Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  “I’m gonna say this once, and then I’ll go back to being the dick I usually am, so pay attention. You’re a good guy and the girl who ends up with you will be lucky. And there is someone out there for you. Someone who’ll make you forget all about Lainie and the porky girl at the bar.”

  I hope he’s right.

  I’ve got a long Sunday to do laundry and work on a project for a client. Being employed by my dad means I can’t even use the “family obligations” excuse to get out of working. On the other hand, being the professional engineer in the family construction company has served me well. It got my house built. I swear my dad started thinking about it before I even hit rehab. I could barely sit up when he plunked my laptop down in front of me and told me to get cracking. It gave me something to focus on. Something to keep my mind from going into deep, dark places. It did anyway, but having to design my house gave me a light to head toward.

  I went to rehab at Shepherd in Atlanta. It was a hike for my family, but my mom wouldn’t accept anything less. While she may have embarrassed the shit out of me as a teenager, never was I more happy for her tiger-mom-ness as I was in the days and months following the accident. I will never, ever forget the people there and the wisdom and hope they imparted to me. I don’t think I was a dick before, but I wasn’t the most charming of people either. I was cocky and arrogant and certainly wasn’t above relying on my looks and my finely chiseled physique to get me what I wanted.

  Maybe my accident was karma.

  Maybe not. I went through a pretty dark time after I returned home. Without the support of my therapists and friends at Shepherd, and as it became more and more apparent that the people I thought were me friends weren’t, I fell into a not-unexpected depression. Pretty predictable, actually.

  But I always had work to turn to. To immerse myself in another world, refining and tweaking, running numbers until everything was precisely right. I think work had a lot to do with keeping me sane.

  The fact that Salinger Homes has actually increased sales since my accident is no coincidence. After designing and building my state-of-the-art accessible home, we’ve begun to specialize in making places accessible. And not just new construction, but renovations and retrofits. We do quality work and try to keep the prices low. The last thing a person who is newly disabled needs is to be price gouged. We’re not going to kick a man when he’s down.

  Mitchell is our head contractor. He can finesse deals for materials and supplies as easily as he can talk a woman out of her pants. We’re getting more corporate accounts now, and the business is growing exponentially.

  All due to the dumb fuck who ran me down.

  We live in an area of New York that saw great economic boom, followed by crippling poverty for generation after generation. The result is urban blight. Underneath the blight is fantastic, totally inaccessible architecture.

  Some things, like the five-story brownstone walk-up, we can’t do anything about. But, we’re working hard to integrate new spaces into old. Perhaps coincidental, but the popularity of the open floor plan is also driving business, as well as making my job easier. Sure, I worry that in about fifteen years, the open concept floor plan will be as passé as olive green appliances and powder blue toilets, but I’ll roll across that bridge when I come to it.

  I can’t say that I’m ever glad I was paralyzed. But even I know it’s not the worst thing that could have happened. Before my accident, Salinger Homes was on track to barely survive the real estate bubble. We were destined for a long life of hard work and moderate return. Now, no one in my family will ever go hungry. Especially because my mom is a financial planner. There will be no willy-nilly spending. No foolish investments. No living beyond our means.

  I can honestly say that, even when they’re driving me crazy, I’d be nowhere without my family.

  CHAPTER FIVE: SAMIRAH

  “Have another shot.” Chase hands me the small glass. I never pass up free alcohol. I’ve already had a lot to drink, and probably should skip this one. It’s yet another Friday night wasted getting wasted. Without thinking, I slam it back. Chase deserves to pay. After all that shit with Grace and the baby. He totally led me to believe that things were rocky between the two of them. Rocky my ass. Not to mention that she was newly pregnant when we first started hooking up. That pisses me off. There was never a future with us, and he knew it. I don’t think we’re going to be together that much longer—how can we stay together when he’s just starting a family?

  I need to end it. It’s not fair to me. It’s not fair to Grace and the baby. I know what it’s like to have a father who doesn’t give a shit. Chase may always be that way, but I don’t need to be the primary cause of it.

