Driving Me Wild

by Maria Benson

I blinked a few times and realized we were almost there. We were headed for the Museum of Science and Industry, the site of this month’s Freaky Fridays networking happy hour. People affiliated with area fraternities and sororities, area university alumni chapters and popular legal, engineering, and business professional associations flooded these events. They were one of the hotter happenings for twenty-and-thirty-somethings looking for professional and personal hook-ups. Tara and I routinely hit these happy hours in search of husband–okay, boyfriend–material, while Sydney always came purely for networking purposes. She credited the Freaky events with helping her land at least half a dozen new, private pay clients.

  Once she had parked, Sydney reached over and snatched my sunglasses off my face. “Okay Angelina Jolie, stop with the pouty lips and dark aura. It’s time for you to come out of that funk.” She paused, turning fully toward me. “Chase, do I have to let you cry on my shoulder again?”

  Checking my look in the car’s rearview mirror, I patted her shoulder with my free hand. “No, I’m good.”

  “Aimee, you’ll have a new job in no time, and you know it.” Her assurances reminded me of the tongue-in-cheek affirmation Tara had delivered to me the night before. “Say it with me,” she said, her voice taking on the southern twang of Viola Davis in “The Help.” “You is white, you is ridiculously pretty, you is important.”

  Though I had told Tara she was going to hell for that crack, she had made me laugh at just the right time. A depressing shipment of the personal things from my office had just arrived at my condo, and this weekend I would have to decide whether to sue Todd. Given those facts–along with the dawning reality that years spent supporting my mother financially had left me with a very thin emergency savings fund–I was all too happy to let Sydney distract me for the night.

  Sydney sighed. “How much of this is about the Todd thing, and how much is your fear about getting sued?” I had told her this morning about my inadvertent assault on Dustin.

  I sniffed. “I don’t care what he does.”

  “Oh, you should care,” Sydney replied. “I know you have enough other problems between the job situation and the Ian thing, but right now we need to keep you out of jail.”

  I gave her a sideways glare.

  “I’m not joking here. Consider this my informed medical opinion. Tomorrow morning, you will call your father up and beg.”

  “Beg his forgiveness?”

  “Yes, make like Meryl Streep and let that deadbeat see just how much he’s hurt you. Cry, wail, whatever it takes to communicate that the years of his arrogance and negligence just overwhelmed you. That you just lost it, and you hope he won’t hold it against your mom by withholding his help to her. Or by pressing charges against you, which would hurt your mom’s heart.”

  I frowned. “That just sounds pathetic. Syd, he should be apologizing to me.” There was silence as I suspect both Sydney and I registered my sudden outburst. “Sydney,” I said, my voice weakening, “there’s so much more going on than just my fight with him today.” I went nearly limp with shame and relief as I unfurled the string of disturbing dreams that continued to assault me. In the latest string, I kept stumbling into a bar to find Dustin chairing a booze-enhanced, in-absentia roast of me. His fellow carousers: Todd, Michael, Chad Tucker and, most devastatingly, Ian.

  Sydney’s initial reaction was uncharacteristically subdued. “Wow. The man is in your head, Chase, and you have lots to cover with him. But you have to apologize.” She tapped my shoulder. “I have something else for you, something we both probably need, Tara too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Dr. Sarah Lott’s coming to town in two weeks. She’s being sponsored by the same folks that put on the Freaky Fridays, actually.”

  I nodded, momentarily impressed. Sarah Lott was a psychologist, a beautiful middle-aged woman who traded on the intersection of her knowledge, looks and charisma to hawk bestselling books across the web and syndicated talk show circuits. I was only slightly embarrassed to have three of her self-help books on relationships on my shelves. Someday I intended to actually live out her advice.

  “You, Tara and I will be on the front row that Saturday night,” Sydney said. “So you may as well pull her books from your shelf now and start getting refreshed on her teachings.” Some of the bombast in her tone melted away. “Change is coming, Aimee.”

