Cliff and Carynne are silent as I rise and head back to the water, but as I walk away, I hear Carynne say sharply, "That wasn't cool, Jer."
"Hey, she went there first," he retorts.
***
That evening we watch the local news and see the flames streaming from the sports store at the outlet mall.
"Damn," says Jeremy. "Wonder how it started."
"Who knows." Cliff shrugs. "Electrical issues, maybe."
"Maybe someone smoking where they shouldn't have been," I suggest.
"Or maybe it was arson," Carynne says dramatically, a conspiratorial grin on her face. "Suppose one of the employees has a creepy stalker ex who was trying to send a message—"
"A message like 'Bitch, I want you dead?'" asks Cliff. "Babe, you been watchin' too much crime TV."
She leans back on the sofa and kicks her heels onto the wicker coffee table. "Maybe. But 'creepy stalker' is a hell of a lot more interesting than 'faulty electrical systems.' "
"Oakland has his own stalker." Jeremy's smile borders on a sneer, and Oakland glares at him. Clearly this is a subject that Oakland doesn't want discussed.
All the more reason to delve into the topic. "Stalker?" I prop my chin on my hands and give Jeremy my best wide-eyed, eager stare. "Do tell."
He grins, delighted to have secured my attention, and apparently my forgiveness for his earlier comment. "Okay, well, she's an older chick. Cougar type. Hot, but she's like what, fifties?" He glances at Oakland for confirmation.
"Forties," Oakland says dully.
"Yeah, so she's been hanging around this summer. Stopping by the bar, monopolizing his attention—"
"Wait—you work at a bar?" I raise an eyebrow at Oakland. "I thought you—well, isn't your dad—"
"He's rich, yes. But he doesn't believe in giving his kids handouts—at least, not till he dies. I'm working my way through college, same as anyone else." His eyes challenge me to mock him, but I don't feel the inclination. If anything, my respect for him moves up a couple notches. Still in the negative zone, but closer to positive.
"Yeah, yeah, you're a real man of the people." Jeremy dismisses him with a wave. "So she comes in all the time when he's bartending and talks to him real quiet. Oakland won't tell us what she says. Probably an offer to be her personal sex slave, yeah?"
"It's called a gigolo," Carynne inserts helpfully. "Or an escort."
"If you want to be all prissy about it, sure." Jeremy snorts and turns back to me. "Whenever she's at the bar, she really throws him off his game. He gets so clumsy—drops stuff, mixes up orders, says weird shit. I think he's into her pretty deep." He cracks up at his own double entendre, doubling over with belly laughs.
"I'm not." The level of tension in Oakland's face surprises me. His jaw muscle twitches, and a vein in his neck pulses more noticeably.
"Admit it. You're in love with a woman twenty years older than you. She could be your mom. You ever gotten a boner for your mom, Oak?"
Carynne and Cliff were chuckling a second ago, but at this point, even they are beginning to look uncomfortable. Oakland is clearly angry, and Jeremy is going beyond his usual inappropriate humor. The fire snapping in his eyes makes it clear that his joke is more than fun—it's an attack. Which is odd, because the two of them usually get along well. I'm not sure where this sudden tension is coming from.
"That's enough, Jer." I stand and stretch. "You're upsetting him. Let's play a game."
"What do you care if he's upset?" Jeremy retorts.
"I don't. But we're here to have fun. F-U-N. And if you don't quit with the mom jokes, it's just gonna be a big F.U. Okay? Game time. What do we have?"
Carynne shows me the board games, and we sort through them, pretending not to notice that Jeremy and Oakland are still shooting spikes at each other with their eyes.
-3-
Just the Girl
Carynne has her heart set on attending a big costume party that a friend of a relative is hosting on Friday night. She tells us all about it on the way to dinner on Thursday—how magnificent it's going to be, how many cool people we're bound to meet. I make a mild protest, something about it being weeks until Halloween, costumes are silly, etc. No one listens, because Queen Carynne has spoken.