  Hey, look at me—developing a conscience.

  “C’mon with me.” Chase pulls my hand, leading me to the back of the club. Down a dark hallway is a room reserved for private parties. Sleek black couches line the dimly lit wood paneled walls. It’s an eclectic mix of modern and rustic. I’m personally not a fan. The decor is trying too hard to be chic and modern.

  “Should we be back here? Didn’t the sign say it was reserved for a private party?”

  “I reserved it. It’s for us.”

  He pulls me into him, making me giggle while he nibbles on my neck as his hands slide up the skirt of my short dress, cupping my ass. All my previous reservations fly out of my alcohol-soaked brain.

  “I knew this dress would look fan-fucking-tastic on you. It’s going to look even better crumpled up on the floor.”

  After the baby shower, Chase sent me this to wear. It’s a miniscule black dress with spaghetti straps. The thin straps crisscross, leaving my back exposed. The fabric clings, hugging my body and leaving nothing to the imagination.

  “You mean here? In the club?” Normally we go back to Chase’s apartment to have sex. We did it once in the dressing room at Nordstrom but other than that, we haven’t crossed this line. I think we’re about to. This is new. Like I said, he’s been getting more and more intense. A little too intense for me. Maybe.

  I pull back a little. “Chase, not here. Someone could walk in.”

  His hands, firm on my hips, pull me close in again. My breath is coming in short bursts, and I’m having a little trouble standing without swaying. I’m a little tipsy. No, hell, I’m drunk. I kind of just want to go home right now.

  “That’s half the excitement, thinking someone will see. And what if they do? Let them watch. They’ll be so turned on, ‘cause you’re the sexiest fuckin’ thing on legs.”

  His hand has snaked up my skirt and is inside my panties. Part of me is very excited by the thought of doing this in public, although I’d like to think that if I were sober, the thought of someone watching would make me uncomfortable. I don’t feel self-conscious though. I don’t feel much of anything. Like my head is oddly disconnected from my body. Foggy.

  Now he’s pulling away and leaves me standing there as he walks over to the bar at the far end of the room. He produces a bottle of … something … from behind the bar. I can’t see that clearly. Things are sort of fuzzy, and my eyes aren’t focusing together. I stumble once, twice, on my way over to Chase. I just want to sit down. I’m not feeling right. Something’s off. I can’t explain it—I’m drunk but something else too. I don’t have the cognitive power to figure it out at the moment.

  I feel like I’m moving through cement. I can’t seem to make my legs work right. Maybe the five-inch hooker heels aren’t the best idea right now. I know he loves these shoes. Blood-red patent leather, darker in the front and brighter in the back. It’s a wonder I can walk on the sharp, narrow heel. I try to kick them off, but my balance is shot. I stumble again and lean into the wall.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking my shoes off,” I slur. “I can’t walk so good right now.”

  “No, leave ‘em on. I like ‘em on you. Nice and trashy.” He says something more that I can’t process. “… hot.” I don’t have to guess at w
hat he’s saying. Something filthy that he thinks will turn me on. The sort of things he’d never dream of saying to Grace. The sort of things you’d say to your whore. Well, if the stiletto fits …

  I make it to the bar. Chase has more shots poured. Great. Just what I don’t need.

  I wave at the offered glass, trying to push it away. “Nah, I’m good. You got any water?”

  “Aww, c’mon. Don’t be a party pooper.” He downs his shot and puts the other glass down. In a swift move, he picks me up and sits me on the bar. Before I can protest again, Chase is bringing the shot glass to my lips, pouring the liquid into my mouth. I cannot even taste what it is.

  My dress, not that there was much of it to begin with, has ridden up, exposing my lower half. He’s standing between my parted thighs. Chase leans in to kiss me, but instead of my lips, he lowers his mouth to my breast bone. His hands are sliding the flimsy dress straps down over my shoulders, exposing my bare breasts. My dress is pooled around my middle, not offering much covering. His mouth shifts to my breast while a hand kneads and pinches the other one.

