Go choke on a dick.
I wonder, idly, if the phrase is circled. Or maybe underlined, for emphasis. Are there asterisks in place of the last three letters of the word 'dick'? Did Bernstein keep a careful hand over the note, as he walked to his office, worried someone might glimpse it?
Just like that, the numbness falls away to a rumbling, building inside of me. I keep it back, but just barely, and it tickles at the base of my throat.
I know what the rumble is. It's an insane, destructive, ill-timed laugh threatening to erupt.
I cough, trying to stifle the urge, realizing there is something deeply wrong with my reaction. A beat of silence follows in which it completely escapes me that I may be expected to speak. I'm too busy pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth and trying to pull some horrific image into my mind's eye.
Something sobering or serious. Though obviously, the man sitting in front of me should be serious enough. This man is my boss. Everyone in the office walks on eggshells to please him. But right now? He's anything but daunting. He's a prude old man, trying to find a way to avoid repeating the vulgar words before him.
"Please tell me, Emily. Did you really say this? This...I mean—" He cuts off to readjust his glasses. I've never known Bernstein to look so uncomfortable. "Emily, do you want me to say it out loud?"
Oh, please say it.
"No. No. Don't say it." I hide my face in my hands, throat trembling with the pressure of holding back the laughter.
What is wrong with me? My boss is having a serious conversation about my misconduct and I am desperately fighting the urge to burst out into hysterical laughter.
I'm wondering if the sham is up, if this is the day everyone will realize I'm faking the whole being an adult thing. Wondering if it's possible to wield a get-out-of-jail-free card in exchange for a day of immature mistakes. And then be allowed to resume my adult life the next day. A do-over.
I need a do-over.
"Emily?" Bernstein's voice is impatient. "Emily, there's no point in crying."
He thinks I'm crying.
Oh. My. God...
My shoulders start shaking. I lower my covered face to my knees, in an attempt to compose myself. I try to breathe. To breathe instead of laugh, but I'm about to burst at the seams. I take in sharp breaths and hold them in for a few seconds at a time.
Don't laugh.
Don't laugh.
Don't laugh.
The more I tell myself not to laugh, the more the urge to do so builds. A snort escapes my nose and I inhale quickly to cover it.
"Oh, for God's sake. This is ridiculous. Just tell me whether or not you told Davenport to go 'choke on a dick'?"
The dam bursts. I'm choking. Not on a dick, obviously, but on the sound of my laughter, gasping for air, trying to recover, but finding no sanity to hold on to.
I've lost my fucking mind.
"Are you—" Bernstein's chair creaks as he gets up. "Are you laughing?"
"No...no," I say between gasps. Mustering a somewhat serious expression, I finally look up, wiping tears away from my face, only to be betrayed by the laughter that just won't end.
And that's when I get fired.
CHAPTER FOUR
There are a few things I expected from the experience of being fired. For one, I thought I'd make the walk of shame clutching a box full of my belongings. Like in the movies. But as I reach my desk, with Bernstein hovering over me, I realize I have nothing to put in said box. I've never been one to keep personal items at work. There are no picture frames on my desk or motivational posters brightening the walls. Just my degree, hanging on the wall, inside of a frame that belongs to the firm. I pull out the diploma, stick it in a manila folder, and slide it into my purse.
Second, I expected to have a few minutes to clear my internet browsing history. At the very least, I envisioned myself being fired in a more dramatic way, going out in a blaze of glory, telling everyone to go fuck themselves. But I've got nothing to say as I pull my purse strap across my chest and follow Bernstein's outstretched hand gesturing toward the door.
Outside, the cold air flows over my face, stinging my skin. I tilt my head down and pick up my pace, walking past my car. I see it, but somehow barely register it. Some days I take the trolley to work and this morning, my body operates on autopilot, moving down the sidewalk without my brain having to consciously direct it. But instead of stopping to wait for the trolley, I cross over the rails and wait for the all clear to cross Embarcado Road.
