Two
Dear Calla, What’s your opinion on love at first sight? Do you think you can just connect with a stranger from across a crowded classroom and fall in love?
~Signed, Helpless Romantic
Mila spends the next few minutes on her tippy toes, trying to support her five-foot four-inch frame on six-inch heels. Her silence makes it hard to ignore the whispered conversations that flow like a wave every time someone passes our small table.
I’m just about to excuse myself to use the bathroom for the twelfth time tonight when Mila shrieks and grabs my hand. “Found him!”
Even though I’m five inches taller than her, I strain my neck and search the growing crowd. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but a crown or a spotlight wouldn’t hurt.
“Describe.”
“He’s right there in the corner. Tall, reddish, brownish hair, and huge shoulders.” Fanning her hand over her heart, she shakes her head and says with a chuckle, “I’ve never tasted anything like him. I thought his energy would taste like sex, but there’s something almost…restrained about him. Oh man, imagine when those restraints come off?”
Mila is a Reiki therapist who makes a living opening people’s chakras and balancing their spiritual energies. She lives off the notion that we’re all drawn together by invisible energies and that aura orgies are what some people feel when they think they’ve fallen in love at first sight. She considers herself an expert since she tends to have aura orgies at least once a week.
She brushes her shoulder against my arm. “I call people like him the O negatives in the world. They’re universal donors. People just want to suck the energy out of him. Most would like to do so via his...”
A few elderly ladies turn around, their eyes as wide as their Botox will allow. Mila presses her lips together and bows her head, pretending she’s capable of feeling embarrassed.
I catch a slight glimpse of a man matching her description and notice that he’s the only full head of hair surrounded by a tight collection of mostly receding hairlines. I can’t see him as well as my curiosity would like since he’s standing in the darkest corner of the room, but, from this angle, he looks like he’s been backed into a corner.
Feeling an odd sense of empathy for him, I glare at the backs of the pricks around him. “He barely has room to breathe.”
“He can breathe when he’s dead.” Mila grabs hold of my hand and marches us over to the outer ring of the crowd. “All right, since you’ve got the boobs going on tonight, I’m just going to push you in there. Make sure to knock a few of the guys down so that I can make my entrance.”
I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not a bowling ball, you lunatic.”
“Of course you are. You have three holes men can put their fingers in.” She strains her neck like she’s looking for a possible opening. Reaching over, she grabs my glass. “All right, so you’re good with the pushing plan?”
“Of course I’m not good…”
And in that very second, someone pushes me. I’d like to think the shove was accidental, but Mila’s hands are still out in front of her when I fall backward. Almost immediately, my back connects with someone and this slows down the progression of my fall. Unfortunately, my head doesn’t get the memo as it snaps back and—I later find out—smashes into the skull of someone behind me.
My vision clouds with a bright constellation of stars, and I try to blink through the pain ripping my skull apart. A low groan vibrates up the back of my throat, blocking out any further sounds as someone grabs hold of my shoulders and straightens me. Unfortunately, his entire face is covered by stars. The only thing I can make out with any certainty is the auburn shade of his hair shining above the cluster of light. Apparently, I was just rescued by a red-haired God, or the Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus movie.
“Oh my gosh, Calla!” I turn in the direction of Mila’s panicked voice, and she wraps my fingers around a glass. “That horrible woman just pushed you right out of the way. What is wrong with people?”
I’m able to grind out a fake smile. “Funny. I was just wondering the exact same thing.”
Most of the light has faded into my periphery so that I’m able to see the guy standing with his hands still on my shoulders. While I’d never thank Mila for the shove, I have to admit that Prince Ashton is every bit as attractive as she described. Now that the flashing bright lights have dimmed in my vision, I realize his red hair is a softer brownish/auburn instead of my initial Ronald McDonald impression. His dark brown eyes flick between both of mine like he’s checking for symptoms of a concussion. His cautious smile reveals a small part between his front two teeth, but the imperfection seems to make his face that much more approachable.
Since humiliation tends to be an emotion I’ve become all too familiar with, I feel a blush lick at my cheeks while I try to hide behind an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”
He squats down and widens his assessment like he’s committing my embarrassment to memory. “Haven’t heard a skull crack like that since my senior year homecoming game.”
The stranger drops his hands from my shoulders just as someone bumps into me from behind. The prince reaches forward as if to steady me again, but instead his hands land on my boobs. He jumps back as if my nips bit him while I look around for the nearest emergency exit.
Seeing none, I try to appease his guilty expression with a smile, but all I feel are the feral, condemning opinions of the crowd standing around us. My luck is someone took a picture and they will release a video montage of me sticking my boobs in the prince’s palms.
