2. Poet
2
POET
“Stripes.”
I stand the cue against the wall and take a sip of stout. It’s sweet, and I could do with a touch of sweetness on my tongue to begin my morning.
Some members prefer to start their day with a club whore appointment, but nothing sets the day up quite like an early morning game of pool—of which I’m already in the lead.
“Your turn.” Bullwhip taps me on the back and returns to the wall. Out of the three of us, he’s the one most inclined to wet his dick for breakfast.
But then we introduced him to stout and pool cues.
And a handicapped win.
Which he isn’t getting this time.
I line the cue up with a striped ball.
One…
Two…
BANG!
Three balls potted with two hits.
Giggles feather the atmosphere. I turn my head and locate two club whores staring my way. They wear G-string lingerie that rides all the way up their asses. My dick twitches slightly, but just in default, the way it’s supposed to for the female species. Women these days are all the same, to be honest. They’re beautiful and have perfect facial harmony, but that about sums it up.
What’s a pretty face if there’s no soul inside?
Society seems to be getting shallower by the day.
I joined Venom Vultures motorcycle club four years ago because I was bored and heartbroken, and needed to distract my mind from the fact that my wife had just divorced me. Newly single, the club whore’s giggles and hair twirls gave me a shot of confidence for a time, but a couple months in, everything lost meaning.
They only do that because I’m deemed somewhat attractive. Because I win pool and ride Harleys out into the desert. Apart from that, nothing interests them.
And why should it? My own wife wasn’t even interested.
I force a pitiful smile back at them and take another swig of stout. This shit beats coffee any day.
Wrangler jabs his cue into the ground like a warrior holding a spear. “Go over there.”
“Nah.”
“When was the last time?”
“A couple months ago.” And it was shit. “But more importantly”—I cross my arms over my chest—“when was your last time? Celibacy isn’t natural, man.”
Wrangler tightens his lips and looks away. Almost four years ago was the last time he stuck his dick into a woman. Correction—angel. It was distressed-denim-jeans girl that brought the three of us closer. Some call it fate, others call it chance. I simply call it the best night of my entire fucking life. There was something so carefree about that girl that revived me. Made me believe in raw, unfiltered passion again.
Slowly, though, over the years, it dwindled away, like it does when you live in an appearance-obsessed city. My ex-wife—who seems to have vanished off the face of the earth since the divorce—was the exception, and so was the mysterious girl from the masquerade who showed all of us the best time of our lives. One could argue that she was even better. Even more of an exception. The mask prohibited me from taking in much of her face, but those glowing green eyes still interrupt my REM sleep occasionally. My mind likes to remind me of her often.
She’s the kind of girl that crosses your path only once.
The kind of girl with Aphrodite as a mother.
And that’s an objective opinion. Wrangler, for some fucked-up reason, decided to abstain from all sexual activities at the ripe young age of nineteen. He broke the streak only once, and it was for her.
“You know when my last time was.” Wrangler hardens his brow. “And you know we’re not supposed to talk about her. The past is in the past. Discussing a girl we bumped into almost four years ago won’t manifest her back.”
If only.
HIT!
Another miss from Wrangler.
That’s OK. Rounding up cattle is more his forte. Was , anyway, back when he worked on his family’s ranch, or whatever country thing he used to do back in Texas.
“God only puts angels in man’s path once, and it’s for the simple reason that angels are creatures of heaven, not earth.” Bullwhip takes his shot. BANG! Two spots potted.
“Good hit.”
Bullwhip takes one long stare at me and goes for his beer.
Humble as ever.
He’s an interesting one. Complex. He enforces a whip more than he speaks. Battering people is his talent, not words, although what came out of his mouth just then sounded pretty poetic. His splintered lip and long silences put some of the club whores off, but other girls are adrenaline junkies and like to get their rocks off with what they call “America’s toughest outlaw.”
He is pretty tough.
Puts all humans, even some trees, to shadow with his height.
Taking my turn again, I line the cue up with the white ball and hit.
Nothing pots.
That’s because green-eyed goddess is playing with my mind again.
Wrangler is right. We shouldn’t be talking about something that happened years ago. I set the cue up against the wall and take a long gulp of stout to empty my head. Wind whistles through gaps in the architecture, causing the wooden structure of this place to creek slightly. Reminiscing on a one-night stand takes me away from the present day—a pretty damn good experience that I don’t want to let pass me by.