The traffic light turns red and the cars halt on the other side of the crosswalk. The people in them watch me as I pass and I know what I must look like to them. Another business prick in a suit, walking with purpose. I'm sure they see me and think, that lady looks legit. She has it together.
When I was a teenager, I would look at people in their twenties and think they had everything figured out. Then I got to my twenties and realized it's an illusion. It's people in their thirties that are the real grownups; they're the ones that have their shit in line.
I turned twenty-seven in August, so I'm close enough to thirty now to know that's bullshit, too. I keep hearing that people grow up. I've just yet to meet a single, real life grownup under the age of fifty.
The light turns green and the cars whip past me before I even clear the sidewalk.
Sons of bitches.
I'm nearly at the Ferry Building when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. The tall, white clock tower looms overhead and sounds of traffic rush to my ears louder than before, prompting me to look around. I'm disoriented by how far I've walked without direction.
"Got some change?" a deep voice asks.
A homeless woman sits on a bench a few feet away, facing the street. She's holding a piece of cardboard with a handwritten word in black marker. Hungry.
She's a middle-aged, thickset woman with deep eyes and blotchy skin. Dirt, or maybe soot, stains her dark-washed jeans, frayed at the edges and torn in places. Her puffy gray coat reminds me of that material people use to stuff packages with.
A car horn blares in the distance and, in a flash, I see my own face on the homeless woman's body. Her sign now reads, Obscene.
The vision is gone in a blink, and I'm left still standing in the middle of the sidewalk. The woman stares at me, her thin brows pulled tight over her eyes as if she finds me suspicious. Before I know what I'm doing, I've made my way over to sit down beside her.
I don't look at her and instead stare out at the road, at the cars and—through the gaps in between—at the trolley coming to a stop across the road.
Beside me, the woman clutches the worn backpack on her lap, like she thinks I'm going to yank it from her and run.
Her voice is hoarse when she speaks. "What are you doing?"
I'm guessing not very many people approach her, but sitting beside her feels like the most natural place for me today.
"I'm so fucked."
I hear myself say the words, but even then, I'm not sure if the sound is coming from inside or outside of my head.
She throws her head back and laughs, a deep throaty laugh. "What's the matter, little girl?"
Well, she did ask…
"I'm losing my apartment because I couldn't be bothered to check my stupid mail. Wouldn't be so bad except I got myself fired so I can't exactly take on rent until I—"
"Got any change?" the woman calls out to someone else walking past. It's a lady pushing a baby stroller and she shoots me a quick, sideways look.
"…until I can find another job," I finish.
My bench-mate looks down her nose at me, a clear sign that my problems don't impress her.
"Listen, little girl, you need to get the fuck off my bench. You're scaring away my money."
"Seriously?" I start laughing, so forcefully that I'm nearly choking on it.
This is how I lost my job. Saying the wrong things. Laughing at the wrong times.
The woman eyes me, half smiling, half grimacing, like she smells something nasty o
r perhaps senses I'm bat-shit crazy.
"I'm not kidding," she says. "You need to get the fuck off my bench."
"Fine." I get up and smooth out my pants, though obviously I've got nowhere important to go and it doesn't matter if my clothes are wrinkled. "You're fucking rude—" Another car horn blares and I bite back the urge to argue with her, realizing she's not the source of my frustration.
Here I am standing beside a woman who's clutching everything she owns on her lap and I'm complaining to her? This has to be the lowest I've sunk today.
Maybe ever.
And yet, standing in front of her makes me realize some key things. I'm not homeless. I'm not broke. I still have so much. I have my degree. My health. I've got a car. A really nice fucking car that can take me away to my safety net. My sister. I'm privileged to have fallen and not hit rock bottom.
"Thanks for the pep talk," I say. I mean it. She's pulled me out of my pity fest, flooded me with a sense of gratitude for everything I still have.
"Got any change?" the woman blurts out just as I turn to walk away.
