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“SANDRA!! Sandra, please!”
The Google maps lady-voice was gargling in and out on her beat up Iphone screen.
“Turn… Legfjr..”
“Left?! Is that a left Sandy? Com’n girl.” Her phone makes a pathetic under-water whine before stuttering to a halt.
Annie throws her head back against the headrest, cause being stranded somewhere downtown right now is not ideal .
Her check engine light is flashing obnoxiously on the dash as she rolls down the empty street, frantically looking for a left-hand turn. The smell of stale fries wafts from the seat beside her, mixing with fresh cut grass and cigarettes from the open car window. It’s a nice night out, kinda weirdly hot for spring. It might even be enjoyable if she wasn’t lost… or even here to begin with.
But she needs an answer. No, she needs the answer. She needs a yes.
“Arrived at destinatio…”
“Yes!!” She slams into park with a squeal and surveys her surroundings. A closed deli to her right, a white duplex to her left. So, it must be…
She steps out of the car, beeping it locked mid-stride. Halfway across the lawn, she takes in the home coming closer and closer into view.
It’s nice. Like of course it is, but I guess it’s weird to see his place of… residence? She knows he doesn’t perpetually exist in alley ways and jacked up cars but like… does he have a duvet cover? Seems kinda pedestrian for a man with tear drop tattoos. (TattooS. PLURAL!!)
She knocks, not opting for the typical gang-dude surprise that seems to be their signature, and hears shuffles behind the cranberry door frame before she can change her mind. Adjusting her stance, shoulders squared out, she mentally runs through her pitch.
The door creeks open to the sound of a weary sigh.
“Why you here?”
“I need um…” Mouth suddenly dry, she squirms a bit – suddenly having to pee.
“Lemme guess, you need a favor?”
“Uhm. Yeah."
He glances back and forth, before turning to motion her inside. “Make it quick.”
“So there’s this guy-“ She starts, scrambling a bit to keep up with his bulky pace then stopping as she takes in the open-concept kitchen unfolding in front of her. Wooden cabinets, metal fixtures. Gees, the works.
Micks gruff voice interrupts her ogling. “How you know where I live?”
“Oh um, my sister tol-“
He props himself down on a stool, the kind that swivel around, and he spins to face her. His eyes tell her with boredom to get on with it.
“Are you drinking... a mojito?” Suddenly clocking the elongated glass he had returned to now that they were stationed fully in the kitchen.
“Why, you want one?”
“No, I’m OK.”
“Fresh mint.”
“I’m good. Anyways, there’s a guy, a dad of one of the kids on my son’s lacrosse team. And he’s been really gross with me? Like, doesn’t take a hint?”
God, she hates that she’s even here. As if she needs backup. As if she can’t drop kick this slimy little turd to the moon and back if ever given the chance. It’s just ever since Boomer… she’s been more, just more..
“I said, make it quick.”
Annie jumps a bit despite herself. “Ok so, the other night it kind of escalated like, I’m pretty sure I saw his car outside my apartment. And then there’s this thing tomorrow. It’s this big fancy end of year lacrosse thing and I gotta go, but I know he’s gonna be there. And Ben’s sleeping over at Brian’s and so I’ll be driving home alone and
Ithoguhtmaybeifyoucamewithme”
“You thought what?”
“If you came with me…?”
“To the event?”
“Yeah.”
“As a date?” He slurps obnoxiously at the bottom of the mojito before using his hammy fingers to pry out the damp mint and pop it in his mouth.
Ew.
“More like as a person… that I brought….”
“Where’s your ex? Ain’t he got something to say ‘bout this dude?”
“Ugh, he’s been up at his in-laws place for like a million weeks.”
“With the lil guy?”
“Um, yeah with baby Dakota.”
“So he ain’t goin’ then.” A serious look passes over Mick’s tattooed brows. Serious enough that he stops diggin’ for gold in the bottom of his cocktail.
“Nope.” Annie pops the p, hoping to appear a little more chill than she feels. A little less embarrassed.
“Just you.”
“Just me.”
Mick huffs a long sigh.
