Debt, page 6
Vera’s hanging around, still with that puppy-mesmerized look in her eyes. “Vera, let’s go,” I whisper in her ear, but pulling her away is like pulling a smaller magnet away from a bigger one.
“Vera?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Yeah...”
Her eyes linger on his while I drag her away.
Jake has his groupies, he doesn’t need two more.
But we don’t make it to the door.
I didn’t catch what happened, because my eyes were focused on the exit, but I heard a hush, a glass clinging, a chair scraping against the wooden floor—
And then Jake is in front of me, looking a little...nervous?
“Vera. Kyla. Please don’t tell me you’re leaving.”
Of course, I’m stunned he remembers our names.
“Yeah,” I say, “it was a great show. We, uhm, really liked it, but, uhm, we gotta get going.” Way too many groupies here for me.
Jake’s perfect smile falters. “I...I...uhm... Gosh. I thought we were going to...have dinner.”
The dude was actually serious about that.
Vera is useless as a wingman (wing-woman?) She’s just gawping.
“Please,” he says. “I, uhm...they’ll be gone soon.” He gestures to the crowd. “I’ve had something special prepared for us in the back, an elegant room, anything you might desire.”
I’ve made some stupid mistakes, but I can read people. Either Jake is the worst judge of horny women in the world and fails to see that he could get his cock sucked by seven different chicks in a row tonight, or he’s truly...just a Nice Guy who wants to spend some time with us. And offer us dinner.
“OK,” I say. “Fine, uhm, sure.”
Jake’s brilliant, beaming smile re-appears. “Gimme just a few minutes.”
He glides over to the mass of ladies waiting to kiss / smooch / do him and answers their questions, signs their autographs, kisses their hands while Vera and I wait.
Each one of the women gives Vera and me the evil glare on their way out.
When the place is relatively empty, most of the fans having left, Jake disappears for a second. And Vera says, “This—dude—is—so—hot.”
She’s staring off into space as she says it.
-2-
Jake the Country Musician didn’t even try and take us to bed. He dined us and told us how he made it big (“I gotta thank Jesus above all else for all my good fortunes. Well, him and my momma who works at Capitol Records.”) We told him we’re students at WRU. I’m majoring in Accounting and Vera’s doing Marketing. He asked us about college life, we sipped wine, more wine, more wine... He asked us where we’re staying. “At the Hampton Inn,” Vera said.
He told us he keeps a room at the Renaissance available this time of year ‘for friends’ who might want to come over and he’d love it if we could stay there. “Nothing big,” he said. “Just a junior suite.”
I said No. Vera kicked my ankle. By the time I recovered, she had said yes.
Of course, Junior Suite is pretty damn big, and before I knew it, Vera was hitting up shots from the minibar and resting her feet on the ornate table, getting plastered. “I’m so fucking horny,” she said. “Jesus, if Jake walks in the door I’m dropping my panties and bending over. You think he’ll get the hint?”
Her head started lolling to the side. “I like him,” Vera mumbled. And then her eyes closed, just slightly. And finally she was out.
I snatched the little bottle out her hand before it poured onto the couch, kicked my shoes off, and headed into the bedroom.
I’m no stranger to luxury. Vera maybe a little. She’s from a wealthy background as well, but not nearly as much as me. I know the hotels. I know guys like Jake. They have money, they throw it around like it’s candy. And some people pick it up.
Then they reel you in, like Hansel and Gretel.
It’s almost as an afterthought that I remember Vera got me Muscle Man Logan’s telephone number in Texas. And I don’t really understand why I’m thinking of him. Hell, Vera and I have been hit on non-stop since we arrived here this afternoon, and I couldn’t be less interested in these guys.
I pull the paper out and look at his name. Logan. Calling him out of the blue would be ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. And it would be nothing more than a hook-up. Which I hate. But what else am I expecting, that he’s secretly a knight and a gentleman inside?
Maybe Vera’s right. Maybe I am a hopeless romantic. The key word there is hopeless.
I shove the paper back into my purse, not quite ready to throw it away.
