Page 27 of Raced (Driven 3.50)
“I’m talking about romance. Shit girls like, man.”
“You don’t need romance when you have my skills,” I tell him, already waiting for the smart-ass comment to come from his mouth.
“Okay, one-pump chump.”
“Fuck off!” I sneer and flip my middle finger up, but he’s laughing so hard he doesn’t even see it.
“Shit. I’ve got to take a piss,” he says and rises on unsteady feet to head to the bathroom of my suite.
I lift my feet up and prop them on the table in front of me, hands clasped behind my hea
d. Through the open balcony doors I can hear Bruno Mars’s newest song playing in the bar across the street, but in the muted silence I start thinking about the word girlfriend. Wondering if that’s a definition we really need when we have our own language between us. Then Beckett’s words start running over again in my head until he comes back out zipping up his fly.
He walks over to the open doors and I feel a slight pang of guilt that he wanted to go hang out at the bar and I just didn’t want to deal with the crowd tonight. I’m usually interested in the eye candy and playing the game.
But I just don’t feel like it this trip.
I shake my head. What in the fuck is Rylee doing to me? All her talk about Scooter saying I Spiderman you and that look on her face as she sat naked on her knees beside me undoes me bit by bit when I’m already a mess of unraveled memories.
I lean forward and grab another beer from the bucket of ice in front of me and stare at the label for a few minutes. “So uh, romance, huh?”
I see his body register my words, but he keeps his face toward the street because he can tell I’m so far out of my fucking element here, the periodic table wouldn’t even be able to help me.
Romance? I don’t do it. Flowers die, food gets eaten. It’s not real. I’ve watched people flip the switch on and off enough in my life between my dad’s movie sets to women wanting something with me that I’m not fucking stupid enough to see the farce.
So why the fuck am I wondering what Becks thinks I’m screwing up here?
“What are you not saying to me? You think I’m not giving her the flowery shit a girl wants so she’s gonna bail?” The thought doesn’t settle well in my stomach. In fact it makes me shove up out of my chair and walk back and forth.
Well more like stumble.
“I didn’t say shit, dude.” Becks keeps looking out the window. He knows he’s questioned me and I don’t take too easy to that.
And fuck if he doesn’t have me questioning myself now. I told her I’d try to give her more. That has to be enough in the end here. I’m already pushing myself past my comfort zone and now I have to think about this kind of shit?
I’m annoyed with Becks for butting his nose in and irritated at myself for not even thinking about it. But I shouldn’t have to, should I?
I roll my shoulders and plop back down on the couch. Did he really have to ruin my stellar buzz by bringing this up? Then again, the room’s still moving a bit so maybe he didn’t.
“What do you think I should do? Send her poems and shit? C’mon, dude, that’s not me.”
He snorts out a laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure a classy ‘roses are red’ poem is just what a lady like her wants.”
I sit there in silence, ignoring the dig, thoughts running through my semi-cloudy mind and plaster a grin to my face when the words connect. “Roses are red, tires are black, you’re the only pussy I wanna ride bareback.”
Becks spits out the beer in his mouth in a huge spray out the balcony doors. He wipes his mouth as his laughter falls to match mine. He turns to face me and raises an eyebrow. “That was pretty fucking good. If you’re that witty when you’re drunk, I think we should work under the influence more often.” He walks toward me and I can already see his mind turning, trying to match my poem. “I’ve got one. Roses are red, violets are fine, you be the six, and I’ll be the nine.”
“Now that’s a good image to have,” I say, my mind immediately back on her in that fucking outfit from Skype.
“Down, boy. Poetry, not pornography,” he says, tapping the neck of his bottle against mine before sitting back in his chair. “Not with me anyway.”
“No worries there. You’re cute and all but not my type.” I lean back and fall into thought before I start laughing. Look at us. Two guys in our thirties making up fucking nursery rhymes. This is some funny shit.
Becks chuckles to himself, his eyes closed, and I wait for him to speak. “Roses are red, violets are blue, get in my bed and be ready to screw.”
“How fucked-up are we?” I laugh.
“Hey, this is poetry in its truest form.” He lifts his beer to me, his eyes still closed as the alcohol mixed with the clock hitting past midnight begins to get to him. “In fact, you should send her one of them tomorrow. That’s something a good boyfriend would do.”
