by Sarah Bailey
“It would seem so, yes,” Paul said.
Paul had just confirmed my worst suspicions. And I didn’t have to take his word for it. I’d seen with my own eyes the way Julian looked at Megan this morning. I felt hollow, numb. And I needed to get out of Paul’s office, out of this conversation, and back to my desk where I could bury myself in my work.
“Thanks for the warning,” I said. “Is there anything else?” I added before getting up.
He shook his head, and gave me a mild, concerned look. “Just take care.”
***
I spent the rest of the day glued to my desk, working on a couple of contracts, and then reading through the slush pile. It was exactly what I needed. I was fully occupied with my work, and didn’t have time to think about what happened with Julian this morning. He texted me at lunch, demanding that I meet him in his office, but I deleted the message, and turned off my cell phone. He then tried to call me once on the office line, but I simply picked up the phone and put it back on the receiver.
I left at 6pm, an early day for me. I headed down to the parking lot carrying a chunk of the slush pile under my arm. I was about to get into my car, when I noticed Julian’s Porsche in the lot, up the hill and closer to the entrance. The windows were down. A woman with long, blond hair was sitting in the passenger seat, waving around her arms. Megan. Julian was closer, but I could only see the back of his head. He was angled toward her, rubbing his hand across his forehead. My stomach started to churn. My whole body trembled, and I felt like throwing up, right then and there. All of the emotion I’d been suppressing all day came bubbling up to the surface. I tossed my things in the blue Mini, turned the ignition, and screeched up the hill. Julian’s head turned, and our eyes locked. So much rage was surging through me, I completely lost all sense of composure. I rolled down my window and flipped him the bird. His eyes opened in surprise, and then I scowled at him, put my car back in gear, and squealed out of the parking lot.
As soon as I hit the street, I started laughing hysterically. And then at the next red light, I was sobbing uncontrollably. The driver in the lane next to me, yelled, “Hey, lady, you shouldn’t be driving in your condition.” I gave him the finger too, then cranked ‘Bad Romance’ as high as it would go, and sang at the top of my lungs, tears still streaming down my face. Right before I took off, he looked at me like I was completely deranged, and I probably was. I cried and belted tunes all the way home, and decided that in order to stay sane, I had to stay far away from any man who could hurt me enough to drive me this crazy.
Chapter 9
When I walked in the door of my apartment, I found Angela on the couch in a Chinese silk bathrobe with just fucked hair. I groaned internally. “Is Ziggy here?” I asked, unable to hide the anxiety in my voice.
She had a glass of white wine in her hand, and took a long sip. “Relax,” she said. “He just left.”
I let out an audible sigh of relief, then instantly felt guilty. Angela was really into Ziggy, and though I thought he was an asshole for always getting her high, never taking her out for dinner, and making frequent daytime and late night booty calls, it was her choice, and not my place to judge. I cared about her, though, and it pained me that she thought Ziggy was as good as it gets.
I looked in the kitchen. It was a complete mess. Great. Now I had to clean up after the asshole too. I dropped my stuff by the front door, then started moving hastiliy around the kitchen, throwing dishes into the sink, banging pots and pans, running hot water, and gritting my teeth.
“Hey,” Angela said. “What’s up? You seem pissed.”
I flicked my eyes sharply to her. “Really, Ange? The kitchen’s a fucking mess again? You know it drives me nuts.”
She looked defensive for a moment, but then her expression changed. She eyed me carefully, taking another sip of her wine. “I promise I’ll do them later,” she said. “But that’s not what’s bugging you. Not really.”
I threw the dishrag in the sink, and then grabbed fistfuls of my hair. A little scream crawled up the back of my throat, but I muffled it, and it came out as a low moan. “I’m a gullible idiot,” I said.
Angela’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the guy, isn’t it?”
I nodded, and let out a shuddering breath.
“There’s wine in the fridge,” she said. “Grab yourself a glass, then get your ass on the couch and tell me what the hell happened.”
I yanked open the fridge, grabbed the bottle with a flourish, and then rummaged in the cupboard for a glass. “There’s one clean one left. I guess it’s my lucky day,” I said, my voice both teasing and sarcastic.
“Who cares about the dishes, bitch. Right now it’s all about drinking and dishing. Priorities, you know?”
I let out a heartfelt laugh, and joined her on the couch.
“So what’s the deal?” she asked, he voice slightly apprehensive.
I took a big gulp of my wine, savoring the feel of the cool, crisp liquid sliding down my throat. “Well, essentially, I totally opened up to him, then discovered I was just a rebound fuck.” My throat tightened again, and I swallowed another sip forcefully, willing it to open. I was not going to cry again. I’d already shed too many tears over Julian. But then I couldn’t help it. I shuddered, and then started sobbing again. Angela quickly grabbed my glass, put it on the coffee table with hers, and pulled me into a huge bear hug.
“It just hurts so much,” I said, my voice trembling and breaking.
