Just A Small Town Girl: A New Adult Romantic Comedy (16 page)

 Naturally the place's fearsome reputation was nothing short of a dare to teenage boys like me and Steve, so from the age of about twelve to seventeen the whole meaning of our lives was 'to get into the Duck'. We had planned everything - from where to get our fake ID's to how many sweaters to wear under our leather jackets to give us the illusion of bulk. At seventeen I was a six foot two, hundred and sixty pound stringbean and the kindest description Steve could hope for was 'stocky', that is after three fisherman's sweaters and a pair of shoulder pads filched from his Mom's old blouse.

 So naturally we were kind of sweaty even before the nerves set in. We thought we'd got away with it, despite our swampy state. The huge Cro-Magnon bartender even accepted our fake ID's and we were about to get served with our very first illegal Duck beers when a Hell's Angel spotted us, swiveled on his bar stool and said the thing no teenager in a bar ever wants to hear. "Hey," he said. "I know your old man."

 The joys of living in a small town - everyone knows your old man, your date of birth and how old you were when they got your first set of booties bronzed. We didn't even stop to grab the beers we'd ordered.

 I'd never been back since. Nothing had ever made me want to go back. The threat of violence is exciting when you're seventeen. When you're twenty-five and your brother has no feet and that nice little nurse you used to date used to tell you thrilling stories of guys from the Duck coming into the ER with pool cues up their asses, violence no longer seems quite so much fun. In fact, I was thinking of making it my life's work to avoid violence as much as humanly possible. Maybe even make a religious point of it. Did you need some kind of certificate to become a Buddhist?

 Lacie was right - we did need to talk. If we had any kind of future then she needed to know just how much this whole non-violence thing meant to me, like right now. Unfortunately before I could even open my mouth she had opened the door and was walking across the Duck's bike-cluttered parking lot like it was a pleasant day on Main Street.

 I was pretty sure it was bad manners to leave a lady to get murdered by feral lunatics, or at least my legs did, because they were the part that went running off across the parking lot after her. The rest of me had little or no say in the matter.

 When we got through the door I swear the jukebox stopped, like in an old Western when the piano stops playing the moment the gunslinger walks into the saloon. About a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on us and bored through our skins. They were not nice eyes, set as they were in crazed wrinkles caused by screwing up the face against the wind and the rain. Some of them had straggles of dirty gray hair hanging in front of them. Others had old blue teardrops tattooed at their corners, teardrops Steve had once told me marked prison time served.

 Lacie walked up to the bar. The bartender did not look friendly. "I wonder if you could help me," she said. "I'm looking for Bob. Is he around?"

 The bartender frowned. "Over there," he said, pointing to a video game in the corner. There were three men standing staring at the screen and the tallest was at least seven feet high. I knew in my gut that he had to be Bob.

 "Thanks," said Lacie, and headed over to the corner.

 "Wait!" said the bartender.

 "What?" she said, turning on her heel.

 The bartender shook his head. I'm sure for a moment I saw actual fear in his eyes. Oh holy shit. "Don't interrupt Bob when he's playing trivia," he said. "You don't even know how much Bob loves his trivia."

 Lacie shrugged. "Really?" she said. "He loves it so much he'd hit a pregnant lady? I don't think so."

 I hadn't time to process exactly what she meant by that, because it all happened so fast. She went over to the video game, coughed a couple of times and waited. The three men turned round to look at her. Oh my God - they were fucking huge. Huge and craggy, with muscles like old knotty oak. They looked like psychopathic versions of those tree dudes from
Lord of the Rings
. Lacie looked about the size of a hobbit.

 "Excuse me for interrupting your game," she said, her voice only trembling slightly. "But I was wondering if any of you had seen Steve?"

 They looked blank and hostile.

 "Lady," said the tallest biker. "Unless you know which Shakespeare play features the Queen Mab speech, you'd better get the fuck out of my face."

 I took a step forward - again, I think my legs were responsible for this brilliant decision. My brain said otherwise.

 As I moved forward I saw the screen of the game they were playing - one of those
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire
quiz games. There were four options flashing and by the looks of things Psycho Bob was all out of lifelines.

 "I know the answer," said Lacie.

 Psycho Bob narrowed his eyes.

