by K. T. Mara
Their conversations topics were like the first-world-problems hashtag on steroids.
The hotel didn’t have enough mineral water for my bath.
They made us walk up two flights of stairs because the elevators were broken.
We arrived in Maui an hour late because the jet had to refuel.
No. One. Gives. Two. Shits.
Not even half a shit.
For the life of me, I couldn’t find Nathaniel anywhere. He was never late. His obsession with punctuality was the reason I had a complex with time.
Vrrrm. Beep. Vrrrm. Beep.
The ladies were all kind enough to stop their inane chatter to show me their disapproving bitch faces when my phone chimed.
Mrs. Donald was amongst the group. Her husband owned the company that manufactured my cell phone, so whose fault was it, really?
I unlocked the screen with a swipe and glanced at the email.
Due to unforeseen circumstances, I will not be able to attend. You should be capable enough to handle this deliberation by yourself.
Nathaniel Shaw
CEO, ShawTech
I snorted at the words—an eloquent reminder from Nathaniel Shaw to not fuck things up.
“Something important?” Trevvy walked up behind me, with two drinks in her hand.
I let out a sigh of relief, “Please tell me that’s bourbon.”
“Not just any kind. It’s Evan Williams 23.” She lifted an eyebrow.
I whistled, “No one ever accused these old farts of not knowing how to drink.”
Trevvy chuckled, “I’m sure their doctors can testify to how fouled up their livers are.”
She nodded in the direction of my phone. “Anything important?”
“Nope.” I pocketed my cell, and grabbed the glass from her hand. “Cheers.”
I held up my glass, but she shook her head. “I don’t clink. The ringing of the glass is aggravating.”
Of course she thought that.
“Oh look.” Trevvy pointed towards the kitchen. “They’re bringing out the chocolate. I’m going to get some.”
“Bring some back for me!” I shouted towards her retreating figure.
I watched her back as she left, but my eyes inevitably wandered to her ass. Her hips swayed side to side as she moved. There wasn’t even much to look at because of the loose fabric, and I loved that. It gave my brain an excuse to mentally picture her butt without being creepy about it.
I wonder what it felt like…
What? I was using my imagination. I thought that shit was encouraged in school. They can’t take it back now just because I was no longer thinking about rainbows and frilly unicorns.
When Trevvy returned, she was carrying an entire platter of truffle chocolates.
My little chocoholic.
“You have absolutely no idea the lengths I went through to get this.” She leaned her head to the side. Her navy blue dress really made her eyes more striking. Two cobalt blue irises stared at me. “You better not be judging me.”
“Never.” I hid my smile by taking a sip of my drink.
Bourbon, chocolate, and her. The night was finally turning around.
Her smile—I was at a loss for words. This never happened to me before.
It was like waiting for so long for something you want so badly, so earnestly, that when it finally happens, you can’t be sure it actually did.
I was still trying to figure out if I imagined the whole thing. If only my heart would stop beating so fucking loudly, long enough for me to concentrate. For fuck’s sake I was turning into a puss faster than I would listening to Justin Bieber on repeat.
It was a smile.
I saw smiles every damn day. She wasn’t smiling naked. She wasn’t smiling while wearing six-inch stilettos. She was just smiling while dressed in the same nerdy Trevvy style she’s had since we were in school. There was nothing even remotely sexy about Rachel Marie Trevelynn. Now if only I could convince my brain so it would calm the fuck down.
And my dick for that matter. Stand down private! No one asked for you.
Come on, gross thoughts. Gross thoughts.
Aunt Elsa’s sagging skin. Uncle Carl’s man-boobs. Dead tadpoles, dead squirrels, dead bunnies—aw shit. No matter what I thought, my mind kept going back to the image of Trevvy naked and in stilettos. Why did I use that example earlier?
“Shaw?” Trevvy was frowning at me. “Your face is cherry red. Are you getting a fever or something?”