  His other hand is now between my legs, fingers teasing and toying with me. Finally he plunges inside without much warning. He’s not being gentle, now pulling on my nipple and thrusting inside me at the same time. Truth be told, if I were a little more sober, it might hurt. I don’t care right now. It’s hot. Right?

  I look down at Chase. Squinting hard to focus, I can see that he’s looking past me, toward the door at the other end of the room.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

  The voice from behind startles me, and I almost fall over trying to turn around to see who’s there. Chase isn’t letting up down below and he’s virtually pinning me in place. One hand firmly on my thighs, the other impaling me.

  “Damn, Samantha, you’re the hottest fucking thing.” Scott, Meadow’s ex-boyfriend, has brazenly walked around the bar to stand next to Chase. Todd, the human octopus, is now on Chase’s other side. His phone is in his hand. I try to pull my dress up to cover my chest while attempting to pull my legs together at the same time. Chase’s grip tightens and I can’t move my legs.

  “Chase, stop.”

  “No, Samantha. Don’t cover up.” Scott’s pulling my dress back down, exposing my breasts. “God, these are real. Fucking beautiful.” He reaches up and squeezes me. “So fucking real.”

  Todd’s hand is now on my breasts too. I can’t actually feel his touch. I can’t feel much at this point. “You don’t see real ones like this much anymore.” Then his mouth is on my breast.

  I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want Scott here. I don’t want to be doing this. I try to push them away. There are too many hands. Too many mouths. I try to push them away. I try to say stop. To tell them no. I’m not sure if I get the words out or if they’re just in my head. Please, stop.

  CHAPTER SIX: MICHAEL

  I don’t know if it’s better to get to The Coffee Table early and be there when Lainie arrives or to make an entrance and let her see how well I’m doing. Shit like that has kept me up all week. It becomes a moot point, since I’m running late anyway. One of my tires was a little low on air, and that took time to inflate it. I can pretend that I meant to keep her waiting.

  Truth is, I hate when people run late. It’s disrespectful.

  I run late more these days than I care to admit. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve been on a learning curve for the past thirty months. Just when I think I have it figured out, I get a flat. Literally.

  Pulling open the heavy glass door, I vault myself through. I come here a lot and have it pretty much down. Of course, Lainie’s there. She’s staring intently on her phone and then quickly responds with a flurry of texting.

  “Hey, baby. You having the usual?” Charlene calls out to me as soon as she sees me cross the threshold. I come here a lot. The first time I tried this place out, Charlene plunked herself down at my table and asked me all sorts of questions about my condition. I used to be afraid of this sort of thing happening, but now I’d rather have someone pry than pretend I didn’t exist. Plus, we ended up re-doing the bathrooms and adding a permanent ramp to the side door, so it was a win-win.

  “Sure thing, sweetness.”

  Charlene starts bustling around, preparing my café Americano. I look over toward Lainie, who is just staring at me. She’s sitting at a small round table, the other chair left vacant for me. What an insensitive bitch. She also picked a table toward the back, in a sea of other tables. When I come here with clients, I usually pick a table to the left of the door, one of the three tables by the window. But no, Lainie had to pick probably the hardest table for me to get to.

  I wonder if she’s trying to make me feel bad. Like to illustrate how crippled I am and why we can’t be together. Wait—she called me. She asked me to meet. I’m probably reading too much into this. I’m sweating and I need to calm down before I get dysreflexive. Just another joy of having a spinal cord injury. When something happens to my body that I can’t feel, my blood pressure rises. It can be dangerous. Fatal sort of dangerous. Usually it only happens with an actual injury or a urinary tract infection. But, I can remember back to a time when I could feel, and I can envision my gut clenching to a point where I would be in distress.

  I need to breathe and lower my blood pressure. In with strength, out with the bullshit.

