37Merci beacoup to beta: Conspicuous Maliciousness!
SEVEN
Ten more reasons
Why I need somebody new just like you
Far more shocking than anything I ever knew
Right on cue
Can't Stop – Red Hot Chili Peppers
I pull my Converse on -an old present from Harry- and look up through the living room door. There's a smile on my face targeted towards the large Christmas tree standing rather regally in the corner between the TV and the window. It's all very ad hoc with the placing of the lights -flashing green, red, blue and yellow- and the placement of the baubles, and tinsel spontaneously wrapped from here to there, up and down. Glass reindeer glint in festive spirit from where they hang, and we've twisted red bows onto the lower branches too. Then there's the star.
Harry and I bickered about it so much Friday night that we didn't even notice dad push himself from his couch until he'd snatched it from the both of us. He went over and carefully placed it on the tree himself, all in silence. We watched him as he returned back to his seat, still having not graced us with a glance. Before Harry could make some joke, Dad looked out of the window into the dark street outside. "I think it's your mother's turn, this Christmas," he'd said. And then we'd all been quiet for another minute.
I stand and give the tree one more look before calling out to dad and Harry that I'm off.
I love Christmas. It was better when my mum was alive, but even now that she's gone I've always felt closer to dad and Harry during it. It's the one day that we spend the whole day with each other no matter what comes up. Harry switches his phone off- or at least pretends he does, but he gives us his full attention anyhow. Dad smiles more than usual, and wears those stupid paper hats- much to the amusement of Harry and I. And me? Well I'm allowed to play Elvis as much as I want, provided we get to listen to carols during the present opening and Christmas dinner.
My footsteps on the pavement grow louder as I move quicker, hating how the cold bites. It's half past twelve. I start work at the charity shop in town at one but I like to get there fifteen minutes early. It's habit, I think.
When I arrive I enter through the back. I see Rosa first, sorting out the new arrivals- donations. She beams when she sees me and lifts her head in acknowledgement. "Mikey. Good afternoon."
"Afternoon, Rosa." I shut the door behind me and begin to take off my coat just as my phone starts ringing. She looks at me, surprised. I'm sure her expression is mirrored on my own face. Hurriedly, I throw Rosa an apologetic look and start shrugging my coat back on as I pick my phone out of my pocket and step back out into the cold.
It's an unknown number, as it has to be. Harry and dad know where I am, and they've never called at this time before. Rich only ever texts- and those are few and far between anyway as we talk enough at school. Amber's a texter too, and Claire- ha! We have each other's numbers, but we've yet to have contacted each other with them.
I really have little to no need for a phone.
The corners of my lips tilt downwards as I press the green button and lift the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"Mikey."
I'm speechless, which is probably the worst state to be in when in the middle of a phone call. Despite the terrible quality, I'm pretty definite that it's Addison's voice on the other line, and that's... It's far from possible. Because he wouldn't call me. Why would he call me? Why does he even have my number? And how?
"Mikey?" His voice has come again, and it's like a needle to my bubble of thought; it pops. And I'm at a loss once again.
"I... Uh-"
"Happy Sunday," he says, and he sounds so strange- because he sounds happy. It's similar to how he sounded the night I met him actually, at the house party, sat on the floor looking up as he joked with Josh. I blink, recalculating.
"Happy Sunday?"
"What might you be up to?"
"I'm..." I look at the back door of the charity shop before turning to stare down at my Converse-clad feet. "About to work, actually. I... I'm working, now."
"Oh." He pauses for thought, I guess, and when he speaks I think I hear a smile in his tone. "Yeah, you work in town, don't you?" I narrow my eyes and look up, scrutinising every passer-by I see. Just in case.
"How do you know that?" But before he can answer I'm firing out another, "And how did you get my number?!" Addison chuckles.
"Harry's mentioned the whole job thing in passing," he says, and finishes there. I pick at my finger nails and then run the fidgeting hand through my hair.
"And my number..?" I ask, hating the hesitation in my voice.
"Oh, that," Addison draws out, and I can just feel the smirk. "I was at Josh's a couple of weeks ago. Amber's got your number. I asked her for it."