I fucking wish it was a fever. Then I’d have an excuse to blame my behavior on. It felt like I was sixteen again, complete with lack of self-control, and horny as shit.
“It’s nothing.” I stared at my watch. It was 10:04pm. We’d been inside Starbucks for one hour, four minutes, and thirty-five seconds. Well, technically, only I was in there for that long. Because of Trevvy’s impromptu chocolate run, she was only in there for fifty-nine minutes and twenty-four seconds. Either way it was surprising. It hardly felt like any time had passed at all.
Maybe my internal time clock was off because I was hungry. I didn’t get a chance to eat anything besides the truffles before we left the party.
I glanced at Trevvy, who was still looking at me. Was she staring the whole time? “D-do you want to grab a bite to eat?” I wanted to slap myself for stuttering. Really fucking smooth, Shaw.
“Sure,” she shrugged her shoulders.
This wasn’t a date-date, but she could still be a bit less blasé about it.
“Why are you pouting?” She leaned her head to one side. “I’ll let you pick the restaurant, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve never been to New Jersey, so I’m depending on you to pick a good place.”
Hold it. What?
“You’ve never been to New Jersey before? It’s one bridge away from New York. Have you lived in a fucking box your entire life?”
She shot me a look that screamed of bitchiness. “I’m a born and raised New Yorker. It’s embedded in my brain to not like anyone from Joisey.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “I was born in New York, too, and I happen to love New Jersey.”
She smirked, “Every great society has its traitors.”
“You are so full of bullshit, Trevvy.”
She started rambling on about the evils of suburbs, New Jerseyans and their shitty driving skills, The Bridge and Tunnel Crew, and of course, The Jersey Shore.
And the entire time she was talking, I was biting my lip to stop smiling. Trevvy was so cute when she acted like a lunatic.
The truth was, I didn’t know much of New Jersey either. The only time I ever crossed over was to go to Atlantic City. I didn’t know shit about Newark, and its ugly name sure wasn’t an enticing invitation.
So while Trevvy was busy trashing New Jersey, I snuck out my phone and googled decent dining joints in the area. Luckily we were close to Little Call’s Diner, which supposedly had burgers to die for.
When I tucked away my phone, I noticed that Trevvy had stopped talking.
“So what does Google recommend?”
“You mean what do I recommend.”
“Nope,” she shook her head. “We need to work on your definition of discrete. You are awfully bad at it.”
She gave me a small smile, and there went my stupid heart—beating like it was on fucking adrenaline. As long as it wasn’t pumping blood down south, I was good.
The walk to the restaurant was silent, but it was a comfortable silence, not the I-will-literally-kill-someone-to-escape quiet. It was nice.
The restaurant, however, was not nice.
The outside looked like an extended motor home without wheels. The doorway was held up by four metal beams that were so rusted, they might topple if pushed. The neon open sign was missing its O. Large commendations go to the brilliant punk who spray painted ‘IS’ at the end.
The inside was even worse. Calling it a shithole would’ve been the polite word to describe it.
The ceiling had large gaping holes
and a third of the lights were burnt out. The walls had exposed bricks, and there was a general air of mildew that even the sweet scent of barbequed beef couldn’t mask. And I was pretty sure I saw a rat trap when I walked in.
I was surprised the FDA hadn’t condemned the place. After all, only rich corporations get to fuck them over.
“Nice recommendation, Shaw,” Trevvy muttered.
“Nuh uh. This one’s on Google.” Take credit for the good and dump the bad. It was the American way.
“Of course it is,” she snapped.
Feisty. My other head liked her like this a lot more than my brain will ever admit.
When she pulled out a container of wet wipes and started sanitizing the seats and tables like a madwoman, my brain cued the Hallelujah music.
I had just discovered Trevvy’s kryptonite, and what a sweet weakness it was.
“Rachel Marie Trevelynn, are you a germaphobe?”
