Her cries only grew louder and she started to shake.
I grabbed her hand tightly one last time, while I opened my car door and told her, “Call 911!”
She sat there in shock and I wanted to cry. But I pulled it together and told her, “Whatever happens, don’t get out of this car. Do you hear me?”
She screamed, “Ben, don’t!” as I stepped onto the pavement. Then her last words killed me. I didn’t have to be shot to feel the pain because I felt it when she yelled, “You don’t have to be the hero! Come back!”
Fuck, I wasn’t a hero. I was anything of the sort. But I did what I was taught to do when I heard the shot and fell to the ground. She screamed, “No! No! Noooo!” and that was all I heard from her.
I hop back on the freeway, wanting to avoid that street. Clearing my head of the memory, I can’t wait to get a f**king drink. I take the next exit I see and pull into the first cheap, extended-stay motel I can find. It’s some kind of Econolodge in West Hollywood. The perks, the check-in clerk tells me, are I’m close to Melrose and Sunset and they have Internet. The only perk I see is that I’m close to the Dodger Stadium and it’s baseball season.
I climb the flight of stairs and try to read the sign directing me to room 220. The glow of the moonlight is too dim and the grim that covers the plaque makes it unreadable. With my key in hand, I take a guess and turn right. I pass door after door of peeling green paint and rust. Room 216 swings open, and a chick wearing only her panties stands there. She covers her tits with her hands and then turns to slam the door. I think the squeaking of my sneakers against the stick of the concrete made her think I was someone else. I finally reach my destination and open the door, only to be greeted by the pungent smell of stale cigarettes, alcohol, and if I sniffed hard enough, I’d say sex. The room is a shithole. The carpet is ragged and torn. The walls are dingy. And the TV looks like it’s from 1980. I decide it’s safer to leave what I have in my bag and drop it on top of the dresser. So with the unpacking done, I hit the street in search of a liquor store to buy some liquid relief.
The sidewalk is crowded—people push and shove each other to move from one place to the next as if that might get them there any quicker. I duck into what has to be a supercenter for booze and peruse the aisle of whiskeys. So many to choose from—tall bottles, shorter ones, blue labels, white labels, darker amber liquids, lighter amber liquids, and then I spot it, Jack Daniels. I grab it off the shelf by its neck and purchase it with my credit card and a smile. My one friend I can always count on. The one who I already know will f**k me up the ass before I even sign my name on the yellow slip.
The night air is cool and with my brown bag in hand, I take a small detour down La Cienega Boulevard. In the middle of all the high-end establishments sits a bookstore. I pop into it, in search of something to read. I decide on one of my favorite classics—The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. As I pick up the spine of the dark blue cover embossed with silver letters, a stray memory surfaces. Another one I’ve tried hard to push away, but once it presents itself I can’t stop it. I fight the small smile that crosses my face as S’belle Wilde’s red hair and emerald green eyes pop into my mind.
Books surrounded me. The library was large and filled with people, along with hushed whispers. I was a senior in college and I was hiding out in the USC library reading Huckleberry Finn, laughing to myself as I reread my favorite part when I felt someone’s stare. Leaning against the bookshelf, I tapped my heel against the mass of books and watched the curious girl set her sunglasses on top of her head and approach me. She thought she was invisible as she snuck my way. But I noticed her . . . I noticed her right way. In fact, I stole glances she didn’t catch as she shuffled books around. First at her green-heeled, pointy-toed shoes that no girl wears to the library. Then at the scarf with quotes on it she had wrapped around her neck. She was slightly overdressed for the library, but she looked f**king amazing.
I fought laughter as she pushed each book back without even bothering to look at them. I ran my fingers through my hair. My pulse sped up when she swung a glance my way but I quickly averted my gaze. However the first time my eyes caught on her otherworldly green cat eyes, I couldn’t help but stare. When her wildy long, curly red hair bounced with her movement, I became the pretender. I made like I was still reading my book. The cute girl had dropped the book out of her hands and it tumbled to the ground. My eyes stayed glued to her as I bent to retrieve it. My hands grasped it from the floor and as my eyes swept the title, I couldn’t help but smirk. But when she got close enough my smirk turned into a snort, almost a snicker.
“You’re reading about Kama Sutra?” I raised a brow and tried to feign utter seriousness.
She answered, but her voice sounded distant. “What?”
I pointed to the book with a photo of a woman’s body and her panties pulled partially down. “Your book. A Lover’s Guide to Kama Sutra?” This time I had to laugh.
“No, no. I wasn’t reading that.” Her eyes widened like saucers and a look of horror crossed her face. She immediately grabbed the book from me and pushed it into an empty space in the shelf. Then she laughed, too.
After a few moments she pointed to my book. “Homework?” She mimicked me and raised a brow.
I raised my hands, surrender style. “No. You caught me. Just hiding out reading one of the classics. Fucking Huck Finn. Something he said turned my mind in a way it shouldn’t have.”
