She didn’t tell her mother where she was. She said she was fine, she said she was “awesome.” But not where.
Rita had been upset at first, sure, she got sad. She was sad for a couple weeks. Maybe a few. But she texted Lexie a lot and Lexie sent back perky little texts like Everythings cool, XoJ. Or Im serious, Im doing great. So Rita was OK. She had a teary moment or two, times when she said, My baby girl! Out there alone!
But basically, she was OK.
He wasn’t. Not at all. He missed her like a knife in the gut. It didn’t go away.
Most nights he burrowed into Rita. Dutiful husband. Worked best in the beat-up Naugahyde recliner, where he could look at the row of school pictures over Rita’s shoulder while she straddled him. Portraits, one from each year. They were in frames with hearts and roses on them. All pictures of the girl. His own boys never used to show up for crap like that—school picture day, all that bullshit. So there were no pictures of Ely and Toff’s surly faces to wilt his dick.
He’d look straight at the pictures when Rita was on him. Things were right with the universe, at those moments. Well no. OK. The universe was a 24/7 shitshow. But at least there was order in the sex. Chair, photos in a row. The angles worked.
Rita was solid. She held up her end and she liked to get laid. Couldn’t say that for all women. He’d met her in a fucking mall, been at Sears looking at appliances, and she was walking along holding Lexie’s little hand. Rita dropped some bags, spilled little-girl clothes out, and he was right there so he helped her pick them up. They went to the food court, where Lexie had a milkshake and Rita said he looked like an actor. Some guy who played a Mormon on TV. Lexie was eight then. He’d just thought she was cute. Cute kid, he said to Rita.
Rita meant well. But he always thought of Lexiegirl when it was time to come. Not Lexie: Lexie was her civilian name. Lexiegirl. What he used to call her out loud, a long, long time ago. Before he even slipped a finger in.
He didn’t think of her right off the bat when he and Rita did it. Out of respect. He waited till Rita was done. Or maybe till she dozed off. Happened sometimes. They liked to drink and they weren’t young. He had the timing down pat. Stroke, stroke, sweet fuzzy snatch. Stroke, stroke, little round tits. Then it was fast. Hard. It made him roar, sometimes. Ragged throat noise.
Rita took it as a compliment.
There was guilt, sure, a small tug when he remembered times Lexiegirl had tried to put him off. It lay there till he drank and shut down the memory flashes. Why he’d waited for her to turn sixteen. He kept a silent promise. Sixteen: whatever the law said, come on, it was just a fact, girls turned to women then. In Mexico, the girls turned fifteen and they called it good. The Mexicans were smart. Hard workers and smart about women. Those waiting years, they’d been shit tough. But he was strong. He held fast, he waited. Every birthday after twelve—she got her period that year—there he was, counting down the clock. In some countries, girls got married off at twelve. Shit, ten.
This was a fucked-up place, land of the Puritans. Land of repressed bullshit. One rule for the masters, another for the slaves. Three hundred million hypocrites. Bomb kids in brown countries. Tens of thousands. Drones manned by pimply button-pushers at Langley or Creech blew up shit-tons of Arab babies. Just blew those babies to fucking smithereens. Have these ones, heaven! Muslim babies, stone-dead! You like ’em, God? We chose ’em just for you!
Nice work, soldier. Hey, job well done. Back pat. Or shoulder, maybe. Pat-pat. Bond-bond. Brothers in arms.
Then preach about age of consent. Do as I say, not as I do. Respect life! Holier-than-thou motherfuckers. So fucking holy.
He had photos, but none naked. His best was her in a yellow bikini. Three summers back. She was fourteen. He’d jumped through hoops to get it printed out. Rita kept all her snaps of Lexie on her phone. Be weird to ask her to forward them with no reason. He had to make up a family album project. That Christmas. Said he’d order a photo calendar. And he did. Website. Easy. Then printed out a dozen just of Lexiegirl in her bikini. She was standing with friends, one fat, the other Chinese. Cropped the shit out of them. Gone, girls, he said as he did it. Fuck off, Fatty and Chink. Felt a bit bad thinking that, those girls were OK kids, he drove them to the pool himself that time, all giggling in the back about some picture of an obscene cupcake on Instagram, but shit, your head went where it went.
Kept the dozen printouts in his office safe. Did all his personal business in that office. After hours. Pulled down the blinds. Locked the door. And went for it. Just went for it.
Highlight of every day. Saved it up till it was like a sunburst. Plasma exploding. At the last moment he squeezed his eyes shut. His eyes behind the eyelids felt black-hot.
