Contemporary Nights Volume One

by C. J. Ellisson

He runs a hand through his hair and checks the time. “It’s barely ten p.m. There are lots of places still delivering. We could share a meal and then I’ll head home.”

  I shake my head and sit on the edge of the bed. Regret over my impulsive actions curves my shoulders, hunching in on myself. “Look, it was fun—but I’m sorry. I don’t date guys from work. Besides, it’s against company policy.”

  Andrew grabs his shirt and slips it on. “So, that’s it? Just like that you’re writing me off? Using a convenient excuse like work policy to make it kosher?”

  His anger rises, evident in his jerky movements as he finishes dressing. His face is flushed while he slips on his shoes. He stands at the end of the bed facing me. “You won’t use me and blow me off like every other guy. Not this time.”

  Shock hits me at his words. Is that what he thinks? That I use and blow off guys? A small niggle in the back of my brain acknowledges I might do exactly what he’s saying. And what does that make me? Not a person I want to be, that’s for damn sure.

  I stand to escort him to the door. “It’s not you.” The sex wasn’t all that great so what the hell is the big deal. “It’s me.”

  He laughs as he follows me through my apartment. “You’re really using the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line? When we didn’t even go on a date? Are you serious?”

  I open the door and he stares into my eyes, his body vibrating with energy. “We’re not over, missy.”

  I straighten my back and return his bravado. “Yes, we are.” I go for the jugular, eager to have my apartment to myself. “It was okay, but I don’t intend to experience a repeat performance.”

  Surprise drops his jaw as I smile and shut the door in his face. Well, that little escapade should make for unwelcome tension in the workplace. Idiot. Heather is right: I’ve been too casual in choosing my bedmates lately.

  A few drinks on an empty stomach and I immediately revert back to unsafe behavior exhibited in college. Time for a change. I’m not that young girl looking for attention or trying to prove myself anymore. I’m a woman who knows what she wants and shouldn’t settle for less just because my body has sexual urges.

  My stomach growls again, the sickening turmoil I felt earlier disappeared once Andrew left. I help myself to leftovers in the fridge and mentally prepare for the visit with my mother. God, that woman pushes all my buttons. Tomorrow will not be fun.

  I take a shower and then drift into bed. The remembrance of Andrew’s touch triggers a foggy memory of me writhing on the sheets. Did that bit at the end really happen or was it wishful thinking on my part? The actual act itself was pretty empty so maybe my overactive imagination embellished the new ending.

  Thoughts of his blue eyes staring into mine chase me into my dreams.

  “Carla, what a great bistro.” My mother’s voice holds a hint of surprise. Like it’s absolutely shocking I picked a decent place. “You’re lucky they let you in with a blouse that revealing.”

  *****

  First strike. Not as overt as usual. Her opening jab bounces off me and I try to ignore it. She couldn’t keep her critical mouth shut for long. I grind my teeth and deliberately tug at the hem of my tight shirt, exposing a tad more cleavage. If she thinks I’m toning down how I dress because she’s trying to make me feel sixteen again, then she’s got another think coming.

  We make it to our table in blessed silence. I order my meal and sip my sweet tea before she starts in on another well-used track.

  “Honey, believe me, the kind of men who like flashy women don’t last. You’d do better to stop dressing so crass and catch a good one that will last the long haul.”

  I set down my glass and stare out the window. “Maybe I don’t want a man that will last.” Why the hell is everyone suggesting I pair up with someone? I might be turning twenty-nine next month, but it’s not like I’m a freakin’ spinster, for crying out loud.

  My comment prompts her to plunge into another disastrous topic. “Good, because none of them will.”

  Oh, no…I know exactly what’s coming next.

  “Take a look at your father. He’s the best example you’ll find on men who run out on a woman.”

  And there it is. I glance at my watch. Only took two hours to get around to her favorite subject.

  “Walked out on us when you were fourteen. Never paid a child support payment, never called—nothing.” Her face twists into a bitter mask and pity wells inside me. She never dated after he left. She worked two jobs to make ends meet and keep us together. My younger sister, Julie, never truly missed him; she was too young when he left. But Mom and I both did.