“Look, I know it’s weird but there’s free food, and a bunch of like terrible rich people, I’m talkin’… 1,000-dollar birthday cake for their poodles type rich and...and you kinda owe me?” Her voice hitching a couple octaves and she sways to the side in an apologetic shrug.
Cause that’s the other shoe right? Sure, he’s terrifying to look at but also kinda sweet (which is actually the perfect combo for a night of intimidation and light mingling). But mainly, he owes her big time. Afterall, she single-handedly stopped his ass from getting arrested in front of Murder Mop-up Grampie. That’s gotta count for something.
Hefting his heavy frame up off his chair, Annie watches him with baited breath.
He yanks the freezer door open, clunking ice into his glass before turning slowly to face her.
“What kind of food we talkin’ bout?”
Her exhale startles them both as it evolves into a nervous stuttered giggle.
“Like, men with gloves passing out little platter thingies? I don’t know.”
“I’ll pick you up. What time?”
“Thursday. 7 O’clock.” She’s wringing her hands together, relieved obviously but not really sure where to go from here. Should she stay? Like hang out a bit? Or just peace out?
Her weed dealer usually wants her to hang, but this... isn’t quite that.
“Ok. Okay, bye then. And thank you.”
He does indeed pick her up at 7. The thing is, she isn’t quite ready yet so that’s how Mick ends up on her living room couch scrolling through their only 3 channels while she blow-dries her hair in the bathroom.
She tries occasionally yelling at him through the noise to try hitting the top if the reception was gritty, but doesn’t get a response. Or if she does, the hairdryers too loud.
“Alright. Let’s roll.” She’s doing up the strap of her heels as she gets a look at him properly for the first time since he arrived. Which, for the record, was only like 20 minutes ago.
He’s in a dark grey tee button-up, with dressy-looking navy pants stretched out over his stalky frame. His tattooed hands hang loosely by his side, rings adorning each finger. It’s kind of the first time she’s really looked at him since they’d met. I mean he’s always there, shadowing his Boss in matching black, but gangfriend tends to be the one peacocking around, demanding to be seen.
She’s just about to open the door to leave when she notices two holes in his left eyebrow.
He’d taken his piercing out for this.
Annie’s heart swells gently, as the weight of this favor settles in. This sucks for him, and yet here he is, standing before her in pants that look ironed.
“Want a beer before we head out?” She moves her hand from the door handle to the refrigerator. There’s no harm in lubin’ up the small talk they’re bound to have on the drive, and it’s really the least she can do.
“Is today your day off?”
Mick shakes his head mid-swig.
“Wait…Boss man signed off on this?!”
He shakes his head again, swallowing.
“Nah, he don’t know. Thinks I’m posted up watchin’ your sister.”
“You left her all alone?!” Annie sputters cartoonishly. To be honest, she’s only half joking.
“Why, she up to somethin’?”
“Probably!!” Again, only half joking.
They chuckle together, drinking in silence for a beat.
“You watch her a lot, hey?” The beer’s a bit warm, but is a welcome buzz as it settles in Annie’s veins.
“Easy gig.”
“Mmm.”
He sips, pausing for a moment in thought. “You two’re close?”
“It’s complicated.”
The jingle of empty cans ring out in the hallway as they make their way down to parking lot.
The venue’s pretty, if not a little predictable. It’s a Marriot ballroom moderately decked out for a standing happy-hour type reception. There’s a bar, thank God, and a stage with two long presentation tables. Glass awards, medals and statues are laid out on both, a podium with the lacrosse logo looms in front of a PowerPoint backdrop. They are ushered in with a welcome drink, and a little gift bag of coupons and tiny snacks from community sponsors.
Once past the entrance parade, Mick and Annie pause on the outskirts of the room, side by side, looking around. It’s then that the reality of her master plan really hits her. He’s here. With her. She brought her benevolent kidnapper to her son’s extracurricular function. Great plan, Annie. Good job.
“Mini muffin?” She whips out a tiny chocolate cupcake from the gift bag clutched in her clammy hand. It’s delicately decorated with a fondant store logo and edible silver spheres.
“Hell yah” He makes a grab for it, she snatches it back.
“Hey! You have one too. This one’s mine.”
