Slick as Ides

by Chanse Lowell

  Vapor: What’s that supposed to mean—so you thought? I get you, woman. I get you so much, I ache for you. Can you at least tell me what you look like so I don’t have to rely on my fucking pitiful imagination?

  Ides: That’s all you’re gonna ask? Afraid? You’re not gonna go the typical creepy route and ask what color undies I’m wearing first and my cup size? ;D

  Vapor: Nope. I already know what color they are. And cup size? Doesn’t matter to me as long as you don’t look like a dude and have a pair of tits that require a bra.

  Ides: Bullshit. How could you possibly know the color?

  Vapor: Please! A woman like you? You wear black, simple panties, and a matching black cotton bra that you look beautiful in. Simple, yet elegant and smart, like you.

  Shit. I sit and stare, my eyes widening with each passing second.

  Vapor: Well? Am I right?

  I log off immediately, stand up, and pull off my black jeans and undies, head to the laundry room, toss them into the churning washer since they’re wet on the crotch for him, and I feel dirty now.

  He knows. How does he know me so well?

  I’ve only been talking to him for a month. We’ve never discussed the color of my clothing or underwear before.

  I add a little more detergent to the wash, close the lid and head to the shower.

  As much as I want to get off, I have to wash. I have to get clean, the bastard.

  No more chatting with him, and no more fantasizing about him.

  After soaping up twice in the shower, and refusing to masturbate, I dress in my jammies, all black of course, and grab my laptop.

  The second I’m on, I can’t resist.

  I log in, and there it is. A big fat note from Vapor, simply hovering before my eyes.

  He’s logged off, but I still worry he’ll return since it usually doesn’t take him long to figure out I’m online and available to chat.

  I read the message quickly—

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off. I’m crazy about you. You’ve gotta know I think about you constantly and die all day long, searching for anything about you online I can find. I count down the hours until you’ll get on that shitty chat group and possibly respond to me. I’ve never met anyone like you, and although it sounds trite, it’s true. Hopefully I haven’t scared you off so bad you’ll stay away. I promise I’ll cut this shit out if you want me to. I just couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t joking about how hard you make me. Say one word, Ides, and I’ll do anything you say, anything to know you better. And I hope one day maybe I can at least hear your voice if nothing else. Skype is free, you know. We don’t have to do a web chat if you don’t want to—though, I have no idea what you’re afraid of. I can’t imagine you being anything other than gorgeous, because it really doesn’t matter what you look like. I want you for you—for who you are. How many guys have said that to you? It doesn’t sound like there have been many based on the facts you’ve shared with me. Please, don’t cut me off. Talk to me—we can work this out. Vapor.

  That’s when I turn my damned laptop off for the night, refuse to cry over this guy I pretend I barely know, and I get in bed, trying desperately to sleep. Only it doesn’t come.

  I’m antsy, so turned-on, everything aches and throbs from my belly button to my thighs. And my breasts feel like they’ve swollen, too, and all from his damn words.

  Eventually, after a few hours of trying unsuccessfully to sleep, a new invention hammers its way into my brain. So I roll out of bed in the middle of the night and head to my office, working out the details.

  I can forget he exists, and I can go on with my life.

  My life that includes my office, Riot—currently driving me insane—and my work. These are all I need.

  I glare at my near-empty container of hand sanitizer.

  “Fuck you,” I tell it. I knock it over, then immediately right it when panic seizes up my lungs, and then I squirt a little dab into my palm.

  I’m fine. Don’t need to chat with Vapor at all. He’s fucked me up, and it’s not happening again.

  I rub the ache away, by rubbing the cleanser into my skin.

  Chapter 2

  Blip, blip, blip.

  Stupid light!

  Yellow. The worst color ever.

  Warnings. Those suck big round sweaty ass.

  Why am I doing this?

  My heart pounds as I turn into the gas station.

  I’ve put it off for a week. I can do this.

