Chapter 50
Fifty
Remy drives me to pick it up, hangs around while I complete the transaction (which includes a fifteen-minute dissertation on what an asshole her ex-husband is), then follows me back to my place.
It’s a pure, potent shot of euphoria driving this ride, and my mile-wide grin stays firmly planted during our maiden voyage.
I become attuned to the engine’s steady rumble.
Rapidly adjust to the three-speed shifter’s tension and quirks.
Appreciate the badass dash features, monitoring acceleration, RPMs, and temperature.
And my heart steadily thumps with glee that this baby is all fucking mine.
It’s a crying shame to drive straight home, but I do, pulling into my cul-de-sac with resignation before parking and killing the ignition. I can’t take my new ride anywhere unless it’s registered and tagged, and the DMV’s closed until Monday. Still, nothing can wipe this smile off my face.
I climb into Remy’s pride and joy: a 1969 red Camaro Z/28 with fat black rally stripes the spoiled prick got last year courtesy of his parents for his eighteenth birthday.
Of course it’s in mint condition. We’ve got an entire weekend to blow ahead of us, and it starts now with a pool party at Terry’s.
He’s back living at home for the summer and his parents are traveling again, leaving the house open for our heathen asses.
“How’d she drive?” he asks.
“Like a fucking dream.”
My buddy flashes a knowing grin, understanding how long I’ve wanted this car, and that I worked hard to save for it.
Remy and I arrive. We make our way through the house toting a twelve-pack of Molson, going straight to the backyard. Close to two dozen people are in varying stages of enjoying themselves as Robert Palmer belts out the chorus to a “Bad Case of Loving You” through the outdoor speaker system.
I add the beer to a cooler, snagging one for myself first, and make the rounds.
Jeremy’s blatantly checking out a trio of bikini-clad girls with their oiled bodies on display as I approach.
He turns my way, wearing that wolfish grin of his. “Ain’t summer grand?” He exhales a happy sigh.
I chuckle. “It certainly is, brother.”
He wrenches his gaze away from the girls. “You score the Mustang?”
“Oh yeah, and she’s sweet.” I rock back on my heels, still high from the purchase, the drive, knowing she’s mine.
Jeremy grins, clapping me on the back. “Atta baby. Now we can race.”
I chuckle, wondering how the fastback will do against his ’69 GTO Judge. He loves his Pontiac, always polishing that coveted Starlight Black model.
We’re a diehard bunch of car guys—the faster, the better.
Terry’s brand new Trans-Am sits out front, a gift from his parents we all drooled over a month ago.
In pristine white, with the T-Top everyone wants and that big-ass Firebird emblem on the hood, it couldn’t be more perfect for Ter.
Vinny’s the only one still saving up to get the car he wants—and his sights are set on a Dodge Challenger.
My eyes travel back to the ladies. “Hey, isn’t that—”
“Karin? Yup.”
Remy’s dogged her on and off since we were sixteen, and she’s never fallen for his charms. It’s possibly the only girl he’s never won over.
In fact, maybe the only endeavor of any kind that’s never gone his way.
My gaze scans the yard and lands on Remy the second he realizes Karin’s here.
A slow grin spreads across his face as he begs off mid-conversation with Terry and his girlfriend Sheryl and saunters over to the group of girls.
This, I’ve got to see.
Remy’s smooth, making himself right at home—uninvited—on a chaise next to Karin. She rolls her eyes at something he says, nudging her friend in the process. But within a few minutes, he’s got the tiny blond laughing, her cackle loud even over the music. Perhaps my buddy’s finally getting his shot.
Jeremy elbows me. “Shall we join him? Maybe I can embarrass the fuck out of him.”
“Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.” I extend my arm, urging him to lead the way.
We walk over and say hello, Remy flashing us some side-eye as if we’ll cramp his style. I don’t know the other two girls and introductions segue to small talk. It’s not long before three conversations are underway.
Cora seems into Jeremy and vice versa (although to be straight, Jer’s into anything with a mouth, tits, and pussy), and Remy’s laying it on thick with Karin, which leaves me chatting with Denise.
She’s friendly and we find some common ground, but I’m not attracted to her.
Since the Donna Disaster, it’s mostly been one-night stands.
I’m not asking for phone numbers. I’m not into commitments.
I’m not putting myself in a position to be suckered ever again.
But I’m here for a good time—and I’ve put considerable effort into pleasuring every woman who has offered up her body.