  Opening the passenger side door while checking my look in the mirror again, I shrugged. “It better come quick.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Aimee

  Young, reasonably young and clearly middle-aged professionals snaked their way up the front steps. It was a really good turnout. In times like these, it was easier to clear my head of the depressing facts awaiting me at home–as long as I stuck to my script. I had already determined to suspend reality if anyone asked how things were at Terry Town; I would simply reply as if it were still last Saturday, when I was very much employed and in good stead, thank you very much.

  As Sydney and I stepped into the lobby, we waved and nodded at various acquaintances, enemies, rivals, and former friends. The lights were dimmed low, almost as if the place was lit only by candlelight. The pleasant scent of hors d’oeuvres and fine wine hung in the air, explained by the army of black-suited waiters running to and fro with loaded platters. A live jazz band warmed up in the far right corner.

  I was preparing for an onslaught from a few hot, horny men when Scott Dexter, my old Kenwood classmate, sidled up alongside me.

  “Aimee Chase.” He leaned in close and tipped his wine glass toward me. “I hope you believe in God, ‘cause he’s sure been good to you.” Just what I needed, this nerd-turned-mini-tycoon with ego to match. Scott was a sharp guy, no two ways about it. I had read in Inc. magazine last year that his company was valued by some at over fifty million dollars; it, and Scott by extension, were hot shit. But that didn’t make him sexy in my book. Word was he got around, but that did nothing for me. Scott had tried to pull me for as long as I could remember, but he was just going to have to accept the facts: I was a goal he would never achieve.

  Eventually escaping Scott, we headed toward the back corner, where Tara stood in front of the band with a beautiful masculine creature. The cinnamon brown-hued man was a bit on the short side, probably no more than five foot ten, but he was built like solid rock. He was wearing a suit that looked like the ones my mother used to buy for the boys at a local community center. A good “church” suit, one with no frills or accommodation to style. I found myself forgiving the suit, though, as I looked closer at his sculpted pecs and the wavy texture of his fade.

  Tara, resplendent as ever in a red skirt that complemented her ebony complexion, stepped forward with a big grin on her face. “Ladies, I want you to meet Antoine Willis. He’s doing an internship at CPS.” Her smirk confirmed exactly what I was thinking. This was the guy Tara had been hiding from us. She’d have some explaining to do later tonight.

  Sydney took the lead in welcoming Tara’s friend. “Hi, Antoine.” She stood back and eyed the young hottie like he was a biological specimen.

  I tried to play Good Cop. “What department are you working in at CPS?” I wanted to ask him the real question on my mind: Are you curling my girlfriend’s toes?

  Antoine flashed a crooked smile. “I’m interning in the IT department. You know, supporting the Help Desk and whatnot.” He shook his head in a streetwise manner that suggested he hailed from a rougher part of town.

  I could feel Sydney’s frown, so I tried to toss Antoine a bone. “Well, uh, where are you in school?” I should have warned Antoine to be very careful how he answered my question; his answer would determine whether Sydney and I viewed him as a blue-collar plaything or a potential Good Man.

  Chomping on what appeared to be a wad of Trident, Antoine tugged at his wide tie. “I, ah, don’t believe in school per se. I’m on that Diddy plan–gonna run my own music enterprise some day. I’m just doing the intern thing this summer to get a chec
k during the day so I can record my songs at night.”

  “Well, this just went straight to hell.” Sydney’s whisper was barely audible over the band’s ruckus. I shoved her into silence as Tara and Antoine turned to appreciate each other for a minute.

  Antoine waved at someone behind us. “Hey, I see one of my boys over there. S’cuse me, ladies, I’ll be back.” As he stepped off, he slid a hand across Tara’s back, a move that said more than a thousand words.

  Sydney wagged a finger. “Ooh, ooh, messin’ with jailbait. Bad girl.” We all cracked up. Antoine was not exactly news to me. I knew Tara had to be seeing somebody, and after what Tyson did to her, who could blame her for taking a simple, transactional route: someone young enough to be in awe of her, poor enough that she’ll never depend on, and hard enough to carry his weight in the sack. Once I landed a new job, maybe I would check out the interns myself...

  “Aimee!” Sydney tapped my shoulder like a wild woman. “Look who just waltzed in.”