-3-
It’s nine AM when I hear the door banging.
I get up and go to it, still rubbing my eyes. Vera’s sprawled out on the couch, one leg on the floor and her dress shucked up just enough so I can see her pink panties.
I open the door just a crack so as not to give the caller a free peep show. It’s a hotel staff member, dressed in black and a bowtie and holding a platter. He looks like a butler. At first I think it’s room service, until he takes the top off the platter. There are two gilded envelopes on it. “From Mr. Mansfield,” he says, pointing to the envelope with a white-gloved hand.
I take the two envelopes, then realize I don’t have my purse on me. “Just a sec.”
The hotel man puts his hand up. “It is all taken care of by Mr. Mansfield,” he says.
“But I...”
“No, please,” says the butler-looking dude. “I was told specifically not to accept any tips from the guests in this suite, although I do appreciate the thought. It is all taken care of by Mr. Mansfield. As well as the bar and anything you might want to eat.”
The butler-looking dude smiles warmly as he leaves.
I close the door, look down at my snoring best friend. Open the first envelope.
It’s an invitation.
On the top it says CONFIDENTIAL.
And then:
Admittance: One. MMA Nashville Fight Night. Address: TBA.
I open up the second envelope.
It says the same thing.
I’m still wondering what the hell Jake the Good Boy Country Musician is doing sending us an invitation to an underground fight when I hear the room phone ring.
I pick it up.
“Good morning,” says a southern male voice.
“Is this Jake?”
“Why, yes it is. You got my invitations?”
“Uhm, yes, I’m a little...confused.”
“It’s a sinful pleasure of mine which I indulge in occasionally. I thought y’all might be interested in accompanying me.”
The mathematics is not too complex. Vera and I want to go to the fight. Despite my innate prejudice of rich people (a foolish one, I know), Jake seems like a truly decent guy who didn’t take advantage of us yesterday even though he could have (Vera would have certainly given him the time of night.) Besides, she seems taken by him, and she’s made it clear she definitely wants to go. “Uhm, yeah, sure,” I say.
“That’s just fantastic,” he says. “We’ll go in my limo...if that’s OK with you...”
“Uhm, yeah, of course.”
“OK, pick y’all up at six. Now I got a full schedule on me taday. Otherwise I’d love ta spend more time with y’all. But have a day on the town at my expense if you wish. Just ask front desk for Jake’s driver and they’ll hook you up with Teddy.”
My natural suspicion kicks in. Men just aren’t this friendly. And I know Vera might be swooning here over Mr. Country, but the hairs on the back of my neck are rising. “Uhm, Jake, look...” Man, how to word this? “Look, I appreciate all the hospitality and all, and...I know it’s probably real Southern to do this kind of thing and I’m just being a suspicious Yankee but...why?”
Jake laughs a confident, carefree laugh. “Well, Kyla, I’m smitten by y’all. An’ I know it might be strange that I didn’t do what other red-blooded Americans do and try an’ get y’all into bed last night. But that just ain’t my style. And I ain’t tryin ta bed both a y’all. That’d be a sin—a delightful sin, yes. But a sin nonetheless. I confess it’s tricky. I don’t know which-a y’all I like better. So, for now, I’m keeping mah paws off. But, yes, I’m interested. And if none-a y’all are interested in return, we’ll call it a great time at Nashville at my expense and I would-a made me some lovely, and delightfully attractive, female friends. My intentions ain’t pure, I confess. But I ain’t gonna ruin a possible relationship with one-a y’all by takin your clothes off and jumping in the sack for a threesome. Is that clear enough?”
I’m too stunned to answer.
“Kyla? Did I offend you?”
“Uhm, no, no, not at all. I, uhm, appreciate the honesty.”
“Ain’t no lyin when Jake’s around, Kyla. Now you know where I stand. I ain’t gonna press you for where you stand. Do we have a date tonight?”
“Well I wouldn’t call it a date.”
“Call it whatever you want, but I’d like to take y’all out.”
I smile despite myself. He seems sweet. Not for me, but sweet. Besides, I’m not the competitive type, and not when it comes to my best friend.
