Claimed

by Pratt, Lulu

  The rest of the day passed by fast enough. Classes were standard, customers, or ‘students,’ as we called them, were friendly. I could tell by their faces that I was doing even more enthusiastic instructing than usual. This was, at least in part, because after the sex I’d had with Cash, I too needed to stretch my body. He’d twisted me into all kinds of knots. And besides, the harder I worked in class, the more muscle I’d have built up for the next time he decided to pound me senseless. Privately, while leading various poses, I was doing Kegels.

  By six, my pussy was exhausted and my body ached, but I was readier than ever to see Cash. I’d spent the day ensconced in thoughts of him — and what we might do together — and now I was itching to actualize said thoughts.

  I grabbed my bag and pulled out my phone, shooting him off a quick text message:

  Hey, u free tonight? Would love to hang.

  As soon as I sent it, I regretted the phrasing and spelling, but whatever. It got the point across. Besides, the faster I texted him, the faster I’d get to ride his cock once more. Is that too blunt? I don’t care. Etiquette doesn’t matter when there’s incredible cock on the line.

  I set down my phone and cleaned up the studio while I waited to hear that telltale ding signaling an incoming text message. The whole process took about fifteen minutes, and still no ding. I threw away the last of the used votives, then strode across the hardwood floor to where I’d set my cell. Maybe I’d just missed the ding? The Tibetan chanting soundtrack was still on, and the monks might’ve droned out my twenty-first-century tech, which would be very fitting.

  Nope. I tapped the home screen button, and saw no notifications, just the usual pic of me and my girlfriends. Dang.

  Now, I’m not usually one to double text, but we’ve already established that I made exceptions to the norm for Cash. And besides, my last text had been super vague, very non-committal. He seemed like the kind of guy who wanted to make real, tangible plans. The rock concert date told me as much. It was a breath of fresh air, given that the men I’d run with before were laissez-faire about literally everything, including time/place/and other vital details. So I sent Cash another message, this time with a more substantial invite:

  My friend Blaire is doing a stand-up set tonight at The Comedy Cache. Wanna come with me?

  There, that was good. I tucked the phone in my pants and took care of the other closing protocols. Shutting off the front desk computer, turning out the lights, rigging the alarm. I was out to my car by about seven, Dandelion door locking behind me, and checked my phone once more. Still no reply! Ugh!

  Was he ghosting me? Was he really as bad at using/checking his phone as he’d implied, or was that just an elaborate ruse? Was he just not that into me?

  You’re doing it again, my inner voice said.

  “Doing what?” I asked it aloud as I clambered into my car.

  Being crazy.

  I sighed. The voice was right. I was overdramatizing this. Cash and I had a bond that ran deeper than some stupid text messages. I often doubted myself, but I didn’t doubt him. He’d sworn he had feelings for me, so he must have meant it. And I’d seen that phone — it really was a piece of shit. There was every chance he just wasn’t as on top of replying to messages as I was. Maybe a call was in order? No, that would look pushy.

  He’s an artist, my brain informed me. They’re spacey.

  Hm. A good point, one I’d do well to just take on its face. Artists don’t respond to messages like the rest of us. And besides being an artist, he’s a small business owner, and tattoo shops are open late. Maybe he was just clocking on for the day.

  My mind raced with possibilities, but I knew logically that there was nothing I could do but wait to hear from him. If I pondered on this any further, I’d totally spin out.

  So I drove home, being sure to concentrate on what I had to do for the rest of the night. Fill out some tax forms, water my plants, sage my bedroom — there’d been bad energy in there since my horrible hangover. And then, once all the boring stuff was done, I could go out and see my best friend totally kill it on stage. With or without Cash, that would be fun. Blaire was, after all, damn funny.

  I got to my house, and still no message. I was resigned, at this point, to not hearing anything from him. I left my volume on loud, in case he did text. What? I live in hope, but it didn’t seem promising. My chores passed by quickly, and before long, I was throwing on a white T-shirt with the female power symbol stitched on the left breast and a pair of boyfriend jeans. Does the symbol clash with the ‘boyfriendness’ of the jeans? I wondered. Oh well. The outfit, like everything else tonight, would have to exist as an uncertainty.

