The Ground Beneath Her Feet, Part 3

Previously: Part 2, Mobile, Alabama [A]

Along the Mississippi river, it’s legal to gamble on the water, but not on dry land, so in places like Biloxi, they’ve built these huge Vegas-style casinos on stilts that hang out over the gulf: http://bit.ly/gX38Jz. The highway also ends above the water before snaking back on itself.

In New Orleans, the French Quarter itself was left entirely untouched by Hurricane Katrina and it’s just as quaint and sleazy as ever. Oh, and you can gamble on dry land within the city, too.

Rated: A. Kissing.

* * * * *

Shreveport, Louisiana

I have never been to Louisiana before. I wish I was going to the prettier parts. Sometimes, when I drive, I take the time to imagine little scenarios in my head – daydream, if you will, except most of my driving is done at night.

I think of Ashley being next to me, holding my hand. Sometimes we’re driving down the California coast, sunglasses on, wind in our hair. How my beat up old bomb becomes a convertible, I don’t know, but it does. Or now we could be heading down to New Orleans to see the sights. Or the sights as they were before Hurricane Katrina.

I can imagine strolling through the streets with her hand in mine. Always, her hand is in mine. Wherever I send us, her hand is in mine. Sometimes I see us driving up to see my parents, two small bodies sleeping peacefully in the back seat. One has brown curly hair and one has blonde and she’s smiling at me from the front seat, hand in mine.

Then I have to stop thinking these things because the ache intensifies again.

The lights are shining on the road in front of me and I think I’m about to hit a truck stop. That’s fine by me because I need a stretch of my legs and a drink.

There are some guys hanging around the restrooms as I step into the diner. A lady is perched behind the counter reading a magazine. I swear to God she has blue hair, a uniform and those glasses that have wings. I think I know her name is Doris before I even get to the counter.

“How can I help you, sweet-pea?” Oh heaven preserve us, I’m driving through a cliché.

“Diet Coke and a Milky Way, please.” The only reason I stay thin is because this is quite often my meal for a day. Did I mention that my dad’s getting worried about my eating? Every time I go home, he tries to fatten me up.

“Sure thing, honey. You sure you don’t want something else?” She’s eyeing me up and I know she wants to fatten me up. What is this, some kind of Hansel and Gretel acid trip?

“I’m good, thanks.” I put the change down on the counter and smile. I make with my chocolate and Coke, back to the car before I can be leered at by the truck drivers hanging around the toilets.

I munch on the candy bar while I drive towards Shreveport and the rising of today’s sun. I doubt that Ashley is in Shreveport because I’ve heard nothing good about the place. In fact, people just pull faces when you mention it. It sounds like a dive and she never stays in a dive for very long. I guess she just has that quintessential good taste.

This is it. This is my story for today. I’m driving, like I do all the time, and I know it’s boring. I find it boring. I used to love long trips in the car, off to see the grandparents. We’d put on these stupid mix-tapes and just sing along.

Of course, Glen and I would get into fights in the back seat. I always had to sit in the middle, being the youngest and smallest. Still, it was so much fun. For ages, I used to love driving long trips, even by myself. Now, after so many months on the road, all I can think of is never having to get in a car again. So long as I find Ashley first.

* * *

I didn’t know why seeing Aiden and Ashley made me feel the way it did. I certainly couldn’t account for it at the time. It was like my head was on fire, like I could feel the heat ripping through my scalp. Burning, I ran, the only place I could think of, back to the bathroom. The white heat pouring through the top of my head was completely unexpected. It was washing my vision out and short circuiting my brain. I splashed water all over my face, half-expecting steam to come hissing off me but all that happened was me staring at myself in the mirror.

I sank to my ass in the corner, leaning on the cold bathroom tile and shaking. What was going on with this? What was going on with me? I couldn’t get this straight in my head. I couldn’t understand what was going on. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I tried to get my thoughts in some kind of rational order for just a second.

I didn’t like Aiden. I hated seeing Ashley with Aiden. You would think it shouldn’t have taken me that long to figure out the next step but it was something that didn’t really dawn on me.

