Knocked Up and Tied Down

by Melinda Minx

  I’m supposed to be working the front, but it’s not like we have any customers right now.

  “Sure,” I shout back.

  I go into the back room and see Wilson with an allen wrench in hand. I pull back the chain for him.

  “Alright,” he says, pedal it.

  I grab a pedal with my other hand and move the chain.

  “Damn,” he says, throwing the wrench down. “Needs a new drivetrain.”

  “I’ll go order one,” I say.

  “I told the dude I could fix it with parts on hand,” Wilson mutters.

  I shrug in the doorway, “You can’t fix them all.”

  When I turn back around, Eric is standing there, leaning against the desk, inspecting a boxed bicycle saddle. He’s wearing slacks, a dress shirt, and tie. I’m guessing he was wearing a full suit, but the jacket is nowhere to be seen. He looks good, but I remind myself that’s all genetics. And probably how much he works out. It’s not like him looking good makes him a good guy. I need to be careful.

  “Eric,” I say, my voice croaking.

  “Hey,” he says, looking back up, “Is $149.99 really the market price on this, or do you guys mark it up? You sell above MSRP, or do you sell at a loss and profit on the repairs and stuff?”

  “You came here to ask that?”

  “Nah,” he says, putting the saddle back on the shelf. “Just curious about your business model.”

  “It’s not my business model, Eric,” I say, “I just work here.”

  He laughs. “I meant the possessive plural form of you, y’alls, yinzes, yous guys’—”

  “I got a liberal arts degree,” I snap. “It might have me stuck working at a bike shop, but I do at least know what possessive plural means.”

  “Slow day?” He asks.

  I realize he’s annoying me. His little charming act isn’t working because I feel he’s been lying to me, but he doesn’t know that I caught him.

  “Not really,” I say, holding up my greasy hands. “I was helping Wilson in back.”

  I grab a rag and start wiping my hands off. Eric’s eyes follow the motion, then rake me up and down. I internally cringe when I remember what I’m wearing—old jeans and a worn t-shirt. Saturday, even though I was skeptical at first, I really liked how wearing Tracy’s clothes made me feel and I told myself I would go shopping soon to update my wardrobe. But I’ve procrastinated it already.

  “I wanted to see if you were up for drinks tonight,” Eric says, straightening his tie.

  “Are you going to wear that?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Worried what you’ll have to wear?”

  It annoys me that he could so quickly realize that. I have nothing I could wear to a fancy place.

  “Did you bike here?” I ask.

  He looks down at his clothes. “No, I got a ride.”

  “Your driver?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, furrowing his brows. “Someone drove me, why?”

  “You’re dodging my question. I asked specifically if your driver—the guy you hire to drive you around—drove you here. Not if someone drove you.”

  “What’s the deal, Ruth?” He asks. “Yeah, I hired a driver—”

  “Again,” I snap, shocking myself with my tone. “That could just mean you called an Uber. I’m asking if you have a full-time driver who gets a fucking W-2 form—”

  “Yes,” he says, “Why do you even care?”

  “Because,” I say, realizing I’m yelling now. “I figured out who you are. You’re Eric Freaking Prince!”

  “You saw my last name when I signed up for the class,” he says. “I wasn’t hiding—”

  “You’re a billionaire,” I say. “You pulled that bullshit ‘we’re just two people on an island’ thing with me, acting like it wouldn’t matter if you were some bigshot asshole on magazine covers?”

  “Oh, those,” he says, looking over my shoulder.

  I turn around and see Wilson staring at us wide-eyed, grease all over his shirt.

  “Go back in there!” I shout at him, stabbing my finger toward the backroom.

  He hesitates a moment, then rushes into the back again.

  I turn back to see Eric grinning.

  “Wipe that smug look off your face,” I say. “Why did you try to hide it from me?”

  “Maybe because I worried you’d act like this,” he says, scoffing.

