One (5 page)

"What's your
name?" I ask him.

He points to his shirt.
"Pretty self-explanatory. Everyone calls me Ref."

I make a sound, and tap
my index finger to the side of my head. "I see."

My words must've
sounded slurred because Ref asks, "Are you okay?"

"Yes." I look
at Pax.

"Are you going to
be able to ride?"

I almost laugh out
loud.
This isn't a motorcycle race,
I want to say.
I can't
die from riding a man.
Then I frown. I could have died rolling
down a hill. I glance at Pax again. He cocks an eyebrow in my
direction.

"It's just like
practice, man," Ref tells Pax. "Just be thankful it ain't
Coach sitting on you this time," he laughs.

"Oh, I'm not
complaining," Pax assures him without taking his eyes off me.
"This ride's going to be a sweet one."

I know he doesn't mean
it. He's probably playing up to the crowd. I'm bolder tonight than
I've ever been so I don't drop his gaze. He seems to like that. His
grin widens.

"I'm going to go
down on you."

The words are louder
than the roar in my head. The words are so loud I freeze.

"Near you."
Pax smiles in apology, but his eyes are mischievous. "I'm going
to go down near you so you can get off, er,
up
."

I can only stare at
him. I don't know if I should laugh or blush. Or maybe both. I settle
for lifting an eyebrow, mimicking him. Pax drops in front of me, like
an arrow to his target. The crowd cheers, restless for some action
when they see his position on the ground.
It's like a show,
I
remind myself.
We're putting on an act.
I trace the curve of
his back with my eyes, lingering on the arch right above his butt,
the curve where a part of me will be on. Something soft and foreign
flutters through me.

"All right."
Cade turns to me. "When you get on him, just wiggle around until
you're comfortable."

I manage to contain the
fluttering so my hands don't shake. "Wiggle. Got it." I
shift from one foot to another. "Anything else?"

Pax hears the exchange
because he speaks up. Looking over his shoulder, he says, "Have
fun." A dimple pops out again, sweet, and amusing, and tempting
all at once.

Ref blows his whistle
to gather everyone's attention. The sharp cry doesn't deter Pax as I
watch him do a few push-ups on the ground to get ready. Watching him
move is like watching a panther move. Pax's body is a fluid line of
rippling muscles so defined and distinct, his skin creates an
illusion of secret crevices.

"Every push up is
a dollar," Cade shouts to the crowd, reminding them for the
thousandth time. "Let's save some fucking lives!" Shouts
and applause follow his words as if he's given some grand
life-altering speech.

The applause is
deafening when I'm nudged closer to Pax. The fine sheen of sweat
glimmering over his back is like clear scales marking his physical
exertion. Pax senses my presence and stops in mid motion. Without
looking at me, he asks, "Ready?" I nod, and then I realize
he can't see me.

"Yes." I
sound steady.

I feel everyone's eyes
pinned to me like a magnifying glass. I slip one leg over, and the
second he feels my touch, he bucks, arching his back until he rubs
against my center.

"Wrap your legs
tighter."

I adjust myself,
becoming more aware that my suspicions were right. He doesn't feel
like a cardboard. He's the furthest thing from that. He's warm like
an electric blanket, but this electric blanket is filled with iron,
pulsing with life.

"One… two…"

A ripple of movement
from him creates a pleasant friction between my legs. I gasp because
being on top of him isn't like any sensation I've felt before. The
undulated waves of skin I feel are a combination of soft and hard,
slow and fast. Pax is so wide; my feet barely touch the ground as he
moves. Straightening to gain a better balance, my hands clutch at his
shoulders, unconsciously kneading them between my fingers.

"Six… seven…"
His voice shakes.

I bend down to whisper
in his ears. "You okay?"

"Eight…" He
pauses to whisper back, "Your hands are tickling me."

I sit back. "Oh."
Something sneaky comes over me, and my fingers find his shoulders
again. I wiggle them into the space where his neck and shoulders
meet.

