Read Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) for Free Online

3
    I
take pride in the fact that I’ve moved out of my parent’s house.
Most people my age struggle to leave. They’d rather save or whatever.
    Helping
people cheat in school wasn’t exactly my idea of highbrow business
though. I’d planned on venturing forth into finance. Everyday would be a
power suit day. I’d storm the office, head upright, neck pole-straight,
and I’d rock the male-dominated world with my pumps. Nobody could resist
what I would have to say over a deal. Management? I could do that. I’d be
fair and just. No queen bee mentality here, though Caddy might say otherwise.
    I’d
wanted to pursue something substantial and meaningful. Something that added to
society.
    The
deeper in you go though, the harder it is to get out. How do you stop your
business when it’s on track to grow even more, year by year? What do you
do when all this money falls unto your lap, and you can’t even
move—amounts so vast, you wouldn’t know how to spend the first
dime.
    You
make three figures a month, and when you’re young, that’s gold.
Then you hit four figures a month, and you’re still clinging onto the
poor mentality of saving and not taking risks.
    You
could try opening up one of the aforementioned—a “real”
business. But you’d bust over and over. The majority fail on their third,
fourth, eight go. Capitalism is not kind.
    And
in the eye of all this nonsense is my attempt at maintaining some semblance of
a running social life to stay sane.
    Bishop
roves into the apartment complex at around four-thirty. His convertible is no
better than Caddy’s station wagon. Better beat than nonexistent.
    I
hop in, and Bishop kisses me as a greeting. “I’ve been thinking of
you,” he says.
    “That’s
nice. Keeping thinking about me.”
    He
tugs at my chin and kisses me once more, sending waves of prickling to the back
of my throat. He creates a gentle itch on the roof of my mouth, and drags his
tongue to the tip of my lips, where he presses down with his teeth, biting
enough to create a short-circuiting jolt.
    “That
was great,” I say. “Thank you for that.”
    “You’ve
never had that before?”
    I
slap his chest, but he deflects my hand with a twist of his shoulder.
    “I
know you haven’t,” he says.
    The
arcade is positioned near an alleyway. Skaters like to round the corners on longboards.
Parents walk alongside their nagging kids. I feel like a teenager coming here,
considering the arcade isn’t exactly for adults.
    “But
this one is,” Bishop says, “it’s a special arcade.”
    We
get out of the car and walk under neon lights. We pass through a tarp and the
first person to greet us greets us with a loud, “Howdy!”
    It’s
a country arcade, how novel.
    The
woman running the front desk wears Daisy Dukes and a gallon hat, though in
reality her accent sounds more Brooklyn than Southern. Her coworkers all wear
plaid—in fact, I’ve never such an ocean’s worth of plaid in
my life.
    “It’s
the most fashionable thing to wear there, out in the country.”
    “Plaid?”
I say. “ Plaid? ”
    “I
told you. You’ve never had that—” he points to his lips
“—or that or that or that before.”
    All
around us are country themed art pieces. The laser tag is a ranch-maze with
pistols instead of your typical futuristic laser gun. Men prance around in
boots, their heels thicker than my own at home. I whip out my phone to take a
snapshot of the general arena, where people congregate around games of
billiards and dart boards. Caddy would love this place. So would Piranha.
    The
vents pump aromatic perfumes and mingle the scents with a dry burnt stench, the
kind you’d get after lighting up a bon fire. I wrinkle my nose, but
Bishop assures me, “It’s for the atmosphere.”
    We
sign up to play laser tag, and after a while waiting for the other guests to
hang up their pistols, we’re allowed in. There’s a wooden gate that
blocks the way into the arena. Bishop lends me his had and I hop