Play Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  “Hello Ms. Yorkville,” I say, injecting my tone with a hint of flirtation as I saunter into the room, chest all puffed up and swagger on point. As if the mere sight of her doesn’t turn my stomach inside out with revulsion. I drop into a chair opposite her desk.

  She throws me a sultry stare as she rises from her seat and slithers toward the door, making sure to shake her hips as much as humanly possible in the process. I press my eyes shut and pull in a steely breath when I hear the rustle of the blinds flipping closed.

  Dear god.

  Helena comes and sits on the lip of her desk, one leg crossed over the other, hands planted on the table on either side of her, cleavage pushed up. “Well hello, yourself.” Her tongue traces a languid path along her bottom lip and my blood curds like stale milk. “It’s very nice to see you,” she drawls as she leans forward, causing her breasts to spill against the low neckline of her blouse.

  I skip the pleasantries and go straight to business. “I heard that there’s been a problem processing my latest permit application. Just here to clear it up.”

  She pouts, leaning back as she folds her arms. “So you’re not even gonna ask me how I’ve been?”

  “Just looking at you, I can tell you’ve been very well, Helena.”

  Without further chitchat, she throws her thighs open and the fabric of her skirt raises up enough that, if I shift my eyes in that direction, I’ll have a front row view of her entire reproductive machinery.

  I don’t want that.

  Not at all.

  She mewls. “I’ve been lonely, Charlie. I’ve missed you.”

  “Helena, we agreed. What we had was just a fling. I didn’t mislead you.”

  “Well, I thought I’d changed your mind. Especially after you did that thing to me. That thing with your kneecaps and your pinkie finger. Remember?”

  I sneak a peek at the clock on my phone. It’s almost lunchtime and I still haven’t made it to the worksite. I can’t believe I wasted my whole morning here. I’m running low on patience but I speak in my most diplomatic voice. “We were just having a little fun. Why complicate things?”

  “Because I want more!” She pounds a fist into the table. “Last time you fucked me against a wooden frame in a gutted house on River Street and you left me standing there with my panties around my ankles. When are you gonna ask me out on a proper date Charlie? When are you gonna treat me like a lady?”

  “Oh, Helena, you can do so much better than me. A man in a suit and tie. A man who drives a nice car. Me? All I do is put my dirty hands on you and leave boot prints all over your nice living room rug.”

  “Mmm. That’s what I like, Charlie. You know I like it dirty. Just the way you do it.” She drops to her knees in front of me and goes straight for the zipper of my jeans.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” I leap up from the chair causing her to fall back onto her ass.

  She looks at me with innocent, shining eyes. “What?”

  Time to put this woman in her place. “Okay, look. You’re a really nice person and everything but we can’t go back to doing what we did before, okay? It was unprofessional. And wrong.”

  “But it felt right. So right.”

  “Feelings are unreliable, Helena.” I exhale and give her a soft smile. “You’re better than this. You know it. I know it.”

  Instead of being flattered, she’s mad now. “Don’t you bullshit me, Charlie.”

  “I’m not bullshitting. I’m just helping you see the truth.”

  She leans forward and narrows her eyes menacingly. “Y’know what? Your building permits? Your demolition permits? They pass through me. Your livelihood depends on my benevolence. You don’t keep me happy, I'll have you rattling a tin can for coins on the corner outside of the Quickie Stop in no time. Rely on that!” With a huff, she rises to her feet and smooths her skirt into place.

  I try to keep my cool in the face of her threats. She’s bluffing, right? She wouldn’t withhold my permits just because I don’t want to fuck her. Would she do something like that?

  I need this demolition permit. The Silverberry Shopping Centre project is the biggest contract I’ve ever been awarded. Tens of millions of dollars are on the line. If I don’t get the permit, I can’t start the project and if I can’t start the project, I can’t get paid and if I don’t get paid, my men don’t eat. I can’t let them down like that. I scrub my hand over my scalp and down my face.

  She’s sitting behind her desk now with her fingers steepled in front of her, the picture of class and professionalism. “How bad do you want your permit, Charlie? When you figure that out, let me know.”

  I glare at her for a long moment, a thousand insults flying through my head, colliding with each other. But I’ve got to keep my cool. I just press my lips flat and stomp out of the room.

  I’m done playing this woman’s games. But how the hell am I going to get this permit?

  Chapter 6

  Nova

  I hook my thumb around the strap of my guitar case to keep it from sliding off my shoulder and I clench my arm closer to my ribs to secure the blank toile rolled up under my arm.

  It's only ten more steps. Only ten more steps.

  But as I trudge across the overgrown lawn, my front door might as well be a mirage on the far edge of the desert. The hefty bag of art supplies in my other hand threatens to break my fingers. Now I'm starting to question my decision to take all the bags out of the car in one shot. Oh darn.

  My muscles strain as I climb the trio of steps to the promise land, my destination just within reach. Raising my shoulder to keep the guitar case strap from slipping over the edge, I dig my fingers into the pocket of my jeans and manage to pry my keys out.

