Delilah: The Making of Red

Chapter 4 Maneater

It takes me some time to let the whole Nikki thing go. It’s not like I say anything to Dylan about it, but every time we talk, I can’t help but wonder if he hooked up with her that night, if he looked at her like he looked at me. Made her feel special like he makes me feel every day.

We haven’t gone on an official date yet, so I still don’t know his secrets. I do start spending a lot of time out in the front yard, though. Dance class has ended for the summer, so there’s not a lot of stuff to do. But I keep busy, reading out in the front yard, tanning out in the front yard, even going as far as mowing the lawn, just so I can watch Dylan work on his car, occasionally checking out his ass and anything else I can get my eyes on.

The amazing thing is, he always comes up and talks to me. Every day for two weeks straight. A lot of our conversations are centered around the car he’s working on. Even though I have no interest in cars, I nod and pretend that I’m superinterested in everything he says, so he’ll keep on talking to me and hopefully like me. He also asks me a lot of questions, like my likes and dislikes, where I’m from, what I do for fun. He doesn’t try to kiss me again, though, and I find myself missing the touch of his lips and the feelings the kiss stirred inside me.

“There’s no way that could be true,” I say after a very long conversation about music and concerts as we stand beside the fence. “You really saw Unwritten Law play?”

He nods as he wipes his greasy hands on a rag. “Yeah, three years ago.” He tosses the rag on the ground. “They’re even better live.”

I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’d been mowing the lawn when he finally came out of the house, and so I’m sweaty and gross, but I didn’t want to walk away, afraid I’d miss the chance to talk to him if I did. “I think most bands are,” I say. “At least more powerful. Well, except for heavy metal bands, but I can’t stand that music anyway.”

He nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s probably my least favorite, too.”

“It’s such a shame that you still can’t watch old rock bands play like Lynyrd Skynyrd,” I say. “Now that would be something to see.”

“You seriously listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd?” he asks, making his way back to the fence after collecting a bottle of water from the cooler beside the car.

I nod, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I listen to a lot of classic rock actually, but that might be because my mom’s been branding it into my head since I was five.”

He angles his head to the side as his gaze quickly skims to the front door of my house just behind me. “Your mom seems like an interesting woman,” he says.

I try not to react, even though I want to shout at him that she’s a true maneater. “Yeah, I guess.”

He leans against the fence, the muscles of his lean arms rippling as he crosses them on top of the metal post. “What does she do for a living?” he asks.

“She works at a bar,” I reply agitated. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know… I just see her coming and going with a lot of men.”

“That’s because she sleeps with a new one every day.” It sort of just slips out, but I don’t want to take it back. In fact, I’m hoping it repulses him.

He arches a brow at me, looking more interested than he did before, which means I epically failed. “Really?” He considers something for a moment and keeps glancing at my house like my mom’s going to walk out in her underwear, which probably wouldn’t be the first time.

I press my lips together, hating how interested he is in her. “Well, I’m sure if you hit on her, she’d probably sleep with you too,” I say spitefully.

He glances at me with a questioning look on his face. “You think so?”

Anger simmers under my skin. “Maybe. She likes her guys young.”

His gaze bores into me. “And you’d be okay with that?”

“If you slept with my mother?” I ask. “You can do whatever you want.” I hate my mother right now. Hate that she’s so pretty. Hate that she likes to sleep with guys more than she likes her daughter, because I know right now if Dylan hit on her, she’d snatch him up, use him, then spit him back out.

Which is exactly what I want to do, except for the spitting-out part. I’d want to keep him.

He stares at me for a few moments longer, and then his intense gaze softens as he almost looks pleased. “You want to go somewhere with me?”

My jaw nearly drops. What the hell? How do we go from asking questions about my mother to asking me out on a date finally? Still, I say, “Where?”

He stands up straight, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Me and a couple of friends are going to go down to the fair in Jackson to ride the rides and hang out. I’m sure it’s going to be pretty lame, but we could make it fun.” He winks at me and grins, dimples appearing, and my heart skips a beat.

“Sure, that sounds fun,” I say in a calm voice, despite my giddiness.

“Does it?” He bites back his amusement as he starts to walk back to his house. “Alright then, Red, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

My brows knit. “Red?”

He suppresses a grin as he steps back toward me and extends his arm. I stop breathing, terrified and excited as he hooks his finger around a strand of my hair. “Yeah, your hair.” He ravels it around his finger, tightly, pulling on it just enough that it sort of makes my scalp sting. “Red is actually my favorite color… I plan on painting my car red and everything.” He tugs on my hair a little bit harder, watching my reaction with fascination. “In fact, I think I’m going to call you that from now on.”

I’m not sure I agree with his nickname for me, because I can’t help but think of the Marvel comic book character Red Sonja, who was a redhead and an amazingly beautiful temptress who rocked a bikini, and none of that begins to describe me—well, except for my red hair.

He releases my hair and tucks his hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he says, and then turns away and goes back to his tools scattered on the driveway in front of his car.

I watch him bend over, rubbing my head where he pulled on my hair, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. It has to be a date.

I’m going on my first date.

I’m practically bouncing as I enter the living room. My mom must notice my overly happy attitude, too, because she immediately gets this weird look when she glances up from painting her toenails on the sofa. “Maneater” by Hall & Oates is playing from the stereo, and there’s some sort of soap opera on the television, but the volume is turned down.

“What do you look so happy about?” she asks as she brushes the nail polish across her toenail.

I flop down on the sofa that’s across from the one she’s sitting on, grab a pillow, and place it on my lap. “A guy asked me out.”

She glances up at me. “You mean the one that’s been the cause of you over-mowing my front lawn.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I feign dumb, not because I’m afraid she’ll tease me or tell me he’s too old for me. But because I’m afraid she’ll steal him.

“Sure you don’t.” She shakes her head, smiling as she twists the nail polish lid back on. “So he finally asked you out?”

“Yes,” I tell her, hugging the pillow against my chest.

She muses over this. “He’s quite the catch. I’m proud of you, Delilah.” I feel this ping of pride as she says it, and the sun feels a little brighter, like I’m not standing in her shadow. Then she turns on the sofa, props her feet up on the coffee table in front of her, and pats the spot on the sofa next to her. “Come sit by me so we can talk.”

I sigh, get up, and cross the room, sitting down beside her. “Please tell me you’re not going to give me a sex talk, because I already know how that works.”

She raises her eyebrows at me with curiosity. “How well do you know?”

For some reason, I feel ashamed as I admit the truth. “Not that well.” My cheeks heat. “I mean, I’m still a virgin.”

She looks me over, like she’s trying to weigh if that fact has anything to do with my looks or not. I’m not sure what she decides, but when she looks away, she reaches for her purse on the table. She unzips it, reaches in, and takes something out. “Take this with you.” She hands me what’s in her hand.

I stare down at the condom. “Mom, I don’t think—”

“You may not think anything’s going to happen,” she interrupts me. “But you’re a beautiful girl, Delilah, and if you decide to use that beauty, I want to make sure you have control over the situation.” She stands up and walks awkwardly toward the hallway because her toenails are still drying. “Don’t ever leave it up to the guy to make decisions for you,” she calls over her shoulder, exiting the room.

As much as I was jealous of my mother, she had an excellent point. One I wish I would have listened to on a deeper level, taken it as a subtle warning not just to protect myself from sex, but to protect myself from getting hurt, lost, losing myself.

It’s funny, but it was one of the last real conversations we had that really meant anything. As the years went by we drifted, and when I left, she never came looking for me. I wonder if she’ll ever find out that I died. Or when or if my body is discovered, I’ll just end up as another insignificant and unidentified Jane Doe.