Page 15 of Getting It Twisted

With a backpack full of clothes and fifty bucks in my pocket, I texted Nathan to meet me at the abandoned mansion on Mumphrey Hill. As soon as he saw me, he tossed his cigarette aside and cupped my face, eyes narrowing on my reddened cheek.

“Who did this to you? Your asshole dad? I’ll kill him.”

My face burned with guilt as well as the slap. I’d seen Nathan with far worse injuries, and I’d never once offered to kill his mom.

That summer, we looked out for each other when no one else did. When everyone else either beat us or ignored us. George had his jock friends and his girlfriend at the time. I had no one but Nathan, and he was all I needed.

In the daytime, we rode our bikes into the abandoned shell of an empty pool and sprayed the marble walls with graffiti. At night, we huddled up and talked until we fell asleep. We lived on a diet of candy bars and whipped cream straight from the can. Every day was an adventure, and for a golden blip of time, we were inseparable. Estranged from the world, from everything and everyone but ourselves.

“Dad told me he stole a bottle of Scotch,” George says.

“Of course he would tell you that.”

His shoulders stiffen, and his voice goes dangerously low. “Are you saying my dad’s a crooked cop?”

April waves a hand. “Come on, guys, we’re getting nowhere. How about this: We all say our opinion on the matter, but ultimately, it’s up to Daniel to decide what he wants to do.”

I shrug in agreement, and George crosses his arms.

“Fine.”

“I say at least hear him out,” April suggests. “If he hasn’t got anything of value to tell you, at least you won’t keep wondering about it.”

George shakes his head. “I say no. No way. That guy’s a jerk, Daniel. You’ll regret getting involved with him again, even if it’s just as friends. Just ignore him and let him slink back to whatever dark corners of the world he came from.”

My work schedule turns out to be packed for the next few days, and I welcome the distraction. After work, I meet up with George at the gym and work out. I come home, shower, eat dinner, and go to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

Every day, I expect Nathan to pop my bubble of monotony and follow through on his threat to visit my home. But to my surprise, he never does. I did warn him to stay away, but if my memory serves me right, he won’t let that stop him.

With every passing day, my frustration builds. What the hell is he up to? Why doesn’t he come seek me out? He sure held no qualms about visiting my house a few days ago. Has he lost interest in me already?

Even though I don’t see a single glimpse of him, I can’t focus on shit while he’s in town. I can’t draw; I can’t read. All I can do is kill myself at the gym and run until I feel sick, and even that doesn’t help for long.

The nights are the worst. When sleep refuses to come, I roll over and flick my light back on, and for the hundredth time, I shift through the photos I got from my mom’s house. And I remember my own feelings at the time.

The way my stomach flipped every time he smiled at me. The heat on my cheeks, the uncomfortable, prickly feelings of dread and hope. And I remember how he was utterly oblivious to my messed-up infatuation with him. Or, as I now suspect, he onlyactedoblivious. He fucked other guys with abandon, but he always came back to me. Because we were friends, and he didn’t fuck his friends; he fucked mean guys who treated him like garbage.

On more than one occasion, a guy pushed him into the lockers on the way to class, and when I sent Nathan a questioning look, he shrugged and said, “He’s just pissed I made him come harder than his boring-ass girlfriend.”

George is right; I’m better off without him, and I should ignore him until he inevitably skips town again. Should be easy enough. Given the choice, I’d rather not see him ever again, especially not unprepared.

And yet my mind keeps circling back to our recent meetings, spinning and spinning until I go nearly mad with it.

Admit it—you want me. You want me back.

Fuck him. Fuck his stupid, pretty, smug fucking face.

When I spot his car in the parking lot of Moe’s Den—a bar run by the local MC club—I don’t know if the feelings that course through me are relief, anger, or a mix of both.

I know exactly what he’s doing in there, and I should leave him to it. Let him find another big, mean guy to fuck his screwed-up little brains out.

Ignoring him is what I should do. But before I know it, I’m pushing open the door and stepping inside. At least it’s my choice to see him this time—my choice to ambushhim.

As soon as I enter, dreary neon lighting assaults my eyes, and my nose fills with the pungent smell of old socks, cheap beer, and urine from the restrooms in the back.

I spot him easily by one of the pool tables. He must be the youngest in the crowd by at least a decade. There’s the clacking of pool balls as he shoots his shot, and his obscenely tight shirt with frayed edges hikes up as he bends over, exposing a slice of his smooth pale back.

A biker guy with tattoos and sideburns leans a hand on the pool table edge, speaking low into Nathan’s ear. He’s kind of hot, to be fair—he’s got that Wolverine look going on—but he’s way too old and rugged-looking.

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