Fuck Buddy (36 page)

RILEY

Before I was ever in a relationship, I had a vision of what I wanted the man in my life to be. It was more of a dream, but consisted of an outline of the qualities he would possess nonetheless. Blake was not only everything I had once dreamed of, but much more.

Blake was unpredictable in so many respects, yet so much of what he did was foreseeable and expected. It was almost as if he had moments or waves of uncertainty which required him stepping out of himself to take a look at everything around him from the outside.

During these times, I found him to be interesting, artistic, and genuine. It wasn’t that I questioned his sincerity or authenticity in his normal manner of living, but when he was uncertain of his surroundings there was much more depth to his being.

“Just a line across your wrist?” I asked.

He glanced up, grinned, and nodded his head once. “That’s it.”

Although he had instructed me on how to do it, I sat with the machine in my shaking hand uncertain if I could actually proceed.

“What if I go too deep? Or not deep enough?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you. Just do your best to follow the stencil. Now dip it in the ink and go,” he said.

I fixed my eyes on his face. He stared intently at the line he had drawn across his wrist and waited. I dipped the needle in the well, stepped on the switch, and lifted the machine to his wrist. As I pressed the tip of the needle into his skin, the sound changed from a loose rattle to a dull drone.

“Perfect,” he sighed.

“Go a little slower,” he said.

I followed the line with the tip of the needle. The ink pooled behind the machine and ran along his wrist and onto the leather support. After a few seconds, I was done.

I lifted my foot from the pedal, stopping the machine. After setting it aside, I reached for the soap, sprayed it into a paper towel and wiped the area clean.

I did it.

A three-inch-wide line across his wrist, heavy at one end and a little lighter on the other was now permanently etched into his skin.

I felt powerful; as if somehow simply doing the tattoo had made me part of who Blake was, or maybe that it had bound us together even more than we already were.

As simple as the process was, the feeling was indescribable. I quickly came to understand why Blake enjoyed tattooing as much as he did. There was a part of him in each and every person he tattooed, and a small part of them remained with him when they left.

“It’s kind of blurry on that one end,” I said as I studied his wrist.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

“Blurry,” I repeated as I shook my head.

He gazed down at the tattoo and flexed his forearm. “It’s perfect. Blurred lines; it’s when fact and fiction become indiscernible. Fantasy and reality fade into a color of grey yarn and you become tangled up in it and can’t escape into the world of black and white you desperately need as proof of the reality of life itself.”

He shifted his eyes upward and smiled, “I fucking love it.”

“I like it more now,” I said.

“Riley,” he said as turned toward me.

“I love you,” he said as his eyes met mine.

I gazed into his eyes. Glistening of browns and greens, they peered back at me as proof of his sincerity.

I didn’t disagree, but I wasn’t prepared to hear it. As my eyes welled with tears and I felt my throat tighten, I reached for his hand. And, as I lightly squeezed his fingers in my palm, I somehow swallowed the lump in my throat and spoke.

“And I, Blake West, love you.”

BLAKE

The pieces of my life I had always found distasteful were never able to be cast aside, forgotten, or simply walked away from. They remained a part of me, and often became part of my day-to-day decision making, reminding me further of their significance in my life.

They lingered in my mind, loitering about in my life because they were unresolved, and resolution was something I found to be impossible or unattainable. I believed my mind had the capacity to be cleansed of all problems my past created if I was simply able to confront the doer of evil.

The human mind strives to fix what it believes to be broken. Consequently, if I believed something to be in need of repair, I felt I could find no peace until I exhausted myself in the process of doing so.

I watched the pen form the words on the paper. I felt writing to be more intimate than typing a letter and printing it. After much thought, extended moments of pause, and a few tears, I stared down at the completed work.

You may or may not have noticed, but I did not begin this letter with any kind of a greeting or recognize you at all by any type of introduction. Additionally, you will find the envelope to be addressed to your inmate number, and not your name. It was not an oversight, but something I truly felt was necessary.

To me, you are a monster, and clearly the opposite of what I believe to be human. I live in a world of grey because of you although I certainly realize a black and white one surrounds me.

To recognize darkness as being so, we must have an understanding of what is light. To truly comprehend goodness, an understanding of what we believe to be evil is necessary. 

You define evil.

I know this because I am as good as I am able to be. I believe I am not as wholesome or proper as I may have been had you not taken my parents from me, but as good as is possible considering the circumstances of my life. I refuse, however, to credit you with creating what little evil resides within me, and I take all responsibility for what little I possess. I reserve hope of one day obtaining a personal sense of perfection, as I am still young and have a lifetime to make whatever corrections I feel I must to do so.

You took something from me which can never be replaced or corrected. I am writing this letter not for you, but for me. I believe conveying my feelings will provide me with a sense of closure and a small bit of satisfaction in knowing although it wasn’t done in a physical sense, I confronted you.

If there is a heaven, and I suspect there is, I find comfort in knowing when I leave this earth I will not have the potential of stumbling upon you or the wake of evil that follows in your footprints.

Until the day you burn in hell I will look down upon you as what you are.

With what little forgiveness I am able to offer.

