Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1)

by Jean Evergreen

  “What do you think of that?” Jason asks, looking directly at me, only inches from my face.

  Oh no, what did he say? I look at the screen and see he’s referring to the cat food campaign I’ve been working on. Of course, Jason is focusing on being a professional while my perverted teenage mind is in the gutter. I am the consummate fool today.

  “You’re using my concept?” I ask him with surprise. In all my obsession with Jason I hadn’t noticed.

  “I am, I think you have a lot of great ideas, Bridget. In fact, I had the marketing VP look over your storyboard, and he thought your work was outstanding. He’s not an easy guy to impress. Neither am I,” Jason adds with a warm smile that makes me blush inwardly. Outwardly, I respond with a cautious and noncommittal smile. “He would like you present in our brainstorming session next Monday.”

  “That sounds like a great opportunity. Thank you,” I say, not wanting to appear overly eager.

  “One more thing,” Jason says, leaning in even closer and lowering his voice to a whisper so sexy it sends chills down my spine, “There’s another reason that I wanted to have this meeting with you. There’s talk about moving you into the role of creative director on the marketing team.”

  “Really!” I squeal. Seeing the amusement in Jason’s eyes at my reaction, I feel a flush of embarrassment. “Sorry, I had a lot of coffee this morning,” I lie. I never drink coffee. “I’m surprised. I had no idea that there was an opening.”

  “There isn’t exactly an opening. It would be a new position we create for you. I’m ironing out the details right now with HR. But when all is said and done, you’ll be in for a significant raise. You shouldn’t be surprised; your work speaks for itself. Your design concepts for the organic baby food campaign were golden. The client loved them, and we signed them that day.”

  I spent the entire first week on the job frantically researching concepts for the organic baby food campaign. All these months later I hadn’t heard anything from Paul or Jason concerning whether they thought it was any good. I assumed they hated it and I couldn’t blame them. The last time I created an entire campaign concept was for my failed business. I don’t exactly have a track record of success with marketing. “I had no idea you used my concept. That’s amazing. I honestly don’t know what to say,” I reply, finally allowing myself to sound as excited as I feel.

  Jason smiles back at me. “You’re very talented Bridget, and you’ll make a great addition to the team. You’ll want to keep the news quiet until we make it official.”

  “Certainly,” I reply, feeling completely dumbfounded at the news.

  “I have a webinar I have to attend in five minutes. We’ll talk more later,” Jason says, glancing at his watch as he walks towards the door. Before leaving, he turns to me and says “Welcome to the team,” flashing his movie star smile before letting the door close behind him.

  With all of the excitement over the impending promotion, I think of how my life could drastically change for the better. It could mean more money. That I can finally leave the shoddy duplex I live in and find a decent apartment. I might even, eventually, be able to afford a house. I certainly never thought that would be possible in the Seattle market. Best of all, I can travel. It would be so nice to spend a weekend somewhere other than on my living room futon. Even with all of the amazing possibilities that lie before me, I have to silently reprimand myself. Am I a horrible person for feeling more excited about working closer with Jason than getting a raise?

  8

  Why Always Roses

  When I woke up this morning, I had the sanguine belief that today would be a good day. And why shouldn’t it? It’s the week of Thanksgiving; the first major holiday that I will celebrate as the future Mrs. Blake Johnson. Despite all of my wedding cynicism, I have to admit there’s something exciting about traveling into uncharted territory. I don’t know what to expect — and part of me likes that. When the future is uncertain, there’s the opportunity for hope. But that’s always been my Achilles heel; all of my aspirations are rooted in the desire to touch hope and, if possible, hold onto it. Perhaps, if I can maintain it in my grasp long enough, it will elevate me beyond where I am; then I’ll finally feel complete.

  The thing about hope is that it’s inextricably tied to risk; and failure is always lurking about its dark shadows, somewhere in the fringe. This is a lesson I’ve been forced to learn over and over again. It’s what lead to a failed personal life, a failed business, and now, a failed beginning to my holiday week. As of this moment, I can officially declare this holiday season to be just as underwhelming as every other one that I’ve experienced for the past decade. As I scrutinize the display before me, I can’t help but feel an undue surliness crescive within.

