Chapter 25
25
FORD
I knock on Chris’s door as the sun disappears on the horizon. The blue in the sky is fading to black.
I am still unable to shake the memory of Dulce's moans when I went down on her on Friday. Her name was on my lips when my tongue was inside her, the memory living rent-free in my mind.
It's been three days, and every fiber of my being resists the urge to drag her to the nearest corner and fuck her. Memorize every inch of her body the way my mind has wanted for so long. But that's not how I want her first time with me to go. It shouldn’t be in a corner or in a small bed with a thin wall between us and her dying grandmother. It should be romantic and perfect. But all of that has to wait for now.
The door opens. Chris gives me a wide smile as the smell of beer and sweat wafts outside, and I want nothing more than to punch the smile right off his face. Stab him in the eyes and hang him.
“You came back,” he says like he expected me.
“I did.”
He waves me in.
“Come inside. I’ll kick everyone out in a sec.”
I walk inside, rubbing my nose, trying to get used to the smell. Three guys and two girls, both in their underwear, sit on the couch.
Chris taps each of them on the shoulder. “Hey, you all need to get out of here. I have company.”
Groans and complaints float across the room as they grab their clothes thrown across the floor, bumping into empty beer bottles and ashtrays as they head out.
When the door closes, Chris plops on the black leather couch.
“What’s up?” He nudges his head toward the loveseat. “Have a seat.” He lights up the roach. It glows like a beacon between his dirty fingers. “Let’s catch up.”
I take a seat, careful not to lean back. Who knows what has happened on these couches? I look around at the mismatched furniture. Some looks like it came with the house, while some are new. They're all dirty and need a hose to clean them off.
“What are you up to?” I ask, trying to sound casual like I couldn’t care less.
He smiles. “Funny. You should just say what you came to say.”
“Like?”
“Man,” he says, shaking his head. “I knew you would show up if you found out.” He lifts his head and blows out a cloud of smoke.
I play dumb. "Found out about what?”
He grins. “Prom night. I didn’t think you still had a thing for her after knocking up Summer.” He shrugs. “But who am I to judge?”
“Tell me what happened. Your version.”
He smiles like a weasel. His eyes shine brightly like he’s telling the best story. “She was the prank. I texted her using your old phone, asking her to prom. She got dressed up all pretty. We picked her up. I don't think the truth sank in yet until I picked her up and she realized you weren’t in the car."
He laughs, and I want to burn his eyes out with his little roach so I can hear him scream. “We let her out when she realized you never asked her to prom.”
“She was attacked.”
He winces. “Dude, I know. It wasn’t us, though.”
“You two left her there and broke her phone.”
He points at me. “Trent broke her phone.”
“You should have gone to jail for what you both did.”
His reaction grates on my nerves, and I want nothing more than to pummel him to the ground until he stops breathing.
“For a prank?” He taps his temple. “Are you listening to yourself? We pulled pranks all the time. How is it our fault? Let’s be honest, Ford. How could she have believed you wanted to take her to prom? Honestly, you never spoke to her, and you didn't care who said anything to her. No one did.”
“She got hurt.” The words escape my clenched teeth.
He rolls his eyes, and I want to stab him. “Obviously. We didn’t run. We spoke to the cops. My parents hired lawyers. Trent’s parents did the same. You know how it all works. It’s the same thing your parents would have done if you were involved, like you getting Summer pregnant.”
“Leave Summer out of this.”
He chuckles. “Still got a soft spot for her.”
“You know better than that.”
He knows I give two shits about Summer.
He shakes his head. Slowly. “Summer loved you, man.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“So what… You came back here and found out something fucked up happened to the bullied girl from high school you always had a soft spot for? What do you think you are going to accomplish snooping around town, digging for shit that no one can find?”
“The truth.”
“I told you the truth. I’m not hiding what I did. Not from you.” He takes a drag—"the cops. Trent isn’t either, no matter how many times you beat the shit out of him.”
He knows I’m not fucking around. I watch his mannerisms. I noticed how different he was from the guy I grew up with. He’s different. Something changed him.
“What happened to you, Chris?”
“What do you mean?” he asks like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
I look around, waving at the room. “Why are you here? What happened at college?”
“It wasn’t for me.”
“And this is?”
He nods. “I never wanted to go to college. It was my so-called mom’s idea.”
“You did, but I don’t think this is what you had in mind.”
“You sound just like her.” He leans back and looks around the living room that currently looks like a crack shack. “She said the same thing when she came to visit me.”
I had never heard him call his mother like that. Granted, she is like my own mother and every rich woman who married well-off. She lifts her nose when she walks around town as if her shit doesn't stink, but she isn't a bad person. She couldn’t have kids, and I bet the last thing she ever thought when she adopted Chris was that he would end up like this. A drug-addicted fuckup who uses.
“What’s your plan?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t have one.
“What’s yours?” he fires back.
“I thought I was going to open a garage with Trent.”
“And?”
I sniff, trying not to spit on the wood floor, as the stench of his house clogs my throat. “I changed my mind.”
“How long are you staying?”
I get up to leave. “I don’t know. Why?” I ask curiously. “Want me to leave town already.”
