Five
Dear Calla, What’s more beautiful: brains or brawn?
~Signed, Decisions, Decisions
“You have a hard-on, don’t you?” I jump in my seat, surprised to see Mila sitting in Ash’s chair. I’d been so engrossed by Ash’s speech that I must’ve fallen into an altered state. Maybe that’s how he attracts so much attention. Maybe he’s a master hypnotist, and we’re all going to be walking around quacking like ducks by the end of the night.
I roll my eyes and lean in close. “Not sure what you have going on between your legs, but I don’t have the necessary parts for a hard-on.”
She presses her lips together to make a sour face. “Your cookie is hard, admit it.”
Sex isn’t something I like to talk about, but it is something I used to enjoy doing. Quite a lot. While I’ve had a few serious boyfriends, there was always a certain level of commitment I never wanted to reach. After a childhood of detachment, I liked my independence. I liked having my own space, my own life.
When my boyfriends would try to take our relationship to the next level, I would pull away, but offer sex as a sort of reward for their days or weeks of loyalty. I never intended to give them more than my body. When they would break it off with me, I easily found someone else to play with.
Now sex is a distant memory I don’t let myself think about too often.
Except for tonight.
Groaning, I hide behind my hand. “I’m not as intimately familiar with my cookie as you are with yours. Now will you please shut up? I’m trying to listen.”
When Ash’s speech is done, the blonde woman on stage links her arm through his and stares up at him like she’s skipped the entrée just to feed on him.
After the winners for the silent auction are announced, Mila returns to her seat, and the woman on the other side of me continues to share with me her stories of her time touring Europe with just a pair of sunglasses and a roll of toilet paper.
On the outside, I try to appear captivated by the cultural differences in hygiene. In actuality, my eyes are so focused on my periphery that I’m afraid my vision will never be the same again. From the moment Ash stepped off the stage, I’ve been tracking his every step like a GPS tracker.
In between each presentation, he slips from table to table, schmoozing with the bowties and kissing the cheeks of the bitches hanging off his every word. Ash probably has to apply lip balm every five minutes just so he doesn’t get chafed.
It’s not that I care what Ash Sanders does with his time. Yes, he’s attractive if you like that sort of Greek God sort of guy. But if I’d been blinded before, my eyes are now wide open. He’s a con man—someone going through the same routine at every table he visits. At first he moves to someone’s table looking excited to see them. He then says something that draws a laugh from the whole table, stealing the attention of everyone within hearing range. The women all fan their hands over their breasts like they’re trying to draw his eyes to their cleavage while the men pat his back as if trying to dislodge more bullshit.
Exactly what an egomaniac like Ash needs.
He listens attentively with his eyes fixed on whoever is talking and then makes sure to spend no more than a minute with each couple at the table. Once his eight minutes are done, he moves on to the next table, says one thing, and the new table then explodes into laughter. What’s worse is that I seem to be the only one who notices this parade of insincerity.
It’s probably because no one else is visually stalking him like I am.
Realizing my idiocy, I look away in utter disgust and jump clear out of my seat when I see that the woman chatting with me has left. In her place sits Jacob.
“Jacob!” I yell, smacking him on the arm. “Jesus. You scared me.”
Instead of laughing off my surprise, Jacob looks confused. His eyes are slightly narrowed as he stares at me, almost studying me for a clue. Reflexively, I swallow hard, not quite sure what the question is, but knowing I should hide the answer he’s searching for.
“What?” I finally yell a bit louder than I intend. “Why are you staring at me?”
He slowly shakes his head and holds out his hand, pulling me to standing. I run a hand down the back of my dress and pick up my purse off of the table.
"Where are we going?"
“Closing time, Cal.”
It’s only then that I notice I’m one of the last people sitting at the table. The party has dwindled to a few dozen people, and those stragglers are all mingling around the exit doors with their coats already on.
The soft warmth of my blush licks at my cheeks as I drape my arm through his. Brushing off my embarrassment, I squeeze his forearm and lean my head on his shoulder. “You did so damn good tonight.”
He nods and stares off at the remaining crowd with a shy smile. Looking at me from the corner of his eyes, he says, “We clean up nice, don’t we? Who would have thought all of those years later?”
I bump into him with my hip. “That I’d be the one unemployed and homeless?”