"You asked Amber for my number?!" I cut out, more shocked than anything. "Two weeks ago?" I'd only had her number for about three, but Addison is most certainly a fast-mover. Nothing surprising there.
"Around that."
There's silence, and I'm just listening to him breathe. I can feel the ridiculous butterflies churning up a storm in my gut, and I hate that the fact that he made some sort of effort to get my number has got me thinking anything other than "Addison is a twat who is using me somehow". And, now, here he is. Calling me.
First.
I know enough about this all to see that the person who calls first is... More into it..? Right? That's how it works.
Right.
But it's so damn hard to comprehend.
Addison sighs, but somehow this doesn't feel like when he rolled his eyes in the alley or sneered when he was putting me down back at the theatre. I hear rustling, which brings me back to the phone call.
"So... When do you finish up?"
"I only work three hours," I tell him, biting my lip right after.
"Which would be-"
"Four," I say, trying to keep calm. Which is stupid- stupid.
"Can I pick you up?" I don't want to understand or believe, and yet my cheeks are reddening and my heart is gaining speed. My eyes sink lower.
"Pick... me up?"
"We could go somewhere. Out."
"So... We're..."
"I asked. You didn't say no." I want to tell him that I didn't say yes either, but I'm scared that he'll drop, and I'll be left asking myself if it- this- is all a dream. And, unsurprisingly, I'm tired of living through dreams. Reality really is a hell of a lot sweeter. "So..?"
"Okay," I allow eventually, and then I tell him directions to the charity shop, regretting it even as I begin.
"See you at four," he practically sings, and I can't help blushing. "Bye, Mike," he says again, and just before I drop I hear a characteristically Addision chuckle, then he murmurs once again, "Happy Sunday."
I walk back into the charity shop at ten past one.
- M -
"Would you like some tea, Mikey?" It's Anna that greets me when I walk in this time, and tea is always her first suggestion when she sees me on Sunday afternoons.
"Yes," I reply as I always do, and she proceeds to offer me sugar. One. With milk.
"Rosa says you were on the phone," she begins as she sets the kettle on and then turns to the mini-fridge.
We're in the Staff Only section of the shop, which is marginally smaller than the main part of it, though that isn't really saying much; the main shop is fairly small too. Every surface is full, whether it's with books, clothes, shoes, games, vases, pottery, and it's all second-hand. There are labels too, both empty new ones and the discarded old, and label guns poking out of cupboards and scissors on top of used mugs. Pens are frothing up and over their holders and rolling here and there.
It's an organised sort of chaos.
"I was, yes."
"We were just amused. Other kids are on their modern phones so often these days, but you, we've never seen you on yours before I believe. We wouldn't have believed you had one if we didn't have a contact number for you!" She laughs. I do a little too, surprised because she's probably right.
"Yeah, well," I reply, "It was a first for me too. Shall I start with the books?"
I love sorting out the books in the charity shop. It's not stressful or too difficult placing the authors into alphabetical order, but it's enough that I have to think about what I'm doing a little, making sure the Morrison goes in front of the Moss, and the Rose comes after the Robinson. When I've sorted them all, I bring out new books and place them on the shelves. It's always interesting, of course, and I sometimes see books that Iwould like to buy, which is not bad as what was anything from £1 up to £3 I can get for down to 40p -workers discount and all.
Historical romance after historical romance pass my hands- the kind of thing old ladies eat up, evidently, as they're usually gone the next week I volunteer- as well as the odd Anthony Horowitz and more Andy McNab than I can believe, and then two books that make me drop the pile I've been cradling in my hands.
"Mikey!? Are you alright?" Rosa and Debra- another frequent volunteer- turn to my direction, eyes like saucers, as Anna pokes her head through the staff only section.
"Mm- yeah, no, sorry, they slipped," I say, coughing out a laugh and scrambling to pick up the fallen literature, straightening any curled, pages and smoothing out spines. My heart is still a little unsteady as the three older members of the community either laugh or titter fondly, going back to manning the till, pricing clothing and sorting the shelves.
"Oh, and your tea is ready, love," Anna calls through the door she's retreated behind.
