One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [45]
Jennifer walked down into the galley of the boat and was repulsed by the mess. Doesn’t this guy know that underwear doesn’t wash itself? Man, how could he live in this filth? She was really wondering what the toilet would be like, and figured she’d be doing the squat-and-hover like she was at a sleazy truck stop in between Mississippi and Louisiana. She looked around in an attempt to find something to talk about to break the awkward silence. She was just about to ask him if dirty socks were commonly used as insulation when she saw a picture of a very pretty woman on the shelf above the foldout bed.
“Is that your girlfriend? She’s gorgeous.”
“That’s my wife. She’s dead, and I don’t want to talk about that either.”
The words hit Jennifer like a cold shot of water. Next to the woman in the picture was a small child. She wisely decided not to ask who that was. Pike showed her the toilet, which was surprisingly clean, and how to operate the pump that flushed it. After she finished, she came out, trying to look cool leaning against the doorjamb, saying, “Thanks. I guess I’ll head out now.”
There was another moment of awkward silence. It looked to her like Pike didn’t know what to say. She was wondering if he was going to spit out some sort of Tourette’s syndrome rant when he finally said, “Well, I appreciate your help tonight. Thanks again for the ride.”
With a wry grin, Jennifer said, “You don’t lie very well. Thanks for the use of your bathroom.”
Pike gave her a smile that reached his eyes for the first time. The effect diminished his Halloween mask appearance. He ought to do that more often.
“You don’t lie very well either,” he said. “I meant it.”
Jennifer left the boat, wondering if she would ever see Pike again. She also wondered why she cared. He was attractive enough in a weird, Grizzly Adams sort of way, but he had a personality that seemed to swing between outright asshole to limited tolerance. He had moments of humor and kindness that almost seemed to be fighting their way out.
She had reached the front of her car before she saw the two men standing behind it.
She stopped where she was, immediately feeling unease and toying with running back to Pike’s boat. “Can I help you guys?”
The taller of the two moved to the driver’s side. “You can help yourself, that’s for sure.”
The shorter man, surprisingly fast, circled around behind her.
27
I pulled out my bed and sat down, thinking about Jennifer. What in the hell was that all about? Who throws their body on a complete stranger in a bar fight? And then offers to take them home afterward? Especially someone like me? That took a lot of guts—or stupidity. I wasn’t sure which, but I was leaning toward guts. She didn’t act stupid. I was starting to feel a little bad about the way I had treated her. I thought about the vile things I had yelled at her by her car and felt a wash of shame. Jesus, what an asshole. I was surprised she’d let me in her car.
I looked in my small mirror and felt the anger come back at the sight of my beaten face. Lately, after I get a few beers in me, I begin thinking about beating the hell out of someone just to release a little of the pain. I hadn’t sunk so low as to simply punch the first person I saw, but I could usually count on some blowhard to be around as the night wore on. I had found out early on that I must look like a mean bastard, because blowhards usually backed down when I confronted them. I solved that dilemma by acting like I was too drunk to brawl. The problem with this cycle was that some sort of switch goes off after I pick the fight and I end up taking an ass-beating. I just can’t bring myself to crush whoever I’m fighting. That’s probably a good thing. All it would take is one fight to get out of control, and I would then be viewed as a menace to society, the fall from grace complete.
Outside, I heard, “Pike!”
What now?
Scrambling up onto the deck, I saw Jennifer running flat out down the gangway to my boat, followed by two other men.
Before I could say anything, she ran right by me, shouting, “Help