It's not that I mind the costume thing, really. I'm just not sure I want to draw more attention to myself with a sexy outfit, especially when Jeremy's eyes seem to find me over and over again, every time we're in the same room. Maybe I can find a nice ghost costume, like Willow does in that Halloween episode of Buffy. Cover up the goods so the boys don't stare.
And then, as we're finishing dinner at The Salty Dog, Carynne orders, "Nothing frumpy or stupid, okay? Bring that sexy back, y'all! Same for you, boys—I want the heart-breakers and showstoppers, none of this Mario and Luigi crap, or zombies, or the Stooges, or something. No! Bring on the hot guys, baby! Make our pulses flutter!"
Cliff groans. "Man, I had the best costume picked out!"
"Nothing from The Walking Dead or Stargate or Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," snaps Carynne.
"You know me too well, babe."
She sighs even as she smiles. "The safest way is for us all to shop for the costumes together. That way I can approve everything. This party is gonna be straight fire, people! We gotta look our best."
"Quit being so thirsty, babe." Cliff nuzzles her ear.
She pops him lightly on the mouth and follows it up with a kiss. Again, I can't help smiling at the two of them, their push and pull, the balance they find with each other. That could have been us—Jeremy and me, with the cute kisses and the inside track into each other's minds. It was us, for a while.
Maybe I didn't give Jeremy enough of a chance. Maybe I should have stuck with him, tried to help him through the stress or whatever was making him drink more than usual. I should have gone with him to meetings, to therapy, whatever it took to fix him. To make him safe.
But I was scared, nursing bruises on my arms and spine. Dreaming about his twisted scarlet face, and his roar in my ears. The man I loved, transformed into the monster of my nightmares. And now that I've seen him again, in this setting, since the breakup—everything about him that used to nag at the back of my mind seems so glaring and obvious. The disregard for others' feelings for the sake of a joke. The habit he has of focusing so much on my body that it feels like that's all he sees. The obnoxious assumption that he's the center of every conversation.
I have to believe I made the right choice, breaking it off.
We stop by a costume store after dinner. "Best costume selection on the east coast," according to our server at the Salty Dog. He's probably right, because I've never seen so many costumes in one spot in my life. The "shop" is an immense warehouse divided into multiple huge rooms, each one crammed with bins of wigs and masks, racks of costumes, and walls of hooks for accessories of all kinds. It's dimly lit, and a kind of entrenched silence hangs over the place, barely rattled by the shrill laughter of Laura and Carynne, who found some kind of ridiculous fake boob vest. Cliff and Jeremy are trying on freaky masks and wigs while Oakland examines a row of fake swords.
I wander away from the others, through a narrow doorway and into one back room, then another. Faintly I hear the girls shrieking with delight somewhere behind me; but the heavy racks of clothing seem to swallow sound, until I'm alone in the quiet.
I try on a witch's hat and look at myself in the mirror. Somber blue eyes stare back at me from a pale face framed in auburn hair. Those eyes should be sparkling, and that mouth should be smiling. This is fun—could be fun, if I would let myself enjoy it. If I could stop stressing about Jeremy, and work, and school, and the future.
If I could just exist in the moment and enjoy it. If I could just—be.
I snatch the witch's hat off and lean my forehead against the mirror glass, closing my eyes. It's so quiet in here. So still, except for the draft of an air conditioning vent somewhere overhead, pumping air so icy that it raises the hair on my arms.
Sighing,
I hang the hat up again—but my eyes snap to the mirror and I gasp. Behind me stands a cloaked, masked figure, complete with a gaucho hat and a rapier. Zorro, of course. I examine the cut of the jawline, the strong throat—I can't be sure if I recognize this person or not. It isn't Jeremy, because this man doesn't have freckles along his neck. And this guy doesn't have Cliff's dark skin, either. And last time I saw Oakland, he was in the big room at the front of the store, far away from where I am now.
I step forward, squinting, trying to see the man's eyes. They're too shadowed—I can't tell if they're green or not.
The Zorro figure stretches out his sword, setting the point of it against my chest. Lightly he draws a "Z" across my breasts. I inhale, my skin tightening.
