Triangles (5 page)

I’m getting used to it. Sort of. I guess. Good thing I’ve given up on men. Focused on my career and daughter, who is thirteen and starting to ask those difficult questions a mom should be available to answer. Tonight, however, Harley’s on a rare 56/881

visit to her who-wants-to-be-a-dad-anyway father. Which is why I’m here, watching my best friend flirt like
she’s
the single mom. And I’m mostly along for the ride.

IT’S A SMOOTH ASPHALT CRUISE

At the moment. I follow

Holly’s metered hip sway

to a tall table, unoccupied,

midroom.
Check it out,
she says.
It’s our lucky day.
One can only hope. She shimmies

up onto a suede stool, tough to

do in a skirt that short. I join

her, and before our butts are

firmly planted, a guy at the bar

begins the ol’ eyeball prowl.

I could save him some time,

tell him now he doesn’t stand

a chance. Too medium height.

Too average build. Too Jace.

And why is it the guys who

least stand a chance are the

most determined? He checks

her out like she is merchandise.

Maybe he thinks she’s for sale.

A waitress meanders over,

takes our order. Mojito

for Holly. Fat Tire for me.

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Holly crinkles her nose.

Not only beer. Chewy beer.

I smile. “Carbs, and I need

them. I didn’t have dinner.”

I expect an admonition—

don’t drink on an empty

stomach or something. But

no. She nods approvingly.

I had a salad. Didn’t want

to get too messed up. Then

again, it’s been a while since

you and I tied one on. Too

long.
Her eyes relentlessly scan the room. Finally, they

touch down on me.
So what

have you been up to? How’s

work? Still a love-hate thing?

“Pretty much. The state of

Nevada is worse off than

California. Furloughs. Budget

cuts. I still have my job, and

that’s a good thing. But no

cost-of-living raises for DMV

employees this year. In fact,

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that promotion I got? The title

‘supervisor’ means nothing,

moneywise, and won’t for

the foreseeable future. It’s a

pisser.” Holly keeps nodding

like she has a clue what it means

to cling to a day-after-day, same

ol’ thing job. Okay, with benefits.

She doesn’t have to work at all.

Jace Martin Carlisle, Esq., sees

to that. Holly should count

her blessings and give her

husband credit where it’s due.

If he were mine, I’d spoil him

rotten. Neck rubs. Gourmet

dinners. Breakfasts in bed,

followed by protracted

post–French toast lovemaking.

Our drinks arrive and Holly

lifts her glass.
Here’s to girls’

nights out. Cheers!
She takes a long pull as the average guy

initiates an obvious approach.

“Don’t look now, or do look

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if you want to. You’re about

to get some company.” This

could be fun. You can’t pay

for entertainment like Holly.

AVERAGE GUY

Saunters up to the table, or at least does his best saunter imitation.

Good evening, ladies,
he says.

May I buy you a drink?
He aims the invite at Holly, who says,
“I’m good,
thanks. But you could get my friend
something that doesn’t smell so much
like beer. How about a mojito, Andrea?”
She just told the guy my name! “Uh, no thanks. And, HOLLY, I like beer

just fine. Even if it is chewable.” We both laugh, leaving Average Guy

knowing our names but completely

confused.
Well then, may I join you?

Holly lifts her left hand.
“Don’t think
my husband would appreciate that.”
She says it, straight-faced, while lasering a come-hither smile at a striking guy 62/881

who is sitting with a cute-but-not-

gorgeous friend at a nearby table.

Average Guy turns to see what Holly is staring at. His ear tips immediately blister red and he starts to pant.
Are
you saying I’m not good enough?

“Not even close, sweetie. Now, if you
don’t mind, we were in the middle
of a private conversation.”
She picks up her drink, disconnects completely from Average Guy, whose entire

face is now tinted cranberry-crimson.

Whatever,
he hisses.
But so you know,
you’re not so special either, bitch.

Holly shuts him up with a single filthy look.
“Darling, I am the kind of special
a guy like you can only dream about.

Now go away before I yell ‘pervert.’”
He glances at me, but all I can do is shrug.

Another bitch, by mere Holly connection.

MERLOT-FACED, HE GOES

But not before flipping her off.

“Wow,” I say. “You should write

a book—
Two-Sentence Castration.”
She laughs.
Sounds like a short book
to me. Anyway, I was thinking about
writing erotica. Entertaining research
and all. And speaking of research,
those cute guys over there are scoping
us out. You up for a little fun?

I’m starting to wish I’d ordered

something stronger. “Depends

on what you’ve got in mind.”

Harmless flirting. Maybe a free
drink or two.
She doesn’t wait for me to agree, and all it takes

is a single filthy look—of a whole

different variety than the last one—

for the erotica research to begin.

Holly and I go out together fairly

often. But this particular side of her is relatively new. The change is not 64/881

in the way she flirts—all wildcat eyes and come-on smile from across the room.

The change is in her follow-through.

HOLLY IN ACTION

Is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

I would not call her flirting harmless, however. I would call it straight

for the jugular. Except the jugular is not located where she’s aiming.

