Love Bites

by Rachel K. Burke

  Sphinx’s office was located in Playa Del Rey, which was about a 20-minute drive from my apartment in West LA. Their lobby was like a Toys-R-Us. The walls were covered with action figures and game posters. A giant candy bowl sat on the receptionist’s desk. As I filled out my application, I continued to sneak glances at a Reese’s peanut-butter cup that was taunting me from the corner of the dish. The receptionist finally noticed and offered me the dish. I liked the place already.

  I watched the employees flow in and out of the lobby as I waited for my interview. None of them were dressed professionally. In fact, it was the complete opposite. Some of them had facial piercings and tattoos. They reminded me of the people who worked at Hot Topic when Renee and I shopped there in high school. A petite Asian girl wearing tights, jean shorts and boots skipped through the lobby, stealing a Kit-Kat from the candy bowl. I smiled at her.

  After giving my application to the receptionist, a man appeared and led me to the interview room. He introduced himself as Manuel Mendoza, the Human Resources Manager. He was short and stocky, with a young face. Latino, I assumed by his name and dark features. He wore a gray t-shirt, jeans, and converse sneakers. He did not refer to himself as an acronym.

  My interview was the complete opposite of HCG’s. It didn’t feel like an interview at all. Manuel and I briefly discussed the position and my college courses, then he brought me to the “gaming room,” which held several flat-screen TV’s hooked up to gaming consoles and a few old-school arcade games. I confessed that I didn’t play video games. He didn’t care. We played anyway. It was the best interview of my life.

  After Manuel beat me at a round of virtual sword-fighting, he brought me back to the interview room and introduced me to Vincent Seminari, Sphinx’s Marketing Director. Manuel had warned me that Vincent was the man to impress, as he would be my future boss. Vincent had dark eyes, a long nose that gave him character, and spoke with a hint of an Italian accent. I guessed that he was probably in his early to mid-forties. He also wore jeans and informed me that everyone at Sphinx did. He joked that I was the “best-dressed person there.” I felt foolish in my stupid suit. He told me that most of the employees began work at 10am and everyone received four weeks of paid vacation annually.

  I was in my glory.

  After the interview, Vincent gave me a tour of the building. The workstations were gorgeous. Sphinx occupied the seventh floor of the building, a bright, beautiful space with an incredible view of the city. There were no cubicles, only wide tables in the shape of a U, where everyone sat next to each other. Open and free. It was what every company should be.

  As Vincent and I walked around, I noticed that everyone seemed happy. Two of the employees shot Nerf guns at each other from across the room. The break room had free coffee, snacks, and soda. The CEO walked through, clutching a skateboard in his right hand. It was like being in a world where no one grew up.

  Before we reached the elevator, I noticed a small office that had paper taped over the window. I turned to Vincent, pointing to the room. Before I could say anything, he shook his head, laughing.

  “You don’t want to go in there,” he insisted.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “We call that the ‘Lactation Station’.”

  “The what?”

  “Lactation Station,” he repeated, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It’s the breastfeeding room.”

  I had never laughed so hard in my life.

  Chapter 3

  I make lists. Correction, I’m a compulsive list-maker. I write everything down – to-do lists, shopping lists, future goals. And sometimes, when I’m down, I make them for simple inspirational reminders.

  I stared at the piece of my paper in my hand for a long time; the new list that I would hang on my fridge and read every day as a positive reminder.

  Why I Moved Back to Boston:

  That was as far as I’d got.

  Okay, so I wasn’t adjusting well. It was November. I was freezing. My parents had a cottage in Cape Cod that they rented out during the summer, so they were letting me live there rent-free until summer rolled around again. Cape Cod was great in the summer, but in the winter it was the boonies. I had to drive 45 minutes to reach civilization, and even then, the only nightlife that existed on the south shore was at Irish pubs. I hated beer. I hated sports. I rarely ate meat. That didn’t leave me many options. If I tried to order a hummus wrap and a Champagne Royale at one of the local bars, they’d think I was insane.