I sat in the corner for I don’t know how long, miserable and burning. The heat slowly dissipated but the misery didn’t. This wasn’t a fun party. It did occur to me, after about forty-five minutes, that if I wasn’t having fun, I should probably just leave. My ass was numb and my head hurt from being pressed against the wall. It also hurt from just… aching. My foot was asleep. I stood up and shook it, waiting for the pins and needles, then I hobbled from the room. By the time I was in the hall, I was walking normally, which was a good thing, and the heat had mostly gone from my head.

And then a door from the hall opened and Ashley slipped out, adjusting her shirt. She caught my eye and I swear to God a tinge of blush hit her cheeks. I know that the heat immediately burst back into my head and I could have fainted from it. She… she’d just… I was speechless.

I watched as she clicked the door closed behind her and looked at me. We just stared, so damn deeply into each other’s eyes. I don’t know what I saw there, I can’t even describe what it was, but God it scared me.

She took my hand. I don’t remember her getting close enough to take it but she did.

“Can we go home?”

She sounded so much like a scared young child, I couldn’t help but keen inside for her. I probably shouldn’t have. I was totally out of my head with teenage angst, pain and confusion and I was letting her walk me straight into the fire. And, yes, I did. I let her take my hand and I walked her home. She didn’t let go the whole way.

In fact, she didn’t let go while she was digging in her pocket for her house key or entering the house or dragging me up to her room. I was frozen in any ability to share my preference for what I wanted. I was so torn between wanting to flee her, to beat into her with my fists and cry all over her or to drag her into my arms and beg her never, ever to do it again.

You must think I’m a bit slow because I still didn’t get it. No, some things you have to slap me in the face with. And we’re not quite there yet.

I chose to do nothing, to stand there in the dark gaze of her room, holding her hand. I don’t know what she felt then. We’ve never discussed it and I never pretended to know. I’m not savvy. I don’t read minds.

She just stood there, staring at me and holding my hand, stroking the back of it gently with her thumb. In my head, she was a ten-second clip of a movie on endless repeat, coming out of a darkened room straightening her shirt. The heat in my head was excruciating, but almost nothing compared to the heat in my hand, the gentle path on my skin her thumb was tracing.

And then she said it.

“I’m sorry.”

And I forgave her instantly. I won’t pretend that my head felt better straight away but, in my heart, she was forgiven. She knew, I think straight away, that she had hurt me. It said so much for her, for her amazing tenderness and her care, that she meant it. She’d hurt me, she’d seen it, but for what reason? What right did I have to be upset, to be angry? None, but I was.

She hauled me into her arms and I didn’t object, didn’t resist. I stood in her arms, motionless, for just an instant, before I wrapped my own around her and held on for dear life. I wanted to scream at her, tell her she didn’t need anyone but me, that I’d be everything for her, but I stayed quiet and just held her while she held me.

We hugged. I mean, we’d hugged before, but not like this. This was so close, so tight and so needy. We needed each other. Oh, how we needed. I do not know how we got to bed or how we ended up in bed. I do know that we forwent pyjamas for the first time ever.

Lying under the covers in underwear and a tank top, I held on to her again. This time, there was more to it: she was tucked under my chin and had buried her head in my neck. I could feel her breath on my collar bone as she lay there. I was still out of my own head. I never thought of these things happening to us, to me. I didn’t know how to deal. I couldn’t think, could barely breath and I had no idea what was going on but I had to move. I let my instincts take control that day and they wrapped me around Ashley tighter than a cocoon. My mouth in her hair, my arms around her and my legs tangled in hers. Our smooth skin sliding across each other.

And I held her like this as her wet, salty tears marked my skin and the sobbing began. I don’t think I said anything. I don’t think I needed to. I just wrapped myself around her and held on for dear life.

We were still tangled in each other when we awoke the next morning, my face on her pillow, inches from hers. With the amazing timing of the universe, our clocks in perfect rhythm, we awoke within seconds of each other, blinking in the new morning. I remember her hand coming up to touch my cheek, not to stroke or cup, just to touch.

My skin felt stretched there. My whole head felt strange. Her body was still pressed near mine, like a v shape. Our legs were entwined and our heads were the furthest apart, and that wasn’t very far.

Some things, I will never forget. Like the first day I met her. Like the first time I saw her smile.

Like the first time we kissed.

And, yet, I can’t tell you who initiated it or how it came to be, how we managed to close that distance and, yet, the first touch of those lips on mine was so unexpected and so good.

