Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,48

Strike two.”

“No, Elien.” He swiped at his phone again. “Jesus. Two words. You’ve got to say two words.”

“Two words?”

“Two magic words.”

“Oh, right. Those two magic words.” The bartender, a pretty young woman with a mountain of brown curls, came toward us. “Rum and Coke,” I said to her. “Bacardi. And what kind of salads—”

“I already ordered you a po’boy,” Dag said.

“No, that’s too much bread.”

Looking up from his phone, Dag caught the bartender’s eye and said, “He’s still having the po’boy.”

She smirked. She was still smirking when she brought back my rum and Coke.

“Two words,” I said. “Two magic words.”

Dag waved two fingers again, his attention still on his phone.

“Fuck me,” I said.

A slight shake of his head.

“Do me.”

Another.

“Bone me.”

“This is boring, Elien.”

“Doggy style.”

I thought I detected the first signs of a grin.

“Bend over,” I said.

He actually looked away from the phone that time and met my gaze.

“Spread ’em,” I said.

He rolled his eyes.

“Blow job.”

“You have a one-track mind,” Dag said, already turning back to his phone.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s ok,” he said, pocketing the phone, and giving me a smile. “Thank you for saying that.”

And the worst part was that he sounded like he meant it.

When the bartender came back, she had two po’boys plated with French fries. I stared at the concoction in front of me: fried shrimp, lettuce, tomato, pickles, and mayo, all of it on what was basically the equivalent of a loaf of bread. My stomach growled.

“So,” I said, picking out a fried shrimp and eating. “You don’t ever get in fights? Not with anybody?”

“I mean, I guess I do.”

“When was the last time you were in a fight?”

“I don’t know. Mason liked to give me shit. I probably got mad at him for something.” Dag picked up his sandwich and took a huge bite. Around a mouthful of food, he said, “Probably about a boy.”

“Mason liked guys too?”

Dag swallowed, took a drink, and shook his head. “No, but he liked to give me shit about them, and I can get sensitive.”

“You?”

He shrugged and took another bite.

“I can’t even get you to tell me to shut up.”

“Try your sandwich,” he said.

“You just politely disengage and leave me screaming mad.”

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he smiled again and said, “I think you’ll like the sandwich.”

“Oh my Christ, what is it with you and this po’boy?” I grabbed it, took a bite, and groaned. I chewed as fast as I could and said, “That’s good.”

“Uh huh.”

I had three more bites before I put it down. “That’s really good,” I said.

Dag was halfway through his, and he was staring at me, at the po’boy on my plate.

I said, “Yeah, I’m not really hungry.”

“Oh,” he said and took another huge bite.

I shrugged. “Honestly.”

“Ok.”

“Actually, I am hungry,” I said.

His chewing slowed, and he watched me.

“I want to eat this whole thing because it’s delicious, and I never have bread, and fried shrimp is one of my top five favorite foods, and I haven’t really eaten anything today. But I know if I do eat it, I’ll feel terrible in five minutes, and I’ll end up in the bathroom with my finger down my throat. I don’t even know if I really have an eating disorder or if I just do it to piss Richard off. So, there. I guess that’s the real answer.”

After some more chewing, Dag ran the back of his hand across his mouth, picking up some extra mayonnaise.

“Kind of more than you wanted to hear, right?”

“Nope,” he said. “I like learning about you.”

“Yeah, well, you just cracked the lid on a barrel of really fucked-up stuff.”

“I don’t think you’re fucked up. A little rude sometimes. Definitely spoiled. But you’re actually really sweet. I don’t think anybody else could have talked to Kenny the way you did. He was right on the edge, and somehow you helped him come back down. It’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. I wish I knew how to do that. Every day, I talk to people, and I try to get them to come down like that. You did it without even trying. That’s some powerful stuff.”

Taking a drink of my rum and Coke, I looked away, staring at the bottles at the back of the bar. When I pulled the glass away, I ran my thumb along its base and studied the ice, the wedge of lime, the glint of light under my fingers.

“Spoiled,” I said.

“Oh yeah, definitely. Let me guess: only child.”

I shook my head.

“Youngest.”

“Yep,” I said.

“How