This biker had medium brown hair just past his shoulders. It was wavy, like mine, but not as dark or as long as mine.
It was clean. It shone from across the room. It was the kind of hair that would lighten in the summer sun with the sort of natural highlights that made people who paid me a lot of money for that shit jealous.
I can also spot split ends from across the room and I’d need a closer look, but this guy didn’t look like he had any. None.
Many guys his age with long hair refused to trim it, so had split ends. Most of them adapted the grunge look, but no chick wants to see all sorts of hair on a man if she doesn’t also want to run her fingers through that hair. I should know; I deal with hair for a living. I can look at a dirty-pretty guy, but do I want to touch him? Not especially. Especially not his dirty hair.
I have a thing about hair.
I’ve had to sift my fingers through all types of hair. Dirty, clean, long, short, soft, coarse --- you name it, I’ve probably trimmed it. I dated a guy with dreadlocks once, for about three days. It looked great. It did not feel great. Some girls would still dig it, but with my hair fetish, it just didn’t work for me.
Then again, if Jason Momoa, à la Stargate era, wanted to date me, I might just have to deal with coarse dreads.
For a bit.
Then, I’d convince him to let me give him a haircut. I can be pretty persuasive. The guy with the dreads wasn’t worth my persuasive skills. He might’ve been even more high-maintenance than me. And that’s saying something.
I don’t have a whole lot of choice about the hair I touch at my beauty salon. A customer is a customer and they all deserve to leave my chair feeling great about themselves, so I’m the consummate professional. But outside of business hours, I want to touch hair that feels great.
Anyhoo…
When the biker stepped into the bar, you couldn’t help but notice him. He just had that ‘it’ factor. Tall, fit, piercing eyes, sexy smile. Swagger. Like he owned the joint. But not douche-y, from what I could gather. And believe me, my douche radar is almost always spot-on.
And he had even more going for him than great hair. He had a bit of a sexy Jesus vibe going on. Oh, I know—blasphemous - but this was like a Jared Leto Jesus thing. And we all know there’s nothing unholy about the beauty of Jared Leto. Jared was divinely created by a benevolent God. And would our Creator be so benevolent if he didn’t want us to appreciate it? I think not.
Those piercing eyes and that long hair? Put sandals on this biker with a flowy white cloak and he could be in an Easter pageant. But, making women swoon and simultaneously repenting because they’d feel bad for how they felt gazing at their Lord and Savior.
This guy was bigger than Jared. Taller. Lean but broad-shouldered. Muscled, but not bulky. And this guy’s eyes were piercing. His eyes were green. Blue-green. More green than blue, I think. I decided I had to get closer to tell for sure. And his lips? They were like pillows. His bottom lip had one of those sexy slits in it. Kind of like Angelina Jolie’s, but on a man.
I chewed my own lip, practically salivating at the idea of licking that slit. And, of course that got me thinking about him licking my slit. Lawd!
Was it hot in here? Definitely. Hot, indeed.
Alas, he was dressed like a biker. And that kind of sucked, because he was hot and there would be even more hotness potential if he’d put on something decent instead of jeans and a leather biker jacket vest thingy with the sleeves cut off. Or never sewn on. I don’t know. I know next to nothing about the specifics of biker culture. Though, I probably should. I live in South Dakota and our small city is often crawling with bikers.
But, he had potential because if you likened him to Jared Leto in his Jesus-phase and then Jared Leto with short hair in a suit? You could see that he could work either look. This guy was like that. I’d love to cut his hair and take him shopping for a suit.
He wore a navy-blue Henley and jeans that were previously black, now a washed out charcoal grey, and frayed all over the place.
He caught me looking. Damn. I usually preferred that I caught them looking.
His eyes traveled from my ankles up to my face. Slowly. Thoroughly. A leg man. For sure. This was a good thing. Not to brag or anything, but I had legs for days. My boobs were smallish, but that was okay, they were perky and as they say, more than a mouthful is a waste. At least that’s what I told myself to compensate for my lack of boobage.