It was closed mouth at first, just a brushing of two soft lips on two more. Then her hand tangled in my hair and urged me closer, the kisses getting whisperingly deeper. I remember crushing closer, trying for more contact, knowing there was more there. I parted my lips and felt her tongue slip out, tasting me, testing. I moaned, the slight tickling contact making my body shudder against her. Tentatively, I let my own tongue move, just the tip brushing against hers. She rolled me over, pushing me into the bed with her body and holding herself over me. I wrapped my legs around hers, to hold her close, to make sure she didn’t stop. I never wanted her to stop.

The kisses went on, one melding into another. I only noticed I was moving when she groaned, her hand finding the sharp edge of my hip and squeezing. I was grinding up against her, panting as we kissed, and I didn’t even know it. My hand was gripping in her hair, convulsively flexing and releasing as my body ached for something the rest of me wasn’t ready for.

I don’t know how close we came that morning to taking it all the way. At some point, panting and groaning, we pulled apart slightly, her face burying in my neck and her hands gripping the sheets either side of me. I just held on, using her as my buoy, pure safety. I was shaking and possibly more confused than ever.

And all I wanted to do was kiss her again.

By the time we pulled apart properly, finally far enough that our skin was no longer touching and we were staring at each other in some kind of amazement, I made some excuse – some mumbled excuse – and grabbed my clothes, fleeing for the bathroom.

It was the most speed, the most decisiveness I’d shown in hours. Throwing on my clothes, I washed my face again. It was still hot, flushed, but for a completely different reason now. I had to leave. I gave her no reason, I gave her no goodbye.

That day, I turned and ran without a word. I would like to say it was the first and last time, but that would make me a liar.

* * *

This time, I’m not running away, I’m running towards. I will never run again and, although, as you learn my story, you might believe strongly that I’ll make a liar of myself, I know I won’t. I can’t, not this time.

I’m an hour from Shreveport. There I will find another address and, I know, another point from which I have to continue my search. I’m still too far behind to have any hope of really finding her at my next stop. Doesn’t mean I’ll give up. As I said, I’m never running away again.

* * *

You know, I’ve never met anyone who actually liked Shreveport. Johnnie Cochran was born here and I think that says a lot. Flamboyant lawyer, anyone? No morals, easy money? I’m sure I’m being horribly unfair to the place but, then again, I haven’t exactly seen the best of it here.

I never see the best of any city. I sometimes wonder if Ashley knew I was following her, if she’d reflect on that. She’s taken me on a tour of the dives of the southern United States. I don’t think she intentionally set out for me to talk to more crack whores than I’d ever thought existed but, hey, there had to be an upside, right?

No, that makes it sound like I’m mad at her. I’m not mad at her. I understand. She’s trying to disappear, trying to escape. She’s looking for places where she can sink into the walls and no-one will care, where she can walk out the door and, if she doesn’t come back, they’ll shrug and her replacement will be slinging beer before the hinges stop squeaking.

She picks the scummiest jobs. I guess it’s part of the allure. I wish she’d stay in one place. Okay, obviously I wish that because it would make my life so much easier but, actually, that’s not why I wish it. I’m over being selfish with Ashley. All I’ve been is selfish with Ashley. I want her to stay because it would mean she’d finally found somewhere else she felt at home, somewhere with friends, a place she was happy. All I want now is for her to be happy.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m looking for her in the hope that, when I find her, I can be the one that makes her happy and convince her of that. But, if I can’t, then I’ll do anything, and I mean anything, to make sure she’s happy otherwise. I sure as hell won’t let her keep working in these fucking dives because, man, they are starting to piss me off.

This one has to be the worst one ever.

I mean, Shreveport, or so I thought, was supposed to be a nice old town. It has that oil history, you know, some richness to it. You picture Steel Magnolias. Well, I did anyway. Whatever part of Shreveport that’s supposed to be in, it’s not where I’m standing now.

Every town of a certain size has strip clubs. I mean, yeah, they exist, right? I got dragged to one once, by some college buddies, male college buddies, although the fact that I was being dragged to a strip club probably gave that fact away. It was a simple three-step thought process for them: Spencer is an all right girl; hey, wow, Spencer is a lesbian; Spencer will want to come to a strip club with us.

