“Where was I again?” She taps a long pointy nail on her chin, retracing her words prior to the donut run. “Oh!” She holds that same finger up in a point. “Gretchen had just gone out to check for treats and found nothing.”
Taking a minute, which I give her, I’ve come to realize, whether we’re live or not, Sasha lives life with an emphasis. Settling in, her own legs crossed, her back to the headboard, red hair pulled over her shoulder, she continues. “Well, Javi is never, and I mean, never, ever flustered. The way he was acting, we came to the conclusion that someone must have robbed him of the fan mail that he’s usually overflowing with. It is two weeks’ worth, you know…” She bobs her head for emphasis.
Now I know. I nod to get her to get the fuck on with it already. I feel like I’m listening to a Lifetime movie, The Taking of Sara with no H. Yep, sounds about right.
“Or maybe one of our clients had laid in wait at Mailboxes, Inc. and followed him back here and was right now at this very minute out front!” She shivers dramatically, for the story or Five Hundred, I’m not sure. “Javi strides back into the living room without a word to either of us, and he’s carrying,” she ticks each item off on her kitty claws, “rope, a roll of duct tape on his wrist like a bracelet, his gimp mask, a stun gun…”
Now it’s my turn to halt the story. Both my hands go up in front of me. “Pump those brakes, Sash…a stun gun?” I’m shaking my head, and she’s looking at me like I’ve grown two.
Nodding at me like I’m an idiot, she continues, “Of course a stun gun, silly. How else would he get you in the trunk?”
I literally fall over at her words, digesting this last part. He really was going to snatch me right out of the parking lot. It isn’t a made-up story. Not a joke. If they wouldn’t have stopped him, by whatever means necessary, I would have been a top story on the nightly news.
The air suddenly feels heavy. My lungs don’t seem to want to work right. My bones feel like jelly at this realization. It takes all of my strength to roll my head to the side, eyeing the door, and freedom.
Sensing my tension at the fact that she just used ‘stun gun’ and me in the same sentence, Sasha reaches over and starts tickling my midsection. Laughter vomits out of me. That’s what it feels like, an up-chuck of hilarity…bordering on insanity. I let it happen. It’s cathartic in a way, screaming out laughter, well, until her nails start to pierce skin. Then I have no choice but to wiggle away. Once I’ve got it under control, when she and I are pretty certain that I won’t be heading for the hills, she goes on. “He was so keyed up. Just marched right around us like he didn’t recognize us, straight for the door with his kidnap kit.” She’s the only one giggling at her own joke. I, however, don’t find the humor.
Her eyes roll at my sour puss. “Would you rather a ‘taken toolbox?’” This makes me smile. A little. Not much.
“We both have to physically restrain him, halting him in his path. But he’s a man on a mission. It takes forever just to get him to make eye contact. He’s rambling, on and on about a girl, his girl, waiting for him to come and rescue her from a life of shame. He’s just so pissed that a perfect girl, you,” she points at me, making me look over my shoulder to see what perfect girl she’s referring to, “is being spoiled as we speak! ‘Those Nazis are going to fill her head with propaganda about sickly skinny bullshit. I can’t let that happen!’” I can visualize Javi holding his closed fist in the air, full of passion. “Finally, we get the deets, but he’s so amped up, so jagged around the edges, his eyes are rolling around in their sockets. He’s pacing back and forth, and we sense his urgency. Like there’s no time to explain. It’s as if he’s worried they’re using, at this very moment, a Shrinky Dink machine…hey, remember those?” Her face beams with a sweet smile, which falters at the sight of my murderous frown.
I wind my hand quickly. She gets it.
“Okay, so both Gretch and I are ready to puke, or shit our pants. Maybe both at the same time because we’ve never seen this side of our Javi. Not in four years. She holds up four fingers like I missed it the first time. “This is really happening. He’s lost his mind. He’s really going to kidnap some poor defenseless WW inductee. Well, of course we can’t let him. I don’t know how to stop this locomotive that’s picking up steam. Thank the Lord, Gretchen is way quicker at thinking on her feet. Without a word, she starts pacing back and forth with him, keeping pace. While they’re walking, she’s talking, kinda whispering so he has to slow down and focus to hear her.”
