Temporary

by Alexx Andria

  “Where’s your ride?” he asked.

  “I take the subway.”

  “A little late don’t you think? Seems a little dangerous.”

  “I’m touched that you care.”

  “Let me give you a ride.”

  “Your Murder Van parked around the corner?” I said before shutting him down. “No thanks. I prefer the subway.”

  “Looking to end up a statistic? The subway at this time of night isn’t the best way to get home. If you won’t let me drive you home, let me call you an Uber.”

  “I’ll admit the concerned gentleman act is a nice touch but—“

  “I never said I was a gentleman,” he corrected me with silky smoothness, sending a shiver of unwanted awareness down my skin. “But you interest me enough to want to see you safely home.”

  “Why are you interested?”

  “My reasons are my own.”

  Okay, I was done with the Twenty Questions Game. The ache in my feet had progressed to an angry throb. I just wanted to climb into bed but I sensed that if I didn’t at least let him call an Uber…he’d never let me leave.

  Exasperated, I slapped my thigh, with a huff. “Fine,” I said. “Call me an Uber.”

  His slow smile was sensual as fuck — and the last thing I wanted was my insides to react to but my stomach did a suspicious flippity flop that always begged for trouble. “Already done. Your car awaits.”

  As if summoned by magic, a mid-sized sedan pulled into the alley with the Uber sticker in the window. The man flashed his cell screen. “Does this look like your driver?” he asked me.

  I compared the driver with the picture on the screen and nodded, still wondering how he got that Uber so fast but I had to admit, riding home without having to keep my knife clutched in my hand, was a plus.

  “Thanks.” I returned my pepper spray to my purse, readjusting for a better fit on my shoulder. “Well, um, yeah, this has been super weird but I’ll accept your offer of the Uber. Goodnight.”

  I didn’t wait for his reply as I climbed into the awaiting vehicle. “Home Jeeves,” I muttered to the driver, giving him my address. “And step on it. This guy is mucho creepo.”

  I closed my eyes, ready to put the whole night behind me.

  Why did the cute ones have to be whores, psychos, or gay?

  3

  Morning came way too quickly as was often the case when I worked a double.

  ‘Everything hurts and I’m dying’ was my T-shirt anthem these days.

  For being twenty-six I felt sixty-two. My bones ached and my muscles protested every time I moved and I was pretty sure my hair was going to start falling out at some point.

  I rose from the bed and hobbled to the bathroom catching a quick glimpse of myself as I passed to the toilet. What the hell did that guy want with me last night?

  I wasn't anything special. I wasn't a supermodel. I wasn't perfect. I guess I had a semi-okay face, I mean I didn't scare children or anything but I wasn't hot by any means.

  In fact, I thought Sasha was way prettier than me. Sasha had naturally red hair that screamed exotic coupled with those brilliant green eyes that looked chipped from freaking jewels.

  And the biggest natural tits that were the envy of every woman working at Jimmy’s. She was practically sex on a stick. Compared to Sasha, I was as alluring as a desk lamp.

  So why had he singled me out? If I were a naive girl like Sasha, I would’ve melted at the seemingly thoughtful gesture of ordering me a car.

  But I wasn’t naive.

  He wanted something; I just bailed before he could get to the point.

  I guess it didn’t matter any longer. Mr. Engimatic Stranger was part of the past and definitely not part of the future but a shower definitely was because I smelled rank.

  I scrubbed the smell of last night from my body and ran a brush across my teeth before dressing and heading for the kitchen to mainline some coffee.

  A polite knock at the door waylaid my trajectory. I paused, my immediate thought of the stranger and how he’d found me.

  Torn between climbing out my third story onto the rickety balcony to the fire escape and opening the door to face my fate, I went with the latter because I was too tired to scale the balcony.

  Imagine my surprise when a reed-thin bike courier stood at my door, looking pretty harmless with a benign smile.

  “Mari Jones?” I nodded. The court courier handed me an envelope. “You've been served.”

