A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (2 page)

Why did I let things drag on so long?

Poundpoundpound

Whywhywhy

It hasn’t been this intense in ages, the rushing of blood in my ears. I focus on the silk robe I found at last month’s flea market. The delicate fabric may hang loosely over my chair, but in my mind a woman fills its lengths, her imagined story sewn with every thread:
A new immigrant from Hong Kong clings to the last of her identity.
I drag my gaze to the wingback chair below it:
High tea and gossip slip across the leather, a besotted debutante dreaming about her betrothed.

Pound

Pound

Why

Why

My discomfort eases some.

Then Kevin walks in the door.

As desperate as I was for him to get home, my courage falters. Eleven years of memories flood my mind. But I can’t keep delaying my life. Being a tornado is exhausting. A deep breath later, I go into our open living room and force a smile. “How was your day?”

He hangs up his jacket with a sigh. “Long.” His straight hair is neatly parted, his slight build accentuated by his dress pants and a tucked-in button-down. He’s handsome in a sweet way—clean-cut, familiar. My best friend.

I stand by the couch, legs cemented, like a guest in my apartment.

Kevin heads to the kitchen and opens the fridge, talking as he goes. “I spoke to my dad today. He’s planning on doing that fishing competition this year. Your father’s going, too. He asked if we wanted to make a day of it like we used to. I think it would be fun.” Jug of juice in hand, he grabs a glass, fills it, and drinks half in one gulp. “I also checked out some stores for snorkel gear. We leave for Belize in a month and should figure out what we need.” He pokes his head back in the fridge, probably checking for our nonexistent dinner, then he shuts the door and leans on the counter. “Looks like an ordering Thai kind of night. Want me to call?”

His green eyes are soft, crinkled at the corners, radiating years of comfort. Companionship. If I look closely, though, the dark circles beneath are unmistakable. Maybe he’s ready to move on, too. Put an end to our faded relationship. But that means we won’t go on our planned anniversary trip to Belize. We won’t spend time with our families together. I could stay quiet and enjoy my life with Kevin, even though I’m not in love with him. Even though he doesn’t create static. But I want more. I’m ready for more. No matter how hard it is, I can’t keep living a lie.

He’s relaxed, the tension that’s been between us lately absent, smiling at me like I’m not about to rip the rug from under his feet.

That’s when I say, “We need to talk.”

Lily has hijacked my brain. Lily and her white-blond hair and pink lips and hypnotic gray eyes. Lily and her “boyfriend.” The whole flight home, I gnash my teeth and sip my Scotch, trying to erase the visual of the two of them curled up on the couch or, even worse, tangled in the sheets. I’d smack my head into the wall if I could stop thinking about the time I flew in unannounced and walked into her design room at the back of Moondog. Finding her and Kevin laughing together was a dose of cyanide, a harsh reminder of the reality of things.

No matter how much time we spend together, Lily’s not mine.

When I land, I invoke Mission Amnesia. I drive straight to a bar and search out oblivion in the form of a tight skirt, halter top, and dark hair. We converse, and I lay on the charm. My new friend asks me back to her place, her name given and forgotten, then I’m in her dining room chair, that oblivion of mine close at hand.

Nothing like a blow job to forget the unforgettable.

Even one of those too-fast, too-tight, sloppy, accidental-teeth numbers when I was fourteen (thank you Leah Richardson) could brainwash me. Tonight, I need the full treatment, and my date doesn’t disappoint. The way—
Talia? Tania?
—moans in excitement as she sucks me into a pleasure coma stunts my wandering mind. I don’t thrust or grab her hair. I settle into her chair and let her work me over, because, really, that’s the whole point: lie back, relax, the next five to eight minutes are about me and only me.

And forgetting Lily.

This is not—
Tara’s? Tami’s?
—first rodeo. Not with the way she cups my balls and groans while pumping my shaft and spreading my knees wider. She takes me into the back of her throat, her tongue ring rubbing all the right places, and my abs tense in anticipation.
Tight. Hot. Slippery.
Eyes closed, I grip the leather armrests.

Then I hear: “Never gonna get it.”

My newest ringtone for Lily “We’re Just Friends” Roberts blares, the song lyrics courtesy of Nico. Lesson learned last weekend: never abandon your phone around your friends, especially when they mess with settings you have no clue how to fix. Give me ink and paper, and I’ll sketch your likeness in ten minutes flat. Leave me alone with a computer, and I’ll black out Canada.

Tasha? Taryn?
doesn’t miss a beat. She changes her rhythm to match the song playing from my phone. The chorus repeats, those same words—
never gonna get it
—looping, while her head rises and falls faster. And faster. The song ends, those sucking sounds return, and fire should be shooting down my spine.

Some blow jobs are better than others, but if a chick’s mouth is wet, her teeth are sheathed, and she shows a modicum of enthusiasm, you can count on me to come hard and fast. It’s not rocket science. No PhD required. I’d take a BJ over sex any day of the week. If you question your fellatio skills, I’m the guy you want on the receiving end. But my vision isn’t blurring. The heat creeping up my thighs dissipates. All too quickly, I realize I’d rather have answered that call than finish in this chick’s mouth.

