Stuck-Up Suit

by Vi Keeland

  After work, I ventured over to see Tig and his wife, Delia, before heading back to my apartment. He and I had been best friends since we were little, growing up next door together. Tig and Del owned Tig’s Tattoo and Piercing on Eighth Avenue.

  I could hear the sound of Tig’s needle buzzing in the corner; he was busy with a customer. Tig handled all things ink and Delia was in charge of piercings. Whenever I was in this kind of unstable mood, I tended to get very impulsive. I’d already decided that tonight at home I was going to dye the ends of my hair red, but that didn’t seem like enough to satisfy me.

  “Del, I want you to pierce my tongue.”

  “Get outta here.” She waved her hand dismissively. She was well aware of my mood swings.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You said you would never get a piercing. I don’t want you coming back and blaming me when your mood switches back.”

  “Well, I changed my mind. I want one.”

  Tig overheard us and turned his attention away from his customer for a second. “I know you. Some shit must have gone down today for you to want to pierce your tongue all of a sudden.”

  Letting out a deep breath, I said, “Some shit, alright.”

  I proceeded to tell them the full story, from finding Graham’s phone to his rudeness toward me over the intercom today.

  Tig spoke through the sound of the needle. “So, blow it off. You don’t have to deal with that prick anymore. You’re letting it get to you. Just erase him from your memory.”

  I knew Tig was right. I just couldn’t figure out why Graham’s rejection was having such an effect on me. I wasn’t going to overanalyze it tonight or relate it to my issues of rejection by my father. Maybe I was just expecting to be pleasantly surprised today instead of utterly disappointed. Something was keeping me from just letting it go. There was more I had hoped to discover about Graham that I would now never get to uncover. I didn’t understand why it mattered so much, and until I could figure it out, I would take it out on myself.

  “I still want you to pierce my tongue.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Soraya…”

  “Come on, Del. Just do it!”

  My tongue was stinging on the train ride home. Reading over the list of after-care instructions, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself.

  Don’t kiss or engage in other oral activities until you are completely healed.

  Yeah…that wasn’t going to be a problem, seeing as though I had no one to partake in said activities with. All of the instructions seemed easy enough until I got to the last one.

  Don’t drink acidic or alcoholic beverages while the wound is still healing.

  Well, crap. I’d shot myself in the foot with that one, deciding to pierce my tongue on a night where I really needed to drown my sorrows in some booze.

  Arriving back at my apartment, I took off my clothes and started the process of dying the tips of my hair red, which signified my worst possible state of mind. Just when I thought I knew exactly how this night was going to go, the last thing I ever expected happened.

  CHAPTER 4

  GRAHAM

  MY DAY HAD BEEN TAKEN OVER by a faceless pair of tits and a feather tattoo. Worse, they could talk.

  Out of all the fucking things that she could have texted to me along with those body shots, she had to choose those words. She had to send the one message that would undo me and completely fuck up the rest of my day. Perhaps my week.

  Your mother should be ashamed of you.

  Fuck you, Soraya Venedetta. Fuck you, because you’re right.

  This strange woman had gotten under my skin.

  She’d said her name once through the intercom, but it stuck with me. Normally, names went in one ear and out the other.

  Soraya Venedetta.

  Well, technically, her full name was Soraya You’re Welcome Asshole Venedetta.

  How did she get my phone?

  The text continued to haunt me as I read it over and over.

  Your mother should be ashamed of you.

  Each time, it made me angrier than the last, because deep down, I knew there were no truer words. My mother would have been ashamed of me, the way I treated people on a daily basis. Everyone deals with tragedy differently. After my mother died, I’d chosen to shut people out of my life, focusing all my energy on schooling and my career. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore, didn’t want to connect with anyone. The easiest way to go about achieving that was to scare people away. If being an asshole were an art form, then I’d mastered it. The more successful I became, the easier it was.