  “What?”

  But the courier split, leaving me to open the envelope to resolve the mystery.

  My mouth dropped open.

  That motherfucker.

  Landon was suing me for custody of the cat?

  As if knowing she was at the center of a stupid custody battle, Miss Switch came and wound her way around my legs, purring as she went, as if to say ‘Don't worry, he's an asshole. I pick you’ but the opinion of a fickle cat was hardly admissible in court, right?

  “Unbelievable,” I muttered, kicking the door shut with my foot.

  Fuck coffee at this point. I needed something a bit stronger like a Jaeger bomb or straight vodka. Did he have no soul? How could he possibly think he could steal every dime from our account and then have the audacity to want my cat?

  I picked up Miss Switch and held her tightly until she protested and I was forced to put her down.

  He took my dignity; he took my bank account; he could not have my damn cat.

  Was I going to have to retain a lawyer to fight this stupid sham of a custody battle? What the fuck, I have no clue.

  And how exactly did one go about hiring a lawyer? Should I just Google someone? Fuck, again, no clue.

  I grabbed my cell and stabbed at his contact information. He surprised me by answering with a smug, “Hey Mari,” and I wanted to reach through the phone and hang him by his balls.

  “I just got served, asshole! How fucking dare you! Are you insane? You stole all my money, you can’t have my fucking cat, too.”

  He sighed as if he were my victim instead of the other way around. “Mari, babydoll, this is why it was never gonna work out between us. You're just mean. I didn't take your money. It was our money and I took what I felt was fair compensation for all the bloodshed that I've had to put up with on your end. Not to mention you fucking punched me so hard I had to get stitches. You know how that's going to slow down my modeling career. Honestly, you ought to be grateful I’m not suing for damages.”

  I ground my teeth. “Being Instagram famous is like trying to pay your bills with Monopoly money — it’s garbage and it means nothing. You’re not a fucking model and you don’t have any sort of career. Nobody pays you shit for what you do.”

  Ohhh, yes, that one hit the target. “Fuck you, Mari. I have two sponsors on the line right now. You’re gonna be real sorry when I'm popping bottles in the club, my fucking face on billboards and shit, you know? I was willing to forgive you but fuck that, not now. I’ll see you in court, bitch.”

  To think I ever bought into his bullshit was humiliating. I didn’t waste my breath on a clapback. Karma couldn’t assfuck him hard enough to satisfy the rage eating at my insides.

  I tore the summons in half and let the papers fall to the floor. I remember being so impressed with how many followers he had. I mean, people really seemed to dig what he was putting out there and why not? He was hot AF.

  And he’d made me feel special for wanting me.

  Turned out, he was just a narcissistic asshole with a small dick and a huge ego.

  Focus. I needed to burn off this rage before I punched some innocent fucker just for breathing.

  Quickly changing into my sneakers and my running shorts I grabbed my headphones and bailed.

  Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not a health nut — fuck that, give me chocolate, give me McDonald’s, give me freaking junk food — but running helped check the seriously strong current of reckless energy that pulsed through my veins.

  I was a total trash monster.
Eating clean was my idea of a nightmare but running kept me in fair enough shape so that when I ate my weight in Hershey’s Kisses while binge-watching something bloody and awesome, like Game of Thrones, I didn’t have to use a Zip Tie to hold up my jeans.

  Oh, and I hated running but I hated the idea of prison more so, venting whatever was pissing me off at the moment, was the smarter choice.

  Let’s be real — orange wasn’t really the new black if you didn’t have the coloring for it — and, Lord in heaven, I so didn’t.

  My feet ate the pavement, my music blared loud and angry in my ear. Mile by mile, the anger leached away, leaving me empty but no longer homicidal.

  Was I mad at myself for falling for Landon’s bullshit? Yeah, duh, Dr. Phil.

  Was I feeling like a complete loser for not recognizing a snake when it slithered past me? Ding, ding, another winner.