I pull out a fifty-dollar bill, two twenties, and four ones from my wallet. It's all I have on me at the moment. "Do you have change for a fifty?"
A redheaded woman marching past shoots me a disapproving look, not realizing I'm kidding. I wave away her concern, saying, "It's okay, we're friends."
Red increases her pace without looking back. I don't blame her. Folding the bills in half, I hand them to the homeless woman, whose jaw drops.
"Damn, girl. Thanks," she says, counting the cash with a huge grin on her face. "Hope you get your shit together real soon."
Yeah, me too.
CHAPTER FIVE
The scent of new leather and polished wood paneling fills my lungs. This car smells like luxury and drives like it too. It's last year's BMW 4-Series, black with tan interior, and it drives the way cutting through butter feels. This baby melts under me, responds to the smallest of movements, and has enough buttons and blinking lights to set up a mission to space. And I have no idea how much longer I'll be able to afford it, the only luxury in my otherwise student-loan-fueled austerity.
Frowning in this car is something I never thought possible. But that's exactly what I'm doing. I'm frowning as I drive over the Oakland Bridge and leave San Francisco, altogether. I have a long ride ahead of me. It's only…12:45p.m. Seriously? The longest day of my life was over before noon? This is just…I mean, it's fucking poetic.
Digging my phone out of my purse, I call my sister but it goes straight to voicemail. Her curt and professional tone fills my car.
"You've reached Alexis Stone, please leave a message."
Hearing my sister's voice is like having solid ground to stand on again. Her exaggerated seriousness always, by default, brings out my playfulness.
"Hey, sexy lady," I singsong, "I'm coming to see you. Hope you're not in the middle of fucking because that'll be awkward and I left my eyeball pliers at home. Call me."
I hang up and feel a smile tug my lips when I picture my sister cringing when she hears my message. Lex has always been a bit uptight and I honestly have no idea who she modeled herself after.
Our mother is as tasteless as she is classless. Never the type to hold her tongue around us or think twice about what wouldn't be appropriate to discuss around her children.
Seven hours later, I find my sister under the shriveled up, lumpy blanket on her bed. A pair of feet sticking out from underneath, toes pointed toward the mattress.
I'm relieved and annoyed. Relieved because I grew worried when she didn't answer the door. Annoyed because I had to dig around the bottom of my purse to find her spare key, and then walk hesitantly into her condo, not having any idea what to expect in the darkness.
Whatever is going on with Lex manifests into an almost tangible presence in the room. It crowds my own worries into a corner. Because while me having issues is nothing new, Lex isn't often the one in need of comforting.
We sit in the dining room. My sister twirls her fork around in the pasta I made for her, despite her insistence that she wasn't hungry. She looks more like a cavewoman than the beautiful brunette I know she can be when she brushes her hair.
"I'm just worn down," she says. "Work and stuff."
I don't have to guess what the 'stuff' is. The stuff is Leo. It's obvious my sister's state of disarray has something to do with him. I met the guy last time I was down here. He's one fine piece of ass. Sharp blue eyes, short blond hair, and clothes that fit tight in all the right places: shoulders, biceps, chest.
I don't blame her for wanting to jump his bones. I just wish she'd been smarter about it.
He and I didn't exactly get off on the right foot. There was something about him that instantly rubbed me the wrong way. Now I wish I'd been more vocal about my opinion of him. It might have saved my sister the trouble of finding out for herself.
From what she tells me, it sounds like Lex assumed she had a stronger handle on the affair than she actually did. In the end, she got burned.
That's how these things tend to end; there really isn't another way. Trying to keep a man in a relationship is like trying to keep a lion as a pet. You know they are inherently wild beasts, dangerous even. But when they come up and sniff your face, you start to think they're just misunderstood. They make you feel good about being able to tame them, feed them, learn their moods. Except they're never really tame. They're waiting for the moment when you leave the gate unlocked so they can eat you and run out to terrorize the neighborhood. It happens all the time. Okay—maybe not all the time. But it does happen.
