Deconstructed(69)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CRICKET
The Channel Marker wasn’t exactly seedy. But it was a close second. And so I was pretty relieved to have grumpy Griffin Moon with his scowl and big clomping boots entering the joint behind me.
I glanced around for the perfect spot to spy on my husband.
The long, scarred bar with its fish netting and rusty barstools would have me too out in the open. Clusters of low tables, the kind men gathered around with cigarettes hanging from their lips to play card games, scattered the majority of the room. Maps of Caddo Lake interspersed with neon beer signs seemed the standard decoration for lakeside drinking. Behind the bar was a sign selling bait and a half wall covered with corks, hooks, and pocketknives. The place smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and some faint funk that reminded me of a fraternity house.
“I’ll grab some beers. You may want to go to the restroom and . . .” He gestured at me, drawing his fingers up and down. My hands flew to my wig.
Thirty minutes earlier, Griffin had met me at his tow yard. Out in front of the freshly painted office with the blue-moon logo on the large plate glass sat a shiny Harley. Griffin came outside, waving farewell at someone behind the counter, and silently handed me a helmet.
“You’re joking, right?” I asked.
He made a face. “No. I thought we’d take the bike. The tow truck seems too conspicuous, and my regular truck is back at my place. It’s a nice day.”
“People die on these things, and besides, that helmet will mess up my wig.” I had on the same outfit as yesterday. The shirt with the rock band that seemed to enjoy death a lot, the ripped-up jeans, and the dark lipstick. Ruby had brought me a tattoo that would come off with baby oil to go on my wrist. It was a heart with a sword through it. She’d also brought me a denim shirt, which I put over the T-shirt since my boobs hadn’t magically shrunk overnight. I had wounds from the bobby pins Ruby had jabbed into my hair to keep the wig on.
“You won’t die. And I bet you the first round that you’ll like it,” Griffin said, holding out the helmet and waggling it. “Come on. Live like you mean it.”
I ignored his helmet and folded my arms across my chest, mad that he somehow knew what to use against me. Daring me to be bold. Tempting me with letting go of my mundane life that had led to my husband plowing the tennis pro. Standing up on a desk and dead poeting me into seizing the day. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
I inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Daring me.”
Griffin smiled something very devilish and unlike him. I felt it in parts that didn’t need to be feeling a dang thing. “Is it working?”
I grabbed the helmet and tugged it on. “I guess I get the bitch seat since I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle.”
This amused him. He actually laughed, muttering “bitch seat” under his breath, and set about cranking up the scary-looking bike. He motioned me to him, and this is where I realized that I was about to straddle him and wrap my arms around his waist. I would be pressing my breasts to his back and getting real intimate with Griffin Moon, and that thought made my tummy tremble.
But once I was on the surprisingly comfortable seat, Griffin showing me where to place my feet, I didn’t mind holding on to him because the takeoff scared the hell out of me. I became a spider monkey clinging to his back. No room for Jesus on this bike ride.
Never having ridden a motorcycle before, I couldn’t have imagined the way the fear bloomed into euphoria once he took us onto the highway heading north. Colors spun by me, a whirring of shapes, as my stomach settled and I relaxed the fists knotted in his shirt, flattening my hands against his muscled stomach. The wind tore at me, but I loved the way Griffin zipped in and out, hugging the curves as the remnants of city washed to greener pastures and tall pines. Eventually the rolling pastures met the lake. And then Griffin pulled into a gravel lot with a sad-looking square building painted light gray that held down a corner. The infamous Channel Marker.
Griffin parked next to a utility truck and shut off the motorcycle. He ripped off his helmet and shook his dark locks. I caught the odor of something fresh and manly and almost leaned closer to him for a good whiff. But luckily, I caught myself. The last thing I wanted to do was get caught huffing Griffin like some lunatic.
So when we entered the bar and he turned to me and indicated that my wig was askew, I hurried to the his/her bathroom, which, upon entry, I discovered should have firmly been a “his” bathroom. Cedar walls held a condom dispensary and a paper towel holder that was empty, and the concrete floor was caked with stuff I really didn’t want to think about. On the sink stood a roll of brown paper towels with a bar of soap beside it. The mirror, speckled with age, proved that my wig was indeed crooked. I did my best to tidy it and then pulled out the gloss I had shoved in my front pocket, reapplying it. I wished I had cause to wear sunglasses, because I had elected to go without the fake eyelashes this go-around. Still, I didn’t think Scott would recognize me as his wife.
When I emerged from the toilet, I found Griffin in the back, two bottles of Bud Light on the table in front of him. A couple of men sat near an aged jukebox scanning the Thrifty Nickel for boats. I could hear the rumble of their debate over which one would be the best for frogging. A single older gentleman in denim overalls with a bandana sticking out of his back pocket sat alone, a bottle of Coke in front of him. They all turned and watched me as I made my way toward Griffin. Tinny country music played over the large corner-mounted speakers.