Maya And The Tough Guy
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Authors: Carter Ashby
Maya And The Tough Guy
Carter Ashby
Text Copyright © 2014 Carter Ashby
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Digital Edition. Personal use rights only. No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover Design by Quirky Bird
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ISBN: 1505826233
ISBN-13: 9781505826234
To my husband and children, as always.
CHAPTER ONE
Maya sat next to her date in the back seat of his car, trembling and hugging herself. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought I was ready.”
The woods surrounding them at the end of the abandoned dirt road resonated with night noises. The windows were down, letting in a cool, spring night breeze. She wondered if he’d even heard her. Surely he hated her. The hottest guy in school—and a senior, at that—she should have known better than to think she could handle him. It was like choosing a Ferrari for your first car.
His bare arm lay stretched along the seat behind her. Moments ago she’d been wrapped in those arms, already well-developed with powerful muscles even at the age of eighteen. He’d been down to his wife-beater and she’d watched, mesmerized, as his muscles flexed beneath the tattoos on his shoulders.
Now he was as still as stone. She couldn’t look at him, but could feel his eyes on her, and wished he would say something. “I’m really sorry,” she repeated.
He abruptly stood and climbed out of the car. Maya watched as he leaned back against the hood, his back to her, and lit a cigarette. It reminded her of father. The whole posture. The white tank top, the brooding shoulders, even the way he held his cigarette, pinched between thumb and forefinger, like smoking this cigarette was serious business; like it was more of a need than a pleasure.
Her face flushed, her heart pounded, and bile rose in her throat. Too much like her father. Would he say cruel things to her, next? Was his temper building, even now, as he smoked that cigarette? Would he slap her? Beat her?
She sat there in the back seat, still hugging her breasts. Her prom dress was unzipped and shoved down to her waist. Carefully, she pulled it up and tried to zip it. She wouldn’t be able to get it all the way up without his help, and she didn’t intend to ask for it.
He finished his cigarette, flicked it to the ground, and stamped it with the toe of his shoe. Maya’s heart slammed in her chest as he came back toward the door. He opened it and leaned in. “Come on,” he said softly, though without tenderness. “I’ll take you home.”
She accepted his hand fearfully and let him help her out of the car. He reached in for his shirt, but left the tie. He shrugged the shirt on, but left it hanging open.
“Here,” he said, turning her and pulling the zipper on her dress the rest of the way up. Then he opened the passenger side door for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, sinking onto the seat and pulling her skirt clear of the door.
He slid into the driver’s seat, but didn’t immediately turn the key to start the car. “I hope you don’t think I’m mad,” he said.
She gulped and still couldn’t bring herself to look at him. How could she not think him mad? He’d barely spoken to her and when he did, his voice was brusque and unfeeling. “You aren’t?”
“Of course not. I’d like to see you again.”
“You would?”
“Of course I would. Can I call you?”
She nibbled at her bottom lip, anxiety creeping up her spine. “Um, my dad…”
He nodded, as though he understood. But then, maybe he did, having come from an abusive home himself. “Yeah. Well, maybe you call me. How ‘bout that?”
She shrugged. “Sure. I could do that.”
“Good.” He dug around the garbage littering his car and found an old fast food receipt in the cup holder. She handed him a pen from her purse, and he wrote his number down. “Here,” he said. “Soon, okay?”
“Okay.” She folded the number and clutched it in her fist, excited to be holding something that, if made public, would make her the envy of every teenage girl in the tri-county area.
He drove her home and walked her to her door. She lived in a two-bedroom house in a run-down part of town.
She started to go inside, but he took her elbow and then touched her cheek. He tilted her face up and kissed her gently on the lips. For the first time since she’d asked him to stop, she met his eyes. He hadn’t lied. He wasn’t mad. He was something else. Something she couldn’t identify.
“Call me,” he repeated.
“I will. Thanks, Jayce.”
He nodded and then backed away, pulling her screen door open for her.
As soon as she stepped in, her heart constricted. She’d hoped her father would have gone to bed. But he was in his recliner, a pile of crushed beer cans littering his general vicinity. She would have to walk around him to get to her room. She made it halfway.
“Did you fuck him?” he growled; his eyes remained glued to the television.
She hesitated and then kept walking.
He laughed bitterly. “A whore just like your momma was. Can’t say as I’m surprised.”
She ignored him and went back to her bedroom. There was no lock on her door. She might have installed one herself if she’d thought it would do any good. God, how she longed for a driver’s license and freedom.
