BARE HANDS - A Bad Boy Romance Novel Page 6

  Chapter Nine - Penelope

  Fish skin. Some guts, but mostly dried and shriveled. A few heads, but that was just carelessness. It was mostly scales. Flaky, stinky scales winking blue and yellow at me. And no matter how long I stared back at the bright plastic buckets of it, it still didn’t look much like a “solution”. Nutritious, abundant food was going to come out of this? I looked harder. If this is what God had in mind for me, then fine. Maybe it was a lesson in humility. I’d certainly had enough of those lately.

  Valerie and I had been on a ridiculous fish guts mission for the last few days. She drove Mama Tembi’s broke down old pickup and I plonked down on the back, lying flat in the open air and looking up into the clouds. At least the clouds still looked like clouds.

  We negotiated with fishermen all along the river and even right to Lake Malawi, for every last scrap of rotting wish we could wrangle from them. It was thankless, ugly work. Bartering in a wasteland for waste material, and paying a worthless currency for the privilege.

  It was our fourth stop this morning and I had long since stopped converting each trade into its equivalent in Starbucks coffees. By the time the back was too full of buckets and too rancid, I moved up front to sit beside Valerie and we chatted a little. The entire load was approximately $1.25. I tried to figure out what proportion of a coffee that worked out too, but it was hot and my head was fuzzy. Maybe Valerie was right and I should just start eating meat. Just a little.

  “Well hello, don’t these look like some fishy gentlemen?” Valerie said, eyeing two figures in the road, off to the distance. She was surprisingly – irritatingly – chipper this morning. We pulled over and the car bounced on its aging suspension. I could just feel the fish slop lurching and sliding around in the plastic buckets in the back. The two men stopped and had a good look at us. Valerie bounded out to talk to them, but I stayed in the car, slouched down and played with the sunlight in my eyelashes.

  Valerie was …buxom. She was so damn healthy, so optimistic and cheerful all the damn time. It’s not that she was pretty or anything, but it was nice to look at her face, and people seemed to respond well to her. She smiled. A lot. I watched the plastic beaded bangles click on her wrists as she gestured to the pickup, to them, back to the fish buckets. They smiled and seemed eager. She came back inside and banged the door shut.

  “Fantastic! These fellows say they have a bunch of fish stuff, and they stay just down the road, and we can have it for free, they just need a lift.”

  I turned to see them both perch expertly on a tiny rim of remaining space in the back. They smiled and waved, but I pretended I hadn’t seen and turned around again. Valerie started the engine and we bounced back onto the road. In the rearview mirror I could make out two bobbing heads.

  We drove on in silence, Valerie turning her sunny attention to the scraps of song she could find on the radio. I turned it off.

  “Valerie, do you ever wonder if you’re really making a difference? You know, if any of this is actually worth it?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Her long arms draped over the steering wheel and she navigated a stretch of potholes.

  “Well, I always think it’s just a matter of perspective, you know? You may not see what effect your actions have, maybe not immediately …but everything we do has an effect on the world. Even the small things.”

  To me her answer smelled almost as bad as the fish in the back.

  “But doesn’t that mean that your actions can also be bad? And that you can’t really ever tell? Maybe what we’re doing right now is rippling out, and we won’t know immediately but it does have an effect …a bad effect.”

  She smiled easily and gave me a quick glance before returning her eyes to the road.

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I know it counts for something to act in the best way you know how. My intentions are good, you know?”

  I looked out at the potholed road and tried to remember that old saying, the one about hell and the road to it. This road wasn’t paved at all, I thought, and smiled wryly to myself. We must be headed somewhere way worse than hell. Maybe Zambia.

  “Why does everyone think Vik is such a bad guy?” I asked.

  She stopped smiling.

  “I just mean, as an example, you know. Isn’t he just doing what he thinks is right? Doesn’t he have good intentions too?” I said quickly, seeing the slight kink in her brow.

