I know who she is. I seen her around the neighborhood. I noticed her before I found out her name. And the name didn't put me off. Her brother's okay. He wouldn't give me no static. 'Sides, what's he gonna do, slap me all the way from Big Mac?

I ain't rushing though. I got a little bit of business to take care of; Jackson owes me a ten-spot, so I lean in to collect, before he loses it to Mathews, who is holding court at the poker table. The kitchen is crowded and noisy and I tell him no, when he asks if I wanna play.

I'm aware of her, sitting up on the kitchen counter, watching the party go on around her. She's aware of me too, although she's being discreet. Probably thinks I don't notice her checking me out. The right girl is already interested. I decide on the straightforward approach. Tell her I know Mick, tell her something personal he told me, like a proof.

She takes the bait. We get to talking about Mick being in the slammer. I realize how long it is, since I was in the Reformatory and he was the big man on our wing. I liked him, I ain't jiving her about that.

I offer to get her a drink and she pretends like she don't know me.

"Sure you do. I'm Tim Shepard. Everyone knows me."

"Okay. You don't know me."

"Sure I do. You're Mick Halloran's sister, Trish." She smiles. Okay then.

Even for a house party, this place is cheap. I tell her there's beer available, wonder if I can persuade her to chew some gum before we make out. I never did like the taste of beer on a chick. But, fuck me, she lifts the Jack right out my jacket pocket and heads out onto the porch.

She makes me smile, talking about me being in the Reformatory and I make her smile right back, telling her I never did what I was sent for. That one time, anyways. That's the least of my rep, I ain't bothered about that.

I comment on her drinking the Jack when she nearly drops the bottle and I say something about her brother not telling me she was a danger freak. She's bitter, reminds me he don't really know her. I guess she grew up some, since he went inside. She tells me he don't let her visit, nor her sisters, nor her old lady. Her other brother went down in Vietnam last year and so now they got no one who Mick lets visit.

I understand why he don't want them in there. But I also see how it cuts her up, the not knowing. I didn't hear about the other brother. Didn't know him, but it's still a fucked up thing to hear about.

I'll be eighteen soon enough.

She's shivering and I ask if she's cold. She stands up and she's a little unsteady, although truthfully, she ain't drunk that much. But she bumps into me and it's not an opportunity I'm going to ignore; I get my arms around her.

I let her know that the 'date' she supposedly came with ain't something I take seriously. I ain't reading these signals wrong. No way.

When I kiss her, she's warmer than I thought and the Jack on her tongue comes through sweet. I tell her she's coming home with me and damn, if she don't give me some backchat, demanding to know what kind of car I am driving. This is turning out to be her lucky night and I tell her so. I boosted a brand new Sting Ray earlier and I'm having a little fun before offloading it. Turns out she is a girl who appreciates a fine set of wheels. I dig that.

Maybe I'm pushing my own luck a little, taking her to the warehouse. But she kissed like she was on fire and I am not misreading that. I figure I'm all set for some kind of action, even if she pulls the whole 'but we only just met' deal and draws the line at a little hand play. Maybe I can talk her into a blow job.

Sammy's on guard, like usual. Like he's got anywhere else to be, poor sap. I head upstairs and she's right behind me. She's disappointed, it seems, until I show her the real killer, the inner room and then she makes herself right at home, kicks off her shoes and sits on the couch.

"If you had a TV, we could watch the late night movie," she teases. "I guess we just have to make our own entertainment."

I'm all about making the entertainment, you better believe it. She kisses even better when she's horizontal and before too long I get her over to the mattress. She's got it all going on; everywhere I touch she's curved where I want to find a curve and dipped where there should be a dip. I need to get her undressed to investigate this better.

She makes me laugh again, because she quotes me back to me, tells me it's my lucky night. I agree, in my head. She's real pretty and plenty hot and, happy as I am to get laid any time, this time I am particularly down with it.

Since my scar healed up, I only made it one other time and that chick was shit faced. Probably don't even remember it was me. So, when I noticed this girl checking me out a couple of times, noticed her still checking me out, after the stitches, after the scar calmed down from red to pink, you better believe I noticed her right back.

Down to the underwear happens easy enough, and I'm shucking off my own t shirt and undoing my belt, when I see she's curling up a little, trying to hide, like she's suddenly shy.

There ain't exactly much choice about the lighting in here. There's a bare globe in the ceiling, or the desk lamp I stuck next to the couch as an alternative. Even with that pointed at the wall, it's not exactly candlelight. Maybe that's it.

Maybe it's not.

I ask her if she's done this before. It's more than just Dom's old warning. If this chick is giving it up for the first time, I want to know. I ain't interested in some wild love story blazing round the neighborhood, about how she saved herself for me and now she's someone special, yadda, yadda.

She didn't. But she don't sound like no skank either, so we're sweet again. And then she challenges me to answer the same question, in case it's my cherry we're popping. I may not have laughed this much in months. She is a case, and no mistake.

I tell her that, no, I am not a virgin. I'm about to prove to her that I know exactly what I'm doing, when she says something real interesting. She asks if it don't put chicks off, the whole gang leader thing. I answer that it's exactly the opposite. What she says next is kind of startling to me.

"What's it to got to do with how good you are in bed?" she asks, all confused, like she don't see why chicks would bang someone just because of who they are, or what they're in charge of. And if she don't think that way, and she ain't put off by the scar, I think that's about fucking perfect and I kiss her and we get into it real heavy.

And naked, she is everything I wanted her to be.

She asks me to use something, I razz her about being Catholic, which is a joke – her mom and Ma probably went to Mass together and it don't make me that way inclined - but there's no way I ain't gonna use something and I'm glad she thinks that way too.

It's good. Better than good. As lays go, this has gotta be one of the best. I don't care what Dom, or Frankie, or any guy says, it ain't just about a warm body under you. I think it matters, or at least makes a difference, whether you're real into each other or not. Like, I heard chicks say my name before, at every stage of the proceedings, but this time, when she gets there and says it, in the way that she says it...Christ, that may be about the hottest thing I ever heard.

After, when I light up a couple of weeds and she says she's happy to split now if I want, I discover that I don't want. And although I ain't into all that 'cuddling afterwards' shit that some chicks seem to need, I discover that her lying there, quiet, next to me is...okay.

I drive her home in the morning, after round two. She looks tired, but not in a worn out way. She looks like I feel. And happy about it. I am very close to asking for her number, but then I figure, hell, I know where she lives now, I can look her up if I'm so inclined.

Couple of weeks later, I see her at the Dingo, with a group of chicks, all of 'em laughing and joking in a booth across the room. I let my eyes linger on her tits, remembering what she felt like. Then I make myself look at the rest of the room. There's a broad in back - Elaine? Lorraine? - something like that. I had her once, back before we left the yard. And I've done Lucy, the waitress, and I know that's her name because she has a frigging name badge on. I can look at both of them and remember what they felt like too. Kind of.

My eyes slide back over to Trish.

I round up the boys and tell them we're going to Buck's. I need a drink. I don't tell them that. They have this thing going where they like to believe that I never need a drink, because they don't never see me shit faced. Like I ain't human.


So...Trish. Is there finally a chink in the armor that surrounds Tim Shepard? She's kind of perfect for him, huh? Want to know why? Want to hear her side of it? 'Have What He Will' – is Trish's POV of this meeting. I would love to know what you think...