Punk 57
Page 40
But I would never show her weakness. I never want her pity.
I take a left on Whitney and drive down the road, sparsely populated with a few gas stations and trees, and pull into a self-service car wash, parking in one of the empty bays.
Actually, they’re all empty, since it’s raining. The light sprinkle has turned heavier now, and the sky looms with dark clouds, rolling on top of each other and sending down a steady shower. The white noise actually feels good. My heart and breathing starts to slow, and I roll up my window and turn off the engine but keep Mudshovel playing on the radio.
We sit there silently, neither of us moving.
I look to Ryen. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
I lean back, locking my hands behind my head and relaxing. “You’re the one who fucked up the car.”
She frowns. “You know I didn’t.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply, amusement lacing my voice. “And it’s real touching and all, you taking the fall for your man, but you’re washing it.”
Her lips twist in a little snarl as I catch half an eye roll. She pushes open the door, plops down onto the ground, and slams the door shut, heading up to the display on the wall and digging in her pocket. I close my eyes, leaning my head back in my hands, and try to quiet my head.
I’m suddenly so tired.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve had others’ voices in my head, trying to tell me what to do. I fought back, stood up for myself, and I’ve been proud of the decisions I’ve made, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had doubts. My dad and why he can’t love me as much as my sister. The guys at my school who thought it was cooler to play sports and bang five girls a weekend. My mother and how she left when I was two and Annie was one and maybe the reason she left was because she didn’t want us.
I’m glad I never listened to others’ voices in my head, but…I still hear them. They’re still noisy, and I’m still walking against the wind.
Don’t change, Ryen wrote in a letter once. There’s no one like you, and I can’t love you if you stop being you. I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I’m a little drunk right now—just came back from a party when I saw your letter—but what the hell? I don’t care. You knew I loved you, right? You’re my best friend.
So don’t ever change. This is a big ass world, and when we leave our small towns, we’re going to find our tribe. If we don’t stay true to ourselves, how will they recognize us? (Both of us, because you know we’re in the same tribe, right?)
And even if it’s just the two of us, it will be the best.
God, I loved her. Whenever my worries or anger got the best of me, she always said just the right thing to put everything in perspective. There were times growing up that I felt aggravated or tortured by her letters, especially when she’d talk about Twilight or how Matt Walst was just as good of a lead singer for Three Days Grace as Adam Gontier—I mean, what the fuck?—but I never felt bad after reading a letter from her.
Never.
I hear spray hit the car, and I open my eyes, finding her in front of the truck, blurry through the water she’s shooting onto the windshield.
Why did she never take the advice she so readily gave me?
I keep my hands locked behind my head and watch her, moving around the hood and fanning the hose up and down, spraying every inch. I notice some of the paint coming up and running down the truck as she tries to remove as much shit with the hose as possible.
She then releases the handle, stopping the flow, and drops the gun to the ground. Grabbing the hem of her loose black shirt, she pulls it over her head, revealing a thin white tank top with glimpses of a dark pink bra peeking out from underneath. Heat floods my groin, and I feel it start to swell. Shit.
She walks to the passenger side door, opens it, and barely glances at me before she tosses her shirt inside and slams the door closed again. Taking the brush with the long handle off the wall, she shuffles her feet, like she’s taking off her sandals, and heads for the front of the truck, stepping up on the bumper.
I didn’t think of that. She’s probably too short to be able to scrub the middle of the hood if she stands on the ground. Maybe I should help her.
But I look out the windshield, streaked with water, and see her beautiful body leaning forward over the hood, scrubbing so hard her breasts shake just enough to send me reeling. This was a bad idea.
And I can’t take my eyes off her. Her tanned thighs bob against the grill as her tank top rises up with the exertion, and I can see inches of toned stomach, her hair hanging around her and her chest in perfect view. My cock starts to grow hard, and I want her in here, not out there. I want her straddling my lap, close and in my hands.
She jumps down and rounds the car to my side, stepping up again, this time on the tire. Leaning into the hood, right in front of me, she scrubs the paint off, the small muscles in her arms flexing and her scowl getting deeper the harder she works. My eyes flash to her stomach again, and my hands are begging to touch her skin there.
What a double-edged sword. Am I angry she’s a fake, weak-assed, little liar? Yes. But am I happy she’s also got the body of a porn star? Hell yes. She doesn’t have to talk for me to look.
All of a sudden I see her turn her head, and I meet her eyes, hers looking like she wants to kick me in the nuts. She flips me a middle finger, seeing me watching her, and I start laughing to myself.
Trey is nearly forgotten. For the moment.
She hops down and takes the brush back to the wall, and then she picks the hose up off the ground again. Spraying the truck, she washes away all of the paint, the white-tinted water spilling off the hood and onto the ground. I close my eyes again, enjoying the sound of the rain and the water covering the truck.