  But just as I'm twisting the key in the lock, the bottom of my plastic bag gives way. Yarn, ribbons and paint tubes go crashing to the porch. And so does the spaghetti and meatballs I grabbed after my shift at Gallos. A can of spray paint drops on its head and goes wild on contact with the porch, spinning like a top and showering the glass of the screen door and the wooden floorboards with red paint. I drop everything else and leap on the runaway can, covering it with my hands to stop the carnage.

  Now my front stoop looks like the scene of a medieval uprising. Frantic, I search for something to clean the mess because once the paint dries up, I’m screwed.

  My eyes land on the mess jutting up out of the overstuffed mailbox. I grab a handful of junk mail—coupons, flyers, political leaflets—then drop to my knees trying to scrub off the mess. But it's hopeless. I’m too late. The stains have set in.

  I fall onto my haunches, lean my back against the wall and pout because not only did I just lose my dinner and most of my art supplies, but now, instead of curling up on the couch to work on my drawing, I have to spend the evening scrubbing this impossible mess with acetone. I feel utterly defeated.

  As I drop my head and groan in frustration, one of the items that fell from the mailbox catches my eye. I look more closely at the piece of paper in my hand. It's not a flyer for the local pizzeria or a coupon for the optometrist in town. I trace a finger along the shimmery envelope. My heart thrums when I read my name etched across the front in an elegant silver font.

  Ugh—it's a wedding invitation.

  My stomach coils immediately. Not a wedding invitation.

  I'm at the age where way too many of my friends are making major life choices and forcing me to bear witness. These days, it doesn't even feel safe to browse my Facebook feed without having some sort of alcoholic beverage (and maybe a sedative, depending on how shitty my day’s been) within arm’s reach.

  The announcements—the pregnancy announcements, the engagement announcements, the job promotion announcements.

  And the photos—the baby bump photos, the wedding photos, the sedately-drinking-a-glass-of-wine-on-the-terrace-to-celebrate-the-job-promotion photos.

  It's overwhelming. Especially since I feel like I've made exactly zero headway in my own life. Everybody else is getting their shi
t together. Me? I’m flat on my ass on the front porch of my mother’s house covered in red spray paint and spaghetti I stole from my dead-end job. This isn’t what I thought my life would be at 25.

  By far, the biggest stressor in my life is that feeling that I have no clue where I’m going career-wise. I have all these ideas and dreams and hopes inside of me and nothing makes me happier than breathing life into them. I could paint all day. I could photograph the sunrise and the trees and the little old ladies ambling down the edge of the narrow streets. I could make music until my fingers are bleeding against the strings of my guitar...But then, how would I pay the bills?

  So, I'm stuck in a dead end job that offers no inspiration, barely leaving me with enough money to feed my art supply addiction at the end of each month. My spirit nosedives off of a cliff with every order I take, with every pitcher of beer that I deliver, with every sticky table that I towel down. I used to think that my waitressing job was just temporary, a stepping stone. But with each week that passes I'm no closer to my goals and it's starting to feel like maybe it’s true, maybe there is no way to earn a living doing what I love.

  The longer I unsuccessfully pursue these creative aspirations while my peers forge ahead with their own lives, the more evident it becomes that I'm being left behind.

  With a loaded exhale, I bring my attention back to the damn wedding invitation. I flip over the shimmery metallic envelope. No return address. Just my name printed in that elegant typography across the front. I peel the envelope open and pull out the thick classic ivory linen card stock with its gilded border and its embossed writing. My eyes travel to the bottom to see who the happy couple is.

  My jaw drops to the floor.

  Scrambling for my purse, I tear the zipper open and pull out my phone. My fingers punch at the screen. The phone rings once. Twice. A warm, gingerbread voice floats across the line halfway through the third ring. "Hello?"

  This probably isn’t the most cordial greeting, but I can’t help myself. "What the hell, granny?!"

  Chapter 7

  Charlie

  My phone starts ringing on the bathroom counter just as I’m stepping out of the shower. I wipe water from my eyes and glance down at the screen. Nova’s phone number blinks up at me.

  My cock twitches and I glare down at it as I wrap a towel around my waist. He and I have a serious communication issue when it comes to Nova. He just can’t seem to come to grips with the fact that she isn’t an option for him.

  I clear my throat and force my voice to stay neutral. “Hey.” I balance the phone between my cheek and my shoulder.

  “I'm taking a public opinion poll on a very important topic,” she tells me in a no-nonsense voice.

  I try to play dumb. “How did you get this number?!” I tease in a suspicious tone reserved for telemarketers and those annoying people who call at the most inconvenient times with phone surveys.

  She snickers quickly then tries to sound solemn. “Ultra serious matter here, Charlie. Stop joking around.”

  I lean against the thick marble countertop and grin at the sound of her voice. I heave an exaggerated sigh. “Go for it.” I wait impatiently for her ‘ultra serious’ question.

