“It should be enough cash to last you until the end of the year. I brought it thinking it would make you feel better since you weren’t feeling well.”
A slow anger burns in my chest, but it’s directed at myself, not Peter. I know I can’t turn it down. I should. It would be the first time I’ve ever refused his money, and it would also be the first time I’ve ever been selfish enough to do so. It’s easier to pretend like the money doesn’t matter when I’m with Kip. But now it’s right there in front of me.
I don’t know when I started using Kip to drown my worries, but reality just came crashing back down.
Peter says my name.
Answering in the only way I can, I slowly pull his tie free of his collar, fearing if I open my mouth I’ll say something incredibly self-serving. I keep my eyes trained on the actions of my fingers as I unbutton his shirt. I don’t feel connected to my body, like they’re not my fingers slipping each button through each slot. It can’t be my fingers. My fingers should be hailing a cab, paying the driver, and knocking on the door to Kip’s shop in less than thirty minutes. There’s no way my fingers are undressing Peter.
He slides his hands up my thighs, nudging the fabric of my dress up as well. My new dress. My new and oh-so-soft dress. My throat dries up when his fingers reach between the fabric of my panties, pulling them down my legs until they hit the ground.
I’m too here. Present. In the moment.
He removes his belt and unzips his pants in hurried movements. I catch a glimpse of his penis as he pulls it over the top of his pants and I look away. I don’t want to look at him.
I can’t do this.
I force the thought from my mind and plant my mouth on Peter’s, throwing myself into the act. He groans in approval, pulling me from the counter and forcing me over the arm of the couch. I nearly choke on air when I feel him between my legs, finding my opening.
I can’t do this.
Suddenly, he’s pushing in, and it’s more real than it was mere moments before. This is already happening.
I can’t do this.
I repeat myself, but this time out loud. Peter freezes his movements but doesn’t withdraw from me.
“I can’t do this,” I declare for a second time, finally gaining enough sense to pull away.
Except Peter won’t let me. The grip on my waist tightens, refusing to let me go. “Kaley,” he says my name in warning. “You owe me this.”
My hands sink farther into the couch cushion and my throat burns from the onset of tears. “I can’t.”
I don’t need to look at him to know he’s seething. But instead of retreating, he begins moving again. I try to stand upright, but he places an arm across my back, forcing my face to replace my hands on the couch as he continues to work himself in and out of me.
“Please don’t make me do this.” My voice dissolves into silence when I conclude he’s not going to stop what we started. I should have said no and turned down the money. I should be meeting Kip.
Relaxing into the couch, I watch the clock next to the door tick away the minutes. With each pass of the second hand, this gets closer to being over. Each tick I can hear over the repeated thrusts, slowly and steadily letting me know time is passing.
When it finally is over, I barely hear him redress, and am surprised when I feel his lips meet the top of my head. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. He lets his money do it as he places the envelope in front of me on the coffee table.
And then I finally allow myself to cry.
I cry for so long, my head swims when I finally stand. I take off my dress, stumbling down the hall and into the shower, where I cry some more. I’m not even sure as to why I’m crying. I just have this overwhelming sense of loss. I manage to bathe and wash the makeup from my face before the water turns cold.
Wrapping the towel tighter around my body, I avoid my image in the reflective surface of the mirror when I get out. I don’t know why I have an urge to brush my teeth, but I do. Then I rinse my mouth out with mouthwash twice, feeling like it didn’t do its job the first time. My phone sounds from the bedroom and I already know who it is before I look at the name on the screen. I sit cross-legged and wait for the ringing to stop, noting the three calls I missed while in the shower.
I was supposed to be at Kip’s over an hour ago. I know I need to say something, anything. Any excuse is better than nothing. Mrs. Cecile’s apartment caught on fire, sudden case of the chicken pox, my cat died. Anything other than radio silence. But every time I prepare myself to answer, it physically hurts when I imagine his voice coming through the phone.
I go back and forth, undecided on whether I want to tell him what happened or ignore that anything happened at all. In all actuality, Kip and I aren’t officially together. The only explanation I owe him is why I didn’t show up tonight, but it doesn’t necessarily need to be the truth.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, but of course life has a way of making me face my consequences head-on.
Kip’s voice travels through the apartment as he calls my name. It’s mere seconds before he spots me from the hallway, eyes wide when they land on mine. “What the hell? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” he snaps. His eyes take in my appearance, concern overriding his anger. “Have you been crying?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. There are too many thoughts and too many wrong ways to say them.
He kneels next to me on the bed, cupping my chin as he forces me to look at him. “Tell me what happened.”
His eyes are apprehensive, like he already knows that whatever happened was bad and it was probably my fault. My eyes well with tears because I know I can’t lie to him. He deserves the truth.
Standing with my back to him, I open the top drawer of my dresser. “Let me get dressed then we can talk.”
It takes a few minutes, but I finally hear the bed shift as he stands, leaving the bedroom door open as he walks into the living room. My hands shake as I force my limbs into a pair of sleep pants and a T-shirt. I pinch myself hard enough to force my thoughts to settle, needing something to halt the sporadic jumping of my heart. I find Kip leaning against the kitchen counter, and I stop short when I spot the lacy fabric in his left hand. My brand new dress is draped across the stool. I hadn’t thought to pick up from where I took it off.