  She stands as I approach, clumsily trying to push the tables out of the way. She’s wearing one of those large printed dresses that my mom used to call a muumuu. For some reason, girls seem to think they’re stylish. I think it’s pretty unflattering and makes Lainie look like she’s put on weight.

  “Hey, Sal. Thanks for coming.” She leans over me and gives me an awkward hug. Her long dark hair cascades into my face, and I do my best not to be creepy and inhale her scent. I am not successful. She pulls back and sits down.

  I have to reach forward to shove the other chair out of the way. She still doesn’t get it.

  “Here’s your café, baby. I threw a biscotti on the side, ‘cause I know how much you like ‘em. It’s the last one. If I’d known you were coming in, I’d have saved a few for you.” She looks expectantly at me and then over at Lainie.

  “Thanks, Char. This is Lainie.”

  Charlene looks Lainie up and down and gives her a “Hrmmph.” I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I don’t think she’s a fan.

  The jury’s still out on my side of the table.

  I wait for Lainie to start. I don’t know what she has to say, but something about her demeanor tells me I’m not going to be happy with it. That there’s not going to be a reconciliation for us. I’m still hoping though.

  Dammit, I’m still hoping.

  “You look good.” She’s looking right at my eyes when she says this. Damn, I could get lost in those milk chocolate eyes of hers. We always talked about how our kids would never have a shot for blue eyes.

  “I am. What’s up, Lainie?”

  “I, uh … this is hard. I, um, need to give you this.” Her right hand emerges from her lap and deposits a small red velvet box on the table.

  Damn, Mitchell was right.

  I stare at the cushioned box, the last holdout of our future together.

  “I don’t feel right keeping it anymore.”

  “I gave it to you.”

  “No, you didn’t.” She looks at the box, also appearing to search for answers. Finally, in a low voice, barely audible, she breathes, “I don’t want it anymore.”

  If I could still feel my gut, it would feel like she punched me there. I can’t let her see how much this hurts. “I see.”

  I take the box off the table and drop it into my lap. I pull my wallet from the bag on the back of my chair and drop enough to cover my drink on the table. I start to turn around when Lainie says, pleading, “Sal, wait!”

  I turn back to her and see tears forming in her eyes. How can she be the one crying? I didn’t dump her.

  “I
need to talk to you.”

  With my arms folded tightly across my chest, I lean back into my chair. “Haven’t you said everything you need to say?”

  “No, there’s something else.”

  I cannot even fathom what she wants to say. We’re done. She gave me the ring back. There cannot be anything else.

  She buries her face in her hands, and suddenly she doesn’t have to say a single fucking thing. The ring on her left hand speaks volumes. It’s a brilliant pink stone. Round. Completely different than the ring I picked out—designed—for her.

  “You’re getting married?”

  Her body jerks upright and her right hand clasps over the left, trying to hide what she is apparently here to tell me.

  “I didn’t think this would be so difficult. Not after all this time.”

  “Lainie, just spit it out. Are you marrying someone else?”

  She nods.

  I glare. I have to interrupt my glaring to do some pressure relief. This time, I place both hands on the wheels and lift my bottom up off the chair. It’s a necessity, but I know my arms look good while I do it. I’m vain about my arms. They’re the only parts of me left with muscle tone.

  My pressure relief is apparently enough to remind Lainie that life with me would be nothing but hardship and caretaking. At least, that’s what she thinks. When I first came home, I needed help. And I let people help.

  She doesn’t know that I’m independent. And screw her. I’m not going to sit here and plead my case. In the two years since we’ve broken up, I’ve rebuilt my life. She’s apparently done the same with someone else.

  I turn around to go, this time determined not to be stopped.

  “Sal! I need to tell you. It’s Phil.”

  That stops me dead in my track.

  Whirling around I shout, “WHAT?”

  “I’m marrying Phil.”

  “Phil? As in my former best friend who drifted away when I needed him most? Phil, who I saw just last week, who did nothing but sulk the whole time? Phil, who was going to be my best man when I married you? That Phil?”