  “Don’t turn it around on me. I’m only acting like this because you weren’t up-front with me.”

  He draws in a breath. “So which part is more upsetting to you then? The money, or the reputation?”

  “Both,” I say, feeling brutally honest.

  “They’re intertwined,” he says. “It’s hard to date normally when—”

  “Oh,” I say. “I’m sure it’s just brutal torture, having all those supermodels throw themselves at you.”

  “Look, Ruth, I won’t pretend it was like serving in Vietnam or something, but the point still stands that as soon as people know who I am, they treat me differently.”

  “How many people like me do you usually interact with?” I ask. “You really thought I’d use you for your money?”

  He steps closer toward me. “I didn’t know you, and I wanted to. I was starting to think you were someone who wouldn’t treat me differently, but I wasn’t sure yet. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I was going to though.”

  “I could have googled you at any point,” I say.

  “Sure,” he says. “You could have. I’m surprised it took you this long.”

  “My roommate googled you,” I say. “It probably means I’m too trusting that I didn’t think to do it myself.”

  “Trusting is good,” he says.

  “No, it makes me naive. Stupid—”

  “Come on, Ruth,” he says, grabbing my wrist. I realize I’ve been vehemently talking with my hands flailing around.

  He holds me still, and I feel the tension start to melt off me as his protective grip holds me steady. His strong hands slide from my wrists to my hands, and his fingers run across my palms.

  “I’ll go for drinks tonight,” I say. “But I’ve got to tell you honestly, I don’t have anything remotely dressy. What I wore last Saturday was borrowed… I don’t even own a dress.”

  “I figured as much,” he says, grinning. “So you pick the place.”

  I feel his free hand slide around my waist, and my face burns red. His fingers slide down into my pocket. Is he going to just grab my ass?

  Then I feel my phone sliding out of my pocket, and he pulls away from me with my phone in his hand.

  I open my mouth to protest, but he just lifts my hand toward the fingerprint reader and unlocks my phone.

  “I’m putting my contact info in here,” he says. “My direct number.”

  “That phone…” I mumble, “Is also my direct line.”

  He laughs, then hands the phone back to me after a few moments.

  “Text or call me where you want to go tonight, I’ll be free after ten.”

  After ten o’clock? I’m usually brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed at ten. Not getting ready to go out.

  “Okay,” I say shyly, unable to turn him down. Though, I probably should after how evasive he’s been.

  “Hey,” I hear from the back. I turn around and see Wilson. “I really gotta piss. I’ll try not to listen.”

  “Go,” I snap.

  He runs across the shop and disappears into the bathroom.

  “Looks to me like you’re in charge here,” Eric says, laughing.

  I roll my eyes. “Everyone bosses Wilson around. You can too if you want.”

  “No thanks,” he says. “I boss people around enough at my own job.”

  “Do you go out drinking a lot?” I ask.

  “I said we’re going out for drinks, not going out drinking. It’s different.”

  “How?”

  “Going out drinking implies that the goal is to get drunk, while going out for drinks implies a number
of other goals.”

  I feel my cheeks burning. Is he seriously saying what I think he’s saying?

  “For example?” I finally summon the courage to ask.

  “Use your imagination, Ruth,” he says, grinning.

  God, I was trying not to. It’s not that I don’t want to, or wouldn’t want to, if the circumstances were right, it’s more just that it feels awfully fast. I don’t usually just jump right into bed with a guy.

  Okay, honestly I don’t usually do anything with a guy, but especially not jumping into bed.

  The bathroom door swings open, and Wilson stomps out with his hands extended out like a zombie. Water is dripping all off his hands.

  When he sees how I’m looking at him, he says in a whiny voice, “Out of paper towels.”

  Then he shakes his hands off, throwing water all over the floor. He looks up at Eric and says, “You know the worst thing about having to piss while working on bikes?”

  Eric shakes his head.

