Zero (24 page)

I’m grateful he’s
home. Sincerely. I’m grateful he agreed to go out this evening, after having spent all day rehearsing at Eddie’s, so we could
talk
, so I could tell him about Dr. Salinger, and my dad, maybe even Jenn. Tell him
what
about her, I don’t know. Better not to think about it.

But now that we’re together in my car, I have nothing to say. Even the words I rehearsed all day are dim and distant. Maybe it’s because we’re on the clock. We’ve sorta got plans tonight, after all … kind of a big show coming up.

And I feel worse, because all I can think about is me.

“So,” Mike says. “What’s on your mind?”

Everything.

“Nothing,” I say.

We’ve already been driving twenty minutes. I have no destination in mind. I’m afraid if the car stops, I’ll tell him
everything, and I just don’t want to. What if I totally freak him out? And shouldn’t I? I mean, after everything that’s happened, what I tried to do …

“I just need one happy thing, you know?” I say.

“Actually, I don’t.”

“What?”

“Sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Whatever, huh? Cool. Swell.”

“Mike, it’s not you, it’s me. I just … I really need to be distracted.”

“Yeah, well, take a number.”

I glance at him, sitting tense in the passenger seat. He’s rubbing his thumbs across his palms, hard, fast.

Through his window, I realize we’re nearing Hole in the Wall. It’ll do. I pull into the dirt lot and park far away from the flickering orange neon sign. It’s giving me a headache.

“Is this okay?”

Mike shrugs. “Sure.”

“And can we just … talk? I mean, can you just talk to me?”

“About what?”

“Anything. I don’t care. I just need you to talk.”

“Okay,” Mike says with this little frown. It hurts me to see his face like that. “But we’ll have to head out in an hour or so. Brook’s picking me up at my place for the show tonight.”

Damage Control. Mike’s biggest night. I’m such a useless, selfish bitch.

“Sure. No problem.”

I shut off the engine, and we walk inside.

The café is maybe half-full, if that. Weekend nights don’t treat the Hole well; most people don’t hang at coffee shops on weekends. We go up to the counter to place our orders.

My gaze goes directly to my painting, hanging nearby. God, why don’t they just take it down?

Eli is running the register. “So it’s still here, huh?” I ask as he hands me my drink.

“What’s that?” he goes.

I point. How can he miss it? It’s that shit-on-a-stick painting. “My painting is still here. No one bought it.”

Eli looks at the painting, then at me. It takes him a second to make the connection. “Oh, right!” he goes. “Sure. Well, it takes time. You need to be patient. Someone’ll pick it up.” He gives me what he must consider an encouraging smile.

Which I disregard. “Sure,” I mumble.

“Any luck tracking down a number for Deb—”

“Thanks,” I say, anything to interrupt him.

Mike watches this all unfold without a word. He follows me into the purple room and sits down across from me.

“What was all that?” he asks.

“Hm? Oh. Nothing. That one’s mine.”

Mike glances over his shoulder. “You put a piece up here?”

“Sorta.”

“You put a piece up here and didn’t think I’d want to know? How come?”

“Um, specifically to avoid talking about it.”

Mike reacts like someone jabbed a needle into his belly. “Oh,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to sound like such a bitch.”

“Okay. No problem.”

I strain to focus my attention on him. A unique sensation; usually it comes pretty easily. “How was the trip?”

Bad call. Mike squeezes his mug so hard I’m afraid it will shatter.

“Shitty,” he says.

Since there’s an opportunity to make things worse, naturally, I go for it. “How come?”

“Because my mom’s an idiot and the guy she married is a tool. Next item?”

I slouch in my chair. “Anything.”

“Okay …” Mike drums his fingers on the tabletop. “So, Nightrage almost broke up,” he says after a moment.

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah, Brook told us this morning. Guess they’re really stressing about this tour with Black Phantom.”

“Mm. Too bad.”

“I guess,” Mike says. “I mean, they
are
a good band. But their guitarist got pissed off about something their drummer wanted….”

Mike continues speaking, but I don’t hear him, because this couple, maybe twenty-somethings, have approached my painting and are studying it.
Intently
.

