Page 31 of Genesis
“Nothing. I usually don’t around here.”
“Why?” I ask.
He winks. “Better that way.”
I narrow my eyes in confusion as Paul walks up. “Little Girl is in the clubhouse.” He puts his arm around me, pulling me close in a brother-like hug.
“Are you drunk?” I ask him, laughing.
“Not yet, but I will be,” he says, letting me go. “And you see that blonde over there?”
I nod, spotting the blonde in a see-through shirt. That’s something you don’t see every day.
“She’s going to be su—”
“All right, man,” Danny says, interrupting him. “Why don’t you go over and work on that?” He pats his brother’s back and gently pushes him toward the woman.
I cover my mouth because I’ve never seen Paul like this. He’s usually the clear-headed one.
“Be safe,” he says, turning back and pointing to the two of us. “Love you, Bexley!” he calls out.
I shake my head in embarrassment as Danny laughs, looking down at me. “How about we go somewhere else?”
“You invited me here, remember?” I ask.
“No, I invited you out. Not here.”
I look toward the girl who was sitting in his lap.
“You don’t want me here.”
He follows my gaze. “What?” He laughs. “Fuck her. I’d just rather take you somewhere quieter.”
I narrow my eyes. “Like where?”
“I know a place,” he says.
I look around the clubhouse. It’s packed with rough-looking men and women who hardly wear anything. I do feel out of place. It’s not exactly as I remember when I was a kid.
“Okay,” I say.
He looks surmised. “Wow, she said yes.”
I roll my eyes.
“Let’s tell Johnny and Paul bye,” he says, grabbing my hand again.
After we say bye, we step back out into the cold. “I hope wherever you’re taking me, it’s warm,” I tell him, pulling my coat tighter around me.
“It is,” he says. “Come on. Let’s take my car.”
We head down the road with the heater turned up high. Danny takes us away from the neighborhood and through the shitty town of Postings. Sirens cry in the night and somewhere someone’s getting shot or robbed or God knows what.
I look over at him as we ride in his Impala. He wears jeans and a black hoodie. His knuckles are scarred silver, some with scabs still. His hair is dark and thick, his jawline pronounced. He looks over at me, giving me a curious lift of his lips before going back to the road, but he doesn’t say anything as his hand rests lazily on the bottom of the wheel. The radio is a noise filter, high enough to break the silence, yet low enough to help thoughts weave in and out.
I look out at the lake we now ride beside as the moon shines down on it. What am I doing?
I’m in the car with Danny O’Brien.