Talk about screwed.

I try picturing her dark hair as white blond.
Lily.
I try imagining the skilled hands between my legs as petite, her nails covered in chipped blue polish.
Lily.
Nothing works. I peek down at my watch: nine p.m. With the time difference, it’s too late for Lily to call me…unless something is wrong. My heart rate picks up.

For the wrong reason.

The trooper she is,
Tris? Trina?
exerts more effort. If there were a Girl Guide BJ badge, I’d sew one on her shirt myself. But my sperm minions have declared mutiny.

Normally, our night would just be starting. After the big finish, I’d go down on her until her toes curled, followed by a round of skin-slapping sex. I’d leave her feeling good about her ability as a lover and thoroughly satisfied. Not so good she’d expect a call or follow-up date. Just a fun night. I excel at fun. If I had a middle name that would be it. Or Lothario. Or Casanova. Like they say, practice makes perfect, and I majored in All Things Woman.

What I didn’t major in is having a girl friend—as in a friend of the female variety, a girl I do not pump or grind or bite or kiss. In other words, Lily.

My
friend
.

I place my hand on the dark head between my thighs to keep the first known recipient of the Girl Guide BJ badge still. She looks up, and my dick slides out of her mouth—the saddest sight I have ever seen.

She wipes her swollen lips. “Everything okay? Is it not…” She frowns and stares at my uncooperative cock. The ring through her nose twitches.

I reach down for my boxers and jeans while pushing back the chair. “That was great. You were great. But I need to take that call.” From my friend who happens to be a girl. My
friend
who refuses to break up with a dude who looks sixteen. My friend who managed to cockblock me from three thousand kilometers away.

The other victim of said cockblocking huffs out a breath and pushes to her feet. “We can pick up after you’re done.”

She saunters across the minimally decorated living/dining room toward a door at the back, probably her bedroom, pulling off her top along the way. Black lace and bold tattoos. Nice. But my seamen have battened down the hatches.

I kick my feet through my boxers. “Sorry. Won’t work. ” I zip up my jeans, my cell heavy in the back pocket. It takes a lot of effort not to check if Lily left a message. I rub my neck and focus on the pretty face staring at me from her bedroom doorway: messy hair, dark fuck-me eyes. This half-naked beauty is happy to have me for one easy night.

I curse myself, and she shrugs. “It would’ve been fun,” she says. “You can show yourself out.”

I might have to start a support group: Cockblocked Anonymous.

Jacket in hand, I give her one last nod and leave her apartment.

The cool December air stings my face, a welcome wake-up after what
didn’t
go down tonight. Maybe Vancouver will see its first snowfall, and I bet Whistler gets buried under heaps of powder. I should book a ski trip soon, maybe this January. I try to focus on slopes and beers and hot tubs, but that missed call has me frowning until I’m in the parking lot. My 1969 black Dodge Challenger is waiting for me, pristine as always.

I stop and grin. I grin some more.

I grin like I’ve been told I’ve gained the gift of invisibility.

I may not be thirteen anymore, but if I were awarded a superpower, invisibility would still be my power of choice. Nico always chose flying. Kolton wanted to see into the future. As far as I was concerned, they were morons. If I could take up residence in the girls’ locker room and watch, unseen, as ladies wriggled out of their underpants and unclipped their bras, I would happily risk my life saving the world one hapless victim at a time. These days, getting a woman to shed her clothing isn’t much of a challenge, but I’m a kid at heart. At thirty, I’d still choose invisibility.

And a black Dodge Challenger.

When Kolton and I hit the big time with Moondog and opened our second retail shop, he bought a 2011 Lexus RX 350. The listed features read something like: quiet, comfortable, reliable, and excellent fuel economy. In other words, shave your legs, eat a shit-ton of soybeans, and buy yourself a bra. You are what you drive.

I bought a 1969 black Dodge Challenger. Loud. Sexy. Unsafe. Gasoline guzzler. Granted, Kolton had Jackson and needed a “family” automobile, but I’m sure he could’ve found something less emasculating.

I settle my hip onto the hood and pull out my phone. No messages. I shouldn’t return Lily’s call. Ever since we met in Aspen last March, each conversation prompts a masturbation session by yours truly. That kid-at-heart thing extends to jerking off. If it were possible to die of dehydration following excessive wanking, I would’ve kicked the bucket at twelve. Drain the pipe. Drill for oil. Call it what you want, every towel in my bathroom could’ve been snapped in half. I still enjoy the hand jive, and Lily has proven a worthy inspiration. But going there tonight after walking out on a blow job doesn’t sit well. Still, I know I’ll call her. I can’t resist hearing her voice.

As I pull up her number, my phone rings.

“Never gonna get it” doesn’t play. My brother’s name lights the display.

I hit talk. “What’s up?”

“Our annual Fun Family Christmas Extravaganza.” Finn’s voice sounds raspier than usual, but his sarcasm is loud and clear.

A northern wind practically blasts through me, my leather jacket not quite warm enough for this weather. I hunch forward. “I thought we banned those.”