I sit up in my chair and watch as they talk to each other, tracing my whirls and lines with their fingers an inch or so away from the paint.

“… but I don’t think Brook would do it, since …”

The couple step back, move to one side, step closer again. My heart races.

Oh god, please. Pick it up, take it to the register. I need this right now.

“… regardless of what Four Eyes thinks, because they’re so …”

The guy picks up the small white price tag Eli attached to my painting. He turns to his girl. I fight the urge to get up and feign getting a fresh cup of coffee so I can hear what they are saying. The woman frowns slightly and seems to be weighing the price in her mind.

Come on, come on!

“… not that Mom or her stupid dick even asked about the band …”

The couple glance around the room at the other paintings. The woman points at my piece and nods enthusiastically, and I suck in a deep breath; the guy also nods as he looks around at the other pieces once more. Then he points to the painting … 
next
to mine.

The crimson tondo.

No
, I order them.
Take mine; just pick it up and make me the happiest fucking person in the world for just a little while!

They study my painting one last time—then the guy gestures toward the tondo again. Eli cheerfully takes it down off the wall, wraps it up, and puts it into a sack. The guy hands over some cash, and he and his skank walk out of Hole in the Wall. The empty space beside my painting is outlined in dust.

Sonofa
bitch
!

Son of a bitch, why did I come here? Of all the places to go. Why am I so stupid? Am I, like, biologically incapable of making a good choice or what? I didn’t need this, not tonight—not ever, okay, I admit that, but goddammit, definitely
not tonight
. Salvador Dalí himself is laughing at me,
doubled up with hysteria over the fact that I would dare to be so dumb.

“… so clearly what’s going on in my life is of no possible interest to you, so maybe we should just head out, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, then snap to attention. “Wait, what?”

“Jesus, Zero. My mom’s … No, forget it. I got a show to think about.”

I slouch further into my chair and shut my eyes. “Sorry.”

“ ’Sokay.” Mike scoots his chair back. “We should get going, huh?”

“Oh. Sure.”

Leaving our coffee untouched, Mike guides us out of the café. I refuse to look at my stupid painting or stupid Eli or the stupid dust ring where the painting I loved so much has disappeared forever. Just like everything else.

We climb into my car. Mike’s pissed. Maybe not pissed, but shut down. My fault.

It’s all my fault, isn’t it.

Dr. Salinger, Jenn, my dad, my ridiculous painting in that lame-ass café. Just once could I get something right?

I glance over at Mike, my hand on the key to twist the ignition.

“You’re mad,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Sorry, it’s just … fucking … family, you know?”

“Kinda.”

He looks at me, and the way the car is parked under the single parking lot lamp, the only light that creeps in happens to fall across his eyes like Morticia Addams. Even though the light is yellow, his eyes shine white.

“I really thought I’d be excited about tonight,” he says.
“And instead, I can’t get my mom out of my head, and I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with
you
, and I just want it to stop for a second so I can have a good time playing this gig. You know?”

“Yeah,” I say.

We both stare at the dashboard. Just wanting it to stop for a second. And then, without my permission, I ask:

“Do you love me?”

Oh,
there
ya go! Yes, great choice, Amanda, you are a
gem
.

Mike shuts his eyes. “Zero … I’m not having this conversation tonight.”

I’ll take that as a no.

Problem is, my answer is yes. Why, because I have nothing else? No, it’s not that.

Maybe—

Maybe I don’t have to even say it. Maybe I can—

I lunge across the seat and pin him against the passenger door. Mike yelps as his shoulder crashes into the window.

“Zero!”

“Shut up.”

I force my mouth onto his and make some attempt at sucking his lungs out. I bite, chew, slurp, anything I can make my mouth do to make his obey.

“Z … Zero …” He tries talking around my tongue.

I move down to his neck, kissing and nibbling. I hit a sweet spot; Mike’s breath catches in my ear.

“You … trying to … cheer us up?” he gasps.

“Uh-huh.”

I shove my hands under his shirt, feel the outline of his stomach and chest under my fingers. Mike makes another
gasping sound. I keep attacking his neck, and soon his hands move to my hips.

