Page 14 of How May I Please You

Journey frowns for a second before giving in with a head nod. “Of course not.” She grabs my hand and begins leading me through the parking lot. I can feel her staring at the side of my face as we go, and I smile to try to ease her tension. By the time we reach her car, I can sense her accepting that we’re doing this. “I’ll drive. You have to sit in the back now, Marty.”

“Totally fine with me,” Marty says, smiling.

Journey and I walk in front of him, but as we get in the car and make our way out of the lot, I swear I can feel his eyes still on me. Even as Journey drives down the street and pulls into a small restaurant with outdoor seating, I can feel her partner’s gaze on me like the sun beaming through a magnifying glass and burning a hole into my skin. When I look at him as we walk inside, he just smiles at me and nods.

Hmm. All it took was a short drive for this prick to start annoying me. If he keeps it up, he’ll have to figure out how to stare with his eyes gouged out.

The young hostess brings us to our seats and we quickly order from the lunch menu before being brought coffee and water. There’s a brief silence that makes the table feel awkward, but it’s Marty who breaks through the silence.

“So, what is it that you do, Evan?” he asks.

I clear my throat and sip my coffee before answering, “I work construction for Lane Contracting. I’m a carpenter by trade.”

“A carpenter? Wow, that’s awesome,” he replies. “So you could build me some furniture in my shitty apartment.”

We all share a stiff laugh.

Fake laughing for the sake of this asshole? Fucking stop it.

“I suppose I could,” I reply. “But my skill set is pretty much put to use building frames for walls and forms for concrete. Not a whole lot of finish work besides chair rail and crown molding, and even that is sporadic.”

“Well, if you ever need a job to put your finer skills to use, just let me know,” Marty says.

The waiter arrives with our food and places it in front of us accordingly, and we all dig in. A minute or two filled with the sound of chewing and gulping passes before another word is spoken.

“So what about you?” I start this time. “You’re my girl’s partner now, so we should probably get to know each other better. Where are you originally from?”

“Right here in Philly, baby,” he answers proudly, still beaming the way he has been since we met in front of the precinct. “That’s right, I was born and raised in Washington Square West. Went to college at the University of Pennsylvania and became a detective to better serve my city.”

Serve your city? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I glance over at Journey who looks just as disgusted as I feel. It’s not that Detective Summers is a bad guy. It’s just that he’s so different from us. His upbringing in Washington Square West was lightyears ahead of where Journey and I were raised. He attended a nice college and chose to become a detective out of a long list of options while Journey and I had no choice but to do what we had to or die in the streets of our neighborhoods. I know it’s not his fault. He didn't choose to be born and raised where he was, but it still makes me sick to my fucking stomach to know he had a life that was so much easier than ours.

“How about you, Evan,” Marty goes on, still chomping down on his BLT sandwich like it’s the best thing he has ever put in his mouth. “Are you from Philly, too, or did you move here as a kid?”

I try to stay in a jovial, pleasant mood for this little lunch date, but my face hardens as I answer. “I’m from Strawberry Mansion.”

Marty’s eyes raise as he swallows. “Oh, wow. I bet you're glad to have made it out of there, huh?”

Made it out of there? What if you don't make it out of here? I think there has been enough fucking holding back.

I feel it when it happens—the moment the dam breaks and the harsh feelings I’ve been able to maturely scoot past in my mind come stalking back to the forefront. I’ve been so content with life and where Journey and I are that I haven't thought about hurting anyone in a long time. The kinky scenes we play out in our basement feed my hunger to inflict pain, and with Cain out of my life, there haven't been very many triggers for my aggression. Until now.

Who does this motherfucker think he is? The only people who are allowed to talk negatively about a bad neighborhood are the people who are from that neighborhood. That’s something that should be taught to everyone in fucking high school. It’s the same when discussing an abusive parent. I can say whatever I want about how shitty my mother was, but if anyone else does, they’re signing their fucking death warrant.

“I stayed in Strawberry Mansion, in the same house I grew up in, up until a few months ago when I moved in with Journey in Elmwood,” I inform the fucking prick. Journey places a hand on my knee beneath the table, but I continue. “I’ve never been ashamed of where I’m from, nor am I ashamed of where we live now. Some of us didn't have the luxury of growing up with a silver fucking spoon in our mouths in fucking Washington Square West.”

Every ounce of calm drains out of Summers’ face, and it is quickly refilled with terrified regret. “Whoah, I apologize. I certainly didn't mean anything offensive by that. My mistake. I just thought that … Strawberry Mansion just has a bit of a reputation, that’s all. I wasn’t trying to talk down on where you grew up or say that being from there is something to be ashamed of. I’m truly sorry if I offended you.”

I should stab him in his fucking hand with my fork. Then he’d be really sorry.

But I can’t. Instead, I look at Journey and see the pleading in her eyes. This is her new partner, someone she has to work with every day, and it would be awfully suspicious if this partner killed himself, too.

“It’s cool,” I reply, doing my best to not say the things I desperately want to. Like how I would love to watch blood spill from a gaping wound in your fucking neck. “I didn't mean to … I get a little carried away when talking about my past. My mother is from there. That’s where she died so I get a little sensitive.”

“I understand,” Marty says. “That’s why you didn't want to leave the area—it’s where all of your memories are.”

“I didn't even leave the house,” I inform him, suddenly emotional and feeling the need to rein myself in.

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