5
Bea
I woke up with a conflicting sensation all drinkers were familiar with—a desire to move that was repelled by the understanding that moving would hurt. It was a hangover made ten times worse by the fact that I’d been viciously slammed up against a wall by that horrible would-be rapist last night, and I cringed as I glanced over at my alarm clock to see that it was well past time to get up.
I knew my head would start pounding as soon as I attempted to lift it from my pillow and into a vertical position. That would actually be the lesser of the two evils, however, when balanced next to the accompanying dizziness I would also have to confront. The dizziness would be the telling factor in deciding whether I had to throw up or not…and I really didn’t want to. Throwing up shouldn’t have seemed like the worst thing in the world right now, considering that someone had attacked me only ten hours previously, but for some reason it still did.
As painful as the whole process of getting out of bed was, I was almost glad for the distraction—not so much from the trauma of the attempted sexual assault as from the anxiety of having to deal with my parents. Even if getting up and rehydrating allowed me to feel considerably better, I was certain it wouldn’t be enough to appear like the bright young thing my father needed smiling in the background when he made his speech today about his War on Drugs.
It felt like something of an insult to women everywhere that my father’s demands were of more concern than recovering from almost becoming a rape or murder victim, but it was true. It was partially my own fault that I felt like crap right now, anyway. I shouldn’t have drunk anything last night, but instead, I’d had a glass of wine at Claire’s and then two cocktails at Tantra, and I’d put myself in a vulnerable position. So now I had no choice but to brace myself for the disapproving stares that were about to come my way.
On arriving home last night, I’d been able to fool both of my parents into thinking that I hadn’t been out drinking, and I’d only needed to maintain my poise briefly upon passing. Now I would be subject to a good series of lectures on how I was behaving so selfishly and endangering my father’s political career and maybe even his future Presidency.
My phone beeped on my bedside table, and I picked it up, wincing as my head began to pound in earnest.
There was a new text message, and I clicked into it. ‘I never asked for your full name. Would like to hear it over dinner. Just us two. Tonight, 7 P.M. Sacred Rose Restaurant.’
Reading that brought me tumbling back to full consciousness, and the events of last night snapped back into clear focus. The message had to be from him— the security guard who’d rescued me.
Giving him my contact details had been under the pretense of having a powerful father who existed in a complicated whirlwind of favors for favors, but the truth was that the man had thrilled my senses by saving me so heroically, then further endeared himself to me by acting like the perfect gentleman in safeguarding my wellbeing afterwards. All the same, when I’d handed him my number, I’d been indulging in a fantasy. I’d never expected an unbelievably sexy and heroic guy like him to actually get in touch with a girl like me.
Yet here he was on my phone, inviting me to dinner.
The text couldn’t have been clearer; he wasn’t chasing favors from powerful fathers but chasing me, and the forwardness of the attempt bristled with a self-confidence that brought back an image of him staring down the callous villain who’d almost had his way with me. Heat pooled in my core at the thought of him defending me in such a manner.
Not only was he asking for a date, but he’d already gone to the effort of booking a time and a place without my say-so. Only my father had the confidence to make such decisions without my say-so, and I usually despised that, but this was somehow different.
It actually felt…good.
After spending a few moments trying to think of a reason not to accept his offer, I wondered what on earth was wrong with me. Why would I say no? I knew nothing about the man, besides the fact that he could handle himself, but the fact was that I was excited in a way that was completely new to me. Being unable to define my feelings made them all the more enticing, and even if it turned out that the man wasn’t the right one for me, it was still courteous to accept his invitation anyway, in light of what he’d done for me last night.
Not quite prepared for the conversation with my parents, I searched for Claire’s number and pressed dial. Though I knew what I wanted, it would help to have someone agree with me. Then again, maybe Claire would ask, ‘What are you thinking chasing after that gun-wielding rogue?’
I’d have to wait and see.
“Hey, princess!” came Claire’s voice. “You feeling any better this morning?”
“I’m okay,” I replied. “A bit worse for wear, though.”
“I hope you’re not going to need therapy or something. Last night was pretty fucked up.”
“Oh, no, I mean my head. I’m not in shock, though I’m a little surprised by that myself.”
“Wow, same. I’m glad you’re handling it so well, though,” she said. “But next time we go out somewhere, we’ll go to the bathroom together. Okay?”
“Definitely. If I ever go out again after that…”
“Yeah, I get it,” she said sympathetically. “Are you going to be all right for your father’s speech thingy today?”
“That’s partly why I’m calling. I need your advice,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Well, the speech is mid-afternoon, but all the networking afterwards tends to drag on, and I really want my evening free.”
“You want to stay in and lie low after what happened last night, I assume?”
“Not exactly,” I said, lowering my voice in case either of my parents were outside the door. “That guy texted me. He wants to take me to dinner.”
“What guy?”
“From last night.”
“You mean James Bond himself?”
I smiled, remembering the tailored suit the guy had been wearing. Odd clothing choice for a security guard, but maybe he was one of those private security guards who had to dress sharply.
“Yeah, him. I was wondering what you thought of him,” I said.
“He was hot, but I didn’t really think about it all that much after we left, to be honest. I was quite drunk and mostly trying to concentrate on getting you out of there,” Claire replied, “but I’m getting the impression that you like him. Otherwise why would you be asking?”
“I…I don’t know. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“I don’t know anything about him. I was wondering if you were going to talk some sense into me. He could be anyone.”
