Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (10 page)

CHAPTER 15

Preston and Bishop. The latter I’ve known longer, but the former seems promising as
well—except he’d be my boss and that would be a no go. I set aside
my flights of fancy and throw myself on my bed, staring at Bishop’s phone
number.

He
hasn’t texted, and I haven’t called. We’ve been incommunicado
now for a day and some.

I
break the silence.

“Hey,”
Bishop says, like always, “you’re fixing for another date?”

“I’d
like to. That depends on you though.”

“You
want to come over and cuddle? Last time you told me things, and now I’d
like my own turn at it.”

Is
he hiding something bad?

I
chastise myself for hypocrisy. He was open-minded about me, so should I be
about him.

“Give
me an hour. Then you can pick me up?”

Bishop
arrives exactly an hour later. He wears his khakis and a red cardigan this
time, and we ride away into the night.

“Want
any food before we go back?” I ask. “You must be starving coming
from work and everything.”

“I
was thinking on the way here,” he says, “that we could do a cooking
date before cuddling. Sound good?”

“Sounds
very good. What do you have in mind?”

“Pasta,”
he says.

“American?”

“What?”

“Nothing,”
I say.

Bishop
has everything laid out everything. The knives sit in their wooden blocks,
waiting for us to grab a hold of them. The counters shine with an intense
luminosity—his entire kitchen is one white wash of blinding recessed
lights. Stainless steel shines in the kitchen sink. We wash our hands together,
with him behind me, cradling my arms as we rinse. I pump the soap and he
splashes the water up to my wrists. His perches his chin on the lowest part of
my nape, and I feel his heavy breathing, the warm breath melting my hardened
exterior.

Again,
the childhood memories haunt me. I’d not only work, do school,
extracurricular. I’d do “chores” as well. Whenever Mom or Dad
was too lazy to do screw in a new light bulb or take out the trash or clean the
toilets or
cook
, guess who had to?
        Me.

“Can
you cook?” Bishop asks.

And
I nod, shaking off my latent childhood. “Yeah,” I say, “you
could say I’m a secret chef. Kinda.”

“Is
pasta too Little League for you?”

“Not
at all. Pasta can be made so good, so many different ways. It’s
versatile, for instance you can—”

Bishop
plants a hand on my shoulder. He kisses my bare neck. “Versatility is
good, hmm?”

“The
best.” I twist around and plant my hands on his shoulders now, looking at
him directly. Bishop presses his forehead and sends a sweeping force wracking
through my core. His touch incinerates as if I were ice and he the Sun. I prop
myself up on the sink’s edge, letting him move muscular hands across my
belly. A swelling heat builds in my stomach, and I wrap my legs around his
waist—he shivers in time. He shivers and drives closer, sniffing my
aroma.

“I
love girls who don’t wear too much perfume.”

“I’m
not wearing any.”

Bishop
thrusts his mouth at me. Our lips envelop one another and become an ocean tide,
ebbing, flowing.

“You
want the bedroom?” he says, grabbing my ass.

I
glance at all the kitchen cutlery. “Cooking date, huh?”

Bishop
smiles and swoops me off my feet. I laugh all the way to the bedroom.

CHAPTER 16

It
takes an hour to relax, to calm and come down from the euphoric waves coursing
through me. Bishop offers to bring hot tea over, but I cling to him, wanting
the intimacy so denied in youth.

God,
how underrated intimacy is.

He’s
combing through my hair with his fingers, massaging the scalp portions below. I
snuggle closer to him.

“What
was it you wanted to tell me? Over the phone.”

Bishop
stops massaging. I look at him. He’s got this odd expression, like
he’s trying hard to understand the meaning of life or something. Deep.

“Is
something very wrong?”

“Not
very. I just don’t know how to exactly word what I want.”

“I
can let you think then.”

He
blows air, and I feel the hot stream leaving his mouth. I latch myself around
his waist.

We
stay cuddled for a good thirty minutes, a good long thirty minutes in bed, until
he says, “Okay.”

“What’s
wrong?”

“It’s
like when we were at that restaurant.” Bishop’s eyes grow wide with
fear, and he rolls over. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“You
don’t have to hide,” I say. “Please, I’m here for
you.”

He
rolls over again. His eyes are puffy bags, stuffed with regret.

“What’s
wrong
?”

“I
should show you what I do.”