  But I couldn’t stress about this anymore. Tonight was about Blaire, not about whether Cash would or would not arrive. She made so much of her life about helping me. I had to return that energy. Sure, she did shows almost every night of the week, but she was pretty understanding about me only making one a week or so. After all, they did start late as hell and go into the wee hours. She says that when I come, her set instantly gets about twenty-five percent better — apparently my just being there makes her feel more confident and safe.

  With that positivity in mind, I drove to the Comedy Cache, what Blaire affectionately calls ‘a lovely little shithole’ that ‘smells like a cat’s anus.’

  Pulling up to the curb of the club, I thought, not for the first time, that it was a spot-on description. Deeming it a ‘hole in the wall’ would be unfair to holes.

  The Comedy Cache, sometime in perhaps the ‘30s, had been a bar, and hadn’t seen a repair since then. It was no bigger than the average living room — hell, it might’ve been technically residential these days. The owners certainly weren’t the type to keep on top of legal stuff, like, say, city codes. The bricks were crumbling, the sign was missing all but an ‘a’ and an ‘o,’ and the door was nearly hanging off its hinges. The smell part of Blaire’s description was perhaps inspired by the constant, lingering smell of vomit. Comics, as it turns out, are big drinkers, but not particularly good ones.

  Don’t get hung up on the décor, my brain suggested. This is about Blaire.

  That was a challenge, but I tried to accept it. It’s not like this was my first time at the Cache. No, I’d probably been here forty or fifty times? Blaire had been hosting a comedy night — meaning she got the lineup and did the advertising — for a couple of years now, transitioning it from once a month to a weekly gig. I should’ve acclimated to the smell, but I’d never been able to shake my prissiness when it came to the Cache.

  I wondered, absentmindedly, if Cash would like it. The place did, after all, nearly bear his name. Damn it, why did I think of that? I mentally scolded myself. Now it would be on my mind all night. Cash, Cache, Cash, Cache. He would do well here. It was grimy but undeniably cool, aloof, moody. In fact, it seemed right up his alley. Too bad he hadn’t responded to the messages.

  I bit my tongue. “Enough,” I instructed my brain. “No more Cash.”

  Yeah, like that was gonna work.

  Groaning, I got out of the car and made my way inside the Cash. Shit, I mean the Cache. This promised to be a long night.

  Moments after stepping through the door, I was greeted by that familiar combo beer-piss-vomit smell. The place technically didn’t have a bar, but people made up for that by bringing their own alcohol, of only the cheapest variety. The decorations were virtually non-existent. People stood around the room — it didn’t even have chairs — lingering around various benches and standing tables that broke at least once a night, things just big enough to balance a couple of bottles on. There wasn’t a stage, but there was a filthy red curtain that hung against a far wall. The comedian doing a number was illuminated by a single overhead light bulb, the place’s only allowance for drama and theatricality.

  No sooner had I walked through than I spotted Sheila and Morgan. They stood chatting with two people whose faces I couldn’t see through the dim space. One threw his head back to laugh, a
nd I immediately realized that I’d been slow on the uptake — of course they’d brought their husbands with them. My heart sank. So it was gonna be like this, huh? Another night where I’m the fifth wheel. Awesome.

  Sheila caught my eye and waved me over.

  “Cybil!” she called out over the hullabaloo. “Girl, come on over!” Her immaculately contoured cheeks caught the shadows of the low overhead lighting.

  I waved back and went to join my friends.

  “Hey,” I said as I reached their makeshift table, flinging my arms round Sheila’s and Morgan’s shoulders. As they hugged me back, I nodded to the men. Sheila’s and Morgan’s husbands were fine. I’d heard plenty about them, more shit than I really needed to know, enough to say with confidence that they might not be the greatest guys. Or maybe they were great, and I was just being judgmental because I felt so fucking lonely. Ouch. That reflection hurt.

  “The show’s about to start,” Morgan informed me. “You made it just in time.”