“Yes,” I say. “We’ll come with you to the fight.”
Vera stirs when I put the phone down. She rubs her head and squints. “Who was that?” she mumbles.
“Jake.”
“And?” She leans forward, clearly suffering a major hangover headache.
“And he wants to have sex with one of us, and he’s taking us to the fight tonight to figure out which one.”
Vera looks up at me suddenly. “Fuck, that’s awesome. Do you think he’ll do us both at the same time?”
Trust Vera to think of that.
I throw the invitation at her. “I’m taking a shower.”
~Six~
Logan
-1-
I’m tense. And spending the night at the Courtyard didn’t help for shit. Normally I would’ve spent the night in a cheap motel, but I had a crick in my neck and two knots the size of Atlanta in my back. One on the top right, the other lower down, a little left. I thought the soft bed of a fancier place would help. It only made it worse. It made me lazy. Not good for a fight-day.
I’m not used to soft beds. The softest bed I have is in Jenny’s cottage but outside of that it’s cheap motels or the back of my truck for me. I sleep little and I’m always on edge. That’s how I like it. A little hungry, a little tired, always struggling to survive. It’s easy to forget Ailee’s needs. If I let myself get too comfortable, I’ll grow too accustomed to the easy life, I’ll grow soft, and I’ll fail at what needs to be done.
When my eyes open, it’s already nine AM. Unheard of. The last time I got up at nine... I don’t even remember it. Did I ever wake up at nine? There was that one time, I think it was a weekend after a long drinking binge, but I had gone to bed at four AM.
It takes me a moment to realize there’s a woman lying next to me, and when I remember last night I’m filled with revulsion.
The bar at the Courtyard wasn’t my friend either. So freaking elegant with red chairs and couches and massive TVs and far too much booze on selection. Not to mention the women as well. Rich and glorious and so goddamn horny. The woman on my side right now is called... Blimey. I don’t remember her name. She’s about forty, with a body of a hard twenty year old. Few things beat the raw, meaningless sex you get with an older woman. There’s no bullshit about love, no confusions about finding The One or Will This Last or any of that crap. The sex is hard and the rules are straight: Fuck. Fuck some more. Fuck again, and then leave.
I drank too much. I was thinking about the fight with Kaiser, about mum, dad. I was thinking how I miss Ailee, how I really need to get out of the fight scene. I was thinking a lot of things, and drinking at the same time. And then this confident cougar stroked up beside me and paid for my next drink. Few words were exchanged. Christ, I don’t even think she asked me my name. Before I knew it, we were in my bedroom, and her hands were all over my ass and so it went from there, over and over again. The woman was insatiable.
I was fucken spent at the end. She rolled onto her side, said nothing more, and fell asleep.
I lay awake, thinking, thinking of my life, my aching cock, the woman next to me who hadn’t bothered to give me her name and hadn’t cared to ask me for mine.
I felt—I feel—like nothing but her man-whore. Because, factually, what the fuck am I? She’s clearly rich with all those gold rings and that necklace and the grin of confidence on her face. Her dress alone probably costs more than my truck.
She stirs, moans, turns to face me. “Good mornin, sugarlumps.” Her hand caresses my chest. She smiles down at my body. A soft glint sparkles in her eyes, but she doesn’t take it further. She gets off the bed, picks up her clothes. When she glides across the room, she’s smiling at me, running a hand through her hair.
She spends thirty minutes in the bathroom, and when she comes out, she looks like she did last night. Dressed to perfection, not a hair out of place. All her rings and make-up back on.
As if nothing happened.
Her purse is under her arm. She walks toward me like she’s headed for a business meeting. She gives me a deep, passionate kiss.
And then she leaves.
No goodbye. No thank you. And no names.
That’s what I am to her: A fucking man-whore. She’s better than me, of course. She’s probably heading over to her husband or her fiancé or her boyfriend or to nobody at all. But the fun is over. She has her life. And she never intended to be a part of mine.