  “Yeah, Mom. I know. I was there, too.”

  “Don’t count on a man and you’ll be fine.”

  Our meals arrive and I hold back what’s really in my mind. Desperately I want to yell what’s been on the tip of my tongue for years: Right, and look where it’s gotten you. You’re the unhappiest person I know.

  Instead, I try a different route. “If men are so useless, then why all the grief on my clothes, Mom?”

  She harrumphs and picks at her food. “There’s no need to look like a tramp, is there?”

  Ahh… My mother’s conflicting dichotomy of arguments never ceases to amaze me. Thankfully, she’s driving back upstate this afternoon.

  I smile at the waiter when I catch him eyeing my breasts. He boldly grins before heading to another table.

  My mother gasps. “Dear God, you’re not thinking about picking up the waiter are you? Surely you’ve got better sense than that?” She shakes her head, disbelief marring her face. “If you’re going to live your life as a ‘good time’ girl at least be smart enough to pick a guy with money.”

  I feel the emotional wall between us growing a little bit stronger and higher. Why did I agree to her visit today? Oh yeah, her birthday’s next week.

  I remain quiet during the rest of the meal, half listening as she once more lists all the ways to avoid unhappiness in my life. Too bad she never has any advice that could actually help her daughters.

  At three o’clock I’m eager to send my mother on her way. As she climbs into her car, I dutifully kiss her cheek and deliver the empty promise that we’ll get together again soon. My muscles feel weak and drained after holding my opinions inside for so long.

  She’s got to be the most miserable person I’ve ever met. Is it any wonder her two extroverted daughters don’t race to spend time with her? That kind of negativity sucks the positive energy out of a person.

  Back at my apartment, I change into jeans and a t-shirt and head out to Dress for Success. It’s my turn to log in donated clothes that arrive on a Saturday. The trip across town helps to wash away the inadequate feelings my mother never fails to stir.

  Melissa waves from the front desk when I enter, her chipper smile and calm personality a great match for welcoming newcomers. The organization provides nice, gently used business outfits to low-income women re-entering the workforce. A lot of these ladies remind me of my mother all those years ago, with one major exception—most of them aren’t bitter man-haters.

  They may be single moms, newly divorced women with no kids, or married ladies attempting to change careers after earning a diploma at night, but all of them come with a sense of hope. Something my mom has lacked since the day Dad left.

  In my teens, I often wondered what happened to him, but gave up the hope of him returning long before becoming an adult.

  “Carla?” Cindy calls, pulling me from my negative thoughts. Cindy is the tall blonde who handles new arrivals at Dress for Success. “Peggy had to leave and someone’s here who needs to pick out a suit. Care to help?”

  I smile, happy to do my favorite task rather than unload clothes. “You bet.” I cross the lobby to shake hands with the young Hispanic woman next to Cindy.

  “This is Erica,” Cindy introduces us. “Erica, Carla is the best personal shopper we’ve got. She’ll have you dressed like a million bucks in no time.”

  I gesture for E
rica to follow me and we make our way to the rack-filled room that never fails to bring a smile to the candidates who seek help from the program.

  A small gasp sounds from behind me. “I feel like I’ve died and gone to clothing heaven.”

  Joy bubbles inside me as I turn to the young woman. A large smile creases my face as I look Erica over from head to toe. “Are you about a size ten?” She nods. “Great. I know we’ve got something that will work for you. Where are you interviewing?”

  *****

  The latter part of my day outweighed the crappy encounter with my mother. It’s after six by the time I get home and for once, I don’t mind not having a date lined up. It’ll be nice to chill for a night and forget about men for a while.

  You mean forget about Andy, don’t you? Wasn’t it his blue eyes you were mooning over while unpacking clothes?

  No, it was not. I mean all men.

  Uh-huh. Sure.