Blake West

I folded the paper neatly, inserted it into the envelope, and sealed the letter. If nothing else, writing it provided me with a sense of relief so profound, I found it unnerving I hadn’t done it sooner.

Riley’s confrontation of me the day at the lake, our revelation of secrets, and my admittance of what happened to my parents was the first time I had spoken to anyone about my loss short of Doc Racine. Admitting what happened made the loss become real, and the reality of it all caused me to deal with it.

I may have been a few decades late in resolving matters, but found satisfaction in doing so nonetheless.

I picked up my phone and typed a text message.

Write your letter yet?

I pressed send, tossed my phone on the counter, and stood from my seat.

Riley was good for me in so many ways. Our having found each other wasn’t by design or the result of an exhaustive search on either of our parts. We were two people who were looking for nothing yet found everything; and we found it in each other.

Knowing the odds of us finding each other was more than merely happenstance, yet further understanding what caused us to meet was beyond my comprehension, I was only able to sit back and thank God for gracing me with her presence.

My phone beeped. I swiped my finger across the screen and pressed the message with the tip of my thumb.

Yes. Pick me up?

I fumbled with the keys, pressed send, and stared at the screen.

Be there in ten

A smiley face came back immediately. I glanced down at it and grinned.

Riley had her own reasons to be angry with the world, society, and the system, but she remained peaceful inside and out. One day I hoped to be a little more like her, but until that day came, I would have to remain satisfied that I was good enough to be by her side.

And by her side I intended to remain.

RILEY

I sat on the porch and clutched the envelope in my hand. Writing the letter provided me with tremendous satisfaction, and I hoped mailing it would provide even more. Either way, it was a step I felt needed to be taken, and taking it wasn’t necessarily easy.

Knowing the man who killed Blake’s parents and my father was still alive, and in a few short days would be holding the very paper which I wrote my feelings upon was creepy and satisfying at the same time. As I tapped the edge of the envelope on my knee and waited, I grinned at the thought of the simple but effective words I had written. 

Mr. Mastick,

You took my mother’s husband, my father, and my boyfriend’s parents, but I refuse to allow you to take even a shred of me.

In fact, I’m giving you something.

I read you were a germaphobe and were even allowed to wear gloves in the courtroom. Well, after a reasonable amount of research and a few telephone calls to the department of corrections, I have confirmed you are now imprisoned and without gloves.

So, I find tremendous comfort in providing you with this information: I pissed all over this paper.

Fuck off and die.

Riley Campbell, a true survivor

As soon as I recognized the sound of Blake’s motorcycle coming up the block I stood, grabbed my helmet, and ran to the street. Riding on the motorcycle was now one of my favorite things to do. Stevie was right, it was a feeling of freedom I couldn’t find doing anything else.

It made perfect sense why so many veterans of war, police officers, and former prisoners rode motorcycles. The ride provided a sense of freedom nothing else could provide. The feeling of being on the bike and flying down the road cleared my mind, and I was sure it cleared the minds of many others like me.

I shoved the letter in my pocket, pulled the helmet onto my head, pulled the strap tight, and climbed onto the seat as soon as he came to a stop at the curb.

“Ready,” I said as I tapped him on the side.

Without speaking, he released the clutch and slowly picked up speed. As we rode through the neighborhood, I leaned to the side and gazed out at the road ahead of us.

“Beautiful day,” I shouted.

“Gorgeous,” he said.

I leaned back in the seat and pressed myself against the backrest. There was really no need for me to hold onto him as he rode, the support behind me provided plenty of stability, but I did it because I liked to. Touching him allowed me to continuously believe that he, and all of what we shared together, was real.

We turned into the parking lot across from the grocery store and parked beside the big blue mailbox. I got off the bike, unstrapped my helmet, and pulled the letter from my pocket.

“I’ve got a stamp if you need one,” I said.

“Got it covered,” he said as he stepped off the bike.

I pulled the door to the big steel box open and dropped my letter in the tray. He stepped beside me, dropped his letter on top, and turned to face me.

“Well,” he said.

“Any departing words or anything before I close it?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I pissed on it,” I said.

“Pissed on what?”

“Pissed on my letter. He’s a germaphobe. So, I pissed on it and told him so in the letter. It’s the least I could do,” I said, still standing there holding the door open.

He reached for the opening, pulled out his letter, and tossed it onto the asphalt beside his motorcycle.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He glanced over each shoulder, unzipped his pants, and started whistling.

“Does that really work?” I asked.

After a few seconds, a stream of urine splashed against the envelope. As the puddle got so large it began to run toward the sidewalk, he stopped, shook his cock dry, and zipped up his pants.

“Hold on a minute,” he said as he opened the saddlebag on the side of the motorcycle.

After removing a pair of pliers from the toolkit, he picked up the letter and grinned.

“Look out,” he said as he dropped it into the mailbox tray.

I nodded my head smiled until it hurt. “Good idea, huh?”

“Great,” he said. “Close that thing and lets go get some ice cream.”

Mailing pissed covered letters to murderers and getting ice cream with a tattooed biker who had developed a kink for spanking my ass while fucking me.

Sundays had always been the most boring day of the week for me.

And then I met Blake West.