I could almost get away without a bra, which I sometimes decided to do, and often to great effect. I had decent hair and big cornflower-blue eyes that looked amazeballs with winged eyeliner. And I knew how to do make-up. Having my own hair salon, I was well-versed in primping. My friend Pippa, also my roommate, rented space there from me to do nails and waxing. She kept me hairless where it counted, and my brow game was strong.
At Jenna’s House of Allure, you can come in and get your hair chopped off and /or styled, or get extensions. You can buy all your hair products and tools and top-shelf make-up as well as get all your girlie bits waxed and your ears, eyebrow, or your belly button pierced, too. I’d only had the salon not quite two years, but it was going pretty well, turning a profit.
I’d tried my hand in business. I got a four-year business degree and did time as a teller at Mom’s bank, but I absolutely hated it (as can likely be surmised by my referring to it as if it was a jail sentence). I lasted two months. Two excruciatingly long months.
When that went south, Mom was pissed to near-lethal levels, because she’d gotten me “in” there and I’d only worked two months with two weeks’ notice when I just couldn’t take any more of it and handed in my letter of resignation. Dad did some fancy footwork to calm her down and hired me to work in his real estate office.
I only lasted three months and seventeen days there. And it was longer than I wanted to stay, but I wanted Mom to lose the bet to Dad that “She won’t last three months.”
It wouldn’t have been horrible, but Mom drove me crazy about it. She tried to micro-manage me when she didn’t even work there. When I told Dad I couldn’t do it any longer, he asked me to give him an extra week before telling Mom I was quitting and going to beauty school, and that was when he came up with the salon idea.
I think I hated working in the same building with either of my parents, because Mom was smothering, and Dad just always seemed like he’d prefer that I weren’t me. They were always giving me those looks, the looks that made me know they wished I was more like they were. Especially Mom.
Dad joked almost all my life that my favorite thing to do was do make-up and hair and yak with my friends, and that gave me the idea to go to beauty school. As soon as I told him that I was interested in that, Dad did the legwork and presented his salon plan to me and Mom.
I was shocked. In a good way. Mom was pissed, at first, feeling railroaded, but once she got the chance to think about it and mull over all the ways she could use the shop to pull her puppet strings, she was all over it.
They gave me the keys to the salon, which was established and ready to roll, and it had a vacant remodeled two-bedroom apartment upstairs, getting me out of their house, too. Perfect.
I moved in, moved Pippa in, too. We met at beauty school. We painted and redecorated and made our apartment even more awesome. The salon was already awesome, but I’ve been slowly making changes to make it more me.
The deal was that if I make a success of the salon in five years, it’s mine. They’ll gift half of it to me and deduct the second half of the original price they paid from my trust fund. If my balance sheets aren’t healthy by then, we’ll have to talk about whether or not I’d have to pay full value or leave it to them to sell.
Dad is trying to empower me. Mom would hate her friends to think of her daughter as a “lowly hair servant” (Mom’s thoughts, not mine). Better that she can say I’m an entrepreneur with a beauty company. But, I’m pretty sure that Mom not only thinks I’ll fail, she wants me to fail.
Either way, I was happy to have the option. I don’t take for granted the fact that most girls at my age don’t have their own businesses where they can do what they want, plus have their own rent-free place to live. And my apartment is fantastic. Big, over the shop, with a back terrace that’s connected to the other above-a-store dwellers on the block. All twenty or early thirty somethings, and almost all of us, like-minded.
I am lucky. I can afford to party, have a laugh, and be fairly carefree. I buy expensive clothes, go out as often as I can, and try to extract joy from every situation I can. I’m a good-time girl. My mentality is that I might only get to live once and I ain’t Benjamin Button, aging backwards, so might as well live it up while I can look semi-decent doing it. I’m 24 and life is good.
I’ve been called high-maintenance by guys, it was a sore point with my last two boyfriends, but that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with having expectations. I want to have fun. I like nice things. I deserve to be treated well by the person I’m treating well.
I don’t date assholes. First sign of assholery and I am outta there. And, I treat the guys in my life well. Really well. Gifts, compliments, attention. I want the same in return. If that’s high-maintenance, then it’s what I am and what I’ll always be.