 "She does," I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "She's an English Major."

 "I just need to know if you've seen Steve," she said. "His mother's kind of worried."

 Psycho Bob's frown deepened. "Yeah," he said. "I've seen Steve. And if his mother's worried then maybe she should take a look at herself and ask why he's making her worry. If she don't know then that's a problem."

 "Do you know where he is?" Lacie asked.

 Psycho Bob folded his enormous arms. Banners, bikini girls and crying American Eagles rippled as he flexed his biceps. "I dunno," he said. "Do you know which Shakespeare play features the Queen Mab speech?"

 "
Romeo and Juliet
," said Lacie, with no hesitation at all.

 "You sure?"

 "Absolutely."

 "You mean that?"

 "I do," she said. "Act One. The Montague boys are all chilling waiting to crash the Capulet's masquerade ball, Romeo's lovesick for Rosaline and Mercutio runs his mouth off in the Queen Mab speech. It’s
Romeo and Juliet
– no question."

 "That your final answer?" said Psycho Bob.

 "It is," she said.

 Psycho Bob turned to his left lieutenant. "Hit it, Clyde," he said.

 Clyde hit the touch-screen. The machine did a kind of little electronic fandango and the screen filled with fireworks. Psycho Bob looked pleased. I exhaled.

 "Steve's off with Trey," said Psycho Bob. "If you don't know why it ain't my business to tell you. You might want to take a long hard look at yourselves, though."

 "Okay," said Lacie. "Thanks. We'll definitely do that. But he's okay?"

 "Yeah. He's okay."

 "Thank you very much," she said.

 My legs had finally figured out what they were supposed to be doing - they were all too eager to make for the exit. Lacie was out the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Hey man, wait up."

 Sure. Sure. I could wait up. Not sure I wasn't gonna throw up, but I could wait. I turned around. Psycho Bob loomed above me. "Listen," he said. "We've got a little quiz team action going on Friday nights. Think you could see your way to bringing your little lady sometime? Could sure use a brain like that."

 I nodded like one of those plastic dogs in the back shelves of cars. "Yeah. Yep. Yup. Okay. Yes. Yes. I can try. She's not really my...you know...it's complicated."

 A hand the size of a dinner plate descended on my shoulder. "I hear you," he said. "Loud and clear. And quit shaking, would you? I'm not gonna hurt you. I got anger management therapy - part of my bail conditions."

 Chapter Nine 

Lacie

My head felt like it was about sixteen different places at once. It hadn't been clear since I'd seen those two little pink lines grinning up at me, but with the adrenaline still sloshing around my veins I was a dozen times more muddled.

 Clayton tore around the side of the car and opened the door for me. "Slightly late to play macho now," I said.

 He groaned. "Oh God. How bad was I?"

 "On a scale of what? Ichabod Crane to Scooby-Doo?"

 He sloped round to the driver's seat and got in. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry. I suck. I know. Look, I know I'm probably a million miles from the tattooed sex god of your dreams..."

 I held up a hand, but he kept talking.

 "...and I know I'm not some kind of edgy brainiac who likes it bare knuckle and runs a fucking Fight Club out of his basement..."

 I shook my head. "Forget it. I don't need a hero. I especially don't need a Tyler Durden clone in my life. Jesus, Clay - I read
Fight Club
; Tyler Durden was a
dick
."

 He leaned back against the seat and exhaled. "Is it worth explaining I have a kind of post-traumatic thing with the Fuzzy Duck? And fishermen's sweaters. Also shoulder pads."

 "No," I said. "But it sounds like a story worth saving for a rainy day."

 "Holy shit. I'm sorry. I'm such a fucking chickenshit. Did that even happen back there? Did you really talk Shakespeare with a guy who looked like those treemonsters from Lord of the fucking Rings?"

 "Ents," I said. "They're called Ents."

 "
Ants?
"

 "
Ents.
"

 "Oh."

 I could hear him breathing. I thought I could even hear his heart, but it turned out to be mine. "So are you good to talk now?" I asked. "Because I guess the cat's out of the bag."