  “Do sliced olives sprinkled with ranch dressing count as salad?”

  A laugh cracks through my chest. I can hear a cupboard slam shut and then the jangle of the refrigerator door being pulled open. I imagine her rummaging around in search of something to eat. “Nova, who left you unsupervised in the kitchen again?”

  She’s laughing, too. “I dropped my dinner on the front porch. Then I had to clean it up and now, I am absolutely starving. And the only thing I have in my fridge is half a jar of sliced olives and a bottle of salad dressing. Well, aside from the eggs but they expired three months ago. So, again—do olives with salad dressing count as salad?”

  The memory of that time Nova cooked me dinner floods into my mind. I’ll never forget it. There were at least 36 hours of gastrointestinal fireworks for all parties involved.

  “Just come over. I’ll make you a grilled cheese.” I had a late lunch and I wasn’t planning on making myself dinner tonight but friends don’t let friends get salmonella poisoning.

  “Charlie—you don’t have to…” She sounds absolutely insincere, far too sugary.

  “Nova, come over,” I say firmly.

  Her voice goes coy although I can hear her grinning gleefully. “If you insist…Warm up the griddle, baby. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

  God—I love that spark in her. That mischief. I love that she’s a bit of a delinquent.

  The corners of my lips curve upward. “See you in 15 minutes.”

  “And Charlie…” Her tone is grave, serious.

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure to cut the crusts off, okay?”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  I’m grinning like a puberty-stricken fool with a crush as I throw on some sweatpants with a T-shirt. I pad across the smooth hardwood floor of my bachelor pad into the kitchen and do a quick tidy-up, putting away the dishes and wiping down the counters. Then, I pull out the bread and sliced cheese and start slapping sandwiches together as the griddle pan warms up. And yes, I cut off the crusts because that damn girl can get me to do anything.

  I was planning to drive into town tonight. Hit a bar. Find a girl who’s looking for some trouble. But the chance to spend the evening hanging out with Nova has me pushing all my other plans aside. Normally, I’d think that it’s a waste of time to brush off a guaranteed lay in favor of hanging out with a girl I’ll never have sex with but this is Nova we’re talking about. Being around her just makes me feel good.

  In no time, I hear the doorbell and I glide down the hall with a grin on my face. I swing the door open and the wind gets knocked out of me. Damn! I’ve known this girl forever, still the sight of her always makes it a little hard to breathe.

  She’s wearing denim shorts that show off her bronzed legs with a flowy jersey top sliding off of her shoulders. Her canvas backpack is clenched in her fingers. She is blissful chaotic perfection from the big, sexy mess of curls on her head to the chipped green nail polish on her flip-flop-wearing feet.

  “You’ve got red paint on your chin.” I wet my thumb in my mouth then swipe it across her jawbone.

  For a fraction of a moment, she freezes and watches me with wide, wanting eyes. A shiver runs through her. Then, she snaps out of it and swaps my hand away.

  “It’s already on the stove? I can smell it.” Her lips quirk into a goofy smile.

  Awareness prods my cock as she edges by me and kicks off her slippers on the mat. Her sweet light perfume grabs hold of me and I follow after her like a bee chasing the scent of lavender. She bounces down the hall, headed straight for the kitchen.

  She leans over the stove as I come up behind her with a spatula in hand. I resist the urge to flog her with it and instead, I flip the sandwiches over. She groans as she peers at the golden, toasted bread. “Aw, man. You’re making my mouth water, Charlie.”

  My gaze falls on her ass and rolls down the backs of her thighs. So smooth and shapely. God, I want them wrapped around my neck. You’re making my mouth water…

  And in a related development, my cock is now incredibly hard.

  Her gaze snaps over to me and again, I fail to avert my eyes in time. Our eyes hold for one heated second before she turns away.

  These moments are becoming a regular occurrence. Ever since Reese and Leo started shacking up, I’ve been seeing a lot more of Nova. Not that I’m complaining. I’m enjoying it. I just don’t know how much longer I can play the role of the friend zone guy before I push her down on the nearest horizontal surface and do something that will change our friendship irreparably.

  The situation is a tinderbox and my unrelenting lust is the spark that will blow this whole thing up.

  “I’m in the mood for hot chocolate,” I tell her, shifting attention away from my guilty desires.

  “Oh that sounds good!
” she grins as she slides onto a chair at the island.

  She pulls out her sketchpad and pencil as I work on the sandwiches and hot cocoa. I could complain that she hasn’t lifted a finger to help but she’s a disaster in the kitchen. Plus, I sort of like cooking for her. I won’t pretend to be some master chef but I handle the basics far better than she does.

  Her phone beeps and she picks it up, snickering to herself as she reads whatever is on the screen. Something sort of like jealousy grows in my chest. It tightens along my insides. I silently wonder who might be messaging her. Could it be some guy?

  But the next words out of her mouth set my mind at ease. She glances up at me. “So apparently my grandmother is getting married.”

  “What?!” I find myself snickering, too.