Her voice gets breathy and southern, mimicking Gretchen’s. “‘You’re going to scare this poor girl to death,’ and ‘she’ll never forgive you if you do this to her.’ When that doesn’t seem to be working, because he’s bound and determined to have you, she looks me straight in my eyes with her steely resolve so I know there’s no backing down. A girl, who we don’t even know, well, her life…” Sasha stops talking when she sees my face.
I cringe at that, I’m not gonna lie. My life?
She rubs my thigh, which doesn’t reassure me before continuing. “I might be exaggerating here a little. I tend to do that if you haven’t noticed.” No, really? “Well, your freedom anyway was at stake. So Gretchen, such a quick thinker, says,” and the breathy voice is back, “‘Sasha and I will get her for you.’ That’s it. I about faint. I’m not looking forward to waylaying anyone. In fact,” she holds up both hands, pointy nails facing me. “These are not conducive to kidnapping at all.”
Nodding, I agree. If Sasha was in charge of my kidnapping, I’d have lost an eye!
Grabbing my arm for emphasis, she continues. “Once the words leave her mouth, I know, without a doubt there’s no going back. And do you know why I know?” I’m shaking my head, my hair whipping around my face. I need to know. “Tell me! Tell me!” I practically scream it into her face.
Again with the one finger up. “One word: peace.”
“Peace?” I ask, not understanding.
“Yes, peace. Once the words were out, ‘We’ll get her for you,’ a great sense of calm overcame him. The coil of rope slid from his shoulder, hooking the roll of duct tape off his wrist, and everything tumbled to the floor. His shoulders sagged with relief, like that rope and duct tape were the weight of the world. Gretchen peeled his fingers off the stun gun, and he let her.” Her eyes widen at this, like this is a great reveal, one of the secrets of the universe, instead of the thwarting of my kidnapping. I find I’m nodding right along with her.
Just above a whisper, she continues, “Actual tears were rolling down his cheeks, as the mask slipped from his hands. He half-fell with the relief and peace he was feeling in that moment. Gretchen had to catch him or he would’ve hit the ground, I swear it. She moved him over to the couch to sit between us, and he cried little boy tears right here.” She pats her ample bosom fondly at the memory.
I can’t help the Disney sigh that escapes from me at this confession.
Javi was willing to risk jail—hell, my hate—to have me, but these two ladies, my bosses/friends who didn’t even know me at the time, cared enough about me to get me for him. I don’t know if this is making sense right now because I’m overtired, a little drunk and beyond stressed at her disclosures, or maybe I’m finding Javi’s ruthless pursuit of me a bit…romantic? I’ll have to ponder these revelations further.
Gretchen lifts her head, gazing on me in adoration, and I’m sure I’m gazing right back with stars in my own eyes. “You’re one lucky girl, Blue. Having a guy go that batshit crazy over you.”
“Why’d you wait three weeks to close in on me?” I can’t help but ask.
Rapid-fire quick, she responds, “Intel gathering. Javi’s idea. Wanted to make sure no one would miss you when you were gone.”
Surprisingly, I’m not as creeped out as you’d think at hearing the master heist plan.
What the fuck was in that chocolate milk?
We cuddle together in the big bed, lost in our thoughts about the twisted love story that’s blooming under th
is very roof. Later, on the edge of sleep, she whispers, “That’s soooo stalkery. You almost ended up on a milk carton.”
“Right?” But why does that epiphany make me feel all warm and fuzzy?
Chapter 19
I wake to a blaring noise coming from my TV. It’s beeping and flashing red. This is new. Slightly hungover, I reach blindly for the remote and end up pissing Sam off, who jumps at the rude awakening, hitting the floor like a ton of bricks.
Remote in hand, I yawn, stretching my arms and sit up, hitting the receive button. The Wonder Twins greet me, all made up for the day.
“Good morning, Bonita!” They singsong in unison. Ugh, it’s entirely too early for this display of cheer. All I can muster is a chin nod in response, which gets a synced laugh out of the two of them.
“Up, up, up!” Gretchen says, clapping her hands together with a gleam in her eye. I can tell that one, Sasha told her all about our talk last night, and two, she’s ecstatic that I know the truth. “Sasha told me all about the Favor you did last night!”
I muster a slight nod in response. It’s the best I can do before coffee.