  I wanted to tell her, to tell both of them, that I’d been running later than usual because I’d been busy thinking about Cash. In fact, I wanted to tell them about the incredible sex, and the unanswered text messages, and all my confusing feelings, but now was the wrong time and place. Maybe later. I didn’t want the husbands to support Cash’s silence all because he was a man.

  Sure enough, the show began moments later. The lineup wasn’t clearly defined. People sort of arrived and did an act if they felt like it. The evening could range anywhere from three to twenty acts long, and you didn’t know which kind it would be until the Cache just shut off the lights. Sometimes, famous comedians would drop in to test new material on a forgiving audience, but more often than not, it was the same few people honing the same jokes they’d done last week. It could be exhausting.

  I couldn’t really say what kind of night it was, as I became absorbed in thoughts of Cash. As men onstage told a litany of dumb dick jokes and the women gave generally incisive political commentary, my mind wandered to the little room in the back of his shop, where he’d bent me over and brought me to new heights of pleasure. My hand stayed glued to my phone, constantly anticipating the vibration of a text, and never receiving one.

  Meanwhile, Sheila’s and Morgan’s husbands wrapped loving arms around their wives, cradling them close. Every so often, they’d turn to whisper, and then one of them would laugh loudly, usually not in time with a comedian’s joke, and thus drawing eyes. I felt like I was at a little lovefest, but was very much not invited. The loneliness that had been scratching away at my heart turned into a full icepick, jabbing down into my soft flesh.

  I shifted uncomfortably on my feet. One of these days I was gonna just bring a fold-out chair to the show, coolness be damned. I’d look like a soccer mom, rooting for her kid from the sidelines while chugging an ill-concealed margarita.

  Finally, it was Blaire’s turn.

  She walked onstage, and Sheila, Morgan and I burst into cheers.

  “Yas Blaire!” Morgan crowed.

  “You go, queen!” Sheila added, waving her arms in the air.

  The hipsters around us looked on in confusion, but Sheila and Morgan were blithely unaware, their gorgeous manes tossing around as they jumped up and down. Blaire had the biggest cheering section in the audience, that much was sure. Besides our outlandish enthusiasm, she was well-liked by the other comedians, she was, after all, the host, and they gave her plenty of applause.

  “So,” she began, getting under the spotlight and grabbing the mic from its stand, a piece of equipment so old it might’ve been the first mic ever invented. “Let’s talk about my pussy.”

  With that, she launched into her set. I knew her set pretty well and I probably could tell most of the jokes, but I watched attentively and laughed in all the right places because, c’mon, that’s what friends are for. And it really had gotten better, so I was happy to be able to watch her growth.

  Just after she shouted, “Free the Diva Cup!” my phone buzzed. Without thinking, I yanked it hastily from my pocket. The light was low, and I held it under the table, hoping not to draw any eyes. Sheila, Morgan and company were focused on Blaire, so hopefully, I wasn’t attracting much attention. But even if I was, I didn’t much care. I’d been on pins and needles all night waiting for just such a buzz.

  Sure enough, it was Cash.

  My heart raced as I swiped open the message, which read:

  Sorry, didn’t see this until just now. Been busy with some stuff. Coffee tomorrow at La Belle? Ten?

  The sweat that had been beading at my brow dried up, and my blood pressure returned to normal for the first time all night. So he really had been busy, and bad at checking his phone. Jesus, what a relief. I’d thought it was me! Happiness bloomed within my stomach, a warm feeling that spread through my body. We would meet tomorrow. It would all be okay.

  I quickly agreed via text, then tucked my phone away, a smile on my face. He’d even done what I’d expected him to do, in that he wasn’t vague about potentially meeting up. He gave an exact time and place. That must mean that he did really want to see me. I wondered if the glow from my skin was lighting up the entire room.

  Shortly thereafter, Blaire finished up her set. The room cheered and hollered, a couple guys even raising their glasses to toast her prowess.