And, I’m a good friend. My friends are everything to me. I’ll give the shirt off my back for them. I have no siblings, but my best friend is my sister-of-the-heart. She lives next door to my childhood home and while she’s a lot more conservative in almost everything (except sex. Ella is a total she-perv), she is the best friend I could ever ask for. If I push, she’ll usually come along for any ride-or-die Thelma and Louise type gig I’m pushing for. She might not like it, it might be kicking and screaming, but rarely will she leave me hanging. Okay, so I usually have to push. But, Ella’s awesome.
She’s also my Jiminy Cricket --- my conscience.
“Jenna,” Ella will say. “Shouldn’t you save some money? You’ve gone shopping five times this month already.”
“Jenna, why don’t we have a quiet night instead of going to the bar? You’ve gone to the bar three times this week already.”
Growing up, I’d hang at Ella’s place as often as I could. It was like the anti-Murdochs. My parents (the Murdochs) used coasters on the table. At Ella’s, if you noticed a ring on the coffee table from your can of Pepsi, you’d just sop it up with your sleeve. Or not. Or you’d make a new ring overlapping that ring and create a new design. Nobody would flip their lid.
There was definite contrast between my parents and Ella’s folks.
Her parents are cool, almost like hippies. My parents are a banker and a real estate broker.
Her mom wears flowy skirts and sandals with rings on her toes. She dyes her hands with cool henna designs. My mom wears business suits and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing white after Labor Day.
My mom followed the rule of having to cut your hair above your shoulders when you hit 40. Ella’s mom is late 40s and her hair almost touches her ass. I don’t know who made that rule, but I don’t plan to follow it.
I’ve never even seen my mom’s cleavage. Ella’s mom is boobalicious and not afraid to show it.
Ella’s dad regularly pinches Ella’s mom’s ass. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen him grope her by the boob, thinking no one was looking, or having a few drinks and not caring who was looking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my parents kiss one another on the mouth, except in their wedding pictures. When I was a kid, I’d see him lean over to kiss her mouth and she’d present him with her cheek. Nowadays, I don’t think he even bothers to try. When they renewed their vows for their 25th wedding anniversary, he kissed her cheek, for Heaven’s sake.
They have side-by-side double beds like 1950s TV parents because my father tosses and turns too much, and it affects Mom’s sleep.
My parents believed in diversifying your portfolio from a young age, never missing church on Sundays, and never letting anyone see you sweat.
At Ella’s, I could fall on my ass and we’d all laugh together. The Forker clan might go to church, on occasion, but they’d prefer an outdoor revival with people being slain in the spirit surrounded by the glorious music of a huge Southern gospel choir instead of a monotone hymn singalong with no eye contact inside a stuffy church with starched collars.
My family was crust-less sandwiches and tiny china teacups. Ella’s family was fried chicken and red Solo cups.
Ella was often embarrassed by her parents and their lifestyle. Her shabby mis-matched mish-mashed house. I loved it over there. I loved that I was free to be me.
Not long after Ella and her family moved in, my parents had a rip-roaring fight. It might’ve been the only time I ever heard my Dad raise his voice. Mom wanted to move away, not liking Ella’s parents or how they kept the property. I was mortified and pleaded with Dad not to let her take my best friend away. I loved having Ella next door. I even snuck over sometimes and slept over, filling my bed with pillows.
Dad assured me that we would not be moving. This was the house he’d grown up in, the house his parents had willed to him. It was a beautiful Victorian style century-home in pristine condition. I never met my grandparents, but Dad talked fondly of them and the house. It was the only thing I’d ever seen my father fight her on. Usually, he let her have her way. He promised me we weren’t moving and told me it’d be my house someday.
Ella’s family went camping. Mine went to stuffy resorts. We had linen napkins. They tore off a square of paper towel. My house wasn’t touchy feely. Ella’s house was.