Her eyes widened, but they quickly reverted back into her usual ice-queen stare. “Connor Alistair Shaw, are you a nosy asshole?”
“You know I am, sweetheart.”
“I’m not a germaphobe,” she snapped back. “I just don’t appreciate germs and bacteria that could infect my body and eat my insides.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Trevvy.”
“No, that’s Ambien,” she deadpanned.
“Hmm.” I smiled. Yet another thing we had in common.
Right then, my phone beeped.
How was the meeting with the contacts? I assume that everything was in order?
Nathaniel Shaw
CEO, ShawTech
I closed my phone and put it on silent. I didn’t want to deal with Nathaniel right now. He’ll find out from someone else I skipped the party, but for one night, I just wanted to fuck the consequences—they were for tomorrow.
“Let’s leave,” I smiled at Trevvy. “I know another place we can eat.”
-- Don’t talk to strangers. My family takes this rule very seriously. There will be consequences. --
The son of a bitch took me to a strip joint.
“Oh stop pouting, Trevvy.” He poked my cheeks, and I swatted his hands away. “Everyone knows the best food in any city can be found at your local gentleman’s club.”
Gentleman’s Club. My mother would faint at the horrific misuse of the word.
Shaw led me by my hand to the bar. This was by far one of the fanciest clubs I’ve seen. Not that I’ve ever been in one, but I watch movies. I expected scantily clad ladies everywhere, and gross middle-aged men ogling them. Instead, the waitresses were dressed in black tie, and the ‘entertainment’ was isolated to one corner of the place.
The center of the room was a large podium-like stage, where a grand Fazioli Brunei piano sat. In the dimly lit club, the piano and the cabaret singer were the only ones with proper lighting. They practically glowed. The singer was dressed in the most beautiful black silk dress I’d ever seen. Her voice was hypnotizing. She was singing La Vie En Rose. It was sultry like Édith Piaf’s version, but the singer put her own twist on the song, making it more upbeat.
It has been years, since I’ve heard this song. Not since I was a child. My brother used to play it on his piano. It was his favorite song.
“Trevvy?” Shaw tapped on my shoulder, and I jolted from his touch. “Whoa,” he raised his hands, as his eyebrows arched, “I didn’t mean to surprise you. I wanted to know what you’d like to order.”
He passed me a small, single-page menu.
“Not much to pick from.” I frowned.
“Yeah, I asked the bartender. Apparently they alternate the menus every week depending on what’s fresh.” He leaned in closer, like we were covert spies swapping confidential information. “I heard it’s crab season,” he whispered in my ear, “and a certain rumor has it, that someone really loves her seafood.”
My brows furrowed in confusion as I tried to figure out what the hell he was talking about. Suddenly, I realized the son of a bitch remembered. Oh how I wish that he hadn’t. Then my brain desperately grasped on to the thought that maybe – just maybe, I was overreacting. It happened years ago. Then he uttered the two words that obliterated any hope I had, “King’s Buffet.”
I heard his smile, even though I wasn’t looking at him. I heard the pleasure oozing from his voice. He was amused, and I wanted to wrangle his neck. I leaned back into my seat, which was even more uncomfortable than it was before—even for a barstool. I glanced at the menu, and reluctantly ordered the Alaskan Crab entrée with baked potato, and a triple chocolate mousse cake for dessert.
Shaw ordered the exact same thing. I shot a death glare at him, but he returned my daggers with an impudent smile. The nerve and sheer arrogance of him was enough to choke any person.
“I love crab just as much as you, Trevvy,” his smile doubled in size, turning more mischievous, “but if you eat all of yours, you can have some of mine.”
I groaned loudly, which only made him laugh even more.
When we were in the ninth grade, our class had a field trip to San Francisco. At the end of the second day, we went to a seafood buffet. I was in the middle of a foolish crash diet. I was three weeks in and so starved for food that when I saw the rows and rows of delicious lobster tails, shrimps, and crab, I caved. Caved was a bit of an understatement. I binged. Hard.
