While messaging our food order, I watch her bounce around. Then I text a club bunny to have her pick up groceries for me. These days, Jena doesn’t get much attention. Hitting thirty killed her confidence, and my club brothers have noticed. Lowell now has her in charge of other shit, making her more of an assistant than a party girl.
Anxiety rises in me as Pixie bounces on the couch. Not from my obsession so close I can touch. I also don’t care if she uses the furniture as a trampoline. I sensed Bronco was irritated by that stuff, but I barely sit in here.
What bothers me is Pixie’s earthy scent. The smell returns my thoughts to my grandmother’s reaction after I’d play outside all day. The scent of heat on my skin drove her crazy, and she’d roughly scrub my skin to get rid of it.
“Pixie,” I say, fighting the rage inside me. “I need you to take a shower.”
“No.”
“You can wear one of my shirts until we get you girl clothes.”
“No,” she says, still bouncing.
I grab her midjump and hold her still. My big hands grip her too tightly. I’m barely in control of myself. If she weren’t here, I’d smoke pot until my edge softened. Maybe drink until I passed out. But those aren’t options, and I feel myself spiraling.
Pixie stares fearfully at me first, then she balls up her fists and looks ready to hit me. I don’t know what she sees on my face. Instead of attacking, she throws her arms around my shoulders and hugs me.
“Your heart is too heavy,” she says, nuzzling my throat. “Something hurt my grand sequoia.”
When her gaze meets mine, I try to explain what’s happening in my head. No words come out. She can’t understand how much my grandparents hated me. Her family loves each other dearly. I see all the warmth in her eyes when she mentions any of them, even her stepdad. No way can she comprehend the kind of disgust my family felt for me.
But Pixie does understand I need her to do as I say. I don’t know why I carry her to the bathroom. She feels good in my arms, and I get to touch her without seeming like a sick freak.
All my thoughts are dark now. I see my big, ugly hands on her soft, innocent skin. I struggle against the urge to hurt her. If I do something fucked up, I can prove everyone right about me. I am evil. Nothing will ever change.
But I don’t hurt Pixie. When I set her down in the large master bathroom, she turns away and investigates. Her reaction to her reflection digs me free of the darkness. Only a little, but it’s enough to get me to turn on the shower.
“No,” she says, seeing the water. “The government place had one of those.”
“It’s like rain. You’ve danced in the rain, right?” I say through gritted teeth.
Pixie ignores my tone. She has no idea how close I am to hurting her. I haven’t felt this on edge in a long time, and there are no easy outs for me tonight.
“There’s no music,” she says.
I nearly snap my phone in half as I dig it from my pocket and find the music app. Each song that she frowns at only sends me deeper into a dark hole.
Finally, I start “The Seashores of Old Mexico,” and she smiles at the light plucking of the guitar. I remember how she prefers softer music like bluegrass and the folky stuff. This country song by George Strait inspires her to sway around the bathroom.
Then she proves just how much of a gazelle she is in a world of predators. Without a care in her pretty head, Pixie quickly strips out of her clothes and runs into the large stone shower.
I should look away. But Pixie’s so carefree, dancing around under the rain showerhead. She even laughs when the soap bar flies free of her grip and bounces around the stall.
Her light heart acts as an antidote to my grandparents’ nagging voices in my head. I’ll never be good enough for the people who raised me. If Pixie’s right about alternative realities and living new lives, I’m sure my grandparents already hate me something fierce in their next story.
But those fuckers aren’t here right now. Pixie is, and I’m her only ally in the outside world. I need to calm down and find a way to be worthy of my flower child.