  “Vik is …a complicated person. It’s good that you’re staying away from him” she said finally, then twizzled the radio knob again. But I liked the channel we were on.

  “But back to my question, you know. Maybe he’s right?”

  “What are you talking about exactly?” It suddenly occurred to me just how icy cold her British accent could sound.

  “Nothing, forget I said anything. I just mean that …well, he seems to be living by his own principles. Like, he’s not different from us. He’s just got a different set of principles, right?”

  She looked as though the topic was exhausting to her. I think it was the first time I had seen her not smiling.

  “Sure, fine. I don’t think they count as principles if they’re wrong though.”

  I sat back in my seat and chewed over this. Something about the incredible flatness of this stupid country made this kind of thinking seem more natural somehow. As if your brain had to invent some moral dilemma, just to keep things interesting. I felt a heave in my stomach and then immediately realized that the pickup had grown lighter somehow. Valerie’s eyes shot to the rear view mirror and then she slammed on brakes, confused.

  “What…?” I began, but the tires had barely stopped squealing when the two men were suddenly at either side of the car. Valerie cried out and threw her hands up, and I saw the glint of silver as one of them held up a knife up to the window, banging its blunt end on the glass and gesturing for her to open. The man at my window had no knife, but his face alone turned my guts to jelly. We were being hijacked. They weren’t fishermen. They had lied.

  I choked on a hot, angry lump in my throat as I tried to protest. How could they do this? Why on earth target us, the people who were trying to help? We had so little already. My mind raced. Not only had we wasted the entire morning hauling rotten fish guts through the dirt, we were now going to have it all taken away from us, and Mama Tembi’s pickup with it.

  What happened next unfolded in syrupy slow motion. I turned to see Valerie’s big, fearful eyes and could see it all in that moment. And I can’t explain it, but something from deep down inside me snapped, and I felt, really felt it with my whole body, that I was done being a pushover, done with letting other people push me around and hurt me and laugh at me, done with Dylan and his threatening texts and his hate and his disgust for me and my body – what’s wrong with my body? Is it really so bad, to have one? To have needs? – and done with Valerie prancing around without giving things a damn thought and I was just done. Just one hundred percent completely at the end.

  “No!” I screamed out loud. From the pit of my stomach I screamed, and Valerie’s jaw fell open. The face beside the window drew back a little, startled.

  “Just fucking NO!” I yelled again, this time slamming my fist onto the dashboard and sending the cross round my neck swinging.

  The guy next to my window looked amused, but, and I’m proud to say it, also a little scared. Good. I liked that. And he should be scared. Why not? Why am I something to take less seriously? What about my principles? What about what I want? Ignoring Valerie’s horrified look, I leant over her and furiously wound down the window, staring my own daggers at the guy. If he had wanted to fight there and then, I would have done it, I swear to God I would have torn him limb from limb. My head was buzzing, knuckles white on the door handle.

  “What the fuck? What the actual fuck? We were doing you two stupid losers a fucking favor and now you’re waving this stupid fucking knife in our faces? This isn’t even our fucking car, do you know that?!”

  I snatched at his
hand and knocked the knife from him, sending it clean down the side of the car seat. They were all three staring at me. The man on the other side had inched back a little further.

  No. They were not going to get away with this. I punched the dashboard again and threw open the door on my side, sending the guy there skidding backwards in the dirt. I marched to the front of the car and stared at them both.

  “You’re fucking pathetic, both of you! Do you have any idea how stupid you are? Nobody cares about you guys, fucking nobody. And why should they? You’re trying to hijack a broke down fucking piece of shit car filled with rotten fish. Just fucking think about that. Everyone knows this car is Mama Tembi’s, so how the fuck do you think this is going to work out for you? This car’s worth nothing. In fact, I bet I have more cash on me right now than you could sell this piece of crap for…”

  I dug around in my pockets and fished out six twenties, still fresh from the pile Dylan had drawn and given to me in a little brown envelope along with his photo. I tossed them to the ground and they fluttered down.