  “You got grease all over your hands, right? So you can’t touch your hog when your hands are all covered in grease, so you have to wash them before and after you piss. It’s no wonder there’s no paper towels left in there.”

  “Glad to know that the Fixed Gear has the highest levels of sanitation standards,” Eric says to Wilson. “I imagine a lot of other bike shops have guys with greasy dicks working on my bike.”

  “Or guys with pissy hands,” Wilson says.

  I elbow Eric, wishing he would please stop talking to Wilson, but he just looks at me with an evil grin.

  “How’s your bike treating you, man?” Wilson asks. “Ruth set you up well?”

  “Can’t complain about Ruth,” Eric says. “Or the bike. I think I’m addicted.”

  “Yeah, bikes are like that. Something about moving that fast under the power of your own body. Really cool,” Wilson says completely oblivious.

  “Well, I’m gonna get going. I realize I’m keeping you both. Let me know, Ruth.”

  I nod as he walks out the door.

  “So…” Wilson’s voice cuts in after Eric is gone. “Are you two…”

  “Shut up,” I snap back at him.

  “Will do,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants.

  “Can I borrow some clothes again?” I ask, out of breath.

  Tracy looks up at me, “Another date?”

  I nod.

  “With Eric Prince?” she asks.

  I nod again.

  Her eyes widen, but she presses her lips together and avoids saying anything.

  “Look,” I say. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “Where are you guys going?” she asks.

  “Uh,” I mumble. “I need help with that too. Where do cool people go to ‘get a drink?’”

  “Get a drink, is that his phrasing?” she asks.

  I sigh. “It could mean a number of things, not just what your dirty mind is thinking.”

  She grins wildly at me.

  “Keep him in Brooklyn,” Tracy says. “You need a home field advantage.”

  “How is it a home field advantage if I’m at a place I’ve never been to? I never ‘go for drinks’ at all.”

  “It’s not like I don’t invite you out,” Tracy says.

  I feel suddenly guilty. I’m always too tired to stay out late, and drinking makes me even more tired. But now that Eric is asking me instead of Tracy, I’m suddenly willing to do it.

  “I get it,” Tracy says. “Go to The Microbrew, it’s just a few blocks from here.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen that place.”

  “I can go as your wing-girl if you want…” Tracy says, looking at me eagerly.

  “You just want to watch our date like it’s a gossip magazine, don’t you?”

  She puts her hand on her chest, as if I’ve actually offended her rather than guessing her exact intention.

  “Okay…” she says, “I actually very much want that, but I also want to make sure nothing happens to you. I’ll be your stealth wing-girl, he won’t know that we know each other.”

  “What do you think he is going to do to me?” I ask. “And what would you do to stop it?”

  Tracy shrugs. “If I see you are too drunk, I can make sure he doesn’t take you home with him…”

  I feel my face burning. I want him to take me home with him. I want him to take charge too, so I can offer token resistance and not feel like a total slut. The last thing I need is Tracy cock blocking me.

  “I think I’ll be okay on my own, Tracy.”

  She frowns, but nods begrudgingly. “Can you at least introduce me to him at some point? If things go well.”

  “Of course,” I say. “He’ll want to meet the girl whose clothes I keep wearing.”

  9

  Eric

  “The Microbrew?” Wallace says, “So she’s an... unhip hipster?”

  Dmitri cackles, and I glare at both of them.

  “Well,” Wallace says, putting his empty glass onto the table, “I’ll leave you to it. I hope you make me a lot of money, Eric. I’ll sue you if you don’t.”

  Dmitri and him laugh, and I force myself to fake laughter as well.

  When Wallace is gone, Dmitri stands up and stretches, and I shove him down into the chair, balling my fists up as I tower over him.

  “What the fuck, man?” he shouts up at me.

  “Why are you telling everyone about our bet?”

  “Wallace isn’t going to talk,” Dmitri says.

  Anger surges through me like a flooded river. Hearing Wallace and Dmitri make fun of Ruth without ever having really spoken to her has enraged me, but I can’t let Dmitri know that.