“Kaley, please give me a logical explanation.” He holds up the pair of underwear, maintaining eye contact as he dangles the fabric from his fingers, dropping them onto the counter between us. As if the underwear isn’t incriminating enough, the metal ting of a metal ring hits the counter. “Anything. Anything that would make sense,” he pleads.
Peter’s never left a tie or sock, let alone his wedding band. I would have never thought to double-check for it.
“Kaley—”
As if my life can’t get any worse, knocking interrupts the moment. I start for the door, but Kip holds up a hand, halting my movements.
“I’ll get it.”
I say his name, but he doesn’t stop as he covers the distance to the door. He doesn’t bother to check the peephole before he swings the door open, revealing Peter on the other side.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I forgot my—” Peter looks up from adjusting his cufflinks, the words dying on his lips when he comes face to face with Kip. Neither of them speaks as they take in each other’s appearance.
Once again, I find myself comparing two very different men I’ve been with, one considerably superior to the other. Kip’s body language screams hostility and Peter doesn’t miss the subtle way Kip angles his body in front of mine.
“Kaley,” Peter says, pointedly ignoring Kip’s presence. “I left something. Can you grab it for me?”
Kip doesn’t give me a chance to reply before his fist connects with Peter’s face. I rush to put myself between the two of them. Taken off guard, Peter stumbles back a step and wipes blood from the cut on his lip. Kip reaches back and snatches the ring from the counter and flings it at Peter’
s chest where he scrambles to catch it. Then Kip promptly slams the door in his face.
Finally gaining the courage, I meet Kip’s eyes, and I’m taken back by what I find. There’s not anger, or even the shame I feel, but disappointment. It’s what I expected least, and way worse than anything I could have imagined.
He huffs out a breath, shaking his head at his own thoughts, and then runs a hand down his face. There’s a level of hurt in his features that I have trouble comprehending.
“Who is he?” he says, voice tenuous.
“Peter was one of my dad’s defense attorneys. He gave me this apartment to live in after all of our property was seized.”
“In exchange for…what? Sex?”
Suddenly, standing feels extremely tiresome, and I sit on the edge of the coffee table. “It’s complicated.”
Kip’s eyes land on the envelope on the coffee table the same time mine does, and he snatches it before I can. Not that I could stop him anyway. He sifts through the bills, mouth moving as he silently counts, tossing it back down when he gets to a point when he’s seen enough.
“Really fucking complicated,” he spits out, finally showing a glimpse of anger. “How many times?”
“This was the only time since…you and I,” I say, pointing between us.
He swallows, forcing his words out. “Are there more?”
I want to lie so bad, but I know he won’t miss a beat if I do. “I haven’t in a while, but I work a few nights a week as an escort at an exclusive bar downtown.”
“This explains so much,” he says, voice losing its momentum. “The way you keep your eyes open when we’re having sex. The way you focus on something else, anything else…but me.”
Biting my lip, I stare at the ceiling as I take in the information. He can attempt to psychoanalyze this all he wants, but he can’t. I have sex with men for money. That’s it. It’s a choice. A choice I’ve continued to make over and over again.
My eyes burn when I blink, and I force them in his direction. “What did you think we were, Kip? Together?”
He lets out a deep breath through his nose, unbelieving of my lack of remorse. He speaks behind the fist he has against his mouth, almost like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to. “I thought you were falling in love with me.”
The silence does nothing to muffle the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. A wave of nausea hits me and I vaguely contemplate puking right where I am. I stare at him, dumbfounded, trying to piece together when or how he came to that conclusion.
The way he’s looking at me, equal parts hurt and confusion disguised as anger, tells me everything I need to know.
He never asked permission to fall in love with me because he knew I’d never give it.
My voice is shallow, a sense of hopelessness taking over. “It’s not what I’m capable of, remember?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“I know you feel something for me, even if you don’t want to admit it.”
I hate his self-assuredness, like he knows me better than I do. “Are you sure you’re not just projecting your feelings onto me?”
He clenches his jaw. “That would make you feel better, wouldn’t it? If this was all one sided and I imagined everything. Then maybe fucking someone else wouldn’t hurt quite as much.”
Even though I pushed him, his spiteful words penetrate something inside me. “Just leave.” Not wanting to give him a chance to throw any more stones, I stand, shoving him. “I said leave,” I yell louder this time.
Reluctantly, he staggers a step towards the door. “You can tell yourself whatever you need so this doesn’t break you,” he says, voice steady. “But we both know you’re a bad liar and you can’t lie to yourself forever.”
My body quakes with barely contained rage, and I want him out before he sees it break. I open the door and stare at a blank space on the wall until he finally steps through the opening. His hand shoots out, stopping me right before I shut the door all of the way. My eyes meet his through the gap.
“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.” With that, he releases his hold of the door, letting it close as he walks away.