Shaking his hands down by his sides, his lips spread into a sinful smile. “And I thought tonight would be boring, Ms….?”
Thankfully, an older man walks up and puts his hand on the prince’s shoulder. He turns slightly to say hello, and I shoot a panicked S.O.S. to Mila. She’s standing a few feet away, chatting up a waiter, but answers my panicked expression by mouthing, “Wrong brother.”
When the wrong brother turns back around, he hesitates, his eyes shifting slightly to look between both of mine. Finally, he cautiously smiles like he’s the one with a concussion. “I’m Cole. Cole Sanders.”
All pretense falls away as I bring my hand up to my chest and shake my head. “Cole Sanders? You’re one of the Sanders brothers?”
He bows, his eyes regally closed. “Yes, ma’am.”
I press my palms together in front of my mouth and shake my head. “Jacob talks about you all of the time. You and your family have done amazing things for Helping Hands. I….I can’t even thank you enough...From the jobs you’ve created for the unemployed to the funding you’ve provided for the disadvantaged kids, I wish you knew how much it means to him. To have someone like the Sanders family sponsor this shift in public opinion. I…”
Before I’m able to stop my idiocy, I wrap my arms around him and whisper, “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for Jacob.”
He pats me on my back and chuckles. “And you are...?”
Floating off of the high of the moment, my guard slips, and I step back and tell him my name. For the first time in six months, I don’t pause when I do. “Calla. Calla Kennedy.”
His flash of recognition is an immediate buzz kill as I plummet from my high and shrink back into my body. Cole draws back like he’s trying to distance himself from me, and his entire body goes rigid like he’s fighting down the instinct to flee. A slow blush creeps up from his throat and into his face, but by the tight set of his jaw, he looks more angry than embarrassed.
A cold sensation sweeps across my chest as I take another step back and look away, searching for Mila.
“I should go,” I whisper, giving both of us an escape route.
Just as I turn, he grabs my shoulder, and I gasp at how firmly he holds me still. He pulls his hand back with a surprised expression and looks at my shoulder as if seeing the red imprint of his fingers. Instead of looking humiliated by the mark, Cole looks curious by the reddened skin.
Shaking his head, he hides behind an amused expression. “I thought you looked familiar...”
I arm my vision with a set of visual daggers, and he waves me off, like he already knows the thoughts darkening my mood. “My neighbor’s kid loves you. You’re actually the only adult she listens to besides that Adele girl. She told me that if I didn’t get your autograph, I ‘needn’t bother’ coming home tonight. She even used a fake English accent, so I’m pretty sure she’s serious.”
I let out such a deep breath that I’m afraid Cole will smell the M and M’s I have hidden in my purse. Pressing a palm to my heart, I smile so wide that my jaw makes a popping sound. TMJ is a bitch when you’re not used to smiling.
He opens his mouth, but then his eyes flick past me, and a slow groan slips out from between his lips. The sound of his frustration doesn’t match the curiosity in his eyes when he looks down at me. There’s a strange sort of question in his expression as if he’s debating his next move. After a moment’s pause, he nods. “I wonder if I could ask you a favor.”
Shaking off the paranoia, I look down at my small purse. “I don’t have a pen to sign anything…”
His lips tip up into a cautious smile, and he shakes his head. “That’s fine. All I need for you to do is stand just as you are and, whatever you do, don’t turn around.”
Movement catches my attention, and I turn my head to watch the collective movement of almost everyone in the room. Mila pulls her shoulders back so far that I can see the deep grooves of her shoulder blades. The man standing behind her runs his hand down his lapels, and a few women subtlety apply lipstick in the corner. I swear I can hear the wave of sound recede until it’s almost quiet enough to hear my own breath.
Turning back to Cole, I shake my head. “Photographer?”
“Remember, you promised not to turn around.” Cole’s warning is knocked down a notch by a playful light in his eyes. “When this guy walks into the room, the entire universe stops what it’s doing to gawk like he’s naked and we’re supposed to paint his ass in detail. It would just be nice if, for once, someone doesn’t want to paint his ass.”
I raise my hand causing my dress to slip a bit further down my chest. “I don’t want to paint his ass.”
He leans in and whispers, “That’s because you haven’t turned around.”
My eyes scan the crowd beyond Cole, a bit disturbed that he’s not lying. Everyone is now turned the same direction as if watching a damn parade. “Seriously?”