  My cell phone rang before I could attempt to continue the list. I looked down at the ID and felt a slight pang of disappointment. I had been home for almost four months, and every time my phone rang, I still hoped it was him.

  It never was.

  “Hey girl,” I answered.

  “Hey J,” Renee said on the other end. “You still coming to Dylan’s show tonight?”

  Shit. I had forgotten all about it. Renee’s fiancé, Dylan, was the singer in a local band, and she had told me about the show weeks ago. I glanced down at my pajama pants. “Yeah,” I answered. “Of course.”

  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “Yup.” Renee always knew when I was lying. There was no point in covering it up. “What time does it start?”

  “They go on at ten. They’re playing the downstairs room at the Middle East, not upstairs. I’m going to ride in with Dylan so just call me when you get there and I’ll come meet you.”

  “Okay. See you soon.” I hung up and took a sip of coffee from the mug I’d been holding for the last 20 minutes. I picked up the piece of paper again.

  Why I Moved Back to Boston:

  #1 – Renee is here. She is my other half. I need her in my life.

  It was true. LA didn’t feel like home without Renee. Sure, I had made a few friends at school and at Sphinx, but for the most part, Renee and I did everything together. When she left, it didn’t feel the same. And besides that, the girl was an absolute saint. How she could forgive me after what happened with David was beyond me. But regardless, she was my best friend, and she was here. Therefore I would brave the coldest of winters to be with her, because I loved her.

  Truthfully, though, everything worked out for the best. Renee was now six months pregnant, engaged, and happier than I’d ever seen her. Dylan and Renee were perfect for each other. David and Renee… weren’t. My aching heart wanted to say that he was perfect for me, but my head knew that wasn’t true either.

  #2 – David does not live here. Therefore, I do not have to worry about seeing him everywhere I go.

  I swear, people in love need a live-in therapist. It’s all we think about. It’s all we talk about. After David broke up with me, I couldn’t go anywhere. Everything reminded me of him. Our favorite restaurant, our local bar, the supermarket where we shopped. I couldn’t go any of those places. It was almost as if it would’ve been better if he’d died in some tragic accident or something. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him in line at Von’s.

  Here, I was safe. Nothing reminded me of him. He was thousands of miles away. It’s like it was all a dream.

  But deep down, I knew that as far away as I was from him, he was still here. He was always here. I couldn’t escape him.

  I glanced down at the paper again. I couldn’t think of a number three.

  Los Angeles, CA

  February 2009

  I always know that I’m going to sleep with a guy by the way he looks at me. It’s usually an intense stare, he’s usually Italian, and I usually end up regretting it. That’s just how it goes.

  I was less than an hour into our morning meeting at Sphinx when I noticed it. The Stare. I was seated in the conference room with the marketing team for their weekly conference. They met every Monday at 10am to go over marketing strategies for new game releases, and Vincent thought it would be a good idea for me to join the meetings, even though I hadn’t a clue about anything they were discussing. As one of the girls talked about an upcoming conven
tion, I caught eyes with Vincent from across the table. I quickly reverted my gaze back to the girl so he’d think I was paying attention. I wanted to make a good impression. But when I looked back at him a few minutes later, he was still staring at me.

  Oh boy.

  It’s easy to differentiate a professional stare from a sex stare. A professional stare ensures that the employee is comfortable and attentive on his or her first day of work, but seizes once eye contact is met. A sex stare does not. A sex stare is confident and will maintain eye contact even after the contact is broken, thus intimidating its target and causing he or she to become nervous.

  And damn it, it always fucking works.

  By the third eye-contact connection, I already knew I was going to sleep with him. The stare wasn’t making me uncomfortable. Instead, a familiar nervous-yet-exciting stomachache appeared. I looked down at my outfit, trying to see myself as he did. I was wearing a black fitted sweater, my favorite pair of Bebe jeans, and black stilettos. Undoubtedly the most feminine outfit in our entire mini-gaming world. I twirled my long brown locks between my fingers. I felt his dark, Italian eyes on me. I liked it.