The tip of the sword traces my ribs and my stomach, travels below the waistband of my shorts, along the inseam.
I should push the sword away and call out this pervert for what he's doing.
But I don't.
He moves closer, all shadows and rippling fabric, until his chest is a bare inch from mine. Gloved fingers cup my chin and tip my face up. Beneath the line of the mask, his lips are parted, and he leans in.
With one quick movement I knock aside the hat and rip off the mask. Oakland blinks green eyes at me, then smiles.
"Idiot!" I pop my knee into his groin, hard.
He winces, but I have a feeling my aim was off, because he doesn't crumple like guys in the movies do when they get hit in the balls. "Oh, now you're the ball-busting kind of girl?" he grunts.
"You're a moron, you know that? A pubescent imbecile. Oh, I'm sorry—those words are probably too difficult for you. Let me dumb it down—you're a stupid kid, dressing up and coming on to me like that."
His smile doesn't fade. "You liked it."
"Did not," I gasp. Except that I really, really did. "What did you think you were going to accomplish with that? It takes more than a little roleplay to get in my pants."
"Yeah?" He's moving closer again. "What exactly does it take?"
I frown, staring up at his handsome face. "What are you doing? You never liked me. Why the sudden interest?"
"You think I've never liked you?" He laughs, like he can't believe what I'm saying. His disbelief makes me madder.
"You've always been kinda rude, especially when Jeremy and I were dating. Anytime we're in the same room with the others, you won't speak to me directly. But whenever we're alone, you act—weird."
"Weird?"
"Yes! Stop responding to everything I say with a question. And take off that ridiculous costume."
"All right." He whips off the cape and collects the mask and hat. Then he spins back around to face me, smirking. "For a second there, I thought you were going to let me kiss you."
"Sorry to disappoint."
I'm hot all over, furious because—because—I'm not sure why. Clearly my treacherous body would be perfectly comfortable with anything he might want to do to me. But I've seen him with girls at campus parties, at our mutual friends' apartments. He's not the showy, loud, laughing type—he's the kind that whispers and hints, smiles and strokes. The kind that gently lures a girl to bed and then eases out of her life so painlessly that she's left with the false hope that he might come back.
I don't want to be one of those girls I've heard talking about him in the cafeteria, their eyes shining, cheeks glowing—stupid girls, who think they will be the exception to the rule, that their bodies were wonderland enough to keep his attention, that their minds or personalities might be incandescent enough to be a flame for this particular wandering moth.
As I think about it, it strikes me that I've noticed Oakland a lot over the past year or so. I met him shortly after I started dating Jeremy, and it seems I've been watching him more closely than I wanted to admit to myself.
And right now, he's watching me, his head cocked as if he's trying to read my mind.
"I want to take you out to dinner," he says. "No one else, just us."
My heart throbs in my throat. "Why?"
"Because you're not dating my friend anymore."
"Sorry, but I'm not the one-night-stand kind of girl."
His dark brows contract, and he has the audacity to look offended.
"I suppose you're going to try to convince me you're not a one-night-stand kind of guy? Don't waste your breath. I've seen your leftovers." I squeeze as much venom as I can into the words.
"I have needs," he says. "Maybe a little more intense than other men. And maybe I give in to those needs too often. But I never leave a woman unsatisfied, or emotionally hurt."
"Maybe not right away, but they hurt later. It's worse because you're sweet to them. If you acted like the bastard you are, it wouldn't be so bad. But you do this fake-nice thing, so they fall for you."
He rubs the back of his neck with his hand. "It's not fake. And it's not my fault if a girl's emotions get involved. I always make my intentions clear—an hour or two of pleasure, with no promise of anything else."
"That's what you're offering me?"
"No." The hint of a smile plays around his mouth. "I'm inviting you to dinner. Nothing more."
"Just dinner."
"Yes. Since you seem to think I'm a dick, in all possible ways, I'd like the chance to prove otherwise."
I'm not sure whether to be pleased or offended that he doesn't want to sleep with me. Maybe he really doesn't like my personality. Or maybe he doesn't find me attractive. Unlikely. I have to fend off male attention almost every day at work—I'm damn attractive. Dude better recognize.