I swallow hard, staring at the cover of one of the books by a Stephan Niederweiser; Bend Over!: The Complete Guide to Anal Sex for Men.
Good Lord.
"Thank you, Anna. I'll be there in a sec." My voice is a squeak at best. I peer at the other one. THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF GORGEOUS GUYSit says. MORE THAN 400 IMAGES BY 46 LEADING PHOTOGRAPHERSit says. God, just the cover leaves little to the imagination, with a black and white of some buff, topless guy, chuckling casually as his stood in a lake or something with sodden boxer shorts. Yeah. We all know what wet underwear tries but fails miserably to conceal. And, okay, so I open it, just a little, to find nudity. And penis. One of the first pictures being pretty much just that, with purple flowers surrounding it as if they were pubic hair or something -which, actually, the comment beside it refers to. I mean, fuck, are you kidding me?! No matter how you arrange it, a penis is a penis.
Still, I feel a stirring of my own.
Good fuck.
I snap the book shut and stick a label on. I scribble £2 on it then shove it in with the other C's after glancing quickly at the author. Thank you, Barbara Cardy.
The other- rather thoughtful- book gets labelled for one pound, and then I place the rest in a pile and hurry to calm myself with some PG Tips, images of men posing in the nude refusing to exit out back anyhow. Whoever had donated the books clearly had interesting reading habits.
I can't help realising that, though I can recall a certain front man's nude upper body, his lower regions are not at all known to me- or, at least, I can't remember.
- M -
At three fifty-five I'm rearranging the women's skirts into size order, going by the numbers on those coloured box-like things on the hangers, and, I've found, the sizes can get pretty huge. For example, some hideous green thing could, I'm sure, fit half a dozen of me, at least.
By this time I'm usually pretty tired- and yes, working at a charity shop as small as this one can get pretty trying- but today, I've got the anticipation of Addison arriving to keep my nerves on edge. It's also now that I remember I have to let my brother and dad know, seeing as they'll both be expecting me home soon, no doubt, so I send them both texts to say I'm meeting Rich in town, and I don't know when I'll be home. That should do.
Three sharp knocks on the window closest to me almost send me flying into the air, along with Rosa and the other customers in the shop at the moment- those being a bald old man who doesn't seem aware of the fact that we can hear him fart, and a pregnant woman accompanied by her frail, but terrifyingly peremptory mother-, and I'm embarrassed to see Addison grin in a way that nearly makes him look cute, despite his punk appearance, and wave. Still, my heart does something funny in reply.
It's a few minutes to four, but when I look at Rosa while doing an excellent example of a goldfish, she smiles in this incredibly enigmatic way and nods that I "Just go, Mikey".
I don't need to be told twice.
I rush out to the other room to get my coat, and when I'm rushing back through the main shop the old man toots again, as if to wish me luck, and I can't help laughing a little as I open the door and begin to push Addison away from our audience.
"Hey, hey, did I embarrass you?" I allow him to stand on his own two feet when we're satisfyingly far enough away, and look him up and down. The simple answer is yes. He's got that gelled faux-hawk business going on, and his green eyes are lined in a deep, thick black. And, I'm no expert, but his clothes look pretty vampire hunter for general day wear. He's wearing a black t-shirt that says something unkind to the human race in an intimidating font -complete with a menacing skeleton favouring it's middle finger- and a black leather jacket on top of that adorned with buckle upon buckle, and zip upon zip. It can't even be for the cold December weather because it's sleeveless, and exposing pale -but not naked- arms. He's got arm warmers, or, I think that's what they are. But they're pretty bad-ass, obviously. Then there's a belt, so studded you can hardly see the black, holding up a pair of tight tartan trousers- God, and his shoes.
Well, they aren't shoes. Boots. Murderers, because one kick from those would end a life for sure. The main colour is black, but no surprise there, and there are red flames climbing from the heel all round it. And that heel! The whole sole of the boots are thick as the healthy bread my dad likes to eat. He towering more than he usually does. And he looks better than he usually does. He looks, as he usually does, like he should be on stage.
I blink up at him.
"Well..."
There's that slow smile again, and he seems to stand himself up taller as he turns away from me. "I'll pretend you said an immediate no." I blush hard and follow him as he begins to walk.
