I’m not sneaking out, if that’s what you’re wondering. I prefer this exit opposed to walking back through the crowd and taking the chance of someone stopping me and wanting to talk…or fuck. It’s just easier this way.
I decide to leave the window cracked in case I come back and the clubhouse is still booming—it’s happened. Pulling the hood over my head, I sling my duffel over my shoulder and shove my hands in the front pocket of my sweater. Fuck, it’s cold. Anxious to be out of the wind, I duck my head and jog toward my car that’s parked on the other side of the building.
“Hey!” The weak attempt at a threat from the female yelling at me has me raising my eyes in search of whoever the hell I just scared the shit out of. Dallas Knox Carmical, wife of Luke Carmical, stares back at me from the shadows on the side of the building with wide, fearful eyes—until she recognizes I’m just me…not a serial killer.
“Hey,” I say coolly, offering her my best shit-eating grin. I really shouldn’t be smug about scaring her. The poor girl has been through hell—kidnapped, beaten, lied to…hell, she was even waterboarded. Who the fuck does that other than the CIA?
Suddenly realizing that I came out the window instead of the front door, she frowns. “What are you doing?”
“I got somewhere to be. I didn’t want to walk through the mob of people like this.” I lift my hands inside my pocket, drawing her attention to my unusual attire. This makes her frown deepen and I know I’m about to be questioned. She’s not being a nosy bitch, she’s just curious.
I like Dallas. I always have. She was a little uncertain about me at first, but when I told her she had nothing to worry about where her man and I were concerned, she listened. I don’t know if she believed me or not, but she’s never treated me like shit. Much like a lot of the other women, she just keeps her distance. I tend to like the ones who leave me alone best. Red was once in that category…
“Oh, okay,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me. I do look like a thief in the night, but what the hell could I steal of hers anyway? It’s not like Luke can fit in my pocket.
“Well, see ya.” I step around her, and am seated inside my car before the question hits me. What was she doing? She was wearing pajamas, in the cold, alone in the dark. Is something wrong?
As much as I try to remain detached, I can’t ignore that pit of worry that’s building in my gut. If I do nothing and something is wrong, I’ll have to live with the guilt. I couldn’t do that to Luke. Hell, I couldn’t do that to her.
Stepping back into the cold, I lower my hood so I don’t scare her again and jog to where I last saw her. “Hey,” I whisper, making her nearly jump out of her skin. So much for not frightening her. “You okay?”
Hand over her heart, she closes her eyes and pulls in a deep breath. Then I smell it. I thought it was coming from inside, but the scent is too strong and we’re standing too far away from anyone else for it to be coming from anyone but her. Unable to hide my smile, I lift my hands up in apology.
“My bad.”
Taking a much needed drag from the blunt between her fingers, she stares at me while she holds it in. Just when I think she’s gonna pass out, she releases it on a cough.
“It helps me sleep,” she explains, not that she needed to. What do I care if she smokes pot? I nod and turn to leave but she reaches out and grabs my arm. The move is so surprising that I freeze. I think this is the first time she’s ever touched me. It’s…weird. Especially considering this is the second time today I’ve been touched by an ol’ lady.
“Please don’t tell Luke. He’ll kill me.”
Relaxing, I let out a small laugh. “After the hell you two have been through, I doubt he’ll kill you.”
“You know about us?” Shit. Now she has the wrong idea. I wonder if Red said something…
Playing it off, I shrug. “Word gets around. Living here, I hear a lot.” The relief in her face is a little insulting. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” For emphasis, I even pretend to zip my lips, lock them and throw away the key.
With a warm smile and a small squeeze to my arm before she releases it, she thanks me. The entire scene is so unnerving, I just walk away without even a good-bye. We’re not friends. We don’t talk. We don’t hang out or shop or go to IHOP or do any other girly shit together.
I’m a clubwhore.
She’s an ol’ lady.
I’m on one level and she’s on another.
That’s how it is. That’s how I like it, and that’s how the fuck it’s going to stay.
