by Hazel Parker
“Well,” I said as I slumped into my chair. “I’ve had some good steak, but that is right up there with the best I have ever had.”
“You’re telling me,” she said.
Contractually, at this point, the date was supposed to end. Her father, apparently, had written it out in such detail that it said the first date only required dinner at a nice restaurant. But I didn’t want it to end.
“How would you feel about going to Downtown Cocktail Lounge?” I said. “Great place, grab some drinks.”
“Sure,” she said so quickly I almost wondered if she even knew about the limitations of the contract.
I actually grabbed cash out of my wallet—a little over two hundred dollars—and just left it on the table without waiting for the check. I knew that the tip was enormous, but I didn’t care. I had to get Chelsea to the next spot. I had to try and build something without the pretenses of a contract in place.
I wondered if Chelsea would respond to me touching her as we headed over. While she did not fight me putting my arm around her, she didn’t lean into it either. It was so damn hard to figure out what this girl felt—but then again, it was so damn hard to imagine any other situation like this.
When we got into the lounge, I found a booth that Nick had told me about, one cordoned off from much of the rest of the lounge. As it was just before nine, most of the lounge was empty, giving us space. I let her scoot in first, and I rested my hand on her knee as I scooted in. I could feel the hairs on her skin rising.
I decided it was time to be a little more direct than I had been at the restaurant.
“You know,” I said. “I know there’s some craziness going on around us that makes things, well, different. But I have to say. You know what I would have done if I said my fate wasn’t sealed the first time I met?”
“What?” Chelsea said, an eyebrow arched. Oh, she was into it.
I smirked, leaned forward, and put my other hand on her leg.
“I would have taken you someplace private just like this,” I said. “I would have pulled you in close.”
Everything that I said, I did. Chelsea’s eyes narrowed in on me.
“I would have looked right at you, searching for the perfect words. But then, I would have realized that there were no words that could match something I could just do. And that was…”
I hesitated only to heighten the tension. Chelsea’s eyelids were fluttering half-open, half-closed, as if trying to hedge her bets. Having control back of how this dynamic was going—having Chelsea’s good side show up—reinvigorated me. It brought me back to my slow-play days.
But I could only hold out for so long. I closed my eyes.
And I kissed her.
Chelsea was a much gentler kisser than I would have anticipated. She did not claw at my face or try to make out with me. She went for the simple grazing kiss, the kind that almost felt like a peck. But it didn’t make the moment any less special or any less arousing. If anything, it heightened the fact that this wasn’t a hookup or a casual fling.
This was my wife to be.
When I pulled back, I had the world’s biggest grin on my face. My confidence was soaring, perhaps too high. Because what I said next…
“Well, guess the process is working!”
...was about the worst thing I could have said.
“The process?” she said, recoiling. “What does that mean?”
And now she’s back to thinking that she’s a robot meant to execute orders in this relationship. Good job, dummy.
“I was just making a joke,” I said. “Just, you know, there’s a process we all agreed to—”
“Do you have to remind me of it every single time we do something slightly intimate?” Chelsea said. “Do you have to rub it in that I have to do these things?”
I felt crestfallen. My stupid mouth had gotten me in trouble here.
“Just because there’s...I already told you this. I’m obligated to act a certain way in public, but that doesn’t mean you get to talk to me a certain way.”
“I’m not saying I get to do that.”
“Then why the hell did you say the process is working? Am I a chemical equation? If you add X, do you get me?”
I bit my lip. Chelsea was past the point of having a rational argument. And who could blame her?
“Look, we can’t pretend this is normal, because it’s obviously not,” I said. “There is a process. I don’t mean you are a process—”
“What is the process, Brett?” she said. “What is this whole thing leading up to? Huh? Tell me.”
“For us to get married.”
“So you can get your grandparents’ money and I can get a share of that. And I’m just supposed to be ‘on’ for the rest of the time they’re alive? This process isn’t about you and me building a garden. It’s about the supposed falling in love. That’s not something you can ‘make a process.’”
Boy, things were getting bad fast.
“I know, Chelsea, I know, but let’s face it, we’re stuck with—”
“Stuck?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “What are you going to do if I leave? Kill me? Kill my father?”
“No!”
Chelsea folded her arms. Her anger was taking her around to the side close to tears. I didn’t cry, almost ever, but I was feeling emotionally flustered like I hadn’t in ages.
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“I don’t know! Probably because I was told that if any of this gets out, I’d lose everything. And it was very clear and very obvious that ‘everything’ was more than just possessions.”
“Jesus, Chelsea, I’m not like that, I don’t know—”
“You may not be, but the people near you who set this up are.”
Uncle Nick. Goddamnit. Still with the mob connections in Las Vegas.
“This isn’t fucking worth it,” Chelsea said, scooting around to the other side of the table and standing up. “You know what? Figure out a settlement. I’ll fucking pay you to get out of this. I’ll quit my job without a check, I don’t care.”