Whenever I see something like that on the news, I think to myself, Idiot, you don't keep lions as pets. And I think the same thing whenever a woman whines about getting her heart broken.
Idiot, you don't keep men as pets.
"I promise I'm fine." She runs a hand through her hair. I expect it to get stuck, or maybe for her crazy hair to eat her hand, but neither happens. "I need a few days to—"
"Mope around?"
"I'm not moping around," she snaps, defensive.
"If you say so."
She dives into her food and it seems to be so she doesn't have to respond. When my sister starts speaking again, it's to ask me why I was fired. I tell her about the meeting with Davenport. About the demon giggles that possessed me at just the wrong time.
"God, did they have to fire you this time of year?"
I almost laugh. My sister has a parental blind spot when it comes to me, extracting from my story only what was done to me and not everything I did to deserve it.
But she does have a point. It's nearly Christmas, a shitty time of the year to be out of a job. I don't mention the part about my lease expiring, not seeing the point in bringing it up tonight.
"Yeah, well. It's done," I announce, with as much maturity as I can muster. I'm on my feet, walking back to the kitchen before I have a good reason to. "And now…I need a drink. What do you have?"
Ignoring the assortment of wine bottles on her counter, I go to her fridge and see, to my surprise, a six-pack of beer in there with four bottles left. Lex doesn't drink beer. I grab one and make a mental note not to ask if these are remnants of Leo's presence.
Lex goes off to sleep and I stay on the couch watching television. After draining the second beer too soon, I'm left wanting something stronger. I've had a long day and would love something to help ease me into a dreamless sleep.
With reluctance at the limited choices, I sort through the wine bottles on the counter. These are the ones Lex doesn't care much for. The stuff she actually drinks awaits in her small wine cooler. I don't care for wine. Lex loves the stuff because anything stronger knocks her on her ass. Of us two, I've always been able to hold my liquor better. I'm not sure if that's something to be proud of, but there it is.
My fingers trace the curved labels absentmindedly until, pushing aside a large bottle of red wine, I find a frosted bottle full of crystal clear liquid. It's the
vodka I bought for Thanksgiving dinner a few weeks ago, but never got around to opening it. What a sight for sore eyes.
Hello, gorgeous.
I know we just met, but I need you to help me not feel feelings anymore.
I pour myself a shot and down it in a gulp. Rummaging through the refrigerator, I search for something to mix with a second shot. Lex doesn't drink soda. However, she has an almost completely full bottle of ginger ale. I don't want to know how long it's been there. Probably from a time she was sick and needed to soothe her stomach.
Left with no viable alternatives, I pour myself a glass of straight vodka and sip on it slowly while letting my brain numb to the nonsense playing on the screen.
The next thing I know, it's after midnight and I'm jarred awake by an unnecessarily loud commercial blaring from the television. I shut it off and slink into the guest room. My thoughts hazy, I slip slowly out of consciousness, desperate to ignore the dread of dealing with my predicament in the light of day.
Lex stands in the kitchen, securing the lid on her coffee thermos. When she notices me in the doorway, I make a show of pretending to stumble backward in surprise.
Her electric-blue button down is tucked into a black pencil skirt, showing off her legs, lean and smooth. The outfit is amped up by sleek black heels, and her golden brown hair is pinned up into a bun, not a strand out of place. I've never seen Lex wear this much makeup before. The skin on her face is velvety smooth, her lips a deep red color, her eyes lined with a rich black that brings out the piercing color of her green eyes.
"Holy shit. You clean up nicely."
"Can't let them see you sweat." She takes a sip of her coffee. "You're up early."
"Hard to sleep in on a day I should be at work."
She takes in my appearance. "I see you found the stuff you left here."
"Yeah, well, it's not much. A pair of jeans and the workout stuff I wear when you force me to go running with you." I tug at the baggy t-shirt I've paired with some running shorts.
Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) Page 3