The crowd counts.
"Nine… Ten…"

"Hey," his
even voice breaks. "Stop that." I bite my lips, but
continue to let my fingers roam. "This is for charity!" he
exclaims. My fingers still, but only because I feel his whole body
quake. I don't want him to stop if he can still continue.

"Eleven…
twelve…"

I pinch the skin on his
back. "Spontaneous enough for you?" Something propels me to
say. His low laugh is the only answer I get. We move up and then
down.

Up. And then down.

"Sixteen…
Seventeen…"

Down.

Up.

I realize as I sit on
top of him that my high is slowly fading. The alcohol is wearing off.
I'm no longer on the peak, riding that wave, but I haven't fallen
either.

Up.

I don't know how much
that means to me until I hear myself sigh with relief.

It's a gray day.

It's always a gray day
when I start something new.

It was a gray day for
my first kiss. It was a gray day for my first date. The clouds
covered the skies my entire trip from Minnesota to Wisconsin. It's as
if the universe hasn't made up its mind about me yet; not enough to
offer encouragement like sunshine or maybe a break once in a while.
It's as if it’s still waiting for me to prove myself. Like they're
waiting for me to just do...
something
.

I'm trying!
I
think with exasperation as I fumble with the hood covering my head.
It's why I applied here. It's why I risked everything just to try for
a normal life. Light rain falls with just enough pressure to feel
each splash. A flash of lightning is seen against gray clouds. I
continue walking, praying the clouds won't drop a load on me. I'm
down to my last pair of tennis shoes, and I'd prefer not to walk
around with wet shoes all day. I quicken my steps.

It's only nine thirty
in the morning, but I want to get to work early. I want to make a
good impression. I read somewhere managers like timely employees. It
was hard finding this job. I learned during countless interviews that
jobs like waitressing and retail aren't just for students anymore.
More and more older people are vying for the same positions, fighting
for a way to feed their families. In some cases, the older adults are
often more dependable, and will work harder because there's more at
stake for them.

The woman who told me
that was stern. Her name was Anna and she was the manager for
"Maddie's" a local restaurant and bar not too far from
campus.

"How old are you?"
she asked me when I first walked up to her for a job. I'd been
applying to several places all day, and it was futile but I hoped I
didn't look as exhausted as I felt.

"Eighteen."

Her eyebrows shot up.
"You don't look a day over fifteen."

"I'm eighteen."
I tried to make my small body taller. I know what she saw when she
looked at me: brown-blonde hair, dull gray eyes, and small lips on
top of a body too petite to be attractive.

I tried to look
friendly. I tried to smile. I tried to do everything I thought a
normal eighteen-year-old would do, but it was hard to maintain my
façade when all I saw was the coral on her lips, and the analysis in
her eyes that reminded me too much of someone I wanted to forget.

"You go to UW?"

"I will, yes."

"We're very
popular with the college crowd and others during the day," she
informed me. "But at night we host events for businesses. It's
where we get the bulk of our money." Her eyes traveled the
length of me, lingering on my short legs and small waist. "Our
waitresses are the highest quality." The way she said it made me
feel like I wasn't what she was looking for. Her eyes narrowed on my
chest, further confirming it.

"I'm a hard
worker," I told her quietly. I folded my fingers in front of me.
"You wouldn't regret it." Her gaze is cool, and continued
to assess me.

"We're only
looking to fill one position and someone just got hired for it this
morning," she finally told me. My heart sank, and I resisted the
urge to flinch. Rejection shouldn't sting so much, but desperation
makes everything hurt twice as sharp.

"Thank you for
letting me know," I say softly. "Thank you for your time."
I remember to be polite. My hands fell to my side.

"You have neat
nails," she told me, nodding toward my fingers. "Short,
clean, ready to work." A faint smile touched her lips. "My
grandmother always said that was the difference between a wife and a
gold digger."

"Your grandmother
must have been friends with
my
grandmother. It sounds like
something she would've said." A hint of emotion in my voice
betrayed me, and she nodded thoughtfully.

"Maybe."

There was no need for
me to be here any longer. I took a deep breath, and turned to go.

"You're hired."