  “Uuuhhhhaaaaahhhh,” I release a tight, dizzying breath.

  My knuckles pop as my grip on the wheel doubles in intensity.

  Every time I consider what I’ll be doing in a few moments, my vision almost blurs.

  My heart is driving its way out of my chest and into my stomach.

  Sweat dots my brow.

  After passing by two other gas stations too busy for my liking, I pull into the Chevron on the corner ahead of me.

  I sigh. “This one’ll have to do.”

  My breath catches as I slow the vehicle down and take in my surroundings.

  There’s a car on each end—two total, and I can use the standard guys’ bathroom rules while fueling up my car. I stay in the middle stall with as much empty space between us as possible and don’t look at anything but my task at hand.

  My shoulders round and hunch forward as I coast the car to a stop.

  Why didn’t I get an assistant like Riot suggested?

  I roll my neck. My shoulders are tight and achy.

  “Stupid know-it-all,” I mutter to myself.

  Riot’s words echo in my head and put my stomach in such a knot it feels like there’s a Chinese finger-trap inside, and my guts are trying to break free of the death grip hold it has on them. I’m a step away from screaming, and with my heart slamming about inside my chest, it makes it hard to concentrate.

  I stir in my seat and huff a little at my arrogance in thinking I can handle these things myself.

  I scan the grocery store gas station once more before opening the door and cautiously stepping out.

  The second my hand grips the door, it’s shaking. Fingering the outline of my cell phone in my jeans pocket helps calm me.

  Maybe I should get back in my car and log in on that chat group. I haven’t been on it in a week. Will Vapor talk to me again if I apologize and accept his?

  Technology—my friend. It’s the only thing I have left since I cut all ties with Vapor like an absolute idiot.

  I grip the edge of my phone through my pocket once more and square my shoulders. I can do this. I don’t need him or anyone else.

  I will do this, I chant to myself.

  Riot’s wrong. I’m ready. I will do this, I will do this, I will do this.

  And I start to handle this task of fueling my car until a feeling of dread drapes itself across the back of my shoulders and has the hairs pricking at the edge of my neck.

  I blink hard. Everything around me feels off—all of it.

  The environment puts me on edge even though it’s devoid of people.

  In the amount of time I’ve been standing here, the other two cars have left.

  My mind goes through everything I could have forgotten—the reason I most likely feel off-center.

  Did I leave the doors unlocked at home?

  Impossible. The chip inside you does it automatically.

  I reach up and grip the back of my neck, swiping my thumb across the spot where the chip’s implanted—the chip he inspired that night I couldn’t sleep after I decided he was too dangerous for me.

  Then what?

  I’m forgetting something—I know I am.

  You’re forgetting your lungs. Breathe!

  “Ugh! It’s just gas, that’s all.” I smack my thigh with my hand that was fondling my phone like an old lover.

  I’ve been doing that too much lately. It’s because of him. I know it.

  I can’t stop thinking about him, and my body won’t let me forget how worked up he
makes me from a few simple words, whether they’re intended to be flirtatious or not.

  Another deep breath, and I can do this.

  I snort at myself and squeeze the back of my neck.

  I’m fine. My chip’s in place.

  So, why do I get the sense I’m being watched?

  I get back in the car for a moment and put my precautions in place. Never know what can happen in an unguarded moment.

  I remove my stereo’s face. That goes in my backpack, along with the cord for my iPhone. Pretty soon I’ll have the stereo to the car rigged to my chip along with the rest of the car.

  My twisting gut sets me in motion, and I put on the false stereo front and then hook in the decoy cord.

  I’m quick and make sure my movements are small so if I really am being watched, no one will realize what I’m doing.

  Should I grab my model in back?

  I hesitate, but then talk myself out of it.

  It’s just gas! This isn’t war. Takes five minutes tops if you’d stop hesitating!

  My heart pounds in my chest like I’m running a marathon, and my palms start to sweat.