At the time I didn’t even care if my classmates saw me as a pig. I was so famished, and my stomach was so empty. I just ate and ate and ate. I ended up throwing up most of it in the restroom. Not because I wanted to, but because my stomach couldn’t handle digesting so much food at once after going without for weeks.
I was carried away in an ambulance, to get my stomach pumped. I was on the next flight home, and I didn’t know until after everyone came back that the incident was infamously named ‘The time Trevelynn ate herself to death.’
“You ate like you were protesting a famine, or something.” His sharp laughter pulled me out of my thoughts.
“I was.”
He stopped laughing immediately and his eyes widened.
Me and my stupid mouth. I had never told anyone that story. I still didn’t want to tell anyone. Not even Gus, and he was paid to know everything.
“Just forget it,” I waved him off, praying that he would just drop it.
“You were on a diet?” His voice was higher than usual, and it bothered me how truly concerned he sounded. Connor Shaw caring about someone other than himself? Someone call a voodoo doctor. Shaw’s clearly been possessed.
“Trevvy,” he gently turned my body until I was fully facing him, “why were you on a diet?” His voice was so soft it hurt.
“M-my mom,” I stumbled with my words. “She said I was fat.”
Shaw’s face paled immediately.
I knew how silly I sounded, that I would go that far just because of someone else’s opinion, but I cared about hers. So much.
“Trevvy,” he started, reaching for my hand.
I moved my hand before he could hold it. “Can we just forget this?” I stared straight into his hazel eyes. “Please?”
His face scrunched together. He looked so unsure, but he nodded his head anyway.
When the food finally arrived, we ate in silence. From the corner of my eye, I saw Shaw kept opening his mouth, attempting to start a conversation, but his lips would clamp shut before any words came out. I knew the sudden awkwardness between us was my fault.
Ruining things. Ruining moments. Maybe that was why I didn’t have any friends.
Shaw looked at his watch. “It’s 12:04am. Do you want to leave now?”
I nodded my head. We were both done eating. I hadn’t touched my desert, but I didn’t have the appetite to finish it anymore.
As we were getting up, someone tapped me on the shoulder. We turned and in front of us stood a woman who was very…um…endowed.
--------------------
Contact S
Name: N/A
Age: Probably la
te forties
A.K.A: The asshole I met in a strip club who looks like Salvador Dali
Occupation: Dumbass? I think that’s a job.
Moods he invokes: Anger
--------------------
She had the biggest real tits I had ever seen. Definitely natural; they were on the saggy side and lacked the artificial perkiness fake ones had. She was at least mid 30’s, with hair puffier than a poodle. She wore really tight skinny jeans that hugged her ass nicely. It was nothing special, but her shirt was cleavage city. Her valley was like Grand Canyon deep.
She was a hot cougar and she had a nice rack. Two attributes that would make any guy’s dick stand at attention, but mine wasn’t reacting—at all. I didn’t know a penis could be depressed. It was probably still bummed out by listening to Trevvy’s story.
Speaking of Trevvy, I glanced at her to see what she thought of the situation. Her eyes were not so subtly staring at the woman’s knockers. I smiled to myself.
My little pervert.
Trevvy looked up and caught me watching. Her face turned the brightest crimson. I had never seen Trevvy blush before, but what a sight it was.
She looked at me again, silently asking if I saw.
I nodded, keeping a smile on my face. Unbelievably, her face to reddened even more. Trevvy was so fucking adorable.
The woman coughed, and we both turned to her. I’d forgotten she was there.
The woman smiled at Trevvy. “He is not your boyfriend, non?”
I remembered my French teacher telling me that when French women say non they really mean yes. As in, He is not your boyfriend, yes? But what would I know? I’ve also never met any French person who ends their English sentences with non.
“C'est pas tes oignons,” Trevvy replied. I didn’t know what she said, but her accent sounded sexy.