She Likes It Rough

by GVR Corcillo

  Beeeeep.

  “Hi,” Manny’s voice greets. Wasn’t that nice of him to agree to do this for me? “Leave a message. Ruff ruff! Arf!” I like that I was even able to get Aaron and Christian to harmonize at the end of the greeting. It makes the message really say, “I’m a tough guy with big dogs, so back off!”

  The message begins. “Cripes, Lisa.”

  Good God, it’s Maggot-Face. Her voice is in my house. Yuuuuck.

  “Are you trying to sound like Tattoo from Fantasy Island? Because I can tell it’s you. That’s really lame. Anyway, after Paris, Rick and I got married in Italy, so I just wanted to let you know. We’re registered at Pottery Barn, Brookstone and Nordstrom, plus you can find a list of our favorite boutiques at maggieandrickinsomuchlove.com. Bye.” Beeeep.

  When the message ends, my breathing pumps so hard it makes this echoey, raspy sound. I’m pretty sure there’s also fire coming out of my ears.

  “Your sister, I take it?”

  “FUCKING KEITH!”

  “Lisa.” Jack’s voice is quiet, so I ignore him.

  Huff, heeee, huff, heeee-

  “Lisa,” he says again.

  Huff, huff, huff, huff-

  “Lisa?”

  I turn to look at him, so mad that I don’t even care that tears gush down my face.

  Jack lifts his hands and allows them to hover, one above each of my shoulders for a few seconds, before he sighs, and lowers them so he’s touching me. “You know, Lisa, marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  I fling his hands from my shoulders. “I know that! Is that what you think? That I’m mad at Keith because he didn’t marry me? Well, seeing that he didn’t even love me I’d say it’s a pretty good thing that he didn’t marry me!”

  “Lisa….”

  “That bastard is giving out my phone number!”

  Jack snaps out of shoulder-to-lean-on mode. “What?”

  I stride across the living room, kicking empty moving boxes. “When I first moved in, I called Keith.” I turn back to Jack. “It was stupid, I know. I was lonely and depressed and I had a box of his stuff . What a lame excuse! Like what? He’s going to want his Deep Blue Something CD back? I wasn’t even thinking about caller ID. Then he called me a few days later to tell me to trash the stuff. That's when I realized he had my number.”

  “Maybe he won’t—”

  “Don’t you get it?” I throw myself down on the couch and look up at him. “My family called Keith, and he gave them my number. None of them were supposed to have it. This is my castle. My island. My Helena.” I sit panting.

  “Helena?” Jack echoes.

  “The island. Napoléon?”

  “You mean Saint Helena?”

  “I don’t care. Whatever. I don’t want my family here. They’re talking behind my back to work their way in.”

  Jack sits next to me as I slump against the back of the couch.

  “They don’t even like me,” I say, “but they won’t leave me alone. Why can’t they just leave me alone?”

  “Because you’re the runt.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Everyone has a role in a family.” His hand moves toward my head, lingers, then musses my hair like I’m a kid. “Regardless of who you become or how you grow, your family sees you in your role. You’re the runt, the one everyone else gangs up on. That’s not going to change just because you’ve become a millionaire.” He pauses. “And made them all millionaires, too.”

  I turn my head to look at him. “You know about that?”

  “I figured it out.”

  “They were so intent on getting that money,” I say. A shaky sob rattles out of me, catching me off guard. “Just hours after I woke up.”

  I see a muscle in Jack’s jaw jump, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to hear my pathetic story and I don’t want to tell it.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I sob. “It’s just that, I don’t want them in my life anymore.”

  “They’re your family. It won’t be so easy to shake them off.”

  “So?” I challenge. “I don’t HAVE to include them in my life if I don't want to.”

  “So, tell them that. Confront them. Make them understand exactly where you stand.”

  I bolt up from the couch and turn to stand over him. “Confront them? Am I hearing right? You’re giving me advice about how to handle my family? Are you kidding me? You with the mother made of snots and snails?”

  Jack stands to face me. “Lisa, you’re the one who wants me to make you braver.”

  “I’m not scared of my family!”

