I look down at the screen, reading her text.
Come for dinner at 7:30 day after tomorrow. Bring an overnight bag; Raymond loves tequila. See you then!
I know it’s just a handful of words, but it’s nicer than she’s been to me in a while. Although that exclamation point was probably just autocorrect.
But still, it feels nice to hear from her. It feels good to be welcome. She’s been chilly to me since she got married, trying to distance herself from what was.
All the bouncing around, all the CPS hearings, all the sadness of that foster-siblings life. And I don’t blame her for wanting to move forward into something better. I’ve been doing the same myself.
But it hurts that she’s pushed me away.
She’s got a daughter, I know that. She must be eighteen or nineteen by now. And I’ve never even met her. Somewhere out there, I’ve got a foster niece and I wouldn’t even know her if she was one of the inevitable strippers sure to make an appearance at tonight’s little bachelor party poker game. I crack my neck side to side, annoyed at how the starched tux collar digs into my neck when I do.
As we leave the highway, winding down more rural roads now, my friends are laughing and telling stories, pouring shots as Eminem plays through the surround sound speakers. The houses get bigger as we drive, the lawns greener, the gates taller while the guys get louder, laughing harder.
We pass a place with a Spanish-tiled roof and horses, that looks like the place I just bought myself, not far outside New Orleans. After years of renting apartments, then penthouses, then houses with hot tubs, then houses with pools, I finally bit the bullet and bought a place of my own.
But as for what to put in it, I’ve got no idea where to begin. Furniture and that kind of shit, that’s easy just takes money. But the big stuff, the life stuff, the stuff that matters? The stuff from the heart? A wife, kids? Love?
It’s as far away from me as it’s ever been. But what probably nobody knows or could guess, I’ve never wanted anything more.
My life has been war, true enough, but more than anything I want to find a woman who finally brings me peace and makes me understand joy. I want someone who makes me laugh, challenges me, makes me want a life I never thought a fuck like me could have.
The limo slows eventually, coming up on a drive with big stone pillars and horses grazing in the distance on each side. But as we come up to the big front entrance, under its huge portico, I realize this isn’t just a fucking poker game.
Because there are women. Lots of them.
And they’ve got these fucking numbers pinned wherever a pin might fit on their barely-there outfits.
I can abide a lot of bullshit for the sake of my brothers and friends. But one thing I won’t stand for is someone trying to trick me into something like whatever-the-hell this is. I turn to Lennon and crack my knuckles.
“What the fuck is this?”
One of the valets opens the door for us, and the cool, fall country air spills into the limo. Lennon makes a move to get out, but I push him back into his seat. “Tell me.”
“It’s an auction, alright?” he bites back.
I glance outside. Short dresses. Spiral curls. High heels. Flirtatious laughter. Fake eyelashes so long I can see them from here. And those fucking numbers, Jesus Christ. I shake my head, balling my fists.
“Something tells me nobody’s here to bid on horses.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Lennon says.
“I don’t pay for it. Never have. Never will.”
“These aren’t hookers, dude. They’re virgins.”
Virgins.
Virgins? Did he really just say that?
“What the fuck is this, the 1800s? Women as property?” My vision starts to cloud with a putrid rage.
“Fuck no, buddy. They’re selling themselves. We’re buying. Cherries.” He snorts out a laugh, holding his hand up for a high five, but I leave him hanging.
Before I can stop him a second time, Lennon is out of the limo. I don’t budge, which means I’m blocking Victor from getting out. As protests go, it’s not nothing. I’m a big guy. Victor and I are close, but not close enough for him to crawl over all 6’3” and 250 pounds of me.
He pops the door on his side and gets out. Then he leans in, exactly like a cop giving me a speeding ticket.
“Listen. I know you do what the fuck you want. But sometimes, you gotta suck it up. He’s done it for you. Now you do it for him.”
Here we go.
Dragging up old shit like its apples to apples. I get out of the limo.
“Bullshit. Getting shitfaced and buying each other tattoos is not the same as paying for pussy.”