“Chelsea!”
“Fuck this,” she said, rising. “Fifteen million dollars might make me financially secure, but it’s not going to make me feel emotionally safe. You want to treat me like shit? Count me the fuck out. Let your fucking little mob come for me for all I care.”
“Chelsea!”
But she had already turned around and left. And if I knew what was good for me, for right now, at least, I had to let her go.
I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen next. I just hoped it didn’t make both of us miserable as hell.
Chapter 16: Chelsea
Fifteen million dollars wasn’t worth it.
Fifteen billion dollars wasn’t worth it.
Fifteen trillion dollars wasn’t worth the emotional frustration and demeaning feeling of being a toy.
As soon as Brett saw someone he knew, instantly, I had to act like his obedient girlfriend. The instant I got swept up in a moment, letting my emotions and arousal get the best of me, Brett was ready to call me out on it. Who knew what would happen if we finally had sex?
Yes, if. Unless his family was a bunch of fucking freaks—which sadly didn’t seem like too impossible a possibility—that was something that only the two of us would have to know about. And let’s just say at this point, he was more likely to get off using a sex toy than he was of seeing me even topless.
God, what a fucking ass. And what a fucking idiot I was for selling myself like that.
I looked at my phone. I called my father. He didn’t pick up, which wasn’t a huge surprise—he went to bed early and usually woke up around five in the morning. But I swore to myself that as soon as I had my morning water and started drinking my coffee, I was calling him.
* * *
That moment came much earlier than normal because I couldn’t sleep a damn that night. My anger kept me tossing and turning, my sadness kept my eyes from feeling clear, and my frustration
kept me from settling down. I think I finally passed out around four, but the stress ensured I only got about three hours of sleep.
I didn’t so much as wake up around seven as I did just give up on the idea of extra sleep. I chugged the water I always left for myself by my desk, went through my morning routine, and grabbed a cup of coffee. I looked at my phone after the first sip—my father had texted me, saying if I needed to talk to him still, I could at any point. I waited all of three seconds before I dialed him.
“Hey, Chelsea.”
“I want out, Dad,” I said, getting right to the point. “The guy is an asshole and emotionally abusive. I’m not putting up with it. It’s not worth fifteen million dollars.”
My father sighed on the other end of the line. It was loud, but it did not sound condescending.
“This was my worst fear,” he said. “But unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do.”
“That’s bullshit!” I said.
My father usually hated me swearing. I did not give two fucks right now. Not even one, actually. If anything, I needed to swear more to get my point across.
“There’s always something you can do, Dad, so don’t tell me there’s nothing you can do.”
“Chelsea.”
We both took deep breaths, trying to collect ourselves. I definitely needed it more than him, because if he said “nothing...can do” one more time, I would have driven down to his house and choked him.
“Chelsea, look. I have tried to shield you from this life. I’ve probably failed miserably. But the point is, now you’re in it, so there’s no point in hiding it from you. When you break an agreement with someone like this, the end is inevitable. And the worst part is not that that’s the case; it’s that you don’t know when it’s going to come. It could come later that night, it could come later that week, or it could come years down the line. But they don’t forget.”
Yeah, because the Ferraris are a bunch of gangsters. I don’t even think I’ve seen them slam a desk in frustration.
“Dad, I find that hard to believe. The people you sent me to run a winery, not a restaurant with some shady dealings in the back room.”
“And do you know for a fact that everyone in that family is in the winery? Or are there some people that do not work for the winery that may have other jobs?”
How the hell was I supposed to know?
“Chelsea, believe me, it hurts me so much to see you like this. All I can tell you is that we made a deal; I made them sign a contract, but the reality is, they don’t care about the contract. They just care about us following through on it.”
Brett wouldn’t care. I’d make him not care. I...I would.
For perhaps the first time in my life, I realized right there that I could not rely on my father. I had to confront Brett head on.
Sure, in the past, I’d known I couldn’t rely on him to make dinner, to be there for my high school sporting events, or to consistently show up to work, but that was different. That was saying he couldn’t be depended on to make something. Now, I was realizing something far too heavy—that he couldn’t be depended upon to solve something for me.
“You really can’t do anything, can you?” I said.
It was not a question so much as it was an acceptance of reality.
“If I could, I would have done so the minute you called me,” he said. “The best I can do is try to negotiate for something different. But every time I ask for something, my arm gets twisted a little bit further.”
“Say no more, Dad,” I said. “Thanks.”
I hung up. I wasn’t bitter at my father, but realizing he had his limitations, most especially as it related to this...it was a painful night.
At least it was Friday night. At least I wouldn’t have to see Brett for a couple of days.
* * *
Sunday night came. I felt no better about my current predicament and, in fact, actually felt angrier. I could accept suffering for my mistakes, but my father?