  She laughed. “All right, you dirty bastards, here’s who we’ve got up next for you.” She proceeded to give a couple names and introduce the next comic before sauntering offstage, looking for all the world like a cat who got her cream. She strode through a stream of hearty pats on the back and high fives. Her fiancé, a fellow comic, was there too and gave her a hug and passionate kiss. In this corner of the world, she was the coolest. I beamed at Blaire, proud of her popularity and awesome set.

  She didn’t return the beam. Instead, she came up to our table, and in an irritated tone, said, “Thanks for making it tonight.”

  Her lips were in a thin line. The husbands took this as their cue to go use the restroom, chat with Blaire’s fiancé or generally be somewhere else. The four of us were left standing in an uncomfortable little circle around the small table, arms tucked into our sides to avoid bumping one another.

  “Everything okay?” Sheila asked Blaire.

  I leaned in to hear the answer, wondering if perhaps another comedian had harassed her, or if the Comedy Cache was being torn down by the city as a health hazard.

  So I was shocked when she muttered, eyes slanted in my direction, “Cybil was on her phone for like half the set.”

  Sheila and Morgan turned to me.

  “You were?” Morgan asked, her tone maternal like a disappointed school teacher.

  I threw up my hands in defense. “No way, Blaire. Just for like… one second.”

  She shook her head. “Was it boring? Did you think the new material was bad? If you’re getting tired of seeing the same old routine, I understand. You’re not, like, required to come.”

  More than anything, she looked genuinely hurt. I was appalled. Hadn’t I only been on my phone for a split second?

  Or had I, without realizing it, stared at Cash’s text for minutes on end, the white glow dominating my mental space?

  I gulped — it was definitely the latter. Shit.

  “I’m sorry, Blaire,” I said immediately. “I shouldn’t have done that, it was just an important message.”

  “From work?” Morgan queried, as though anxious to understand why I’d been so rude to our friend, and thus excuse my actions.

  I colored. “Uh, yeah.” The lie came out faster than I had the mental capacity to stop it.

  “Okay,” Blaire said, nodding with understanding, which only made me feel like more of an asshole. “I get it.”

  What the hell was I doing? I didn’t lie to Blaire. Not now, not ever. It wasn’t that kind of relationship. She was the girl I called at three in the morning when I needed instructions on how to hang a picture. Yes, I am that bad with a hammer and nails. We were there for
one another at all hours of the day. So why did I feel the need to lie to her about Cash? She would’ve been supportive. In fact, she’d practically been leading the charge to get me a partner. She’d be more than supportive — she’d be ecstatic. Probably delighted just at the prospect of hearing me bitch and moan about her, Sheila’s and Morgan’s romantic escapades.

  Maybe it was just the idea that I’d let a guy come between our special time. Going to her comedy shows had been our thing for so long. The whole group had. And during the show, even Sheila and Morgan, who were hooked to their phones like they were IV drips, shut them off. And here I was, violating the sanctity of that for some… some hookup.

  I recoiled at that thought. No, Cash was a lot of things, but he wasn’t just a hookup. I wasn’t sure what that made him, and I wasn’t prepared to think about it just then. But it would be wrong to label him a one-night stand. It was some kind of exquisite betrayal. His arms had held me like we’d known each other through several lifetimes. You couldn’t equate that to some Tinder booty call.

  But I didn’t say any of this to Blaire. It was the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong people. Or I was just being reticent and possibly a shitty friend. Dealer’s choice.

  Aloud, I replied, “I’m sorry, hon. It won’t happen again.”

  She smiled, an act of forgiveness. “That’s okay. Yoga is a demanding business.”

  Sheila and Morgan laughed, then went back to drinking their beers and giggling over the latest reality TV drama, but I knew that Blaire had seen through my excuse. What, then, did she think I was up to? And would it hurt our relationship?

  Only time would tell.

  Chapter 17

  Cash

  I DIDN’T WANT to do this.

  Seriously. Every muscle in my body recoiled from what I was about to do. There was already a bitter taste on my tongue from holding back bile. I was physically rejecting my own actions. And yet — there was nothing to be done. As miserable as it might make me, I had an iron-clad sense of duty. If only I could be one of those guys who did as they pleased, with no care for the consequences felt by others.