Gus (15 page)

I can't hold back. "You heard the woman, chief. It's time for you to leave." I step forward and open the door the rest of the way so I can stare him down. I've got three or four inches of height on the guy and he's got a good fifteen to twenty years on me. I usually don't try to intimidate, but I'm trying my damnedest right now.

He looks at Impatient and the look in his eyes is possessive ... and pissed. "Who's he?"

She sighs like she would rather be anywhere else but here. "Michael," she says again, with hesitant affection wrapped around his name, "this is Gustov Hawthorne. I work for his mother. She's been nice enough to let me live here for a few months until I can save up enough money to find a place of my own."

The smirk emerges again and I want to reach out and tear it off his goddamn face. When he looks at me, his air of authority returns, and with it I see her resolve start to fall away. She's putty in his hands. He knows how to fucking work her emotions like she's nothing but a marionette. He sees it, too, and I hate him for it. "Get your jacket, Scout. I'm taking you to breakfast," he commands.

I want her to say no and tell him to fuck off, but instead her shoulders sag and she obeys like a child. "Give me a minute. I'll be right back." She retreats to her bedroom and returns with a sweatshirt on over her long-sleeved T-shirt, running shorts and shoes still in place.

And then she disappears out the door with him. And something I can't explain happens inside me. My chest tightens and there's a lump in my throat. It's jealousy. And protectiveness. And desire. And crushing, fucking helplessness.

(Scout)

Inside my head, I'm screaming at myself.
What the hell, Scout! Don't be stupid. Don't set yourself back. You don't need him.

But my body betrays me. It follows him to his rental car and climbs inside when he opens the door. It was that easy. Down the rabbit hole I go ... again.

When he climbs in behind the wheel his face is triumphant. He knows he won ... again.

Looks like I'm the fool. And fucked ... again.

We eat at a small burrito place just down the road from Audrey's. He makes small talk. Tells me how he's been traveling a lot. Tells me how many new accounts his firm has secured in the past several months. Tells me about the new boat he bought last month. None of it is important. He's just trying to impress me. It used to work. It's probably what lured me in three years ago. Back when I was a freshman at NYU—young and impressionable. We met at the coffee shop around the corner from my subway stop. He lived in Miami, but traveled to New York once a month on business. He was older and handsome and charming and he looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. No one had ever looked at me like that. And when I talked, he listened. He wanted to spend time with me. I fell in love with that. My first and only love. Looking back, I know that didn't last. I didn't see it though. I didn't see him looking at other woman when he was out with me. I didn't see his mind wandering when I talked. I didn't notice that our time together was more and more confined to sex, quick and hard, and for his pleasure, no longer mine. But I couldn't detach myself from him. He became my addiction. He still is apparently, because I'm sitting here with him, in his company, when I most definitely should be anywhere else. I feel dirty. I feel used. I feel lesser. But I can't leave. I hate that the most. I hate that I need to leave, but that I
can't
.

So, when we finish up and he confirms it's over with Melissa, and suggests we go back to his hotel, I nod. I go with him.

The lights remain off, as always, but the instant I hear the latch catch behind me, he's got me pinned up against the hotel room door with his body. His mouth is on mine, hot and demanding. I take it and my body starts heating up. I don't want my body to react to him, to his absence, but it does. He's the only man I've ever been with. The throbbing between my legs is building, which makes me feel weak. Like a failure. Like a traitor. Like a bad person. But I can't help it. He's familiar.

He's already undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. And I'm unbuttoning his dress shirt. He always undresses first. When he's done he commands me to strip from the waist down. I do. Then he bends me over the arm of the sofa and takes me from behind. It's rough. The first six months we were together, we had mutually satisfying sex. The past couple of years, he fucks me. I don't like that part. But I'm used to it. His pounding body feels like it's punishing me. His hands dig into my hips so hard I know he'll leave me marked. My body slams into the sofa with each thrust. I can feel the beginnings of a bruise on each hip bone from the repeated impact. He's grunting like he always does, like an animal satisfying a primal need. I used to think it was sexy, but not anymore. I'm quiet, as always. He doesn't like it when I make any noise. Sometimes I think it's so he can pretend I'm not here. When I'm silent, I'm just a body being used to satisfy carnal depravation. I can feel his hot breath on my back through the material of my T-shirt. It brings stinging tears to my eyes. The grunts give way to his gravelly voice in my ear. "My cock's missed you, angel," he says. Then, "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit," like he always says, between gritted teeth, when he finishes. And it always sounds like he's disdainfully congratulating himself on getting off. Complimenting his ego on a job well done.

