XXX Shamus (18 page)

“What the
fuck
are you waiting for? You wanted this, so do it, do it, fuck me now.”

Hopper wanted to hit her with his fist again. Wanted to
thock
her head into the medicine cabinet mirror, her lips curling, a bloody-toothed smile. She said, “You’re kidding. Seriously, you’re joking, right?” She tried to turn her head, look down at his junk.

He let go and stalked down the hall, zipping up, fumbling, almost tripping. Sister was on his heels, a jittery laugh punctuating the taunts—“You’re not tough. You’re a pussy. I’ve got more of a cock than you. I
know
it’s not me. It’s all you, baby.”

“Shut up.”

“Bust me up, and now that’s all you’ve got left? ‘Shut up.’ Am I hurting your feelings?”

Stalking towards the front door, determined that Sister was out of his life after this. He’d taken all he could. He would cut her out and win Divinity back and get them both out of this awful sewer of a city. He’d find a real job. He’d figure out how to keep the women from falling all over him. Thinking if this were the Fifties, if he were Mike Hammer, there would be all the innuendo and hints but none of the flesh and bodily fluids and smells and sounds. Back then flirting wasn’t an invitation for a no-strings-attached fuck.

His thoughts were interrupted when Sister grabbed the back of his shirt, flung her leg out in front of him, and shoved him down. His knees skid on the hardwood floor, his face smacked and radiated pain.

Sister said, “You thought that would get you off, beating on me? How about now?”

She stepped on his thigh, the boot heel cratering, cutting his skin.

“Please,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what gets you off. I know. I do. You like aggressive women, and you like the fact that I’m the one who’s always been there for you. That gets you stiff and there’s nothing you can do about it. That’s the vibe you put off—women want to own you. Control you. They want to satisfy the scared little boy inside the big man’s body.”

Hopper pushed himself up, reached back and grabbed Sister’s leg. He lifted it like a fallen tree and tossed it aside, sending her to the ground beside him. She was clawing at his pants as he scooted away, kicking her arms, and he kept going. Back on track for the front door.

“
Wait!
”

Three more steps. Hand on the doorknob, no need to listen to one more goddamn word she had to say. But he waited. After all…maybe she’d tell him. The news he was waiting for.

Hopper turned his head. Sister sat Indian-style on the floor, calm in spite of the blood around her mouth. She smoothed her hair, ran her fingers through the tangles. “You’ll be back, and you’ll apologize. Because you still don’t know if I’m carrying your child. Imagine that, our son and our nephew, all rolled into one.”

Hopper tried to think of a good response. He didn’t have one, so he opened the door. “Goodbye Violet.”

Whatever she screamed at him as he closed the door behind him was lost in the wind.

He still wasn’t ready to go home.

The Pub was as busy as Hopper had ever seen it, meaning about ten patrons total—two playing pool, one playing video poker, and the rest slumming at the bar or trying to pick up the bartender. Hopper was hoping, praying, that it would be Georgia. She was nowhere to be seen. Instead, another possibility—the skinny biker chick fuckbuddy, as plain and hot as usual. Seeing her, the action downstairs tingled. He decided to play it out, see where it led. Goddamn it, he couldn’t grieve anymore tonight without fucking somebody.

He sat at the end of the bar and waited, watched over the poker player’s shoulder rather than stare down the bartender and appear desperate. He finally felt her presence in front of him, so he turned his head expecting to find his usual shot of tequila and a Sprite.

Instead, an empty coaster.

He looked at the bartender. Hands on her hips, no smile. Like she didn’t know him. No, in that case she’d do fake friendly. This was a mad face.

He said, “Shot of tequila and a Sprite.”

The bartender let out a puff of air and shook her head slowly. “Unbelievable. I can’t believe you’d show your face in here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“After what you did.”

What, she was
jealous
? Over Georgia? Shocked the hell out of Hopper. He thought the fucking between them was the non-committed type, just what two people attracted to each other did to get through the day.

Hopper grinned at her, doing the sheepish act. “You know how it is with me.”

She leaned into his face. “You hurt that girl. I mean, you fucking
devastated
her. I’m not just talking emotions here. You really hurt her. Like, emergency room hurt.”

