Tameless (4 page)

Chapter Six - Wes

“I moved,” I told her, when I picked up the phone.

“Where?”

“If I told you that, there wouldn’t have been any point in moving.”

She huffed. “Oh, so you moved because of me. Great. How fucking nice of you. Whatever.” And then Meghan/Skye hung up.

It wasn’t true that I had moved because of her. I had moved because I’d been crashing on Brad’s couch for the last six months and it was time for me to get out of there. Meghan not knowing where I was going was just an added benefit. I had told Brad not to tell her where I was going, just play dumb and say I moved while he was out for the day or something. Meghan had just called me from outside Brad’s apartment so it looked like he had kept his promise.

My new place was a small apartment on the outskirts of Santa Monica. I’d saved up some money to get the bare basics for the place. Some kitchen stuff, towels, and a bed, which the store delivered the day I moved in.

I’d been here for two weeks now, but I still hadn’t been to the beach. Sooner or later, I’d get around to it, hopefully sooner. All was going smoothly at work, I was feeling better about having my own place (a big step toward my ultimate goal of getting my life back), and Meghan couldn’t show up and knock on my door.

She could still call, of course, and despite her getting mad and hanging up on me, I knew she would call again. It was time for a new phone number.

I sat in my one chair in the living room, eating a bowl of cereal, when I called and had my number changed. Then I scrolled through my contacts to see who I should give the number to right away, the people I kept in touch with the most.

That’s when I wondered what I should do about Dawn.

It had been three weeks since we had run into each other at the mall, and she had called about a week ago. I let it go to voicemail and immediately deleted it, and didn’t call her back. She called again two days later. Same response. Then the texts started. She was worried about me, asking me to please just answer her, let her know I was okay, and that she really wanted to see me but she wouldn’t push it if I didn’t want to.

So, yeah, I was being a dick about the whole thing. I admit it. With all the upheaval in my life over the last month, I hadn’t really had time to decide whether I should see her.

It was fraught with risks, mainly emotional ones, for both of us. I think she was more curious than anything else, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find myself wondering more what it would be like to be around Dawn again.

And that past included a secret I had never shared with anyone. I was crazy about Dawn. I was attracted to her physically, intellectually, and emotionally. She was the one girl I really wanted back then, and the one I never tried to get. It was more than not trying; it required actively fighting the urge to go for it.

I had my reasons. Damn good ones, too, which I was sure would all come back into play if we spent any time together. I knew my reasons would be tested.

The most pressing issue at the moment—how would I tell her the truth about the VIP room?

I figured I would have to. It wasn’t exactly something you can keep from someone you are, or were, so close with, when you’re trying to make contact after years of not being in touch.

A lie of omission is what it was. And I just wasn’t sure I could act normally around her. Something would give away the fact that I was keeping something from her. That’s how it used to be, anyway. We had been so close, we acted like twins sometimes, knowing what the other would say before it was said, finishing each other’s sentences, making jokes so dumb and dry that we were the only two people in the world who would think it was funny.

I didn’t plan on ignoring Dawn forever, and now that I had changed my number I needed to send her a message so she wouldn’t think I had changed it because of her.

I sent a quick text:
It’s Wes. I changed my number. Long story, but wanted you to have it.

It was early, just before 8 a.m., and I had no idea if she was up and getting ready for work or…

Then her text came through:
Thanks for letting me know! I was worried about you. Everything okay?

Me:
Yeah, I’m fine. I was kidnapped by aliens but now I’m back. No big deal.

Her:
Shut up. What are you up to?

Me:
Finishing some cereal and then off to work.

Her:
Let me guess…Baisin Bran?

Of all things, she remembered my favorite cereal.

Me:
I’m a loyal guy.

I was trying to be witty with that response, but the second I hit send I realized that I’d have a pretty hard time defending that statement. I hadn’t been loyal to her. I’d left and had been out of touch for seven years.