He
swings his legs off the bed, pajamas flowing around his calves. We pass the
various rooms of his house. The floorboards creak as if chattering to the
walls, and the walls echo back a remnant giggle. It strikes me now how large it
is. More than fifteen hundred square feet. And for one man. We pass by rooms
I’ve never seen before, and haven’t had the privilege to
see—and he stops at a locked door.

A
padlock guards the door’s handle. He punches in a string of numbers, then
pushes forth, making the door
creak.

The
lights kick in, and the insides become visible. Brown tarps cover objects,
making the room’s landscape nothing more than varied geometric shapes.
Bishop throws off a tarp. Underneath is a long billiards table, except
there’s no pool equipment.

“So
you play pool? Is that the secret?”

“No,”
Bishop says, still frowning. “That’s not it at all. Keep
watching.”

Another
tarp is peeled off the back, revealing a bookshelf housing multiple board
games. I spot Monopoly’s presence stacked above Risk. He grabs those two
and takes them to the pool table. I lean my hands on the green felt of the
table, vainly sopping up the sweat covering my hands.

What
secret is this?

So
he opens Monopoly, he opens Risk. And the first couple items hidden within
aren’t the pieces to play the games, but pieces for another game.
Blackjack’s the most noticeable, with all the cards distinctly shuffled
together alongside rows of chips, red and black. Bishop feels the tops of the
cards and the chips, and then looks to me.

“Gambling.
It’s all for gambling.”

“And?”

“And
it’s all illegal,” he says.

“Illegal
gambling?” I pause. “Why’s it illegal?”

“Laws.
It’s sort of the same as you. I straddle this “dark side”
that’s more gray than black. It’s made me money. Tons of
money.” Bishop walks around the table, and rests his hands near mine.
Maybe he’s sopping his sweat up too. “My house is practically a gambling
ring. Only certain places in the U.S. can do that, and even then,  the
areas you can are strict on keeping up with the law.”

“You
can get in trouble?”

“There
have been gambling police busts.” I raise an eyebrow, but he only nods.
“Yeah, exactly. It’s weird, right? Because you’d think that
gambling wasn’t that big of a deal—addiction’s an addiction,
and it doesn’t matter if it’s gambling or sex. But the state busts
people for this. They punish people harshly.”

“But
you make a lot.”

“The
same as you and your business. Listen,” he says, stepping closer,
“I used to work those minimum wage jobs. After leaving home, things got
tough. Went to university for religious studies? Horrible choice. I barely
found work that was livable, and with my loans, and without my parent’s
good graces, I needed more than ten or twelve an hour.”

“You’re
not addicted though, are you?”

“Not
at all. The money’s just good.” He sits on the pool table’s
edge, swinging a leg. “I thought I should tell too, after you did.”

“I
appreciate the honesty.”

“It’s
better now than months down the road, these hurdles.”

“I
agree.”

“Do
you still like me though?”

“I’d
feel a little hypocritical if I wasn’t into you for what you were doing,
considering what I’m doing. But I am applying for other work. I had an
interview for a receptionist’s position. A tax office.”

“That’s
nice.”

“It’ll
pay for now.” I rest myself next to him. The pool table creaks under our
weight. “What about you? Are you going to do this gambling thing forever
or what?”

“That’s
the thing. Are you really going to leave your business?”

I
look at the floor. “I want to. Badly, yes. To change. To make my life
into something I could be proud of.”

“You’re
not proud of what you’ve built?”

The
floor falls away, but it’s just me shaking my head, tossing around different
excuses. “You’re challenging me, really. I’m conflicted, if
I’m going to be honest.”

“See.
That right there is what I’m feeling too. How do you leave what
you’ve built from the ground up? When everybody said you couldn’t
be anything?” Bishop’s legs swing furiously now, making the entire
pool table creak, back and forth, creak and stutter. “They said I
wouldn’t be anything without their true guidance dictated from God above.
I went out and started making money though. I built an empire, a thriving
business. To have to leave it because of shitty laws, well, feels
shitty.”

I
lift myself onto the pool table. The world settles into place. I let my legs
swing too, following his rhythm. “You’re right. That’s why I
feel conflicted. You build from the ground up but because it’s not
exactly ‘proper’ you feel bad. I guess in your situation it’s
worse, the ramifications…”

“That’s
why I do want to leave.”

I
pat his thigh to ease him. He slows his rhythm. “We could do this thing
together. Both of us working to better our lives, slowly, piece by piece. We
can help each other out.”