  “Fucking take it then! Because I pity you!” I said and stomped back to the car and climbed in, slamming the door behind me.

  “Just drive” I barked at Valerie. She turned the ignition and with narrow eyes I made out their figures behind us in the dust, picking up the money and then staring after us in bewilderment.

  On the road, Valerie hit the acceleration and we sped off, hurtling right over the potholes. My heart was beating like an animal’s. I felt as though I had fire in my veins. We had driven a few miles before Valerie dropped the pace a little and we turned to look at one another.

  “I never knew you could swear like that” she said quietly, then broke out into a smile. I couldn’t help but smile with her.

  Chapter Ten - Penelope

  Valerie was gone for the night. She had told the story over and over again, the people at Mama Tembi’s one moment outraged and the next amused. Had I really said all that? Could they look at the knife again? Some people in the village had an idea of who the two could be, and I was assured over and over again that “things like this” simply never happened in this village, and they come from elsewhere, and that they’d pay.

  I had retired early for the night, and Valerie had left around the same time to head over to her “friend” who was briefly visiting from London. So it was just me. Just me in that tiny hovel with my oversized bag, my overpriced boxes of laundry detergent and some godawful orange cheese naks that looked like packing material and tasted worse. And the knife. I had fished it out and kept it. Like a trophy. They wanted to push me around? I’d push them around. And now their stupid knife was mine.

  My phone pinged. Another surprise: Africa is no black hole. There’s not much internet, no laptops. But sweet Lord did every single person have a cell phone. At every stop sign and street corner you could get the essentials: disgusting cheese naks, smoked fish, airtime. It was brilliant, really.

  Dylan Moore: Still, I think you should come home. I’ve already called the mission leader this side and he agrees with me. Let’s not take any more risks.

  In the darkness, I typed a response.

  Penelope Murphy: I appreciate that you’re worried about me, but my heart is settled and I want to follow through on my commitment.

  I stared at the message and deleted it without sending.

  Penelope Murphy: I’m fine! All is well. I’ll be staying, I hope you understand :)

  I deleted this too.

  Penelope Murphy: I’m staying here.

  This one I sent.

  The message showed that Dylan had read it. I waited in silence. I could feel it, all this way away, how angry it made him. Had he discovered the hidden locks yet? I almost didn’t care. The longer the message sat there without a reply, the more vindicated I felt. I turned to look at the knife beside my bed. There wasn’t much light in the room, but all of it seemed to find the surface of the knife, and it was gleaming darkly now. It was my knife.

  Dylan Moore: I’m not happy about this. You should come home.

  Penelope Murphy: I’m staying.

  I replied immediately. He read it. The knife gleamed.

  I saw him typing a response, but before he could finish, I sent him another:

  Penelope Murphy: Forget about all that. I’ve missed you. I wish you were here with me now, in bed

  Penelope Murphy: Today made me realize so many things. I don’t want to wait any longer. I love you.

  I hit send and watched the screen go dark.

  Dylan Moore: You’re disgusting.

  He blinked offline. I flung the phone across the floor and it landed face down, the screen light trapped underneath the dimming out. The strange thing was, I wasn’t sad. Not really. I reached out and took the knife in my hands. It was cool and the slight rust on its edge was powdery to the touch. It was a brutal, ugly object, and yet just holding it here in the darkness made me feel so …safe. And calm. And something else.

  As the metal warmed under my fingertips, I glanced the knife point over the skin at my wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just to feel. I increased the pressure, seeing in the dim light how the sharp V pressed a dent in my flesh but didn’t puncture through it. I pressed until I was right up against that edge, the point at which a tiny fraction of extra pressure would have been painful. But I lingered on the other side of that pain. Getting closer, but not quite there. I pushed a little more.

  I had lost count of how many times it had happened since I arrived here.