A minute passed, then another, as I made my way to the bathroom, started the shower, and slipped off my shorts and t-shirt.

Her:
I’d really love to see you.

It was time to push aside my concerns and do this.

Me:
Then let’s get together. What’s your schedule like?

I was getting a towel out of the closet when my phone rang and her name appeared on the screen. I picked it up and she spoke before I could say anything. And goddamn, that voice of hers drove me wild.

“Before you say it, I swear I’m not one of those people who replies to texts with phone calls,” she said. “That’s so annoying.” I heard what sounded a little bit like a quick nervous laugh. “I just figured it might be easier to make plans this way.”

Plans. I was about to make plans with Dawn. Plans that would include me having to tell her about the strip club.

“I can pretty much work when I want to,” I said. “So I’m flexible.” I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, naked. It was slowly steaming up on the edges, but I could still see myself clearly enough to watch me roll my eyes at what I had just said.
I’m flexible.
Yeah, it’s an important trait for a male stripper. For fuck’s sake, I was going to have to tell her sooner rather than later.

“Tonight?” she said, a heavy plaintive tone to her question.

“Sure, yeah, I’ll probably be finished around four.”

“That’s when I get off,” she said. “Hey, you know what I remembered last week? All the times we had home-made pizza.”

We used to do that all the time and I remembered it well. Her mom would come home with the pre-made crust and all kinds of toppings that she would put in bowls along the counter. An assembly line that Dawn and I both thought was the best part of the dinner.

“I can always go for pizza,” I said, and before I could suggest a place, she spoke.

“We still have that pizza stone. I don’t know how long it’s been since it was used, so I’ll have to clean it pretty good. I’ll get all the stuff and have it ready when you get here. All the bowls and everything.”

I was quiet for a moment. Looking at myself in the mirror, now a figure blurred by steam.

“Oh, wait,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about whether you’d want to come to the house.”

“You’re living there?”

“Yeah,” she said, sounding a little ashamed by it. “The job market is crap, you know? So I’m trying to save up money and get my own place.”

I wondered briefly why her parents didn’t get her started with her own apartment. Or maybe even a house. They were loaded.

“And,” she went on, “my parents are out of town for a few days. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

Since part of my motivation for moving back to the area was facing my past, maybe I should suck it up and go to the house. What the hell?

“Pick a time, I’ll be there.”

. . . . .

I pulled into her driveway just after 6 p.m. and left the car on for a few minutes as I thought about the last time I had been here.

Her father had been standing on the front porch, as if he were guarding the house and making sure I was really leaving. The verbal argument had almost turned physical. It was all I could do not to punch the guy in the mouth. The things he said to me were degrading, a full-on assault of my character.

The only thing that stopped me from hitting him was the fact that Dawn was standing right there, crying.

I had put the car into reverse, slammed my foot on the gas, turning the wheel, almost running into the mailbox. I didn’t look up at the house and didn’t watch it grow smaller and fade away in my rearview mirror as I left.

So now here I was, about to enter that house again.

Dawn opened the door as I climbed the steps on the front porch.

She reached out to hug me, we embraced, and all I could think of was how I was going to have to fess up to that night at the strip club at some point during the evening. She had to know. She deserved to know.

Chapter Seven - Dawn

It had only been three weeks since I had last seen him, but that somehow felt almost as long as the seven years that I didn’t even know where he was, or whether he was still alive.

The hug was quick, friendly, but he squeezed me tightly as if he was really glad to see me.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said.

He smiled a forced smile. He looked a little worried about being here. “Yeah, I should probably go.” I knew he was joking and as he turned, I reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him through the door.

“Don’t want the neighbors to see me, huh?” he said.

I just shook my head and rolled my eyes at his sarcasm.

He wore a lightweight black coat over a black t-shirt that hugged his chest. He had on jeans that he never would have worn back in our teen years; back then they were slightly frayed at the ankles, a grungy beach-bum look that Wes pulled off so well. The ones he had on tonight looked like they were brand-new, maybe even passable for casual work clothes.