She continues with all the enthusiasm I’m lacking. “Breakfast is coming. Today’s a big day for you. After you eat, and Sam eats…” A coy little giggle escapes from her. Sam couldn’t care less about being included, or excluded for that matter. “We need you showered, but only put on a robe and underwear. It’s measuring day!”
I frown. Anything to do with this big body and a tape measure doesn’t sound like a big day, more like a depressed, stay-under-the-covers-and-mope day.
“Don’t make that face, it could get stuck that way!” Gretchen admonishes me. I pin a fake smile on, and she nods. “That’s the spirit! Our clothier, Ms. Hari, will be in to talk about the wardrobe she’ll be making for you, and once that’s done…lunch, make-up, and hair!” Again with the clap, and to add insult to injury, she high-fives Sasha.
“Once you’re made up, your stills will be shot. In our very own photo room.” This last detail she says like it’s a prized spot, then I realize, oh shit. “Is that a live room?”
Both of them see the change in my demeanor. I’m friggin’ nervous as hell and even the thought of food now turns my stomach. My fists clench my rolls tightly, and I can feel stress sweat pooling under my boobs.
“Oh, come on now, Blue. You’ll be fully clothed with both of us there with you.”
This does nothing to help my anxiety. Sasha pipes in, “Blue, do you want me to come down to your room?” I shake my head no, knowing there’s nothing that will make this case of nerves go away except getting it over with.
They whisper among themselves while I hang from a ledge by my fingernails. Gretchen nods, and Sasha clues me in. “Blue, this is a preview. Only a handful of our softest customers have been invited to sit in via the house cameras to watch your photo shoot. I promise.” She actually has the nerve to cross her heart. The queen of Peeping Toms. I’m sure the hand behind her back has its fingers crossed.
“They’ve all been told no Favors will be granted.” Well, since they’ve all been told. Who am I to complain? I’m just the subject in question. Sam senses my impending meltdown and for once isn’t an unfeeling dick. He jumps right up into my lap, rubbing himself against my stomach.
“See! Even Sam agrees!” Gretchen chirps out before they both say their goodbyes and sign off. Either that or he’s hungry. I make my way to the shower with a stiff upper lip and the willpower of a goldfish.
After dressing as requested, I make my way back into my bedroom. The curtains have been opened, revealing a breathtaking view of the sparkling pool and waterfall out back. There are mountains off in the distance and no clouds in sight. A truly beautiful day. I can’t help but look towards Javi’s pool house, looking for him, but there’s no movement there. His windows are dark just like my mood. Why couldn’t he just approach me outside the meeting and ask for a date? Would I have even listened to such a request? Maybe I wasn’t ready and he sensed that. Right now it’s all hearsay, just Sasha’s overinflated ramblings. I’m sure at least 50% of that story was made up. I mean, who does that? How could I even ask him for his version of the truth without sounding like a total imbecile? Hey, I heard you wanted this so bad you were willing to do five to ten to have it. I mean, really.
I’m pulled from my musings by the rich aroma of coffee that won’t be denied. On my desk I find a silver tray covered with breakfast foods. Everything looks heavenly. There’s a carafe of coffee, from which I pour a cup to overflowing, and real half and half, not the fat-free stuff I’ve been subsisting on. I slurp a sip out of the way to make some much-needed room for my cream. Pure ambrosia, must be chock full of nuts, I think, smirking to myself.
Adding a few teaspoons of sugar, I start in on the breakfast. A feast! There are Belgian waffles, and not the kind from the freezer, either. Piled high with strawberries, glazed with, sinfully decadent, sugar. Butter drips down the sides of the stack. All I need to add is a warm, generous helping of real maple syrup, a big dollop of the whipped cream from a chilled bowl, and I’m digging in.
My eyes roll back in my head and a moan escapes me. That’s how sinfully delicious everything tastes. This is a meal fit for a queen, I think as I dip crispy bacon strips into the gooey confection that’s pooling on my plate. I actually scoop through the bowl of whipped cream with another bacon strip, sucking the cream off, before wicked thoughts of Javi and burrowed-out flan rush into my mind.
