by E. K. Blair
At the thought of him leaving me, all the air was taken out of me and a pain squeezed my heart so hard I thought I might cry out. “Well if not you, then someone else will do,” I said with a shrug, looking around the bar. “Who should I choose? There’s the young guy over there in the corner with the power suit and buzz cut who’s been trying to catch my eye since I sat down . . . although I think I see a wedding band on his hand. He’s out, I suppose. Even I have standards. And, there’s the fortyish-looking guy sitting across from me. He’s been staring at my breasts.” I smiled and waved at the gentleman in question, and he waved back, a hopeful look on his face. “Oh yeah, definitely interested.”
I opened my purse and pulled out a pen and wrote my name and number on a bar napkin. I pushed it over to Leo. “Do me a favor? Take this over to him and tell him what a great girl I am. How good I am. How you know I’m not really bad.” I stared at the bulge in his pants. “Maybe tell him how hard you get when I talk about fucking.”
He pulled me off the stool so quick I didn’t know what had happened until I was standing right next to him, both of our chests heaving and tempers flaring. “Go back to your damn table. No fucking today, Nora,” he bit out, eyes glowing with fire. Was it heat or disgust I saw? Whichever it was, I didn’t care.
I smiled and batted my lashes. “Tomorrow?”
He growled at me, and I thrilled at the sound, imagining him doing it while he made love to me. See, here’s the thing. This was a whole lot more than just wanting to do bad things. I couldn’t blame this anymore on wanting meaningless sex. No, this was all about him. About Leo. He sparked this insatiable, urgent need in me, one that I hadn’t quite wrapped my head around yet. I’d never felt more alive than when I was with him, even if we were antagonizing each other.
“Are you high?” he asked me, his eyes boring into mine.
I laughed. “God, no. This is all me,” I said bitterly. “I don’t need drugs to be a whore, Leo. I can do it all by myself.”
My young waiter appeared at my side, his eyes nervously jumping from Leo’s firm hand on my elbow to me and then back to Leo’s angry face, taking in the drama.
This was the most exciting lunch date with Mother I’d ever had.
“Miss Blakely, your mother asked me to look for you?” he said in his Italian accent.
I leaned in and kissed Leo’s cheek, inhaling his butterscotch and male scent. He held me against him for a moment, almost like he didn’t want to let me go, but then he pushed me back.
I turned and went back to my table, feeling his gaze the entire way.
I sat back down, smoothed my hair, and put on a smile, hiding my shaking hands under the table.
The same waiter picked up our plates. “May I get you ladies anything else today? Perhaps dessert?”
Feeling exhilarated, I asked, “What do you recommend?” as Mother gasped.
He smiled. “Today we are featuring the Sicilian watermelon pudding and the orange-infused tiramisu. Both are divine.”
“Bring the check, please. I’m in a hurry,” Mother said icily.
“I’ll take the tiramisu,” I told the waiter. “I’ve never had one orange-infused before.”
“Nora, you’re not having dessert,” Mother said, snapping her fingers in my face.
“I am and this nice young man is going to go back to the kitchen and bring it to me,” I said. “I’m five ten and weigh one hundred thirty-eight pounds. My hip bones stick out so far that I could pass as anorexic. I’m getting dessert unless you want me to stand up and tell everyone to fuck off? It’s no trouble at all. It makes me feel good to be offensive, and I do enjoy seeing the expression on your face.”
Mother’s eyes widened to the size of the dinner plates in the waiter’s hands. She tightened her lips. “You’re such a baby, Nora. Fine, eat your dessert like a two year old.” She smiled. “It doesn’t matter how fat you are anyway, you’ll always be worthless.”
I looked back at the open-mouthed waiter and said, “One tiramisu, please.” He bobbed his head and nearly ran from the table.
Best. Tiramisu. I. Ever. Had.