  “Bullshit.” He doesn’t raise his voice or even blink. “Everyone’s scared of their family.”

  I close my mouth. Really? Is that true? Everyone? Even Mags? And Mom? And Jack?

  “Well,” I finally say, “that’s not the kind of courage I’m after. Not from you anyway.” I flounce away from him into the kitchen.

  “Yes, it is.”

  The stony resolution of his voice stops me in my tracks. I hear him walking up behind me. “It’s all the same, Lisa. The courage it takes to jump out of a plane isn’t so different from the courage it takes to tell your family who you really are.”

  I turn to him. “How profound, Jack. Really. I’m touched by your sensitivity. But there’s a difference between physical courage and emotional courage.”

  “Not really,” he says, standing there with each hand on opposite sides of the doorjamb into the kitchen.

  So here I stand, practically enveloped in Jack’s wingspan. Suddenly, I remember we had sex a little over an hour ago. But that’s just so impossible.

  Oh, God.

  I can’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, he’ll know I’m thinking about it, and he won’t ever want to see me again for any reason. Then I’ll never get brave. I just have to forget it and box it into a separate part of my brain like guys do.

  “One may be easier than the other,” Jack is saying, “but it all has to do with your mind, Lisa. With flipping that switch in your brain that turns off the fear. Whether it’s fear of bungee jumping or of asking someone to the prom, it’s all a matter of flipping the switch.”

  “You're the expert, Braveheart.” Shrugging him off, I walk across the scarred linoleum, open the fridge, and scan the contents. “Can we just shut up now and eat? Or did you change your mind about the Southern Fried Chicken?” I take the platter out of the fridge.

  “I haven't changed my mind about anything.”

  “'Course not,” I say, slamming the fridge door. “That’d be too much like being wrong.”

  Jack just laughs, heading toward the refrigerator as I move toward the counter. “I'm gonna grab a Coke, you freak. Want one?”

  “Yes, please,” I mutter, biting into a drumstick.

  Ten past midnight and I cannot get to sleep.

  I keep replaying the day in my head. Mostly, I keep replaying the part after the sex.

  AFTER THE SEX. I had sex with Jack. With Jack.

  But I don't think about the sex. Or I try not to, anyway. Because he called me average just after. Average. So I cannot think about it much without the lining of my gut burning with humiliation.

  I fast-forward to the part of my day when we arrived at my house and we talked and ate. Talked and ate. As if the sex never happened. Ever.

  I know why I ignored the fact that we’d had sex. I was in shock after his calling me average. Seriously. My body and mind simply refused to acknowledge the possibly life-ending trauma. I’m just like that woman in the first chapter of Jaws who thinks she’s simply scraped her leg on some coral. Her body and mind will not let her process that a shark has just bitten off her leg. Until she reaches down to feel the scratch on her leg, but her leg’s no longer there. Every time I think about the sex and how Jack called me average, I feel like I’m reaching down to discover my leg is missing.

  I pull the English Christmas comforter over my head. Today, Jack acted as if nothing happened between us because f
or him, nothing did. Okay, he came. Big deal. He probably gives himself more satisfying orgasms in the shower. Because I’m sure the hand of Jack Hawkins is anything but average.

  How could he fuck me then call me average? Was I really the only one who felt such a rockin’ climax? I guess I was. Damn. This isn’t the first time I was the only one feeling anything. Take my entire relationship with Keith.

  Maybe the sex this afternoon wasn’t so hot. Maybe I thought it was so good simply because I was jazzed by my bizarre bravado. I mean, I’ve had sex with boyfriends before, but until today, I’d never attacked a gorgeous guy on a barren stretch of field. I’ve never even had a one-night stand.

  It must have really freaked him out, how disappointing I was. After it was over, he must have been telling himself “Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. For God’s sake, don’t say anything about how boring she was.” But then that one thing he was trying so hard not to say just popped out. I thought you didn’t want to be average anymore.

  I curl into a tight ball and suck on the corner of my comforter.

  That was why he was fighting with me about such stupid stuff. The cursing and my money and everything. He was desperately trying to cover up his huge faux pas of telling me I was average right after we had sex.