Angela eased back, putting her hands on my shoulders, and giving me an affectionate and sympathetic look. “He’s so not worth it, Sarah. No guy is.” Then her brow scrunched in thought. “Maybe it’s too early for you to be getting serious again. The Rob thing was a nightmare. You’re still not completely over it.” She gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Maybe you should just play the field for a bit. You know, keep it casual.”
I felt another wave of anger pulse through me. “That’s what I tried to do, but he insisted that it wouldn’t work as fuck buddies.” I wiped my cheeks clean of my tears. “I don’t get him,” I said. “He said he wanted all of me, for me to open up to him completely, yet he’s still hung up on someone else. It’s just so cruel, you know? Who plays with someone like that?”
Angela shrugged. “Guys are jerks. He sounds like a control freak. Like he wanted you as putty in his hands, while keeping himself removed.”
I felt a pang of recognition. “I think you’re totally right,” I said.
“Listen,” Angela said in a coaxing tone. “Come to the bar tonight. I’ll hook you up with someone.”
“I’m not ready, Ange.”
“Fine. But come anyway, and have some fun. You deserve a little bit a fun. Remember our motto in college? Work hard, play hard, right? So just come out. Get drunk. Dance your ass off. Just let loose a little.”
I looked at the slush pile I’d left by the front door, then bit my lip. I could totally use a proper night out. It would probably help me clear my head. “Okay,” I finally said. “Sounds good.” Then I looked at Angela closely, and realized for the first time that she looked totally deflated. Then I remembered that she had had an audition that day.
“Hey, how did the audition for the soap opera go?” I asked. “Dashing, Filthy, Rich, right?”
She groaned. “The part was pathetic,” she said. “The monologue they gave me to do was utterly idiotic. I mean, if I get the part, I’ll take it, but the character totally sucks.”
I scrunched my brow in sympathy. “That bad?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said matter-of-factly. “The scene went like this. I was the dirty, rich heiress, Camilla, who just got pulled over for driving high. They find coke in my purse, and a stolen pair of Agent Provocateur bra and panties. Then this is what I say.”
Angela put on the haughtiest, ditziest look she could manage and said, “Oh my god, it’s not my coke, I swear. And the underwear. That stupid store owed me those. I’ve bought like, so much there.” She wiped her nose dramatical
ly and continued. “Please, I can’t get arrested. Look at me. I’m hot. They’ll, like, devour me in prison. Putting me there would be totally inhumane.”
I started cackling out loud, long and hard. She joined me, and soon the two of us were in a fit of uncontrollable giggles on the couch. “What the hell,” I finally said. “That speech is ripped straight out of the tabloids. It’s like they took Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton and melded them together into one character.”
“I know, right?” she said, her face still red from laughing.
“I so hope you get the part,” I said. “I’d TiVo every episode, and tell all my friends.”
“And then I’d have to kill you,” she said, and we started laughing again.
I looked at Angela seriously for a moment, and then squeezed her arm. “You’re eventually going to make it. You know that, right?”
Her expression became pained, and she looked away. “It would be nice to get more than the odd bit part. And I’m kinda getting sick of bartending.” She let out a long sigh. “I’ll give myself another year,” she said. “If it hasn’t worked out for me by then, I’ll get a real job. Or jump off a bridge or something,” she added, her tone sardonic.
“You’re only twenty-three, Ange. You have plenty of time.”
“Time goes by fast,” she said. “Soon I’ll be old and wrinkled and no one will hire me.”
I scoffed at her. “Look at Susan Sarandon. She’s practically seventy, and she’s still smokin’”
Angela smiled. Susan Sarandon was one of her favorite actresses. “I hope I look as good as her when I’m her age.” Then she grabbed her wine glass, and took a long sip. “Anyway,” she said, her eyes lighting up with a glimmer of amusement. “I’m not dead yet. And the night is young. So let’s go get ourselves all slutted up and hit the club.”
“Cheers to that,” I said.
***
When Angela and I got to the club, we both looked ready to take on the world. I was dressed in a structured white Marilyn Monroe dress. The neckline was cut in a heart shape, showing off my ample chest, and I’d added a black leather twist belt to cinch my waist. I had on black Vince Camuto heels with thin spaghetti straps running across the bridge of my foot, and a silver buckle at the ankle. My hair was curled, and it literally bounced with each step I took, and my lips were painted a bright red, my signature clubbing color. Angela was absolutely smokin’ in her electric blue fit-and-flare Bebe dress, exuding elegance and sophistication.
John the bouncer whistled at us both as we approached him. “Hello ladies. You look like you’re ready to do some serious damage.”
Angela pursed her full, ruby-red lips at him. “Babe, that’s an understatement. We’re gonna destroy the place.”
He chuckled. “And a few hearts in the process.” He opened the velvet rope, and we passed through, then slinked through the front door. Even though it was a weeknight, Strut was booming as usual. Angela had been so lucky to score this gig, because the sheer volume of people every night practically guaranteed huge tips. It was rare for her to have a weeknight off, but even when she wasn’t working, she was usually at the club. It was her go to place, like a second home, where she could party it up and drink free the whole night.
