Lauren Blakely - The Thrill of It

Here, where there is sex and love, and love and sex, and they don’t just spill over into each other.

They are one and the same with him.

Harley

“I’ll expect your first writing exercises on character development by the end of the week. You can deliver them via email, and remember to think about what makes each person unique. What events informed them, how they grew up, how they were raised. All of those are part and parcel of what makes a character in a story come alive.”

My writing teacher taps the laptop screen for emphasis.

I grew up strangely, I was raised in a topsy turvy world. But now and then, memories flutter in and out of my mind of peaceful, sunny days from long ago. Maybe they’re all part and parcel of me.

“See you next week,” he says, then dismisses us.

Summer classes have begun, and I am hoping to enjoy writing again. That when I write for fun, it won’t be so bone dry. Funny, how blackmail can sap the love of something. I leave the classroom, grab my sunglasses from my purse and slide them on as I head outside.

I stop in my tracks when I see my mother waiting for me outside the building.

She’s been calling and writing to me for the last week, but I’ve ignored all her messages. Let’s be honest, there’s not much to say to each other.

“Harley,” she says crisply from her post standing sentry on the sidewalk.

“Barb,” I say, and this time I use her name not because she wants me to. But because she doesn’t deserve to be called mom.

“You haven’t returned any of my calls. Nor my emails.”

“That is a correct observation. I see your reporter skills are strong,” I say, and I can barely contain a wicked grin, because holy cow – I sassed her. I talked back and she’s not used to it.

She raises an eyebrow sharply as if that action alone can bend me back to her will, into her submission as the sister she wishes I were.

But I am not my mother’s daughter anymore. There was a time when we were cut from the same cloth, but no more.

“In any case, I’ve decided to forgive you.”

“Excuse me?” I scoff. “I think I might have heard you wrong.”

She nods. “I have been thinking about what you did. Your actions. Your choices. And I have a way for you to be forgiven.”

I’m dying to know what she has in store. “Oh, do tell.”

She gestures grandly to the modern building I just left. “I pay for your college. And I am glad to do so because education is a vital element in one’s growth. And I will continue to do so under one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That you come home and live with me again. That way I can help you.”

“Oh,” I say, letting the one syllable last forever. “Like rehab for my bad behavior?”

My sarcasm is lost on her.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I would call it. We can start over, we can have nightly chats, we can have dinners together. We can be open about your whereabouts so you don’t descend into your bad habits again.”

Right. Because talking with her would change things.

“So if I do this,” I say, as if I’m truly trying her experiment on for size, “Would you be willing to go to Miranda and confront her about the blackmail? Because I’m pretty sure what she did in forcing me to write that book is illegal, and you could expose her since that’s what you do. You expose people.”

She presses her plum-colored lips together as if she’s considering my request. “I could but I’m not sure that’s best. We don’t really want that getting out, do we? I think it’s best to let that sleeping dog lie.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, nodding as if I completely agree. “Definitely that one lie. I mean, sexting senators are so much more important than editors blackmailing your own daughter. You wouldn’t want that out. Because that might besmirch your unblemished reputation.”

“That’s not it. I just think we could both benefit from moving on. What do you say? Truce?”

She extends her hand. I look at it like it’s a diseased object.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you leave me no choice but to cut you off.”

She parks her hands on her hips, waiting for me to grovel. She has the trump card, right? She thinks she can buy me back. She thinks she can buy my love.

I shake my head. I’d like to cry, but my eyes are dried for her. I have no more tears. I have no more emotions to waste on her.

“So cut me off then,” I say like it’s no big deal.

She blinks, as if a UFO has just crashed through the sky, splattered onto the sidewalk and little green men are pouring out of it announcing they’re from another solar system. She’s as astonished at my brinksmanship as she’d be by the miniature aliens.

“Are you just going to drop out of college? Become a hooker full time?”