  I turned to see Michael Blake stroll through the main entrance, flanked by two women who were Freaky Friday regulars. Sally Hawkins and Char Rossmiller were a former stripper and a recent showgirl, respectively, most known for being “kept” women. These skanks were always the first on the dance floor, and they were two of the biggest clotheshorses I’d ever seen. With their six-inch nails, blue contact lenses, and bleached-blonde hairdos, they were long on style, short on substance. I was guessing a third of the single men here had taken one of them home in the past year.

  Now they were after a nice boy like Michael?

  I had to admit, he was looking good. His hair was a little longer than I remembered, and was styled in a dramatic blunt cut. His charcoal gray, double-breasted blazer was straight out of Esquire. I tried not to stare as I watched him share some animated story with his little harem. Sally and Char were laughing like Michael was Chris Hardwick or something. Seeing him with them pricked a well of resentment in me; I couldn’t say why, but the sight offended me. Surely Michael wasn’t messing with them?

  Tara’s ignorant ass insisted on calling him over. “Michael! Over here, it’s Tara!”

  Michael stepped away from the floozies long enough to embrace Tara. He pivoted from their hug to extend a hand to Sydney. “Hi, haven’t we’ve met before?” He snapped his fingers. “Sydney, right?”

  I stewed at being ignored as Michael and Sydney exchanged pleasantries and tried not to notice the scent of his intriguing, high-end cologne. This was new. The Michael Blake I knew always smelled like Dial soap and Old Spice deodorant.

  I couldn’t resist. A hand involuntarily went to my own hip as I stared into the side of Michael’s temple. “So I’m invisible now?” He wrapped his arms around Sally and Char, who had magically reappeared, before responding. “Aimee, how are you?” His formal tone was more of an insult than ignoring me had been.

  I decided I didn’t have to take this. It had been a shitty enough week without Michael Blake, of all people, entertaining himself at my expense. “I’ll be over there with Asher and Pradeep when you all are ready to go,” I said to Tara and Sydney. As I took my first steps toward the guys, who were old friends from college, Sally broke away and grabbed hold of my arm.

  “Hey Aimee,” she said, a phony smile plastered on her makeup-caked face. “Wow, you are as pretty as ever. You still making big bank working for Big Todd?”

  I had a feeling Sally knew the answer to her own question. She or any number of her fellow sluts probably had pillow talk access to Todd and his entire network, but I held to my game plan. “I would say I help Todd make the big bank,” I replied, barely slowing my stride. “I’ll never make the big money until I’m working for myself. How about you, what are you up to?” As if I cared.

  With obligatory small talk out of the way, Sally grasped my wrist before I could pull away. “Hey, just trying to confirm: Did I hear you used to date Michael?”

  “If you did,” I said, “you heard an exaggeration. We went out a few times.”

  “Hmm.” Sally licked her lips before leaning in. “Is the word on him true?”

  I frowned. “The word?”

  Sally put a hand to my wrist–again. “Well, it’s just, I always heard Michael was a straight arrow, conservative guy. But Char, she was with him last week, and wow.” I will omit Sally’s next sentences, which sounded as if they came straight from the latest Fifty Shades of Gray entry. “Char says it took her two days before she could walk right.”

  Sally had thrown me for a complete loop. I knew she’d never been discreet, but damn. “I have no idea what to do with all that. I told you, I haven’t been with Michael that way.”

  She put a hand to her chest. “I’ve offended you. My fault.” As the jazz band whipped up a new selection, Sally shook her hips and looked off towards Michael and Char. “Guess I’ll have to just see for myself,” she whispered before shimmying off.

  I didn’t know why, but as I watched Michael on the floor with Char in his arms, I couldn’t fight the sensation that I was witnessing an injustice. He could do better, I thought. Kudos to Michael if he was actually a good lay, but was he sewing long-suppressed wild oats or trying to settle some strange score with me?