  I flopped down on my thrift-store sofa and kicked off my shoes. Sweat dripped down my face and other places. Boob sweat…so sexy.

  Another shower was in order.

  Miss Switch jumped onto my lap, mindless that I smelled like a dirty gym sock left in a locker overnight. I ran my fingers down her soft black and white fur, smiling for the first time in days.

  “I wasn’t always a bitch,” I told her as if she could understand what I was saying or cared. “I used to be a hopeless romantic.”

  Miss Switch settled on my lap and rested her head on her paws, her eyes at half-mast.

  I once told Sasha hopeless romantics were once jaded cynics after they’d been hurt one too many times.

  I was speaking from experience.

  Landon hadn’t been the start to my bad decisions.

  The move to New York on a wing and a prayer, hoping and praying, I was going to be the next ‘big thing’ in show business was my first mistake.

  I was raised in a California town that consisted of one main street, no stoplights, and sidewalks that rolled up at dusk.

  I swam in creeks, ate wild blackberries, listened wide-eyed to thunderstorms and jumped into snowdrifts.

  Sounded great, I know, but as a kid I hated all that simplicity.

  I’d needed something so much bigger than the small town could give me but now, I was lost in a sea of faces, just another nobody trying to survive in a city where the hustle was real.

  I thought of returning home but I didn’t have the money to move cross-country again.

  My family didn’t have the money to spare either so I didn’t even bother asking. Besides, I didn’t need the lecture on how I screwed up — I’d already watched that movie and didn’t need the recap.

  I was stuck in a cycle of ‘work to live; live to work’ and there was no exit on this train.

  In New York City, a car wasn’t necessary but I missed being able to get in the car and drive away.

  However, I was a pro at the subway and when I was feeling fancy, I ordered an Uber.

  But I didn’t ride a bicycle.

  Unless you had a death wish, bike riding in the city was best left to professionals.

  My thoughts wandered to the stranger, even though I knew it was foolish to think of a man who was probably a serial killer or at the very least into some kinky sex shit that I didn’t want to know about.

  Like…eyeball licking or armpit sniffing. No thanks.

  How did someone wake up one morning and realize that licking an eyeball was the bee’s knees of sexual turn-ons?

  “This is why you are going to be perpetually single…you use terms like, bee’s knees, in your thought bubble,” I told myself as I gently lifted Miss Switch from my lap and returned to the shower to rinse off.

  Here were the facts: I wasn’t going to see him again, whoever he was, so there was no sense in spending the mental energy to wonder what the hell he was after.

  I was a card-carrying cynic but in my secret heart of hearts, I still wanted to believe in love.

  A love that didn’t end with broken dreams, an empty bank account, and humiliating betrayal.

  After my second shower, I left the apartment. I couldn't stick around, staring into Miss Switch’s soulful gaze knowing that in some twisted reality, I might have to share her with the same man who had often forgotten to feed her.

  Yeah, it's official men suck — and women are stupid.

  4

  My shift started at nine and for a Saturday night, it should’ve been bumping but when I entered the bar, it was oddly quiet.

  “Oh, my God,” I murmured in despair. Had we been shut down again? Of all the times for the alcohol police to get persnickety, it would have to be the night where I absolutely had to pull mega tips.

  But as I made my way to the back office, I realized, the bar didn’t look closed, just empty.

  I found Manny, the owner, relieved to see him smiling behind his desk as if he’d just won the lottery. I was confused but tentatively relieved.

  “Is everything okay?” I ventured, wondering if I should grab my cocktail apron or consider stripping. I’d heard the Pink Lady was hiring. “What's going on? Why is the bar empty?”

  Manny shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe his luck. “This guy,” he said, his thick Jersey accent incredulous “called me up and said he wanted to rent the bar for the night. At first I thought he was just yanking my chain but he threw down a shitwad of cash to prove that he was legit and damn, I ain’t seen this much cash in my whole life owning this shit bar.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” Manny countered, pulling a thick wad free from his desk drawer to let it drop with a thunk to the scarred desk surface. “There’s easily ten grand right there.”