I haven't had an orgasm during sex with him in well over a year.
 

When he pulls out, he plants a solitary, almost chaste kiss on the small of my back. It's my consolation, the romantic finishing touch, for accommodating him. Then he walks to the bathroom and I hear the shower turn on. He always showers immediately after sex, but I don't know if he washes away the guilt. I don't think so. I don't think he even feels guilt. I think he just wants to wash away ... me.
 

And I let him.

Until the next time.

I thought I was stronger. I thought I had changed. I thought I was better than this.

I guess not.
 

Michael just proved that.

When he comes back out from the bathroom he's dressed in his suit again, looking totally unaffected. He'll return to small talk as he escorts me out. He never takes me home. That's how it always works.

He extends his hand out, palm up. "Phone." He's telling me to give him my phone. Commanding.
 

I shouldn't, but I hand it to him. It's a new phone I got when I moved to San Diego. A new phone number. A number he didn't have. Until now.

He programs in his cell number and sends a text to himself. He smiles that wolfish smile as he opens the hotel room door and hands the phone back to me. His smile seems to say
you're welcome
and
good-bye
. It's narcissism at its best. Then he says, "I'll see you soon." And lastly, he shuts the door on me, dismissing me. He leaves me standing in the hallway. Hating myself.
 

I feel so weak. I am not strong.

But I also know I will not see him again.

I'm done.

This is over.

Sunday, August 20

(Scout)

After yesterday, I know I need to get my shit together. I need to start making changes to move my life forward in a more positive direction. And after talking to Audrey this morning, and hearing her encouragement and generous offer to help, I know where I need to start. Paxton.

I called my aunt and uncle first. I thought they would be more resistant to my idea, but they were surprisingly supportive and almost sounded relieved, which was bittersweet and made me feel both happy and sad: happy because I know what this will mean for Paxton, and sad because, once again, they are removing themselves from his upbringing, putting their parenting responsibilities on someone else. Luckily, it's a responsibility I'll gladly accept.

I call Paxton next.
 

"Hi, Scout." He sounds preoccupied.

"Hey, Paxton. What's goin' on?"

"Just playing my Xbox." That explains the preoccupation.

"You think you could turn it off for a couple of minutes and talk to me? It's kind of important."

I hear him fumbling around and his voice sounds on edge, nervous. "What's wrong?"

I smile, so he hears the reassurance in my voice. "Nothing's wrong. This is good news. I think."

"Okay." He doesn't sound convinced.

"I want you to move to San Diego. Next weekend. Finish your senior year out here."

Silence. I know it's stunned silence, but it still makes me nervous.

"Paxton?"

"Yeah," he says, sounding stunned. Stunned doesn't even touch what's going on.

"What do you think? You'd be living in the basement here at my boss's house. She's offered for both of us to stay as long as we need to. Until I can get a car and an apartment for us. She's so nice, you'll love her."

More silence. I know this is a lot to take in.
 

"Paxton?"

"Yeah," he says. He's thinking. I can hear his mind racing.

"What do you think?" I repeat.

"I can't believe it," he's talking to himself under his breath.

"Is that a yes?"

"For real, Scout?" The hope in his voice is almost heartbreaking.

"Yes."

He sniffs. If he's not crying, he's trying hard not to. "Yes, I wanna come, definitely." He pauses. "You sure this is for real?"

And now I'm smiling because I've never been able to give someone a gift like this, to change their life. It's the best feeling in the world. "It's real. So now I'm going to let you go and buy your airline ticket for next weekend. I'll email you the itinerary as soon as I have it. Start packing, okay?"

