Whiskey at Midnight, page 9
Mark and Wren return with their drinks before Emma can say anything to Cam. Wren touches Emma’s hand as she hands Emma’s beer over. It makes everything worse. For all her faults, Wren is a pretty decent person. She doesn’t need Emma to be doing this to her. She doesn’t deserve it. No one deserves it, really.
When her beer is empty, Emma says, “I have a headache, so I’m going to head out.” It might not end up being such a lie, the way she feels. Cam and Mark wave goodbye. Steve hugs her tightly.
Wren just raises an eyebrow. “I’ll wait outside with you,” she says. It’s another one of those things that Wren does that is the right thing to do, but it comes off as wrong to Emma.
Outside, Emma tells her to stay there at the bar because she can’t remember if Wren has proposed going home as well or just walking her out. “My home is close, I’ll walk it,” she says. Wren doesn’t say anything to dissuade Emma, which is kind of the best part about Wren most of the time. She leans in and kisses Emma’s cheek.
Walking around late at night is probably one of the dumbest things Emma could do. She smiles sadly. It’s exactly the kind of thing she would do now. She doesn’t see anyone on the walk home. It’s creepier that way.
Emma falls apart in the shower. The water is too hot, almost scalding, like the first time she showered at Wren’s. Emma feels herself deflating. She sinks to the bottom of the shower and cries. She never understood people who said they hated themselves. She thinks she gets it now.
She’s shaking by the end of the shower. The water has turned lukewarm. She’s stopped crying at some point. Now she just shakes and gasps. She barely dries off with a towel, finds that it’s too rough against her skin. She can’t pull herself together enough to find clothes to put on. Instead she pulls a robe on and ties the sash.
There’s a tentative knock at her door. It’s too late for a salesman and most of her friends don’t know where she lives other than Cam. It’s always helped, knowing that no one can bother her when she’s at home. She’s just angry enough at being interrupted that she flings the door open, doesn’t even consider not answering it.
It’s Wren. She flinches when Emma wrenches the door open and the look on Emma’s face doesn’t seem to help matters. Wren’s eyes aren’t as alert as they normally are. She seems to shrink in front of Emma, as if she expects Emma to lash out, or slap her, or slam the door in her face. Emma pulls Wren into the apartment. Nevermind that Emma doesn’t remember ever telling Wren where she lives. Which building, sure, but not which apartment.
Wren stands awkwardly inside and doesn’t make eye contact with Emma. Wren never looks awkward. Wren always looks quietly confident or bored.
“What happened?” Emma asks. It seems silly to ask even as she does it. But it can’t be much later than when she left the bar and Wren wasn’t drunk then.
Wren raises her eyebrows. It’s the first thing she’s done since arriving that is actually like her. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to ask you?”
Emma won’t tell her, couldn’t even if she wanted to. So she shrugs and says, “I had a headache.” She doesn’t even know what she looks like, if her face has puffed up to twice its normal size due to all the crying. But Wren doesn’t call her on it.
“Alright,” Wren says in a hollow voice. She turns back toward the door. “I should probably be going then.” She seems a lot less drunk. Emma might let her go if Wren wasn’t dumb enough to walk to her apartment from Emma’s rather than call a cab.
Emma sighs, grabs onto Wren’s wrist and leads her toward the bedroom. “You might as well spend the night,” she says. She drops Wren’s arm and crosses toward the dresser, the same one she’s had since high school, and feels a little sick when she turns around with clothes in hand. Wren is standing by the bed, naked, and all Emma can see is the map of bruises she has left on Wren’s thin body. There are more than Emma remembered underneath Wren’s tanktop. That’s exactly what she needed, a physical reminder of how selfish she’s been.
Wren looks at Emma curiously then down at her own body. Her jaw tightens and she bends down toward her jeans and pulls a cigarette out of the pack she’s kept in her back pocket. Even though no one smokes in Emma’s apartment, she lights up. Emma doesn’t tell her she can’t smoke. Emma just stands there, holding the clothes, and feeling useless while Wren sits on the edge of the bed.