Fuck it.

I somehow manage to lean back on my shins and tear my shirt up over my head. Mike’s eyes blossom, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s okay. Other than the one strip of yellow light, we’re in total darkness, and the lot’s almost empty anyway.

Even as he says the hesitant nonword
um
to me, his hands find my ribs. Mine find his zipper.

“Zero—”

I shake my head. His fly button pops open beneath my fingers like it’s done so many times before tonight.

Like an old pro at this, I grab the waistband of his jeans and pull backward until my back is against the steering wheel. His jeans come off with an audible denim plop.

There’s no going back. No, there isn’t.

I scoot down and bring my legs up to my chest, shoving my old cutoffs up toward my knees, then down again past my ankles and feet. Our pants kiss quietly, dejected, in the backseat.

I see in his eyes a moment of hesitation. I hear and ignore his past reasons for not going this far.

I guess he does, too, because with his help, an awkward few seconds later, I’m in nothing but my bra. I loom over him again, kneeling, reaching, grabbing, hoping I’m not hurting him. And not caring all that much after all.

I balance, precarious. I use my other hand to touch myself the way Mike does. A second later, his hand joins mine.

Mike’s eyes are now squeezed shut, he’s breathing hard, and I wonder if he’ll accidentally open the door and topple out, which would be funny as hell if you think about it, which I’m not, and who cares, his body is responding.

“Careful,” he whispers, voice jagged at the edges.

I shuffle my knees up a little so I won’t slip off the edge of the seat, then force myself into the passenger seat in reverse, facing him.

I take hold of him, and lower my body onto his. Mike’s eyes fly open.

Turns out there’s a lot you can do without taking off (most of) your clothes in the front seats of a 1969 Peugeot.

And me … well, I hurt.

“Ow, fuck!”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine—I’m fine—I’m fine,” I say. “Ow. Shit. Ow …”

And then I freeze solid. Complete and total motionlessness as I realize that this is happening. He is inside of me, really inside me, and it hurts in so many ways and feels good in so many others.

Mike takes in a deep breath through his nose, his hands helping to support my weight by clinging onto my hips.

“Oh,” I whisper. Then add, “ ’Kay.” I spend thirty seconds trying to swallow something dry in my throat.

My motionlessness breaks, and my entire body starts shaking. Quivering. It’s not sexy; it’s not because I feel good. Partly it’s because I’m having trouble balancing on the seat,
but that’s not all. My heart pounds, threatening to pump right out of my chest.

“You okay?” Mike whispers again.

I grab the headrest of the passenger seat with one hand and use the other to brace myself against the dashboard.

I pull myself up just a bit, then down again. God, ow.

I do it again. Everything goes black, and I wonder if I’m passing out, but no, it’s just that my eyes have closed without my permission.

I find what I think approximates a rhythm of some kind for all of what I assume to be a minute. No idea, really. When Mike takes in a sharp breath and squeezes me between his hands, I stop.

Just once, have I gotten something right?

Mike lifts his left hand off my skin and forms a fist, which he throws into my radio. Hard.

“God … 
dammit
.”

“It’s fine,” I say, my breath escaping in rags. “It’s okay.”

He opens his eyes and stares
—glares
—at me.

I stare back at him.
What?

And instantly I discover just how exposed I am. In every possible way. I kneel there, motionless, an
écorché
, naked and skinless against him.

I slowly lift myself off of him, slide into the driver’s seat, reach for my clothes, pull them on fast, feel wetness sliding thick out of me. At least I get my clothes on in the right order.
I’m fully dressed again before I realize my fingers are sticky and colored crimson. I stare at my hand in the darkness. It’s me. My blood. My blood and—

In the seat beside me, Mike is getting dressed, too, extending his body awkwardly to try to shimmy his jeans back on. He zips up and sits back down, and his hands fall into his lap, shaking.

I find a fast food napkin under the seat and wipe my fingers clean. I suddenly have no idea what to do with the napkin when I’m done. So I just hold it.

Just sit there.

Looking at the neon Hole in the Wall Café sign buzzing orange a few yards away.