You Can’t Always Get What You Want

short fiction

After “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” by The Rolling Stones

Author’s Note: This is a sequel of sorts to “The Guy Who Leaves.” This should have been posted independently, but I figured I would rather the first story is read first, even if this one here can be considered a separate story (in some way).

I guess there wasn’t really a need for a follow-up story to “The Guy Who Leaves,” but months after writing it, I started thinking about the characters and how I wanted to know how they could be doing now. Hence, this story.

Also, it also felt encouraging to have people commenting on the first story, even if there were just two reviews and three tags as a favorite. They still meant a lot to me. ;-)

NEVER EARLIER THAN eight, Trots starts his day at a slow pace. But today is different. The phone rings at seven and instantly, Trots jolts awake. He stares at the ringing telephone on the floor for a moment. It’s today, it occurs to him. He lets the phone ring a few more times before reaching down to pick it up.

“Yes?” he says, his hand shaking as he props himself up. “So it’s confirmed?” Deep heave, face skyward, hand curled to fist—the entire theatrics. “Please tell me you’re not kidding. Oh, Please…” Nod, smile, grin, wider grin. “Oh, fuck you, Amy! And thank you! I love you! Be there in a jiffy!”

Trots puts the phone down and lies back in bed, relishing the moment. He wants to jump and scream and kiss everyone he meets in the streets. He takes a quick shower then goes through his closet, scrambling like it’s his first day in kindergarten. It takes him forever to choose the perfect shirt for the occasion. Coat and tie? Button-down? Realizing that it doesn’t really matter what he wore, he grabs his black Beatles shirt and puts it on.

“Here’s the man!” a male co-worker yells upon Trots’s arrival in the office. A round of applause follows.

Trots bows his head low as he walks down the aisle toward his workstation, regarding modestly every congratulations and pat-on-the-back along the way. And then he spots her, waiting for him right by his desk, a big toothy smile on her face.

“Charisse! You’re here!”

Charisse walks up to him and gives him a hug. “Amy thought it might be a good idea if I was here for this. Congratulations, baby.” Peck on the cheek.

“Thanks.” Trots looks around for any sign of Amy, murmuring a curse to himself. “Where’s Amy then?”

“Out to get you bagels and coffee. Her treat, she said.”

“Sure, sure.” Rolling his eyes, Trots sits behind his desk and powers his computer on.

Charisse leans against the table and looks down at Trots. She takes a deep heave before deciding to say something. “Listen, Trots…”

Trots looks up very briefly then goes back squinting at his computer monitor. “What?”

Charisse clears her throat, thinks for a second, then goes “Big day, huh?”

Trots cocks his head. “Nah, not really. It’s just a nomination, Charisse.”

“But still… It’s gotta feel flattering somehow.”

“Of course, of course. Hey, S’Amy here yet?”

Charisse edges forward to peek at the glass door across the room. “Yeah, there she is.”

Trots jumps fast from his chair and sprints toward Amy. “Be back in a second,” he tells Charisse as he leaves.

Amy enters the office with a bag of bagels and a cup of coffee in her hands. She flashes Trots a wide, bright-eyed grin. “Hey, Mr. Bigshot, Mr. Ramon Magsaysay nominee—“

“We need to talk.” Trots grabs Amy by the arm and takes her to the conference room. Coffee spills on Amy’s hand.

“Hey, careful! What’s the matter with you?”

Trots closes the door behind him. He’s hissing audibly, like a bomb about to blow up. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why the fuck did you invite her here?”

Amy sighs. “Look. You’ve been dodging her calls for the last couple of weeks. She’s only a child, Trots.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I just thought that since you’d be happy and all with the nomination, maybe letting her know finally that you want to break up won’t be—”

Trots knots his eyebrows. “Just who the fuck do you think you are? This is none of your business!”

Amy looks down at the huge mess of a coffee cup on the conference table. “Dammit! The Chief’s gonna kill me if I cause a stain….” She picks the cup up then takes an awkward sip. She avoids Trots’s eyes. “This was supposed to be for you.”

“Look, we’re not best friends, OK? And even if we were, you have no right to be doing this.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy says under her breath. Still looking down, she slams the bag of bagels against Trots’s chest. “Here. You must be hungry,” she says, and then runs out of the room.

GORORDO AVE. WARPS past Charisse’s vision like an unending slap across the face. Her head is leaned against the car window, her mind suspended somewhere between a black hole and a daydream. A bump on the road causes her to stir, and she’s back in reality again, in a state of living that has gravity that pulls things down, and science that defines hearts as nothing more but lumps of muscles pumping blood, and dates like October 13th, 2008, the day that she lost the love of her life. Her eyes sting from hours of crying.

She turns to the person behind the wheel. “Are we there yet?”

Burt shakes his head. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Charisse shoots him a glare. “Even if he knew, I’d still have this done.”

“I know, I know. Sorry.”

Charisse curls back up in the passenger seat and shuts her eyes. She muffles her cries into her sleeve.

Burt steals a glance at his friend. His hands clutch on the wheel tighter. “I swear to God I’ll kill that bastard if I ever see him.”

