Hair-Trigger by Trevor Clark Read Free Book Online

right?”
    â€œThings never work out if you go to bed with someone right away.”
    Lofton relaxed but wasn’t entirely convinced. He offered her a drink. “Listen, that’s the strangest fucking thing I’ve ever had anyone say in the middle of sex. You don’t say that kind of shit to someone when they’re fucking you. That’s a goddamn mood killer.”
    Marva didn’t look contrite. In fact, her face was maddeningly detached. Swallowing, she passed the bottle back. “Sorry, but I just have to say what I think. Whenever I have sex with somebody the first night, it always goes wrong. I should probably tell you, my relationships don’t usually last very long.”
    There was a brief silence. “What happened with your last boyfriend?”
    â€œI was engaged but he said he thought we should take some time apart. What do you think of something like that—‘We should take some time apart’?”
    â€œHow long ago?”
    â€œA month.”
    Lofton put his bottle on the dresser beside him. His gut sagged as he turned and tugged the reservoir tip of his condom, and slowly began to roll it off. “How long did you know him before you got engaged?”
    â€œA month.”
    â€œNo, I mean, how long before you got engaged?”
    â€œA month.”
    He leaned over and put the rubber on her throw rug. “You only knew him a month and you wanted to get married?”
    â€œYeah, you know, you look for Mr. Right. . . . But he told me to stop being stupid when I was asking him about us, trying to get some kind of idea about what he was thinking. I guess I wasn’t feeling too sure about things. I wanted some, you know . . .”
    â€œReassurance.”
    â€œYeah, but he said I was being stupid.”
    â€œAnd he hasn’t called since.”
    â€œHe phoned a few days ago and wanted to know if I wanted to see a movie,” she said, twisting one of her braids. “He knows I’d rather talk because we’ve got things to say, but he wanted to see a movie. I told him I’d call him back because he woke me up, and when I did, he wasn’t home. I know he went to see it without me. We’ve argued about that before—him not waiting to see if I’m going to go or not. He left a message after that but I didn’t call back.”
    â€œWhite or black guy?”
    â€œWhite. I won’t go out with black guys anymore; they’re too much trouble. They act too ignorant and full of themselves.”
    When she got up to go to the washroom, Lofton pulled aside the sheet nailed across her doorway and left the tiny bedroom, or alcove, or whatever it was, and lumbered out to the living room. A couple of well-worn chairs faced a TV, VCR, DVD and CD player. Above the sofa her basement window offered a view of the driveway at asphalt level. A spray-painted garbage can was visible between the yellow curtains. As he pulled his cigarettes from his jacket he noticed an unlikely law book on a shelf of DVDs and old video cassettes, and looked at some framed photos on the scratched coffee table of girlfriends, a teenaged Marva with some guys, maybe a tough-looking boyfriend or half-brother, and an older woman who was probably her mother. He flicked his silver lighter aflame, inhaled, and studied a professional-looking studio shot of her a few pounds lighter in a tank top and vinyl hot pants.
    Lofton went into the kitchen for another beer. Before drawing back the sheet to reenter her bedroom space, he noticed a closed door beside what looked like a closet. “Is this a bachelor or a one-bedroom apartment?” he asked, lying back down beside her.
    â€œA one-bedroom, not including this.”
    â€œWhy don’t you sleep in the real room?”
    â€œI rent that out.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? There’s somebody in there?”
    â€œNo, he’s out. He works at night.”
    â€œYou’re saying you live with a