  I slip the backpack on as I step outside into the cool night air.

  Right as I turn around to shut the car door, I’m greeted by a loiterer.

  Probably homeless.

  I huff to myself.

  Only he doesn’t look like any vagrant I’ve ever seen before. He’s too attractive to be a social pariah.

  But then, looks can be deceiving. I know this.

  I squint. Do I know him? Looks familiar . . .

  My mouth goes dry as my eyes roam across his gorgeous face, and his hazel eyes sparkle at me with a hint of mischief.

  I remember eyes that looked like that from years ago . . .

  He smiles, and my throat constricts.

  My mind goes blank, and I want to look away, but I can’t.

  “Um, excuse me, pretty lady, could you spare some change? My bike just got stolen, and I need to get something to eat,” he says, his voice a raspy, hypnotic tenor.

  He grins even wider—all whites and perfection.

  Do homeless people have a dental plan I’m unaware of? Because his teeth are shinier than mine, and I’m fixated with having a clean oral space.

  My eyes narrow.

  I want to ask him to empty out his pockets so I can see what brand of toothbrush and floss he uses, along with his choice of toothpaste. If he’s homeless, he’d have to keep them on his person.

  If I can get my teeth that dazzling white, maybe people will like me and talk to me because I can finally stop obsessing over my breath being minty-fresh and clean. And maybe Vapor would . . .

  That’s not why people avoid you . . . You stopped talking to him, not the other way around.

  Shut up!

  I gulp, and search for words.

  Nothing comes to me.

  Shocking.

  He throws me even further into a state of fogginess when he dazzles me by tossing his brown hair out of the way of his hypnotic eyes. There’s a scattering of amber around the pupil that bleeds out into a bright green rim, captivating me and making me forget I’m a mute imbecile, gawking at him.

  “I . . . Uh . . .” I shift about, unsure of where to look and what to say.

  He asked me something, didn’t he?

  He looks like he’s three months overdue for a haircut, which makes sense for a homeless person, but on him . . . whoa! He should keep it this way—shorter on the sides and longer on top and in front, where it keeps falling over his eyes. It’s got that bad-boy feel about it.

  He’d make a nice wallpaper for my laptop, even in his stained, torn, faded jeans and rumpled tee shirt.

  Where the hell did that thought come from?

  I stare down at my shoe. He’s too pretty to look at. He’s confusing me.

  I really need to talk to Vapor so I can get my shit back together. It’s ridiculous to be this turned-on by some loser off the street I don’t even know. I’ve been in a funk ever since I dropped him.

  He coughs, and I step back.

  I grip my backpack strap on my shoulder with a tight fist and fight off a repulsive shiver. Not attractive anymore!

  “Caaahaagh!” he wheezes out another racking cough.

  And fuck no! He’s coughing in my direction.

  Germs!

  I tuck my hands in my pockets, fumbling to find my hand sanitizer, but it’s not there.

  Oh shit. That’s why I came here in the first place, not because I needed gas, initially. Needed more supplies to kill germs. But I was driving around for over an hour to find a store with an adequate parking lot to fit my criteria, and my fuel got low because of it.

  This is bad. Get in your car and go!

  He clears his throat, and a nasty wave of nausea hits me.

  He’s diseased! And he’s standing less than three feet away.

  Goose bumps drive their way through my skin into my bloodstream, making my blood turn to ice.

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  “So, do you? Have a few bucks to spare?” he asks, breaking me out of my trance-like headspace.

  “Uhm . . . n-no. I don’t ever carry cash on m-me,” I stammer, self-conscious and backing away.

  Why does he have to look so good? I don’t enjoy staring at vagrants. They creep me out.

  When I dare to glance up, his grin spreads like watercolors on a moist paper, taking over his whole facial canvas and officially becoming the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen, creating the sexiest chin dimple ever.

  Run! Now! Don’t forget that pretty is covered in germs!

  My insides clench, and bile threatens to make an appearance.