It was boring. No, seriously. They paid for a lap dance and all I felt was bored. I was over the embarrassment and it was just some girl I wasn’t even remotely attracted to grinding her ass in my face. Nice chest, though.

Okay, I’m so off-topic.

This strip club, this is a dive. It’s disgusting. I have no doubt that there are rooms upstairs where more than stripping goes on. I also hate the fact that the bouncer recognises Ashley from her photo instantly.

“Oh yeah, Ashley, she woiked here fo’ shure.” I’m exaggerating on this one but he’s definitely from New Jersey, so you have to give me a little.

I have visions, horrible stomach churning visions, of Ashley on the runway, in a bikini, doing the bump and grind to the dirty-looking pole I can see from here. These aren’t sexy visions. Although the girl could move – and, God, did she turn me on when she did – Ashley on show for a bunch of overgrown gorillas is not my idea of sexy. And I think I might be insulting gorillas here, because they’re actually quite intelligent, lovely animals.

“Oh yeah, she woiked behind de bar fo’ a few weeks, ’bout a month.”

Behind the bar, thank God. It doesn’t stop the next stupid question out of my mouth, though.

“Just behind the bar?”

“Oh yeah, classy broad. Damien offered her good cash to dance. I think she told him whe-are ta stick da pole, if ya know whadda mean!”

I know what he means. That’s my girl. I am so proud.

“Happen to know where she went?” I’m hoping here. My run of luck has been pretty good of late. I am disappointed when he shakes his head.

“She shared a flat with Joisey for a while. Ya might wanna try hoir.”

Joisey? Oh, Jersey! Wow. They name their strippers after states… or livestock.

He nods his head towards the back of the club and I enter, cringing at the feel and smell of the place. There is a small, black door at the back which quite clearly says ‘Staff. Do Not Enter.’ Ignoring it, I push my way in. The first door I come to has a crummy office with a crummy man in it. He doesn’t look like a strip club owner. He looks like a professional wrestler. When his eyes meet mine, though, I have no doubt that he owns the place and that he isn’t someone I want to be in the same room with for very long.

“You lookin’ for a job, Blondie?” he asks, leering.

I shake my head furiously, “No, I’m looking for Joisey, I mean, Jersey.” Damn my mouth.

He raises an eyebrow. “What you want with one of my girls?”

“I… she knows a friend of mine and I need to ask her something.”

“Really?”

Okay, this conversation is going on way too long.

“If you could just point me her way, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Maybe I like you in my hair,” he grins.

I stop myself from screaming ‘I’m a dyke and you don’t have any hair!’ and smile weakly instead. “Can you just tell me where she is?”

“Down the hall, on the left. And, lady, if you cause any trouble, you and I will be having more than words.”

Ew, walking talking jerk cliché.

Down the hall on the left turns out to be the ‘dressing room’, code for a shoddy bathroom with a bench and a smell like a rat has died in there. Two women in not very much clothing greet my blushing self with cool stares.

“What?”

So, these are not your friendly strippers. You know, the ones that rescue puppies for fun.

“Sorry, I was looking for Jersey.” I try to look as apologetic as possible.

The blonde glances at the brunette who busies herself strapping on some stilettos. Then she looks at me.

“Why?”

“Uh, your doorman said that Ashley roomed with her.”

That gets the brunette’s attention. The blonde is all fake and all boring. The brunette is something else, though. Her beauty is real and deep set. What she’s doing in a lousy off-alley strip club in this seedy part of Shreveport is beyond me.

My jealousy surges at the thought of Ashley being in the same house as this woman. The look in her eyes, the sudden flash of anger, interest and guardianship doesn’t make my jealousy feel any better. I wanted Ashley to have friends, sure. I don’t want them to be this beautiful.

“How do you know Ashley?” ‘Jersey’ asks me bluntly.

“We grew up together,” I reply.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Look, I’m trying to track her down. Do you know where I should head to?”

Jersey stares at me. The blonde heads towards the door and then glances at her friend. There’s an almost imperceptible nod from Jersey and she leaves.

“Who are you?”

I take a chance. “My name is Spencer.”

And then there’s light. It floods her eyes, an instant notice of recognition. If I had thought that would help, I am about to be wrong.