Bishop’s
legs stop. He turns towards me and wears the an ear-to-ear grin. “Thank
you,” he says, hugging me.

“For?”

“I
thought you’d be freaked out.”

“I
have my apprehensions, but it’s workable. If you stop. If I stop. Slowly.
It doesn’t have to be immediately. I have to agree with you that
it’s stupid though.” I scan the room for all its contents, the
boxes. How this room would host possibly a crowd at nights, an underground
crowd just playing a game harmlessly. And they could be “busted” in
the end for it.

“You
know what I’m feeling,” he says. “You know where I’ve
been. Our histories are similar. We’re similar. On the same page. I know
we don’t know each other that well, but I feel like this is a good start
for the both of us. A difference.”

“I
feel the same.”

It’s
true. The words aren’t lies. They are truths whispering and vibrating to
the pit of my soul, planting seeds, seeds ready to sprout already and begin
anew.

“No
more secrets,” I say. “From now on, let’s be totally
honest.”

“But
tactful. That’s important too.”

I
sit myself in his lap and kiss him. “Exactly the same page.”

CHAPTER 17

The
office calls me. They want to start tomorrow.

“Like
that,” Caddy says, “and she’s gone.”

“If
that’s what she wants, that’s what’s she’s getting.
Violet’s a go-getter!” Piranha lifts her glass up. I toast to her.
“To change,” she says.

Caddy
just groans. “So corny, you guys.”

“Be
happy for her. She’s going after what she wants. That’s pretty admirable.”

“Girl,
she’ll be back, you watch.” Caddy wraps lettuce around a slab of
minced pork Piranha made. “You can’t really leave this.”

“I
can. It’s possible. For all of us.”

“What
we’re doing isn’t even that bad,” Caddy says. “I say,
milk this cow to the ground.”

“Well,
that’s you,” Piranha says. “I support you, Violet. You
won’t get caught anymore.”

“Thanks,”
I say.

Both
have valid interpretations of the situation. There really isn’t a right
or wrong here, only what the law or common morality says.

Still,
Piranha has spoken. I want what I want—I want normalcy, not having to
feel horrible about my past or my future. Not having to feel terrible about my
“job”.

I
have to reconstruct my life. I’m on my way to discovering that spark I
was born with—the burning that every human has at some moment in their
lives.

The
impetus.

Meaning.

“And
they say opposites attract,” Caddy says after dinner. He’s lounging
on my bed, legs spread wide. He’s been the only stable man ever in my
life—of course, he has to be somewhat annoying. “Did you ask how
long he’s been doing it?”

“No.
I didn’t ask for specific details. I’ll ask later. It’s too
intrusive. We have to move slow. That’s better, I think.”

“What
if he has more secrets in store?”

“I
told him we’ll be honest.”

“Yet
you both kept secrets for so long.”

“If
there’s more, I’ll deal later. I bet you have little devils inside
you but haven’t told me. And we’ve known about each other’s
existences now for years.”

“Not
that I own a gambling ring. Girl, the trouble of this is too much.”

“He’s
leaving it though. He won’t be there for much longer the same way that I
won’t.”

“Is
he getting a new job?”

“We’re
working on it, counselor.” I shove Caddy’s leg aside and thrust
myself under the sheets. After a while, I drift and become drowsy. The
semidarkness of dreams begins to take away the real world.

In
the depth of my sleep, I hear a low uttering voice.

“I
just don’t want to lose you is all...”

CHAPTER 18

I
got the job.

I
got. The job.

Piranha
helps me practice dressing accordingly. I strut around the house like a fashion
model, trying on all her clothes.

“You’re
fabulous.”

“No,”
I say.

“Yes.
Caddy’s just jealous about your ass.” She slaps on a blue suit
jacket and hoops a necklace around my neck. It sparkles from the fake diamonds
and emeralds, but I pretend they’re real diamonds, real emeralds.

“I
feel good.”

“You
look fab,” she says. “Fabulous!”

“I
don’t deserve this.”

“You
do,” she says, peeking over my blue shoulder. “You deserve all of
this and more. Why do you think so lowly of yourself?”

“It’s
hard to break the old.”

“Then
let’s invite the new. Let’s invite the new together, as a
house.”

“Caddy
doesn’t.”

“Never
mind what he’s doing. Let’s do us. Let’s do what we’re
doing, which is thinking about the future in a good light.”