Cole smiles, shaking his head like the answer eludes him. “It’s like this every time he walks into a room. I would understand it if he’s the kind of person who changes his gender or shows up as a different species every appearance, but he looks exactly the same as he did last week. People hinge on his every movement like he’s handing out free swag at a concert.”
Seconds pass and the slow hum of conversation starts again as people reorient themselves to proper etiquette. I tap the rim of my glass, not wanting to admit how curious I now am, but let my focus stay on my periphery.
Cole hisses. “Shit. He saw me and, I hate to say it, but he’s also looking very curiously at the back of your head.”
My stomach hasn’t had a butterfly attack in years. Since the videos first came out, I’ve had a daily wasp infestation, but this light tickling sensation is completely foreign to me. I chug my glass, belatedly remembering that Mila had stolen the drink from the bar. Not expecting the fizzy ginger ale, my throat convulses and a pocket of drool slips out from between my lips.
Cole notices, shakes his head, and hands me his napkin. “I thought you said you weren’t going to look?”
I open my mouth to argue when his eyes flick back to something over my shoulder, “Brace yourself, Calla Kennedy.” He smiles smugly, not looking down at me. “Swallow your natural instinct and do not react to him.”
A nervous giggle works its way up my throat. I wet my lips and brush away the loose strands of hair on the back of my neck. “Should I blur my eyes, too?”
He frowns and pats me on the shoulder, his touch much softer than before. “It won’t help.”
Pulling his shoulders back, he nods dramatically. “Yes, you heard correctly. I am definitely the brains in the family.” He says this last sentence a bit louder and aims his amused expression to someone behind me.
A tall figure walks into my periphery, and I manage to draw in a deep breath, as if not wanting to accidentally exhale. In spite of his brother’s warning, I blur my eyes and keep my body aligned with Cole, feeling an odd sort of kinship with him.
“A rumor you no doubt started.”
The sultry voice of the man in my periphery does an odd sort of thing to my nerves. Every inch of my body tightens, as if not trusting my response to him. I can tell that the stranger’s hair is regrettably the same shade as Cole’s. Apart from that, you see one hazy outline of a person, you’ve seen them all.
“And who do we have here?” His voice is thick with arrogance, and I have to fight down the urge to roll my unfocused eyes.
“Behave. Ashton Sanders, may I present my new friend, Calla? Calla, I regret to inform you this is my brother, Ash.”
Ah. Shit.
My eyebrow twitches as connections form in my mind while nausea forms in my stomach. The Sanders brothers are two of Jacob’s strongest role models. Jacob spent the better part of last night regaling me with stories of how the brothers helped make Helping Hands Baltimore’s leading career source for the underprivileged. This fundraiser is as much of a celebration for Jacobs’s non-profit as it is to thank the Sanders family for their benevolence.
In hindsight, I probably should’ve released the strain on my eyes before turning toward Ash. Instead, karma used my state of shock to teach me an important life lesson: never try to shake another person’s hand with blurred vision. One second you think the person is far enough away that you have enough room to extend your hand in greeting. The next second your fingertips graze the other person’s crotch.
“Oh, God!” I yank my hand back as if I just touched his frigging crotch.
Which I did.
Cole chuckles, and his voice has an odd edge when he says, “Don’t flatter yourself. That’s just how Calla greets people. She insisted that I shake her boobs instead of her hands earlier. You know writers. They all beat to their own drum.”
I release the strain on my eyes and get my first non-hazy image of Ash Sanders.
With his carved features, I suppose some women might call him attractive if they like looking at that sort of obvious, insane hotness. I’m woman enough to admit that my goose bumps have nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with the man quietly assessing me. While his suit looks custom-made, I can imagine he looks just as delicious in jeans and a flannel. He probably looks even more edible with nothing at all. Even the arrogant blade of his nose looks appealing which is strange since I’ve never really noticed someone’s nose before.
It’s a good thing my defense mechanisms are primed for these sort of encounters, and I’m relieved to say I hate him almost instantly. Unfortunately, my body is slow to receive the message. The butterflies in my belly have grown into an entire fleet as they dive bomb my stomach like the organ is covered in nectar. His salacious grin makes my embarrassment complete, while his greedy green eyes appraise every inch of my ill-fitting grown.
Ash’s inspection stalls around my over-exposed breasts. I snap my fingers in front of his face to speed up the process. He blinks a few times as if pulling himself out of a daze and then finally looks me in the eyes.
Ash brings his glass up to his lips, but doesn’t take a sip. His tongue dips out of his mouth and settles on his bottom lip. His tongue looks huge through the distorted glass and I swallow down a strange feeling in my throat. Must be the ginger ale. Just before he takes a sip, he looks away from me, and I swear I hear him mutter “such a waste”.