“He’s bigger than you, Burt. And to be honest, you do not know how to throw a punch.” Charisse chuckles as she dabs on the tears from her cheeks.

Burt tugs on Charisse’s hair. “I do too.” He flashes her a smile.

The rest of the ride is spent in silence. Charisse fiddles with the radio dial for some time but ultimately decides to shut it off. She is just about to fall into a peaceful sleep when Burt shakes her. “We’re here,” he tells her.

She doesn’t sit up right away. She peeks at the clinic through the car window. It doesn’t look that ominous at all, at least not the way she expected it. She thought it would grimace in front of her like the gates of hell, like haunted houses usually do in movies. But it just sits there, inanimate. “Let’s go then,” she says as she grabs at the door handle.

“Listen.” Burt stops her right by the clinic door. “This is under-the-table. My aunt is not an abortionist, but she agrees to doing this once in a while if, you know, well… Just never mention this to anyone, OK?

Charisse cannot help but laugh. “Yeah, sure. I’m just so proud of this that I can’t wait to tell the whole world that I….” Her voice breaks. The tears flow again like an eternal curse. She remembers that the last time she cried in front of Burt was when she broke her Game & Watch. She was only six then and she was afraid her parents would yell at her for breaking what was back then an expensive toy. But that was the only time. Growing up, Charisse was never one who cried easy. She didn’t cry when she found out she was getting kicked out of school, nor did she shed a single tear when her parents separated. “Burt, I’m scared,” she tells him, tugging at his shirt.

“We can leave now if you want.”

She looks into his eyes and for a moment she hates him. Burt would never feel this way. He doesn’t even have to worry about getting dumped because he’s always the one who does the dumping. Handsome people always get their way. Average people will always be sincere to them. Worse, handsome people are the ones who have the brains and the talent. And you’ll be the luckiest person if you ever end up with one. And a fool like you will always have to hang on to people like them until they get tired of you, until they no longer find you fun enough to play with. Like Trots. Trots the motherfucker. Trots the father of…. “No, I’m doing this,” she says.

With Burt a step ahead, they enter the clinic, the gaping mouth of its door devouring them with its air-conditioned breath.

BURT WHILES AWAY with an old magazine. According to Julianne Moore, Body of Evidence was a piece of shit, but she was too young back then to know better. Burt yawns and leans back, his gaze dropping on the cute male receptionist. He’s your aunt’s employee, you nymph! he tells himself. He fidgets and taps his foot on the floor. He tries the magazine again but it’s not working. His mind wanders off to Charisse and how they ever got from playing Chinese garter and Bagul-bagol to getting rid of a baby.

His phone vibrates. It’s an SMS message from Trots. I need to talk to u, it reads.

Burt is suddenly filled with rage, the kind that makes him want to resort to murder. He slips his phone back into his pant’s pocket and tries the magazine again. It’s not working. He decides to reread the message. I need to talk to u.

What the fuck do you want? he replies. Getting no immediate answer, Burt steps outside for a cigarette.

While finishing his third stick, his phone vibrates again. M guessing she alrdy told u, the message reads. Burt puts out the cigarette and steps back in. He decides to just ignore Trots’s message and shut his mind completely. But his thoughts always go back to Charisse. He goes in and out of the clinic, smokes cigarette after cigarette until he empties a pack.

It is not until an hour later that Charisse walks back out from the other room. She looks queasy and weak. Burt immediately walks up to her and offers a hand.

She whisks him away. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He leads Charisse across the room. When they get to the door, he turns back to his aunt, who by now is ushering in another patient. His aunt looks back at him, concern in her eyes. He admires her for being understanding. When he told her about Charisse’s plight, she was more than willing to help out. He mouths “Thank you” before finally walking out.

“He texted me just now,” Burt tells Charisse as he settles himself behind the wheel.

“What did he say?” Her voice is weak and uncaring, as if all the anguish had been drained out of her.

“Wanted to talk to me. Maybe he wants to explain stuff?”

Charisse leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. “He already explained it to me. He fell out of love, Burt. He fell out of love, that’s what he said.”

Burt suspects that Charisse may be high on painkillers. As he swerves back out on the road, his phone vibrates again. Another message from Trots. I know ur mad. Bt I need to tell u something.

“He’s saying he needs to tell me something.” Burt turns to Charisse. His friend, unfortunately, has already dozed off to sleep.

After dropping Charisse off at her apartment and helping her to bed, Burt receives another message. Please, Burt. I need to talk to u. Burt hesitates for a moment but he eventually submits. OK. Where?

Almost instantly, he receives a reply. My place.

Burt sits still in the driver’s seat. Maybe he could take him. Trots may be older and taller and bigger, but perhaps with some sort of weapon….

OK, I’m on my way. Burt presses send then drives out.

Burt finds Trots alone in his patio, slumped on a bench with a bottle of Johnny Walker. Trots looks a bit of a mess himself. Burt cannot help but feel a little sympathy for him. Maybe he realized he made a mistake and wants Charisse back. “What do you want, Trots?”