“Of all people on this planet, why would I tell you where she was?”

“Because… because I care.” Well, that was simple and kind of stupid. Sensible Spencer is beating up Stupid Spencer inside me, but Stupid Spencer keeps on winning, goddammit.

“Uh-huh.” I haven’t impressed Jersey.

“Because I’ve spent the last five months driving all over the country looking for her and, even if you don’t tell me, I won’t give up. Because I will check every phone book, every city and every damned site on the internet until I find her. Because I care that much,” I say, even more bluntly. “And because Ashley needs me.”

That earns me a snort. “Yeah. Right.”

So I take a shot in the dark. “You love her?” I watch her jerk a little. “I’m not surprised. I do too, believe it or not. I can’t believe she actually mentioned my name but, since she did, you know we have history. Ashley’s running from her history because she thinks it’s going to swallow her whole. Whatever else happens, I’m just going to give her a life back. Her life. This makes no sense to you. God, I’m rambling.” And, apparently I am also saying my inner monologue out loud now.

“She went to Kilgore.”

That’s unexpected. “What?”

“When Damien started to pressure her to dance, she went to Kilgore, in Texas. It’s a small town. I got a card from Arizona a few weeks back, so I don’t think she’s still in Texas.”

“Shit,” I say under my breath.

Jersey stands up and faces me. “Sorry, I think it was a card from on the road.”

I’ll have to go to Kilgore anyway. But at least I know, if I don’t find anything there, I’ll have somewhere to try next: the whole state of Arizona. It’s somewhere anyway. My luck, it seems, is holding.

“You hurt her again and you deserve to die,” she says to me.

I let myself look her in the face. I let myself look at one of the other people on this planet who has loved – still loves? – Ashley Davies.

“Yes,” I agree. “I do.”

The multiple meanings are not lost on either of us. I know I should ask why she’s told me, but I don’t. I leave that to her heart. It’s probably all she has left.

And so I continue running towards. Towards my beloved, confused Ashley. Just like I always have done eventually. Sometimes, it just takes me some time to turn around from the running away.

* * *

I was not prepared for any of what had happened. I was fifteen and I was supposed to be kissing boys. I was not supposed to be kissing my best friend and then running like the ‘fraidy cat that I was. I wasn’t supposed to be hiding in my room for the rest of the weekend, daydreaming about dragging her back to bed and kissing her for the rest of my life, or having nightmare visions of my mother finding out and being chained in the basement for the rest of my life.

Ashley knocked on the door on Sunday afternoon, but I told my mother I had a migraine. She gave me a funny look – she was actually very fond of Ashley – but sent her away anyway.

My response to the whole weekend was to bury it. Bury it deep and refuse to ever acknowledge it happened. That was my plan for school on Monday morning and I proudly carried it through to, oh, about ten o’clock. Because that was when Ashley dragged me into the school restrooms and turned to furiously confront me.

I really shouldn’t have let my mind quickly flick to the idea of her pushing me up against the wall and kissing me again. It was brief, but long enough for me to miss the first word of her sentence. Not that it really mattered. I caught the rest.

“- the fuck is going on?”

“You tell me.”

As you can tell, Stupid Spencer has been around for a very long time. And Ashley just stared at me. I couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Spencer, please. Will you just talk to me? You always talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say this time,” I wailed.

I didn’t. I really didn’t. I didn’t know how I felt, I didn’t know what I was doing and I certainly didn’t know how to tell her that. I could feel her coming closer. I could see her shoes stop close to mine. I focused on her shoelaces because I still couldn’t meet her eyes. Her hands were on mine, soft and gentle. It was going to make me tremble, I knew. It was going to make my body rebel against my head again.

“Spencer, please, I…”

“I can’t do this,” I whispered.

“We don’t have to do anything,” she said. “We’re just us, Spencer. Spencer and Ashley, like always.”

I didn’t know if she was agreeing to forget what had happened on Saturday night. I didn’t know if she was agreeing to just go back to how we were, but, God, I hoped she was.

“Like always?”

“Hell, yeah,” she grinned.