Hopper stopped breathing for a minute. “She’s okay? God, is she okay? I never—”

“Some kind of infection, I don’t know. Using that oil in her ass? Plus, she said she only let you off the hook because she knew you’d come back for her. She was heartbroken.”

Hopper’s chest hurt. He wanted to fall off his stool. “I didn’t know.”

“Like you ever do. You’re an animal, a stud dog, and it doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“I don’t go looking for it.”

“That’s bullshit. Maybe you don’t
say
it. Your body advertises. Every goddamn smile or wink someone tosses at you isn’t an invite, but you pursue it until she gives it up.”

Hopper balled his fists. Stared at the copper-topped bar. All this time, no one had ever accused him this way, as if he were taking advantage of weak-willed innocents instead of simply responding to what they wanted. Yeah, how convenient. Bad Hopper as the bad guy, the women never taking responsibility for their own actions.

Good. Good justification. If that were so, then why did he feel so lousy?

He said quietly, “Tell me how to get in touch with her. Let me make it right.”

She laughed hard, a bird squawking, and spat the words. “In. Your. Dreams.”

“But—”

“Leave her alone. In fact, leave
me
alone. I’d prefer if you honor my request that you no longer drink here.”

He didn’t answer. One of the drinkers down the way whistled and held up an empty pint glass. The bartender turned to leave. Hopper grabbed her wrist, held it against the bar.

“Please. Don’t do this to me. I need someone tonight. You.
You’re
the one I need. You’ve always understood.”

“Let go.”

Tighter. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

She shouted, “Bo, get over here!”

One of the drinkers, a thin wiry guy in a tank-top, tight muscles showing, spotty facial hair, perked up. He adjusted his cap, blonde strands peeking out, and started over. Hopper let go of the bartender’s wrist. She pulled it back quickly and crossed her arms.

Bo stepped behind Hopper and said, “This guy need to go, Dana?”

Dana.
There’s her name.

She said, “I’ve eighty-sixed him. I hope he goes on his own. Just in case, be a buddy and walk him out, okay?”

Hopper looked around at the other drinkers. He found who he was looking for, one of the guys who came to his rescue when Ernie Depp and his lawyer attacked him in the alley outside. Eye contact. The drinker sighed, shook his head, and turned away towards the TV over the bar. Pretended to be interested in a commercial for a local Ford dealer.

Hopper got off the barstool. Bo cleared out a few feet. He said, “Any call for physicality?”

“No. Help the gentleman to the door.” She couldn’t help but sneer at
gentleman
.

Bo rubbed his hands together. Hopper thought he smelled like cologne from the Eighties and cheap beer. “You owe me, sweetie.”

Dana ran the tip of her tongue across her lip, relaxed a bit, and said, “Oh, you’ll get it.”

Hopper had had enough. He brushed past Bo and headed out. The sound of a poker machine and Bad Company from the jukebox and the traffic as he pushed through the door all blended into God’s voice telling him,
You deserve this
.

It’s not my fault
.

That’s what makes it ever worse.

He parked on the street a block from his apartment and walked the rest of the way home, the cold air of the early hour choking him. He’d cried in the car. An angry cry. Too much crying the last couple days. Fuck crying. Fuck those women. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t.

Divinity.
That
was his fault. That was the one he wished he could take back.

A brief flash: Suicide.
Take yourself out of the game. Plenty of pills you can toss together, swallow them down with tequila. Do what Cynthia wasn’t brave enough to finish.

His bosses had said something like, “Don’t be afraid of it. Not a bad way to solve some problems. As long as you’re sure you don’t believe in anything.”

But he was afraid of it. The idea of not existing—pretty freaky. Afraid of the pain and the nothing beyond it.

He could live with the drama, even if his every step made things worse. For all the girls he had found, for the girls he had fucked, for his own well-being. Violet.

He told the cold air, “
I’m
the victim here.”

In front of the gate at his apartment building, a white Honda was parked on the curb, and someone was waiting in the driver’s seat.

She said, “Hopper Garland.”

Hopper wanted to hide behind his gate. He couldn’t open it in time. Someone had finally come to deliver payback. The woman was already out and on the sidewalk. Dressed like she’d been out on the town, high-heels and a black party dress. Kristen Hannity.