"Where are we going?"
"Food," Addison says.
"But where -" my phone vibrates.
You're going to town with Rich?
It's Harry. I send a quick reply in the affirmative and continue following Addison like a dog when I receive another.
You're in town? With Rich? Right now?
Yes you idiot, I type back. We're eating fish and chips, tell dad not to worry about lunch or anything. Now leave me alone please, Hairy. I'd put in the old nickname I used to call him to soften the whole leave me alone thing, but he still doesn't get it.
Mikey... I don't reply. Then Mikey, when will you be home?
I'll let you know, okay? SEE YOU.
After five minutes of silence, I relax. Why was he being such a weirdo, anyway? Dad has done the usual; not given a flying fuck. But I guess it is fair enough; Harry is still worrying.
Speaking of that- worrying I mean, I beginning to feel a similar emotion as Addison and I are still walking, he a few steps ahead of me.
When finally he turns, it's into a little side street, and it's without looking to see if I'm following. Without caring if I'm even still here.
A switch is pressed, and so suddenly I'm a kettle; I can feel my blood begin to boil.
I continue on his tracks, nonetheless, and almost stop dead. It's just as dingy as the alley between my house and town, though this one is made a hundred times worse by the fact that there are people here. A lot of people here. A mini gathering, really, leaning against the walls, smoking, holding onto each other, laughing, kissing, and looking at me. The only reason I keep my feet going, following the bastard walking towards what I realise is a door, is that some eyes are beginning to fill with recognition, and that's the opposite of what I want right now.
I realise this must be where they all hang. The rebel teens, the rockers, the metal heads, the children of the alternate lifestyle. Or that's what the T-shirts with the names Foo Fighters, Avenged Sevenfold and Guns 'n' Roses tell me.
My head ducks down and I hurry after Addison, blocking out all noise even more when I hear someone murmur my name in question.
Addison opens that bloody fucking door and steps in. I do so too, moments after, but it's even fucking worse in there. There are tables, and chairs, and people. There are bags and hoodies strewn across the floor, and with them, people. Boys, and girls, and boys and boys, and girls and girls, and people. And they're standing, and talking, and bobbing their heads to the music plugged into their ears as a friend of theirs tugs on their hats playfully, and another friend steals a phone out of another friend's grasp and throws it to another friend who sends a, no doubt rude, text on the sly to another friend who laughs and takes a picture of another friend kissing another friend who is kissing that friend right back.
My heart probably stops -for at least a second. It's Cara's party all over again, but this time I don't have Josh holding my hand. I have the bastard who raped me. Or- I don't. Because, as I stand in the doorway dumbly, all anger gone, replaced by cold fear, that bastard is walking forward, away. And he's already laughing loudly as one friend shouts his name, and offers a joke that, of course, I don't understand. It's an inside joke after all; shared between friends. And then someone's jumping on his back, albeit unsuccessfully, and another is blowing him a kiss, which he catches. A pillow is thrown at his crotch, another is thrown at his left shoulder, and he's offering both owners of the pillows offensive hand gestures, all in good humour.
Then he reaches his destination, because there's already a hand holding a slice of pizza out to him.
Food, he'd said. And I'd gone with it.
He eats the whole slice before he turns to me. And what an idiot, what a fucking idiot I must be, for him to know that I'd have followed him after all of that. That I'd still be here. And yet, here I am, rooted to the spot.
Then he does that degrading thing again. He jerks his fucking head. Raises his chin casually, eyes cool, telling me to come hither.
I can't help it.
I cry.
It's not out loud. My shoulders aren't even shaking. But I can definitely feel a lump in my throat, and the wet trails of tears brimming from my eyes down my cheeks.
Addison sees it, too. I can tell, because his body stiffens in shock, and his eyes widen in alarm. But that is all.
And it's in the moment that I hear the "Hey, is that Mikey Day?" and the "Harry's brother, right?" that I turn. It's hearing those that I run.