Javi…how weird is he? I mean, on a scale of no-love-life-ever to the-creepiest-boyfriend-to-ever-walk-the-earth, where does he fall? Since I don’t have to be worried any longer about being tasered by his hand, he’s not the creepiest ever, is he? Is he? I plow through the food as I ponder this. No, I finally decide. Creepiest ever boyfriend award would definitely go to Jeffrey Dahmer, hands down. This brings a laugh to my lips as I refill my coffee, and why not? I should enjoy this bit of pampering and top my coffee off with the rest of the freshly whipped cream. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.
Stuffed to the gills and feeling sated, I take my coffee over to a denim chair near the window. Remote in hand, I flip on my TV to view my roommates’ escapades hoping to take my mind of the measuring. Pink tiles pop up on the screen, each with a number in the middle. My eyes browse over the numbers. ‘0’? Ahh, no thank you. I’ve had my fill of Daisy for a while. I bypass Gretchen and Sasha also. I need a break from the dynamic duo.
But ‘6’? My interest is piqued in a what’s-going-on-over-there kinda way. Ethel? Ether? What the fuck is her name? I can see her in my head, thick, jet-black hair hanging to just above her big ass. Black eyes rimmed in kohl, black matte lips with matching nails, complementing the palest skin I’ve ever seen. I think back to our brief meeting yesterday, and not much stands out about her but that milky-white skin. Despite being just as big as the rest of us, she gave off a waifish kind of vibe. Hmm. Interesting.
Maybe it was all the black lace she wore. That made her skin seem to glow. It’s funny, but for being a peep show kinda house, the dress she wore screamed ‘prudish.’ A floor-length crinoline black gown, edged at the high throat and wrists with a stiff black lace.
Well, not really a dress, more like a…coat? Which opened into a V just above her navel, revealing black lace panties and her long, chunky legs. Why did she seem less there to me? Less substantive? While I puzzle over this, I finish my sickly sweet coffee before it gets cold. My finger hits on ‘6,’ and I’m pulled into the world that is…Esmeralda.
Chapter 20
First off, on my creep scale, Esmeralda just shot straight to the top. Her room is decorated solely in black. Black walls with velvet ebony draping around her black, steel, canopy bed. Her bed is dressed all in black, from the satin of her bedspread to the skirt that hits, you guessed it, her black—or as dark as hardwood can get—floor.
Her heavy drapes are shut tight around the bed, blocking her from the audience’s view. I glance at the readout on the corner
of the screen. Its 9:50, not quite show time. No sign of Esmie. I decide right then that she needs a nickname. She’s too gothish and needs lightening up. I stare at the closed curtain, waiting for that 10:00 to flash, and when it does, a pale hand floats out between the drapes at the foot of the bed. I’ve been waiting for a glimpse for so long, it seems, that when that hand finally does appear, finger-walking slowly over the steel footboard, it startles me, kick starting my heart. A chill runs down my spine, like a goose just walked over my grave.
Her hand continues to hover, her fingers slinking across the footboard. It’s Creepsville.
Before I know it, her other hand reaches out slowly as if testing the air. It looks like she’s stretching, but always in slow motion. Both hands grip the steel foot frame, and then, wait for it, a foot comes out. I roll my eyes and look at Sam to see if he’s getting the same vibe I am, but he couldn’t care less. He’s by the door, eating cat food out of a silver dish. I shrug. Whoever thought to get cat food and feed my cat, God bless. I’m a horrible mother.
Back to the creep show. Now both legs are out, pale as fuck and opened into a V—no vag shot, I see— the cash and prizes are hidden behind the curtains, which fall on her creamy thighs. She opens and closes her legs, back and forth, scissoring them every once in a while. This goes on for a quite a while. Or at least long enough for me to finish my coffee. I grow bored with her eerie calisthenics and do some more inventory of her boudoir.
Sam will need to stay far away from there. She’s got a huge black cage by the window. Curtains closed, blocking out the sun. Is she allergic to the sun? Perched on top of the iron cage, with black silky feathers, is the biggest…crow? Raven? I’ve ever seen. Its beady eyes just stare unimpressed at the legs sticking out of the drapes. I’d almost think it was stuffed, but every once in a while, it ruffles up its feathers, looking like it wants to fly, but always seems to settle back down. To be honest, I’m more interested in Poe the Raven. That’s the name I give him anyway.
Becoming Blue (Chubby Chasers, Inc. #1) Page 11