Page 22 of Best Man on Campus

“Do I need to beat him up for you?” Fuck. His concern, albeit half-joking, disarms me. He snaps my resentment like a weak twig and my defenses are gone. I resort to sass. It’s all I have left.

“As if you could.”

He snorts. “I’m serious, Jazzy. Was he disrespectful to you?” His words are calm and purposeful and I sense the edge underneath.

“No beating necessary. I can take care of myself.”

“Okay. I heard he was a good guy, but you never know.”

“No, you never do, Leon.” Killian’s ghost floats into my consciousness but I swipe him away with a burst of fear and desperation. “What’d you hear about him?” My question is reflexive and stupid, and I hold my breath waiting for an answer like I’m a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“Heard Ben Weaver is a finalist for the Hockey Humanitarian award. The team was in here one night last month celebrating. Where have you been, Jazzy?”

“On the dark side of the moon where I always am, Leon.” The fucking humanitarian award? I don’t bother asking what he did to rank that nomination. “You know I only come in to work. No mixing business with pleasure for me.” Until now.

Usually when I’m truly lonely and desperate and I want to play sex games, I go to a sleazy townie joint called The Bald Man’s Bar. They have twenty-cent beers every Wednesday night and attract a lively crowd of campus boys who aren’t choosey about their women. I go there to let out my pent-up anger and give some head in the parking lot, waiting to be seduced or enticed or something. Mostly waiting to be disappointed except I know better. The man-boys live down to all my expectations in their clumsy attempts no matter how hot they are, or how funny or strong or even sometimes nice.

They have one thing in common, every last one of them. They’re all clueless. They don’t get me. Not even close. They all think I’m crazy. Too crazy. None of them are strong enough to stand up to me, to take me on. Not until hockey boy. He’s in another league all by his fucking self.

“You going to the hockey game Tuesday night? It’s a playoff game and I hear—on top of being a humanitarian—this guy’s some kind of star player.”

“Since when are you a hockey fan?”

“You going to the game to see him play?”

“That your way of asking me if I like him? Cause it’s not like that.”

“Not like what? You playing games with him or he playing games with you?”

“None of the above.” I’m lying my ass off and he knows it, snorting into the phone and then clucking his tongue like a maiden aunt instead of a burly bald Black bartender.

I pause a beat, not knowing what I’m going to say until I say it because I feel the emotions taking over, the vulnerability oozing through the cracks in my tough-girl armor. “I’m afraid he’s the unicorn, Leon.”

“The unicorn? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m no poet, Jaz. I’m a fucking bartender. Give it to me straight.”

“It means he’s too good for me.”

“That’s a fucking load of shit if I ever heard one. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

It’s my turn to snort into the phone.

“The mirror doesn’t see everything, Leon. It doesn’t see my dark soul.”

“Oh that’s all?” he snarks. “Well forget that shit—there ain’t nothing wrong with a dark soul. We all have shadows and we all gotta live somehow. Take what you can Jaz, and let the rest fall into place. Besides, it didn’t look to me like he thought he was too good for you. That shit is all in your head.”

“Yes, it is. And your fucking words aren’t going to do me any good getting rid of my headcase. I gotta get some sleep.”

“You do that. No dreaming.” I end the call but now I’m afraid. Afraid to go to sleep, of what I’ll see in my dreams tonight. Afraid of the bloody nightmare. The pills aren’t going to save me tonight, I can sense it. So I pick up my guitar and play, bandaged hand and all, in spite of the throbbing.

I’m going to have to talk to Majik about Ben, about what happened between us. Not that I’m sure what happened. Except for fucking sex. And painfully pleasurable orgasms. I strum the sad chords without singing, my mind too busy. She’ll want me to call Dr. Dani, but I don’t need her. She can’t do anything for me. The only thing I can do now is gut it out. Fight through the pain and take what I can from life.

When I can stand on my own, I’ll find that crazy bitch who put an end to Killian. That’s when I’ll put an end to my nightmares.

I wake up at dawn without realizing I ever fell asleep, knowing it wasn’t for long. My head’s fuzzy. The sound of birds squawking and the bright morning sun streaming in the window don’t help.

Ben is the first image my mind focuses on. Fuck. What do I do about him? Throwing off the well-used blanket, the scent of sex and man—Ben’s scent assails me like a ghost and I’m not sure if it’s a friendly one or a bad one.

Stripping off my clothes as I head for the bathroom, I turn on the water as hot as it’ll go, feeling sore and rumpled and different. Somehow changed by the sex or the specter of a unicorn, maybe both. But they’re both mirages, fleeting and not real enough to stand up to scrutiny under the clear light of day. I step into the shower and soak in the cleansing power of the hot water.