I don't go far. Out of the bloody building, and away from those lingering outside, but when I turn the corner there aren't a lot of places to go. This is a side of town I've never been too before so I don't want to get lost and I don't want to wander into any shops, so I sit on some benches in between a coffee shop and some New Age jeweller store, and I close my eyes, allowing more tears to ease themselves out.
I'd fallen for it all.
It's expected. It's fucking expected. How many times have I been warned? And I know it too. I knew it all along. Addison is a heartless douche bag. He uses people like my dad uses toothpicks, and discards them in the same way. He probably reels fish like me in all the fucking time, just to drop them on the ground and watch them flop and struggle, gasping for air.
He's a force not to be reckoned with. A tsunami, a disaster. A fucking snake in the greener grass I've been wishing to attain for who knows how long.
Someone settles next to me.
"Fuck. Right. Off."
My voice is quiet, as it often is, but anyone would get the picture. Unfortunately, this is Addison. His view on all things is rather aberrant.
"I'm sorry, Mikey."
I forget my anger for a moment. Addison has never apologised to me before. I know this because our conversations have run through my head so many times. He has never said he's sorry. Sure, he's used words to make it sound as if he was, like in that alley way about how much he'd liked what we'd done, what he'd done -which, you know, doesn't sound as romantic as it had when I think about the fact that he'd caused my inebriation and then raped me. But still, he'd just apologised.
Even so, the moment passes as moments generally do, and my anger returns with a stubborn vengeance. I repeat myself a little firmer.
"Fuck. Right. Off."
Addison is stubborn too of course, and we wouldn't be where we are today if he didn't like to get his own way, so when I feel his hand on mine, I'm not all that stunned.
This isn't to say that I'm happy about it.
My eyes whip open as I rip my hand from his and turn to Addison. "Keepaway from me!" I bite out. And I'm a little shaken to see him flinch. A Gothic, vampire-hunting attire wearer should not flinch. A king of metal and screaming into microphones should not look sorry. But Addison does both these things, suddenly looking too young to don the alternative clothing he's in. "Just fuck off," I mutter, taking off my glasses to wipe my tears before standing to move away- far, far away from his self-contradictory behaviour.
"Mikey, fuck, I amreallysorry-" and then he's following me. I twist and shove at his chest, eyebrows positioned in an angry V.
"Well did I taste good at least?!" I question bitterly, punctuating with another prod at his sternum.
"What?"
"Josh said," I tell him, forcing a lighter tone as I fake a smile, "'You should watch yourself.' That's what he told me. 'He'll eat you up,' he said." And then I laugh. "And Harry! Harrytold me up front that you were a douche bag!" Addison's face falls, which reminds me a little that Harry had said he was a good guy underneath it all too, but I carry on regardless. "So of course you want this hidden from him!" Addison looks limp. His shoulders fall with his eyes. "Of course you wouldn't give a shit about me," I continue, softer. "Of course you never liked me in the first place. Of course-" I pause, and my eyes fall from Addison too. "I mean, who am I?"
It was rhetorical, but Addison murmurs my name as if that is the simple answer. Or maybe it's the beginning of another apology- both of which still have me floored. I hadn't even meant it to sound as self-pitying as it had come out, but I was too tired and too angry to try and disguise my self-loathing.
"Go back to you fucking friends. Play your games with them. I was a stupid idiot for trusting you, but I'm not going to make that mistake again because you don't deserve it. Addison, leave me alone."
Then I start to walk.
He doesn't follow me. I hear footsteps, lots of them, but they belong to shoppers that I'd somehow managed to block out until now. One of their bags of purchased goods bumps my calf as my phone begins to ring, and I take it out and raise it to my ear quickly in case it's Harry again. It's not.
"Please don't drop, Mikey. Please just hear me out."
As I said. Stubborn. But I stop in my tracks and turn. He's where he was before, staring at me intently, almost hopefully, and communicating the desperation for me to hear his words through the distance. I nod, and I think he sees, despite the heads bobbing animatedly between us. Then he does something strange- like he always does. He pivots ninety degrees to face the New Age shop, and I hear and see him take in a deep breath. My facial expression is probably right off one of those anime programmes; the confused chibi character.
"I'm... I'm sorry, Mikey."
"You've said that," I cough out. I'm losing the steel.