They eat their cupcakes in silence, staring forward.
“Drink?” He offers, with a cock of his head.
“Hell yah.”
Annie jiggles her knee against the counter as they wait for their drinks. Her stomach roiling at the thought of the evening ahead.
“What’s up?” Mick asks, as he reaches for his sangria across the bar. “Straw please” gesturing toward the bartender before turning his attention back to her.
“Nothing.” She sighs.
“I just – I just feel like I’m Ben’s broke-ass Mom here. I can feel their judge-y little stares. Like normally, I don’t give a shit if I fit in, and don’t get me wrong… would never want to fit in here,” She waves her hand vaguely over a group of ladies who look like they were shrink wrapped into their tiny dresses, teetering precariously on red-bottomed heels. “It just… would be nice if I didn’t stick out.”
“And you thought I’d help with that?”
She snorts softly, peering at him from the corner of her eye.
“Well,” he swirls a strawberry around, “you look pretty”.
“What?”
“Your dress is pretty. You look nice. I don’ think you stick out. “
“Thanks?” They watch each other for a moment, something sunny taking hold in Annie’s gut.
“Tequila sunrise?” The bartender’s call breaking their trance. Annie grips onto the tall glass and gulps it back with vigor.
The next hour or so passes with ease, it only takes a whiskey sour and another sunrise to begrudgingly admit that she’s having a good time.
Mick introduces himself as Michael, (“sounds more white”) a tattoo artist from the Bronx, which quickly devolves into a game of making up tattoo styles that are actually just thinly veiled plays on the words ‘poop’, ‘pee’ and ‘dick’.
“Michael is bringing an authentic New York style to Detroit. He is one of the only artists who can tattoo in the “Fat Deuce” style. It involves multiple blades, it’s really difficult to master.”
Or later,
“Yah, I’m shadowing another artist in the city known for the Tiny Peter Ink pattern.”
“Is that the one where you have to move the blade up and down really quick?”
“Yah, that’s the one babe.”
It’s not long before they’re at risk of spitting their drinks out with just a sideways glance. By the time awards start, Annie’s brain is happily swimming in booze, and every single waiter doing the rounds of h’or d’eurves has told Mick at least twice to “Limit his consumption to one serving please, sir.”
“So did bow-tie guy over there agree to a Fat Deuce on his face?”
Mick snickers, preparing to respond when Annie clocks the PowerPoint change to “Most Improved Player”. Her heart leaps, she grabs his arm.
“This is it!! This is it!”
“And the 2019 Most Improved Player, we are proud to award, Ben Marks.”
Mick tosses his arm around her with a squeeze and she whoops and claps, watching her baby cross the stage with so much emotion in her heart that it’s a teeny bit painful.
She’s wiping her eyes of one, maybe two, respectful tears when she notices Mick’s arm still encircling her waist, and she glances up to find his eyes on her as well, it’s… nice.
They grin at one another until Annie spots a familiarly slicked back head slinking in the corner of the room.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“He’s here. That’s Ryan.” She tips her head slightly in a backward direction.
‘Who the fuck is Ryan?”
“Creepy guy.”
Mick takes him in. Ryan’s in a crumpled white button-up with light blue dress pants hanging off his skinny legs. His beady eyes and patchy beard glow under the EXIT light where he stands, fishing for a smoke.
“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Mick cracks his knuckles.
“Let’s get this over with.” Annie grabs his hand and lugs him along as they follow the scent of cheap cologne.
“Ryan! Hi.” His eyes jerk up, wide, ugly and confused.
“Who’s this?”
“Oh this? This is my boyfriend.” Annie snuggles into Mick’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around his chest. He smells good, fresh, unlike fuckface here.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
“Yup! We met in the laundry room,” she croons, “he lives in my building.”
“Although, I’m practically livin’ at your place now babe, ain’t that right?” Mick pulls her in closer. A little bubble of relief and gratitude floats up in Annie’s throat.
“He really is. He’s there all the time.”
“Well that’s…Romantic.” Ryan offers a quick smile before his eyes start looking for an escape. His body shifts to leave, but Annie moves to block his path.