  “Roses,” I whisper to myself. “Why does it always have to be roses?” I reach out to touch the soft, velvety exterior of a lone petal. It pulls away from the bud as though it might, at any moment, fall off. Poor little petal, so fragile: If I rub it between my fingers it will bruise. If I pluck it, it will tear. But roses aren’t admired for their fortitude. I wouldn’t doubt a lack of durability is precisely their appeal. Roses are lauded for their vulnerability, grace, and vibrancy in color — a symbolic reminder of what men find so endearing about the female form. As it stands, men are quick to shower women with roses; but women are far less likely to have the same inclination towards men.

  But should a woman feel content with a gift that alludes to such a trite interpretation of her worth? Roses are given with some expectation of regard from the recipient. When the exchange of this gift is reduced to a mere pedestrian experience, is the expectation of regard a thing taken for granted? When Blake sends me a dozen roses, from an online store, that he has never laid eyes on — he didn’t pick them out, he didn’t painstakingly select a meaningful color in it’s most perfect state of bloom to express a sentiment of undying love and affection. Did he take my regard for granted? Did he buy into the cliched notion that roses are romantic? Was there any thought beyond that? Is there ever with him?

  Roses are Blake’s flower of choice. He sends them to me on every birthday, holiday and special occasion. Last Valentine’s day he sent me a dozen dark red roses. I left them on a shelf in their vase and forgot to water them for several weeks. During the winter months, I like to keep the temperature in my apartment at, what someone just ten pounds heavier, would consider uncomfortably warm. Despite my neglecting these roses, rather than whither and brown, they dried and were preserved — their color deepening to a rich, dark purple. I still have that vase of roses sitting on my shelf. I thought it might be a sign that Blake and I would last. The roses before me today are of the same velvety, dark red variety as those sent last Valentine’s day, but they don’t portend a future of everlasting love, but instead, bitter disappointment in the form of a card.

  Hey Babe,

  Sorry, I couldn’t meet you at the airport like we planned. I got tied up at work. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

  Love,

  Blake

  Tied up at work. I’m sure. That seems to happen a lot lately. I wonder if Allison is the sudden inspiration behind these late work nights. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he and Allison are out having a beer in some raunchy, small town bar, like the one in Roadhouse. She’ll pretend to like sports so she can appear to be one of the guys — throwing Blake off her game, causing him to lower his guard, and leaving him completely defenseless against her feminine wiles. And suddenly, as though by arbitrary inspiration, she’ll hop on a table, like the skanky, whore she is, and do a playful striptease that gets the boys all riled up. One of the guys will get a little too frisky with her and Blake will come to her rescue. She’ll blame her uncharacteristically wild behavior on the alcohol. Blake, being the nice guy he is, will chaperone her home and make sure she’s okay. Of course, this is all part of her perfectly orchestrated plan to get Blake alone in an intimate setting. She’ll invite Blake in and apologize, not knowing what got into
her. She’ll say, she’s not used to being alone without her fiancee. Then one thing will lead to another and the next thing you know…

  My phone suddenly rings, it’s Blake.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi baby, I’m sorry I’m calling so late. I just got home.”

  “You must’ve been busy. You kept forwarding my calls to voice mail. I’ve called three times since I got off the plane,” I say irritably.

  “Sorry babe, I was working on a bid. I couldn’t pick up, and I had to stay until it was finished. You sound pissed.”

  Pissed, that’s an understatement. I took the entire week of Thanksgiving off work so I could fly to Austin and see Blake. This will be the first uninterrupted week we’ve ever spent together. Maybe he doesn’t think that’s a big deal, but I do. When we’re married, we’ll spend longer than a week together. It’d be nice to take this whole, being around each other all the time, scenario for a test drive. I’m committed to Blake no matter what. I’m just doing my due diligence so I can determine how much closeness I can commit to right now and plan accordingly. It’s basic relationship reconnaissance.

