Me Tarzan, You Jane

by Camelia Miron Skiba

  There’s a discomforting long moment of silence. Lucas searches my face with visible interest, lingering on my eyes and lips. I’m tempted to lick them, but there isn’t an ounce of saliva left in my mouth. Then I panic, thinking maybe there’s chocolate in the corner of my mouth from the M&Ms I crunched on minutes ago—or worse, some between my teeth.

  “Does it hurt?”

  I scrunch my brows. “Excuse me?”

  “Your head. Does it hurt from the eye-rolling you’ve practiced all evening?”

  “Excuse me?” Why can’t I say something else? I mean, I consider myself a sharp girl, able to carry on a conversation without feeling like I’ve entered London’s fog, which is exactly how Lucas makes me feel. Besides, how in the world does he know I rolled my eyes when he was busy charming an entire room full of needy women? And how does he know I rolled my eyes at him?

  “I saw you.” Lucas plants both feet apart, hands on his waist. “Not once have I looked your way without seeing those pretty eyes flip-flopping to the back of your head. Is this how you get your exercise?” His kiwi green eyes roam over me, stopping a moment longer on the line between my breasts, then come back to my face, one corner of his perky mouth slightly up. “You’re in great shape, I must say. Care to share how you do it? Your exercise, I mean. Maybe I won’t have to spend so much time in the gym to build these muscles.” As if to emphasize his words, Lucas flexes his chest.

  Let’s get one thing straight: my instinct tells me Lucas Oliver is trouble. From the moment I first heard his name until he made an appearance, he was a pretty face everyone drooled over. Seeing him among women, rubbing against them, sharing kisses as if they were the Sunday morning’s newspapers, and throwing his arms around anyone willing to share more than bodily odors confirm my first impression that the guy is nothing but a pretty face.

  “You know what?” I place my left palm over my chest. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, I don’t even know who you are and so, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.”

  Lucas’s grin widens. “You don’t know who I am or you pretend not to know?”

  “Sir. Please be so kind and step aside.” I take a lateral step but he positions himself again in front of me, cutting off my way out of the room. I stare at a wide chest before raising my eyes to his face, my chin up in the air. “You’re rude.”

  Laughing as if I said the funniest thing in the world, Lucas says, “And you’re a chicken.”

  His words catch me off guard. I’ve never been called chicken. Shy, prude, stubborn, mellow, yes, but never a chicken. I’m so mad smoke could puff out of my ears.

  “Okay. That’s it.” I take a step closer and poke at his chest. My finger will be sore tomorrow from the wall of muscles I hit. “I’ve no clue who you are nor do I care to know. I had a wonderful night surrounded by wonderful people, and you’re not one of them. Move, now. You’re invading my personal space.”

  Lucas chuckles, bows, and frees my path. I don’t see anyone or anything around me when I beeline for the door. I’m pretty sure I hear whistles and laughter, but don’t turn back. I need to get to my room, fast. The jog to the elevator, the wait for it, and the ride to the seventh floor is all a blur, all done in a quick breath. Only when I’m locked in my room I allow myself to breathe lungsful of cool air.

  I feel humiliated and angry. Whenever we are on set with actors and actresses with egos bigger than their heads, I don’t let their absurd demands, sarcasm, and attitudes get to me. I use the love for my job to counter it all, walls and walls of indifference built around me. At the end of the day I smile while they are stuck in their extravagant trailers, prisoners in their cosmetically enhanced bodies, stuck being who they are—petty individuals feeding off making everyone around them miserable.

  Lucas Oliver tops them all.

  Chapter 3

  It feels as if I’ve just fallen asleep when laughter and voices penetrate my door. The electronic clock on my nightstand reads 3:10 A.M.

  A slammed door rattles the picture above my bed. The noise is closer, on the other side of my wall. Another door slams, then the toilette flushes and the water faucet turns on and off before the door slams again. Music invades my ears, then the volume is lowered, but not low enough. Pitbull’s song “Rain Over Me” drums in my head.

  I’m groggy, somewhere between awake and asleep, fighting to blank my mind out, pushing a pillow over my ear to block the music. If the noise doesn’t stop within minutes, I’ll spend the rest of the night tossing and turning. Once fully awake I never fall back asleep. I usually get up and write. That’s how I get my stories and voices out of my brain.