When one copy got worn out, he burned it in an ashtray and broke out the next.
Variety, though. You needed it. One other photo that he liked, she had clothes on but was leaning forward and you saw cleavage. Made six copies of that. It got him off but it was frustrating. Where were the peachy thighs? Where was the belly button? The Zero G ripe ass? No dimples. No sag. Mostly, where was the luscious cunt? Nothing as good as that. In the bikini picture, you could see everything frontal but the triangle. Even the nipples were there, wet pale fabric of the bra cups showing their shadows.
He missed her smell. Her smell was what he missed and had no way of getting near. He had some dirty panties but the scent faded to nothing over time. Used to bury his face in her. Best time was one weekend when Rita went off to a workshop overnight. Simi Valley. Like, self-help. Self-improvement. He thought, improve myself. That time he was in with her for hours. Not minutes. Still remembered the date. Weather, even. Dinner. Microwave chicken burrito with cheese. Brushed his teeth, Listerine Original, showered. The T-shirt she was wearing. It said pink. Shit yeah. He went down on her like there was nowhere else. And there wasn’t. Core of the world.
She came that time. He could swear it. She didn’t want to but she did. She came on his mouth and he wished never to wash it. Could go around with that all day.
He tried to find the smell in Rita. They had the same genes, didn’t they? A lot of the same, anyway. Half. The faintest reminder. Not similar at all.
He needed to decouple. Lexiegirl from Rita. Slot in the new one where she used to fit.
But he couldn’t stand to. He tried. He saw some on the streets. Some tweenie shows on cable. One actress on one stupid show he thought had decent potential. They trotted them out in barely any clothes. She had those pouty lips. Reminded him. He tried. But in the end, nope, no cigar. Computer no use, obviously. FBI. NSA. Anyway. Fruitless. For now. Brain was locked. Circuits wired. He wouldn’t give up hope. The world would beat her down. She’d come back. She was seventeen. Well, almost eighteen. Almost legal. And shit-poor.
That was good, picturing her return. Come back begging. You’ll beg for it, he told the picture, sitting at his office desk. Beating off. Take me back, Daddy Pete.
Two months in, Rita, messing with her phone one night over pizza, suddenly squealed and said: “Oh look! Wow! I didn’t know I still had this. Look! I’m still paying her phone bills. She’s on my account, and that app you put on both our phones that time? She still has it. The GPS shows her. It shows right where she is! Look, Lexie’s in L.A.!”
Almost lost it. Pulse racing. Numb face. Had the weird sensation his lips were a slab of meat. Meat with meat inside. Well shit, yeah. They were. Hands shook. Sat there steady, kept his shaking hands beneath the table edge. Then: “Hey, I could have told you that—I didn’t know we were still paying. It’s cool, though. Yeah, that’s fine. Nice part of town? Let’s see. Oh yeah, Brentwood. Real safe neighborhood.”
A dot. The actual street address. Blazed on his memory.
So then, four days later—had to wait so it didn’t seem related—he had a business trip, he told Rita. Pick up some wholesale from a warehouse. Riverside, he mentioned. Snagged a baggie of coke from Ely’s private stash. Ely sold meth but never touched the stuff: for personal use, cocaine and oxy were the choice poisons. He’d switched out his regular work truck with the one Rubio liked to use, left the keys on the hook with a note saying he needed the extra space. Didn’t want Lexie to see him coming. Cranked up his music in the cab. Old stuff he liked from way back when. As a young buck. Swinging testes. AC/DC, Motörhead. “The chase is better than the catch.” Barreling down the 5.
When he switched to the radio, some newer crap came on. “I can’t go on, I go on.” Lame ska punk or something. Switched back to the USB.
Driving into the city was an adrenaline rush. Off the freeway, coming into the neighborhood, he rolled slow on the dark, curving streets. Even so, had to pull over twice. First let himself calm down, then did a little blow. First thing was to observe. It was 1 a.m. He found the house, drove past and circled back. Not much street parking. Signs posted. Meant not much cover, no other vehicles at the curb. That bit. She didn’t know the truck, but it was out of place. Plus, high-class neighborhood. Garages. Big houses. Hers was behind a gate and a hedge. Not one but both. How’d she gotten this fucking gig? Young people didn’t live in houses like this. Sure as shit wasn’t a rental. Was she living off some other horny middle-aged fuck?