  Besides, I’ve finally agreed to meet his family. He wants to announce our engagement during our visit on Thanksgiving day. We still haven’t coordinated how that will work. I’m not certain it’s such a great idea to unload news of that magnitude on his family for our first meeting. We need to talk about all of this. Doesn’t he see that?

  “I’m not upset,” I lie. “I’m disappointed. You were supposed to take Thanksgiving week off. Instead of spending the night with you, I’m alone in a hotel room, in an unfamiliar city, eating a chocolate soufflé, that tastes like whipped air.”

  “If I had my way, I’d be there with you now. Coming home to an empty bed ain’t my idea of a good time. I’ll know tomorrow if my bid is accepted. Then we’ll have the rest of the week to spend together.”

  “What! You’re working tomorrow?”

  “Yeah…” Blake’s voice trails off, sounding distant and tired. “They’re in Hong Kong. It will be morning there when it’s night here. I can’t get out of it. I should be done by five or six o’clock. Then you’ll have my full, undivided attention.”

  “Ok, you sound exhausted. I’ll let you sleep.” I reply, taking pity on him. Poor Blake, here he is making an effort to be a responsible adult by not getting fired from his job. Instead of supporting him, like a loving fiancee, all I can manage is to provoke myself with a fabricated affair about him and Allison. I don’t know Allison. I’ve never even met her. For all I know, she’s a lovely woman who wouldn’t dream of cheating on her boyfriend. I wasn’t overly fond of Susan at first and look how well that situation turned out. It’s about time that I face the truth. I have an issue with beautiful blondes. I see them as a threat and imagine they’re all in hot pursuit of Blake. This is a good thing to acknowledge: admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery. I’ll work on my jealousy issues, and Blake never has to know that my first instinct towards an even moderately attractive blonde is to claw her eyes out.

  “Hold on,” Blake says before I hang up. “I’m not ready to fall asleep. Stay, let’s talk awhile.”

  “Sure, what do you want to talk about?”

  “Hmm, how about we talk about what you’re wearing.”

  “Let’s see. I’m wearing the black negligee you bought me when you were in Seattle and no panties.” I say, in my best sex phone operator tone. I’m actually wearing a large terry cloth robe over a night shirt with a cartoon depicting Bugs Bunny and a pair of fuzzy socks, but that won’t exactly evoke the kind of salacious imagery to satisfy Blake’s erotic desires.

  “I’d like to see that. I want to come where you are and tear that negligee off with my teeth. Then I’d get in between your silky thighs and pound into your wet pussy so hard you’ll feel like a thunderstorm is raging and you’ve just been hit by lightning.”

  Both Blake and I start laughing. Sexual innuendo is a game for us, and our sex talk is always somewhat comedic in nature.

  “There will be plenty of time for you to cum all over me several times this week,” I reply with a chuckle.

  “I’d like to cum over a few places on you, and in different positions. I’m getting hard right now thinking about it. I want to drive on up to your hotel and park a semi in your garage. When I get inside, I’ll take a look under your hood and do some maintenance…”

  I giggle as I curl into a ball on the hotel room bed with the phone to my ear. Hearing Blake’s voice before bed always soothes me. All of my anger, doubts, and fears subside as I become the sole focus of his lusty appetite. We talk late into the night until both of us finally drift off to sleep.

  9

  Perspective

  I spent almost the entire next day huddled in front of my laptop watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer — an old childhood favorite. In the early morning hours, I entertained the notion of leaving the confines of the hotel to experience Austin — maybe take in the sights and do a little window shopping. That idea was immediately dashed around nine o’clock when a massive downpour started without a moment’s reprieve. I thought I’d left this kind of weather behind in Washington. Since I hadn’t packed for rain, and very much wanted to avoid an onslaught of crankiness when my clothes got soaked through, I instead opted for the hospitality of my toasty warm hotel room where I could idle in dry clothes and order room service.