And ultimately, for whatever horrible “what ifs” that played out in my head about members of the Ferrari family putting a hit on me and my father’s head, I felt like one thing was true. Brett Ferrari may have been a player, he may have been an idiot, he may have seen me as nothing more than an ends to a ring, but he was not a bad guy. He was a douche, but not an ass.
I’ve been wrong before, though.
I texted Brett, sitting in my apartment.
“Do you have an hour? I need to talk to you about Friday. And everything.”
I hit send. I felt no regret, no sadness about this. I’d felt more unsettled about the way I had rejected Karl before all this than I did with Brett. My phone buzzed before I’d even put it in my pocket.
“Yes. Come over to my place? Better in person.”
I bit my lip. That seemed like a…
No, it wasn’t dangerous. It was only dangerous if I had some attraction to him, which I did not. Rich to think, considering you kissed him.
I put my shoes on, headed out the door, and drove down to Brett’s apartment, located just on the outskirts of downtown Sacramento. I told myself that if Brett cracked any jokes about me being in his place, if Brett tried to do anything otherwise condescending or mocking, I would just not show up to work tomorrow and call the Ferrari’s bluff. This was 2020 in the Bay Area, not 1970 in Las Vegas.
I knocked on the door and stepped back. Brett answered, wearing a heavy shadow of facial hair and an exhausted look in his eyes. In the span of just two days, he had gone from looking like a handsome, charming young guy to a burdened, worn-out man.
“Come in,” he said.
I did so as quickly as I could, not wanting to give Brett any chance to put his hand on the small of my back or anywhere else that might have aroused some feelings. I saw his kitchen table seconds later and took a seat, managing to put myself down without having Brett touch me.
“So, what’s up?” Brett said. “Want some wine first?”
“No,” I snapped. The tone made sure Brett wouldn’t have any equally stupid follow-up questions. “Brett, I want out.”
He had no immediate reaction.
“I want out of this deal. You’re not as bad as I thought you might be—you’re not some fat, awkward slob living in his mother’s basement—but still...you treat me like a sex object and a process to be won. I know we have a deal, and I was made aware of everything before, but this sucks. Fifteen million dollars isn’t worth being an actress for love, especially when the only people that know the truth are you two. So whatever you have to do, end it.”
Brett sighed, running his hand through his hair and scratching his newfound facial hair.
“Well, this sucks,” he said.
To my surprise, his voice had heavy emotion behind it. It did not feel acted or scripted.
“This really fucking sucks,” he said. “I can call the guy who set it up and see what can be done.”
Just...just like that, huh?
“OK,” I said.
“Was it really that bad?” Brett asked.
This was...I told myself to be careful, that anyone when rejected could suddenly seem polite and kind. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a dialogue.
I just didn’t know if it meant I couldn’t have a dialogue without feeling a certain way.
“Imagine, if you will, you’re in my spot,” I said. “All of my life, I was the ugly duckling. Never got attention from guys, and it really only changed around the time I got to college. I don’t know what changed, other than just...time, maybe, I don’t know. But in any case, all of a sudden, guys start paying attention to you. And because you didn’t get much attention before, you’re much more closely attuned to why.
“And so you know when someone really likes you and when someone is full of shit. When I met you, I was at a weird spot. I’d had a bunch of mediocre dates and felt like I was at a bad age. That age where all the guys within, say, five years of me, if they had their shit together, they were already married or on
their way to be, and the ones that didn’t were suddenly popping up on my Tinder and Match profiles every fifteen minutes. So I was a little...desperate, I guess.”
I paused. How in the world had Brett gotten me to ramble for this long about this? I’d gotten what I wanted.
“Why do you care?” I asked. “About it being this bad?”
Brett smiled with the saddest expression I had ever seen. There was no way anyone could have faked something like that. At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.
“I’ve been trying to get rid of this player reputation now for a year or so,” he said. “But the problem is, I’m my own worst enemy. I say that I want a serious girlfriend, someone I can marry, like my brother, who just got engaged...and then, the instant I start charming someone like you, I start chasing sex as the end goal. It’s like...I don’t know. Like I’m scared of what commitment would actually be like, so I just go for the sex and the funny comments. Even when they’re not funny.”
My guard was starting to drop, but it wasn’t as strong as it was when I first walked in.
“When was your last serious relationship?”
Brett bit his lip, shame washing over his face.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever really had any,” he said. “Which I suppose says something about me, right?”
The poor guy…
Seriously, I wanted to hug him. I was now looking at a guy who was a player not because he wanted all the girls, but because he wouldn’t let himself have any.
“Well, I had one in college that I got cheated on, so I wish I could say I haven’t had any.”
We shared a laugh at that. And really, I could laugh at it—it had happened so long ago that I saw it as simply a childish mistake, a moment when I had let a guy persuade me with charm and promises instead of action and behavior.
“I guess you could say that I thought you might be someone I could eventually have something real with,” Brett said. “I was like you, actually, before you walked in. I had no idea who the person would be.”