“Yep. I mean except for when Mikey here goes to extrem-“ She flashes her eyes at Mick, he perks up, reading her signs.
“Kung-fu-“ He starts.
“Gun-“
They gesture between one another.
“Class.” Annie states with forced confidence, turning back to Ryan with her chest puffed. “Extreme Kung-Fu Gun Class.”
“Mhm.” Mick agrees with authority and Annie feels her heart tug once more.
“It’s this new thing? Kung Fu but with weapon incorporation?”
“I’m the teacher.”
“He is! He is the teacher. The instructor.”
“Neat.” Ryan backs away slowly. “Alright, well you two have a great night. Nice to meet you, uh, Michael? Is it?”
Mick sticks his hand out for a shake, and Ryan tentatively leans into it.
“Call me Demon.” His voice low and hostile.
Annie delights as she watches Ryan’s eyes go wide, Micks meaty hands squeeze down hard on his frail fingers.
Once he’s scrambled away, she spins towards Mick with a triumphant hoot, feeling drunk with relief and power. And also, well, just plain drunk.
“Did you see his face!?”
But the goofy grin she expected is far from she’s greeted with. Mick’s eyes are narrowed after Ryan, his face grim and dark.
“What?!”
He shakes himself out of their embrace, “Where’s that dude live?”
“Why?”
“Why?! So he can’t fuck with you again.”
Annie shifts her eyes to the corners of the ballroom before lowering her voice to a whisper. “I didn’t bring you here to kill him. I just need him to back-off, and unfortunately thanks to the patriarchy... a lot of shitty men respond WAY more to another dude then to me and my own god-damn boundaries –
“Could make him wish he was dead –“
“No! You did what you came here to do –“
“Why not?!” Mick’s voice is a growl now, and she’s momentarily taken aback by his abrupt return to intimidating gang-guy after a night of happy, jokey Mick.
“Why not!!? It’s illegal. It’s harassment. It’s wrong.”
“So’s what he’s doin’ to you! You think he’s gonna stop? Think he’s not gonna go find some other poor girl right now?”
“Why do you care?!”
He looks at her now, eyes piercing. “Guys like that…” He trails off, running a hand down his beard. “I gotta little girl to worry about. Guys like that don’t deserve a second chance.”
Silence covers them both as they watch patrons say their goodbyes at the door, kiss each other's cheeks, bicker over coat check.
“Wanna get out of here?” She turns towards Mick, suddenly feeling problematically sober.
He smiles softly down at her, and his arm finds its way around her shoulders once more. They technically don’t need to fake-date anymore, but she doesn’t mention it. He’s nice and warm pressed up against her side.
“Want pancakes?”
“Is that like some new drug I don’t know about? Cause if so, then… maybe.”
She feels the rumble of his chuckle as they stride toward the exit. He helps her into her coat, and not 20-minutes later they are pulling into a run-down diner off the highway. She’d passed it a couple times; it always smells good – like something frying.
Right now though, it looks hella closed. Chairs on the tables and everything.
Mick taps his pinky ring to the glass door a couple time before a giant Italian man in a greasy white apron comes tumbling forward, throwing it open and encasing Mick in a hug.
“Tony! My man!”
“Micky, where you been huh? Been to long!”
A couple of back slaps later, “Tony” turns to look at Annie,
“And you brought a lady!”
Annie smiles awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other and shoving her hands into her jacket pocket. “Yup!”
Tony must have picked up on the sudden uncomfortable silence as he twirls around and heads back behind the counter. Mick was already a couple steps ahead of her, getting settled into a red leather diner booth.
“Is there a menu?”
“Nah, he knows.”
Annie twiddles her thumbs, checks her phone (it’s at 11% battery), piles up the milk creamers into a little pyramid and then knocks them down.
They’d just spent the last 3 hours together, somewhat seamlessly, but now that the booze is draining from her system and the room is painfully silent (besides Tony humming off-key Queen in the back), she feels like she’d rather be sewed into a diner couch than make conversation.
“When’d you first kill someone?” She blurts, Mick whips his head up to meet her eyes in confused glare.