He shakes hands with someone passing and then pulls me in closer. “You still have your column. You still have a roof over your head, and you still have your pride.” He pulls his shoulders back and lifts his neck. “Plus you’re best friends with a superhero who looks damn good tonight.”
I laugh at the memory of Jacob sitting across from me at Panera, looking everywhere but at me. I had invited him to lunch on a whim, seeing him sitting under the bus stop canopy, shivering in spite of the spring day. He had waved me off at first, but eventually complied when he realized I wasn’t leaving until he said yes.
We’d been sitting in awkward silence when a boy came over and handed him a napkin. Jacob jumped when the boy tapped him on the forearm and said, “Could I have your ‘graph?”
Without missing a beat, Jacob stood up and asked the waitress behind the counter for a pen. Walking back to the table, he scrawled his name on the back of the napkin and fist bumped the little boy.
After the boy left, Jacob explained that—because of his size—some kids think he’s a superhero.
“Green lantern,” he said, mumbling under his breath and playing with the napkin dispenser.
I tuck my purse under my arm and lean my head against his upper arm. “You know Green Lantern was chosen by the aliens because he was the bravest man on the planet.”
He shrugs and hands my coat ticket to the woman behind the counter. “Or because he looks awesome in black spandex.”
Jacob helps me put on my coat before someone grabs his attention. I search the crowd one more time, telling myself that I am looking for Mila. I find her standing next to the valet sign with someone leaning into her ear.
Mila links her arm through mine. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Standing this close to her, I can hear her date whisper sweet, perverted nothings into her other ear.
“The best part is when it’s over.”
Mila groans, but her date doesn’t shift from her ear. What the hell did she put in there? Peanut butter?
She finally lets me go when the valet hands the man his keys and opens the passenger side door of a BMW. I step back and let out a breath, hoping the heebie-jeebies release in the process. I feel like I can cross “ménage à trios on a sidewalk” off my bucket list. Damn shame it was never on my bucket list.
Mila holds her hand out to me. “Come on, we’ll drop you at your car.”
Shaking my head, I wrap my arms around my body and brush her off with a wave. “I’m fine. It’s just a few blocks away, and I could use a breath of fresh air.”
Mila looks over her shoulder and then takes a step closer. “I don’t like you walking around by yourself. It’s late and dark, and if you remember, those are your two least favorite things.”
I pull her in for a hug and assure her that I’m fine. “I don’t mind the dark, but you can add swanky gala’s to my least favorite things list. Go. Go do what you do. I’ll text you when I’m home.”
She steps back with a frown, and I give her a pathetic thumbs-up.
I turn and start the four block walk to my car, breathing in the crisp fall air while keeping my chin tucked into my oversized coat. Luckily, the few people I pass never look up from their illuminated phones, and I revel in the anonymity. I’ve never been a fan of walking alone, but the well-lit neighborhoods and distant horns calm me in ways companionship never could.
I’ve always surrounded myself with extroverts. Mila thinks I hide behind their psychic energies. The truth is I’m just lazy. I like when someone else carries the weight of a conversation or has to figure out the best way to make small talk.
I had been talking myself out of coming to Jacob’s fundraiser for months now, but in the end, I knew tonight wasn’t about me. Tonight was about Jacob, and the lives he changes through his non-profit. To Jacob, tonight had been a homage to the Sanders brothers—two men I can’t seem to figure out.
While Cole had seemed a bit unhinged at times, Ash-hole is an asshole. In truth, he has a reason to be conceited and vain, and I wouldn’t hate him as fiercely if his ego was the only character trait I despised. He treated me like I should just accept his graces and feel honored that he chose to sit next to me. Then he topped off his stellar arrogance with that Sleeping Beauty shit? I don’t have many homicidal thoughts, but I imagined quite a few storylines of my own tonight.
Wrapping my arms around my wool coat, I take Mila’s advice and try to quiet my mind by focusing on the details around me—by staying present in the moment instead of drowning in the thoughts I can’t control. The minute I do so I realize I’m not alone.