  My heart jumps out of my chest when a bottle of champagne pops open in the room next to mine followed by cheers and laughter. Frustration replaces my sleep. Some people have no respect for others, behaving in public as if they own the place.

  I turn the lights on and call reception. A sleepy voice responds on the third ring telling me I’m connected to the operator. Our conversation takes twenty seconds, with me complaining about the next door tourists and the man promising to send someone up.

  And the waiting begins.

  Ten . . . fifteen . . . twenty minutes later I’m up. I give up pajamas for a blue shirt and jeans and turn my laptop on. I check emails and add several appointments to my calendar, two for sport commercials and three for fast food advertising.

  When the noise coming from the room to my left becomes unbearable, and it’s obvious no one came to calm things down, I consider knocking on their door. Who in their right mind would behave like this in a hotel?

  Rihanna’s “We Found Love” pulses in my brain. Someone turns the volume so loud I clearly hear the verses. It’s 3:45 A.M. and the party next door is far from being over. I pace the room, hoping for a miracle and that the noise will disappear as suddenly as it started. Then I can at least turn off the lights and rest, rather than fuming and thinking of ways to kill my heroes in my next manuscript to release some of the anger bottled up since I was so rudely awakened.

  I’ve had enough.

  After several knocks the door opens and Michael leans against it, his beige cowboy hat tipped back on his head. His southern accent is even more slurred, “Well, well, well. Lookie, ya’ll, who the cat dragged in.” He turns toward the room and yells, “Hey, all ya’ll, Jane’s here. Do we got more champagne for her?” Then he half-bows and opens the door wide. “Come on in, darlin’.”

  Just my luck to lodge next to party monsters.

  I walk behind Michael to find the guys dancing sandwiched between women. Lucas is passed out on the bed, bare legs intertwined with his while someone takes photos. He’s shirtless and his jeans’ zipper is half open, a taut and tanned abdomen and hip revealed. I wonder if he doesn’t wear undies, but scold myself for wasting one brain cell on such a thought.

  The guys encourage me to join them. Aaron comes over and gives me a wet kiss on my cheek then returns to his girls. He too is shirtless and dances with two bimbos. I recognize the Barbies from the elevator, but none of the other girls. They all look as if they’ve stepped out of a magazine, with flashy, barely-there dresses and enough makeup to paint a canvas.

  Everyone’s drunk. I march to the table by the window and turn off the music. Eyes half-open and wobbly heads turn to me. There’s a unanimous murmur of complaint, but nothing serious. The people standing join the ones on the couch, chairs, or bed’s edge.

  “Whose room is this?”

  Slurred and mumbled words don’t enlighten me until Tatum points at the bed. “His.”

  I should’ve known. Who else in the whole hotel would be so rude and selfish other than the famous, no—infamous Lucas Oliver?

  I grab the first girl on the couch next to Michael. “Time to go home, sweetheart.”

  “You can’t kick me out,” she pouts and shakes my hand away. “The guys invited us to party.” She resembles the Joker with mascara streaks down a cheek and smudged lipstick around her mouth. I hope Michael
, or whoever kissed her tonight, is up-to-date with their vaccines.

  “Listen up. I’m an undercover agent. You can either sleep in your own bed or at the police station. Underage drinking is considered a felony, you know that, right?” I look her straight in the eye, like I’ve seen officers on TV dealing with drunken drivers. If she calls my bluff, I don’t have a plan B.

  By the worried looks she exchanges with the other girls, I realize my hunch was actually true. I reach in my back pocket for my cell phone and say, “People in this hotel have complained about the noise. I’m calling for backup.”

  “No, no!” The girl shakes her head. “No need to call anyone. We’ll leave.”

  One by one I help them up and send them on their way. They don’t argue much, just mumble words I don’t care to understand. Soon I’m alone with the guys. They are in different stages of nakedness, shirts either completely removed or unbuttoned. I haven’t seen so many muscles at once in my entire life, but this isn’t the right moment to dwell on the beauty of male anatomy. If I’m lucky I’ll be tucked in, with the lights off in five minutes, and who knows, maybe, just maybe by some miracle I’ll fall asleep.