Of course I loved my folks, even if I couldn’t express it and rarely got it back, particularly from my mother. I felt like I had to be on my best behavior with them; I couldn’t just be me. And I preferred to be badly behaved. I had champagne tastes and expensive towels in my bathroom that were just for show, but I also had no qualms about getting my Manolos muddy. Like I said, I’m kind of high maintenance. But, I don’t think I’m unreasonable. And I don’t give birth to kittens when something perfectly washable gets dirty, like my mother does.
Ella didn’t want to come out tonight. It was a rare ‘leave me hanging’ moment, which she was more capable of because she couldn’t see my pout through the phone. If I’d Facetimed her, she probably would’ve caved.
Just before I’d spotted the biker eye-candy, I’d called and tried to coax her out with us. She made an excuse and hung up on me. And then she stopped answering her phone.
I’m not shocked. I’m sort of famous for blowing up her phone when she won’t indulge me. She eventually gives in. Unless she turns the phone off, which she’s been doing lately.
It was me, Pippa (roommate and the esthetician at my salon), and our friend Andie, who lived next door to us. Her parents owned the bakery next to my salon. Two of our other friends, Stef and Clare, were going to meet us later on. It was early. Way early. And I was already feeling the shooters we’d downed. I forgot to eat that day, the salon was so busy. Clare and Stef had both come in to buy shampoo and chatting with them was what led to tonight. I forgot the fact that I’d skipped food until I’d had two shooters and a vodka and cranberry. I asked the bartender for fifteen to twenty cherries in my drink, so I could say I’d eaten that day, and chased the drink with some peanuts. He was a big burly biker old enough to be my father and he started calling me Cherry after that.
Deke’s Roadhouse used to be a country bar, and before that I think it was a titty bar. It had been closed down for months, maybe even a year or longer. The new owners hadn’t renovated. They may not have even swept the floor before reopening. There were cobwebs all over the place. But, the drinks were good, and they weren’t stupid-expensive, and the music was good--- classic rock. And me, Pippa, and Andie? We were well on our way toward smashed and thinkin’ it would be our new hangout.
But, back to the object of my lust…
The object of my lust was leaning against a wall, wearing fawn- colored cowboy boots, one leg cocked and the sole of a boot against the wall behind him. And his eyes were still on me.
I sipped my vodka and cranberry through a straw, catching the tip of my straw with my tongue and then duck-lipping a wee bit to illustrate the fullness of my lips, not that they needed it. I was wearing this lip gloss that was designed to give you fuller lips and it stung like a bitch when you first put it on. The results were slut-tacular. And I made eye contact with him when I did. His gaze darkened in a way that made me quiver in a very personal place.
He was standing beside a tall and wide redheaded biker and a younger, blond, dirty-pretty, scruffy biker. All three of them were probably in their 20s. I’d put him at around 25, 27 max.
A tall, svelte redhead walked by and gave him the side eye. The scruffy blond guy leaned in and elbowed my biker and muttered something and then they laughed.
The blond scruffy guy then approached the redhead. She turned to face him and looked like she was immediately giving him the brush-off, while eyeing my biker. I recognized her. She went to our high school, a few years ahead of me and Ella. Paige Simpson.
She was skanktacularly dressed. She batted her eyelashes at the object of my lust. He jerked his chin at her in greeting and then his eyes traveled the length of her body, stopping on her boobs.
Great. NOT.
I turned my back to him and scanned the bar, thinking I needed a new fixation. I didn’t find one as good as that one.
I spent the next few hours regretting playing it cool with that guy. He hadn’t looked my way again. If I’d cranked the charm up one more degree, he wouldn’t have even noticed Paige.
I’d clocked him a few times, once at a pool table, then he’d been at a dart board, and he’d disappeared for a while. In fact, it was a long while, leaving me to think that maybe he’d left.
But then, a few drinks later, I was coming out of the bathroom, and I walked right into him. Full body. And phew. He caught me.
By my ass. Both hands on my ass.
“Whoa, run me over, why don’t you?” he teased, looking down at me with a sleepy-sexy expression that turned my stomach to jelly and made my toes tingle.
I went to step back but his grip tightened.
“Uh, sorry,” I said, a little thrown.
“I’m not,” he said and winked.