  It was amazing what a man of my position and appearance could get away with. Almost no one called me out on my crap or questioned me. They just accepted it. In all these years, not one person had spoken to me in my place of business the way Soraya Venedetta had today. Not one.

  While her ballsy attitude over the intercom impressed me, I’d almost forgotten about her until Ava, the receptionist, knocked on my door and handed me my phone.

  And now, hours later, I was still sitting here completely obsessed with the deep realization that came from Soraya’s words. And completely obsessed with the set of tits pouring out of a dress that was the color of the devil.

  Fitting.

  Soraya Venedetta was a little devil.

  She’d left me unable to focus on work, so I canceled the one afternoon meeting I had and left the office.

  Back home, I sat on my couch and sipped cognac while continuing to ruminate. Sensing that something was off with me, my West Highland terrier, Blackie, just sat at my feet, not even bothering to try to get me to play with him.

  My Upper West Side condo overlooked the Manhattan skyline. It was dark out now, and the city lights illuminated the evening sky. The more I sipped, the brighter the lights seemed, and the more my inhibitions slipped away. Somewhere out in the vast city, Soraya was feeling satisfied with her little act, unaware that she’d wrecked me in the process.

  Staring at the image of the feather tattoo on her foot again, it occurred to me that she didn’t show her face because she was probably ugly as hell. At that thought, my own laughter echoed throughout the stone cold, empty living space. I wished I knew what she looked like. I wished I had opened that office door so that I could have shut her up to her face.

  My finger lingered over her name, You’re Welcome Asshole. I wanted to make her feel as crappy as she’d made me. I was not beyond going there. So, I did. I answered her text.

  My mother is dead, actually. But yes, I suppose she would be ashamed.

  Maybe five minutes went by before my phone chimed.

  Soraya: I’m sorry.

  Graham: You should be.

  I should’ve let it be. She would have felt like shit, and that would’ve been the end of it. But I was buzzed. Not to mention fucking horny. Staring at her tits, legs and ass all day had gotten me all worked up.

  Graham: What are you wearing, Soraya?

  Soraya: Are you serious right now?

  Graham: You ruined my day. You owe me.

  Soraya: I don’t owe you anything, you fucking perv.

  Graham: This from the woman who sent me a shot of her cleavage. Nice tits, by the way. They’re so big, at first, I thought it was a picture of an ass.

  Soraya: You’re the ass.

  Graham: Show me your face.

  Soraya: Why?

  Graham: Because I want to see if it matches your personality.

  Soraya: Which would mean what?

  Graham: Well, that wouldn’t bode well for you.

  Soraya: You won’t ever see my face.

  Graham: Probably better off. So, give me a hint about what you’re wearing.

  Soraya: It’s red.

  Graham: So you haven’t changed out of that dress?

  Soraya: No, I’m naked with dye dripping down my body and my tongue is throbbing thanks to you.

  That was an odd thing to say.

  Graham: That’s an interesting visual.

>   Soraya: You are seriously crazy, dude.

  Graham: I AM a little crazy, actually. I probably need my head checked because I’ve been fantasizing about a headless person all day.

  Soraya: Well, the naked pic ain’t gonna happen.

  Graham: How about I go first?

  She must have been shell-shocked because she never responded again after that. Deciding to stop messing with her, I threw my phone across the couch and lifted Blackie onto my bare chest where he stayed until I fell asleep.

  ***

  I’D MANAGED TO GET SORAYA out of my head somewhat the following day, but two mornings later, the obsession came back in full force.

  The morning train was particularly crowded, and I didn’t get a seat. Hanging onto a metal pole for balance, I looked around me. I almost never actually paid attention to the people on the train, and now, I was reminded of why.

  Fucking freaks.

  At one point, my eyes wandered to the ground, to a woman’s foot diagonally across the aisle. My heart pounded furiously as my eyes landed on the same feather tattoo as Soraya’s. The toes of this foot were also painted the same shade of red.

  Holy fuck.

  It was her.