We beelined for the bar, pushing through a throng of bodies. Several men did double takes as we walked by, and even stepped back to make room for us. As usual, the pulsing purple neon lights gave the whole place an eerie, otherworldly glow. Pamela was working the main bar. She was a tall brunette with killer boobs, which she was showing off tonight with a slinky, low cut black tank top. “These puppies sure bring in the tips,” she was always saying. Elle, as usual, was sitting by the bar in front of Pamela, nursing her drink. I had no problem with Pamela; she’d always been friendly toward me. I did, however, wonder about her friendship with Elle. What did she see in her?
When Pamela saw us coming, she winked, and by the time we reached the bar, she had two whiskey sours already lined up for us. “Thanks, Pam,” Angela said, and I smiled appreciatively. We grabbed the only two empty seats that were beside each other. Unfortunately, that also meant we had to sit beside Elle.
“Well, hello,” she said, eyeing us both critically. Angela flashed her a winning smile and said, “I really love your dress, Elle.”
She had on a slinky purple number with a low scooped neckline. It actually was a nice dress. Elle took a slow sip of her martini, and looked pleased with herself. “I look good in everything,” she said, and I watched Angela avert her face and suppress a smirk.
I admired Angela for the way she handled Elle. She always knew how to be nice, and diffuse all of the bombs Elle threw at her. I wish I had that much patience. With me, the bombs Elle threw always ended up exploding.
Elle leaned forward to get a good look at me. “Huh,” she said, putting a hand on her hip. “You look pretty good too, Sarah.” Then she smirked and added, “for a hooker.” Her eyes were glinting with vindictiveness, and I could tell she was just waiting for me to throw something back at her.
This one was too easy, so I just resisted. “It’s escort, not hooker. And it’s a moot point, ‘cause no one in this bar could afford me.”
She scowled at me, then took a sip of her champagne.
“I could at least afford to buy you a drink,” said a gruff, sexy voice behind me. I swiveled in my seat, and locked eyes with a real hottie. He had an angular face, striking blue eyes, and a naughty smile. He was wearing artfully faded blue jeans with a black dress shirt. His build was lean and muscular, and when he leaned a bit closer, I could smell his dry, woodsy cologne.
I flashed him my most sultry smile, and said “Sure.” Angela was right, I decided. I could at least try to have some fun tonight. And a drink or two with a cute guy certainly couldn’t hurt.
“What are you having?” he asked. I downed the rest of my drink, and then placed it forcefully down on the bar. He laughed, and his eyes flickered with lust.
“A whiskey sour,” I said, crossing my legs, winking at Angela, and then swiveling around to face him. I heard Angela chuckle behind me, and then whisper “Go get ‘em, tiger.” I felt a touch of recklessness bubble up in me. I wanted to laugh and dance the night away, and push the memory of Julian down, down, down. I didn’t want to think of him. And this guy was the perfect distraction.
He signaled to Pamela. “A whiskey sour for the lady,” he said, openly eyeing the ample cleavage I had on display. Then he leaned forward, and pushed my hair behind my back. I gave him a funny look, and he said simply “it was ruining my view,” then ran his eyes over the flesh he’d just exposed.
I shook my head in wonder. “Wow,” I said. “That was bold. Or ridiculously rude. I can’t decide which.”
He shrugged and said, “How about just plain old honest.” Then he ran his eyes all over me, slowly, from head to toe, and said, “You’ve got to be the sexiest woman in this bar.”
I shook my head again, and chuckled under my breath. “How many times have you used that line tonight?” I asked, cocking my head at an angle.
“Twice,” he said frankly, “but this is the first time I’ve actually meant it.” His tone was decisive, and I could tell by his face that he meant it.
I took a long slug of my whiskey sour, downing almost half of it. I could already feel a pleasant buzz flooding my body, making me feel giddy.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I gave him a teasing look. “Does it matter?” Then I took another long swig of my drink and said, “I wouldn’t give you my real name anyway.”
He laughed. “Fine,” he said. “Then I’ll just call you ‘Hot Stuff.’”
“Works for me,” I said, finishing my drink. Just then he leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “Wanna dance?” He pulled back a few inches, with his lips hovering inches from mine. From this close, I could smell the beer and cigarettes on his breath, and see that his eyes were slightly bleary.
I pulled back, and slid off my chair. “Let�
�s go,” I said, and started strutting toward the dance floor. They were playing old school Britney, “Toxic.” A lot of the girls were going wild, swinging their hips, doing little mini dance routines, acting like they were center stage, and everyone was watching them. As soon as we got on the floor, I started spinning around, shaking my arms and hips, feeling the booze totally go to my head. Mr. Beer Breath was swaying back and forth, his lust-filled eyes taking in my curves, my moves. Suddenly he grabbed me by the waist, pulled me flat up against him, and started grinding. I could feel a slight bulge pressing up against me through his pants.
“You’re one hot bitch,” he said, then leaned in and gave me a sloppy kiss. I pulled back, and twisted my head away, and the next moment he was yanked, forcefully, away from me. I stumbled back, then caught myself before I fell. When I looked up to see what was going on, Julian was standing there, his face red, his expression livid, holding Mr. Beer Breath by the scruff.