  I was wet all the time now. Wet when I had spoken to Mama Tembi this morning. Wet when Valerie and I traipsed around the village. Wet all during our discussions, wet when I had slammed the door and swore at the would-be hijackers. Wet right now. Ever since he had touched me. Wet.

  And aching too. Had anybody ever touched me before, before he had? It was a painful, maddening sensation. Like a squirming, tight thump that wouldn’t stop. It was obscene. “Disgusting” even. It was driving me to distraction. When I sat I squeezed my knees together as hard as I could. But when I relaxed again, there it was, stronger. Thumping. But maybe I liked it.

  Maybe that idiot in the forest knew a thing or two.

  Not more than that, granted, but I can admit when I’m wrong.

  I pressed the knife tip deeper in, then snapped my wrist back. Ouch. A bit too far.

  I looked over at my downcast phone. No light. Dylan was a whole country …a whole world away from me now, virtuous and angry and cold and …dry. Judging me. But there was a little seed in my mind right now. What was the difference between God’s will for me and Dylan’s will? Was he really a simple conduit for the word of God, and was it really my job to follow and obey him? What if he was wrong?

  I slid the knife V up my arm and to the crook of my elbow. V for Viktor. I paused, then drew it back down again. Then I moved the blade to the elastic at the top of my pajama bottoms. Interesting things, knives. I wondered about all the things this knife had done. I slipped it under the elastic. Dragged it side to side. The knife tip brushing against the curly hair there, I swear I could hear the sound of a rustling forest.

  I closed my eyes and pressed my head back into the pillow, letting the tension fall from my body. I squirmed under the sharpness, my skin and flesh the opposite of the line and steel, and yes, I admit it, yes Dylan, I admit it: I thought of him.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, trying the word out in the darkness. Like knives, words are interesting things and can have many uses. Fuck can be angry and hateful. Fuck can mean violence. But it can also mean …something else. Bodily violence. Lust. Love, even. The same word.

  I slid the knife into my pajamas. The metal scarcely touched me, it was more like a caress, but the sensation sent thrills all through my body. In the darkness, I arched my hips up against the hard lines. Just a little. Just teasing, up, then down again.

  Maybe the body is disgusting. And maybe I like it that way.

  “Fuck,” I said again, this time louder. I wanted to
swear more. I liked swearing. I wanted to yell at people when they were being assholes and I wanted to do what I wanted to do. I found the slightest rhythm with my hips and began tracing almost imperceptible circles, seducing the knife, playing with fire, rising up to meet it and then dropping my hips when I got too close.

  What I wanted to do most of all was fuck.

  Without any resistance, in the darkness, I let myself have the thought. It’s what I wanted. What my body wanted. Delicious ribbons of pleasure were fanning out from my pelvis, shooting all down my thighs and tingling into my toes. I felt like my body was coming awake. I had had an orgasm, once I think, when I was younger. I cried and cried and said 40 Hail Mary’s and held my hand over a candle until it blistered.

  But maybe I had been wrong. Maybe what I really wanted to do was fuck. Soon. Something hot and urgent was pooling right at the spot where the V pressed into me. It pulsed and thumped, harder and harder, making white sparks pop behind my closed eyelids. A trickle curled its way down over my thighs and into the mattress. I didn’t care.

  “Viktor,” I said at last, and his name was like a triumph on my lips. I said it again, tasted it, felt how the word itself made me bite into my lower lip, but then open my mouth again. Viktor… Viktor…

  The syrupy sensations swelled to a nub and when I said his name the fourth time, I couldn’t finish.

  “Vik…”

  My lips opened, my breath escaped in gasps as a powerful burst of pleasure pumped through me. I flung the knife aside and my body bucked and arched in silent agony. Choking on the pleasure, I couldn’t speak. But my body was screaming. I lay back and surrendered, letting the pulses throb through me as they wanted to, resisting nothing, letting it all take me.