  “Look, you idiot,” I hiss. “If people figure out this is all a bet, then you guarantee that I lose. I’m not going to win Best Couple if people know it’s all a sham.”

  “Wallace is in business with you now,” he says. “He’s not going to risk fucking things up for you. It’s bad business.”

  “That’s not the point,” I say, my jaw clenched. “This bet is between you and me. I need you to keep it that way.”

  “Fine,” Dmitri says, waving his hand dismissively. “But once it’s over, I’m telling everyone that I bested you.”

  “Not if I win,” I say.

  “You won’t,” Dmitri says, getting up to leave.

  10

  Ruth

  I get to The Microbrew at 9:15.

  I had a big plan in place to make sure I wouldn’t be late without arriving way too early. I was going to stop for a late dinner—mostly so I could hold my alcohol slightly better—and then hang out in the taco place near the bar until something like 9:55.

  The tacos came way faster than I expected, and then a flood of customers came in. I found myself sitting there with my tray of leftover chip crumbs and smeared guacamole and sour cream, while dozens of people glared at me for my seat.

  I got up and decided to kill some time walking the neighborhood, but the skirt I borrowed from Tracy is too short, and it’s too cold out. So, I decided I might as well just go ahead to The Microbrew.

  Now I’m here at 9:15, and it’s nearly empty. I can’t blend into the crowd, because there isn’t really a crowd.

  “Can I get you something?” The bartender asks.

  He’s a big guy with a big beard and tattoos, which somehow scares me into ordering a beer.

  “Just a beer,” I say, eyeing the tap.

  He waits with his arms crossed while I scan the choices.

  “An, um… what’s the alcohol percentage in that cider?”

  “Six percent or something,” he says.

  “Ok,” I say.

  “Does that mean you want it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Sure,” I croak out.

  I really didn’t want to drink anything before Eric arrived, but if my conversation with the bartender is any indication for how smooth I’ll be able to talk tonight, I probably do need to drink something to loosen up before he gets here.
<
br />   I go to pay, but the bartender leans in toward me. “It’s covered.”

  “It is?” I ask, “Why?”

  He moves his eyes up to signal to me, and I turn around, expecting to see Eric arrived early.

  Instead, there’s just a guy at a table. He looks alright—nothing close to Eric—but alright. He’s clean-shaven, moderately in shape, but short. He also looks nervous, managing to meet my eyes as I look back, but the smile he gives me seems somehow unnatural.

  I force my own awkward smile, then spin back around toward the bartender.

  The bartender laughs a bit when he sees my face. “I can give you some advice.”

  My face is red, and not from the cider. “Yeah?” I ask.

  “Just take the free drink, and ignore the guy. I see women do it all the time.”

  “That seems incredibly rude,” I whisper.

  “Not used to guys hitting on you?” he asks me, eyeing me up and down. From his face, I can tell he can’t quite figure me out.

  “I’m meeting someone here… another guy.”

  “Just tell him that if he approaches you then,” the bartender says.

  “Can I just stay here?” I ask. “You can like... run interference if he tries to talk to me.”

  “You’re asking me to cock block for you?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll try,” he says with a laugh. “Can’t make any promises.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking a big swig of cider.

  Somehow, the place goes from nearly abandoned to packed before I finish my drink. It feels like all the crowds from the taco place decided to rush into here, and before I know it, people are shoving all around me, and the bartender is totally occupied, not sparing me a single glance.

  “Looks like you’re dry,” A voice shouts into my ear.

  I turn around and see the guy who bought me the drink with another awkward smile.

  “Get you another?” he asks.

  “I’m… I’m good,” I say uncomfortably.

  “Cool,” he shouts over the crowd, then he signals toward the bar.

  A new bartender who just arrived, a woman with dreadlocks, looks at him, and he points to my empty glass. I try to protest, but she doesn’t hear me.