“A writer, huh?” Ash asks, still not looking at me.
I’ve always been a people watcher, studying actions and reactions to help me understand the human mind. Not only have I come to the conclusion that the human mind is an insane asylum that I really shouldn’t study, I’ve also learned that I prefer most people’s lies to their true opinions. Case in point: Whereas Ash looked on the verge of asking me for a quick romp on the ice sculpture a second ago, the minute Cole said the word writer, Ash’s entire expression fell. One second he was completely drunk off my essence, and the next second he realized he was just drunk off the amber liquid in his glass.
Wanting to appear unaffected by his obvious dismissal, I chuckle and bring my glass up to my lips, muttering “yeah” against the rim. Tipping my head back, I wait for the carbonation to loosen some of the tension in my throat. Because karma is apparently still pissed at me, I realize I have nothing left in my glass. Ash shrugs his eyebrows like he’s laughing at me while I try to calculate how hard I need to throw my glass at him in order to dent his ego.
Cole chuckles. “My brother assumes everyone online is writing about him. I’ve tried to show him videos proving that the earth revolves around the sun, but he still thinks he’s the center of the universe.” He takes a sip from his glass. “So you said you knew Jacob?”
I realize I’ve angled my body so that Ash isn’t even in my periphery. “I met him a few years ago before Helping Hands even opened its doors. We met at a bus stop, got to talking, and something just clicked. Been friends ever since.”
I let my polite smile cover the lies. No one needs to know the full truth, not the fact that Jacob was actually living in the bus stop or the fact that he brought me back to life that day. Our friendship started over a bowl of soup at Panera Bread and developed into the kind of friendship where we’ve become each other’s constant in the ever-changing shitfest of our lives. But some memories are stories best unshared, especially with people who’ve probably never had a hard day in their lives.
I’m just about to excuse myself when Cole’s expression stops me. Just like before, something grabs his attention, but this time his entire face stills. The smile seems to be a distant thought as he fixes his dark glare and grim frown on something behind Ash. I try not to react to Cole’s swift change in demeanor, but realize belatedly that I’ve taken a step away from him.
“Why the hell is he here?” Cole asks under his breath.
A muscle along his jaw line ticks a second before he forces a sardonic smile onto his face. I share a quick glance with Ash wondering whether I should seek cover, but he looks as confused as I am.
Cole interrupts the heavy silence with a fake chuckle. “You two play nice, and, if you don’t want to do that, at least fight loud enough for the rest of the party to hear.”
He walks away without another glance, and I find myself shivering from his retreat. I’m about to excuse myself when a familiar man steps right into Cole’s spot like he’d been waiting in line.
Shawn Rethers bows dramatically as the overhead lights shine off his bald scalp. When he stands, he boldly appraises every inch of my body while I imagine decapitating him with just my fingernail. I did file them to a sharp point this evening.
Ash surprises both of us when he snaps his fingers in front of Shawn’s face, breaking the asshole’s concentration on my boobs.
“Ms. Kennedy. In the flesh.”
Shawn was the first ambulance-chasing lawyer I heard from when the web series came out. While there were at least thirty lawyers after him, there was something about Shawn that made me trust him. He had a way of making me feel safe and protected when my entire world seemed anything but. He assured me that he would work tirelessly to help me find justice. He promised to have the videos taken down and insisted we go on record denying any knowledge or involvement in the immature hoax. He also insisted that the contracts I signed were standard, a bit of legalese since he was working with me pro bono. By the time I signed my name and initialed every box he pointed to, I felt strong—ready to take back my life from my ex-boyfriend.
Two months and four videos later, Shawn finally returned my phone calls. In a voice empty of any sympathy or regret, he told me we didn’t have a case. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict my ex.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Kennedy. My hands are tied,” he’d said seconds before hanging up the phone.
While I might have hated him for his choice of words, I despised him more for the snide way he said his hands were tied since the second video showed me lying on my bed, moaning in restraints.
Drawing in a breath, I now flash him my ogre smile. “I tend to bring my flesh with me everywhere, Mr. Rethers. I’m a bit old-fashioned that way. Good place to keep my heart.” I tap the middle of my chest. “Not that you have one of those.”
There is an odd sort of strain in Ash’s voice when he asks, “How do you guys know each other?”
Shawn sniffs and crosses his arms, resting his forearms on his large stomach. “Ms. Kennedy came to me for help during a period of…personal crisis, but I was unfortunately unable to assist her.”