  My eyes drifted to his left hand. No wedding band. Check. Rolex watch. Silver cufflinks. Double check. Navy collared shirt, tanned skin, slightly gelled hair. Very put-together. I pictured him in an expensive sports car. A Porsche, maybe. Black. I pictured myself in the passenger seat. I wondered if he had a girlfriend.

  It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I had been looking in the wrong places. I mean, didn’t a lot of couples meet at work? It was pretty obvious by now that I wasn’t going to find Mr. Maturity at UCLA, nor was I going to find Mr. Monogamous on the Sunset Strip. Vincent was older, good-looking, and, judging from his appearance and title, did well for himself financially. He was a catch. And based on my appearance, age, and the burning stare from across the conference table, it appeared that the feeling was mutual.

  My first few weeks at Sphinx were a joke. I made zero professional contribution whatsoever. Instead, my days went something like this:

  10am: Get coffee and bagels for Vincent.

  11am: Have coffee and bagels with Vincent in his office. Pretend to talk about work. Talk about anything but work.

  12pm: Have lunch with Vincent.

  1pm: Pretend I am checking my professional emails. I am an intern. I do not have professional emails.

  2pm: Pretend to pay attention to Vincent’s social media tutorial when what I am really paying attention to is how close he is standing to me.

  3pm: Attend “off-site meeting” (happy-hour drinks) with Vincent and “vendors.” Pretend to know what “vendors” are.

  Repeat.

  Surprisingly, Vincent waited an entire month before asking me out. By then, I was practically panting for it. He, of course, pretended the invitation was to “celebrate” all the hard work I had accomplished during my first month. I knew better. Not only because he stared at me like I was a Krispy Kreme, but because I hadn’t accomplished jack shit in the past four weeks.

  The bad news was that he was going to be working from Sphinx’s London office for the next month, so our date was postponed until his return. The good news was that we had already covered everything that you cover on a first date, so I figured I was good to skip the three-date rule and prematurely put out. I knew everything about him that I needed to know. He had grown up in Milano and moved to the United States when he was eleven. He lived in Beverly Hills. He had a ten-year-old son, whom he mentioned having on the weekends, thus the reason he didn’t go out much. Ah, a divorced dad. I wondered if my parents would disapprove.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Renee about my upcoming date. I had been gushing about Vincent since my first day at Sphinx, and I could tell she was relieved that I finally had a love interest, too. Her daily David Whitman anecdotes had grown more than tiresome and I hadn’t even met the guy yet. They were still in the newlywed stage, where they mainly just had sex at his place. David lived alone. I understood.

  I was bent over the kitchen stove making a grilled cheese when I heard the sound of our front door open.

  “He asked me out!” I yelled to Renee, flipping my sandwich onto a plate. I barreled into the living room, but stopped dead in my tracks when I realized she wasn’t alone.

  “J,” Renee said cautiously, as if she felt bad catching me off guard. “This,” she gestured behind her, “is David.”

  Wow. I was not expecting that. Naturally, I wasn’t expecting David to be standing in my living room, but I also wasn’t expecting to feel the sinking in the pit of my stomach when I met him. Never in my life had I met someone and felt so instantly drawn to them. And he hadn’t even said anything yet. He just grinned at me like we were having a private joke. The only two people in the room. In the universe.

  “He asked you out, huh?” David joked. There it was again, that mischievous, one-dimpled grin. His eyes went slightly wild when he smiled, like he was scared, surprised, and amused all at the same time. I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “He did,” I said, nodding slowly. David loomed behind Renee, at least six feet tall, with dark hair and a hint of a baby face. His lips had twisted into a faint smirk, the amusement of the situation still lingering. But those eyes. Those giant, brown, crazy eyes. They were having sex with me. In my own living room. Behind my best friend, who I could no longer see.

  “About time,” Renee said, hanging her purse on the wall rack. “Listen, we’re going to sleep here tonight because David has a meeting in Brentwood in the morning. Fill me in tomorrow?” She winced like she felt bad.