I hadn’t planned on going to bed with anyone, and if I had been in my right mind I would have chosen the younger and softer girl from the Blues Bar.
But I had a feeling about that girl, a premonition, if you must.
I had a feeling with her it would be slow, that it might mean something to both of us.
And maybe I ran.
Maybe.
Because when I saw the cougar, I knew it would mean nothing. I foresaw her leaving before I awoke (I was surprised to find her still here when I opened my eyes...at nine AM.)
And so I’m tense.
Sex with the cougar didn’t ease my tensions at all, didn’t ease my mind one little bit. It simply reminded me that, in this world, there are those who have, and those who will never have. It reminded me of what category I was born into. And what I need to do to ensure my sister breaks out of that category.
The crick in my neck is still there.
I now have two more knots in my back. And the bitch also dug her nails into me.
There’s only one thing I want to do now.
I want to fight.
~Seven~
Kyla
-1-
Now that I know Jake’s true intentions I’m amazed at how I missed all the signs earlier. Jake Mansfield knows how to play the crowd, and he had distracted me and Vera before with his Celebrity Smile. But the signs are all there now, the way his eyes linger on my legs, and then Vera’s, for only a second too long. Then our chests.
The wine has been coming generously on our limo drive. We didn’t take a direct route. We’re doing the convoluted drive, checking out the scenery, the houses, and talking about music and college.
As good looking as he might be, I feel nothing for him. Nothing at all, despite the fact his eyes seem to settle more on me than on my best friend.
And then my mind shoots over again to Muscle Man Logan. Ridiculous, but the mind is a funny thing. And when I think of that guy...
I tighten my legs, look out the window, look at the trees flying by, then some old rusted machinery. We make a turn into a back road, past an old car repair store, a broken-down fence. A car with no wheels. Then emptiness, surrounded by trees.
The driver parks the car and I’m a little stunned at getting out into the middle of nowhere. Not a soul in sight. There’s a white SUV in front of us. Two giant men get out. Jake smiles. “My bodyguards,” he says. “We’ll be leaving the limo here and drivin in like regular folk. Can’t be seeing Jake Mansfield ride up to an illicit underground fight, now can we?”
Jake puts his arms around me and Vera at the same time, nudges us toward the giant bodyguards. They give him some fake glasses and a baseball cap. He takes off his leather jacket and dons a parka. “Not very flattering,” he says. “I know.”
We jump into the white SUV, two bodyguards inside with us. Jake slaps the one bodyguard’s leg, says, “Who’s your money on, Tyrone?”
The giant dude called Tyrone almost smiles, almost.
In a deep, powerful voice, he says, “Why, the Debt Collector, of course. Ain’t no African American in this damn country ever gonna put his money on some Nazi called the Kaiser.”
“Oh, Tyrone, I known you too many years ta know you only give a shit about one thing, and that’s winning. Your money’s on the Debt Collector for one reason—you know he’s gonna win.”
Now Tyrone does smile. A bright, unabashed grin from ear to ear. “It helps,” he says.
Jake proceeds to tell us about some English guy called the Debt Collector, tattoos all over his body, muscled and mean. “From the slums of London,” Jake says. He tells us about the feud between this Debt Collector and this Kaiser and how it dates back to New York and a fight the Debt Collector should have thrown but which he didn’t. Some guy called Vito (“Big Mafia type”) banned the Debt Collector from fighting in the big fights. “But Kaiser’s been chasing him for years. And now, out the blue, the English boy is ready for him. It’s a grudge match. It’s...it’s gonna get ugly.” Jake seems to find some sardonic pleasure out of the fact it will get ugly.
I know it’s dumb, ridiculous, stupid, pathetic—but I’m thinking of something impossible. I’m thinking of a guy fast as lightning, and the tattoo on his right arm as it thrust against Cowboy Man Silas’s face and crushed his nose. I’m thinking of an English accent. I’m thinking of that bar down in Texas.
The thought of him has my skin temperature rising, my legs tightening, my stomach wanting to eat itself. Jake’s words disappear, suddenly he’s blabbering away and I don’t hear a thing.