"And I've told you I like you before, too, but I'll say it again because it's true." Ah, those familiar butterflies, but for once these serve to make me angrier.
"Yet you treat me like shit, Addison, so something doesn't quite add up."
I see his body tense up in the short silence that follows. "Can..." his voice had almost been weak, but he clears his throat and his whole posture is suddenly much improved- prouder, as if he's standing in front of a New Age shop in the suspicious side of town waiting for the Queen. Queen of the Dead, in his get-up. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Assuming you can be honest at all?" I say as angrily as I can, and I can see that he's struggling with himself on whether to turn to face me. The proud façade is denting already.
"Mikey, I'm trying. Please." I frown at the raw tone I hear and take an impatient breath, but I make no retort, and eventually he continues. "I... honestly, I like you. I'm attracted to a fuck load of people, and I know what people say about me- I sleep with a lot if people. But I don't like a lot of people. And, generally, the people I like don't like me."
"Ha!" I couldn't have stopped the outburst if I wanted to. Addison takes another hit and his demeanourfalls. I watch, confused, as his free hand grabs onto his leather jacket, playing self-consciously with a buckle hanging off it, and then his head falls and turns even further from me. I feel as if I fouled, but there's no ref in sight. "Sorry," I offer. "Go on."
"I don't usually do this," he tells me after a pause, "But because I genuinely want to- I don't know, try this whole boyfriend thing," my cheeks burn, and I glare at the fat lady blocking my view of Addison as she snaps a picture of some ugly pigeons until she moves. "I guess I might have tried to impress you." There's still that tinge of truth in his words but I'm desperate to call his bluff, because it's a simple why the fuck. Why the fuck does he like me?
"God," he laughs, "These boots are too fucking small, but everyone thinks they're cool, so, I thought you would too," and I find myself joining him because of the absurdity of the idea. "But I just ended up embarrassing you in front of your work place, and then you looked bored already -I mean, disinterested, you know? And I realised you," his tone is casual Asshole Addison again, but from where I'm standing, he's still a castle slowly crumbling down. "You don't like me, just like the rest of them."
"Fucking bull, I -" I shake my head, "If you seriously believe that, you are completely bat-shit. Did you just see yourself the way I did? Do you see how popular you are?"
"Popular for what reason?" he throws back. "Yeah, everyone fucking knows me because I sing for Naught a King. Because Naught a King is one of the best bands right now. Because everyone fucking wants something, uses me, and I'm so tired of it-"
"You're feeling sorry for yourself."
"I stopped feeling sorry for myself a long time ago, but it wouldn't be too surprising if I still did. It's no surprise that I fucking hate people. After all, some of my 'closest friends', the ones I put all my trust in, tell people to 'watch themselves' around me, and call me shit behind my back." he replies, and I feel guilt build as he finally turns to me, green eyes piercing through the distance. We're both stationary for a while, still in amongst the busy shoppers surrounding us. "Yeah, I've got to go."
"What gives you the idea that I don't like you?" When Addison doesn't answer, I take the risk and go on. "The fact that I didn't take heed of Harry's warning," I suggest softly. "And the fact that I was looking forward to seeing you after you called... Well those point otherwise." I think his eyes are widening. "And that, hard as I may have tried, I haven't been able to think only bad thoughts about you since that day when- when I saw you guys perform first," I decided to say, rather than dragging the sex bomb up into the open again.
"My heart's beating pretty fast too," I try again.
"Are you hungry?"
- M -
Dear Readers and Review-Suppliers,
Oh. My. Gawd. I am such a dialogue whore in this chapter. MY WORD, it's all bull! BULL I TELL YOU!
Wa' goin' ohn!?
"Help! Help!" I scream, as I stupidly tap on keys, "I know not where I'm going with this story! Help!"
Hmmph. Okay. So, I know the general direction, (WEST! WEST!) but I'm finding myself taking paths rather unknown.
I hope you enjoyed it anyhow, and I do look forward to your wonderful responses! And don't forget to visit the poll on my paage~
Best wishes,
Owner of a yellow cotton hat (with two ball things hanging from it, no less!).
P.S. I hope none of you are dead..