  She took the same train! That must have been how she found my phone.

  I couldn’t look up. I didn’t want to be disappointed. It would be much better to just keep the fantasy going without actually having to face reality.

  But God, I had to. I had to know what she really looked like.

  Counting to ten slowly, I let my eyes slowly travel up the length of her legs that were crossed. Black leather skirt, leopard-print purse at her side, bright purple low-cut shirt showcasing in the flesh the rack I’d been fantasizing about. Then, my eyes landed above the neck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  She was looking straight ahead. Silky, straight black hair, dyed blood red at the bottom, tied back into a ponytail, displaying a long, delicate neck. Bright red lips in the shape of a perfect bow. Pinned-up nose. Big brown eyes like saucers. What do you know, the devil had the face of an angel. In fact, Soraya Venedetta was a bombshell. My dick twitched in excitement. If I was trying to forget her before, it was going to be impossible now.

  When she turned and noticed me looking at her, our eyes locked. Unsure of whether she knew who I was, my heartbeat accelerated. Then, she simply looked away unaffected toward the train window.

  Did she not know what I looked like?

  I wracked my brain. There were only a couple of pictures of me in the phone, ones where I was dressed casually while visiting my grandmother. Maybe she hadn’t gone through the photos. No, Soraya Venedetta would have definitely opened her big mouth if she recognized me.

  She didn’t know.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, I continued to stare at her beautiful face in awe that this was the same person who had turned my life upside down the other day. A vacant seat caught my eye, so I sat down, took out my phone, and scrolled down to her name.

  This was going to be fun.

  Graham: Is your hair long or short?

  It was the most innocuous thing I could think of to say. I figured if I’d started off telling her what I fantasized about in the shower this morning—oiling up those big, incredible tits and slipping my cock in and out—she might not respond again.

  Soraya: Do you have a preference?

  Graham: Long. I love a woman with long hair.

  I couldn’t look in her direction, but I realized if I looked out the window I could watch her reflection. Her head lifted, and she glanced my way before looking back down at her phone.

  Soraya: Short. I have very short hair.

  Liar.

  After she sent the text, a sly smirk tempted at her lips. I’d fix her.

  Graham: That’s too bad. I had a recurring fantasy all day yesterday about you having hair long enough to tie around my waist.

  I got a thrill watching that sly smirk disappear. Her lips parted, and I was certain if I were closer I would have heard a sharp intake of breath. She fidgeted in her seat for a minute before responding.

  Soraya: Sorry. No can do. I’m under strict instructions not to engage in any oral activity for a while.

  What the fuck?

  Graham: From who?

  Soraya: Whom. From whom would be the proper phrasing.

  Graham: Proper text etiquette from a woman who sends porn to strangers.

  Soraya: I don’t send porn to strangers. You just pissed me off. I wanted to show you what you were missing refusing to step down off your throne and see me.

  Graham: If that’s the result, I plan to piss you off again. Often.

  She stared out the window for a while. It was getting close to my stop. This woman had a way of getting under my skin, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on my eight o’clock meeting with her oral activity restriction comment hanging in the air. So I caved.

  Graham: From whom?

  Soraya: Delia

  Fuck. Was she a lesbian? That thought had never even crossed my mind. What kind of a lesbian sends skin shots to a man?

  Graham: You’re gay?

  The train slowed as we pulled into my stop. If I didn’t have an important meeting, I would have stayed on just to see where she got off. Against my better judgment, I let my eyes wander to her before I stood to leave. Her head was down as she texted, but there was a smile on her face. A gorgeous, real smile. Not one of those plastered, practiced-in-the-mirror smiles that most of my dates seemed to perfect. No. Soraya Venedetta really smiled. It was a little crooked and a lot fucking beautiful.

  My phone flashed indicating a new text had arrived. Thankfully, it pulled my attention from staring at her before I got caught.

  Soraya: LOL. No, I’m not gay. Delia pierced my tongue two days ago. Hence the strict ban on oral activities until it’s had time to heal.

