The lone Camaro squatted at the edge of the parking lot, a quiet hunger in the expanding night. The gleam of the full moon reflected off the midnight blue muscle car as the darkness enveloped the misty gravel that surrounded the wobbly shack. One piece of paper sat crumpled on the seat, with a name scrawled in lipstick violating the sheet. Some digits scribbled in haste.

The red neon flashed and sparked, the odd surge of static giving the color a pause. Bluebird Lounge, it said. Three hours ago it was hopping. The jukebox blasted out country, rockabilly, and classic rock and roll. It was silent now, and would testify to no one.

It had started back in grade school, Jim and Rick with something as stupid as where their last names fell. Stewart and Thompson. In grade school, having your best friend next to you at every assembly, every walk down that hall—that was  a bonus. Then Julie joined their class. The first crush came all the way from Tennessee. Smith was the last name. And suddenly your friend was in the way.

Back and forth over the years it would continue. There were high school hockey games and cheerleaders, college keg parties and co-eds, Friday nights and long happy hours. You can only be a sidekick for so long.

She was trouble from the moment they saw her—tight jeans with black leather boots. A crimson top hugged her breasts, forcing their pale curves to the top, overflowing. Between the cigarettes and Budweisers, the games of pool and darts, her hair flipped like a ponytail, eyes darting to them both.

Rape is a strong word. At what point does it start? At the first hesitation, the first push away, the word “No?” And when you stop and she continues, what then? When she pushes you away and then unzips or unbuttons? When your friend doesn’t come back, and you go outside to check on him, how long does the rage take to bloom? His wallet is in her hands, her lipstick ringing his limp cock. Just a cigarette, some fresh air, she wants to see my car.

The mixture of blood and gravel coat the table with grime, the dirty shovel lying next to your feet. A small, black plastic ashtray that you’ve seen in every goddamn bar, restaurant, hotel, and airport since the beginning of time, is overflowing with butts. A scattering of empty bottles lies on the floor like an army of soldiers, dead eyes at attention.

Tomorrow night it will be the same. And he’ll never even say thanks.

___

Richard was the winner of the 2009 “Enter the World of Filaria” contest at ChiZine. He has published dozens of stories online and in print, including the Shivers VI anthology (Cemetery Dance) with Stephen King and Peter Straub, Murky Depths, PANK, Pear Noir!, Word Riot, 3:AM Magazine, Dogmatika, Vain and Opium. His debut novel Transubstantiate (Otherworld Publications) was released in July of 2010.