I swallowed hard.
He squeezed and then let go of my butt.
I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. I was beyond tipsy and up close I saw his eyes were a color smack dab between blue and green and it was so unique, so vivid, that I’d felt like a bumbling idiot.
He squeezed by me with sexy smirk on his face and disappeared into the men’s room.
I stood, deer-in-the-headlights a moment, and then moved back to my gang. And I was a little bit disgruntled, because I’d been off my game. And I didn’t like it.
Several songs and more vodka and cranberries later, Pippa and I were dancing with a couple of other girls. Andie was getting propositioned by a tall, bearded, 50-odd-year-old biker and she was super-cute, but super-introverted and wasn’t having much luck fending him off.
“Just dance with me, little lady. It’s all I want!” he bellowed at her.
Finally, me, Pip, and a couple of other women all moved in.
I’d said, “Let’s all dance!” and the older biker let out a “Yee hah!” and then nearly all the women in the bar all danced in a circle together with him. And that older biker guy could bust some moves!
I saw the hot biker again, watching me, standing off to the side with a couple of other bikers who all had their eyes on the dancing group.
His eyes were on me. And I felt them on me as if there was touching involved.
I swayed a little more, flipped my hair a little more provocatively. I was feeling absolutely no pain at this point, having drunk enough to declare to myself the sexy dancing queen. I knew I was working it. He was staring at me with unconcealed lust.
The song ended, and he moved, as if floating, toward me. Yep, I was back on my game.
He dipped me, Hollywood-style, and held me, down, near the floor.
“You a dancer?” he asked, bringing me back up vertically.
I shook my head. And that necessitated me then pulling a lock of my hair out of my mouth. I smiled at him afterwards, as he seemed to be watching me extract that hair from my mouth with avid fascination.
“Hair stylist.”
“Gonna need your number,” he said.
Mission accomplished. Those stripper exercise classes? They had just paid for themselves.
I smirked. I gave it to him. And I gave him my real number, which was something that only happened occasionally. I was picky. I watched him put it into his phone and then we stared at one another, googly-eyed for the last call round, where he bought me a double, not that I needed it. I was sloshed.
“So, what name am I tattooing on my body after you make me fall madly in love with you?” he asked.
Smooth.
“Jenna. Jenna Murdoch.”
“Jenna. Nice. Wanna know what name you’ll be screamin’ later?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Papa John’s.”
He shook his head, looking highly amused.
I shrugged. “All right. Go for it.”
“Rider Valentine.”
“Ryder like a truck?”
“Rider like a motorcycle rider.”
“Ah.”
“Good to know you’ll never write my name wrong. Most chicks assume it’s R-Y-D-E-R.”
“You know what they say about people who a-s-s-u-m-e…”
He smiled.
Good name. I didn’t know if it was his real name or a biker name, but Rider and I flirted hard the rest of the evening. And the power exchange was definitely not what I was accustomed to. He had swagger. He was definitely interested, but he also knew I was. The dynamic between us was not my norm and I wasn’t sure I liked how it was going. Because, it was going so good, I didn’t want the night to end.
I don’t even know what we talked about; I was so mesmerized by him, I think we mostly talked about me while he took every opportunity to touch me. My hand. My knee. My hair.
I chatted about my salon. I got a little bit out of him; he said his MC was throughout North and South Dakota but with just a few chapters and they were here now because they were growing and had just opened a new chapter, their clubhouse temporarily above the bar.
He said he’d just moved here from Sioux Falls a few weeks back. That’s about as far as we’d gotten about him when I think I kind of just launched myself at him in the middle of him talking about his life and mouth-fucked him with my tongue. It was as if I’d been possessed by some lustful beast. And I was. It was the infamous drunk Jenna beast. He caught me, again with his hands on my ass.
I managed to stop myself from taking him home with me. But, I did not refrain from putting my tongue in his mouth repeatedly. And touching his hair. And smelling it. It was as soft as it looked, and it smelled great. And there was not even one split end.
***
“You don’t wanna take me home with you, I know a nearby place we can go…” he whispered in my ear outside the bar.