We are now sitting with Grant

and Caleb. I’m currently sipping

one very strong mojito while

Caleb gripes about congressional

reregulation. Holly, who is on

her third very strong mojito,

has hitched a leg over Grant’s

knee, effectively airing out

her crotch. Hope she’s wearing

panties. But if I were taking

bets, I’d guess no way. And I

can also imagine where Grant’s

fingers are creeping. Half of me

is grossed out. The other half

really wants to look. Holly acts

all innocent, like nothing’s going on under the table. But everyone here, including Average Guy, who is

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sloppy drunk and leaning toward

belligerent, knows otherwise.

UNDER THE TABLE

Where voyeurs and lawyers

duck their heads, truth loiters,

obscured, in the shadows.

It’s

the key to deception, central

to suspension of disbelief.

Fact, in overt disguise, is often

all

people need to embrace

lies invented as distraction.

In back rooms, filthy with

smoke

and the sweat of success,

decisions are made,

agreements entered into

and

lives change, sometimes

not for the better. In more

ways than one, eyes are

mirrors.

What does it say about

you if you can’t bring yourself

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to look into them?

Holly

FOUR MOJITOS

Approximately one per hour. I actually feel okay driving home, though

I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to get pulled over right now. I could have let Andrea drive. She volunteered. But I didn’t want to listen to her bitch

about my behavior. It wasn’t
that
bad.

“Harmless flirting. Free drinks. Research.” That’s what I said. And that’s what it was.

Mostly, anyway. Grant
did
give me his card.

Told me to call. He’s disgustingly good-looking. But I’ll probably lose his card.

Right at the speed limit, it’s a twenty-five-minute drive home from downtown Reno.

I manage it without drawing attention to myself but have to admit I’m happy when I turn off the main highway, onto the little road through the valley. Rarely will you find cops out here on a Friday 70/881

night. Well after one a.m., the action is in town. Still, I maintain the thirty-five-miles-per-hour limit all the way home.

I expect it to be dark. Everyone fast asleep. Surprise. Not even close.

ALMOST EVERY WINDOW IS LIT

Shit. What’s going on? I throw the Cherokee into park, pop a couple of killer breath mints, hurry toward the door, stomach churning. Inside the house is a not-pretty scene. Mikayla is on the couch, arms crossed, jaw set. But she’s been crying.

“What happened? Mikki, where’s your car?” Jace turns, anger evident in the eggplant color of his face.
Nice of you to come
home. I’ve been trying to call you—

“Sorry. My cell’s dead.” Not exactly true. I turned it off to avoid interruptions.

Do you know what your daughter

was up to tonight, while you were out …

He lets the end of the sentence dangle, implying something ugly. I ignore that, look at Mikayla, who sits, granite-faced, glaring.

“Uh … I guess I don’t. You weren’t at Emily’s?” 72/881

Yes, she was. Long enough for Dylan
to pick her up for a party at Nevada
Flats. Someone tipped the cops.

Luckily, Stan was one of them. He brought
her home.
Not the first time Jace’s brother has run interference for one of our kids.

“Well, other than Mik lying to us,

it could be a whole lot worse, right?”
Unless you want to consider underage
drinking, plus marijuana and ketamine.

“Mikayla! Tell me you’re not doing

drugs.” I couldn’t have missed the signs.

She shakes her head.
A little weed,
Mom. I don’t indulge in the hard stuff.

A snort on the stairs makes us turn.

Believe that, you believe in Santa.

It’s Trace, and Mikayla isn’t happy.

What would
you
know about it, asshole?

I may be an asshole, but you’re
a ho. I know that about you too.

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“That’s enough!” My head pounds. “Go to bed, Trace. We don’t need your input.”
I DON’T BELIEVE IN SANTA

Was never allowed that small pleasure as a child. My own child is still spying on us from the staircase. “Trace! I said go.” He goes, singing an ad-libbed carol.

Ho, ho, ho. What do you know?

Who, who, who. Who would you do?

I choke back a giggle. But Jace remains stern-faced. “I’ll take care of this for now. Mikayla, come over here.”

Jace scowls.
Fine. But there will be
consequences to discuss in the morning.

He pivots.
I’ll check on Trace and Bri.

Mikayla approaches warily but does as she’s told. Her hair is a mess, her face streaked with heavy stripes of mascara and eyeliner. She smells of alcohol, and her eyes are red—from crying or smoking or both. But her pupils appear normal, and when her gaze meets mine, it is focused. Present. There is something else, though. Another scent she wears, 75/881

faint but unmistakable. “You need a shower.

And your dad is right. We can’t just let this go. God, Mik, summer vacation is supposed to be fun. This was not a good way to kick it off.” I consider whether or not to ask if she and Dylan are using condoms.

She goes totally stiff.
You’re not going
to ground me, are you? Dylan’s taking
me up to the lake tomorrow.
It’s a whine.

“Pretty sure that won’t happen, Mikki.

Your dad’s really angry …” I should be too. Maybe I will be, once I sober up myself.

“Look. You could be in a whole lot more trouble. Go on to bed now.” I get another whiff of sex. “But take a shower first.

We’ll talk in the morning.” I watch her go, all skinny jeans and seventeen, thinking she’s grown up. Believing she’s in love, hoping he loves her back, and willing to do whatever it takes to make that so.