Wicked Restless

I leave the motor running and step out to look at him over the top of the car, my hands flat on the surface, loving it like it’s a woman.

“Please say you did not steal that,” he says, rolling a basketball from one hand to the other as he steps closer, admiring. This car demands attention, and I can tell it’s won over Trent’s heart just as it does every person with a penis.

“Ha ha, very funny. O fixed it up for me. Where you headed? I’ll give you a ride,” I say, twirling the keys like a teenager who just got his license. I might as well be.

Trent’s mouth quirks into a half grin, his eyes still on the shape of the car.

“Yeah, a’right. I’m going to shoot at the rec center. You wanna come?” He opens the door, letting out a soft whistle as he feels the weight of it as it swings wide. The car still needs some fixes—the interior is still a little rough and it could use an upgrade on the air conditioning and stereo system, but the body and the engine are levels beyond what I ever thought I would get them to.

I slide in and shut my door as Trent climbs in.

“I’m not up for shooting, but I’ll drive. I’ll take us to practice tomorrow too,” I say, pulling out slowly on our small side road.

“Fuck that shit, you’ll drive us everywhere from now on,” he says, looking in his side mirror. “Though…are you always going to drive like a fucking old woman?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, glancing to him, but only for a second. Eyes back on the road. “Yes I am.”

He chuckles, and I look both ways at the stop sign, checking my mirror for a sign of anyone behind us before I rev the engine once more and let the tires squeal just enough to give us a good jump off the line. I cut us off when I hit forty and back it down quickly to senior-citizen pace, but the thrill I feel from punching the gas, just a tiny bit, lets me know this careful habit—it won’t last forever.

“Hey, so that Harley dude from the gym stopped by earlier, said he tried calling you, but couldn’t get through,” Trent says. I pull my phone out and slide it on my lap, not looking until we hit the red light before the main road to campus. My phone was low when I left for my mom’s this morning; it must have died in the middle of the day.

“Did he say anything?”

My mind goes right to the list of bills I have due and the pathetic double-digit dollar amount I have in the bank right now. I don’t get paid for the before-school program until Friday, and even then, five hours of morning coloring with five-year-olds isn’t going to make a dent in my tuition bill. I’m not due to fight for him until later this month, but the thought that maybe he could use me a little earlier has me driving faster so I can say yes before he asks someone else.

“Nah. He just told me to tell you to stop by when you got home. He’s a weird dude,” Trent says. “He seems young to own a gym.”

“Yeah, but it’s not a very nice gym,” I say.

Trent’s never been. I’m pretty sure if he saw the sketchy warehouse set-up I spend time in, he’d start to question my sanity more than he does now. As scary as the gym is though, Harley is just the opposite. He comes off as a preppy young businessman from money, and that’s because that’s exactly what he is—on the outside. But he’s also connected, with people who help him make things happen, people who make large bets with him, and sometimes, for him—and the money always flows. If there’s ever a kink in the system, Harley makes sure it’s taken care of. He might dress like a lawyer, but he’s built like a fighter.

And when I do him a favor, I always get paid.

“Nice gym or not, junior Wall Street freaks me out a little,” he says as I pull up to the drop-off for the rec center on campus. Trent steps out onto the lighted walkway, girls in yoga pants and tank tops walk along behind him with mats rolled under their arms. I laugh to myself at how different this gym is from the one I’m about to drive to.

“I’ll be okay, Mom,” I yell through the open window.

Trent rolls his eyes, then starts dribbling as he turns and heads toward the building. As a new group of girls passes the car, I wait to see if they notice, glance my direction, take in the ride, and wonder about the driver. Only one of them does though, and not for long. Their attention is focused on my roommate about twenty feet ahead of them. As nice as my car is, it’s still nothing compared to the Captain America of hockey.

I leave Trent to be worshiped by sorority girls and head to the vacant row of buildings on the south side of town, circling Harley’s gym twice until I find a spot that doesn’t put my car right on the corner where some asshole could rear-end it. The sun is still up, but barely. I’m hoping Harley hasn’t left yet. I don’t know who he’s rolling out for rounds tonight, but I’m sure he’s leaving with someone soon.