  Fuck.

  I shut my eyes in an attempt to calm myself, but it only made things worse. A visual of her sweet little face with that wicked pierced tongue going down on my cock had my eyes springing back open.

  Completely distracted, I barely made it out of the train before the door closed. How the hell was I going to accomplish anything today with that new piece of information?

  CHAPTER 5

  SORAYA

  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL, NOT A CLOUD in the blue sky, kind of day. I stared out the window trying to figure out what the hell had gotten into me. I’d been around good-looking men before, dated some even. So why did being anywhere near Graham J. Morgan knock me back to being thirteen years old and nervous when the cute boy sat down across from me in the school cafeteria?

  I hated the reaction my body had to him. There was a chemistry that came naturally and was nearly impossible to clamp down. I couldn’t fight what came over me the same way that I couldn’t force the chemistry that was missing with Jason—the last nice guy I dated.

  Being on an earlier train this morning, I totally wasn’t prepared to come face to face with Graham. When our eyes locked, his pupils dilated and for a split second, I thought maybe he was having the same physical reaction to me that I had being near him. But then he looked away completely unaffected. His barely acknowledging my existence was a virtual rejection, yet my hands were still shaking when his first text came in. The only good thing was, at least the shock of seeing him didn’t appear to have registered on my face. He had no idea who I was, and I planned to keep it that way.

  Ida interrupted my thoughts. She plopped a thick stack of unfolded letters on my desk. Who really writes a letter and mails it to an advice column in this day and age? Hello, email? Are you there? It’s me, the twenty-first century.

  “Think you can work on some responses for the Internet column?”

  “Sure. I can do that.”

  “Maybe this time, you can make the advice appropriate.”

  I was feeling pretty fucking inappropriate this morning. “I’ll try.”

  “Try isn’t good en
ough. Get it right this time.” She slammed the door to her office, and I stuck up my middle finger. I told her.

  I spent about an hour sifting through the pile until I found a few letters I thought I was capable of responding to Ida-style. My first few drafts resulted in wadded up balls of paper that missed the garbage can. Then I realized there was a trick to shoveling out shitty advice. First, I would draft the response how I thought it should read. Then, I would change each sentence to the exact opposite of what my advice would be. Amazingly enough, the two-step process seemed to really generate that Ida-esque vibe.

  Dear Ida,

  Last year I caught my boyfriend cheating on me. He said it was a terrible mistake and promised it was a one-time thing. After a lot of heartache, I agreed to stay committed to our relationship. But I just can’t get over it. There is a man at work who I’m very attracted to. I think that if I slept with him, it might help me. Can two wrongs save a relationship?

  Paula, Morningside Heights

  Step 1.

  Dear Paula,

  Yes! Two wrongs don’t make a right, but they make a hell of a good excuse! Go for it! Sure, a relationship requires commitment, but then again so does insanity. Cheating isn’t a mistake; it’s a choice. Be real. Once a cheater, always a cheater. Get even, ride that hottie, then leave before your boyfriend does it again.

  Step 2.

  Dear Paula,

  No. Two wrongs never make a right. If you are truly committed to saving your relationship, you should avoid temptation at all costs. People make mistakes, but they can also learn from them and change. To err is human, to forgive divine. Be divine. Trust that he won’t do it again. Ride it out if you truly love him.

  After I had gotten the hang of it, I knocked out two days’ worth of responses before giving them to Ida to review. When my phone buzzed mid-day, I was excited, expecting it to be Graham. As ridiculous as it was, I really looked forward to his angry, horny texts. Disappointment settled in finding a text from Aspen. I had forgotten all about our date for tonight. My immediate reaction was to cancel. But instead, I lied and wrote back I was looking forward to tonight. He was a friend of a friend who I met at a party and seemed like a really nice guy. Plus, sitting home and waiting for a text from a man who would never have an interest in a woman like me, was just plain sad.