 He looked blankly at me and I realized he'd either not heard what I'd said in the bar or he'd been so nervous it had washed past him. As everything stacked up around us and I started to get a closer and closer look at what a total mess his life was, I'd been weighing up the pros and cons. On one hand it was a good thing that he was terrified of being beaten to death by Hell's Angels wielding motorcycle chains - a healthy regard for that kind of danger is just the kind of thing that usually bodes well for the survival of the next generation. On the other hand was a man who was still hollowing out random vegetables to make bongs really ready to become a father?

 "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

 Nope. It had flown past him. I could tell. He looked like he was starting to relax, which is not a normal look for a man in the middle of processing the words 'I'm pregnant'. Maybe it was better if I didn't set him straight, at least not yet. There was so much I still needed to think about.

 "What do you think Bob meant?" I said, instead. "About not knowing and it not being your business?"

 He shook his head. "No fucking idea. I'm going to kill Steve when I find him." He started the car. "You mind if we just take another look back in Tadley before I drop you home?"

 "No. Sure. Go ahead."

 I was far from tired, but I leaned my head against the cool of the window and closed my eyes. Part of me expected his brain to catch up with his nerves and for him to stop and say "Wait, did you say...?" but he didn't. And maybe it was for the best. For a while I'd felt like we fit, like we belonged. If he knew it would change everything. I'd be all alone again, just me and the coinflip of possibility, turning over and over in my mind. Maybe it was because I wanted so badly to go back to the way things were that I treated this like an opportunity, a God-given break. Maybe he wasn't meant to know and maybe this was the universe's way of telling me, just like he believed the universe was telling him to shape up and grow up.

 We were driving down a quiet suburban street when Clayton stalled the car. "What the fuck?" he said, peering out of the window. "What the actual fuck?"

"What's wrong?"

 He pointed to a small, white clapboard duplex across the street. The lights were on in the upstairs window. "Steve's place," he said.

 "Oh. He's home."

 Clayton unfastened his seatbelt. "Damn right he's home. Time to give him a piece of my mind."

 He went stomping across the tiny lawn and rang the door bell. He stood there for a while. There appeared to be no answer, so I got out and went to join him at the door. He stepped back onto the lawn and stared up at the lit windows.

 "Is there a back door?" I said.

 We went round the back. Through the kitchen window I could see a light in the hallway. I tried the door, but it was locked.

 "What the fuck is he playing at?" said Clayton, bending to peer through the glass.

 "I don't know. Do you have a piece of wire? Or a screwdriver?"

 He straightened up and frowned. "Huh? Are you seriously suggesting we pick the lock? Because that only works in movies."

 "And antique stores," I said. "We get a lot of stuff with missing keys - desks, drawers, wardrobes."

 "Huh," he said. "Is there anything you can't do?"

 "You want a list?" Write books, make decisions, say things like 'You know back there when I more or less told you explicitly that I was pregnant?' 

 He went the car and came back with a screwdriver. As I jiggled the lock he watched with such rapt attention that I wished things could be simple between us once again, but in every imagined scenario I was faced with the possibilities of guilt, blame, or staying together until we were sick of the goddamn sight of one another. Of all the men I could have hooked up with in a parking lot, why did I have to pick Mr. Potent? Besides, he was a stoner - I'm sure I read somewhere that pot smoking has a negative effect on male fertility. By rights his sperm should have been dog-paddling around in circles, bumping into each other and saying 'dude', but no - he had to have a team of Olympic swimmers butterflying around in his balls.

 The lock gave. "
Dude
," he said, impressed.

 He went into the kitchen. I followed. He called Steve's name a couple of times but there was no answer. I sneaked off up the stairs in search of the lit room I'd seen from the street, and about halfway up I heard the sound of a shower running. The bathroom door was open and light on. I could see the edge of a shower curtain; it had a pretty Greek key pattern. I remember thinking, in the light of what happened next, that it figured Steve would have a really nice shower curtain. The shower shut off and a man's voice said "Babe, can you pass me a towel?"

 Obviously there were numerous reasons why I wasn't thinking straight, so I reached for the towel rail and placed a towel in man's wet, waiting hand. Then he threw the curtain back and stood there, drying his face and poking soap out of his eyes. I admit the view was not unpleasant - long legs, strong thighs, ridiculous abs and a good sized cock. Maybe that was why I was still standing there when he lowered the towel, revealing a face that was even better than his body.