***
I decided to head back home for the weekend so Mother would let up on me staying with Aunt Portia. Spacing my nights there apart was probably a good idea so she wouldn’t ban me altogether. By the time I got back to Highland Park, Mona had already left, leaving me alone for the weekend in a ten-thousand-square-foot house. Cold and opulent, our residence was one of the newer ones in an area consisting mostly of mansions built over fifty years ago. My parents had built their estate by purchasing two adjacent homes, tearing them down, and then building our house on the combined 3.29 acres, making it the largest on our street. And you needed all that land when you had twelve bedrooms, ten bathrooms, an eight car garage, a gatehouse, a water garden, a tennis court, and a pool. The Blakely home was the pride of the neighborhood.
Most of our money came from Texas oil, inherited from my dad’s grandparents, who’d helped make this area the exclusive place it is today. They’d fought to keep us from being annexed by Dallas in the 1950s, protecting Highland Park from being swallowed up by the expanding city. Because of our history here, the Blakely name carried weight, epitomizing the conservative beliefs held by most in this suburb.
Mother’s family? I didn’t know jack about them. Had never met them. I wondered if she hated them and that’s why she refused to talk about her relatives.
Mona had left me grilled salmon and a salad in the fridge, so I sat down and ate alone. As usual, it was too quiet, and I turned the radio on in the kitchen to keep me company. After putting my dishes in the dishwasher and carefully cleaning the area where I’d eaten, I wandered around the house aimlessly, my boots echoing hollowly on the polished marble floors as I passed by an original Picasso.
I went in the family room, a huge room featuring a pool table and a wrap-around leather sectional. Two 65” flat screens with surround sound were mounted on either sides of the room. Unopened family games, like Monopoly and Clue, were aligned on the built-in shelves. A bar was in the corner, the wine and liquor just waiting for me to steal whatever was inside.
Had we ever sat in here, all of us together? Never. Mother had been busy at the station; Father had been busy “working” which was most likely code for sleeping with other women; and Finn, if he was home, he’d still be in bed, sleeping off the hangover from the night before.
I left the family room and crossed the hall into the formal dining room. A professionally decorated table dominated the space, but like a magnet, my eyes were automatically drawn to the mahogany china cabinet against the wall. I peered inside the ostentatious piece of furniture, staring at the sixteen Noritake place settings. I’d read somewhere that the making of fine china is a painstaking process, requiring all sorts of skilled artisans and several types of machinery to get the perfect piece.
I gazed at the beautiful place settings with their little pink rosebuds and shiny platinum trim. They were so lovely and delicate, yet like me, no one cared about them, no one had a use for them. All that time spent to make such precious pieces, and all it takes is one moment to destroy it forever. Just like all it had taken was one horrible thing to ruin me forever.
I opened the glass door and gingerly picked up one of the plates, holding the weight in my hands. I hated the cold perfection it represented and hated myself, too, for pretending to be perfect for so long. I turned the plate over and stared at the tiny chips I’d starting making on Mother’s china years ago. It wasn’t much, really. Just tiny little flecks of porcelain that were missing from the bottom here and there, small bits that no one ever paid attention to or looked at too hard. And like the missing chips in this china, pieces of my spirit were also gone, destroyed by people who claimed to love me.
I set the plate down on the table and picked up another one and turned it over, staring at the missing flecks on it as well, caressing the imperfections. I set it down. I kept pulling the china out, checking each piece to
make sure they weren’t really perfect, that they were as flawed as I was. Maybe it was crazy that I’d scratched and clawed at Mother’s china for years. It hadn’t matter anyway. She’d never noticed.
I stood frozen, horrified when I came across a dessert plate I’d never picked at. How had I missed one? No, no, not possible, I thought, searching it thoroughly, turning it this way and that, my suddenly sweaty hands trying to find a bit of damage; just the littlest bit would soothe me. And when I didn’t, I slammed it down hard against the dining table, feeling instant relief at the destruction, at seeing the too-perfect plate smashed. And then something inside my soul fractured too, and I couldn’t stop myself. I just couldn’t. Madness burned like a fire inside me, hot and bright, wanting to shatter everything. Unwelcome tears ran down my face, and it made me angry, this wacked emotional tailspin I’d brought on myself by coming into this room. I cursed and grabbed another piece and another and another, slamming each and every plate, cup, and saucer down against the table over and over until every single dish lay pulverized at my feet. Until I felt spent. Until nothing perfect would ever be in this house again.