I laughed. This wasn’t “Can I come home with you?” This was where the convo started, so he was giving me two choices, both of which would end with him having sex with me.
Smooth.
“Naw, I gotta make you work for it.” I chose a non-option and winked teasingly, then licked my lips. His mouth was really close to mine, I was leaning against the brick wall outside the bar. We were waiting for a cab.
“And I am worth working for it,” I advised.
“Hm. Good play,” he winked. “Make me want you.”
“Do you?” I asked.
His eyes caressed me as they swept from head to toe to head again. “Oh yeah.” His voice was husky.
I pulled a pink lollipop out of my bag and popped the plastic wrapper off with my teeth, then grabbed it and tucked it in my pocket, eyes on him, his eyes on my mouth. I twirled the tip of my tongue around the pink globe and then sucked on it, hollowing my cheeks out.
“Good. Maybe I’ll see ya around,” I said.
With perfect timing, a taxi pulled up.
I leaned forward, licking the slit on his bottom lip and leaving him with the taste of bubblegum as I passed him the lollipop and hopped in with the girls. He licked his lips and then popped the sucker into his mouth and watched me go, a huge smile on his beautiful face. I headed home, thinking that maybe I was into bikers after all.
His eyes? They were gorgeous, like a tropical ocean in paradise. And when my tongue touched the slit on his bottom lip, it felt really effing fantastic. He was the perfect height for me. I’d have to roll up on my toes to kiss him when I wasn’t wearing heels and I liked that idea. In heels, bodies pressed together full frontal, I got to look up at him. I fell asleep that night, still drunk, but smiling at the memory of those lips, those eyes, that hair, and his hands on my ass.
***
This was Thursday. Friday, he didn’t call. It was a busy day at the shop, as Fridays always were, and I went to bed a little bit early, having nursed a hangover most of the day, but despite that, I kept checking my phone. And I brought it to bed with me in case he called or texted. He didn’t do either.
***
Saturday, my bestie, Ella, came into my salon.
I’d already decided I was seeking him out and she needed to come with me. Since she was here in person, I could and would charm her into it.
“So, get this!” I pounced on her when she got in.
“Thursday night, I met this guy. Fuck, Elle, he was gorgeous. A biker. Hot biker. Hottest biker I’ve ever, ever seen! You have got to see him. He’s new in town and I made out with him at that roadhouse biker bar. Gave him my number. Cannot wait to see him again. Think I’m goin’ back to the bar tonight to see if I can catch his eye. I’m a little bit in love, I think.” I smiled big. Okay, love was a little bit of a strong word. “Maybe in lust, but love is a definite possibility.”
She followed me to one of my salon chairs looking pale, for some reason. “What was his name?”
“Rider. But, maybe that’s a biker nickname. I dunno. Met him right at last call. Wish I’d had more time. If I’d met him at the start of the night, I bet I would’ve brought him home. Fuck, Ella, best kiss I ever had.”
If I’d spent the evening talking to him, he’d have gotten into my pants. I knew it. I wasn’t a slut, by no means, but it took every ounce of self-control to not go home with him that night. The chemistry I’d felt had been off the charts. I don’t think I’d ever felt that much chemistry. Ever.
She asked me what he looked like, so I described him and said he was totally my type.
“Since when is that your type?” Pippa had called me out, coming into the conversation. She was with a client.
“Since I laid eyes on Rider.”
I then proceeded to talk Ella into coming out that night. She wasn’t easy to convince that day. She was sitting there looking a little bit green around the gills. But, I didn’t give up easily.
After some coaxing, I got her talking and she shared a crazy story. She’d been held at knife-point the night before. She’d let me ramble about the hot guy I’d made out with without interrupting me to tell me that she’d been held at knife point during an attempted armed robbery. I was astonished she’d let me blather on before finally spilling about what must have been an absolutely terrifying experience. I would still be hiding under the covers, trembling.
That was Ella, though. She often got stuck in her head. I was regularly pulling her out of it.
She was my bestie, but she had a tendency to over-think things. She was like an old woman trapped in a 23-year old’s body. She needed a night out after the night she’d had. And I could use some extra girlie support in my efforts to catch Rider’s eye again.