"Fine. Dinner. Nothing else."
The smile that spreads across his face is pure delighted surprise. It almost disarms me. Almost.
"But I don't want Jeremy to know," I add. "I'd rather not upset him over something as simple as a dinner between remote acquaintances."
"All right. We can do it the night after the party. I'll head out on my own first and say I'm going shoe shopping or something. Then Jer won't want to come."
"But the girls will. Tell them you're going to a bookstore. None of them read anything but ebooks."
"And you?" He's inching nearer again, those green eyes holding mine.
"I read ebooks, mostly." I scoot back a step. "But occasionally I like the feeling of a hard copy in my hands."
"I respect that. Bookstore it is. And then you'll have to make some excuse to get away, too."
"I'll figure it out. Where should I meet you?"
"SaltFish Restaurant. Seven o'clock."
His gaze is warmer and more vibrant than I can handle, so I glance down at the costume in his hands. "Zorro is a good look for you."
He's about to respond when Carynne's voice drifts from the next room. Swiftly, with almost catlike grace, Oakland steps away from me and disappears through another doorway. I'm alone when Carynne enters, carrying a fluffy white dress and a platinum blond wig. "Marilyn, darling, I have found you the perfect costume."
-4-
You're Beautiful
Marilyn Monroe.
Yeah, she's my namesake. Not that I mind being immediately associated with a talented, famous singer and actress—it's the sex symbol part that I don't like. The instant objectification.
I'm a sexual person. I embrace it, and I'm not ashamed of it. That doesn't mean I want guys envisioning my skirt flying up, licking their lips for a glimpse of my privates.
Carynne basically bullied me into wearing this wavy blond wig and white dress. And to be honest, I look smoking hot in it, even if the top of the dress is a little big. I mourn my cup size in the mirror for a moment, wishing I could be a nice D like Laura or even a heavy C like Carynne. I'm a B for sure, and with this dress style, I'll have to be careful to keep the girls tucked safely under the wide white bands of fabric.
Someone raps on the door. "Hey! Hurry up!"
Oakland. My heart shivers.
"Just a minute." I spritz some gardenia perfume onto one wrist and rub the other against it, wafting the scent under my nose.
I swipe on some bright red lipstick, cap the tube, and stuff it back into my makeup case. A quick zip of the case, and a deep breath, and I'm ready to go.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Oakland starts to roll his eyes, but widens them instead. The effect is so comical that I snicker.
He clears his throat. "You're going like that?"
"Got a problem?"
He recovers, leaning a forearm against the bathroom doorframe. "Nah. Just that your coloring's wrong for Marilyn. Any idiot can see you're not a natural blonde."
"Neither was Marilyn."
He quirks an eyebrow, clearly surprised by this information, and I give him a wicked grin. "Men always fall for the fake stuff."
His eyes drop to my chest, and the corner of his mouth curves slowly. "Speaking of fake—you should stuff those. A real Marilyn would fill out the dress more."
My hand flashes out before I think. He snatches my wrist before my palm hits the side of his face, and his green eyes blaze into mine.
"You'd hit me, Marilyn?" His voice is smooth as chocolate.
"For that comment, yes. You're so rude. How dare you comment on—on—"
"On your breasts?" His low, teasing tone sends a rush of heat over my skin. What is wrong with me? I'm not some little virginal schoolgirl—I'm a grown woman. I can talk about my body and all its parts without feeling shame. So why is this conversation making me feel so embarrassed and excited at the same time?
"Yes," I spit at him. "I don't care what you think of them. They don't exist for your viewing pleasure."
"There's absolutely nothing wrong with your breasts, Marilyn." His eyes gleam at me beneath partly lowered lids. "I'm certainly a fan of theirs. If anything, the dress is at fault here. The only reason I mention it is to spare you from a wardrobe malfunction."
His eyes hold me pinned in place. And then he sets one finger in the notch between my collarbones and drags it down my chest until it rests in the narrow space between my breasts.
The Lion and the Artist Page 3