Wicked Restless

“It was your night anyhow; you take her,” I say, letting my gaze drift off to the TV mounted above the bar. It’s a commercial for toothpaste, and I’m so interested in it. So very interested. I’m ignoring everything—Trent, the brewing sensation in my gut, the heaviness of knowing Emma is in this room, breathing the same air I am.

I feel the card slide under my elbow, and I close my eyes.

“Awwww no you don’t. You’re not going to pussy out on me now. You know the deal.” He’s talking loudly. I know there’s no way she can hear me, no way she’d know, but my body heats up at the thought of getting caught.

I take a slow, deep breath so Trent doesn’t notice how tense I’ve become, then slide the card back into my palm, glancing at it before putting it in my back pocket as I stand. I toss a twenty on the bar and put my empty bottle on top of it.

“Whatevs, man. I’ll play hero a little later; I’ve got some shit to take care of,” I say, nodding goodbye.

“You’re such a prick, making her wait,” he chuckles.

If our friendship were a superhero, Trent would be Ironman, and I’d be Tony Stark. I think Trent is amused by my dick moves, because he’s the good guy and could never pull them off. I used to be that way, too.

I don’t respond. Yeah, I’m a prick. I’m a prick because what I really want to do is toss her ID in the trash on my way out. But I don’t do that, because instead I’m the kind of prick that gives up a year of my life and any possible future because of a fucking crush on a high school cock tease. This gift—knowing where she is—feels like something I shouldn’t waste, so I’m going to think of the perfect way to play it all.

I hit the exit and glance over to the group of girls on the dance floor again, and I wait for a few seconds until I see her body come into view. She looks like she’s having the time of her life, arms over her head, eyes shut, smile on her face, sweat dripping down her body. She’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. There was a time when I imagined her like this, grown up—this is what I saw in my sixteen-year-old fantasies.

That hate I’ve worked so hard on burying comes right back, and my heart hardens as her eyes drift open and there’s a short flash of recognition that crosses them. That’s right, Delaware—it’s me, and I see you.

I leave quickly, pretending not to notice her, knowing that she’s still not sure about what she saw. I don’t want to give her enough to be sure. I want to give her doubt and worry, and then I never want to see her again.

* * *

When I left the bar, I headed to the warehouse. Harley wasn’t expecting me, but he let me work in, take a few rounds in the ring. Harley’s only at the gym at night, and usually only on the weekdays. During the day, he’s the perfect law student his rich parents think he is. He manages the warehouse space as a gym; it’s in a building his grandfather owns. He told his dad he wanted to learn about running a business. Nobody in his family visits; they just take his word on things.

Harley is the kind of guy people trust.

I’ve run the numbers in my head, and I’m pretty confident Harley’s making out better running his boxing scam. His father’s a pretty powerful corporate attorney though, so there’s an expectation of his life going one way. If things go south, I guess he’ll be able to find his own loopholes and get his ass out of trouble.

The only guy boxing tonight is a dude they call Pitch Black. He got that name because he knocks people out cold. I’ve never sparred with him before; he’s not one of the guys Harley needs to fake things with. He took it easy on me; I could tell. But he still fucked my face up pretty good. I’ve had the ice out for an hour, and I’m just putting it back in the freezer when Trent walks in, sliding his keys on the counter behind me.

“Dude, do not tell me you blew that chick off just to get your fix at the gym.” He’s leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.

“I had a guy who wanted to work on some things with me,” I lie.

“Yeah, like seeing how many stitches he could rack up on your face?”

“Fuck off; it’s not that bad,” I say. He reaches at me, poking my tender jaw, and I wince and slap his hand off me in one motion.

“Right…not bad at all,” he says, judgment oozing from his tone.

I sigh and open our pantry, grabbing a handful of almonds from an open tin. Then I shut the door and ignore my friend, knowing he’s going to ask me about the girl and the ID and my plans. I thought going to the warehouse would help me gain perspective. I was wrong.