Ella was a real beauty, inside and out. Me and Pip gave her a bit of a makeover, which cheered her up. I used a flat iron to tame her crazy-wild, beautiful blonde curls and she looked movie-star gorgeous instead of her usual movie star girl-next-door cute. The makeover and a money bribe to make sure she had cash for drinks and… mission accomplished. I was seeking out the beautiful biker, Rider Valentine.
***
My phone was ringing, interrupting my Spotify app, which was playing Uptown Funk, song three on my current ‘getting ready’ play list, as I was sweeping the blush brush across my cheekbone.
My mother.
Blah.
I hit the button for the speaker.
“Hey Mom,” I greeted, feeling that little knot of dread furling in my belly. I always felt that when she called me. She didn’t call me up to just say Hello. Ever. Her calls had purpose --- usually to express disapproval, or to recommend I do something I wouldn’t want to do … that would result in her temporary approval.
“Jenna? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“You sound funny.”
“You’re on speaker. I’m multi-tasking.”
“Take me off speaker, please. You know I don’t like it.”
I put my blush brush down and picked up the phone, hit the speaker button, and put it to my ear. “There. Done.”
“I’m off speaker?”
“You are.”
“You know I don’t like that.”
“Sorry, I was busy.”
“Doing?”
“Getting ready to go out with the girls.”
“Oh. To?”
“Dancing. Cocktails. Just a girls’ night out.”
“Roy Sotheby’s nephew Daniel said you didn’t return his call.”
I rolled my eyes. “Haven’t had a chance, Mom.”
“Oh.” That ‘oh’ was so very loaded. And laced with disappointment. In me. I heard that ‘Oh’ often. Too often.
“But, you have time to go out for another girls’ night?”
I rolled my eyes again.
“He’s new in town and…”
She droned on about him. Blah blah, good job. Blah blah, good family. Blah blah, something, something.
She was always trying to set me up with the sons, nephews, or godsons of people in her social circle. They were sometimes nice guys that weren’t really my type, but more often than not, they were far too straight-edged, too serious, too … chosen by my mother.
The few times they had even a glimmer of promise, they were in the same position as I was --- not looking to be set up by a parent or other relative, so it usually put a cloud over things from the start.
My mother’s interference always made it start off with me feeling like I was being dragged along. Daniel Sotheby didn’t stand a chance. No matter how great-looking, successful, and charismatic he might be.
She rambled on, laying the guilt on thick, but doing it interspersed with his good points to try to simultaneously guilt me and sell me on marrying the guy immediately.
“Ella got held at knifepoint last night,” I cut in. “Ella needs a night out more than Roy WhatsHisFace’s son needs to take me out, Mom.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t ask about Ella. Not surprising. Ella’s Mom, Bertie, would’ve dropped everything in life if it had been me that was put in mortal danger like that.
“She’s okay,” I added.
“Good. Good, good. Nephew. Not son.”
“Huh?”
“Daniel is Roy’s nephew, not son. Really, Jenna. Are you even paying attention?”
Wow. I was speechless.
“When will you call him back?” she pushed.
Seriously?
“This week. I guess.”
“Tomorrow, Jenna. It’s rude to not return a phone call.”
“I’ll try to send him a text.”
“Texting is rude. If he called you, call him back.”
I rolled my eyes again. There was a beat of silence, then she said, “Your father and I would like to meet with you to go over the books. In detail.”
I rolled my eyes.
She did this in punishment whenever I did something to displease her (or wouldn’t do something that would please her). Then, she could express her displeasure in a way that I couldn’t blow off, because she held the strings on my business, my apartment, my lifestyle.
It’d been given, but I’d worked hard for the success I had thus far, and she never allowed me to forget that she had the ability to move the goalposts and that all they’d done could be un-done.
Dad had said I had five years, then they would transfer it all to my name and wait until my thirtieth birthday for the money, but Mom had added, “Unless there’s an unforeseen circumstance.”
A very, very generalized loophole.
Typical Mom.