“Don’t ever contact Harley again,” I told him.
“Harley called me. Said she wanted to hook up because she was fucking horny!” he cried. Guess he wasn’t used to being told what to do.
“Is that so?” I asked him. He nodded. I grabbed him by the collar and started beating his face in, not giving a single fuck as the blood-spattered back onto my face. It was for Kat. It was for Harley. It was for my own peace of mind. I’d rather him leave in an ambulance than any girl who’d gone out just hoping to have a good time.
I took Harley’s hand in mine and pulled her through the throng of onlookers. We met Locke neat the door and he offered me his bottle. I took a swig and saw that my hand was covered in blood.
“Nice party, Locke,” I said.
“Nice right hook, Wyatt.”
“Call me tomorrow?”
“You gonna pay for those floor boards?”
“Nice try, saw the foreclosure sign when I walked in.”
“Fucking nothing gets past you, dude.”
“Locke, this is Harley Brooks,” I told my friend.
Harley let go of my hand and sort of curtsied to Locke. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
We waked out the front door and down the rickety steps. I held onto her hand. She was wearing heels and a dress, had too much to drink, and the stairs were caving in and had seen better days.
“Shouldn’t I be scared to go home with you since you just beat a guy unprovoked and yanked me away from my friends?” She was slurring a bit. I put an arm around her waist and she hung her arms around my neck.
"If you think I'm going anywhere with you, you're crazy," she said, her voice a blur.
"Did he give you anything," I demanded.
"No, I am not stupid. I don't leave my drink unattended. I just drank too much, that’s all. You took me away from my friends. I don’t have a buddy system now."
“You’d be better off with a blow-up doll than the likes of Gianna Delacourt. And you’re making out with some serial killer like you got no fucking judgement.”
"Show me you're not drugged. Walk for me now."
"No."
"Move your ass, now, Harley."
She shook her ass just a tiny bit and swayed. I caught her around the waist again and pulled her in close to me. “Real funny.” The heat and humidity were insane and we were both sweating already.
"Or else what will you do to me, Wyatt?" she slurred. She was smiling and her eyes were closed. It seemed like a Roofie, or at least more than just booze. I bent down and grabbed her around the midsection and hefted her to my shoulder.
"Put me down!" she said, kicking her legs wildly. She was squirming so much that I had to swerve my hips to make sure she didn't kick me in the crotch.
"Watch where you're aiming those feet," I yelled.
"Put me down, or I'll make sure your balls are permanently blue."
“You already did that, Harley.”
…
The drive back to her gated East Point neighborhood went easily enough. I held her arm around me with one hand because I think she was passed out drunk. When we got to the house, I lifted the helmet off her head and she slumped at the neck. After hoisting her to my shoulder again, I walked up the path to the front door and quickly disabled the alarm. I didn’t know if Harley knew I had the passcode, but it was the serial number to her dad’s favorite bike—the Easy Rider Panhead. The same fucking bike Harley was named after.
The door disengaged and I stepped carefully so as not to bang her head on the frame. The lights came on automatically and I looked around wondering where to put her.
“To bed, princess? Or you want to wake up and drink some coffee?”
Why did rich people need so many living rooms? The den, the formal parlor. I had one fucking couch with a television in front of it—and didn’t see a need for anything more.
“That way,” Harley motioned down the hall. We stepped into the biggest living space and the lights went on low automatically. I plopped down on the couch and grabbed her arms to extricate her from mine. She shook her head and wrapped them tighter around my neck and nuzzled her face into my bicep.
“Harley, come on. You want me to make you some coffee?”
“In the morning!” she said and yawned. She stuck one leg behind my back and the other across my lap and squeezed me tightly.
“Harley!” I said. I put my hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. “Harley, it’s Wyatt, the mechanic. I’m not your dad, I’m not Stefano,” I told her.
“I know,” she said without opening her eyes. “You smell like the garage and they smell like Aqua di Parma.”