I paused, unsure I
heard correctly. "What?"

"You're hired,"
she repeated again, sending a dizzying relief spiraling through me.
Quickly, I turned around. Her thoughtful gaze pierced me, prodding
even as she already made her decision. "You start on Sunday.
Don't be late."

I stared at her, almost
frozen with shock.
Was she serious?
I almost blurt it out, but
beat the words back down at the last second, and instead say, "Thank
you."

She nodded. "This
is just a trial run," she warned me. "You can be let go at
any time if we feel you're not doing your job properly."

"I understand."

She folded her arms
across her chest. "I don't like tardiness. And I don't like
excuses."

"Yes."

"We're a reputable
organization and I want it to stay that way. That means everyone is
on their best behaviors at all times." Her voice turned harder.
I wonder if she was remembering something.

"I understand."

"I hope you do."
Her shrewd glance swept over me once more. "One more thing."

"Yes?" I
resisted the urge to glance toward the doorway. I wanted to leave as
soon as possible in case she changed her mind again.

"Don't grow out
your nails."

That was the first
smile I felt all day.

The memory sparks
another faint grin as I spot the "Maddie's" sign. A second
flash of lightning whips across the sky, lighting the sign up even
brighter, like the glow of a savior.

I can't count the
number of times Grandma and I have been desperate for a job. I was
four years old the first time I felt it. Hunger, the deep,
bone-gnawing type where you feel like your stomach is eating itself
because it's so desperate for food. It was the type of hunger where
it hurt to speak about it; where it was better to suffer quietly than
to remind myself of how much my stomach burned for nourishment.

I got very sick. I
remember because our Hispanic neighbors wanted to bring in a priest.
I recall the familiar melody of Spanish, but in my haze it sounded
different- frantic, insistent. I was hot and cold at the same time. I
was tired and numb. I don't know how long I lay in our makeshift cot.
I dreamt of dry, cracked soil that swallowed me up. I dreamt I saw my
mother. She was a dark shadow I couldn't reach.

I dreamt black eyes
looked down from the sky, and my stomach disappeared until there was
an empty hole where my insides used to be. A hand full of stars
reached down and started to fill me with fire. I lay in flames,
burning to death. When I was nothing but ashes I woke again.
Grandma's cool hands palmed my forehead, and we stayed like that,
connected, still alive against every odd.

The next day we moved,
and the cycle began again. We followed the harvest, traveling all
over the country. During the winter months I went to school, and
Grandma tried to find little jobs to tie us over. Winters were the
hardest for us. By the time I was ten I'd lived in almost every state
in the country. When I was twelve, we settled in Minnesota.

At twelve I was wise
beyond my years. I'd felt hunger, pain, and fatigue, even the brush
of death. I didn't think there was more to feel. I thought I was numb
to everything.

I was wrong.

My fists clench, and I
stare at the Maddie's sign, desperate to engrave it in my head, to
light up the black hole my memories are creating. I force myself to
be motionless, to be like the trees I used to climb.

Someone opens the door
to exit, and a bell rings, jerking me from my stillness. "Excuse
me," I say softly, stepping away from the person exiting.

"No problem,"
a male voice answers. Suddenly, a hand clasps my arm. "Decided
not to roll today, huh?"

My gaze crashes with
his. I almost take a step back when I see whom it is. Green eyes meet
mine head on, and in the daytime I see the emerald color more
clearly. The dark tousled hair from last night is actually black. Pax
smiles and I see the dimple Nat talked about; a perfect indentation
on his cheek that looks like a wink every time he flashes it.

"Apparently
rolling can be hazardous to one's health," I reply.

"Maybe you should
try riding," he suggests with a grin.

"Been there, done
that. The ride doesn't get me where I need to go." I don't hear
the double meaning until both his eyebrows shoot up. His eyes are
glowing with amusement when I feel a faint blush wash over my face.
"Um, er, what I meant was…I was referring to the fact that we
don't really move forward, just up and down-"

"Maybe we need to
try that ride again," he interrupts mischievously. "Maybe
this time you'll get to… where you need to go."