“In your dreams. This year’s looking particularly fun. Garrett just separated from Claire. Custody shit is going down, and she’s being a monster bitch about bringing the kids.”

I squint. “Garrett?” I try visualizing our family tree, but the branches crack and sprout in so many directions, I can’t keep track. “Is that Martha’s kid? Tony’s second wife?”

“No. You’re thinking of Dylan, the ginger with those weird glasses. Garrett has that mole on his cheek. Like De Niro. Aunt Cheryl had him with Luke, before the divorce.”

The names fly in one ear and out the other. I stopped keeping track of my dysfunctional family a lifetime ago. “If we have to suffer through another Jerry Springer Family Christmas, everyone should have to wear name tags.”

Finn snorts. “Yeah, well, suffer we will. For Mom. It’ll be later this year to accommodate everyone. December twenty-sixth. And she asked that you not give Dad a hard time.”

I stand and pace, long strides eating the pavement in a steady line.
Dad.
If Mom stops looking at him like he’s the one who got away, instead of the one who screwed everything with a pulse, I might be able to rein in my temper. In my eight-year-old world, Dad stood for:

Dickhole

Assface

Douchewaffle

No kid should have to pick up the pieces of his mother’s self-esteem after she endures a cheating marathon worthy of its own reality show.

We’ll title that riveting series:
Fucked
.

I could handle Stepdad Two, and Number Three was an epic loser, but he treated Mom all right. What I can’t handle is her single again, looking at the man who fathered me like he built Rome. It’ll be a fifth-of-Scotch kind of night, and I’ll bring my best buffer: Nico the Barbarian. My nieces climbing all over the massive dude like he’s their personal jungle gym should be enough distraction to get me through the evening. After the Scotch.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll bring Nico as my date. Just make sure you don’t catch the rare infidelity disease that infects our family. I won’t see your girls growing up like the rest of us. Speaking of which, how are Meryl and my two favorite half-pints?”

A pause, a lengthy sigh, then, “The girls were asking about you this morning. They refuse to draw anymore until you come over and finish your art project.”

He doesn’t bother answering about Meryl, and I don’t ask again.

It’s been fifteen minutes since my
friend
Lily called. Fifteen minutes since I walked out on a blow job to find out why. Right about now, rubbing my face in what I can’t have—
Lily
—sounds like a pleasant diversion from dreading my family gathering. “Tell the twins I’ll visit this weekend. And slip Meryl some tongue for me.”

“Fuck off.”

He ends the call, and I speed-dial Lily.

Four rings later, I’m pacing faster and almost hang up when her soft voice says, “Sawyer?”

Immediately, I stop. I plant my ass on the hood of my car and close my eyes. There’s something about hearing my name from her lips. “Hey, Lil.”

I refocus as a newspaper page blows across the asphalt, past a straw and some orange peels wedged against the curb. I practically feel her breath on my ear, the weight of her leaning into me. Today, at lunch, I held her waist tighter than I should have, kissed her cheek too long when I said good-bye. I often do this stupid thing where I stand close enough that it affects her. I do it until she shivers, then I step away. Because I’ll take whatever scraps she offers, and I know she’s hot for me, too.

The way her gray eyes dilate when she looks at me too long?

She totally wants to fuck me.

The way her breath hitches when I brush by her “accidentally”?

I mean, come
on
.

My dickish motto: If I can’t have her, she should suffer, too. So I invade her space until she gets flustered and makes excuses about something she mysteriously forgot to do. Still, she stays with her scrawny boyfriend
of eleven
years
. Not even Finn and Meryl have been together that long. No member of my family has stood that test of time.

“It’s late there,” I say, finally. “Why’d you call?” And obstruct a perfectly good blow job.

More breathing. More quiet. Then, “I broke up with Kevin.”

Her voice is almost too soft to hear, but I’m pretty sure she just said she broke up with Kevin. Her boyfriend.
Of eleven years.
The one and only reason I haven’t shown her what it’s like to have a real man in her bed.

The world tilts. Nope…that’s me falling back onto the hood of my car. I’d swallow if I could. I’d breathe if my heart would slow the fuck down. It’s practically freezing, but sweat gathers on my palms.

“Sawyer? You still there?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You just…caught me off guard.” Understatement of the century. The millennium. I’ve waited to hear those words for nine months. I should hang up and book the first flight back to Toronto, but I’ve become a living piece of performance art:
Man Shocked to Death
. “What happened?” I ask, unsure why my stomach is knotting up.

I don’t do knotting up.

“Nothing specific. It’s been coming a long time.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and my ability to cheer her up has evaporated. I’m the one my friends come to for a laugh. When Kolton lost his wife, I spent a month pointing out every fashion crime in a thirty-mile radius until the dude laughed out loud. When Nico’s brother got arrested for carjacking, I e-mailed Nico photoshopped pictures of his own head on different bodies. He threatened to bring me up on child pornography charges—the dude’s always using his cop status to intimidate—but I know he laughed his ass off. Lily called because she’s upset, and I’m at a loss.