I point a finger at her. “Actually, allow me to make a correction since I know precision is important in your line of work, Barb. I wasn’t a hooker. I was a call girl. I was a specialized one. A very high class, high price call girl. So guess what that means?” I can’t bother to contain the grin. This is wonderful. This is me stubbing out a cigarette with my pointy heel.

“What?” she says with a quaky wavering voice.

“I made some serious bank, and I saved every single penny of it. Never spent a dime. So you can’t buy my love and I don’t need your money. Which means I don’t really see that there’s anything more for us to discuss.”

I could snap my finger, swivel around then strut off, reality show style. But I don’t. Instead, I simply walk away, and it hurts that she isn’t who I wanted her to be, but it also feels good that I finally found the words to tell her so.

In my own way. In my own time.

I am not my past. I am my present. I am my future. The past can chase you if you let it. You can spend your life trying to outrun it or you can stop running, turn around and look it in the face. I’ve stared down my past, and now I’m moving on. I am more than my past. I am my future and it belongs to me.

Trey

“Do you trust me?”

She rolls her eyes and says “Duh. I thought we’d established that by now.”

“I know. But do you trust me to do this without watching? I want you to close your eyes or else look the other way, okay?”

“Yes.”

She sits on the stool, crosses her legs, and clasps her hands in front of her. She’s wearing a jean skirt, black combat boots, and a tank top with a cartoon cat on it. In other words – she looks like my girl and I fucking love it.

“I’m not looking, I’m not looking, I’m not looking,” she says in a sing-song voice as she pointedly stares at the framed photos that line the walls of No Regrets. Blue butterflies on upper backs, stars on hips, dragonflies on forearms. The shop is closed now, it’s nearing midnight on a Thursday, and I wanted to do this after hours when I’m not on the clock. Besides, it’s a gift to her. An early birthday gift.

I press the transfer paper on her shoulder, the drawing I made to replace the first time I marked her with a design that kept her tied to her guilt. The red ribbon that was supposed to symbolize her love of her mom. She’s moved past it now, and I want her to live a life with no regrets, and god damn it, if that’s the name of our shop, then I need to be able to deliver. I’m building her red ribbon into a new design.

An hour later, her eyes are still fixed on a point on the wall. Maybe the butterflies, or maybe the tribal ink next to it. Hard to say, because I’ve barely glanced at her. Only enough to know she’s focused, and she’s tough, and she’s gritting her teeth through the pain that’s very nearly over.

I finish the final letter, giving a script-y end to the T in the words.

Then I put down the needle, and she relaxes, her shoulders slumping forward.

“You did great,” I tell her.

“Now let’s see if you did great,” she says. “Am I allowed to look?”

“Yes. You can look.”

Harley

I can’t stop staring at my shoulder.

I trace my finger around the design, mesmerized by its beauty. By its perfect-ness. By what it means.

Trey turned my red ribbon into a heart. But it’s a badass heart, the edges of it torn and tattered. It’s like the one on the notebook Joanne gave me, only it’s not misshapen. It’s whole, and it’s complete, and it’s tough as nails with the way it’s frayed on the outside. An arrow pierces it, clear through the center from one side of the heart to the other. Then there are words in a V at the bottom–Carry My Heart.

“It’s so unbelievably perfect,” I say, and I am awestruck. “I love it so much.”

“You do?” His voice is wobbly.

I glance up at him, barely able to tear myself away from the new ink. “Are you kidding me? It’s the coolest tat ever. It’s perfect for me. And it’s from you. And it means something. Why wouldn’t I love it?”

He shrugs. “I was just hoping you would. I mean, I didn’t want you to have to hunt down some other tattoo artist to redo mine. Or worse, get laser removal.”

I cup his cheeks, stubbly against my hands. “This is never being removed. I love it and I love you.”

“Happy early birthday.”

“My birthday’s not for another month.”

“So I like getting you stuff. I’ll get you something else when you finally turn twenty. What do you think about the arrow?” He returns his focus to his work.

“I love the arrow in the heart,” I say, then consider it thoughtfully, running my finger across the art on my skin. “Is it coming or going though?”