A. Walters - Lead Me Not

“Shit, you’re cleaning your room again? Aubrey, this is bordering on clinical, you know.” Brooks shook his head, his green eyes sparkling in amusement.

I smirked as I got to my feet. “Is that your professional diagnosis?” I asked, wiping my hands down the front of his perfectly pressed shirt. Brooks made a face and playfully pushed me away.

Brooks and I were both in the counseling program, though Brooks was a year older and set to graduate in just a few months. Back at the beginning of our acquaintance, I had made the mistake of sleeping with him. More than once.

Brooks was cute and smart and everything I should have looked for in a guy. He checked each and every box. We started dating a couple years ago after we’d shared an Abnormal Psychology class. I was the wide-eyed, freaked-out freshman; he had been the more confident and suave sophomore. But mostly, our relationship was the result of my pathetic need to connect. And I had been convinced that opening my legs was the perfect solution for my emotional isolation. I had been lonely.

A date here and there had eventually progressed to frequent fucking. But then feelings got involved. More specifically, Brooks’s feelings, and the whole thing had gotten entirely too messy. I liked Brooks, truly I did, but my heart hadn’t been in it the way his had been. The truth of it was that it wasn’t just Brooks. Because my heart was never in it . . . with anybody. It was as though the organ was permanently disengaged from the rest of my body.

So I had ended it as gently as I was able to. Brooks had taken it well; kudos to the healthy male ego. And we had, surprisingly, become close friends in the aftermath. I still caught him looking at my boobs more often than I would have liked, but I chose to ignore it.

Brooks handed me a slim paper bag. I peered inside and grinned. “Why, Brooks, are you planning to get me drunk?” I teased, heading out into the hallway, closing my bedroom door behind me.

Brooks chuckled. “Nah, just figured you’d want to break up your wild and crazy evening of alphabetizing the soup cans in the pantry.”

I pulled two glasses out of the cabinet and unscrewed the bottle of vodka. Brooks found a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator and set it on the counter. I mixed our drinks while he found a bag of potato chips and dumped them into a bowl.

“I hadn’t gotten that far yet,” I admitted, following my friend out into the tiny living room. The space was cramped, yet homey. It held a worn-to-the-point-of-ugliness love seat and armchair and a circular coffee table. There was just enough room to walk between the furniture on your way into the kitchen without smacking your knees.

Sure, the couch smelled like feet and the table had mismatched legs, but I held each and every piece in an affectionate regard. Renee had called our interior design “Goodwill chic.” I liked it because it was mine. Just mine .

“Is Renee out?” Brooks asked, making himself comfortable in the armchair before reaching for his drink. I curled my legs beneath me on the couch and sipped at my cocktail.

“Well, she’s not hiding in the closet,” I joked, making a face as the alcohol hit my tongue. Way too much vodka, not enough orange juice. Shit, if I wasn’t careful I’d be falling on the floor after three sips.

“Is she with Captain Douche?” Brooks asked, making me snort.

“Where else would she be?” I responded, knowing I sounded annoyed.

“What’s with that guy? He seems like the sort to tear the wings off butterflies for fun. What does she see in him?” Brooks asked around a mouthful of sour-cream-and-onion chips.

That, really, was the question of the hour, though if I thought back far enough, I could sort of understand how it had happened. When Renee had first started dating Devon, even I had been taken in by his boy-next-door good looks and good ol’ southern appeal, though I thought he had laid it on a little thick. His Texas drawl was like melted butter in his mouth. He had the “aww shucks” charm down to a science. It had seemed kind of sexy at the time, and his unruly red hair and brown eyes could be construed as attractive.

As the saying goes, looks can be deceiving. And I had most certainly been deceived.

“Maybe it’s love,” I said, with a hefty dose of sarcasm. I took another drink of my screwdriver and made a face. “Gah, this is gross,” I said and put it down on the coffee table.

Brooks shook his head and dumped the contents of my glass into his. “Love, my ass, more like he’s got her cock-whipped,” he remarked, making me cringe.

“Dude, I don’t need to think about Devon or his cock. Yuck.” I shuddered.

Brooks picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels until he found a NASCAR race. “You come to my apartment with shitty alcohol, and now you’re expecting me to sit through hours of cars driving in circles? I don’t think so,” I announced, lunging for the remote.

Brooks tossed it in my direction. “Fine, but I’m vetoing the rerun of Deuce Bigalow that I know is playing right now,” he warned, and I pouted good-naturedly.

“You have no appreciation for Rob Schneider,” I protested.

“I just find it extremely disturbing that you can recite all of the dialogue,” Brooks countered.

Grumbling under my breath, I finally settled on a cooking show featuring an overly angry Brit. Brooks decided that we weren’t allowed to speak unless it was with horrible English accents, which led me to show him my really bad imitation of Judi Dench.

I was just starting to enjoy my evening when my phone rang. I grabbed it and looked at the number, not recognizing it.

“Hello?” I said after answering. The noise on the other end was deafening.

“Hello?” I said again.

“Aubrey!” someone yelled into the phone. I looked over at Brooks, who was watching me questioningly.

“Yeah, who is this? I can’t hear you.”

“It’s Renee. I need you to come and get me.” Renee’s voice wobbled, and I could barely hear her over the commotion.

“Where are you? What’s going on?” I demanded.

“I need you to come and get me now! Please!” she begged, and I could tell she was wigging out.

“Where’s Devon?” I asked, trying to make sense of what was going on.

“Just please, Aubrey. Devon fucking left me here, and I don’t know anyone.” Renee’s voice rose into near hysterics.

“Okay, okay. Tell me where you are,” I commanded her with my patented Aubrey Duncan composed calm.

“I’m at Compulsion. You know, the club?” she yelled, and I wanted to groan in exasperation.

“Yeah, I know what Compulsion is,” I replied, not adding that my knowledge was only a few hours old.

“It’s in a warehouse down near the river. I don’t know the exact address, and it was dark when we got here. Just please come and get me,” Renee pleaded, and I knew she was crying.

“Okay, I’m on my way. Can I call you on this number if I need to? Where’s your phone?” I asked, already on my feet and grabbing my keys.

“No, some guy gave me this phone to use. I don’t know him or anything. I’ll wait for you inside. Just hurry.” And then the line went dead.

“Fucking Renee,” I growled in frustration. Brooks followed me to the door.

“I’m coming with you,” he said, grabbing hold of my arm.

I shook him off. “No, you stay here,” I started, but Brooks cut me off.

“No way, Aubrey. Compulsion is hard-core. You wouldn’t survive ten minutes! I might as well stick a sign on your ass with the words fresh meat . Hell if I’m letting you go by yourself. Why is Renee there?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders angrily. “I doubt it was her idea. This has Devon I’m-a-cocksucker Keeton written all over it. God, he left her there, Brooks! What a jackass!” I seethed. It was a lot easier to feel angry than to admit how freaked out I was, how one phone call could trigger a memory I had buried under a mountain of repression.