"Okay," he says. "Thank you. Really." His voice projects pure happiness. And I love hearing it.

"Have a great afternoon, Paxton. We'll talk soon."

"Thanks Scout. You too."

Sunday, August 27

(Scout)

Paxton's plane lands in fifteen minutes and we're stuck in traffic. We're going to be late. I hate being late. I have United's website open on my phone to the flight arrival screen and I've been refreshing it about every thirty seconds for the past half hour—as if with the plane this close, there's going to be some type of delay. Clearly, I'm obsessive.

I'm tapping out the beat to the song on the radio on my knee, not because I like the song, but because I can't sit still. Fidgeting is a nervous habit of mine, and I hate it. I wish I could generate calm at will. I've tried meditating, but I can't quiet my mind. It can be a beast sometimes.

Staring out the passenger window, chewing the inside of my cheek, I feel Gustov's hand on top of mine pressing it to my thigh. I turn to look at his hand. He's never touched me like this before and I can't deny that I'm feeling it everywhere, not just my hand. It sends currents shooting right through the heart of me. And just as quickly, his hand is gone.

"Relax. We'll get there. I promise." He always sounds so sure of himself, even when I know he's not.

"I just don't like being late," I explain, trying to justify my worry.

He huffs good-naturedly. "Probably should've asked someone else to drive you then. Tardy's my middle name, dude."

Looking over at him, I sigh. I know he's right. It's stupid that I get myself so worked up. He's completely relaxed, wearing that sleepy grin that I see more and more these days. "Sorry," I say.
 

"No worries,
Impatient."

Looking at him with narrowed eyes, I ask, "Did you just call me
Impatient
?"
 

He nods and fake coughs. "Yeah, it's kinda been my nickname for you. Like, ever since I first met you. I hate to tell you this," he says, lowering his voice slightly, "but you're fucking impatient." His eyes are wide when he says it, and he's smirking—but he's not being mean.

I huff ... and then take a deep breath ... and then I admit it. "I know I am." I widen my eyes back at him. "I'm
fucking
impatient."

"Admitting the problem is the first step to recovery. Maybe there's a twelve-step program?"

I smile. "Does it bother you? You obviously noticed it a long time ago. I had no idea that my impatience was worthy of a nickname."

He shakes his head. "At first maybe a little, but that's because my own life was so jacked. Not anymore though. Can't judge when you don't know what kind of shit someone else is dealing with. I've learned that the past few months. I have a feeling your heart is heavy, and when your heart is heavy, everything's harder. Dealing with life is harder. Believe me, I know. The negative is amplified, and sometimes that extinguishes the peace."

"Peace." I huff again. "I don't think we've met."

"You'll find it; someday you'll find it." He winks. "Trust me."

"I do," I whisper. I don't know if he even heard me. But I do. I don't know why, but I do. We're quiet for the rest of the ride.

When we pull up to the doors outside baggage claim, Paxton is standing there with a big smile on his face. I think he saw Gustov's truck before I spotted him. Gustov's truck is hard to miss: it's old, rusty, beat-up, and two different colors—the cab is one color and the bed is another. But I love it. I love it because I know he has enough money to buy just about any new car he could ever want. But what does he drive? He drives this POS that he's had for years. And I'm pretty sure if someone offered him a million dollars for it tomorrow, he'd turn it down. I. Love. That.

My chest is tightening with excitement and happiness as Paxton abandons his suitcases and starts running toward me. I hadn't realized how much I've missed being around him ... until now. He's my family. My one and only true friend.

I hug him and I feel like I'm home. I haven't felt like this in years. Paxton has always been home for me.

"Thank you, Scout," he says, his arms wrapped around me, his voice full of relief. He may be a teenage boy, but he's never been one to hold back his emotions with me.

I squeeze him harder. "You're welcome. I'm glad you're here." I release him and step back. He's beaming. He's taller than last time I saw him; we're eye to eye now. He shouldn't look this grown up. He should still be a kid, not a seventeen-year-old man.