Page 66 of Dirty Chorus

Charlie

Noah must have taken my question and twisted it. He was so turned on by me, but the second I asked to be with him he ran away again. I can’t tell if he wants to let me down easy, or tell me he wants more.

I had buried my pussy in a coffin, nailed it shut from everyone; but now I’ve given Noah a hammer to claw off the nails, wrench open the lid and take it. He can treat me like those guys in smut books treat their lovers. He can learn all my angles and curves. If I hand him the chains, he can wrap them around my neck, and I’ll gladly be whatever he wants. But each and every time I throw myself at him, he runs away like his life depends on it. I don’t get it. What is he running from?

I don’t know if he’s playing a wicked game, but he’s making me feel some sort of way; and it’s starting to hurt more than anything that I think my heart is actually glass, and instead he’s using the hammer to smash it to pieces.

I sit on my mattress in a baggy shirt, chewing at the edges of my hangnails and staring at the wet outlines of our bodies on the sheets.

The front door clicks, and I’m standing straight up from the sound. It’s not the squeaky sneakers of Ryder coming home late from his shift. It’s heels slapping, keys clanking on the counter, and a plop of a purse. There’s a long pause and pure silence.

My heart plummets to my stomach, but the beat thumps in my eardrums as it clicks in my head. I didn’t clean up the vodka. I bunch my fists into tight balls, shaking them in front of me as I mouth a curse. I grasp the hair brush on the nightstand, cross my legs and pretend to be innocent.

A light knock of a knuckle hits the wood of my door. The knob twists, and the loud squeak is just as horrifying as the fury burning in her retinas. Her long natural nails clink against the bottle in slow steady taps.

“Charlotte...” One eyebrow raises, and the wrinkle on the wedge of her lips twitches. Missiles are locking on me, and I’m in trouble as she zeros in.

I brush the ends of my hair and say, “That’s not mine.” Maybe she’ll take the bait and think it’s Ryder’s.

The vodka sloshes as she glances down at the green label. “Hmm... right.” She steps into my room and places the bottle on my dresser, using a thumb to wipe the condensation. “It’s cold...” Mom says as she scratches her chin as stares.

“So I'm guessing the shorts and shirt aren’t yours either, and the playing cards... should we talk about your black underwear too?” She has them pinched between two fingers.

I dig my nails into my upper arm, my nails leaving shallow crescents. “I can explain... I-” My throat catches on the words and I can’t say anything. The only thing I can register is my sweat pricking my skin.

“Who was over?” Mom runs her tongue over her bottom lip and lifts up her head. “Tell me. Who is he?”

“A friend.”

“A friend you're getting naked for? I can see the outlines of you both on your bed. Do you think I'm stupid?” she asks and cocks her head to the side. “And don’t play dumb with me, you have another hickie. That’s massive and bright red.”

Bile rises and threatens to make me gag as it coils in my stomach like a serpent. “He’s not like Brody...”

“Right... he’s not like Brody.” She puckers her lips together and nods her head, her hands resting on her hips as she paces back and forth. “But you’re spreading your legs for him.”

“Mom.”

She holds up her index finger, a clear sign that I'm in deep shit. So deep that shit is going to seep out of my eye sockets. I’ll be bathing in it. “You're acting like a slut!”

“Oh, so your virgin daughter is a slut now?” I laugh at the word and run both hands through my hair.

“We aren’t doing one of these meltdowns again!”

“You just called me a slut!” I press fingers against my chest, which is burning hot. Might as well throw gasoline on me to ignite me fully on fire.

“Jesus, Charlie!”

“You don’t know him! He’s from the church!” I cry out.

“That’s fan-fucking-tastic! Let’s just fuck right in front of the altar!”

“He’s the one who volunteers and cleans the church, and he plays music there!”

“Who?”

“Noah!”

Mom’s face twists like she’s trying to swallow his name and digest what I just said to her. “Oh, really?” She laughs at the question. “Noah Samuel?” she asks, and the heat rises in my cheeks. “You’re sleeping around with him? The kid who dropped out of high school and ran away to get high for years? Are you shitting me?”