I grabbed her hand tightly one last time, while I opened my car door and told her, “Call 911!”
She sat there in shock and I wanted to cry. But I pulled it together and told her, “Whatever happens, don’t get out of this car. Do you hear me?”
She screamed, “Ben, don’t!” as I stepped onto the pavement. Then her last words killed me. I didn’t have to be shot to feel the pain because I felt it when she yelled, “You don’t have to be the hero! Come back!”
Fuck, I wasn’t a hero. I was anything of the sort. But I did what I was taught to do when I heard the shot and fell to the ground. She screamed, “No! No! Noooo!” and that was all I heard from her.
I hop back on the freeway, wanting to avoid that street. Clearing my head of the memory, I can’t wait to get a f**king drink. I take the next exit I see and pull into the first cheap, extended-stay motel I can find. It’s some kind of Econolodge in West Hollywood. The perks, the check-in clerk tells me, are I’m close to Melrose and Sunset and they have Internet. The only perk I see is that I’m close to the Dodger Stadium and it’s baseball season.
I climb the flight of stairs and try to read the sign directing me to room 220. The glow of the moonlight is too dim and the grim that covers the plaque makes it unreadable. With my key in hand, I take a guess and turn right. I pass door after door of peeling green paint and rust. Room 216 swings open, and a chick wearing only her panties stands there. She covers her tits with her hands and then turns to slam the door. I think the squeaking of my sneakers against the stick of the concrete made her think I was someone else. I finally reach my destination and open the door, only to be greeted by the pungent smell of stale cigarettes, alcohol, and if I sniffed hard enough, I’d say sex. The room is a shithole. The carpet is ragged and torn. The walls are dingy. And the TV looks like it’s from 1980. I decide it’s safer to leave what I have in my bag and drop it on top of the dresser. So with the unpacking done, I hit the street in search of a liquor store to buy some liquid relief.
The sidewalk is crowded—people push and shove each other to move from one place to the next as if that might get them there any quicker. I duck into what has to be a supercenter for booze and peruse the aisle of whiskeys. So many to choose from—tall bottles, shorter ones, blue labels, white labels, darker amber liquids, lighter amber liquids, and then I spot it, Jack Daniels. I grab it off the shelf by its neck and purchase it with my credit card and a smile. My one friend I can always count on. The one who I already know will f**k me up the ass before I even sign my name on the yellow slip.
The night air is cool and with my brown bag in hand, I take a small detour down La Cienega Boulevard. In the middle of all the high-end establishments sits a bookstore. I pop into it, in search of something to read. I decide on one of my favorite classics—The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. As I pick up the spine of the dark blue cover embossed with silver letters, a stray memory surfaces. Another one I’ve tried hard to push away, but once it presents itself I can’t stop it. I fight the small smile that crosses my face as S’belle Wilde’s red hair and emerald green eyes pop into my mind.
Books surrounded me. The library was large and filled with people, along with hushed whispers. I was a senior in college and I was hiding out in the USC library reading Huckleberry Finn, laughing to myself as I reread my favorite part when I felt someone’s stare. Leaning against the bookshelf, I tapped my heel against the mass of books and watched the curious girl set her sunglasses on top of her head and approach me. She thought she was invisible as she snuck my way. But I noticed her . . . I noticed her right way. In fact, I stole glances she didn’t catch as she shuffled books around. First at her green-heeled, pointy-toed shoes that no girl wears to the library. Then at the scarf with quotes on it she had wrapped around her neck. She was slightly overdressed for the library, but she looked f**king amazing.
I fought laughter as she pushed each book back without even bothering to look at them. I ran my fingers through my hair. My pulse sped up when she swung a glance my way but I quickly averted my gaze. However the first time my eyes caught on her otherworldly green cat eyes, I couldn’t help but stare. When her wildy long, curly red hair bounced with her movement, I became the pretender. I made like I was still reading my book. The cute girl had dropped the book out of her hands and it tumbled to the ground. My eyes stayed glued to her as I bent to retrieve it. My hands grasped it from the floor and as my eyes swept the title, I couldn’t help but smirk. But when she got close enough my smirk turned into a snort, almost a snicker.
“You’re reading about Kama Sutra?” I raised a brow and tried to feign utter seriousness.
She answered, but her voice sounded distant. “What?”
I pointed to the book with a photo of a woman’s body and her panties pulled partially down. “Your book. A Lover’s Guide to Kama Sutra?” This time I had to laugh.
“No, no. I wasn’t reading that.” Her eyes widened like saucers and a look of horror crossed her face. She immediately grabbed the book from me and pushed it into an empty space in the shelf. Then she laughed, too.
After a few moments she pointed to my book. “Homework?” She mimicked me and raised a brow.
I raised my hands, surrender style. “No. You caught me. Just hiding out reading one of the classics. Fucking Huck Finn. Something he said turned my mind in a way it shouldn’t have.”
