Eugene only tried to get beyond first base once after that. A drunken pass. He’d attempted to kiss her again, this time more urgently, at a party. In a dirty kitchen that shrunk with the beer and cocaine until they were in each other’s faces, a field of intensity insulating them from the rest of the festivities. It had seemed the right time. But Madeline pushed an implacable, upturned hand onto his big chest and said: — One thing, Eugene: you and I will never, ever fuck.
He’d woken up the next morning, despondent in his crushing hangover. The phone went. It was Madeline. Before he could apologise, she beat him to the punch. — I’m so sorry about last night, Gene. I was kind of loaded. I guess I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.
— Fine, but I—
— Look, I gotta go and sleep it off. Call you later, babe, and she hung up.
And this short message was enough to erase Eugene’s despair and to offer him fresh hope.
Mostly, though, when they were alone together, which meant without Scott, they’d talked about Lana. Invariably Madeline brought this up. It was as if she knew that it crushed Eugene’s libido around her. She would listen intently, eager eyes widening, studying his every reaction. And Eugene had to concede: Madeline sure was a good listener. Even if he began to suspect it was all purely to educate herself, then that quality had been welcome. Because the others, even Scott, just seemed to talk about them. They expected him to forget that he’d given up a promising football career to party with Lana, and then she’d fucking ditched him. And their bullshit advice: they could stick it up their asses.
It was good that somebody could listen.
But now he wanted more. Driving down that dusty desert road, in the storm, the body of the silver Dodge Durango slapped insistently by the winds outside, him choking slowly on the hot, dead, air inside, no turnoffs in sight that would signal civilization, even in the form of a weather-beaten outpost of a gas station. All Eugene could think of was: he wanted more from Madeline.
And as he fought his own soporific comedown she was slumbering deeply, as if oblivious to the storm outside. And he could ascertain by the heavy snoring coming from the back that Scott had also tripped over to dormancy.
In his fevered mind’s eye, she was running towards him, streaked in mud. She was trying to swerve past him like a surging quarterback would, but he’d be building up his momentum in his strongside role and like Willie McGinest he’d bring her down as a lion would a weak gazelle, them both crashing into that filthy dirt…
It was as if his hand made the decision for him, rubbing against the tip of his cock and sending pulsating jolts of electricity into his belly and groin. Eugene felt his body stiffen and his eyes bulge under those Ray-Bans as his breathing became more irregular. One arm locked on the wheel while the other did the business; fabulously obscene images of Madeline popped and sizzled in his fried brain, augmenting the peaceful, innocent reality of her dozing by his side.
Ahead, the horizon, brought closer by the hazy heat, flickered intermittently through swirls of red and black dust. The road was only just visible. Madeline was facing him, her knees brought up to her chest. If only she had turned the other way, Eugene thought, he could watch her ass and jerk off without the possibility of her opening her eyes and instantly seeing him. But there was little chance of detection, he calculated in insect coldness, as she would be too disorientated, sleeping through her yagé comedown, to grasp what he was up to straight off, and in any case, he was doing it through his shorts…
but the bulge…
damn that fuckin bitch…
a cock-teaser even in her sleep… but now we’re getting down and dirty in this mud, baby, oh yeah, real down and dir—
Suddenly Eugene heard a snap followed by a long screech and his free hand shot from his groin to the wheel, which felt like it was being wrenched from his grip as the vehicle jerked to the left, then, as he tried to compensate, violently to the right. Madeline sprang into consciousness as she flew across his lap. She might have felt Eugene’s erection had it not instantly subsided. It was Eugene who was like a man falling on his own shotgun, ejaculating a shattering bolt of fear into his chest.
Time stretched out in slow motion. Eugene experienced first an irritation, then a frustration, that everything was spinning away from him, beyond his control. Then they tumbled over and back, in a twisting, fairground ride, which preceded an almighty, bone-shuddering crash, followed by them coming to rest in the most beautiful peace Eugene had ever known.
It didn’t last long. He heard a desperate screeching coming from Madeline, but the noises in his own head made it too discordant for him to focus on her anguish. His eyes remained closed as Madeline fell silent, save for a heavy, gulping rhythmic breathing. Then Scott’s voice, coming from the back; weary, almost bored in its concern: — Dude, what the fuck… you trashed my fucking vehicle, man… He hesitated. — Like, are you guys okay…?
— I’m bleeding… I’m bleeding! Madeline screamed.
Eugene opened his eyes. Madeline was still crushed into the front seat next to him. He looked her over, then cast his gaze down his own body. There was a gash on his arm, just below the bicep, with red-black blood ebbing from it. — It’s okay, man, he turned to her, — that’s my blood on you. I’ve cut my fucking arm. Look. He held it up to her.
Madeline was relieved, then guilt and concern surged in her as she looked at his wound and grimaced. — My Gad! What happened?
— That fucking dust storm, Eugene shook his head, — I couldn’t see a goddamn thing. You okay, Scott?
— Yeah… I guess so, he heard Scott behind him, — but my fucking car, man, he moaned.
Eugene looked over at Scott. He seemed fine, just a bit bemused. It appeared that the Dodge had come to rest at an angle. It didn’t look too bad. The windshield and the windows hadn’t even shattered. But suddenly, a dull clunk of fear thumped in Eugene’s chest, and he fretted about the dramatic but real possibility of an explosion from a leak in the gas tank: about being incinerated alive. He tried to open the door beside him. It gave an inch, then stuck in the earth. In panic, he turned to Madeline. — We’d better get out of here. Try your door!
Noting his urgent tension, Madeline didn’t hesitate, grabbing for the handle and pushing the door open. Eugene watched her scrambling out the car, looking like a strange bird emerging from a cracked egg, awkward and gawky. Like all the sex appeal had been shorn from her. Or perhaps it was just his own libido vanishing, he considered, as he hastily climbed out after her. Scott followed, falling out of the rear of the vehicle onto the sand and shale, looking back nervously as he scrambled to his feet.
The warm wind was driving hard, whipping dust and grit into their eyes. Eugene wrapped the towel around his arm. They checked the car as best they could. Eventually satisfied then that there was no gas-tank leakage and the vehicle, though at an angle, was stable, Scott shimmied under the car. — The axle’s gone. Snapped clean in two, he sulkily informed them.
They got back into the Dodge, slamming the door shut and locking the blowing sand out.
There was a silence for a while, as they sat at the uncomfortable angle, stealing despondent glances at each other. Madeline’s eyes suddenly lit in inspiration and she suggested that they checked their cellphones. Scott admitted in embarrassment that he’d lost his. Eugene’s had run down and he couldn’t charge it up. Madeline tried hers, but was unable to get a signal. — What kind of network are you with? Scott accused.