“Nah.” He laughs. “I was hoping you would give me an autograph,” he says sarcastically.
I open the front door, knowing my next visit to Chris won’t be in his favor. “Hey, Chris?” I call out when I reach the Porsche.
“Hmm…?”
“Did you visit Dulce to see if she was okay? You know…after it happened?”
He slides his hands into his front pocket, causing the band of his dirty jeans to lower, revealing a toneless stomach and pubic hair. “My lawyer advised against it.”
His reply chokes me into rage as I fire up the car. We stare at each other through the windshield until his mouth lifts in a rapacious smile.
I peel out and push the Porsche to the limit, heading back to Trent’s garage. When I get there, I apply the e-brake. I ignore the burnt stink from the engine, proof I was driving too fast. The smell of gas and motor oil is comforting, and my rage finally subsides.
“What happened?” Trent says when I walk in. I take the stairs two steps at a time.
I stop and turn around.
The swelling has gone down, but his face still looks like a purple popsicle when it changes colors. “I paid Chris a visit.”
“That fucker is crazy and has been strung out since he came back,” he says, turning off the TV.
“I know that. Where was he that night, Trent?”
“After we left Dulce, everyone was laughing at prom. Chris ended up going with Summer.”
“He went to prom with Summer?”
“I don’t know, but she showed up the same way we all did. We didn’t do the corsage or any of that shit. It wasn’t the same when you left. We all hated it.”
I sit on the far end of the couch. “I can tell,” I drawl. “Were you with him the entire night?”
“I think so.”
I stand, grab him by the throat, and forcefully push him against the wall. “Think, motherfucker.”
He raises his arm as dread washes over his face. “It was four years ago, Ford. I don’t…” He shuts his eyes. “He was there. We were all there, dancing and having fun. Drinking. Smoking pot. The usual shit. Summer was with him. Heather was there. Vicki. It was all of us.”
I let him go. Disgusted with him—with them.
“When you got back, did anyone go missing?” I prompt, already out of patience.
He blinks rapidly, trying to remember. “I don’t know. The cops showed up three hours later. They questioned us, and I was scared, man. I was so scared.”
“Not for her,” I roar. I slam him against the wall, knocking the wind out of him. I pull his head back by his hair. His eyes bulge out of his head. “You were scared to get caught.”
“You're right, man,” he cries out. “I regret that night.” Pathetic tears run down his face. “I wish I could go back and change it.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “The look on her face when I left her haunts me every night.”
“Good,” I spit, letting him go, watching him slide down the wall. “I hope it does. I hope it fucking eats you inside.”
“Please,” he pleads. “Don’t kill me, Ford.”
I chuckle. “What makes you think that?”
“I see it in your eyes.”
I kneel so we are at eye level. “What do you see?”
With a terrified expression, he says, “I see…it.”
I smile.
When I was a kid, I was obsessed with things. In my case, cars. The doctor said it could manifest into other things—like people—if I wasn’t careful. He claimed it marked the beginning of borderline personality disorder. Although it was never an issue, my close friends knew about my little problem. Trent. Chris.
Again, no one saw it as a problem. I saw a therapist. Psychologist. A psychiatrist until I was twelve. My parents hated the idea of my obsession with cars and how fast they could go. They called it a phase. I called it my life. I had friends, but there was no one I was crazy about. When I stopped seeing the doctor, he warned my parents and educated them on different types of obsessions and BPD. Honestly, I thought he was full of shit. I didn’t check the doors twice. I wasn’t a germaphobe. I wasn’t violent if I wasn’t provoked. Unhinged. Other issues manifested, though, like I didn’t fuck women on my bed. I had to do it elsewhere, but many guys do that. It's not uncommon.
The only issue I had was if you fucked with my driving or my car. It's comparable to taking away an iPad from a hyper focused autistic child. You’re met with an outburst of someone who’s driven to violence.
My father took my car keys after I received my first speeding ticket. I lost it. I kicked his ass. I wasn't proud of it, but he had touched something he shouldn't have. What I loved.
At fifteen, they prescribed medication for me, but I refused to take it. My father threatened me, so I did the same. Eye for an eye and all that. I would inform my mother of the numerous women in town with whom my father had intimate relationships if he were to tell her the things I did.
It was the first time he respected me, or maybe he feared me. He had nothing on me, but I had plenty on him. The scales were tipped. He wanted me to be like him, but I just wanted to race cars. But no one knew I had a secret obsession. A dark one. A secret person.
I made every effort to conceal it.
No one knew. Not my parents. Not my friends.
I wanted a girl who no one would approve of me having, and I knew what that meant. She would end up being the car keys my father tried to take away from me when I did something wrong. I did learn one thing the doctor said: I had to listen some of the time. What does an obsessive or person with BPD do? They do anything to make sure their obsession isn’t taken away. If someone tries, they are met with violence. Rage.
My coming back doesn’t make sense to some, but sometimes nothing does. If it did, doctors would have answers. Cures to diseases. Answers to questions no one can easily figure out.
Maybe I was too busy racing my cars and finally got bored, but now that I think about it, Now that I had a taste of what I was missing, I want more, and nothing will stand in my way of keeping her for myself.