“We can just go to sleep,” Emma says, like it fixes whatever has transpired between them. Wren doesn’t put on the clothes Emma has laid out for her. She walks across the room, toward the window, and opens it to finish smoking. She flicks the butt outside when she’s done. Again, Wren ignores the clothes walking back to the bed and slides under the covers on the side Emma doesn’t sleep on.
Emma’s always been the type to hold onto things that make it seem like everything is fine. When her first girlfriend broke up with her, Emma still wore the t-shirt her girlfriend had given her as a Christmas present. She meant for it to come across as a sign that she wasn’t heartbroken, like wearing the shirt was a sign for everyone to see and understand. When that hasn’t worked, Emma has turned to wishes. When her parents first started arguing, when she was little, she would wish on every shooting star that she saw, even spent her birthday wishes on them working things out. They did and even though Emma sneers at people who are overly superstitious, she’s not sure that all the wishing didn’t work. But she doesn’t have a shooting star and it’s not her birthday. She doesn’t even have a dumb shirt to wear to send a message. All she has is a naked girl in her bed and all they’re really good at is fucking.
That’s what she tells herself when she crosses the invisible barrier between them and kisses Wren roughly. It’s their kind of normal when Wren starts to kiss back and Emma’s tongue slips into Wren’s mouth. Wren tastes like chemicals and fruit. She must have had a few shots with Steve before coming over.
Thoughts of Steve leads to thoughts of Wren and Steve together. Emma can’t help it that she bites Wren’s lip then, hard enough to draw blood. Wren gasps but doesn’t object. She never does. She just pulls Emma closer to her until Emma is above her.
Emma pulls on Wren’s shoulders until Wren sits up in the bed. It’s a powerful feeling, sitting on Wren’s lap. Wren, who looks like she shouldn’t be able to take Emma’s weight. Emma rakes her nails down Wren’s back until Wren begins to shake. She tries to ignore the fact that Wren isn’t really playing along this time. Instead of holding onto Emma desperately, she’s caressing Emma’s back, like they do things that way. So Emma bites Wren’s shoulder, but Wren still continues to fucking caress her. Emma pushes Wren down onto her back again, grabs Wren’s wrists and pushes them above Wren’s head.
“Don’t move them,” says Emma.
Wren nods and grabs hold of the headboard. She licks at the spot of blood that has pooled on her lip, then bites the spot after another moment.
It’s something between love and hate that grabs hold of Emma. She pinches one of Wren’s nipples while kissing the other. The combination of gentle kissing and harsh treatment of her other nipple causes Wren to buck her hips up. For the first time since Cam spoke to Emma that night, it feels like something is going right. She kisses all over Wren’s body, sweet kisses, while she holds Wren down with a bruising grip. Or else she lets her fingers dance down the length of Wren’s body while she nips other spots. If Wren wants sweet, this is what she gets.
“Emma,” Wren says with her head lifted off the pillow.
But whatever Wren has to say can’t be as good as what Emma is currently doing. Emma leans up and kisses Wren’s lips, effectively stopping her from speaking. Emma can taste the blood from Wren’s lip. When they stop kissing, Wren falls back onto the pillow with a small smile on her face.
Emma prefers to fuck Wren with her fingers. It’s easier to watch that way. It also leaves her mouth free to do whatever she wants, kissing Wren or biting smooth skin. Wren must have noticed this too because she gasps in surprise when Emma first licks her clit. She relaxes and spreads her legs a little wider for Emma. She’s still holding onto the headboard and that makes Emma smile. Making Wren cum is the best she’s felt all night and she tries to do it again but Wren lets go of the headboard and pulls her back up, toward the head of the bed. Wren kisses her until there’s nothing of Wren left on her mouth but her lips.
“I liked that,” Wren says and flips them over. Emma lets her stay there for the moment, lets Wren kiss her again, but grabs onto her wrist when Wren starts to touch Emma’s cunt. Emma is so wet she can’t quite believe she’s actually going to stop Wren, but she does.
Emma kisses her again, tasting iron, when Wren looks confused. “Tonight was about you,” she says. It almost sounds like the truth.