Passing initiation changed my life.
My midlife crisis hit pretty hard, triggered by Trudy, my ex-wife, wheeling two suitcases out the door. I asked if she wanted a hand, she said, “I got it,” and that was pretty much it. My eight-year marriage was over.
We were young. Both twenty-four when we tied the knot. It was too early, we’d only known one another eleven months, but we were young and in love and besides, everybody else was marrying so we had to catch up.
We stopped having sex. Two years after the marriage, desire burned out. It wasn’t the best anyway, and we only did it because that’s what married people were supposed to do, but she was never wet and most times I only ever reached a semi, so finishing was out of the question. But I loved her. Looking back, it was platonic, but she was company and we both looked out for one another.
Until she got bored and decided to leave.
I see why. I taught high school, and teachers lose all sense of personality the second they sign their contract. The little bit of personality you do have is centered around school. Conversations become work-related, even out of office hours. Even during spring break when you’re in Hawaii with Trudy enjoying a pina colada, laughing to yourself about the Lady Macbeth joke one of your students made.
Stick a “boring” label on me already.
Teaching had its perks. Seeing students succeed brought pride to my chest, and I brought a fair few students all the way from F’s to A’s so that’s worth celebrating. But I became a shell of myself apart from that, and nothing existed outside of marking and lesson planning.
At thirty-two years old, a couple months after Trudy divorced me, I resigned.
The next day, I bumped into a Venom Vulture club member at the gas station and questioned how he managed to get his leather-gloved hands on a Screamin’ Eagle 135ci.
The rest is history.
I take another drink of stout and lean against the wall. Nothing beats the satisfying sound of two phenolic resin balls clicking together. It’s Wednesday morning and I’m having a cold one with the boys. This is my life now. No more shouting at students. No more explaining Shakespearean language. Just silence, and desert wind whistling in through the eaves.
And a scream.
Wrangler looks up from his cue. “What was that?”
“A scream.” Bullwhip strides over to the window. “Get your ears checked.”
“I dunno,” Wrangler snorts. “Those coyotes get pretty fuckin’ wild sometimes.”
Bullwhip frowns, head turning back and forth as he searches the surroundings. “Shit.”
“What is it?”
There’s no time for questioning. Bullwhip heads out the door, and we follow him.
Daylight filters into my eyes. The sun is bright, penetrating right into my eyeballs.
But that’s not the only bright thing around here.
Red hair. It shines almost as bright as the glowing ball above us. Long waves of it lift in the wind as she struggles against something. Sinking sand? What is that? She kicks her feet. Crawls backward on her elbows away from something that, given her race to get away, appears to be still chasing her.
“Sweetheart?”
“Oh my GOD! Get that thing off me!”
Bullwhip frowns. “A spider.”
“How are you saying that so calmly?” she asks.
I move closer to see two hairy legs wind around the woman’s bare ankles.
Bullwhip reaches out to grab the thing, and then squashes it in his palm.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Wrangler folds his arms over his chest.
I know what he’s thinking—Venom Vultures pride ourselves on killing things only when necessary, and that goes for animals too, but I’d quite frankly murder the earth to be at this woman’s side. The long, undulating waves of red hair frame her heart-shaped face so beautifully…
“Zoe?” My heart stops. I haven’t seen her in years, but it has to be her. Most red-haired people have fair eyebrows, but Zoe’s are dark, even years later. She looks nothing like I remember, but at least she kept the freckles. A light peppering of them dusts around her nose—my favorite feature of hers.
But fuck, she’s changed.
“Oh my god.” She squints in the sun, raising a hand to shield her eyes which gives me an even clearer view of them. “No way.” Her eyes drop to my body and she gives me a once-over. A very long one. “Nice…outfit…?”
“Thanks,” I stutter, tongue-tied because I’m still taking in hers.
She’s changed.
A lot.
She still wears her hair long, but it used to be longer—like, down to her ass. The ass I regret accidently glimpsing one time when she attended class right after gym, still wearing booty shorts.
But three-inch Nike Pros don’t seem to be a staple of hers anymore. She wears a beige pantsuit that covers every inch of her body. A corset tank top buttons up all the way to her neck, and the pants sit high on her waist, covering her entire stomach, belly button included—she always used to show that off in school to flaunt the piercing. On her feet, when she stands, are heels that suggest she wasn’t planning on hiking through the desert today.