I
face Piranha. She wouldn’t be described as a pretty girl but she’s
not ugly either. Unremarkable, maybe. But her personality, my God. She’s
crazy. She’s zany. She’s ambitious, working all the time, either at
work or on personal relationships. She’s so cool. Her personality shines
with no comparison—mine definitely holds no contest.

“You
deserve to be happy,” I say.

Piranha
just pats me on the head. “We all do. I’ll have my day soon.”

Caddy
is less enthused. At five o’ clock he arrives home, throws off his
backpack. He wanders around the living room, greets us like normal, and then
wanders to through the apartment hallway, where our rooms are open for all to
see. We’ve made mine into a makeshift changing room, a glamour studio.
Caddy gasps. He melodramatically thrusts his hand over his mouth, and realizes
the transformation, inner and outer.

“You’re
really going through with the entire thing?”

“You’ve
never been flamboyant before, I know that’s not you.” I swat his
hand away from his mouth. “Why can’t you be supportive?”

“Because
we started this thing from the ground up. Piranha too. Doesn’t this
matter at all? We’re partners.”

“It’s
not like I’m dead. I’m still here in the flesh. I’ll be
around. It’s just part-time.”

“But
it’ll be fulltime and then you won’t be around.”

“There’s
stability to had. A regular job can fund us in the long run. Remember the
aggregate? Don’t they go over that in intro economics?”

“I
feel like you’re spitting all over the work we’ve done is
all.” Caddy bustles on out, head hanging. I chase him down though,
stalking him through the dimly lit hall, into the tiny kitchen. Piranha’s
stirring at the stove, making soup. Steam wafts to the living room, draping
Uncle Sam in a hot fog. It cuts between Caddy and I. He shoots me an angry look
while washing his hands at the sink.

“You’re
acting like a kid,” I say.

“You’ll
have to excuse me then.”

With
that, he bustle on out again, slipping into his bedroom.

I
haven’t seen him sleep in his own bedroom in ages.

Dinner
is served.

Caddy
stays quiet.

“We
have to get along guys,” Piranha says. “Come now, the house
can’t be burned down over small things. We have to get along.”

“I
agree,” I say. “I’m still going to work for us. It’s
going to be a while before the transition’s fully complete.”

“See?
Violet’s staying, Caddy. Doesn’t that make you happy?”

Caddy
spoons his soup midair, letting the heat escape into the air. He stares at his
food, the side dish of spicy lettuce, his dark coffee. He sips quietly.

“Caddy,
I love you as a friend. And I love Piranha too. We’re family, and
I’m not going anywhere. Okay? Just please, relax and be happy. This
change needs to happen for me though. It’s called personal
development.”

He
finishes sipping and dips his spoon for more. After three spoonfuls of nothing
said, he finally acknowledges the finality of my decision: he sighs.

“We’re
family,” he says. “I want us to stay like that is all.”

“We
are. We will,” I say. “Nobody’s going far away.
Nobody’s dying. We’re family. You guys have always been ten times
better than my own, so let’s not stomp all over five years worth of
knowing one another over my small job. I’m a receptionist anyway.”

There’s
consensus. Caddy nods and Piranha claps.

“I
hope you all enjoyed tonight’s dish. I got the produce for half off
too…”

In
my bed, at night, I think of Caddy’s reaction. Not even I reacted like
that to Bishop’s gambling reveal. Have I outgrown the small city I chose
to hide away in? Has the pond water become stagnant? You can transform over
time. People can transform. There’s an entire animal kingdom to imitate
from great apes to praying mantis. What is Caddy? What is Piranha?

What
am I?

Not
a butterfly, I think. Too fragile and beautiful. Too sexy. Piranha’s a
butterfly, maybe not in the face, at least conventionally, but on the inside.
Caddy’s a bear. Menacing, threatening, but easily scared off if you clap
loud enough, rattle your own sabers. He’ll back off eventually. Though
I’m afraid one day he won’t, that inside of him lurks a real bear,
equipped to kill. He’s thrown tantrums before. Over guys who rejected
him. Over bad grades. But not over friends bettering themselves.

And
me. What am I?

I’m
just a guppy. A nameless fish. Don’t give me a tribe or a clan to belong
to. I can swim fine in my space, my pond.

The
water’s are either shrinking or I’m growing or both. But my life is
changing. And I’m happy.