by Penny Wylder
“Is something wrong?” I ask, hoping she’ll reveal whatever it is that seems to be drawing everyone’s attention.
She’s a cute girl, also twenty something, with a pixie haircut and upturned nose. I remember when she first got the job here, fumbling with the foam machines and messing up everyone’s orders. She’s a manager now and makes the coolest leaf patterns out of milk on the lattes.
She shakes her head, glancing at her co-worker who hides her smile behind her hand just like the L.L. Bean kids had. “Nope, not at all. Can I get you anything else?”
I was going to order a muffin, but now I just want to get the hell out of here.
“No, thank you.”
I sit down at an empty table, looking down at my phone and ignoring everyone.
“Callista,” the barista calls out.
When I go to grab it, I look at the cup, but it’s not my name that’s written on it. Instead she wrote, in messy cursive writing, ‘The No-O.’
I wait for the barista to finish up with her customer, then ask, “Is this mine? It says ‘The No-O’ on it.”
Two of the other girls at the counter snort out a laugh.
“It’s definitely yours,” she says.
I look at them, confused and pissed off. I’ve been coming to this coffee shop long enough to where I would think the baristas would tell me if something were wrong with me. I’m an amazing tipper, for fuck sake—well over the twenty percent line. Never again. In fact, I don’t know if I ever want to step foot through these doors. I guess I’ll just have to deal with the burnt taste of coffee at the big chains.
Instead of confronting them like I want, I take my coffee and go outside. Should I even drink it? What if they put something in it and that’s why they’re laughing? Despite my caffeine deprived brain, I decide not to take any chances and toss it in the nearest trash bin.
Once I’m a few stores down from the coffee shop, I sit on a bench in front of a lingerie store and google ‘The No-O.’ At first I don’t think anything will show up, assuming it’s some kind of inside joke with the baristas. Kind of like the game Stephanie likes to play when we’re at the mall, pointing at all the people she thinks are ‘basic.’
I’m not that lucky, though. Plenty of things pop up on my screen. Including a photo of me. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at until I see a screen shot of my Twitter post. My guts twist until I feel like I might throw up. I lean over, waiting for the nausea to dissipate. When the sick sensation finally passes my thoughts begin to race. If the entire internet knows, and it’s already spread to my favorite coffee shop, how many other people know?
Then I realize that screen shot of my post is on the local Twitter forum website. People go on there to sell items, look for missing pets, etc. It’s like Craig’s List but less creepy. It’s a popular site for people at the local college when looking for roommates or when they need help finding affordable furniture. Chances are, everyone who knows me has seen this by now. And with my face plastered all over the internet, if they didn’t know me before, they will now.
Sonofabitch.
Instantly, I’m on my phone, trying to freeze my Twitter and Instagram accounts so people will stop taking my photos and sharing my post, only I can’t do it from my phone. I delete the post, but I have to do the rest from my computer. I stand up to leave, slipping on the ice and nearly falling before catching myself on the bench. I look around to make sure no one saw. Could this day get any worse?
Once I get my footing, I hobble as fast as I can, practically ice skating on the sidewalk, to get to the subway.
Once I get there, it’s standing room only. The juxtaposition of unwashed human scent and perfume makes my head swim. I’ve always hated the subway, the clank of rails, the rocking motion, the cramped, claustrophobic feeling it gives.
There’s no place to sit, only standing room in the train. But I don’t care. I’m too concerned about my status as No-O than the horde of bacteria colonizing the pole I hold onto to keep my balance as the train starts to move. I make a mental note to use hand sanitizer when I get home.
No one is looking at me, which is a good sign. Everyone looks as miserable as I feel. Heads down, eyes glued to a book or their phones. I think I’ve finally dodged the madness and start to let myself relax and try to think of how to get away from the stigma of my Twitter post, when a man comes up to me.
“Hey, do I know you?” he asks.
His breath is hot on my face, smelling of mustard and pastrami—foul, like when someone burps and the smell lingers.
He’s in his thirties, sweaty brow despite the chill, thick eyebrows and an Italian complexion. He’s a bit overweight and has to squeeze between two other travelers in order to reach me. I lean back to keep his breath off of me. I’ve never seen this man in my life.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say, and turn my head away from him, hoping he’ll get the hint.
But instead of walking away or just going on with his business, he inserts himself into my personal space and says, “Are you sure? Because you look really familiar.”
I glance out the dirt-streaked window, my vision trying to keep up with the graffiti tagged on the walls that blur by. My stop isn’t for a while now. I hope there’s one coming up soon. I don’t care where it leads as long as it gets me away from this man. My hackles are raised and I’m losing my patience. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone right now, let alone some deli-scented creeper with no sense of appropriate distance.
I decide to try a lie. “I’m not from here. I just arrived in town yesterday.”
“Where you from?” He gets closer, his chest pressed against my left arm. I have nowhere to go. If I move any further forward, I’ll bump into a different guy standing to my right. I’m halfway tempted to. Maybe pissing him off will be enough of a distraction for this guy to lose interest.
“New York,” I say.