  Well, at least it didn’t change anything. The sex I mean. The deal is still on. It must be. Jack was Jack from the orgasm on. Still acting all superior and complaining about me. For him, the ill-advised romp was just some let down he’s already forgotten. I hope.

  Oh yeah, Lisa Flyte. I knew her once. Lousy lay.

  I cringe but can’t compress myself into a tighter ball.

  Oh, no! Charlie horse Charlie horse Charlie horse CHARLIE HORSE! “No, no, no, no!” I snap into a sitting position and rub my calf muscle hard, trying to forestall the intense pain.

  But it doesn’t work.

  “Oooooowww! Ow! Ow! Ow!” I collapse back onto the bed as the severe muscle cramp finally relaxes. Jack! Calling me average then giving me a Charlie horse.

  Jesus. Why do I even care? So what if he thought I was average? He still had an orgasm, and it only took a few minutes, if that. Where does he get off being disappointed?

  Why am I even thinking about Jack? He's so not even worth it. After all, what happened with Jack today hardly counts as sex at all. We didn’t exactly “have sex.” I mean, we didn’t touch enough to call it that. We fucked. Plain and simple. No relationship hassle, no wondering if I can trust anything he says, no wondering if he loves me, no wondering if he’s after my five million bucks. Just a quick fuck, and I can handle that. Over and done. Good. Fine. He’ll never be a guy I bring into my beautiful bed. For just so many reasons.

  Number One: He doesn’t like me.

  Number Two: He comes from money, which is like coming from a different planet as far as I’m concerned.

  Number Three: He hates the fact that I got money from Burger Barn.

  Number Four: He thinks he knows so much more than I do about people and how they work when really he’s just as clueless as the rest of us and it’s very annoying that he does not realize this.

  Number Five: He’s probably a huge bed hog who flings his entire body across the mattress, barely leaving anyone else a corner.

  Number Six: What if I started caring about him? His life is way too scary and I would worry all the time and get wrinkles.

  Number Seven: Our last names are too ridiculous. Hawkins. Flyte. Hawk in Flight. No way.

  Number Eight: He’s probably NOT a New York Giants fan.

  Number Nine: Jack doesn't get me. At all. I want to do something important and something helpful.

  I roll over in my big, beautiful bed. I punch my pillow. Nothing between Jack and me has changed. Nothing.

  I get out of bed and open the door. By the time I re-cross the room and snuggle back under the covers, Pacquito and four cats have joined me.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Come on.”

  “Come on what?” I toss back, my pulse picking up. I tighten my grip on the receiver, hoping my voice sounds casual. Nonchalant, even.

  “What do you say we do something for real. Go out to dinner with me.”

  “That definitely wasn’t part of our deal,” I remind him, keeping my voice light and airy. But my heart is hammering right through my ribcage. I bite my lip to force myself to get under control. “I can’t do anything to jeopardize this.”

  “Don’t tell me you're not interested.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I assure him. “But I’m more interested in saving HEYA, so I’m making a choice.”

  “Well, when this deal finally goes through….”

  “I’ll have you to thank,” I tell him.

  When Crispin hangs up, I shove my hands into my hair, cradling my head. I didn’t mean that last comment to be flirty. I really didn’t. But I don’t entirely mind if he took it that way. Am I being a tease? Am I using my feminine wiles to save HEYA? I shake my hand-held head, trying to forget about Crispin Joyner and what he thinks I might do.

  “What the hell?” Edgar barks.

  By the time I look up, he’s closed himself into my office with me.

  “Time is ticking away.” he harsh-whispers at me. “And you haven’t saved HEYA yet. Stop relaxing.”

  “No, I—”

  “Did you fuck up the plan?” he demands.

  I can’t stop the smile threatening to split me apart. “I got my first investor today!”

  The harsh Alpha male line running down the middle of Edgar’s forehead falls away as he steps back. “Really?”

  “Really!”