Instead of answering, Trots stands up, staggers a little, and steps inside his apartment. Burt follows.

“What do you want?”

Trots takes off his shirt and sits on his bed. He leans back a little and stares straight at Burt.

“You’re wasted.” Staring back at Trots and his chiseled form, Burt cannot help but feel a little aroused. He remains standing by the door. He notices his knees are wobbling.

“Was out celebrating with co-workers. Dunno if Charisse mentioned this, but I just got a nomination for—“

“Yes, and she also mentioned you fell out of love.” Just like that, Burt is enraged again. Celebrate? How dare that prick celebrate?

Trots heaves deep. He tries to push himself up but he’s too drunk to manage. After numerous tries, he falls on the floor. “I know you must think that low of me right now, but….” He suddenly finds it hard to fight it. Trots begins to quake into sobs. “I know what I did was harsh. I’m a selfish prick, I know. But it wouldn’t be fair to her, Burt. She deserves someone better.”

Burt leans against the door. “Is that all you wanted me here for? Because I already know that.”

“Look…” Trots pushes himself up. This time he manages to stand face-to-face with Burt. “Look… if I told you… If I told you….”

“You’re drunk, Trots. Let’s talk some other time.” Burt turns the knob and starts to head out.

“No, no, don’t go.” Trots pushes the door back shut, his face a breath away from Burt’s.

Burt stands frozen between the door and Trots. “What are you doing?” he says under his breath.

Trots takes Burt’s shaking hand and guides it down to his crotch. “I have a big cock, Burt. You want my cock, don’t you?”

Burt’s eyes widen. He is suddenly tempted to cry. He murmurs something that he himself finds to be unintelligible. But despite his awareness, his hand remains on Trots’s erection.

“I didn’t fall out of love, Burt.” Trots kisses Burt, wetly on the lips. Then he trails his tongue to Burt’s ear. “It’s been for you the whole time,” he whispers. Slowly, he unzips his pants and lets Burt stroke his engorged penis. He guides Burt’s thumb to spread out the precum.

“You sonofabitch!” Burt twists Trots’s male member, causing the latter to scream with pain. He releases him with a blow against the chest. “You heartless motherfucker!” Trots crouches on the floor and Burt starts to kick him repeatedly. “She just had an abortion! She’ll get over you in a few months but she’ll be grieving her whole life because of you!”

“Stop! Please, stop! What do you mean abortion?”

Burt throws himself back against the door, panting, crying.

“What do you mean abortion?”

Burt doesn’t answer. He walks out and slams the door.

THE DAY IS about to come to an end. For Amy, at least. It’s 7:50PM. She always sleeps at eight after making love to her husband. She lays naked in bed, waiting.

“What’s keeping you so long?” She yells out for him. “Hurry up! I need to be up real early tomorrow!”

Her husband stands by the bathroom door, a toothbrush in his hand, staring at her quizzically. “How early? Like three in the morning?”

“You know how I always have to cook breakfast for you, dummy.” She rolls on her side and studies him for a moment. His mouth is foaming with toothpaste. As he bends to spit in the sink, an idea hits her. “No, don’t spit that out.”

He turns to her and looks at her as if she’s crazy. “What?”

“Don’t spit that out. I want to try something.” Amy sits up and faces the bathroom. She spreads her legs wide. “I want you to eat me with that foamy thing in your mouth.”

“Huh? Are you crazy?”

“I just want to know how it feels. It’s gotta feel minty, huh?”

He can’t help but giggle. “I can’t say I’m not curious myself.”

Amy giggles back as she rubs her clit with her middle finger. “Come on! She’s getting excited!”

Her husband sprints right toward her and kneels. “Are you sure?”

Amy nods. “Do your thing, baby.”

It feels a bit odd at first. She was right; it’s minty. But the thought itself is making her body shiver with pleasure. “Oh, yeah. Fuck! That feels good.”

She begins to remember Trots earlier this morning, how he yelled at her, telling her she wasn’t his best friend. Damn that Trots. He thinks he owns the world. He swaggers around the office, feeling like he’s the most talented, most promising sonofabitch, what with his nomination and all….

“Oh, yes, eat me! Fuck! Oh, baby!”

Trots always comes in at work all fresh and engaging with his good-looks and his muscles... That irritating way he dodges Charisse’s phone calls… for weeks… that poor girl… and he thinks….

“Oh, yeah, I’m almost there! Don’t stop!”

Is Trots in? Charisse would always ask. Trots would always wave his hand at Amy, mouthing words of plea, asking her to lie for him. I’m sorry, Charisse. He just stepped out. And he left his cell phone on his desk….

“I’m cumming, baby! I’m cumming… Oh, Charisse… Charisse….”

Amy’s husband raises his head and stares at her. “Huh? Who?”

Panting, Amy pulls the blanket over her.

“Who’s Charisse?”

Amy rolls away from her husband and shuts her eye. “No one. Let’s just go to bed. Early day tomorrow.”

At eight-thirty, Amy falls deep into real sleep. This is the first time in years that she slept late.

THE END