I take a left on Whitney and drive down the road, sparsely populated with a few gas stations and trees, and pull into a self-service car wash, parking in one of the empty bays.
Actually, they’re all empty, since it’s raining. The light sprinkle has turned heavier now, and the sky looms with dark clouds, rolling on top of each other and sending down a steady shower. The white noise actually feels good. My heart and breathing starts to slow, and I roll up my window and turn off the engine but keep Mudshovel playing on the radio.
We sit there silently, neither of us moving.
I look to Ryen. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
I lean back, locking my hands behind my head and relaxing. “You’re the one who fucked up the car.”
She frowns. “You know I didn’t.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply, amusement lacing my voice. “And it’s real touching and all, you taking the fall for your man, but you’re washing it.”
Her lips twist in a little snarl as I catch half an eye roll. She pushes open the door, plops down onto the ground, and slams the door shut, heading up to the display on the wall and digging in her pocket. I close my eyes, leaning my head back in my hands, and try to quiet my head.
I’m suddenly so tired.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve had others’ voices in my head, trying to tell me what to do. I fought back, stood up for myself, and I’ve been proud of the decisions I’ve made, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had doubts. My dad and why he can’t love me as much as my sister. The guys at my school who thought it was cooler to play sports and bang five girls a weekend. My mother and how she left when I was two and Annie was one and maybe the reason she left was because she didn’t want us.
I’m glad I never listened to others’ voices in my head, but…I still hear them. They’re still noisy, and I’m still walking against the wind.
Don’t change, Ryen wrote in a letter once. There’s no one like you, and I can’t love you if you stop being you. I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I’m a little drunk right now—just came back from a party when I saw your letter—but what the hell? I don’t care. You knew I loved you, right? You’re my best friend.
So don’t ever change. This is a big ass world, and when we leave our small towns, we’re going to find our tribe. If we don’t stay true to ourselves, how will they recognize us? (Both of us, because you know we’re in the same tribe, right?)
And even if it’s just the two of us, it will be the best.
God, I loved her. Whenever my worries or anger got the best of me, she always said just the right thing to put everything in perspective. There were times growing up that I felt aggravated or tortured by her letters, especially when she’d talk about Twilight or how Matt Walst was just as good of a lead singer for Three Days Grace as Adam Gontier—I mean, what the fuck?—but I never felt bad after reading a letter from her.
Never.
I hear spray hit the car, and I open my eyes, finding her in front of the truck, blurry through the water she’s shooting onto the windshield.
Why did she never take the advice she so readily gave me?
I keep my hands locked behind my head and watch her, moving around the hood and fanning the hose up and down, spraying every inch. I notice some of the paint coming up and running down the truck as she tries to remove as much shit with the hose as possible.
She then releases the handle, stopping the flow, and drops the gun to the ground. Grabbing the hem of her loose black shirt, she pulls it over her head, revealing a thin white tank top with glimpses of a dark pink bra peeking out from underneath. Heat floods my groin, and I feel it start to swell. Shit.
She walks to the passenger side door, opens it, and barely glances at me before she tosses her shirt inside and slams the door closed again. Taking the brush with the long handle off the wall, she shuffles her feet, like she’s taking off her sandals, and heads for the front of the truck, stepping up on the bumper.
I didn’t think of that. She’s probably too short to be able to scrub the middle of the hood if she stands on the ground. Maybe I should help her.
But I look out the windshield, streaked with water, and see her beautiful body leaning forward over the hood, scrubbing so hard her breasts shake just enough to send me reeling. This was a bad idea.
And I can’t take my eyes off her. Her tanned thighs bob against the grill as her tank top rises up with the exertion, and I can see inches of toned stomach, her hair hanging around her and her chest in perfect view. My cock starts to grow hard, and I want her in here, not out there. I want her straddling my lap, close and in my hands.
She jumps down and rounds the car to my side, stepping up again, this time on the tire. Leaning into the hood, right in front of me, she scrubs the paint off, the small muscles in her arms flexing and her scowl getting deeper the harder she works. My eyes flash to her stomach again, and my hands are begging to touch her skin there.
What a double-edged sword. Am I angry she’s a fake, weak-assed, little liar? Yes. But am I happy she’s also got the body of a porn star? Hell yes. She doesn’t have to talk for me to look.
All of a sudden I see her turn her head, and I meet her eyes, hers looking like she wants to kick me in the nuts. She flips me a middle finger, seeing me watching her, and I start laughing to myself.
Trey is nearly forgotten. For the moment.
She hops down and takes the brush back to the wall, and then she picks the hose up off the ground again. Spraying the truck, she washes away all of the paint, the white-tinted water spilling off the hood and onto the ground. I close my eyes again, enjoying the sound of the rain and the water covering the truck.