  I flop on the couch, pushing thoughts of last night from my mind, and finally check my phone—an act which done at lunch would have unloaded a shit storm of remarks from my mother on my bad manners. There are several texts from Heather, offering encouragement, as she knew I was meeting my mom today. And one from Andrew. I want to see you again.

  I return Heather’s texts first. Thanking her for her pep talk and then I keep my return texts bitching about my mom to a minimum.

  I debate on what to say to Andrew. Might as well be blunt and get it over with. Not going to happen.

  He immediately texts back. It can be good between us. Give me another chance.

  My face heats in embarrassment as his words remind me of the crass “it was tolerable” comment I made after we had sex. I can’t believe I said such a shitty thing! Not one of my finer moments. Although, the experience wasn’t anything to write home about.

  What should I say to convince him to leave me alone and realize this thing between us isn’t going anywhere? If I make the response too harsh, I’m a bitch. Too light and teasing, he’ll think he has a chance. And his chances of a rematch of last night are slim to none.

  No thanks. I don’t date guys at work.

  We’re not exactly dating.

  Exasperation leaves me in a sigh at his deliberate obtuseness. I don’t sleep with guys at work. Is that more clear?

  Yup. I won’t sleep with you at work. Got it.

  Not interested. Good night, Andrew. With a growl, I shut off my phone for the night.

  Chapter Four

  Andrew

  Dammit! That little minx just brushed me off! I click my phone to sleep and slam it on the coffee table. Man, I knew I should’ve trusted my gut and not slept with her. She’s going to use that stupid no dating at work policy to shut me out—which I know she wouldn’t have used had I been on my game when we had sex.

  One chance! I had one chance with her and I blew it! Is she even going to acknowledge I’m the one who pleasured her afterward or is her sleep-fogged brain crediting it to her mysterious dream lover? Hell, she called out my name and seemed fully aware of her faculties. Maybe the alcohol helped her forget.

  No. She wasn’t that far gone. And you know it. She just doesn’t want you.

  I’ve admired Carla from afar too long. Now that I’ve seen the passion simmering below her surface, I aim to draw it out, stroke it to life, and leave it begging for more—from me. Not some dream lover she calls out by mistake. Damn, that really rubbed me raw. A woman’s never done that before.

  She needs a man like me—a man with a gentle hand who won’t tolerate her mindless flirting, and who will keep her sexually satisfied, to never need to wander to another man’s bed. Turning her around to monogamous sex will be an incredible challenge. One I am mightily looking forward to.

  What is it about the prickly lady that draws me? Is it the hurt beneath the bravado? I bet someone messed with that girl’s head for years. I’d like nothing more than to kiss her senseless and drive every thought of other men from her mind forever.

  My doorbell rings. It’s Rocko from across the hall. “Hey, Ace.” He greets me with his usual fist bump then a half-hug, shoulder touch with a brief clap on the back preferred by a lot of touchy-feely musician types. “You watching the game?”

  The scruffy appearance of my neighbor pulls a smile from me. Instead of the leather vest he performs in, he’s wearing old flannel and jeans. His adoring fans should see him now.

  “Sure, want to join me?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.” He runs a hand across his scraggly beard. “Tonight’s gig was cancelled, so I’m staying in.”

  “What, no hot date with a groupie?”

  “Come on, man. You know that shit gets old once you hit thirty. Like I’m molesting a bunch of barely legal college girls.”

  I grab us some beers, settle on the couch, and turn on the game. We drink in silence for a few moments, watching the players warm up by throwing a ball around the bases.

  “Did you play last night?” I ask. Rocko is lead guitar in a local band. They’re working hard, playing any gig they can in the hopes of building a fan base to catapult their song sales.

  He nods, his eyes on the game. “Tiny hole in the wall—Fitzpatrick’s—right here in the Village. Great crowd.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been there before. Good energy.”

  We watch the game together, but my mind keeps wandering. I need to figure out a way to seduce Carla back into bed, to prove I can be the kind of lover she’s looking for.

  Does she even know what the hell she’s looking for?