Chapter Four
There’s a special level in Hell for people who order half sweet and half unsweet tea. It’s not even about the tea. It’s the principle of it all. Another annoying kind of customer are the ones who ask to sit next to a window in the middle of the afternoon and then complain when there’s a glare on the television. Wren has the privilege of waiting on a table that consists of both kinds of customers and a fussy child who has already thrown his cup on the floor twice.
The way the hostess looked at her when she dropped off the high chair, her eyes peeking up at Wren, makes this particular table seem like a punishment. It’s not like the girl was looking at her with an apologetic smile on her face. No, it was more like a leer. Fuck her.
One burger, medium rare, with everything on it. One burger, well done, only lettuce and ketchup. One child’s macaroni and cheese. The end is in sight after that. One check to make sure the food is acceptable. It’s not. One check to make sure the remade burger is better. It’ll do. One trip to refill their drinks. One trip to a manager to apply their coupon. It’s out of date but Dave does it anyway when Wren gives him a pleading look. The happy table is gone after that, leaving behind a mess and no tip.
Wren can’t complain. A regular left her a good tip earlier in the day and the nightmare table didn’t complain about her to a manager. Not that Dave would have cared about their complaints.
They’re the last table of the day. Then she can shower the smell of fries out of her hair.
It’s not karaoke night. She won’t have to deal with anyone if she chooses to stay in. She’ll go out anyway.
She sits on the curb outside of work and smokes a cigarette. It’s not allowed when she has her uniform on but she rips the shirt off as soon as she’s clocked out. She looks like the world’s biggest muffmuncher in her baggy black slacks and white tanktop. It makes her smile. The sun hasn’t set yet. She closes her eyes and lets the beams fall across her face.
“Alright then?” It’s Steve. He flops down next to her and steals a cigarette. He’s finally taken the time to shave his head again. Good thing, too, he was starting to not look like himself. “What do you say to some pool tonight?”
“I don’t play pool.”
“Too good for it? Then what are you planning on doing?” Steve nudges her in the side and she almost falls over.
“Probably go see Reese and Taylor,” she says.
Over the last few weeks the glances between Reese and Taylor have turned into casual flirting. The way Taylor’s cheeks flush when Reese says something about getting wet behind the bar is better than any TV show Wren has ever seen. Besides, the two bartenders are nice enough and Wren usually gets at least one free drink. It’s always a good idea to have a regular bar to frequent.
“Yeah? You gonna see Emma then?”
Wren shrugs. There’s a wet spot on her knee where she spilled ketchup on her pants and had to wash it off. She pokes at it.
“So that’s still going on.” Steve shakes his head. “You’re either a lot dumber than me or a lot braver. Getting involved with someone who’s in love with someone else. That’s some tricky stuff.”
“Fuck off,” Wren says and lights another cigarette.
Steve grins. He touches his chest and mocks being hurt. “Oh, come on.”
There’s silence for a few moments. Steve takes another cigarette from the pack at Wren’s feet. It might be a whiskey night if Wren’s bank account is looking good.
“Is she the reason you called us off?” Steve asks. He’d guessed as much when Wren told him she was done. The topic hadn’t really come up since.
“It was becoming familiar. Not as much fun,” Wren says.
Steve grins like he’s caught onto something. He snaps his fingers. “She is. I don’t care. Sleep with girls all you want. But you’re an idiot for doing it with her, whatever this thing is. I’ve seen you with her. You care. You actually care. And she’s going to break your heart.” He doesn’t say it with relish. He looks at her thoughtfully and shakes his head.
“Fuck off.” She grabs the pack at her feet and starts walking to her car.
“See you later, alligator,” he calls out.
Wren slams her car door closed. Steve doesn’t know what he’s talking about. She relaxes when she cranks the car and music blares out of the speakers. It’s not much, but it’s enough to get the day back on the right track.
It’s music and her pictures that get her through the days. Another visit with Trudy and the Bucktons has come and gone. She’s passed with flying colors once again. Trudy only asks if her friend has stayed over once before leaving, saying that she’ll see Wren again the next month over her shoulder. Trudy is another person who can go fuck herself.