When the videos first came out, people would write in the comment section all of the repulsive things they wanted to do to me. Once my name went public, my inbox was always full with suggestions of positions I should try with my “prince”. By the seventh video, people no longer hid behind their keyboards. Local sociopaths would decorate my house in the cover of darkness, but sadistic fuckers would torment me even during the day. Whether they filled my answering machine with their lewd promises or stuck notes on my windshield in my parking space, my life became nothing more than a joke to the perverts of the great state of Maryland. Cameras and eyes were everywhere, hoping to capture any incriminating pictures while I was just hoping to get through a day without mentally fracturing into tiny pieces.
In spite of the words people used as swords, no one has ever touched me. They’ve leered. They’ve laughed, but even pricks seem to have some sort of moral conduct that they abide by. By the slow pace of the black car coasting behind me, I think the driver didn’t get a copy of the code of conduct handbook.
Every nerve ending screams for me to run, but my muscles won’t comply—feeling laden by the weight of adrenaline coursing through my body. I consider making a beeline for the staircase on the other side of the garage, but I don’t like the idea of being in an enclosed place.
I stay close to the parked cars, weaving in and out of the aisles, hiding between two tightly parked cars. The car’s brake lights cast an eerie red glow on the support beams in front of me. Unfortunately, squatting presses down on my bladder, and I realize I’m seconds away from peeing through my borrowed dress. I consider running up to the car and facing the dipshit, but that would force his hand. Since I’m a master procrastinator, I try to convince myself that maybe the evil doer is just as lazy and—if given enough time—he’ll change his mind and leave my body intact.
I hunch over and slip through the aisles of cars but he’s able to track me no matter how low I crouch. By the time I reach my parking level, I’ve contracted so many of my muscles that my ass is starting to hurt. Catching a glimpse of my car, I press the alarm button on my key fob. The shrill sound of my car alarm echoes so loudly that I have to cover my ears to mask some of the sound.
In a matter of seconds, tires squeal as my stalker zooms down the ramp and turns toward the exit sign.
“That’s right, sucka! You better run!” I scream into the vacant parking garage letting out such a long exhale that I feel light-headed.
Using up the unbridled adrenaline, I run toward my parking spot but stop when the sleek, black, panther-looking car stalks down the aisle and slides into the empty spot directly next to my Mini Cooper.
Instead of following me from point A, my car alarm just led the bad guy to point B.
Crap.
Most of the shock has worn off so that all I’m left with is a paralyzing reality check. I’m in a deserted parking garage with a stranger who is standing between me and my ride home. Tinted windows prevent me from seeing inside the vehicle, but I have a feeling a male asshole sits behind the steering wheel of the douchewagon. He probably sees me as nothing more than an opportunity—a vulnerable blonde who’ll beg for her life like a damsel in distress.
Moron.
Slipping my car key between my middle and pointer finger, I drop my useless purse and hitch my shoulders back. Rolling my neck, I release the rest of the tension from my body and pull up the front of my dress. The best defense is a great offense. Now that my entire body is on the same page, I’m ready to stab my car key right into the idiot’s eye socket.
Unfortunately, my sensitive gag reflex paired with the mental image of a stranger’s severed eye ball makes me dry heave a bit.
Shaking the image aside, I once again realign my body with my objective. I’ve watched enough criminal justice shows to know that I have only one job to do—I need to fight back. I will bite, scratch, and pull out every strand of his hair so that my entire body will be covered in evidence. Although I’m still not looking forward to dissecting an eye ball, I’m ready to go at him like a deranged, cannibalistic maniac if it gets that far. I just pray like hell it doesn’t go that far. I can barely swallow a medium-rare burger, let alone someone’s brain.
As I approach the trunk of the car, I delude myself into thinking I might survive this. I graduated top of my self-defense class. I’ve watched every Jason Bourne movie out there. I’ve karate-chopped countless shadows at night. The examiners will probably have to comb my body to identify his mangled body.
Unfortunately, bravery and courage are just fleeting lies because the minute the driver’s side door opens is the minute my nerve hides behind mind-numbing paralysis. My feet feel cemented to the concrete as all thoughts turn to dust, leaving behind a brain that resembles an empty void.
I’ve become the thing I hate the most—a damsel in fucking distress.
This truth sears through my body as I pound a fist onto the trunk of his car. Thankfully, the pain tearing up my arm distracts me from the dread ambushing the rest of me. Unfortunately, the pain also distracts me from trying to put together another offense. Cradling my hand, I hop around like a kangaroo when I hear someone say my name.
“Calla?”