  “Okay,” I agreed. David followed Renee out of the living room, still smiling back at me. But not with his mouth. With those goddamn eyes. I had never met anyone who could smile without moving their mouth.

  I heard the bathroom door close and the sound of the sink running. Before getting settled on the sofa, I realized that I’d left my grilled cheese sandwich in the kitchen. I got up and headed toward the kitchen, and there he was. Leaning casually in the doorway, his right arm propped against the wood. Like he’d been hiding there, waiting for me the whole time.

  “So, did you say yes?” he asked, not bothering to move out of my way. He was blocking the doorway. I couldn’t get through. I didn’t care. “To the date, I mean.”

  “I did.” I was whispering. I wasn’t sure why. Like we were sharing a secret.

  “Lucky guy,” he said in a low voice, slowly looking me up and down. As he turned and disappeared into Renee’s bedroom, his eyes never left mine.

  Even if Vincent wasn’t in London, at that moment, he still seemed a million miles away.

  Chapter 4

  The Middle East felt like my childhood. It was what I imagined Seattle to be like during the nineties. Dark basement feel, sticky floors, heavy distortion, the distinct aroma of weed and beer. It was dirty and raw. In LA, everything was pretty. Even the rock clubs were pretty. In Boston, the rock scene was real, not manmade. No one painted a mural of Jim Morrison on the side of the building to be cool. It was cool without trying.

  I spotted Renee as soon as I walked downstairs. Even at six months’ pregnant, she was still stunning. Her blonde hair spiraled down to her waist, and she wore a long, black vintage coat with a fur collar. She looked like a seventies groupie. She was perched by the merchandise table, helping the merch girl unload the band’s albums and t-shirts. Her face lit up when she saw me.

  “Hey!” She waved and abandoned the table, wrapping me in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. You have to see the albums!”

  Tonight was the album-release party for Dylan’s band, Electric Wreck. They had just finished their first full-length album, Hiatus. I’d photographed them for the album cover, thanks to Renee’s referral, but had yet to see the finished product. Renee was like an elated toddler, grabbing me excitedly by the arm and dragging me to the table.

  “What do you think?” she asked, thrusting a copy into my hands. I looked closely at the cover. It
looked great. We had used their studio for the shoot, which everyone agreed was a practical location, with the graffiti and equipment in the background adding to the sincerity of the setting. The four guys were strewn across the room with their instruments – Christian in the back of the photo behind the drum kit, Andy seated on the floor with a guitar in his lap, Jeff leaned up against the wall clutching his bass, Dylan in center, head down, gripping the microphone with both hands. It was a fantastic shot.

  “It looks awesome,” I said, running my fingers along the edges. I had sent the final image to their graphic designer, who had adjusted it to black and white and added classic-style font so it looked like an album from the sixties. I flipped it over to read the twelve-song list on the back.

  “I know!” Renee was beaming. “I told him it would come out great.”

  Dylan was not a fan of the cover concept. He thought a photo of the band members was cheesy and opted for artwork instead. Renee insisted that, since they were all good-looking guys, it would be more marketable. Sex sells. Dylan argued that this theory was exactly what was wrong with the music industry today.

  He eventually gave in.

  With her new mom-to-be schedule, Renee had quickly become the band’s pseudo-manager. She devoted all her spare time to learning about the music industry and indie artist success strategies. Thus, Dylan usually listened to her even when he didn’t want to. And I was just grateful for the referrals. Electric Wreck was the second band she had referred to me for photography shoots, and since I hadn’t found a job or a permanent place of abode yet, freelance work helped. Living rent-free also helped.

  Although I knew the real reason for my lack of drive. I hadn’t fully committed to being home yet. My heart was still in LA.

  Renee handed a cardboard box to the merch girl, then led me to the side of the stage. “Did I tell you that they raised over 20,000 dollars for their album through the Kickstarter campaign?”

  She had. At least three times. “I think so,” I lied.