Perfect Kind Of Trouble

18 Daren

I stare at the dark ceiling as a torrent of contradicting emotions invades my chest. I’m angry that Kayla thinks I’m a whore. I feel guilty for implying that her self-worth is directly related to her appearance. But more than anything else, I’m stunned that she called me valuable, and said it with conviction, even though she was upset with me.

I’m just some guy she’s been stuck with all day. I’m not one of her family members or her boyfriend—hell, I can’t even get the girl to call me her friend—but still, she thinks I’m valuable.

I sit up and turn the light back on. “Kayla.”

She turns to face me with a huff, her blue eyes lit with defensiveness. “What.”

I press my lips together. “You’re a really good person.”

The defensiveness slides into confusion. “What?”

“Sorry that I made you feel like your looks were all that mattered. I don’t think that, not at all. It was a shitty thing for me to say.” I pause. “I mean, you are extremely hot”—I grin and her expression softens—“but that has nothing to do with your significance as a person. And what you said, about me being valuable… it’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. So thanks.” I turn the light back off and lie down.

A beat passes.

“Sorry I called you a whore,” Kayla says.

I quietly chuckle. “Don’t be. I am a whore. But you were wrong about me being afraid of commitment.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep,” I say. “Girls always think it’s a commitment thing. Like there’s something wrong with a guy if he doesn’t drink the relationship Kool-Aid you females are always trying to shove down our throats. When in reality, the reason I don’t want to lock myself up to someone”—I rattle our handcuffs—“metaphorically speaking, of course—is because girls are just as bad as guys when it comes to commitment. If not worse.”

I can almost hear her eyes roll. “Oh please.”

“See? This is what I’m talking about.” I shake my head in the dark. “You think girls can do no wrong. That guys are just big bad wolves who walk around breaking hearts at their every whim.” I scoff. “Girls are every bit as ruthless. They leave. They break hearts. They use guys.” I exhale. “So I don’t buy into the bullshit anymore. I just have fun. If a girl comes along and happens to want a relationship with me, I step away. I don’t sleep with her or lead her on. But if a girl is only in it for fun or just needs to feel desired for a few hours—and also understands that I’m not going to do the relationship thing with her—well, then… I do sleep with her. And we both leave feeling better about ourselves. If that makes me a whore then I’m okay with being a whore.”

She laughs. “So sex is like a public service you provide?”

“No.” I smile. “Well, maybe a little.”

“Oh my God. You’re unbelievable.”

“Hey, you’d be surprised how many girls out there just want to be touched and feel wanted. It’s an epidemic, really.”

“I’m sure it is.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Well whore or not, I still think it’s sad that sex makes you feel good about yourself. Or whatever.”

I cluck my tongue. “You only think it’s sad because you’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing Daren the Legendary Lover firsthand. But we can fix that, you know. Right now, even.” I bounce on the mattress so the springs creak and groan. “We have a cheap motel porn bed at our disposal and everything.”

She playfully scoffs. “As flattered as I am that you’d extend your public-servicing penis to me, I think I’m going to pass.”

I sigh dramatically. “Your call. But if you change your mind, I’ll be here all night.” I playfully tug on the handcuffs. “Right beside you.”

“Good night, Daren,” she says, giving the handcuffs a little tug back.

I smile at the ceiling. “Night.”

From behind the post office counter, Jonah Maxwell lifts one of his shaggy white eyebrows as he eyes our handcuffs. It started pouring this morning, so not only are we chained to each other, but we’re also dripping wet.

“Are you two running from the law?” the postman asks.

A fair question.

“Uh, no sir.” I shake my head. “We’re actually here on official legal business.”

“Like running from the law?” he says, his eyebrow creeping higher.

Kayla steps forward. “Actually, we were hoping you could help us. My father recently passed away. Maybe you knew him, James Turner?”

Jonah’s face brightens. “You’re James’s daughter? We loved James.” His features soften sympathetically. “The wife and I were so sad to hear he’d passed. He was a good man, your father. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Her expression tightens but her voice remains pleasant. “Thank you.” She clears her throat. “That’s actually why we’re here. In his will, my father asked me to come to the post office and ask for the Turner key?” She gives him a killer smile and I wonder if anyone, ever, in the history of the world, has been able to say no to that smile. Probably not.

Jonah smiles back. “Well let me see here.” He pulls something up on his computer screen and reads, “James Turner. Box number twelve. Keys can only be given out to James Turner himself, or to the joint custody of Kayla Turner and Daren Ackwood.” He looks from the computer to us. “I suppose that’s why you’re both here?”

I nod and hold up our cuffed wrists. “We’re joint.”

“Well okay then.” Jonah disappears in the back and returns shortly with a postal key. Handing it to Kayla he says, “Here you go, dear. It’s nice to finally meet James’s daughter. We heard so many great things about you over the years.”

She pauses with the key in her hand. “You did?”

“Oh yes.” He smiles. “Your father was always talking about his little girl and showing us pictures. He was very proud of you and bragged nonstop about you going to nursing school.”

Looking at Kayla, I tilt my head. She’s compassionate but tough. Kind but careful. Yes. Nursing definitely suits her.

“James always said you’d be an amazing nurse,” Jonah continues. “Said that caring heart of yours was designed to help others.”

She swallows, looking taken aback. “Oh. That’s… wow.” Her expression is torn. Half-curious. Half-sad. “Well thank you. For the key.” She smiles at Jonah and the storm in her eyes momentarily lifts.

“Sure thing, darlin’.”

She says, “Have a good day,” then turns and pulls us around the corner to where the PO boxes are.

Two guys standing in the corner instantly perk up the moment she comes into their view. Even with her leashed to my arm, they gape at her shamelessly, grunting and nodding their appreciation for her body.

After hearing Kayla talk last night about how people don’t “see” her, I feel differently about these guys, and men in general, who stare at her. I still feel protective like I did yesterday, but now I also feel irritated. And defensive.

I want to protect her from the shallow eyes and snap judgments of onlookers because she deserves to be seen. Like a pretty vase filled with priceless gems, she’s valued more for her surface beauty than the riches inside. I get it now, and I feel like a shallow dickhead for every girl I’ve ever judged on appearance.

Kayla ignores the guys in the corner, keeping her focus ahead as rain beats against the post office windows and blurs the world outside.

We scan the boxes in silence until I find number twelve, point to the keyhole, and grin. “Yahtzee!”