Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (4 page)

“Whatever.”
I dig into the omelet so I don’t have to speak to them both for a while.
Then I finish up the cookie immediately and dust off my hands, grabbing myself
a glass of water.

“She’s
not angry. Is she?”

“Nah.
She’s thick.”

“Violet,
I’m sorry,” Piranha says.

“You
didn’t offend,” I say. She’s always aware where to strike, waiting
for the right moment to cast her barbs at me. Or perhaps I’ve grown to be
too sensitive to the realities of my job. “I can handle myself on the
date without your dossiers.”

“I
promise you, you’ll want to see.”

“No.”
I grab my coat. “I don’t. I’ll be back in a couple hours if
you want to bug me.”

They’re
still chattering as to whether or not they’ve offended me as I cross the front
door threshold.

CHAPTER 3

I
take pride in the fact that I’ve moved out of my parent’s house.
Most people my age struggle to leave. They’d rather save or whatever.

Helping
people cheat in school wasn’t exactly my idea of highbrow business
though. I’d planned on venturing forth into finance. Everyday would be a
power suit day. I’d storm the office, head upright, neck pole-straight,
and I’d rock the male-dominated world with my pumps. Nobody could resist
what I would have to say over a deal. Management? I could do that. I’d be
fair and just. No queen bee mentality here, though Caddy might say otherwise.

I’d
wanted to pursue something substantial and meaningful. Something that added to
society.

The
deeper in you go though, the harder it is to get out. How do you stop your
business when it’s on track to grow even more, year by year? What do you
do when all this money falls unto your lap, and you can’t even
move—amounts so vast, you wouldn’t know how to spend the first
dime.

You
make three figures a month, and when you’re young, that’s gold.
Then you hit four figures a month, and you’re still clinging onto the
poor mentality of saving and not taking risks.

You
could try opening up one of the aforementioned—a “real”
business. But you’d bust over and over. The majority fail on their third,
fourth, eight go. Capitalism is not kind.

And
in the eye of all this nonsense is my attempt at maintaining some semblance of
a running social life to stay sane.

Bishop
roves into the apartment complex at around four-thirty. His convertible is no
better than Caddy’s station wagon. Better beat than nonexistent.

I
hop in, and Bishop kisses me as a greeting. “I’ve been thinking of
you,” he says.

“That’s
nice. Keeping thinking about me.”

He
tugs at my chin and kisses me once more, sending waves of prickling to the back
of my throat. He creates a gentle itch on the roof of my mouth, and drags his
tongue to the tip of my lips, where he presses down with his teeth, biting
enough to create a short-circuiting jolt.

“That
was great,” I say. “Thank you for that.”

“You’ve
never had that before?”

I
slap his chest, but he deflects my hand with a twist of his shoulder.

“I
know you haven’t,” he says.

The
arcade is positioned near an alleyway. Skaters like to round the corners on longboards.
Parents walk alongside their nagging kids. I feel like a teenager coming here,
considering the arcade isn’t exactly for adults.

“But
this one is,” Bishop says, “it’s a special arcade.”

We
get out of the car and walk under neon lights. We pass through a tarp and the
first person to greet us greets us with a loud, “Howdy!”

It’s
a country arcade, how novel.

The
woman running the front desk wears Daisy Dukes and a gallon hat, though in
reality her accent sounds more Brooklyn than Southern. Her coworkers all wear
plaid—in fact, I’ve never such an ocean’s worth of plaid in
my life.

“It’s
the most fashionable thing to wear there, out in the country.”

“Plaid?”
I say. “
Plaid?
”

“I
told you. You’ve never had that—” he points to his lips
“—or that or that or that before.”

All
around us are country themed art pieces. The laser tag is a ranch-maze with
pistols instead of your typical futuristic laser gun. Men prance around in
boots, their heels thicker than my own at home. I whip out my phone to take a
snapshot of the general arena, where people congregate around games of
billiards and dart boards. Caddy would love this place. So would Piranha.

The
vents pump aromatic perfumes and mingle the scents with a dry burnt stench, the
kind you’d get after lighting up a bon fire. I wrinkle my nose, but
Bishop assures me, “It’s for the atmosphere.”

We
sign up to play laser tag, and after a while waiting for the other guests to
hang up their pistols, we’re allowed in. There’s a wooden gate that
blocks the way into the arena. Bishop lends me his had and I hop over
gracefully.