  A weird feeling started to rumble in my stomach. “Who would pay that kind of money for this place?” I tried not to eye the money too hard. God, even half of that wad would solve most of my immediate problems but I held no illusions that Manny was going to share his good fortune.

  “So…am I working tonight or not?” I asked, dragging my gaze away from the money. “I could stock the shelves or something, sweep the back room…whatever you need.”

  Manny tucked his money back into the drawer. “Oh, you’re working, sugar. He asked for you specifically. Wants to have a drink with you.”

  Oh, God. It was him. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. I was just as shocked,” Manny answered, shaking his head. “I would’ve put my money on Sasha or Vicks but he was adamant, it had to be you.” Suddenly, Manny remembered his humanity and added as a courtesy, “You okay wit dat?”

  What was I supposed to say? I needed this job. If I did anything to ruin this for Manny, he’d fire me in a second. “I guess?”

  “Nobody’s askin’ you do to any funny business,” Manny assured me. “He just wants to have a drink and get to know you. Seems like an okay fella, you know?”

  “You don’t think it’s a little weird that he is buying out the bar for the night to have a drink with me?”

  “Hey, I ain’t judgin’ as long as he’s not a pervert or nothin’. I don’t want no trouble but if he tries anythin’, just holler and I’ll take care of things.” Manny said as if he were prepared to be a hero, that is until he added, “But you’re a good girl, right? Ain’t nothing gonna happen. Just be nice and he’ll be gone before you know it.”

  Be nice.

  I was pretty sure that was code for: do whatever the rich guy wanted.

  My mind swam. Suddenly, stripping didn’t sound like a crazy idea to make a living. At least in a strip club, the dancer got a cut of the cash forked out for private dances.

  “Manny, what if he's crazy and he wants to wear my face or something?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. No one wants to wear your face.”

  Ouch.

  Manny said, “Look, so this crazy rich guy wants to rent out my bar and have a drink with one of my waitresses. Weird, sure, but dangerous? Nahhhh, he seems harmless enough but if I were him I’d spend my cash on something other than this place.”


  I nodded, completely lost.

  “C’mon, it’s not the end of the world. What’s it going to hurt to have a drink with the guy?”

  Jesus, I had no choice but to go through with this crazy night. With any luck, the guy would lose interest fast and leave.

  I started to reach for my apron but Manny stopped me. “No apron tonight. You look cute the way you are.

  My nose wrinkled. “Manny," I protested, feeling boxed in. “This makes my skin crawl. I feel like a prostitute or something.”

  Manny shrugged. “Times are hard, sweetheart. No judgment here.”

  Manny was too happy with not having to deal with a full bar drunk and disorderly assholes to give a second thought to my discomfort. By Manny’s way of thinking, all I had to do was have a drink with this guy and be nice. Not so difficult, right?

  I glared at Manny. “Fine. Is he here?”

  “Yeah, in the VIP room.”

  The VIP room at Jimmy's was an inside joke. “So, he's in the back room where you hold poker night.”

  I drew a deep breath and prepared to log one of the oddest nights of my life. Maybe someday, I’d retell this story and laugh. But not tonight. No, tonight…I wanted to puke.

  I walked into the VIP room, the room smelling of stale cigar smoke, spilled whiskey and musty carpet. There he was, waiting for me with a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses, once again dressed down in worn jeans, a T-shirt molded to his fine physique.

  The guy was built. So what? He probably had the personality of a toad. Dark hair, ice-blue eyes and full sensual lips. If the guy was a serial killer I imagine most of his victims went willingly.

  “Well, you sure have a way of getting someone's attention,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  He smiled, his gaze never leaving mine. “Well, you wouldn't accept my offer of a drink and you wouldn't let me give you a ride home personally so I had to improvise.”