He had questions. Man did he have questions. Maybe sleep a bit, though. Coke wearing off. He was tired. Could he sleep here? Would there be a rat-a-tat-tat on the driver’s side window? Private-security patrolling? Far from impossible. Likely. OK. New plan: sleep in the truck on San Vicente. Set the phone alarm. No one would be up before six. Except maybe some illegals doing yard work. Come back, park under that big tree. Watch, wait, see what he’d see.
Alarm was the sound of a cricket. Barely made noise. He fumbled for the phone. OK. Up. Did a line. Water on face from a bottle rolling around on the floor. Fuzzy mouth. Was there gum? Rubio was always chewing a wad. He popped the glove. Nicotine gum, that was it. Fine. Still minty, right? He tore a piece from the foil. Hard. Hands trembling.
He pulled up the GPS and headed out, was on her street and rolling past, didn’t have a new plan formed, just rolling past the house to scope it out by day. And shit, the luck of the fucking Irish. Damn if she wasn’t coming out a door beside the drive-in gate right this goddamn minute. Wearing white short-shorts. Rape-me shorts, Rubio called them. When you could see the bottoms of the ass cheeks. Rubio had a mouth on him. She wore ratty sneakers. And giant shades. That insect look. Made them all look like flies. Sexy flies.
She turned around, that ass, that ass, and leaned over, pulled a buggy through the door. No, a stroller. With a baby in it.
Well yeah. That’s what you put in strollers.
For a second he was spooked. But just a second. She’d been skinny when she left home and she was just as skinny now. The thing was small—he squinted at it, pink smush of face surrounded by blankets—but not a newborn. The thing wasn’t hers, no way. Course not. Jesus.
So she was a nanny. At seventeen. Rich people had no fucking standards.
She pushed the stroller along the sidewalk. Coming toward him as he cruised. She didn’t glance his way. White earbuds in. The wires hung over her tits. Couldn’t see the nips. Baggy T-shirt.
He made a U-turn at the corner, followed. Passed her and turned again. She was paying zero attention. Kid could be squalling in its container, she wouldn’t have a clue. Probably listening to Lorde. Or Adele. She liked the girly shit. Once he did her with “Hello” playing on her bedside table. Whenever he heard that crap come on he changed the station. Right away.
Plan. Plan. He needed to get inside. Had to get her alone. Four walls. Bed not required. Did he have leverage? What was his leverage now? Always been Rita. But maybe that card had been played out. Was it played out? Might be. Might really be.
He should’ve thought about this on the drive. Felt too high. The music. Speed. Lights at night. Hadn’t thought.
What about this, the nanny job? Could he use that? How?
Ely. Ely and Toff. That was the button to push.
He passed her again, her facing toward him now, and she glanced up. She saw. Stopped walking. Stood there. Stared at him.
He pulled over, parked. Got out. Shit, had to pull up his pants as he slid out. Waist loose. He’d lost weight since she cut out. Which was OK, he could stand to get rid of some flab. But hadn’t bothered to wear a belt. The cab-dismount pants-hike, not a good look. Don’t think that way. Raw power. Man.
“What are you doing here?” she said. Angry. Seemed older behind the sunglasses. Button nose. Lips. Shiny with gloss.
“Came to see you,” he said. “What else?”
“Well, you’ve seen me. Here I am. Now can you go?”
“See you,” he said. “You know. I missed you.”
Sounded desperate. Wished she’d take off the sunglasses. She could be anyone, behind those. He needed to piss. Badly.
“You have to go,” she said firmly. “All that stuff’s over. You want me to call the cops?”
“Hey!” he said, and his hands went up. She had him on the rails. Not good.
“I will,” she said, and slid her phone from a pouch on top of the stroller. “I swear I will. Then what would my mother think?”
“And what about your little family here?” he said. Now he was heating up. “You want them to hear? How Ely and Toff make a buck? You think those rich parents would want a girl from Meth World USA cuddling their rich baby?”
She stared. She raised the hand that didn’t hold the phone. Took off the glasses. Wish granted. Her eyes were fierce.
“You’re an asshole,” she said.
“Newsflash,” he said.
They stared at each other.
“One more time,” he said. “Last time. It’ll be the last. I swear.”
“You said that before,” she said. “You said it on New Year’s. You said it after that Debbie kid’s stupid bat mitzvah. You swore it on your mother’s grave. When you were shitfaced. Or did you forget? You said, Just one more time. I swear. On the grave of my sainted mother. Those exact words.”
Showed how drunk he’d been. If his mother was a saint, he was the Dalai Lama.