“He was the good guy, Beatrice. Sure, he’s tough, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad. Why are you even stopping to think about it if you like him?”
“I have my father’s event.”
I could practically hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. “Oh, Bea,” she said. “I know his past political events have been difficult to get out of, but you need to put yourself first for a change. I’m sure you can miss just one.”
“But I can’t tell him I’m not going just so I can go on a date with someone. You know what my Dad’s like. He’ll never accept that.”
“Tell your parents that you’re not feeling well.”
“If I tell them that I feel like shit after being attacked, then they’ll just scream at me for going to a club like Tantra, and they’ll say I brought it all on myself.”
Claire sighed. “Just say you’re feeling really sick. You don’t have to explain why.”
She was pushing me towards accepting the excited part of my mind, and deep down, I knew she was right. I had to go on the date tonight. Besides, I’d canceled enough of my own important plans in the past just to attend to my father’s every whim, and it was about time I did something for myself for once.
Maybe I wasn’t as weak as I thought.
I promised to call Claire back tomorrow and tell her all about how it went. Before that, there was the small matter of my parents to deal with, however, and that wouldn’t be easy. After freshening up a little but leaving my hair in a mess, I made my way downstairs, holding my head. It was fair to say that the pain was real, but also that I was making the most of it.
On reaching the kitchen, where my mother was cooking bacon and eggs, I held my nerve and sat down. “Good morning,” I said in a croaky voice. Then I put one hand to my stomach, indicating its contents might be uncertain.
“Good morn…” my mother began. Upon seeing the state I was in, she arched an eyebrow. “I do hope that’s nothing serious, Beatrice.”
“I’m sorry, Mom, I think I might have eaten something bad last night…”
“Eaten something bad?” My father cut in, entering from the direction of the living room and slamming a newspaper down on the table. “Don’t take your parents for fools, Beatrice! That’s a hangover and nothing else.”
I wanted to tell him that the main reason I felt so awful was because of the attack—after all, having your head and body slammed against a bathroom wall isn’t exactly pain-free—but I really didn’t want to have to admit that I’d gone to a place like Tantra, because as I’d told Claire, they’d heap all the blame on me.
“I’m sorry. But I really think I ate—”
“Oh, come on. We raised you smarter than that, so don’t patronize us. And of all the days to pick, it’s the unofficial start of my Presidential campaign. Thank you very much, Beatrice, for disappointing me yet again! Useless girl.”
I swallowed the lump that was forming in my throat. “I said I was sorry, Dad, and to be fair, I actually had plans for today which you made me cancel at the last minute for this event. So you can’t really be mad at me for doing the same to you.”
“Don’t put yourself on the same level as me, you ungrateful little cow.”
I took a step back, afraid I’d gone too far in trying to defend my actions. “Please don’t talk to me like that, Dad,” I said quietly.
He continued his rant anyway. “People will ask questions. ‘Why isn’t your daughter here?’ And the press are trained to always assume the worst, regardless of whether it’s the truth. We’ve been over this with you a thousand times, Beatrice, and it still fails to sink in. I didn’t work myself to the bone growing up, financing a cushy lifestyle for you so the only way you can thank me for it is to go out and puke your guts up like every other runty kid off the street.”
“It isn’t intentional,” I replied, on the verge of relenting. “Maybe I’ll be okay after a couple of tablets.”
“Oh no, you won’t. The car is due here in just a few hours, and you look terrible. You’re not going anywhere; you’ll only embarrass us in front of the cameras. Have a serious word with yourself, Beatrice,” he said, leaning over to make his last point stick. “You decide to pull anything else like this during the campaign itself and you’ll force me to start considering some of your privileges.”
He walked back into the living room, having made his point. With him out of sight, I sat down at the kitchen table, hopeful that my mother might stay quiet, but instead I got an extension of the lecture.
“He’s right, you know,” she said. “We all need to be on our best form in the days to come. It won’t do to have you complaining about being sick and not coming to events.”
“We’ve always had to be on our best form, Mom,” I replied. “Ever since I remember. And I’ve always obliged. Surely I can have one day off when I need to.”
“No, you can’t just have a day off whenever you feel like it. That’s the price of being a Bentley. What your father’s built up hasn’t been easy.”
My mother wasn’t usually as strict or vicious as my father. In fact, I’d describe her as having a kind and gentle nature. The problem was not one of nature, however, but subservience. She might’ve pitied me whenever I was the focus of my father’s temper, but she also lived under the belief that he was right about everything. She’d moved to the States as an impoverished immigrant from Cuba, and as a child I’d found it difficult to figure out how she’d ended up with someone like my father. Growing up had made me think about that quite a lot, and after seeing the way he treated her and spoke about her over the years, I’d come to a conclusion.
Basically, my father had thought it would make him look good to make a ‘real American’ out of someone from such a different background, and it had worked—he had a lot of minority voters on his side despite his conservative stance on most issues, including immigration, and in return he had a wife who was willing to do anything for him so she could keep a comfortable, wealthy life in the States.
The years when I’d sought solace by running to her embrace were now a distant memory. More and more, I’d begun to think of my mother as part of the same problem; a passive aggressive force that made sure I could never be in the right on any issue.
“Go back to bed, Bea,” she said, her face stern. “We can discuss this again when you’re feeling better.”
I felt like arguing, but I obeyed all the same. The whole exchange had stung like I knew it would, hardly feeling worth it at the time, but it had made me more determined to go through with my mysterious date. I trudged back upstairs, grabbed my phone and sent him one text in response.
I’ll be there.