  I rub my arms to give me a moment to think and get rid of the chills.

  It doesn’t work. The sound of his breathing makes my heart hammer harder.

  “Awww, c’mon. You’re telling me you don’t even have a few loose quarters in your purse you can spare?” He leans toward me.

  What the fluffy fuck? Is he flirting with me?

  No, wait . . .

  Is he heckling me?

  See! Told ya you look like a fool. Of course he’s gonna make you think he’s attracted to you so he can get what he wants. He’s attracted to your car, not you! Men love flashy, expensive sports-type cars, and he thinks you’re loaded because of what you’re driving.

  Money.

  Does it always have to be about money?

  My eyes flash down to the asphalt. This is all I’m good for when it comes to men—trying to steal my ideas, take my money or find a way to use me to build their own business and power.

  I’m no longer sucked in by his model-worthy body or smile. Who cares that his biceps and forearms flex with the smallest movement? Not me.

  I’m stone.

  Or maybe Formica.

  I like that stuff. It’s inexpensive, sturdy, and looks nice. Not to mention it’s non-porous.

  Yes, that’s it. I’m Formica, and you, buddy, are just a hot diseased piece of gorgeous man-meat.

  A lump forms in my throat at the thought of rotting, diseased flesh.

  Shit. Zombies! I hate those guys! They’re the harbinger of all things unsanitary!

  I blink and force my mind to think about a nice hot shower awaiting me when I get home with plenty of soap and cleansers.

  “I can’t talk about this. I have things to do,” I say, looking at him briefly, then diverting my eyes away.

  He lurches forward when I’m about to open the gas tank flap, and I yelp.

  His hands are on me!

  He touches my arm.

  Germs, germs, germs! Oh God, no!

  I jump at the contact and scramble away from him.

  He’s dangerous! He’s not afraid to touch you!

  I shrink into myself—pull up the hood on my sweatshirt.

  Grab the gun out of your backpack. Tell him to back off!

  No! That’ll require you take your eyes off him, and now you
can’t even afford to blink. He might try to do something else to you.

  “Hey, hey . . . relax. I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender right away.

  “Don’t do that—don’t t-t-touch me.” My voice shakes so hard I struggle to breathe, and my tongue feels heavy, yet slushy. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck, even though it’s kind of a brisk night. My diaphragm spasms uncontrollably.

  Instinct kicks in, and I scan his entire body for any identifying marks in case he commits a crime.

  Good Lord . . . he’s like me. No tattoos—pale, flawless skin and no pock marks, scars or freckles.

  He’s the perfect specimen of a test-tube baby if ever I’ve seen one.

  Or maybe he’s just sheltered like I am.

  Does he stay indoors all the time, too?

  No wait. He’s homeless. He’s outside all the time.

  Wait a minute . . .

  I back away even more, hoping he’ll leave on his own, based on how uncomfortable he’s making me.

  Maybe I could run if he doesn’t leave?

  But then . . . I have my model in the backseat. It’s my prototype, so I can’t leave it behind. It’s due to be dropped off tonight. An hour from now, it has to be in the designated spot.

  “I’m begging you, lady. You’ve got this expensive car, and I’m really hungry. You honestly don’t have a few bucks you can spare? I’d pump your gas for you in exchange. Those things are covered in germs and hideous diseases, and a pretty woman like you doesn’t need to dirty her hands up on something as filthy as that.” He motions his head toward the pump, sending his bangs out of his eyes again. Then he has the audacity to reach for a handshake.

  He swallows hard and must realize his mistake when I grimace because he abruptly shoves his hand in his pocket and his shoulders hunch up in a sheepish way.

  “Too late—you already touched me without my permission,” I blurt.

  My face heats for a moment when I realize how crazy I sound.

  “I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He smiles and almost looks proud of himself.

  What the hell?

  I duck my head, and realize this is all wrong.

  Everything about it is fucked up.