The polished, tailored look would say never.
Based on her appearance, I’d say she lives an indoor lifestyle. No wrinkles crease her face, even as she grits her teeth to examine the now-deformed spider.
She straightens up after the attack. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Bullwhip dusts off his hands and looks at her. Their height difference is crazy. She looks tiny, like he could scoop her up and hold her one-handed. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
Her eyes roll to the sky instead of answering the question.
“Miss?” Wrangler circles around her, hand on his hip like he’s drinking her in.
We don’t see modest females often.
It pleases me that Zoe covers up now. Strutting around school in micro tops and tight denim jeans that revealed half her ass made it clear she didn’t have much self-respect. Then again, her father was always too busy to uniform-check her before leaving the house every morning. She lived in a big one, according to the students seated a few rows back from her who often liked to discuss her latest conquests. Matt, I think was his name, was boy number…I can’t even remember. He told one of them that her father was the owner of Lucky Boy Casino. That’s when I connected the dots. What casino owner has time to spend questioning their daughter’s outfit choices?
“Mr. Reeves?”
This turns Wrangler and Bullwhip toward me. Bully even cocks an eyebrow—rare for him. He normally uses his face for staring. Not reacting.
“I was sad to see you leave,” she says. “How are you doing?”
“Good.” I clear my throat to erase the edge in my voice. “What are you doing with yourself now?”
This freezes her on the spot. Blood drains from her face and she averts her eyes. “Um.” Sounds like I’m not the only one with an edge to my voice. “I’m doing well.”
I narrow my eyes to the pantsuit buttons, each one engraved with two interlinked Cs—the Chanel logo.
She’s not doing well.
She’s doing really well.
Deluxe clothes were never her style back in high school. Every time I had her class, she’d swan in wearing graphic tees and denim shorts bought from thrift stores because apparently they had more character—or at least, that’s what I heard her say to Teagan.
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on her conversations. Zoe was just an interesting student.
“New doesn’t mean better.”
“Expensive doesn’t mean more valuable.”
When you’re a high schooler, clothes equal personality, but Zoe never saw it like that. Sia once famously sang, “You’re never fully dressed without a smile,” and Zoe brought that line to life.
She always wore a bright smile, and that’s what intrigued me about her so much. With a casino-owner father, her family would’ve had all the money in the world, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from her personality.
So I did some digging in the system. Curiosity got the better of me, so I searched the school’s online system for background information one evening. Her mother wasn’t in the picture. Suffered from drug addiction when Zoe was an infant, so they gave her father full custody. No other concerns were recorded about Zoe—she was always a top-performing student, never short of peer attention, but her younger sister Fiona had a bad case of depression.
Now, standing in front of me, I suspect that Zoe’s turning the same way.
Her cheeks don’t round into apples anymore when she smiles. The smile she gives me now is forced, and her eyes strain. It’s like she’s forcing happiness into them.
She never answered my question about how she’s doing. But the Chanel outfit tells all.
Wrangler caresses her shoulder. “Can we take you back home?”
“Um.” Another gulp. “No.”
Bullwhip closes in. “Why are you out here, sweetheart? It’s dangerous, and I’m not talking about the spiders. Let’s get you back. Come on.”
Zoe stares up at him for a moment, eyes lingering.
“And the answer to the question you’re about to ask is no,” chuckles Wrangler. “He’s not a giant. Just an unusually large man.”
She laughs, but it’s forced. When Zoe’s truly laughing, she squints her eyes.
And now I find myself staring into them.
She stares back. Lingers even longer than she did with Bullwhip.
Something feels off, like I’m looking at the most beautiful girl in the world but it isn’t allowed. It’s in Zoe’s nature to stand out from the crowd. At school, she was adored, not just by students, but staff too. I would never have done anything, ever, but if she had been older and not my student, I would’ve asked her out on a date after Trudy. Taken her abroad somewhere, since she was always banging on about travel plans for after high school.
Looks like she hasn’t gotten very far.
My chest sinks for her. But also, I feel warm. Perhaps a bit too much.
Her green eyes cut through my soul. They’re sharp and familiar.
And I hate to admit how fucking good it feels to see my best student again.