  Despite the rain, and Blake being both absent and unreachable for the majority of the day, I’m determined to remain optimistic. It’s a good thing, having a bit of distance from him; it gives me the chance to gain some perspective. I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t had the time to delve into the topic of our engagement and evaluate what it will mean to be a missus.

  It doesn’t help that I idled away seven potentially groundbreaking hours of perspective geared thinking, turning my brain to mush with streaming videos, lifestyle blogs, and emails. It was only when I felt sufficiently brain dead that I finally decided to sprawl out on the bed with my hands behind my head, and stare at the ceiling, opening my mind to the very perspective that I’ve so artfully eluded for the past several months. To my dismay, when the perspective finally hits it doesn’t bring the edifying light that I had hoped.

  When I landed in Austin, where Blake was supposed to meet me at the gate, there was a young couple, who couldn’t have been older than their early twenties. They were holding hands. Their gaze unwaveringly fixated upon each other. It was as though they were the only two people in the airport. The way he looked at her, he was taken, completely mesmerized by her in every way. Her smile said everything. There was no denying that she was equally in his thrall.

  I try to recall the last time Blake and I held hands. I’m pretty sure that has never happened. The fact is that neither of us is particularly fond of PDA’s. It’s not our style; we prefer to keep our affection for each other a private affair. Besides, Blake knows I get claustrophobic when I don’t have enough breathing room. I’ve told him that, numerous times, I’m sure. That must be why we don’t hold hands. He’s merely respecting my space.

  But why does he never look at me the way that guy in the airport looked at his girl? They were enchanted with one another. The closest Blake has ever come to being enchanted with me is when I’m wearing something tight, or see through, or nothing at all. That isn’t the same, not really. Sometimes I wish that Blake would show me passion without the promise or expectation of sex. It would be nice to experience some level of amorous affection, something to let me know I’m more than just a good lay.

  Then there’s that pesky issue of my promotion. I still haven’t told Blake. I wanted to wait until it was settled. Last week, I officially signed a new contract for my promotion and raise. I’ve never made this much money before, not even as an analyst. Now, I almost make as much as Blake. The crazy thing is, for the first time, I enjoy my job. I finally feel like I belong. Like I fit. Am I supposed to give that up because I’m getting
married?

  What’s the alternative? Our marriage doesn’t have to be a traditional one. We can live apart and fly in on weekends and holidays to see each other. My heart sinks as I think of that possibility. Being in a marriage with over 2,000 miles between us seems awfully lonely.

  But, as I know all too well, even a traditional marriage would not exempt me from the plight of loneliness. By all appearances, my parents had a traditional marriage. They certainly lived together. My mom was the responsible breadwinner of the family; though no one would ever know it. My parents owned a law firm in Seattle and my dad went to work as he pleased. He wanted all the perks of being a big city attorney without any of the drawbacks: he never took a case, filed paperwork, or used a computer. Those tasks were burdened to my mom. It would seem my dad’s primary responsibilities were to order around the secretary, complain about the other associates and rearrange the furniture. Despite my father’s limited, if somewhat exasperating, role at the firm, as far as the rest of the world knew he was a high-powered attorney just like my mom.

  My dad’s lifestyle more closely resembled that of a bachelor than a husband and father. Most of his days were spent out on the town, socializing—and his nights, frittered away at bars. He was absent most weeknights, leaving my mother home alone with my two older sisters and me. I always looked forward to those evenings. We baked cookies and my mom helped with our homework. I could almost convince myself that we were a happy family.

  The only quality time my father ever spent with his children was to stand over us like a drill sergeant, barking orders while we performed our daily chores. He criticized every aspect of our cleaning methods, from how much pressure we applied to a surface with our cloth to the broadness of our circular stroke. What was worse, he insisted that only hot water be used to clean and disinfect; to be caught with cold water was a perilous undertaking that would almost certainly result in a barrage of abusive insults. “You’re using cold water!” he’d yell. “Are you stupid? How do you expect to clean with cold water? You can only clean with hot water. Hot water!”