She changed out of her dress and into her pajamas. She wanted a shower, but she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself. So she climbed into her twin-sized bed and turned off her lamp. She pulled a blanket up to her chin and took the crumpled receipt from her nightstand. She clutched it in her fist and dozed off while dreaming about Jayce’s kisses. Maybe she hadn’t been brave enough to go all the way, but the making out had been hot.
A sharp pain woke her. Her head jerked back and she hit the floor. Her father’s hand untangled from her hair. He stood over her, straddling her. “How long you been fucking around, girl?” he asked, his slurred words mixed with spittle.
She knew better than to answer. There was never a safe or right answer when he was like this. Quicker than a drunk man should move, he reached down, grabbed her hair again, and pulled her to her feet. Her eyes stung with tears, but she kept silent.
“Hard to look at ya,” he snarled. “I still see a little girl. But you ain’t a little girl anymore, are ya?”
When she didn’t answer, he yanked her hair harder. “Answer me, bitch!”
She squeaked, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “No,” she said.
The slap first caused her ears to ring, and then gradually her cheek began to sting and throb. Then he slapped her again. His anger swelled and he shook her. “Look at you!” he yelled. “Look at yourself!” He spun her around to the mirror on her door and then flipped the light switch on.
She was facing herself; her cheeks bright red and swelling. She stood only five-foot-two with her body completely swallowed by her baggy pajamas.
“What do you see?” he asked.
When she didn’t answer, he pinched her arm so hard that she cried out. “What do you see?” he shouted again.
“A whore,” she said.
“That’s right. A worthless whore.” He spun her around to face him, but when he did, her body collided with his and for one horrible moment, time stood still. He had an erection. She could feel it digging into her stomach. Her father had never made sexual advances toward her and she was certain that he wasn’t doing so now. Yet, she couldn’t help feeling a wave of nausea.
She tried to keep her shock off her face, but he saw it anyway. His face morphed from horrified, to enraged. He shoved her. Her back slammed into the doorknob.
“Get out!” he screamed. “Get the fuck out of my house, you goddamn whore!”
She reached behind her, turned the doorknob, and then ran. She ran out the door and down the block. Then she slowed to a walk and sobbed more with each step. She didn’t know where she was going or what she would do. Her bare feet were sustaining small injuries from sharp pebbles and occasional bits of glass.
She just walked. Cars drove past her, but no one stopped. She made her way towards town, but then:
“Maya?”
She stopped and turned. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes so she could see better. It was Damon Bradley. She was friends with his brother, Kellen, who was a senior. Damon was twenty-two. His elbow hung out the window of his pickup truck. There was a lawn mower in the back. He earned money doing odd jobs around town. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
She burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. That’s when she realized she was still holding the piece of paper with Jayce’s number on it. She sobbed even harder.
Damon climbed out of his truck, took her by the shoulders, and helped her in. “I’m gonna take you home.”
“No!” she shrieked. “Please. I can’t go back there.”
He studied her and then understanding gradually dawned in his gray eyes. He nodded. “I’ll take you back to my place then. Get you cleaned up and a good night’s sleep. We’ll deal with your troubles tomorrow.”
“I can go to my friend, Zoey’s.”
“That the redhead who flipped off the mayor last week?”
Maya laughed. “Yeah, that’s her.”
“It’s late. She’s likely asleep. If you want, I’ll take you in the morning.”
Maya wiped a stray tear from under her eye with her knuckle. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He drove back to his apartment. It wasn’t much. In fact, it was rather run-down. Not much better than her home. Except that there wasn’t a drunken father trying to attack her.
Then again, how much did she know about Damon? He’d always been around. A friendly face in the community. She vaguely recalled hearing about a bar fight a few weeks ago. But the one thing she knew for sure was that he wasn’t her father.
He showed her to the bathroom and offered her one of his t-shirts to sleep in. She set her paper on the counter and showered, grateful to be clean and to wash away the feeling of filth her father had put on her. She dried off and put on the t-shirt and picked up the paper again. The shirt hung mid-thigh on her. She didn’t have underwear unless she wanted to wear the ones she’d come in. She didn’t.
She gathered her clothes and walked out of the bathroom. Damon was laying blankets and pillows out on the couch.
“Do you have a washing machine?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. He nodded back towards the kitchen. “Help yourself.” She found a small machine in a utility closet and loaded her clothes into it.