  I shake my head at my silent musings, not really sure where I messed up things last night, but determined not to quit.

  “Dude?” Rocko asks.

  “Huh?” Damn, has he been talking to me for a while?

  “You’ve got that far off look on your face again. Is it over that chick at work you mentioned?”

  “Am I that obvious?” I laugh. “I saw Carla on Friday.”

  “It’s pretty easy.” He smiles. “You look all stupid-spacey and shit.” He coughs into his hand to pretend to hide his next word: “Pussy.” I glare at him across the couch. He shrugs, uncaring. “How did it go?”

  My chest tightens in frustration. “Let’s just say it was not my finest performance.”

  He laughs, his humor at my expense filling the room. “Dude, you messed up? Oh, that’s rich. You can charm the panties off ladies of all ages the moment your fingers tickle the ivories.” He gestures to the baby grand sitting in what would be my apartment’s dining area. “And yet in an office environment you tank?” He snorts. “That’s fucking pathetic.”

  I ignore him and take a swig from my beer. My silence is the male equivalent of stating I refuse to rise to his bait.

  “So,” Rocko says, “what do you plan to do? Gonna give up like a wuss?”

  “No,” I bite out, surprised by the vehemence in my tone. “I just need a plan. Something that will get her thinking about me…”

  “Remember that Tina chick I dated a couple of years ago?”

  A vague memory of him mentioning a Tina stirs in the depths of my brain. “I think so. What about her?”

  “She came across as rough on the outside, but was a hellcat in bed.” A satisfied smirk tugs the corner of his mouth. “Man, she brought out the wild in me. Really liked it when I came on strong.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “She turned off every guy with her smart ass comments and sneer.” He picks at the label on his beer. “But under that do-not-touch exterior was one hot tamale.”

  “What happened to this hot woman? Why did you let her go?”

  “Not me, man. She moved for work.” He takes a long drink from his beer. “If a gig ever takes me to Baltimore, I’ll be looking her up.”

  We lapse into quiet and I wonder if Carla could be like Tina. Maybe she’d like me to come on strong. I watch more of the game, lost in thought.

  The mental pull from the shiny piano nags at the back of my brain. I’d like nothing better th
an to lose myself in the feel of the keys beneath my fingers and the sound of the notes filling the air. But this complex woman keeps drifting into my head, demanding my attention.

  She’s a complicated bird, Carla. Haven’t quite figured her out yet. Likes to flirt with everyone—which could just be a natural part of her personality and that’s made her a good salesperson. If I’m honest, perhaps it’s more that she’s very approachable and friendly instead of an outright flirt.

  I take another long drink, the cool amber liquid easing the tightness in my chest. On the other hand, I have witnessed her leave with a guy from the bar, so her behavior does go beyond flirting when she wants. One other thing I’ve noticed—I never hear her mention her latest hook-up at work. That usually means the man isn’t in the picture anymore. Watching her for the past few months has shown me more into her psyche than she might like.

  Tension radiated off her last night after mentioning her mother. And yet in the brief exchanges we had tonight in texts she didn’t say anything about the woman. That’s because she was too busy trying to blow you off, jackass.

  No, I don’t think that’s it. In the short personal conversations we’ve shared since we met, she’s casually mentioned a sister, her best friend Heather, and where she grew up. Nothing about her folks. I wonder why.

  A fist clenches in my chest when I think of my own parents. After Dad died a few years ago, Mom has gone downhill. The hospice nurse said she may pass any day now. I’m going to go see her again tomorrow, even though my sister has been there every day.

  Acceptance settles through me at the realization our mother’s fight will finally come to an end. This two-year battle has been draining—for her, my sister, and me. We both said our goodbyes when our mom was still cognizant of her surroundings. Since then all we can do is keep her comfortable. The frustration I felt over her imminent death released its hold a while ago—and not a moment too soon. I wouldn’t want anything to taint a peaceful passing for her.

  Rocko and I watch the next few innings in silence, one of us venturing to the kitchen for a fresh beer every so often. An alarm goes off on my watch.