I PLACE TWO BOTTLES of wine on the counter and drop the exact change next to them. The store cashier looks at me in shame and I raise an eyebrow in her direction, challenging her to say something. It’s seven in the morning and I just walked a mile and a half to get here. The last thing I need is her judgment. Never mind it’s my fifth trip in three days.
She rings me up, albeit begrudgingly, and I shove the bottles into my oversized purse as I walk out. I feel a hand shoot out to steady me as I trip over the curb in front of the store, and I thank the person without looking up.
I’m treading water. At least, that’s what it feels like. Every breath I take feels like it suffocates me a little more and I can do nothing to stop it. My lungs burn and my head swims, and I’m sure I’ll go down at any moment. There aren’t enough showers or tubs of ice cream to medicate it.
The stigma surrounding heartbreak is a ginormous fucking joke. I don’t want a movie marathon or frozen yogurt. Not unless it’s a slasher movie where the girl gets revenge on all the men she hates in her life and the yogurt is infused with wine. I hear they make that now. I’m sure it’s expensive.
Peter’s given me two weeks to find a new apartment and I’ve already wasted an entire weekend and sixty-seven dollars and some odd change I could have spent looking for one.
Oh my God. I stop mid-step, looking up from the dirty sidewalk in disbelief. I’ve turned into that girl. The one who mopes around and ignores her life because of a boy. I’ve witnessed them throughout my life and I always thought they were being overdramatic. I mean, no one is worth screwing your life up for. But here I am, wasting away the days and secretly hoping Kip will walk through my door without calling because he knows I can’t stand it. I even left my door unlocked on the off chance he came by while I went on a booze run.
I pick up my step, annoyed with myself. I’m going to go home and begin packing and call Janine because I’m sure I’m going to be suspended for no-showing yesterday. And then I’m going to take a shower, because my hair seriously needs it.
I’m trudging up the stairs when the door to my apartment opens. My heart jumps in my throat as I freeze where I stand, waiting for whoever is leaving my apartment to come into view. My eyes land on Lance’s bright blond hair and it’s like I suddenly remember I can’t breathe again, and I want to reach out and beg him to fix it.
“Hey. What are you doing?”
I meet him at the top of the stairs. “I went to grab a few necessities,” I say, walking past him and into the apartment.
Lance walks in behind me and shuts the door. I should be more embarrassed than I am about the state of my apartment, but I can’t find it in me to care.
“You do realize you left your door unlocked, don’t you?”
Emptying my purse, I set the wine bottles on the counter and begin looking for the wine opener I had last seen around midnight. “Yeah, don’t worry. I won’t do it again.”
I know I need to start pulling myself together, but I can barely stand to look Lance in the eyes without crumbling. One more day, I tell myself. I’m drawing the line after today then tomorrow I’ll make myself be a functioning member of society.
Lance gives me a look, leaning his body over the counter to see what I’m digging for through the kitchen drawers. “Are you looking for the wine opener right behind you?”
I stop and pivot in place, feeling a small smile of relief form on my lips when I spot it. “Yes,” I say, snatching it like it might try to hide from me again.
“You do realize it’s barely breakfast,” he says, a confused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
The cork pops out and I do a small celebratory arm lift before shoving the wine opener in my bra. Maybe I’m not doing as bad as I think, considering I’m a
ctually wearing one. “Want a drink?” I ask, holding the bottle up.
“Uh, no,” he says. “Not much of a wine drinker. Or an eight a.m. drinker.”
Sneering at him, I take a healthy sip of the liquid and almost immediately, the pressure in my chest seems to lessen. “Why are you here again?”
“Maybe I’ll come back later when you’re sober and…showered.”
“Lance, if there ever was a day you should be nice to me in fear I might legit murder you, today is that day.” I finish the glass and pour another.
He eyes me, and I think he actually might be a little scared. “Let’s move into the living room.”
A real soothing buzz begins to take over and I nod animatedly. “Where it’s comfier.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “And farther away from all the sharp objects.”
I fall back into the couch and giggle, definitely feeling lighter. “You’re back from work quick this time,” I say. “I feel like you just left.”
He sits down and smiles. “Wow. I can really tell you missed me.”
I roll my eyes. “What’s up?”
He rubs his hands on his thighs, and even in my intoxicated state, I can tell he’s nervous. “I have some news I thought you’d like to know.”
“Okay?” Lance is very rarely serious, at least with me, so his nervousness is off-putting. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”
He lets out a small laugh and it works well to soothe me. “No one’s died. I mean, not yet anyway. Mrs. Cecile is apparently immortal.” She must have caught him coming in. “Are you still working at Hudson’s?”
Dumbstruck, I stare at him a full ten seconds before I find it in me to speak. “How’d you know I work at Hudson’s?”
“Come on, Kaley. I’m self-involved, not stupid.”
I rub my forehead and take another drink of wine, staving off the headache threatening to ensue. Lance and I maintained a friendship with…partial benefits when I crashed at his place during the trial. We slept together randomly, but for the most part, Lance was gone more than he was home. I suppose it makes sense he’d do some investigating when I moved out.
Forfeiting Decency Page 13