“Where at in New York.”
With an irritated sigh, I turn to face him, everything about my body language telling him to back off.
I’m about to say just as much when he says, “Oh, hey, I know who you are.” He smiles and points at me like he’s face to face with some celebrity. “You’re the No-O. I’ve seen your pictures in all the memes.”
Memes? There are memes about me now?
I try not to freak out. Anxiety floods my body, making my limbs numb. I want to run, but I’m stuck.
“No, that’s definitely not me,” I say. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Yes you are,” he says, eyes lighting up with recognition, oblivious to my growing anger. “I’d recognize your face anywhere.”
He leans uncomfortably close and all the hairs on my body perk up like a rabbit’s ears when sensing a predator. My nerves fire warning signs, skin prickling uncomfortably.
He leans in even closer until I’m backed up against a woman who pushes me into him. He grabs me by the waist, pressing our chests together. “I bet I can make you O,” he whispers greasily.
His hand snakes around to grab my butt.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl, voice loud enough to carry over the clank and creak of the tracks.
Unperturbed by the shift in my voice, he smiles. Several people glance at us, but go back to their books and music.
“Come on, don’t be like that.” His hand moves lower, closer to my crotch, rough, forceful. “Ten minutes with me and no one will call you ‘No-O’ again.” He starts to grind against me, practically humping my leg.
“Get off of me!” I try to hit him, but being this close, my hits are ineffective. I keep trying anyway, hoping to get in a lucky blow. Next time I try to hit him, he grabs my arms in a vice grip, squeezing hard enough to cut off my circulation.
Still, no one does anything to try and help me. No one even seems to notice except for a handful who raise their phones for a photo op. My heart races, and I start to panic, wondering if this guy is going to try having his way with me right here in front of all the
se robots who don’t seem to care about anything other than their own entertainment. Has this city lost its freaking mind?
I try to scream for help but he puts one of his meaty paws over my mouth to shut me up.
Then suddenly, he’s yanked backward. First he’s there in front of me, then he’s gone, so fast my brain struggles to make sense of what happened. Everyone else around me seems just as confused as a man climbs on top of him and lands a vicious blow to the side of nose. There’s a cracking sound that I hear even over all the mumbled voices and train sounds. My attacker’s nose is bloodied and more crooked than it had been when standing in front of me. Definitely broken. He cries and whimpers, unable to get his footing long enough to stand.
I look up at my rescuer, but his back is to me. Then he wheels around and grabs my hand. Everything moves too fast for me to get a clear look at him. I realize the train has stopped and the doors open. He tugs me through the crowd and into the busy terminal. Dazed and a little frightened by the whole event, I allow him to pull me along like some child until we’re outside in the cold again. Looking at our interwoven fingers, I see that his knuckles are bleeding, and his hand is starting to swell. That doesn’t seem to hinder his strong grip.
When I finally catch my breath and the cloud that had been muffling my thoughts clears, I stop, pulling my hand away from him. He slowly turns to look at me and my breath freezes in my lungs.
I recognize those startling blue eyes, that heavy brow, and sharp jaw from the photos on Instagram.
“Heath James?” I say, my voice slow with confusion.
The man from Twitter. The O-Maker. My first coherent thoughts aren’t of him saving me, or why he was there to save me in the first place. Instead, the thoughts racing through my head are the words he’d written to me last night.
Do you like having your pussy eaten?
Without any warning, there’s a quiver between my legs and the image in my head of the fantasies I’d had when I pictured him licking me. My muscles clench and release, and when they do, I realize I’m already wet. That’s never happened to me before. I’ve never gotten wet by just looking at a guy. Ever. No matter how attractive he is. Though, I have to admit, I’ve never seen a man as attractive as Heath before, with all of his intense, dramatic angles.
My mouth hangs open. I can feel the cold air drying my throat and have to force myself to close it and swallow.
He rubs his hand. Obviously the adrenaline he’d been pumped up on is thinning and the pain of his hand is coming through. From the looks of it, something might be broken. I take his hand in my own, running a finger along the damaged skin.
“It might be broken,” I say.
“Just bruised,” he replies and takes his hand from me.
His voice is just how I expected it to sound: low, confident, commanding. Not Minnie Mouse with a lisp like I told myself it would be in order to get him off my mind.
“That looks a little more than bruised,” I say.
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
He looks sideways at me, his long, dark eyelashes casting a shadow over his eyes, making them look silver. “I used to cage fight. I would know if my hand is broken, and this isn’t. Not even sprained. It’s fine.”
“Cage fighting?” I can definitely see that.
I have to look up at him when I speak. I had a feeling when I saw his pictures that he was tall, but he’s much taller than I thought, and broader through the shoulders. He’s an imposing figure, especially with layers of clothes on. Seeing those pictures of him on the beach with his dog, I know under those clothes is a rock-hard, sculpted body.
“Sounds dangerous,” I say.
He seems amused at my obvious lack of cage fighting knowledge. “It can be.”
“How did you know where I was?” I ask.
