Bottles of beer. Cans of beer. Cases of beer.
Texas Brew. Pike. Ranger Ale. And every other fucking brand available for sale.
I become someone else. Someone driven by a compulsion that feels inescapable and instinctual. A core part of myself and who I am. So damn integral, I can’t begin to fight it. I’ve fallen too deep into the pit.
Too far down the hole.
I need it like I need air. My legs move me toward the glass door, my eyes wide and pupils dilated.
Just one fucking drop is all I’ll have. One fucking drop can’t hurt?—
“You need any help?” calls out the clerk, ripping me from my sudden trance.
It’s like somebody shining a spotlight on me as I turn stiffly away from the refrigerator and peer at the end of the aisle. He’s fixing one of the snack displays. The way he’s looking at me, he must sense something’s off.
I shake my head once, then twice, then I step away from the refrigerator altogether. “Nah,” I say. “No help needed. Except… get me a pack of the Borvo Lights. And some spearmint gum. I’ll meet you up front.”
He moves on to fulfill my request while I take another few seconds to collect myself. I breathe in and out, throw a parting glance at the refrigerator of beer, and urge myself to walk away.
You’ve done it before. Do it again. Just… walk away, Blake.
“Hey, thanks,” I say once he’s rung me up for my cigarettes and gum.
I rarely smoke cigarettes and I chew gum even less… but in this moment, carrying these out of the store fills a void.
The moment’s a one-off. A few seconds of weakness. It doesn’t mean anything.
I beat that monster years ago.
Throwing my leg over my bike and gripping the handles, it’s what I tell myself. These are the kind of reminders I need to keep going. This is the reason I need to forget.
I spare a moment to pull out my phone and delete the text message Mom sent me. Her number gets blocked.
Then I’m off. My bike rumbles as I drive off into the darkness.
* * *
“Well, damn,” says Chaz, one of the Chop Shop’s veteran mechanics. He wipes sweat and motor oil from his brow. “Who said I couldn’t create a masterpiece like this? Ain’t it a beaut?”
I stand back to admire his work. He’s made a number of upgrades to a customer’s Super Glide. One-ten twin cam power under the tank. Newly installed ultra foam step-up seating for both balance and comfort. Sleek Biltwell handlebars that give the bike a fresh, dynamic edge. LED switch back lights. And the finishing touch—chrome canon mufflers for a solid rumble when coming down the block.
“Well, damn is right, Chaz,” I whistle. “This is impressive. Even for you.”
Chaz flashes a gap-toothed smile at me. “They don’t call me Dr. Frankenstein for nothing.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Beats the hell outta me. But it has a nice ring to it, don’t it?”
I shake my head to keep him laughing and move on to visit the other stations around the garage.
This time of year is a slow season for the Chop Shop, meaning we don’t have as much business or as many customers coming in.
It’s made it easier filling Velma’s shoes, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be permanent. For as big of a lying, backstabbing, fucked up traitor as Velma was, she was damn good at managing the bike shop. She ran a tight ship and kept everything in order.
While I might be the shop owner (along with Silver), I’m not cut out for the day-to-day managerial bullshit. I’m better with my hands. Better at fixing and riding bikes. Managerial office work has never been my thing.
“Shit,” I say from inside the bike shop office. I check the time and then grab the stack of invoices. “Chaz, did anybody ever head over to One Stop Autoshop to grab the lithium ion battery for Daryl Weaver’s Nightster? He’s picking up first thing tomorrow.”
“Nah… didn’t you say you’d do that today? Oh, crap. One Stop closes in thirty.”
“I fucking know that!”
I rush out the door before I’ve barely finished my sentence. Daryl Weaver just might be our biggest customer. He’s competing in a national ride competition and needs his bike in prime shape before he departs. I’d promised him myself we’d have it ready to rock.
I dash across the parking lot and opt for my pickup truck rather than my bike since I’ll be transporting merchandise.
The One Stop Autoshop is the only place within a fifty mile radius that has the exact brand of battery he requested.
No more than fifteen minutes later, am I screeching on the brakes and hopping out the driver’s side door to make it inside the One Stop Autoshop.
Shaking back my golden hair from my face, I stride into the shop, prepared to charm the female clerk at the desk.
Instead I’m confronted with a different woman who’s ahead of me in line.
Korine’s filling out paperwork as she explains to the clerk what’s wrong with her car.
“If you could fix it for two hundred that would be greatly appreciated. I’d like to pay cash.”
“Ma’am, it’s going to come out to at least six hundred?—”
“Please, it’s all that I can afford,” Korine interrupts, then as if sensing a third presence, she looks up. Her eyes meet mine and for a second time within twenty-four hours, we’re at a standstill. “Blake… what are you doing here?”
I tilt my head to the side. “I could say the same thing to you.”