I’ve made a small mission out of understanding how the female apparatus works…
and bizarrely, most of the time, they don’t even know what makes them come.
Some have never even experienced an orgasm.
So, I’ve become educated. And it’s not like anyone’s giving out lessons.
We’ve all got to learn this shit on our own.
Women are complex down there. Layered. Nuanced.
Every clitoris is different in size and how it responds.
Vaginas too. And the window dressing comes in assorted colors, lengths, and densities.
Most chicks can’t come without direct stimulation to their clit, and that little fucker is so sensitive, it can take time manipulating it just right to win the prize.
I’m not fucking just to fuck either. There needs to be a spark or better yet, a flame. Mutual attraction, anatomy I want to explore, a woman willing to actively participate and not act as if laying there does me some kind of favor.
I leave to snag another beer as Leland arrives with a small entourage.
He’s one of Terry’s longtime friends and by default, ours too.
He showed up our first year of baseball but stopped playing after one season.
Leland is loud, obnoxious, and a walking stereotype with a thick afro (where a hair pick stays perpetually lodged), a pronounced, one-sided pimp gait, and a greeting that usually begins, “’Sup, blood?
” We all tolerate his mouth, not just for Terry’s sake but because Leland is one comical motherfucker.
Terry and Leland disappear inside, and Vinny flags me over, chatting me up about my new ride and wanting all the details.
Twenty minutes later, Terry strides over.
“Get the guys and meet me in my bedroom,” he says, lifting his brows like he’s got a secret.
“Sounds kinky,” I deadpan.
He just beams his signature smile and trots off.
I call to the guys and wave them over. Remy looks downright annoyed, and my laugh barks out.
“What the fuck do you want?” he mutters once he catches up. “I’m actually getting somewhere with the ice princess.”
Time will tell if that’s true or just wishful thinking. “We’ve been summoned.”
He flashes me a perplexed look but trails me into the house, where the five of us crowd into Terry’s bedroom.
We’re all a hell of a lot bigger and taller since our junior high years, noticeably dwarfing the space.
His walls still sport posters of A’s players Vida Blue and Reggie Jackson, along with an assortment of pennants from Bay Area teams and Cal.
His MVP award from high school sits proudly on his shelf, and his black and white furniture has a futuristic vibe.
“What the hell are we doing?” Remy asks, still annoyed.
Terry holds up a triangular white packet. “I scored some cocaine. You guys game?”
Well, shit. Wasn’t expecting that. None of us have really done any hard drugs.
It’s been pot and alcohol—and one crazy night where we all tripped on mushrooms. Hallucinating, I learned, is not as groovy as the deadheads would have one believe.
I hated and regretted losing control over my faculties—it’s downright stupid and disquieting—so I’ll never do that again.
“Fuck yeah,” Remy says…of course.
Jeremy and Vinny seem into it, and I don’t have any massive reservations. My friends haven’t steered me wrong so far. They’re the best fucking part of my life.
“I tried it a few weeks ago, and it was dope,” Terry says as he unfolds the package and dumps white, rocky powder onto a fancy decorative mirror he already placed on his dresser.
He chops the substance with a razor blade into fine granules, forms it into lines, then rolls a crisp dollar into a cylinder and demonstrates how to snort it, then tells us to swipe up the remnants and rub it on our gums.
He hands the rolled bill to Remy. “Get ready to hella fly.”
We go around the room taking turns snorting the coke and rubbing coke dust on our gums.
The drug burns a path up my nostrils, making my eyes water. Residue drips down my throat, thick and unpleasant, and I resist the urge to hack. Hot on its heels, a rush blazes through me—a surge of energy like I’m flying without actually leaving the ground. Holy shit. This stuff’s alright.
We grin at each other as the effects kick in.
Terry spreads his arms wide. “See what I’m talking about?”
“It’s good, man,” Jeremy says.
Remy helicopters his pointer finger in the air. “Let’s go again.”
“Is Leland dealing?” My mouth is totally numb and still coated with that weird funk. I swallow some beer to try and drown it out.
With a nod, Terry busies himself making more lines. “He’s got more to sell if you want. Twenty-five bucks for a quarter gram and fifty for a half.”
We all want more.
Of course we do. We’re young, dumb, and full of bad ideas. Reckless and arrogant, believing we’re untouchable.
In my case, I’ve already been beaten enough that nothing else really scares me…even if it should.