“But this is different,” he said. “You’re not here.”
She stared some more.
“There. I mean. With me. You live far away now. I know it’s over. You moved out.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Throw me a bone. “Lexie. I need it. Just one more time. Then you can—you can take that app off your phone. I won’t be able to find you. The—with the GPS.”
“So that’s how. Fuck. Stupid. Yeah. Sure as shit I’ll take it off. Like, instantly. But it won’t matter. Because now you know where I fucking live.”
“You won’t be here forever,” he said. Weakly. A weak point.
“Forget it,” she said. “Just go home, Pete.” And turned around. Hit a keypad. Pushed the stroller back through the gate. Closed it with a clang that vibrated. Clang of steel. He heard the lock click. Walked quickly, peered around the tall hedge, through the bars. She was pushing the stroller around the side of the house. Watched her ass as she disappeared.
Trudged back to truck. Tail between legs. Slammed the door. Smacked the wheel with the heel of his hands. Piss-poor showing. Piss-poor. Leaned over, snorted right out of the baggy.
Not giving up. Not yet. She’d come around. He knew his girl. Needed more time. He’d call Rita. One-day delay. Consignment not ready.
Couldn’t stay here. What if she did call the cops? Would she?
Naw, man. She wouldn’t do it. Too risky.
But just maybe.
He started it up, pulled away.
Regroup. Get better sleep.
Skeezy motel. By the time he found it, had to let loose behind a trash can before he even checked in. Then paid cash. Crashed hard on the sagging bed.
When he woke up it was mid-afternoon. Needed a drink, asked at the desk about liquor stores, picked up a bottle of Beam. Drank in the truck. Trying to figure his next move. Finally texted her. Second thoughts yet? She texted back Fuck off.
Game on, my girl.
Drove back to the motel, showered and shaved. Back in the truck. Drove to the swank pad. Rang the bell at the gate.
Someone Hispanic answered, a woman. “Ee-yes?”
“Here to see Lexie,” he said. “She’ll know who it is.”
The box was silent for a while, then the Hispanic woman came on again.
“She putting down the baby. She see you when the baby sleep.”
Better than he expected. He’d figured he might have to wait till the man of the house got back. Throw a scare into her. He didn’t give a shit what people thought. Not anymore.
He waited. Made a trip to the truck for some blow and a drink. Came back. Waited again.
Finally. She opened the front door, came down the path in a hurry. Wearing different clothes. A white dress like a sack, with lace at the top and bottom. Closer, he saw she had a chain around her neck with a cross on it. What the fuck.
“They’re getting home soon,” she said, tense. “You have to go. I mean it.”
“I’ll go,” he said. “If you meet me later.”
She looked at him, shaking her head. But she didn’t say no.
So he gave her the name of the motel, his room number.
Stopped for a drive-thru burger, went back to the motel. Stomach unsettled. Took a long shit. Watched part of a game on TV. Showered again. Quickly, he couldn’t miss her knock. Was she even coming? She better. Dark outside. The coke was almost gone; he had to save a line for when she got here. He was getting hot. Jerked off so he wouldn’t come too fast later. Looked at the bikini photo on his phone. Also popped the blue pill. Not gonna make it easy for her. This was for him. It would last. Cleaned himself up. Drank. Liter bottle half gone.
10:05. 10:43. He was surfing through channels. Faster, faster. Almost like he expected to see her on the screen. Face and tits.
11:14. Knock. Yes. He snorted up the line.
Opened the door. It was a man. Some fat fuck. Shit.
“Phone’s down. Girl came to the front desk? She said she wasn’t coming to your room. She said to meet her at the truck.”
“Yeah, yeah. OK.”
Guy stood there, expectant. What did he want, a tip? Fuck that. He shut the door.
Waited for the guy to go away. Then stuffed his keycard in his pocket, was out the door, down to the parking lot. Hands shaking again, dammit. There she was, a bulky hoodie over the white dress. Pink flip-flops. Face lit by her phone. No makeup. Sweet pouty lips. He was already hard.
“Why didn’t you text me?” he said, adjusting himself, hand in pocket.
She shrugged, slipped the phone into her hoodie pouch. “I didn’t feel like it. And wow. I knew you were cheap. But this place is a shithole. Probably has bedbugs.”
“Got rich tastes now, I see,” he said.