  Head swimming, I mingled with Pradeep and Asher for just a minute before excusing myself for the ladies’ room. Standing at the washroom counter, I retrieved my cell from my purse. The sight of the screen was a painful reminder of why I had no time to worry about Michael. Number one, a voice mail from a sports and entertainment industry recruiter who probably had depressing news for me. Number two, a text from Ian reading 'We may have a problem, call me please.' And bringing up the rear, a text from my mother reading 'Why is your father saying you stabbed him? Please call me.'

  Entering a bathroom stall, I decided that Ian’s was the message to return immediately. For one, the bastard had owed me a communication since his psycho wife confronted me at the Chicago Fire game. Secondarily, whether I liked it or not I was concerned at the sound of distress emanating from Ian’s text.

  “You haven’t answered my personal attorney’s calls,” were his first words when he answered his latest burner phone.

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  “Be a grown-up, Aimee,” Ian said. “I’ve deputized Willis to help you network, find a new gig. Besides, he’s more than ready to help you sue Todd’s ass. Why are you giving him the silent treatment?”

  I struggled to keep my voice low and draw minimal attention to myself. “Because you sent him. I don’t trust you at this point.”

  “Because of Nadine’s claims about us getting back together? Come on. I never said the separation would be permanent. You know I have no say over that. I can’t divorce her, Aimee. Least of all now.”

  I let my tone go flat, monotone even. “Uh-huh.” I knew Ian’s rationale; publicly, he was catching hell. The players’ union president was openly questioning his and the owners’ integrity, and women’s right activists were staging protests over his insufficiently weighty suspensions of players caught abusing their girlfriends, children’s mothers, or babies. To top it off, anonymous well-connected members of teams' front offices were leaking stories accusing Ian of being a puppet for some of the older, bigoted owners. I had heard last week that the Vegas odds of him having to resign within a year had doubled.

  He chuckled. “I’ll survive this, but I will be the most hated man in America. I can’t afford a nasty divorce or even a legal separation right now.”

  “Whatever you say, Ian. Some people consider being accountable and divorcing more respectable than keeping a secret mistress.”

  “Aimee, are we really having this conversation–”

  “What’s this problem we have?”

  Ian sighed before continuing. “We had to fire a member of my security staff last week,” he said. “Bad divorce, bunch of creditors chasing him, a nasty brush with the law: the baggage was really piling up. I thought my HR team had the situation handled, but they’ve disappointed me
greatly.”

  I began slowly tugging at one of my bangs. “I really hope this doesn’t involve me.”

  “You are the lucky winner,” he said. “I hate discussing this over any phone, but things are escalating quickly and I know you wouldn’t feel like coming to New York right now.”

  He had that right. “So, what are we looking at?”

  It was worse than I thought; the fired guard, Ray Watkins, was attempting to blackmail Ian for millions. The alternative was Watkins’ delusional threat to approach the media with claims that Ian was not only conducting an affair with me, but that he was physically abusive to me. It sounded like some inventive hackers were allied with Watkins; he claimed to have pieced together incriminating-looking emails, texts and even video clips that could create enough smoke to grab media interest. Never mind that social media would feast on Watkins’ words alone.

  “We will get control of this,” Ian said after unspooling the disturbing nature of Watkins’ threats, “but I thought you deserved to know in case it blows up.”

  I shook my head at the revelations. “Thanks, I guess. And here I thought the only reason I’d never get a job again is that I pissed off everyone at ESPN!”

  “You need to take my attorney’s next call,” Ian repeated. “Listen Aimee, my guys who are handling the Watkins situation said I have to ask: Did you tell anybody about us?”

  I frowned at the phone, literally removing it from my ear in order to stare it down. “Are you kidding me?” Sure, I had told Sydney and Tara, but I trusted those two with my life.

  Ian cleared his throat, his tone getting impatient. “Aimee, if you’ve told anybody, my guys need to know–”

  “Spare me, Ian.” I shut off the phone, pocketed it in my purse. He had no right.

  Bursting from the stall and pausing at the nearest sink, I resisted the urge to smash my phone against the counter, then rigorously managed my inhalations and exhalations of breath while checking my lipstick and makeup. With that accomplished, I strode back into the crowd as if I wasn’t losing it.