  “Where’s your room?” I stand in front of the couch with Aaron and Tatum slouched on it and Michael at their feet, stretched on the floor with his cowboy hat over his face. Cameron drains one bottle of tequila and, when that’s done, he takes on another. My patience runs thinner than butter on hot bread and when I get no answer other than slight snoring, I nudge Aaron’s leg. He opens his eyes and is about to close them again, but I shake him.

  “What?”

  “Your room. Where is it?”

  Aaron rubs his eyes and yawns. “Across from Lucas’s.”

  “How about the others?” I help him up.

  “Next to mine is Tatum’s, then Michael’s and Cameron’s last.” He looks around the room, scrunching his brows. “Where are the girls?”

  I reach to steady him. “Ken took them.”

  He’s confused, but doesn’t press for a better explanation. I walk with him to his room and help him slide his card into the door. It opens with a click. There’s light in the room coming from a nightstand lamp, but he still bumps his bare foot into the bed’s base.

  “Ouch.” It’s the last thing I hear before Aaron falls onto the bed, arms stretched out like he’s been crucified and snores to wake up a village of deaf people.

  Somehow I help Michael and Tatum to their rooms without an incident and more importantly, without having to call a crane. No one falls, just stumbles and walks along the walls until reaching each door, but eventually they’re sound asleep in their beds. One last hurdle to overcome—take Cameron to his room.

  As I head down the hallway to Lucas’s room, I hear the clear sound of someone vomiting. I don’t like it one bit and the closer I get, I brace myself for a scene I’m not eager to see. I pep talk myself, reminding myself of the countless diapers I’ve changed and the colorful and smelly baby food I’ve cleaned up when Ella, my four-year-old angel, was sick. Once you’ve seen that, you’ve seen it all. I’m tempted to just close the door and leave the brothers to share the room for one night. I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first or the last time, but something nags at me.

  The pungent smell of vomit hits me when I enter the room. I take small breaths through my mouth and yet I still smell it. Cameron sprawls on the floor on his back and vomit drips from his mouth. I rush to the bathroom and return with two towels, placing the dry one under his head and cleaning his face the best I can with the wet one. Suddenly I realize Cameron isn’t breathing. His purple lips are parted, an unnatural ashen hue to his skin.

  “You freaking idiot, what have you done?” In my panic I hit his chest, then lean down and listen for breathing. Nothing. I check his pulse. It’s there, faint but steady. I use the wet towel to clean his mouth, position his head and begin rescue breathing. My lifeguard training comes in handy now, and although I’ve never had to use it, I’m grateful I aced the test.

  “Come on, Cameron, breathe. Come on!” I count again. I know time is of the essence here, but I also know I need help and rush to Lucas’s bed. One fist pounding on his chest wakes him promptly, his palm coiling around my wrist like a Cobra Lily trapping its prey. Milky eyes come into focus. “What the hell?”

  “Cameron’s not breathing.” My wrist hurts from his hold and, pointing at the floor, I wiggle my arm free. I’m next to Cameron the next second continuing CPR. “Call nine-one-one.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Lucas kneels next to Cameron, looks for a pulse while holding a cell phone between his ear and his shoulder. When he’s done talking the phone flies to the other side of the room, hitting the wall before landing on the floor. Fully awake he takes over rescue breathing. Without a shirt on all I see is Lucas’s muscles pressed together and tightening with each breath blown into Cameron’s chest. To stay focused I count along, “One, two, three . . .”

  Tiredness catches up with me. And panic. Panic that Cameron might not make it. “Roll him on his side,” I say and Lucas does just that.

  “Son of a bitch! Breathe!” Lucas shakes Cameron’s shoulder then hits it. Sure enough, Cameron tenses and vomits like a mad dragon. The inside of his stomach is on my knees, and I fight the urge to follow suit.

  Cameron coughs and vomits again, struggling for air. Then he vomits once more. We’re drowning in vomit, but I don’t care. I’m relieved to see him opening alcohol-injected eyes, even though briefly, and finally breathing. Not mouthfuls of air, but rather tiny, short breaths in between coughs.