CHAPTER 4
I know it’s killing you—wondering what in the hell I’m doing. But before I discuss what’s happening right now, let’s go back to my breakfast date with Red.
Like I told her, I feel absolutely nothing about being called out as a whore. It is what it is. I don’t even hold any ill will toward Red. I dislike her as much now as I did yesterday. So don’t go getting any ideas about me having this sudden revelation about my life and deciding to change my ways. If I didn’t like what I do, I wouldn’t do it.
Some things you can’t control. For me, it’s Sundays. We’ll get to that in a minute. But right now, I just want to remind you my lifestyle is one I’ve chosen. One I enjoy. One I want. One I need. I’m sure I could get a nine to five if that was an ambition of mine. But I’d rather take it up the ass than work in some office behind some desk answering some phone, and delivering some boring-ass spiel that involves “How may I help you?”
One more thing: yes, I stole Red’s car. Is she pissed? I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. But I did see Scratch later at the clubhouse who told me she called him to come get her. Considering she didn’t bother calling her husband, I’m thinking she wanted to keep our meeting a secret. Which leads me to believe that either he would be pissed if he found out we went for pancakes and didn’t invite him, or he wouldn’t have approved of our conversation. I’m betting on the latter.
Now back to the present. I know you’re wondering what the hell’s going on. I’m sure there’s all sorts of shit running through your head.
Is she a mom?
A drug dealer?
Is she sick?
Well, I hate to disappoint you, but it’s none of those things. I’m definitely not a mother—I can’t handle all that baby slobber. Ugh. I’m not a drug dealer either—if I were, I’d be driving a Mercedes instead of a Toyota. Sick? Maybe…but if there’s a treatment for me, I’ve yet to find it.
Sundays are not just my only day off, but it’s my day to repent. Most people go to church. I go to my mother’s. It’s my hell on earth. It’s the penalty I pay for all my wrongdoings.
Punishment is a means to an end for all the anxiety, pressure and self-loathing a person feels about their transgressions. If a child misbehaves, they’re reprimanded. If you’re convicted of a crime, you’re sentenced to jail. I’m not a child or a felon, but I have a monster living inside me who has to be tamed. And my family has a way of doing that.
Right now, an incessant need is crawling through me—dominating every thought and feeling I have. Slowly it eats through me until I have no control over my own thoughts and feelings. Everything starts to blur, then begins to fade to darkness. I hate the darkness. I refuse to allow myself to go back there. So I do what I have to do. If that entails visiting the hell that is my mother’s home to find that relief I so desperately need, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The nearly three-hour ride to Baton Rouge seems to get shorter and shorter each time I come here. Every time I think to look at the mile markers I’m always closer to my destination than I hoped I’d be. Before I know it, I’m pulling into Wilson’s Mobile Home Village. Six gravel driveways down on the left sits the trashiest trailer in all of Baton Rouge.
I park behind the mini-van, grab my duffel and kick my way through the shit that litters the small walkway leading to the front door. With a deep breath, I knock twice and wait for my mother’s invitation—granting me access to her palace that’s a hell of a lot nicer than she is.
“Come in!” Her loud, scratchy voice can be heard all over the neighborhood through the thin walls. Pushing open the door, I walk inside the all-too-familiar hell I’m just shy of hating too much to keep me away. “Why the fuck do you always knock? I know it’s you.”
“Hello to you too, Mama,” I mutter, looking around to see that nothing has changed since last week—not that I expected it to. The linoleum is still curling next to the walls, exposing the cheap particle board beneath it. The table is freshly covered in a week’s worth of dishes and trash. The garbage is overflowing onto the floor. You can’t see the sink or the stove, and I’m just talking about the kitchen.
Swinging my eyes to the living room, they land on my mother first. As usual, she’s in a nightgown, in her recliner, focused on whatever cheesy sitcom just so happens to be airing at eight in the morning. She looks older, meaner and slightly heavier than her usual two hundred pounds. Beside her is a TV stand with a few half-empty Coke bottles, some coffee cups and an overflowing ashtray. Lying on the couch directly facing me is my older brother who’s still asleep.