A Song for Julia (2 page)

As I approached, he stood up.

“Hey there,” he said. “I was worried you weren’t going to come.”

I looked at him curiously. “Why is that?”

He shrugged. “Strange guy asks you to lunch in a strange city …”

I leaned my head a little to the right. “Well, you are strange, I’ll give you that.”

He grinned and pulled a seat out for me—an unexpected gesture for someone who looked volatile and dangerous.

“Let’s start over,” he said. “We were never introduced. I’m Crank Wilson.”

“Julia Thompson,” I replied. “What’s your real name?”

He chuckled. “My real name is Crank. It says so on my driver’s license. That’s all you need to know.”

“Would it be wrong of me to ask what your parents were thinking?”

“Julia’s kind of an old-fashioned name, isn’t it?”

“I have old-fashioned parents.”

“Me too, actually. So much so that I had to go to court to change my name.”

“Why Crank?” I asked.

“It fits, doesn’t it?”

I sat back and looked at him. Studied him. Crank was about six feet tall, with angular features. Several tattoos crept down the length of his well-muscled arms, but they weren’t like any tattoos I’d ever seen. On the right side, what appeared to be a scroll engraved with musical notes rolled down the muscles to his elbow. His left arm, however, was tattooed with what appeared to be barbed wire, and had a nasty scar, three inches long, on his bicep. 

I could understand the urge to change your name. Change who you are. Disappear.

“I suppose it does,” I said. “At least from first appearances.”

The waitress approached, and I ordered an iced tea.

He grinned as she walked away. “So what’s a nice girl like you doing mixed up in all this anti-war weirdness?” he asked.

“Anti-war weirdness?” I asked. “It’s not weird at all. Going into Afghanistan after September 11 was one thing. Invading Iraq … that’s something else entirely, and there’s no good reason for it. A lot of people are going to die. So, yeah, I got involved.”

He shrugged. “In principle, I agree. But to be honest, I don’t see what good all this marching around in Washington’s going to do.”

I sighed. “I’ve got my doubts about that, too. But I felt like I had to do something.”

He listened, but didn’t reply.

I leaned forward. “What about you? You guys agreed to play at the demonstration for free.”

“Well,” he said. “That’s all Serena. She’s the other singer and guitar player. She’s also very political.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not a big fan of politics. Though I gotta admit, it’s wicked playing to a crowd that size. Usually we do clubs.”

“Around DC?”

“No, mostly Boston and Providence.”

I took a breath. “Boston?” I asked, quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s where I live. What about you?”

Okay, this is so not a good idea. I should lie and tell him I live in Siberia, or Alaska, or Alabama. “I live in Boston, too, at Harvard?” My voice rose a little at the end of the sentence, like a question mark, like I wasn’t sure of where I lived. I was irritated with myself for the uncertainty. 

He smirked. “I should have realized. Harvard.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’re not the kind of girl I usually hang out with.”

I didn’t like where this conversation was going, but I couldn’t seem to control my mouth. “And what sort of girl is that?”

He gave me a long look. “Groupies. Tarts. Girls who hang out in the bars in Southie.  Not your type.”

I bit my lower lip. I didn’t think much of a guy who talked about women that way.  “So why did you ask me to lunch?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you gotta shake things up. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“I guess so. You’re not the type of guy I usually hang out with, either.”

“What sort of guys do you hang out with, Julia?”

He asked the question in a half-teasing, formal way. I looked at him and answered truthfully, “I don’t hang out with guys. But I guess the times I do, it’s guys with ambition. Law or finance. Guys who wear suits. Guys who will end up in the Senate or as a CEO. Umm … guys my father would approve of.”

Crank leered at me and leaned forward suddenly. “You’re saying your father wouldn’t approve of me?”

I looked in his eyes and took a deep breath. They were blue and clear, very clear, and his bleached white hair made them stand out in a way that made me want to look into them all day. He stared at me as if he was trying to see inside. I swallowed, my throat dry. “My father would definitely not approve of you.”

He smiled, a crooked, boyish grin that made my heart beat a little faster, and for the first time I noticed that one of his bottom teeth was slightly crooked. It was cute. 

