Making the most of what you had. Yeah, he could relate.
“Night, baby.”
“Good night, ma’am,” he responded, waving in response to her bright “Take care” before pushing back out into the night.
Back at the motel, his room stank of mold, despite the frigid temperature. He checked the A/C, which he’d left on low but which appeared to have a mind of its own and had taken the room to glacial. Damned thing.
Hit by a sudden wave of uncontrollable…something…he punched it, hard, his knuckles still suffering from Friday’s laser removal. It didn’t dent the machine, of course, which looked like a throwback to those prehistoric units he remembered from elementary school, but it felt good to hurt.
Am I fuckin’ crazy? he wondered as the burn all over his front throbbed in time with his knuckles. Not to mention the rest—his thigh, his back. Those hurt pretty much all the time. Especially with this humidity, although it was nothing compared to the way he ached before a storm.
“Goddamn weather vane,” he muttered as he grabbed the vodka on his way to the bathroom. Shit, he should have bought bleach. This place was gross, the grout black with fuzzy mold. He glanced at the booze, considered using that to clean with, and decided he was better off using it for its God-given purpose. Fuck all that Valium crap the shrink had given him. Vodka worked just fine.
It didn’t matter what the shit tasted like anyway, did it? As long as it did the trick. In fact, he’d taken to drinking the clear stuff because it didn’t hide behind smoke and caramel or any of those other cushioning screens. No, he drank the closest thing to rubbing alcohol that he could find—it wasn’t about pleasure, after all. Far from it.
Take your meds, Clay.
Girding himself for what he’d see, Clay unbuttoned his shirt before pulling it off and peeling away the T-shirt beneath. Oh fuck, it hurt as the cotton unstuck. Not at all like a fresh tattoo. Hot and raw. More like a burn. Which was pretty appropriate, considering what that friggin’ laser had done to him. He stretched his hand at the ache there, ignoring the pain on his eyelid, and stared at himself, hard. He’d put another coat of Vaseline on in a second.
Every fucking inch of the man before him was ruined—by experience, by life, by choice. Yeah, I chose this.
He’d chosen some of the ink, at least. The arms, the story they told of his family tree, stunted by the early death of his baby sister. There was the Santa Muerte, symbol of a vengeance he was close to reaping. Farther along was the Inca death mask, in honor of his dad’s people in Peru, whom he’d never get to meet, and their ancestors. Then there was the first tattoo he’d gotten—the one he’d never let anybody touch. Mercy, it said, and he stared at it to hold on to the good parts of his life. Carly—whose spirit had kept him going all these years. After a couple of seconds, he had to look away from it and return to the shit he’d done to avenge her.
He’d have done anything. Anything. To get her back? Fuck, he’d sell his soul.
* * *
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you punched him!”
“Punched him? Are you kidding me, George? I bitch-slap—” Jessie broke off, hand to her mouth, before noticing her son’s closed eyes, where he lay in the corner of the wicker sofa.
“He’s down,” said George. She sat back with a sigh, reached for her bottle, and was surprised to find it empty. “Oh my God, I never drink. This is…”
“Fun?” finished Jessie. “This is fun. Thank you for having us over. And…I don’t think he’s fallen asleep that easily in ages. Not to mention the fact that he ate carrots and salad without argument, which is a minor miracle. We’re coming over every night.”
“I wish you would.”
“Once a week, at least, just to get his veggies in. The pediatrician said that’s all you need, really. I’ll be golden.” They smiled at each other for a second or two, a little dorky, a little embarrassed, until Jessie went on. “No, but seriously. He’d be lucky to have someone more like you for a mother,” she said, her face losing all trace of humor.
“He’s a wonderful kid, but you’re a good mom.”
“Nope. Can’t take credit for that. That’s all him.”
It was loud where they sat out on the porch, night creatures chirping from the dark garden beyond the screens. In here, they were enveloped in a warm, orange candle glow, with the occasional tap of insects trying to get in. Funny. George must have had those candles for years, and this was the first time she’d lit more than one or two—the first occasion special enough to warrant a larger glow. Geez. It felt almost ceremonial and was most decidedly silly.
“Of course you can, Jessie. You’re his mother.”
Jessie sighed loudly, unapologetically, dramatically.
“You’ve built a life for the two of you. I’m impressed by how together you are, after…everything.”
“So, you’ve heard my story?”
“Not really. Uma admires you. She told me you’d had it rough. I remember she said you were a fighter.” George giggled, lifted her empty bottle, and reached across the coffee table to clank it against Jessie’s. “Which appears to be true.”
“Yeah, literally!”
George stood. “One more for the road?”