After that, I went upstairs and dyed my hair a deep red.
***
Later that afternoon, I reached under my bed and pulled out a new bottle of Grey Goose that I’d taken from dad’s study. I’d been coming to the house on regular stealthy visits to take his liquor, sometimes grabbing the bourbon or scotch, but always coming back to the vodka. I wondered if I’d killed any brain cells so far with my drinking. Would it lower my IQ? I laughed. Did I care?
Tonight was special, and I intended to celebrate. I cranked up the music on my iPod and poured myself a shot, thinking about my evening.
One Christmas, Aunt Portia had gotten me several yards of vintage fabric she’d found at a second-hand store in downtown Dallas. It was gorgeous and decadent, probably used to make fancy tablecloths or custom curtains. Made from heavy, black silk, it had the unusual print of brightly colored red cherries on it. I’d had it in my closet for a while, not quite sure what I wanted to do with it.
You see, while I’d been at the Parisian fat camp, I was taught lots of things: how to speak in conversational French; how to be a well-spoken, mild-mannered hostess and hold a dinner party for twelve; how to appreciate art and classical music; and finally, how to sew and embroider. Unless you’re planning on being the First Lady, they're all completely bullshit, except for the sewing classes.
When I returned home, I became a wee bit obsessed with the inventiveness of sewing. Once I got my own machine for Christmas, it became a full-on sweat shop in my bedroom. Mila had called me the sewing Tasmanian devil, and I guess I had seemed frenzied, spinning Dad’s old shirts into dresses and stitching pretty fabric into tea cozies for Aunt Portia. Making something out of nothing made me feel like I was important, like I had value.
So, I took my special fabric and pulled out a pin-up style skirt pattern I’d designed while at fat camp. I cut into the material, pinned it together, and got to work sewing. After a couple of hours, my new pencil skirt was finished, and I put it on, satisfied with the snug fit. In my closet I found a red satin, button-up shirt, which I put on, tying the last few buttons high above my waist, making it into a midriff-baring top. To finish it off, I slipped my feet into a pair of red Manolo heels I’d worn to one of the school’s formals.
I opened my purse and out of habit, checked to make sure my knife was inside. My knife had never failed me; it protected me from evil.
After that, I lifted my mattress up to get the coke I kept hidden there. It had been a while since I’d snorted it, but I didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to remember that awful night. Yet, I knew if I truly wanted to be bad, then I needed to commit myself to it, and if cocaine made me forget, then what was I waiting for? I picked up the flat silver case and opened it, peering at the bag of white powder and tiny spoon that rested innocently inside. Finn had said this was the best. Expensive and guaranteed to get you happy.
Yes, this was coming with me tonight.
Before walking out the door, I gave the bottle of vodka a considering look, but in the end I left it there. I might want it later when I came back to this cold house and celebrated my birthday alone.
Chapter 10
Leo
“Destiny is a cruel bitch.” –Leo Tate
Life is crazy, and sometimes it totally veers off course. Seriously, sometimes it flows by nice and smooth and then wham! you get bitch-slapped out of nowhere by events and coincidences that seem nigh unbelievable. Is this what the poets call fate or destiny or karma? Maybe. I didn’t know because I never read poetry, but I do write lyrics, so maybe that counts.
But as I looked across that movie lobby and saw Nora, I had to stop and ask myself why she kept popping up in my life. First it was at the restaurant and now here at this small theater, which shouldn’t even be on her grid since it only played classics or movies that were already on DVD. I’d think the mall would be where she’d watch movies; the same place Sebastian did.
She’d walked in with that flaming red hair, and my eyes had followed her as she’d sashayed over to the concession counter. And when she’d bent over to look inside the candy case, I’d sucked in a sharp breath, taking in her sweet ass in a cherry-covered skirt. My hands tightened into fists, remembering how she’d wanted me to use her in the bathroom at Ricardo’s. It had taken every shred of self-control I had to walk away from her and not give her what she’d wanted. She didn’t know it, but I’d hung around outside the restaurant until she left, making sure she didn’t end up with one of those sleaze balls from the bar.