“When do you go back to Boston, Julia?”

I swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’m taking the train back in the morning.”

He winked. “You know the city? I’ve never been here before. Show me Washington? We’ll have a good time.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I knew it wasn’t a good idea. I’ve got a pretty hard and fast rule. I stay the hell away from guys I’m attracted to.

His grin, which was turning insufferable, got even bigger. “I know it’s not a good idea. That’s why we should do it.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “And what exactly are we going to do during this time?”

“We’ll start with margaritas and see where those lead.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Then I laughed more when he pumped a fist and said, “Score!”

“You’re not very subtle, are you?”

He shrugged, a motion that somehow involved his entire upper body. “Do I look subtle?”

“Appearances don’t mean everything.”

He looked at me through half-lowered eyelids. “Okay. Let’s find out how much they mean. We don’t know anything about each other. So let’s guess … about each other.”

I suppressed a laugh. That’s when the waitress came back, and he ordered us both margaritas, and I ordered a salad.

“All right. But you go first.”

He grinned. “Okay. Let’s see—I know you go to Harvard. And you dress like you mean business. I’m thinking you don’t relax much … you don’t get out and play much. Only child. You’re from … California or maybe Oregon, based on the accent. Your father’s … an executive? With a bank, maybe? You’ve never smoked pot. And that stud in your nose was a major act of rebellion.”

I giggled. Oh, God. Giggling, seriously? He was just ridiculous. “That’s it?”

“Hmm … I’m guessing you’ve never missed a day of school in your life, unless it was for something life threatening. But inside, there’s a part of you that wants to break out … and do something crazy.”

He grinned and said, “Okay, how did I do?”

“Well, I’m not from California, or anywhere really. But I guess it counts, because my family lives there now. I’m definitely not an only child; I’ve got five sisters. Carrie’s a senior in high school, Alexandra is twelve, the twins are six, and Andrea is five. And … no, I’ve never smoked pot. My dad’s a retired ambassador, so I spent most of my life all over the world. And … rebellion’s never been my thing. I’ve got a pretty good life, there’s nothing to rebel against.”

It’s amazing how you can say a lot of words that are all true, and completely obscure the truth at the same time. I was an expert at that. I spend my life spinning a web of half spoken truths; an armor weaved of words that do nothing but hide who I am.

He grinned and very gently shook his head. “Nothing to rebel against? Nothing at all?”

“Nope,” I replied. Except maybe my mother, who controlled every moment of my life. But that’s more than I was willing to say.

“That’s sad,” Cranks said. “Everyone should have something to rebel against.”

I frowned, scrunching my eyebrows together. “I’ve never heard anything that crazy in my life. How can you say that?”

He shrugged, leaning far back in his seat with his hands in his pockets. “The things you rebel against are the things that define you.”

“That’s kind of an adolescent attitude, don’t you think? I’d rather define myself.”

He gave me a fierce grin. “You aren’t the first girl to call me adolescent.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He narrowed his eyes and then said, “You get off on insulting me.”

“I do not.”

“You clearly do. Trust me, baby … Harvard isn’t the only way to a happy life.”

“Call me baby again and my drink will end up in your lap. And I never said it was,” I replied, suddenly defensive. Was I being condescending? I didn’t think so. Yes, I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. But it’s not like I don’t know there’s a big world out there, and a lot of different ways to live. If anything, lately I’d been thinking more and more that I needed to find a different way. The closer I got to graduation, the more I felt my life closing in on me like the jaws of a trap.

“I can see it,” he said. “You’re mentally comparing me to some suited monkey, aren’t you? Some future CEO or Senator.”

I replied, sharply, “It’s better than being compared to some tart or groupie.”

“Ouch,” he said, then took a big drink of his margarita. 

“So I guess that makes it my turn to guess.”

He smirked. He was an ass. But a hellishly attractive one. Damn him. In a twisted sort of way this was fun. In Boston, I had to be so careful, because the people I spoke to were going to be around the next day and that meant I had to hide.