Wren has a message from her father on her voicemail. He asks how classes are going in a distracted voice. Before ending the message, he asks if she needs more money, his voice less distracted, a little more fearful. He doesn’t say he loves her before hanging up.
It’d be that easy to get more money each month. Between her job and the money he throws at her, she has enough. There’s no need to push her luck. She mostly spends her money on cigarettes and alcohol anyway.
She’s been applying heavy eye makeup for so long that she fails when she tries to put on a light amount. It doesn’t matter. She looks better with too much. It’s what people expect from her. Just like they expect tight jeans and tanktops when it’s warm out. There is no ever changing wardrobe for Wren Mathis. Getting ready is always easy.
Emma hasn’t text her all day. They have no plans together. Wren doesn’t bother to tell her where she’s going. It’s not like Wren isn’t used to drinking alone. She checks her phone again before heading out. Nothing.
There’s no live music at the bar. Taylor is singing along to the radio while she cleans some glasses. Reese is sitting at the bar in regular clothes, nursing a drink in front of her. She stares upward at one of the speakers like it has betrayed her for playing such awful music.
“You’re not working?” Wren asks, sliding into a chair next to Reese.
Reese’s hair isn’t pulled into braids for once. It cascades down her back in wavy layers. It’s too bad the braids have become her staple hairstyle. She laughs and Wren is hit with the smell of liquor. “We can’t both work all the time.”
It makes sense. Wren has only seen the two of them bartending. Occasionally a guest bartender might be there, but that only happens a few times a year.
“Why doesn’t the owner hire more bartenders?” Wren asks.
Reese shrugs her shoulders with an exaggerated smile on her face. “Beats me,” she says. Then, in a lower voice, directed at Taylor, she says, “But it won’t always be that way.”
Taylor laughs and nods her head vigorously, pleased with Reese’s words. Neither of them explain themselves.
“Okay,” Wren says. She is about to order a drink when Taylor pulls her hands out of the soapy water and wipes them off. She still hasn’t had a chance to speak before Taylor sets down a whiskey in front of her. Wren smiles. Whiskey night it is.
Reese drinks more than Wren does on a bad night. Unlike Wren on her bad nights, Reese is pleasant. She talks about traveling, if she had the time. Reese’s cheeks flush as she speaks. It’s probably from the drinking, possibly from having a good time. She fills the silence and doesn’t complain that Wren isn’t talking much. Her face is open and animated. She bites her lip or smiles wide. Everything that she does, every emotion that plays across her face, makes Wren look at her lips. No wonder Taylor stares all the time.
But Reese isn’t Wren’s type. Whatever Wren’s type is.
After every drink Taylor sets down in front of Reese, Reese reminds the bartender that she’s supposed to get her home. It sounds innocent coming from Reese’s mouth. Taylor blushes anyway.
Wren hasn’t checked her phone since arriving at the bar. She still doesn’t when she slides off the chair and says she’s going out to smoke. There’s no one else out there. It’s not a night that brings many people out, especially to such a small bar. Wren stretches as the first bit of nicotine hits her system. Her side aches with the movement and her eyes open at the sensation. It must be from the last time she fucked Emma.
Her glass is resting on the patio table next to her. She swivels around to grab it and take a sip. When she does, she sees Emma walking along the sidewalk, toward the bar. She stops mid-motion and doesn’t pick up the glass. Emma is wearing jeans and a shirt with a frog on it. A goddamn cartoon frog. No one under the age of twelve should ever wear it, but it’s kind of adorable in a nerdy way.
“I thought you might be here,” Emma says. “I tried texting you.”
Wren starts to reach for her phone in her pocket but then stills. If it’s important, Emma will tell her now that she’s here. If it’s not, it doesn’t matter. But Emma just stands there, doesn’t tell her anything at all.
Some people are easy to figure out. Once you know what they want from you or expect of you, you can act accordingly. It’s hard to disappoint someone when you do exactly what they’ve come to expect of you. Emma, though, can be a little tricky at times.