I tap my fingernail against the rim of my glass, hoping to sharpen the point. “I see your memory has been affected by your severe moral and mental impairment. You were the one who called me. You were the one who asked to help me. You were the one who saw the publicity the videos were getting and wanted to get your name in the spotlight. You were the one who didn’t return my calls for two months and then finally called to say you wouldn’t do shit to help me.”
I turn to Ash and notice his mouth hanging open like he’s staring down at some crazed, scorned female going off on someone at a gala. Like my mother used to say: You can take the girl out of white trash, but you can’t take the white trash out of the girl.
I flash Ash a tight smile, trying to keep my voice steady. “Thank you for everything you do for Jacob and Helping Hands.”
My nerves serve as a frail shield when I slip into the other room to search for Mila. A low hum settles as conversations drop to a whisper. Women lean into each other, pretending to be refined, while the men openly assess me as if they own the rights to my body. By the time I reach the next room, my smile is a distant memory, and my search has turned desperate. My hands ball into fists down at my sides while my pulse thunders just below the skin. Tightness returns to my chest as I try to slip through the cracks in the crowd, praying to go unnoticed by at least one person in the room.
Mila’s tight laughter slices through the thick cloud of tension, and I latch onto the sound like her laugh will build me a bridge over the stream of whispers. She’s sitting on a bar stool surrounded by three men, but her eyes are focused on mine. By the stiff set of her jaw, I know she can read the panic in my expression.
Creaking into the small space next to her, she wraps an arm around my waist. Squeezing me closer, she whispers, “Nothing but cocks in tails.”
Flashing a polite smile at the horde of men drooling over her stilettos, I lean into her ear. “Where the hell did you go?”
She releases her hold on my waist and fake pouts. Running her finger along the rim of her glass, she slips her fingertip into her mouth. I roll my eyes at the Neanderthals smacking their lips together like they’re standing in line for a five cent wing night.
Mila slowly pulls her finger out of her mouth. She searches every inch of my expression as if my thoughts are tattooed along the fine lines on my face. Squinting, she holds her glass up in between us like she’s toasting my good fortune. “I believe I chose well for you, my friend. Ash Sanders will be the exact man you need to clean the cobwebs away from your cookie.”
I have no idea how the men around us react to Mila’s announcement since I’m cowardly hiding behind my eyelids. The minute I open my eyes, the lights dim on and off.
Mila hops off her stool and grabs my hand. She squeezes once and then starts her goodbye tour of the cocktail hour. I pretend I’m not searching every face for Ash, and I also pretend that I don’t care why he knows my ex-lawyer. Now that my nerves have settled some, I can admit that my opinion of Ash Sanders has improved slightly. He may know he’s beautiful. He may have dipped inside every woman in this building, but he is a god in Jacob’s eyes. Jacob has talked about the Sander’s compassion and generosity in such a way that I half-expected the Sanders brothers to look like grandfather’s who dress up like Santa at Christmas. When visions of me sitting on Ash’s lap distract me from walking in a straight line, I hold on to Mila tighter.
Mila and I walk under yet another archway and find ourselves in the most ostentatious ballroom imaginable—chandeliers dripping with chandeliers while the drapery drapes with more drapery. The tablecloths look to have a higher thread count than my sheets, and the gold-framed, velvet, high-back chairs gleam in the overhead light. The room looks like it belongs inside one of King Tut’s chambers.
All thoughts of the people around me disappear when I lean in to Mila and whisper, “I’m so nervous for Jacob.”
She lets go of my hand and runs her finger along the nape of her neck. “Relax. Jacob will be fine. You guys have been rehearsing his speech for weeks, and so what if he messes up? None of these people are actually going to pay attention until the cameras are around. One or two pictures, and, by the end of the night, these old farts probably won’t even remember who they were here to see.” She shrugs and steers us past the first row of large round tables. “These are not my people.”
“Snob,” I whisper into her ear.
“Shut up. They’re not your people either.”
Mila and I may not agree on many things, but she is right about one thing—these are not my people. My name has never appeared on an invite list with the word gala printed on the same paper. These days I can barely afford to go to places that use the word bar. I’m much more comfortable wearing my black yoga pants with a glass of Apothic wine balanced on my thigh. Since designers have yet to make black-tie-worthy-stretchy pants, I asked to borrow this gown from Mila’s mother, who is about twenty inches smaller than me in every direction.
At five-foot ten, I have never fit in. My friends are all of shorter stature, so I tower above them everywhere we go. I used to hate standing out, but tonight has shown me that I would rather spend every night surrounded by smaller people than spend another second surrounded by people with small minds.