“Okay,” I said. “You put up a big front. Black leather and crazy t-shirts and angry lyrics. But I’m guessing you’re really from a nice family in the suburbs. You did okay in high school but weren’t motivated to go to college, and you started a band to pick up girls. The look—the hair and tattoos—all flow out of that. I’m betting you’re a nicer guy than you let on.”

He grinned fiercely. “Wrong, wrong, and wrong. I’m from Southie, broken home and all. I got kicked out of school for fighting too much, and I am not a nice guy.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Why not
what
?”

“Why aren’t you a nice guy?”

He sat back in his seat and studied me without answering. As his eyes roved over my face, I felt my cheeks heat up and redden. It felt like he was sitting there and imagining me with my clothes off, and I began to breathe quickly, because that kind of look usually made my skin crawl. But right now, it didn’t do that at all. In fact, my body was betraying me: my breasts feeling sensitive, a stirring in my belly. A random thought ran through my head, quickly banished, wondering what he’d be like in bed. Nothing like Willard, I was sure.

Finally he said, “Because nice guys lose.”

Not promising anything (Crank)

“Because nice guys lose.”

I almost regretted the words after I said them, because her sexy eyes suddenly went wide. Very wide. She sat up in her seat and rolled her shoulders, as if she were loosening up for a boxing match, and then a practiced smile appeared on her face. It was the same smile she’d given me seconds after we met, the one that never reached her sad eyes. That’s when I realized it wasn’t me at all. Someone else was approaching the table.

It was an older lady, mannish looking, with a square jaw, broad shoulders and short, bleached hair. If she’d had on a leather jacket, she wouldn’t have looked out of place at some of the clubs I played. She gave an insincere smile then said, “Julia Thompson … I thought that was you.”

Julia laid both hands flat on the table, and her expression froze. It was as if all the life had just drained out of her, leaving her a plastic mannequin. I didn’t know who this lady was, but it was very clear that Julia did, and she wasn’t happy about it. She said, “Hello.” 

The woman scanned me with her eyes in a way that reminded me of a machine, then she spoke, her voice dripping with intrigue, “You should introduce me to your boyfriend, Julia.”

Julia’s face set in visible distaste. “Not my boyfriend, actually. An acquaintance. Maria Clawson, meet Crank Wilson. You should excuse us now, we’re eating, and you’re interrupting.”

Maria blinked. I don’t know if she was offended by Julia’s obvious bad manners, but I was. I’d judged her to be better than that … she was rude, to both of us.  

I leaned forward. “Nice to meet ya, Maria. And don’t listen to Julia … she’s still shy about us.” I reached out and put my hand over one of Julia’s. She snatched hers back.

Maria beamed. “I see! How long have you two known each other?”

“Ms. Clawson,” Julia started to interject. I spoke louder and leered a little. “About four hours. But they’ve been very intense, if you know what I mean.”

“You asshole!” Julia blurted, catching the attention of everyone on the sidewalk.

I gave her a lewd wink.

“Oh dear,” Maria said. “I suppose I should leave you two alone.”

“As if,” Julia said, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Why don’t you go spread your poison somewhere else?”

Maria gave a prim smile and walked away looking satisfied.

“What was all that about?” I asked.

Her eyes swiveled to me, flashing with genuine anger. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what? I was just having a little fun.”

“Maria Clawson is a gossip columnist, Crank.”

A gossip columnist? “Are you serious? I didn’t even know there still were gossip columnists. Who cares, I’m not that famous anyway.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “It’s not you I’m concerned about, you conceited jerk, it’s me.”

“Ashamed to be seen with me?” I asked, half angry.

“She spent years smearing my family every chance she could get.”

“Well, screw her,” I responded. And then I did something I probably shouldn’t have. I stood up, noting that Maria had returned to the last booth on the sidewalk, where she was chatting with some blue-haired old biddy. “Hey you! Maria!” I shouted, catching everyone’s attention, including the homeless guy sitting across the street. “Yeah…go piss off, ya gossipy bitch!”

Julia hid her face. “Oh, God,” she mumbled behind her hands. “Are you nuts?”

“Yeah, darlin’,” I answered, “I am. Come on, let’s blow this place.” I took out my wallet and dropped two twenties on the table just as the manager approached.