He stood with a hand on the gate, frozen, waiting for her to bring out a gun or something.

Instead, she said, “I didn’t think you were coming home. I had to wait.”

“How long?”

She shrugged. “I forgot. Hours.”

“You found me.”

“Googled you. You get your mail here, so it was easy.” She reached into her purse. He flinched, not knowing what to expect.

She said, “I’ve got a check.”

Hopper settled down, unlocked his gate, and said, “You want to come in?”

Kristen’s eyes widened, but not in a good way. “I’d better not. I thought, you know, I owe you. Thanks for all the help.”

“Look, if you can’t afford it, let’s go inside and talk. We’ll work it out. I’m just glad she’s okay.”

Kristen dropped her eyes, hand still deep in her purse. “I said no.”

She took a deep breath.

Hopper said, “Is something wrong?”

She slid her fingers from her purse, a check folded between them. She handed it over. Hopper unfolded it. This wasn’t Kristen’s account. It was her parents’.

“I don’t get it.”

Kristen’s lips were tight, like she was trying to keep from breaking down. Finally she said, “I had to tell them. Dad flipped. I mean, like, he was on the phone to the cops and the governor and all. He’s on a plane right now, gone out to get Yasmin.”

Another one down. Exactly what Hopper was trying to avoid. His legs felt weak. He sat on the sidewalk and slumped against the gate.

“You know that’s not what she wanted.”

“Hey, she’s too young to know what she wants. We’re doing her a favor.”

“This really okay with you?”

He was turned away, waiting for an answer. He heard her sniffling, then a soft, “I’m sorry. Thanks again.”

Then the car door opened, closed. Engine roared. She moved off down the road.

It took another twenty minutes for Hopper to find enough strength to get to his door, lock himself in, and ignore the flashing message machine.

Sleep wasn’t going to come easily, and Hopper knew it. He took a couple of Benadryl tablets to help make him drowsy. They had a mixed effect. Numbed him out, sure, but also gave him dry mouth and had him stumbling to the toilet every half hour to piss. In between was this long dream that picked up right where it paused with each bathroom trip. Four women he’d hurt—Divinity, Cynthia, Georgia, and Yasmin—had formed a pop group. He saw them onstage with instruments. There wasn’t any music. The girls were pale and sad but the light show was bouncy and vivid. Between sets, they’d come by one at the time to drink with Hopper.

Divinity: “It seemed like a fun job, and I knew what we had was special. Now, after what happened, how can I ever look at you again without thinking—”

Cynthia: “All I wanted was to find myself without the old baggage slowing me down. After you ratted me out, it was twice as heavy. That’s your job, isn’t it, to rat people out?”

Georgia: “I don’t know why I did it, since I’m not good with hit-and-runs. You seemed….
different
, I guess. Like you didn’t need another notch on your belt. Maybe I didn’t expect forever. More than ten minutes though—”

Yasmin: (She was quiet a long time, then) “I mean, think about how you found me. You
fucked
my
ass
before coming clean. What kind of guy does that?”

He had her on this one, though: “You’re the one who set us up with Ivana. It’s all down to you.”

She puffed a cigarette, held her big pregnant belly. “If you hadn’t treated Ivana the way you did, maybe she wouldn’t have come after you guys so hard. Don’t blame me for your bad people skills.”

They were all so reasonable, laying out the facts like lawyers arguing an airtight case against Hopper.

He tossed and turned and sweated.

He felt the glass dildo in his ass.

He imagined Divinity in a hospital. Suicide attempt? Some disease she picked up from the rape?

The worst was Sister, holding a newborn, speaking softly to Hopper. “She has your eyes. She also has cleft palette.”

At five in the morning, he couldn’t take it anymore. He sat in his mentor’s chair and tried to concentrate on the Weather Channel. Watched the clouds swirl across the map and imagined places he could go that weren’t so…so…fucked up.

Alaska. It called to him. Alaska. Maybe he’d head up there and hire onto a boat, go fish for crab.

He drifted to sleep thinking of cold water, snow, ice, the waves bobbing him up and down.