Page 6 of Break You

“Nope.” I popped the p. “Nothing to see here. Moving right along.” I hoped my brisk tone would convince her not to dwell on the evening’s events, though I wasn’t optimistic. “Actually, speaking of that shirt, I’m gonna go talk to Jenna, see if I can appeal to some small sliver of humanity in her, even if it’s deeply buried, to see if she’ll let me off the cleaning fee. I need that money.”

“Ha! Yeah, good luck with that.” She rolled her eyes.

“I know, I know, but I need to make rent, so I have to believe that she has a heart somewhere in that frosty exterior. Don’t wait for me. You go. I’ll see you next shift.”

“What? Really? You know I don’t mind waiting.”

“I know you don’t, but it’s late. No point both of us being delayed any more than we need to, especially if Jenna is going to laugh in my face.”

“Well, if you’re sure… Otherwise, you know I have your back. I can stay and psych her out while you talk to her.” She would do it, too.

“I’m sure. I don’t think having an extra person giving her the stink-eye will endear me to Jenna. Besides, if I’m going to have to grovel, I don’t want witnesses.”

“Fair enough, Boo. Love you. See you soon.”

“Love you too. You got the car tonight?” She nodded. “Okay, so drive safe.” We embraced briefly, and I watched as she bustled out to the parking lot.

* * *

After waiting around for Jenna for fifteen minutes, I wished I hadn’t bothered. I listened to her trot out a set of stock responses to my request to waive the laundering fee on this occasion—if she did it for me, she’d have to do it for everyone, rules were there for a reason, yada, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah—all as a not-so-polite way of telling me to go fuck myself. Screw her.

I huffed out into the parking lot, holding back tears. Just. Maybe Jenna had been right, and I was suffering from menstruation-related emotional issues. I definitely wouldn’t normally have been tearful over such stupid shit. Far worse things had happened, and often did, and I’d learned to just suck it the hell up. I had no idea why today’s nonsense was in danger of tipping me over the edge. I bit my lip, determined not to give in to the weakness.

I slid into Foxy Brown and turned the key in the ignition. The lights on her dash came on, and she gave what could only be described as a groan, but didn’t start up. Fuck. I waited a few moments, saying a few quick Hail Marys, and praising whatever other mythical deities I could think of—despite being not-at-all religious—before trying again. Nothing. Fuck. Fuckety. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I banged at the steering wheel, mostly because it was something I’d seen in movies, not because I thought it would serve any useful purpose in that instance. Predictably, it achieved nothing, except hurting my hands. I didn’t even feel better after expelling some of the built-up rage from the day. I just felt like crying, and was increasingly losing the battle to prevent myself from doing so.

I gave the steering wheel a final lame punch, accidentally slamming on the horn, sending a loud beep ringing into the still night air, then opened Foxy Brown’s door and got out, pulling the lever to pop the hood as I went. I rounded the front of the car and lifted the hood.

I didn’t know why I was even bothering, as I didn’t really know anything about cars, apart from the fact that I’d had a similar thing happen with Foxy when I’d been with my brother once, and he’d had a look, muttering something about electrics. He’d tinkered around for a few moments, then had me try the ignition again, and she’d started first time. He’d also ranted and raved about driving around in “that stupid old fucking trash can” and repeated his offer—for about the billionth time—to buy me a new car.

My response had been the same as it always was and always would be. I didn’t want anything bought with his money, knowing where it came from and what he did to earn it. So, I was stuck driving my mom’s crappy old clunker—it was more than ten years older than me, and not in a cool, classic car kind of a way—and living with the fact that it had one foot in the junkyard.

Foxy had been a gift from one of Mom’s ‘boyfriends’ years ago. No doubt payment in kind for services rendered, or some shit. I didn’t like to ask too many questions for fear of what I’d find out. If I didn’t drive her, she wouldn’t get driven at all, given that Mom had lost her license, and it didn’t look like she was getting it back any time soon. There was no way I could afford to buy a car myself, no matter how shitty, so apart from the fact that Foxy was anything but foxy, and definitely not the most reliable of vehicles—though she was indeed brown—it was as close to a win-win as I was going to get.

Using my phone as a flashlight, I peered myopically under the hood, hoping I could see anything that looked out of place—loose wires or something like that—but there was nothing. I cursed myself for not asking Pete when he’d fixed her last time what the actual problem had been, so that I could deal with it myself if I needed to. I made a mental note to do exactly that when I spoke to him next.

In the meantime, I slammed the hood shut and finally gave myself over to the tears I’d been fighting since I left Trinity Hall, letting them stream down my face, no doubt leaving ugly mascara tracks in their wake. Not that I cared. There was nobody to see me, anyway. Everyone else had left while I was waiting for Jenna, and the ice queen herself was nowhere to be seen.

It was only as I made my way to the trunk that I took proper note of the black town car parked a few spaces down from Foxy. It was also then that whoever was in it chose to lower one of the heavily tinted passenger windows. Despite my compulsion to run, hide, or do anything else I could to get the fuck out of there, I stood rooted to the spot as I came face-to-face with a familiar pair of steely blue eyes.

We stared at each other, intense, unblinking and still, except for the subtle rocking of his body back and forth. It took me a few moments to register what he was doing, and then repulsed as I was, I remained pinned in place, my gaze locked to his.

As the rocking movement became more pronounced, so did my desire to leave, yet my feet didn’t seem to want to play ball. It was only as Loaded Boy’s body began bucking more wildly, a small smirk gracing the mean line of his lips, his eyes closing for the briefest of moments—that I finally snapped out of my trance-like state.

I walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Pulling out my hot-pink skates, I sat on the curb next to Foxy and laced them as quickly as I possibly could, before slamming the trunk shut again, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, and skating off into the night without a backward glance.

Xavier

What the fuck just happened? I’d fucked a girl I hated without even touching her, that was what. That wasn’t strictly true. I’d fucked Cherie while simultaneously eye-fucking Angry Girl, if that’s what our visual standoff even qualified as.

Whatever it was, all I knew was that as soon as I’d seen her crossing the parking lot to her car—if you could even call the ugly old brown rust bucket a car, which was questionable given that she couldn’t manage to get it started—I’d flipped from vaguely interested in fucking Cherie again, to insanely hard, with visions of Angry Girl wrapped around my dick swimming in my mind. In those few moments I went from listlessly boning Cherie, because I could, to thrusting into her with renewed energy, all the while wishing she was someone else.

When I’d opened the window, it hadn’t been to get a better look at Angry Girl—I could see just fine from my side of the tints. In fact, I’d watched the whole sorry charade play out with her clapped-out junker, while she was totally unawares. It had been to send a clear message her way: I see you. Given the way she’d stared back, not even bothering to wipe the black tear tracks from her face, I guessed she’d gotten the message loud and clear.

And so had my dick. Something about looking into those sad yet angry slate-gray eyes had brought me to the brink faster than any porn. I came in hot rage-fueled bursts, not caring whether Cherie was there with me or not. Truth was, she was the least of my concerns. My head was crowded with thoughts of Angry Girl, and not in a good way. I’d closed my eyes momentarily, not wanting her to see herself reflected in them as I came, and when I opened them again, she was gone.

Stunned, I was beginning to think the whole thing had been a figment of my imagination, and wondering if I’d lost my damned mind, when she appeared from the back of the car wearing a pair of skates and sped away without looking back. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so pissed off, and the worst part was that I couldn’t even pinpoint why.