His amusement spreads to the rest of his face and he laughs, exposing beautiful straight white teeth. None of them are missing like you might expect from a fighter. He must not have lost very often. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. The storm-bleached sky seems to drain everything of color except for Heath. Somehow he’s vibrant among the rest of the black and white city. The scruff on his face is streaked with red, his eyes shine like precious stones. Even his skin seems to glow. I can’t help but stare. I know how obvious I’m being, but I’m unable to stop myself. My eyes are affixed. It’s like looking into the sun. You know you shouldn’t, and that it can be harmful, but it’s just so damn beautiful.
“A bit egotistical, aren’t you?” he says. “You’re lucky that inflated head of yours didn’t get stuck in the subway doors.”
The spell he has me under suddenly breaks with his words. Heat floods my cheeks. I frown at him. The only thing that keeps me from losing my “inflated head” and going off on him is that he saved me and I don’t want to seem ungrateful.
When his laughter finally dies down he says, “I didn’t even realize that was you being harassed until I already hit the guy. It was a coincidence. I was on my way into town.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling stupid. He’s right. I was full of myself to think he showed up just for me. I want to get away from him as soon as possible, escape this embarrassment. I’m definitely not getting back on the subway. This time I’ll just hail a cab if I can find one.
“Oh, well, thanks for the help,” I say. “Sorry about your hand.”
I start to walk away, but he takes me by the hand again. “You act like we’re parting ways,” he says.
“Yeah, we are. I need to go shopping.”
I’m not actually planning on going shopping after what happened on the train. I’m far too shaken up for that, even though I really do need to go. If I don’t find my boss a gift before the company Christmas party, I might have to end up gifting him some random thing from my apartment.
Mostly, I just want to get home so I can delete my accounts, stop the No-O virus from spreading any further. If all this Twitter business gets back to my colleagues at work, I’ll never be able to show my face in the office again.
“Looks like the world is full coincidences today,” he says. “I have some shopping to do as well. It’s what I came into town for. I’ll go with you.”
“Um, what?” Me, shopping with the O-Maker? Could this day get any weirder?
He hovers protectively over me. With any other man, I’d be outraged by the misogynistic show of dominance in such a stance. But all I can seem to do is take his body language and apply it to the bedroom. I’ve never been with a man who just takes command the way he does. I’ve always been the one in control, the one my lovers looked to for answers. Their puppy dog eyes watching me, eager for a pat on the head, a treat: Am I doing well? Is this good? Do you like that? Honestly, it was tiresome.
“I don’t believe for a second you came to Brettsville to go shopping,” I say. This place isn’t exactly a mecca for decent stores. He’d have been better off staying in San Pedro County where he’s from. Chances are he’s here for one of his Twitter groupies and he just happened to run in to me, the damsel in distress. “What do you want?” I ask. “From me, I mean.”
He takes me by the hand again, leaning in close, tugging me toward the entrance of the mall. He has the deep, rich scent of expensive cologne and I want to bury my face in his coat and breathe him in so I don’t forget it.
In a low, yet authoritative voice, he says, “I think you know what I want.”
His words send chills from the top of my head into the opening between my legs. I start to think about those dirty things he’d said to me that had kept me up all night. Standing in front of him, the mental pictures grow stronger. I look at those big hands, those capable fingers, picture them inside of me, twisting and working their magic.
I suddenly realize in the short while I’ve been in his presence, I’ve become so wet it’s soaked through my jeans. I can feel the frozen air between my legs, cooling it uncomfortably. How am I supposed to go shopping like this? I need to change
. No, first I need to take care of this aching need in my core, then a shower, then a change of clothes.
I look at him and roll my eyes, trying to shake out of his grip on my hand, but he just squeezes tighter, not letting me go. His hands are warm. Mine hurt from being so cold. I look at our laced fingers, the bruises starting to form on his knuckles.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
With a boyish, cocky grin, he simply says, “Holding your hand, what does it look like? Really, Callista, are you always this dense?”
I cough out incredulous laughter. “Wow, aren’t you charming. How do you manage to get so many women into your bed with a personality like that?”
I mean, besides his runway good looks and action hero figure.
“Oh, that one’s easy,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s because of my giant cock.”
My feet instantly stop moving. But he keeps walking, pulling me forward. I stumble onward and again, he’s towing me like a reluctant puppy not yet leash trained.
“Keep up,” he says. “We have shopping to do.”
Without meaning to, I continually sneak peeks at the front of his jeans, hoping they’ll reveal something. It’s been my experience that those who boast their size are generally full of hyperbole when it comes to their package. Maybe that’s his catch. Good looks, little penis. Perhaps all those happy, satisfied women on Twitter got the oral treatment instead. I have to say, it has me more curious than I would like to be.
As we walk, I notice people staring. I’m getting even more attention than I had in the coffee shop. The streets are teaming with shoppers. Salvation Army Santa Clauses ring bells outside the different stores. The scent of cinnamon and cloves spill out of the bakeries and candy shops as they hand out samples of their holiday wares.
“You see all these people staring at us too, right? It’s not just me?” I ask.