Packed
sand covers the ground. It stretches to a fake background of the setting sun.
Whitewashed, ramshackle houses line the perimeter, where players duck in and
out. The houses slope downwards towards the arcade’s seemingly infinite
backside. Each house is longer than it is wide, and they’re aligned in
rows with porches and steps to enter and exit.

“It’s
pretty deep,” Bishop says, “don’t worry. You’re about
to lose.”

You’re
supposed to make your own rules, and Bishop and I decide that five hits means a
winner.

Before
I can hide, Bishop blasts his gun repeatedly. Our pistols vibrate, and the
onscreen reads: WINNER! BISHOP!

“Cheater,”
I say, running away.

An
empty house on my left provides cover. The floorboards creak and there’s
an empty, rusty sink. Another woman bends near the cupboards and smirks at me.

“Your
friend’s cute,” she whispers to me.

I
crawl over to her. “Thanks,” I say.

“He’s
the one in the muscle shirt?”

“Yeah.
He likes to show off.”

“He
should.”

I
peek through the windows, spotting sand and kicked up dust.

The
woman flattens her bright yellow sundress. She’s a plump woman, though
better described as curvy and voluptuous. She’d make an amazing plus sized
model.  

I
don’t have time to continue talking—at the corner of my eye edges
close a man in a muscle shirt—Bishop! And he pops inside, aiming his
pistol straight at me. We all scream and laugh at the same time, trying hard to
stay serious in what would’ve been a deathly situation in Westerns past.

“Got
you!” Bishop says. My pistol vibrates. It ticks from zero points to a big
fat one. I double around the porch steps at the house’s front and spin immediately,
pulling the trigger multiple times. His lights up twice, and the score count is
1-2.

I
run underneath the window sill and keep crouching low, pistol clutched to my
chest. He’ll want to ambush me—

And
he does, blasting twice at my face as I appear around the house’s long
end. I shriek, but he keeps firing, upping his score to 4. I sidle around the
steps, avoiding further damage.

Bishop
has the whitest teeth and the goofiest grin, but he stumbles off the long side.
He attempts to retrace my footsteps, chasing me to his own doom.

I
pop out and land four shots.

“What!”

“Yes!”

I
run up to Bishop and poke his beefy chest. He shakes his head, glaring at the
pistol.

“Ah!
And I’m the cheater.”

“It
was a good ploy. You just didn’t have the skills.”

Bishop
growls, then scoops his arms around and lifts me up. I try to stifle laughter,
but the happiness escapes.

He’s
so firm, cupping his hands right underneath my legs. He runs his fingers along
the seams of my jeans and brushes out the tangles in my hair. I shudder at his
touch, and he reels me in for another kiss, sharing the energy he’s
brought out in me.

“You’re
fun,” I say. “It’s nice to have a guy to just chill like
this.”

“Well,
miss,” Bishop says, clearing his throat, “you’re a wonderful
woman.”

He
puts me down, and I land, unsteady without him.

He
swerves around, pushing us towards the wooden gate.

“And
there’s more,” he says.

But
the dart boards are full of partygoers throwing their rounds. The billiards
tables cackle. We stop at the bar instead, located opposite of the laser tag
ranch. Bishop makes sure to keep us linked via holding hands. His palms become
clammy, though I find it insanely cute. I’d like to think he’s
nervous, and not just nervous about anything, but nervous about going out with
me
.

Two
empty stools rest against a lacquered bar table, as if waiting for our arrival.
Semi-darkness envelopes this side of the arcade, though you can people watch if
you squint.

Bishop
orders us two beers. “You didn’t ask if I wanted a martini?”
I say.

“I
know you a little. You’re not that type of girl.”

“That
totally depends on who’s asking.”

Our
glasses slide against the lacquer gloss and clink together. Before they come to
a stop, Bishop snatches them up and hands me my drink. It’s a bitter beer,
not sure what he ordered, but it has a zap of citrus lurking beneath the
bitterness.

I
scoot my seat closer to Bishop. His arm goes right around my shoulder and I
nestle into him, feeling for his heartbeat while twangy country songs blare.

Years
ago, I’d only enter bars to score easy lays. Feelings? Romance? Dates?
Those could never be possibilities. I never let them be.

Now
that I am, an insatiable thirst for depth drives me. To know more about Bishop
would mean the world. To share my world with him would mean bliss.