And, just like that, my cheeky little Ashley returned. I gave her a grin. She didn’t know how close I’d been to running out of the bathroom and away again. Maybe she did. Maybe that’s why she agreed. Maybe that’s why she placated me. Who knew? We kept our happy truce, our agreement, for a whole week. We were back to our normal selves, doing our homework together, spending our weekend together.

Normal selves, my ass, though. She might have been back to her normal self, but I wasn’t. I was dreaming about her, I was daydreaming about her and, every time she touched me, my skin tingled. For the first time in my life, I was genuinely attracted to someone, sexually attracted to someone. And it might have taken me a full week to really come to that conclusion, but it left me biting my nails on the following Sunday night, completely unsure what to do.

I could just have kept pretending with Ashley. For all I knew, she had still been drunk on the Saturday before and, if I had made my feelings known, she’d have turned me down flat. I wasn’t conceited, but I suspected not.

Also, I had no freaking idea how to be a lesbian. Or if I even was a lesbian. That was too much to consider because I was still stumped over simply wanting Ashley. Labelling myself would have been beyond possibility.

I had no idea how to touch a girl. Hell, as far as I knew, touching a boy consisted mostly of lying there and letting them touch you. I didn’t want to do that with Ashley. I practically wanted to devour her and it was driving me crazy. It was scaring me stupid. It was… Well, I ran out of clichés but it was still frightening.

I turned to the only place I could think of, the internet. It wasn’t quite as useful a source as it is today, but it was still pretty useful. I was trying to avoid porn sites, which wasn’t exactly easy, and half of what I read just made my eyebrows hit my hairline. In the end, it just confused me even more. I didn’t want all of this crap. I just wanted…

I wanted to lie in bed with Ashley on Saturday mornings. I wanted to feel her skin on mine. I wanted to feel her mouth on mine. I wanted hand-holding and jokes and more kisses. God, how I wanted those kisses. I wanted Ashley.

I just didn’t know how to get her.

* * *

Actually, I still don’t. But, God, I’m going to keep driving until I get to her. Then, maybe I’ll figure out how to get her.

One step at a time, right? That’s the lesson I’ve learned so far in life: one step at a time.

Or, in my case, one mile at a time, until I get to her.

* * * * *

Next up: Part 4, At home in Ohio [A, Kissing]

6 Comments

  1. MsBrittz
    Posted 18 January 2011 at 7.56pm | Permalink

    Sooo being that I love this story just as much this time around as I did the first time I went back to the forum to re-read it beginning to end :) it pulls at the heart string… <3

  2. daman
    Posted 19 January 2011 at 12.46am | Permalink

    thanks for the update!

  3. dev0347
    Posted 19 January 2011 at 10.02am | Permalink

    Steel Magnolias is made of WIN.

    Ouiser [Shirley Maclaine]: You are evil, and you must be destroyed.
    Clairee [Olympia Dukakis]: Mother Nature’s taking care of that faster than you could.

    Clairee: Ousier’s never done a religious thing in her life.
    Ouiser: Now that is not true. When I was in school, a bunch of my friends and I would dress up as nuns and go bar-hoppin’.

    On topic, I love this:

    Joisey? Oh, Jersey! Wow. They name their strippers after states… or livestock.

    ‘Yes, and this is Friesian, that’s Heilan’, she’s Ayrshire and the classy redhead on the pole is Charolais.’

  4. Lnkmstr10
    Posted 20 January 2011 at 2.05am | Permalink

    I went to a Coyote Ugly with my best friend in Panama City and they asked me (forced me) to dance up there with them. Being drunk and too friendly, they asked my name, so I told them I was Sarah. Well one of them goes to introduce me to another dancer and called me Ginger. So now I tell everyone that’s my stripper name. Apparently Sarah was too boring, but Ginger spiced it up…no pun intended

  5. theflannelclub
    Posted 23 January 2011 at 1.01am | Permalink

    Ah! thank you for posting this on here. I love this story so much. One of my all time favorites.

  6. Amanda
    Posted 23 January 2011 at 1.30am | Permalink

    Haha this story makes me wish I had done the sleazy dive middle of nowhere thing when I was running. I realize they are not at all like the romanticized version in my head but I feel like I missed out. You know, Things To Do Under 25; work in a dive, train hop, hitchhike, be arrested for protesting…Things like that.

    Anyway, fantastic, cant wait for more.

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