As we hugged, I smelled his soap, remembering what it was like to walk by his bathroom after he had showered. There was always this scent of masculine soaps, shampoos, and cologne. After he’d left home, the absence of that smell was something that stood out to me. Odd, maybe, but it was just one of those things.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Starving.”

We walked to the kitchen and all my nerves calmed down. It had built up during the day but now that he was here, all was well.

I had laid out all the toppings buffet-style and as we each built our own pizzas, I asked, “Why the new phone number?”

He paused to let out a heavy sigh. “A girl.”

“Or course.” My stomach did a little flip. What was that about? Nerves returning? Jealousy? “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It isn’t.” He shook his head and gave a little laugh. “I don’t think you want to hear the whole story. It’s pretty fucked up.”

“You always did that.”

“Did what?” He stopped and looked at me, his hand holding a spoonful of black olives midway between the bowl and his pizza.

“You’d have some good story to tell, but all you would tell me is that I didn’t want to hear it. And I always did. You know that.”

He told me all about Meghan, including the fact that she was a stripper. He didn’t say how he had met her, but I assumed it had been in one of the clubs. It brought back the night of the bachelorette party. God, if Wes knew what I had done that night he would be shocked. It was so out of character for me.

“So basically you have a stalker,” I said when he finished his story.

“Something like that.”

We ate pizza and drank beer. He had told me a little about his days in drug rehab, and I wasn’t sure if I should offer him any alcohol, but he told me he could handle it, that it wasn’t one of his triggers.

So we ate and drank and told old stories. And we drank some more. I don’t think either of us was drunk—I know I wasn’t—but the alcohol did its job, relaxing us and pushing away any remaining awkwardness that was between us as we spent time together for the first time in years.

“Dating anyone?” he asked at one point, and then immediately he said, “That look says it all.”

“What look?”

“The look on your face when I asked. Your lips tightened up and you looked down. I know that look.”

I nervously balled a napkin in my hand, took a deep breath. “Do you remember Scott? Waldron?”

He nodded.

“Well, it’s him. We’ve been together…sort of together for a while now, but I don’t know.”

Wes sipped his beer and leaned forward, placing his arms on the table, looking very interested in what I was about to say.

“If you had asked me to guess who you’re dating now, I wouldn’t have thought it was him. It wouldn’t have dawned on me.”

I tilted my head and rolled my eyes. “Very funny.”

“Hey, I had to get at least one in there for old time’s sake.”

We were referring to him using the word “dawn.” When we were teenagers—fourteen, maybe—he would always try to work that word into a sentence. “Dawned on me.” “Darkest before the dawn.” Once, at the pool, he had a perfect opportunity to use “crack of dawn” when I got out of the pool quickly and the back of my bathing suit bottom slipped down slightly.

His favorite might have been “dusk til dawn” because sometimes he’d call me “Dusk” but never in front of anyone else. He used that one infrequently, saying there was a darker side to my good-girl personality. It annoyed me a little, but it grew on me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t end up liking it. I was the good girl, never getting in trouble, and I think I wanted to believe there was a darker side to me.

Anyway, he listened intently while I told him everything about Scott—from how we sort of fell into the relationship, how it was easy, how my parents liked him, and how everything was just…fine. I didn’t come out and say that I was bored, but that seemed obvious. I didn’t tell him I was unhappy because it wasn’t like it was an awful relationship or anything. I wasn’t unhappy. I was just…fine.

“I just feel like I’m doing it because it’s expected of me, you know?”

The look in his eyes was one of sympathy, but not pity. It made me feel less self-conscious about telling him. Actually, it was good to talk about it. I hadn’t told anyone until I told Wes.

“What are you going to do about it?”

I laughed lightly. That was the big question that needed answering, and I had no answer for it beyond a shrug.

“You should stop seeing him,” Wes said.