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Crispin Joyner,” I answer. “He owns Got Game. One store here and one in Lincoln—”

  “I know who he is,” Edgar interrupts. Then he smiles. Edgar actually SMILES at me. “Score, Lisa! Everybody knows who he is. Ever since he was at USC. Did you invite him to the Spaghetti Supper?”

  I cannot suppress the smug grin. In fact, I don’t even try. “I even got him to advertise it in his stores!”

  Edgar gives me a high five. “Man, Lisa! Do you know what this means?”

  My buoyancy deflates into a weak smile.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m pretty sure he thinks it means I’m going to sleep with him.”

  “Are you?”

  I consider. “Dunno.” I look up at Edgar. “I told him that after the deal goes through, I’d have him to thank. Do you think he expects me to show up at his house in a cheerleading outfit or something?”

  Edgar shrugs. “Save HEYA, then put out if you have to.”

  “Uh, really? I can just do that?”

  Edgar laughs. Snickers, actually.

  “It’s not funny,” I tell him.

  “Lisa,” he explains, “people with money like other people with money. Get used to it.”

  Edgar opens the door to my office, sees Jimmy down the corridor, and takes off in that direction. He tries to look all bad-ass and aloof at the same time. And pulls it off.

  What does he mean, people with money like other people with money? Crispin Joyner likes me because I’m so sassy and quirky and savvy in emails and over the phone. And Jack has money but he doesn’t like me at all. He thinks I’m average.

  My alarm rings, so I push the snooze again. Another night of not getting to sleep until four because my mind would not stop replaying how average I am. Damn, I need more sleep. I can’t move anything but my snooze-button arm. I really can’t. I have four cats and two dogs on me. Plus it’s really early.

  Duh nuh nuh nuh.

  The doorbell! I look at the clock. Past seven? How did that happen? I only pushed the snooze button…oh, hell.

  Bolting up, I yank myself into the jammies tossed to the bottom of the bed. Then I careen toward the front door. “Sorry!” I’m yelling as I swing it open through the dogs.

  But Mia just stands there laughing. “It’s okay,” she says, coming in and noticing
me in my pjs. “You overslept. Big deal.”

  “But it’s so inconsiderate,” I counter. “You got up early on a weekend.”

  “Yeah, but it’s easy for me. I’m a lot younger.”

  Twenty minutes later, we stand in the living room. All the cats are in the garage with my furniture, except for Wash, who I couldn't find. He better have the sense to say hidden.

  Mia surveys the scene: bare house, plastic on the floor. “Perfect,” she says. “I always thought your house was kind of crappy, and I guess it is, but it makes it a lot easier to paint with no trim or molding or anything.”

  “What was left of it I pried off before the guys came this week to install the new windows. Anyway,” I chide, “you’re my decorator, so it better not be crappy when we’re done.”

  She turns to look at me, her eyes gleaming. “It’s going to look so fantastic with the fake wood trim we got.”

  “It’s not fake. It’s maple…or something that grew.”

  “But it wasn’t built into the house,” she argues. “I know it’s real wood, but we’re adding it on.”

  “So? Do you think the old molding was born here? Someone had to add it on at some point.”

  Mia crinkles her forehead. “Hm. I never thought about it like that. I guess you’re right.” She sweeps her gaze across the room. “Yeah, it’s going to be beautiful.”

  “Better be.”

  “Well,” she says, turning to me, all bright and eager, “let’s get started.”

  “Wait.”

  “Why?” she asks, flicking at the wheel of a paint roller.

  I whip a dust cloth off my little black CD player. “Ta-da! We’ve got tunes.”

  “Nooo,” Mia groans. “You’re going to make me listen to eighties music.”

  “And seventies and nineties and even some current stuff,” I assure her, pushing PLAY.

  As the opening drumming of “Burning Down the House” throbs through the floorboards, Mia can’t help but get her groove on. Neither can I.

  Two CDs later, Mia and I brush the finishing strokes of sage green onto the living room walls as we bop our butts to Bonnie Raitt. Caterwauling to the heavens, Mia turns to me to harmonize, I’m pretty sure. "A little mystery to figure out….” Suddenly, her eyes grow huge. “Aaaah!”