  “You son of a bitch.” Lucas hits Cameron in the shoulder. “What were you thinking?” He leans against the foot of his bed, patches of vomit on his jeans around his knees.

  Cameron’s arm comes off the floor but it’s too weak to lift farther and flops back on the carpet. “I’m sorry.” His words come out in one exhale followed by a coughing attack that leaves him winded.

  I can’t stand the smell anymore. I get up, open the double door to the balcony, then bring towels from the bathroom and clean up. By the time the paramedics arrive, there’s only a large wet spot on the carpet where I cleaned the best I could. I leave the brothers to the care of paramedics and return to my room.

  What a night!

  It’s 4:10 A.M. and I’m exhausted. Dragging my feet to the shower I scrub myself to the point of risking a rash. Toothpaste and a lengthy gurgle with mouthwash can’t remove the icky taste in my mouth and the smell in my nose. The smell of vomit follows me to bed and, as I turn off my lights, Lucas’s earlier grin and words during the wine reception come to mind, “And you are a chicken.”

  Chapter 4

  “Are you gonna buy raffle tickets? Have pictures taken with Lucas?” Mona asks. She’s one of the volunteers helping with registration along with Reese and Virginia—also wearing the same light-blue shirts with the conference’s logo—and myself. The conference started ten minutes ago, but I decide to stay a bit longer just in case more people show up.

  “Me? I’d rather be dead than do that,” I grunt. Mona eyes me with visible curiosity, Virginia stops applying lipstick, and Reese’s jaw drops, resting on her double chin.

  “Why not?” Virginia asks. Her voice cracks like a smoker’s. She forgot to apply lipstick on her bottom lip and, since she hasn’t rubbed them together her upper lip is flaming red while the bottom one is pale pink. “Everyone does it.”

  “My point exactly.” I continue counting how many people registered versus how many didn’t show up. I count 18 no-show versus 250 participants.

  “You don’t like Lucas Oliver?” Reese inquires.

  I pretend to gag myself while keeping my eyes down on the list when two large palms press on my table, the wood squealing under their weight. I lift my head to see none other than Lucas himself.

  “Can I help you?” I’m relieved my voice doesn’t betray my stomach’s summersault. I blame my body’s reaction to seeing him on the lack of sleep and the surprise factor.
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  “We need to talk,” he leans toward me, not looking at the women to my right—who, I’m sure, are in different stages of shock, “about last night. You left the room before I had the chance to talk to you.”

  Knowing women in general, I can only imagine what Lucas’s words sounded like. I hear the gasps and see the eyes popping. My reputation risks being destroyed by a total stranger in front of other strangers. Okay, maybe not complete strangers since we spent the past two hours working together at the registration table, but not enough to consider them my friends. Definitely not people I’d trust telling what really happened last night.

  “It was late.” I stand and gather the papers and pens strewn across the table and put them in a box. Ignoring Lucas, I take the box in the next room, as instructed.

  When I turn around Lucas’s hard body stops me. In fact, I feel as if I bounced off of him. Again the claustrophobic feeling I had last night in his presence overwhelms me.

  “That’s a lame excuse. You and I both know it.” A two-day beard shadows his chiseled jaw, enhancing his sexiness. Muscles bulge under a red t-shirt. His naked hip, exposed last night, flashes through my mind.

  His voice pulls me out of my daydreaming. “I couldn’t tell a damn thing to the paramedics nor did I know where to find you. How could you all let Cameron drink so much?”

  My defense is up and I’m ready to tell him I wasn’t there to babysit his brother when it dawns on me that he hasn’t said a word about the consequences of Cameron’s stunt. Instead of biting back I find myself asking, “Is he okay? Did they take him to the hospital?”

  Lucas pushes a hand through his wavy black hair. It’s thick and begs to be played with. He rubs the back of his neck and mutters, “They pumped his stomach. I’ll go see him later.”

  “Thank God!” At least Cameron is under medical supervision and, with a bit of luck, he’ll be released soon. Maybe no one will find out what happened, and he’ll be able to compete in the contest he came here for in the first place.