I’d been looking down at my plate and the all the crumbs on it, working up a self-pitying analogy of how my life was just like that plate—just a few crumbs lying around. But when he boldly said I should stop seeing Scott, my gaze shot up to meet his.

“I know,” I said, “but—”

“But nothing,” he interrupted. “If you’re not happy—”

“I didn’t say I was unhappy,” I shot back.

He took a few seconds before speaking. “Unhappy and not happy are two different things. What you are is not happy.”

I laughed. “I think you’re drunk-talking now.”

“I’m not.” He smiled, but he still looked like he was serious. “If you’re not happy, then you’re wasting time. This isn’t a dress rehearsal.”

I just looked at him.

He chuckled, saying, “And yes, that’s one of the little mantras I have that reminds me to keep myself in the moment. This isn’t a dress rehearsal, it’s your life, you only get one, so why not live it how you want?” And then he said it: “What do you have to lose?”

It was then that I realized he still lived by that, but it was different than when he was a teenager. It was a more mature version of it now. Wes wasn’t a boy anymore, he was a man. And as obvious as that should have been, I had still been looking at him as the teenage Wes I knew and was close to all those years. Now, I was starting to see him a little differently, all because of those words.

I wondered if he was looking at me as the teenage Dawn from back then, or did he see me as the young woman I was now?

“So maybe I’ll break up with him then,” I said.

“Or maybe you won’t.” He stood and walked toward the living room.

I sat there thinking about what he’d just said, felt a little rush of anger at him, and followed him. I stood in the doorway as he slowly perused the room. He looked at the pictures on the wall and on the mantle above the fireplace. He looked at the bookshelves, tracing his finger lightly along the spines.

“What was that supposed to mean?” I said.

Without turning around he said, “What?”

“You know what. You said maybe I won’t break up with him.”

He pulled a book off the shelf and leafed through it. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t.”

“Look, I know I should. Are you doubting me?”

He put the book back on the shelf and turned around. He leaned against the wall. “Not much has changed here.” There was a wistful look on his face, as though he were trying to conjure up all the memories that were made in this house.

Still standing in the doorway to the living room, I crossed my arms over my chest. I felt defensive and I didn’t care that he knew it. His comment about not much having changed made me wonder if he was referring only to the house and the décor, or if he was talking about me.

“Mind if I see my old room?” he asked.

“Only if you answer my question. Are you doubting me?”

“No.” He pushed himself off from the wall and swiftly moved across the room, brushing past me, and up the stairs.

I followed him. “That’s not really an answer.”

“Sure it was. You asked a yes or no question and I answered it.”

Frustration built in my chest. “Wes, you know what I mean. Why did you say maybe I won’t break up with him?”

We were standing in the hall. Close. Too close. I let my eyes drift from his chest to his neck to his face, finally seeing those silvery-blue eyes looking down at me. “Because you were always too cautious about everything.”

“Really? This, coming from the guy who wasn’t careful about anything and look what happened.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“That’s what
I’m
talking about.”

He turned and started down the hall toward his old bedroom. He spoke with his back facing me. “Then you’re talking about the wrong thing. I don’t mean you should be doing anything stupid or anything that can get you in trouble and fuck up your life. I mean you should figure out what makes you happy and go for it.”

I knew he was right, but he was saying it without really knowing all I had been through—how I had tried to get my adult life going, how I had tried to make myself happy because I had figured out what I wanted. I wanted independence from my parents. I wanted my career to start. I wanted to finally be free in the world with only myself to take care of me, only myself to get credit for the good things happening to me.

I walked toward his room and stood in the doorway. Wes was looking around, but not touching anything. When he left back then, he had taken his posters off the wall along with everything else that was his. The room now contained the same furniture, but it was bland, unused, basically a generic guest room.

I let him look at it and I didn’t say anything. It must have been weird standing in his old room again and I wanted to give him a chance to process it. But not too long. I wasn’t ready to let his comments about me go without challenging him. I was strong enough to handle the Scott situation.