Tony trots jovially around the corner with two enormous plates of food. He sets them down, rearranges them, and takes his sweet time pouring them both coffees, restocks the napkin dispenser, asks them if they need salt and pepper.
“We’re fine.” Annie finally snaps. Mick takes a sip while maintaining his side-eye stare.
She looks down at her plate. Three chocolate chip pancakes are piled high with a side of bacon and scrambled eggs. Her stomach protests, feeling painfully empty after the parade of tiny bruschetta and cocktail shrimp it was given earlier.
Mick aggressively cuts into his pancakes. “Why you wanna know?”
She sheepishly picks at her bacon. “I dunno...”
“You always ask that on a first date?”
“Okay. Not fair. This is not a date.”
“Alright, pay for your fuckin’ pancakes then.” He continues to shove giant pieces into his mouth, but his eyes are twinkling in a subtle teasing manner, allowing her to relax.
She huffs, giving into the smell of the feast before her and reaches for the syrup. At least with the ice thoroughly broken, they continue to eat in a slightly more pleasant quiet. And the food is really good, like stupid good.
Eventually, he sets his fork down for the first time since his meal arrived, and tents his hands gently in his lap. “I was 18.”
“Yikes.”
“Yep.”
He sighs, squeaking the leather as he leans back “I just take orders, try not to think about it. Doesn’t mean I like it.”
‘Couldn’t you like, do another job though? Something legit?”
“Couldn’t you?”
The desperate, tinny sound of Fine and Frugal’s overheard radio fills her mind, the humiliation of picking up the plunger, the mop, or more hours. The plummeting feeling of seeing her check and realizing its not even close to enough, will never be enough.
They sip their coffee in silence.
“How old’s your daughter?”
“12.”
Annie hums.
“Your son seems cool.”
“I mean,” she gestures up and down with a mouthful of bacon “how could he not be?”
Midnight comes and goes as they split a slice of lemon meringue pie, talk about their kids, music, and whether or not Tony is wearing jeggings. Once again, she’s lulled into the realization that she’s having a good time.
The degree to which she can be herself, like fully herself, is crazy liberating. At least this time, she knows for sure the person she’s confiding in isn’t secretly FBI, which makes the relief and freedom even more worth savoring. And maybe in the future she’ll marinate further on whether it’s a red-flag to have this much in common with a man with tear drop tattoos (plural!) but that’s a tomorrow-problem.
They head home to Eminem so that Annie can continue to protest his credibility as a rapper.
“Turn that shit off.”
She jacks the volume.
“Uh…Would the real slim shady, please stand up! Please stand up!”
She’s giggling through the empty highway drive, and is parked outside her apartment complex before she can say “Mom’s spaghetti.”
The night settles around them. “Thank you, uh for tonight. Thanks for making it fun.”
“I owed you.”
“Ya but… I really appreciate it.”
He swallows, turning his shoulders to face her.
“You’re a good mom. Should be able to be there for your son without creeps like that..”
“Thanks.”
“Gimme your phone.”
His fingers tap away, before placing it back in her outstretched palm.
“That’s my number. Guys be givin’ you a problem, you don’ have to show up at my house again. Just gimme a call.”
“What if I just want to see Tony’s tight little pants again?”
Mick’s eyes are warm as he laughs. “Then gimme me a call.”
She turns to look at him once more before punching in the door code, and doesn’t hear the car pull away until she’s seated on her couch.
They don’t text, but she thinks about it. Thinks about him. Recalls a joke he made about the lacrosse coach that makes her snort in a grocery store check-out.
It’s not until she sees Ryan while picking up Ben one day, about two weeks later, that she gives in. That little snake doesn’t look at her, doesn’t even make eye contact, and when she instinctively turns her head to celebrate, she remembers Micks not there.
So, it’s 10pm when she picks up her phone.
“What’re you doing?”
He sends her back a photo of a familiar coffee mug on a sticky linoleum table and she’s in the car, maybe speeding a teeny bit and pulling off the highway before she can convince herself otherwise.
“The little one! She returns!” She gives Tony a hug. His pants are so goddamn tight, and she catches Mick’s eyes across Tony’s big shoulders.
He’s grinning ear to ear.
And so is she.