“You
want to go outside?” he says.

And
I say, “Yes,” and as we walk to the patio, a girl eyes him. I
clutch Bishop’s hand really tight, claiming my territory, though by the
time we’re at the patio door, I relax.

“You’re
getting possessive already?”

I
blush. “You didn’t see that.”

“I
did. I see all.”

I
shake my head. “Keep going, sir.”

Bishop
finds us a quiet corner of the arcade, on a bleached picnic table. He spreads
his legs far apart and has the bench against his crotch. He’s wearing
boot-cut jeans, the kind with the dramatic flair at the bottom. I rub a hand
down by his ankles and tug at the cuffs.

“Very
interesting choice of attire in the countryside. Plaid, boot-cut jeans, high
heel boots.”

Bishop
slams the table and points. “You love it!”

“I’ll
admit, it’s a flattering look on you.”

“You
adore it!”

“Maybe.”

Bishop
takes a swig from his mug. He nods up and down, like he’s answered an
incredibly difficult differential calculus equation. All-knowing like he is.
“You love even the high heels.”

I
break down and tackle him, clinging onto his meaty shoulders. He tucks his
fingers right under my armpits, and I writhe, unable to help from grinning and
laughing altogether. I get my fingers under
his
armpits, and I feel the
warmth there, the musky scent hidden under his cologne. His natural smell
invigorates—it would be best described as your favorite color or your
favorite food—immediately distinguishable by its quality.

I
run my hand down his chest to his abs. They’re tight and you can find six
independent muscle heads there. “We should work out sometime
together,” I say. “That would be fun.”

“You’re
pretty athletic. What do you like doing?”

“I
used to do martial arts. Muay Thai. Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Even been to the firing
range a couple times.”

“You
would do well in the country.”

“Nah,
I be useless. I’d just like seeing guys, you know work out a bit.”

Bishop
twists me around and seats me in his lap. We’re warm together, buzzing
with an alcoholic euphoria rivaling post-coital love. It’s just so nice
to be free, sitting with a guy, enjoying a beer, having his physique wrapping
me entirely—and moreover, it’s wonderful that’s he’s
not intimidated. I’d meet guys in college who’d feel the need to
exert their manliness every day all day all the time. Bishop though is himself.
He’s both a little of this and a little of that. I find him masculine and
feminine and
compatible
. Superficially, yes, but you need the spark of
attraction, the first five percent of a person to gain access to the other
nine-five percent.

“There
are lots of things I’d love to do with you,” he says.
“Tons.”

I
pluck my mug from the table and let him sip. “To a better future full of
good memories,” I say.

He
sips. And then I sip again, enjoying our combined presence.

On
the way home, we play a game of I Spy, except the loser has to kiss to the
other if they fail to guess correctly.

“Nope,”
Bishop says, “not a fire hydrant.”

“Stop
sign.”

“Wrong.”

“That
red light we just passed.”

“Three
strikes! You owe me.”

The
seatbelt strains against my movement across the console. My lips are hot and
his cheeks are cool and the difference mingles and makes our skin prickle.
Goosebumps radiate down his spine, and a chill crawls over my scalp, as if someone
were massaging the skin there.

“My
turn. I spy something red too. It’s got two parts. And it’s really,
really fun.”

“Fire
hydrant.”

“Incorrect.”

“Stop
sign.”

“No.”

“The
red light we passed.”

“You’re
not very good at this game.”

Bishop
mimics what I did, leaning over the console and firming his lips to my cheek.
“Or am I?” He kisses again. The suppleness behind his strength
indicates a care, a passion I’ve not felt ever. He doesn’t force
his lips there. He gently caresses them as if kissing a young girl, the girl in
me who needs to be cared for. The girl who’s always longed for compassion
and understanding that my parents could never give. This is what Bishop knows:
psychic comforts. How to play and be gentle.

“We
both are,” I say.

We
didn’t stipulate a rule for answering the questions right. I was scared
to suggest a striptease game. But he keeps kissing, and I keep receiving his
undying attention.

“Green
light,” I say, slapping his cheek playfully. “You should be looking
at the road, cowboy.”

“Kinda
hard to do when you’re the best distraction I’ve ever come
across.”

Women
might tell you that guys will say anything to get sex. It’s not true.
Humans will do anything for anything. If there’s an obstacle, our great
brains will tinker upstairs until they produce concrete plans. Results.