“Whatever,” she said, and shrugged again. “It’s in the truck or not at all. And this is the last time. For real. If I ever see you again without my mother right there in the room with us? You’re toast. She deserves better anyway. It’d be like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
He liked the new Lexiegirl. Assertive. Big girl now. Felt a drop on the end of his dick. Wanted to put it in her mouth. She’d never let him. Threatened to bite. Wouldn’t let him kiss her, either. Clamped her mouth shut when he tried. Tight as a nun in the Arctic.
Had he brought the keys to the truck? He hadn’t brought the fucking keys.
“Don’t leave,” he said, and jogged back up to get them. He didn’t feel right. Felt strange. Never been this nervous. Booze should’ve taken the edge off. Had to be the coke. Maybe it was cut with something. Ely didn’t do trash coke, most times, but. He hadn’t asked how pure it was. Maybe. He fumbled with the keycard.
Then he was back. Didn’t even recall being in the room. Had he been there? Like a whirlwind. But the keys were in his hand. She stood there watching him.
“I’ll put the seats down,” he said. Awkward with the shaking hands. Stop, stop. Thank God for Rubio’s king cab, though. His own truck didn’t have reclining seats.
She was climbing in the passenger door. Closing it. He shut his own door, reached up to turn the cab light back on. Had to see her.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’re sweating.”
“Pull your dress up,” he said. His teeth were almost chattering. Weird.
“Not taking it off,” she said. “Not here.”
“Just pull it up, then,” he said. Gritted his teeth. “Take off your underwear.”
She did. The panties were at her feet. He saw it. Fucking heaven. He couldn’t help himself, he reached over and fumbled with her lips. Soft and dry. He felt a sigh come out of him. Lay back and raised his fingers to sniff. Didn’t care what she thought of it. He was pressing so hard against his pants it hurt. Fumbled with his button, unzipped the fly. “Get on top of me,” he said. They’d never done it like that. That was how he did it with Rita. But here. No room. He couldn’t get over there. He couldn’t fit himself on top of her. Nothing to brace against . . . he was amped. But also tired. So heavy. His arms felt heavier than lead.
A moment’s pause. Would she say no? But then she clambered onto his lap. The steering wheel at her back. Horn honked. “Jesus,” she said. “Pete. Seriously. Your color’s off. Your face is like, red and gray. You don’t look good. Even for you.”
“I can still do it,” he said. He was a rock. He was huge. “Get on me. Get on me.”
She tried, but she was dry as bone. “Ow. Ow.”
“No lube. Sit on my face,” he said. “Let me lick you.”
She raised herself up, arranged herself. Strong, slender legs. Golden. His face was full of her. Heaven again. He was immersed. But she didn’t let it last. Cruel. As soon as she was good to go she took it away and settled down and tried again. She slid down, still there was too much friction at first but she gasped and made it work. He filled her up. He groaned. Was she still on the pill? He’d made her go on the pill at home. Fuck it. Not his business. He didn’t care. He didn’t give a shit.
She moved up and down.
“Show me your tits,” he said. The top of the dress had buttons. She undid them as she moved. Took the tits from the bra. He groaned again and grabbed them, though his arms moved slowly. He squeezed the nipples. They were small and hard. They were perfect.
“Faster,” he said. He should be wanting slow, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He dropped his arms, watched her tits jiggle. Her face was serious. Not cold, exactly. No, not cold. Not angry, even. Actually her face was kinder than he remembered it being. But serious. Too serious. Mouth closed.
Was she different now? She might be different. He cut off the thought. She was the same. She was the same. She would always be her.
“Show me your tongue,” he said.
She opened her mouth a little, let the tip of her tongue rest on her bottom front teeth.
This was it. This was where he always wanted to be. The only place. He wanted to be here for the rest of his life. Just here. Till he disintegrated. Till he was gone to dirt. A single request. People wanted so many things. They had a laundry list. But he only wanted this. Was it so much to ask?
“You’re a fucked-up man, Pete,” she said. “You’re a sad fucking man.” Still, not angry. Just matter-of-fact. As she rode him.
“Yeah,” he said, half-groan. “I guess so.”
She went faster and harder, till she was sweating too. It glowed on her. He gazed up. Sweat dripped into his ear. Tickled. But he ignored it. He didn’t need to hear. Only the rush of feeling. His whole body was heavy but his chest was light. He was part of the earth. Mineral. He was the ground and the base. Above him the sun. The most beautiful thing. Maybe she’d come. Was she moaning? Would she come on his cock? Would he receive that gift?
Sunburst. Supernova.
One regret, he thought, after he came. Maybe he was still coming. Because it went on forever. One solitary regret in the long dark hall of this life, only one. Never been in her mouth.