I fingered the ticket stub in my hand, fully intending to head into my movie, but instead, I turned back around, and like an idiot, I found myself walking over to her.
“Don’t get the Milk Duds,” I said, sliding in to stand beside her.
She jumped a little when I spoke, but then looked me over coolly. “Really. Why not?”
“Because they’re called duds, so they can’t be good, right? Think about it, you know the milk part means chocolate, but what exactly is a dud? They should have called it Milk Loser. Means the same thing.”
“You’d prefer Milk Winner?”
I laughed. “Sounds better to me.”
“You should call Hershey’s and give them some consumer input,” she said with a small mouth twitch.
I chuckled and stared into her green eyes, and dammit, I didn’t want to, but I ended up naming all the flecks of colors I saw there: blue, brown, and aqua. I cringed inwardly . . . what guy thinks aqua?
“You’re pretty opinioned about candy, Leo.”
“That’s what happens when you own a fitness club.”
Her eyes widened. “If you brought raw nuts and celery, I’m never speaking to you again.”
I leaned in conspiratorially, feeling playful with her. “Shhh, it’s against the rules to sneak in food.”
She shook her head at me, her smile tilting up just a little bit more, and I found myself wanting to put a full grin on her face.
“Okay, what should I get?” she asked.
“Popcorn, of course, it’s a movie classic.”
“Butter?” she asked.
“It’s got about three days worth of artery clogging fat, plus trans fat and salt. I wouldn’t recommend it,” I said, chuckling at her dismayed face. I loved buttered popcorn, but I liked bantering with her.
She grimaced. “Okay, Dr. Oz, but what about the movie experience? Popcorn without butter is weird. And if I say something is weird, it really is.”
I laughed. “I would avoid the Raisinets, too.”
“This should be interesting,” she said, her eyes sparkling with glee. Ah, she liked my teasing.
I pointed at the raisin on the box we could see through the glass case. “Think about it. Underneath that chocolate is a small, dark, shriveled up food thing that used to be fat and juicy. But they fiddled with it. Tweaked it. Makes you wonder what else t
hey did.”
“You know, you’re really starting to be a dud here,” she said, snickering.
“You guys are so cute. How long have you been dating?” asked the girl working the concessions, who’d been watching the back and forth between us.
Nora shot me a grin. “Him? Nah. He’s too old for me.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “There’s only seven years between us.”
“Six,” she said softly, looking shy all of a sudden.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Today’s my birthday,” she said, shrugging. “I’m nineteen now.”
I stared at her blankly. Damn. Buttercup was a whole year older than I’d thought.
Nora turned to the counter girl. “I’ll take the extra large combo with a Diet Coke. Make it buttered, please.”
“Are you seeing Casablanca or O Brother, Where Art Thou?” I asked as the girl turned to make her soda.
“O Brother. What’s not to love about bluegrass and Homer? And George Clooney? Only one of the sexiest guys ever.”
I looked at her in surprise.
“What? You don’t think Clooney is hot? He is kinda old, I guess,” she chuckled, shooting me a little smirk.
“Just never took you for a Cohen Brothers fan . . . and, no, I do not think Clooney is hot.”
She laughed.
The counter girl put the huge tray down on the counter. “That’ll be twenty-six dollars.”
“We’ll take another soda, please,” I said, pulling out my wallet. I paid the new total and picked up the tray.
She looked at me with wide eyes. “Thanks for paying for mine, but you didn’t have to. It’s not like we’re on a date,” she said, following me as we turned around to head for the theaters.
“Yeah, well, we’re seeing the same movie, we may as well sit together,” I heard myself say.
She peered around me, like she was looking for someone. “Won’t Tiffany be mad?”
I cracked my neck and tried to sound nonchalant. Truthfully, I hadn’t asked Tiffany to come. “She couldn’t make it.”