If I Were Beautiful (If I Were... #1)
Page 16
“It wasn’t a guy wearing a silk shirt, was it?”
He shook his head, “I can’t really remember. Sorry.”
“Thanks anyways.”
I didn’t know why I was asking. A guy like Lester probably would’ve kept them and tried to follow me home so he could sneak in while I was sleeping and try to rape me before killing me. I repressed a shudder.
Brodie and I walked out to my car.
“That was easy,” he said.
“Yeah, but what about Lester?”
“Who?”
“The guy who tried to attack me. What happened to him?”
“Well, if he was dead, his body would still be here, the cops would be swarming the parking lot, there’d be yellow crime scene tape everywhere, and a thousand people gawking.”
“So he’s not dead,” I said, disappointed.
“That’s a bad thing?”
“What if he’s… I don’t know. What if he’s in his car watching and waiting to follow me home?”
“Let him. I’ll break that guy in half.”
“I think he had a gun, Brodie.”
“Did you see a gun?”
“No. But he looked like the type.”
“What type is that?”
“Mafia? I don’t know.”
“Was he Russian? Italian?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t have an accent.”
“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t mafia.”
I hated that this had happened. I wanted my plain Jane life back. Speaking of which, if I somehow managed to turn back to my normal self, Lester would never recognize me. The only question was, would I change back to myself if I took the ring off? Maybe it only worked once and I’d stay like this forever. I didn’t fucking know.
“What?” Brodie asked.
“Nothing.”
“You can tell me.”
I smiled at him forcefully, “Trust me, it will sound ridiculous. So let’s just focus on Lester, all right?”
“How about we focus on dinner.”
“Huh?”
“Wasn’t that why you went to Ralphs?”
“Oh yeah. Why the heck were you at Ralphs when I was at Ralphs? It seems a bit stalkerish, don’t you think?”
He snorted, “It’s the closest grocery store to our building.”
“No, Star Market is closer.”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s the Persian deli on Santa Monica Boulevard.”
“Whatever. I shop at Ralphs. And you need food. You’re turning into a bitch.”
“I am not!”
“I said turning into. But we can stop the process with food.” He winked.
“Ass.” I slapped his muscled arm where his tattoos peeked below the sleeves of his T-shirt. “But I’m not going back into Ralphs.”
“No prob. I’ll take you out. Anywhere you wanna go, C.C.”
“How about takeout?”
“Your place or mine?” He offered a smug smile.
“No sex, Brodie.”
“I didn’t say anything about sex, C.C.”
“You’re a man. You didn’t have to.”
He laughed, “Let’s do it.”
I glared at him.
He smirked, “I meant, go get food.”
“I mean it, Brodie. No sex!”
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
“When was the last time you got laid, C.C.?” Brodie asked before taking a bite of his burrito.
“Not as recently as you,” I laughed and grabbed a warm tortilla chip from the greasy paper bag and dipped it in one of our plastic cups of salsa. We sat at my round dinner table, which stood between my kitchenette and the living room. Several aluminum foil takeout trays of Mexican food were open between us.
“I think you’re well past due for an orgasm or five, C.C. You’ve got that uptight unfucked thing going. The one that says you need to come all over a hard cock so you can ease up a notch.”
I sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my breasts, partially out of irritation and partially because this conversation was making my nipples hard, and I didn’t want Brodie to notice. “How do you know I’m not a lesbian?”
He shrugged. “Dykes like dicks too. Why you think they use strap ons?”
“Do you have any idea how ignorant that sounds?”
“What? It’s true. Everybody likes dick.”
“Except yours.”
He laughed. “Okay. Whatever you say, C.C.”
“Some of us can get through life just fine without dick.”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but in the twenty-first century, some people enjoy casual sex. Men and women.”
“Emphasis on casual,” I snorted derisively.
“What, do the people in your world have to be married before they’re allowed to fuck? Or just engaged?”
“How did we get on the topic of sex again? Oh yeah. Because it’s all you ever talk about.”
“Just answer the question.”
I groaned. “No, they don’t have to be married. And no, I’m not a virgin.”
“I hope not,” he chuckled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t do virgins.”
“And you won’t be doing me, B.B.”
He snickered, “Butt brains. Remind me never to tell you what C.C. really means.”
“I thought it was short for Chel-see.”
“That too.” He was grinning from ear to ear.
“What else does it mean?” I demanded.
“Not telling.”
“Let me guess. It’s something sexual.”
“You’re on the right track,” he smiled.
“Brodie, do you ever stop thinking about sex?”
“When you’re around? Nope.”
“Are you walking Viagra or something?”
“No. You are. One look at you and BAM! Punched a hole right through my jeans. Already had to throw out two pairs since I met you.”
“Did not,” I laughed.
He just grinned and popped another tortilla chip in his mouth.
My iPhone sat on the table beside me. It made a bubbling noise, signaling a new text. A second later, it bubbled twice more.
“You need to get that?” he offered.
“Let me check.” I picked it up and swiped over to the messenger.
Wes: Make sure you get plenty of sleep tonight.
Wes: Tomorrow could be late.
Wes: Don’t want you falling asleep and missing all the fun.
I texted back: Okay, Dad. Should I take a nap tomorrow afternoon too?
Wes: Not a bad idea. We can do it together.
Me: I’m not napping with you.
Wes: You’re right. We wouldn’t get much sleep.
Me: Dirty pig.
Wes: I knew you loved bacon. Talk to you tomorrow, Sunflower. Oink oink!
Amused, I smiled to myself.
“One of your boyfriends?” Brodie asked while munching on another tortilla chip.
I glared at him, “Why, yes, Brodie. One of my six boyfriends. If you’re lucky, you can be lucky number seven.”
“No shit?” He didn’t sound excited. He sounded disappointed, like he took me seriously.
“No, butt brain. I don’t have any boyfriends. Or friends with benefits. Geez, are you that gullible?” I wasn’t sure why, but I felt like he was assuming I was a slut like him, which made me angry.
“What the fuck, C.C.,” he said, slightly offended. “Chicks as hot as you always have a line of guys waiting to be next.”
“Are you calling me a slut?” I was ready to lecture him for making assumptions about my nonexistent sex life. I’d been one step above celibate for years.
“Relax. I didn’t say you had guys lined up. I said guys are lined up. Whether you know it or not, every guy who knows you is constantly wondering when he’ll get a shot at you.”
“A shot? You mean have sex?” I scowled when I said the word sex.
I couldn’t believe my ears. Despite the reality of my swansformation, inside I was still the little nerd girl who couldn’t get a single guy from speed dating to call her back. Not even the boring ones like un-extreme Mike. I smiled at Brodie, “So, which guy are you?”
He picked up his burrito, but paused before taking a bite. Then he said, “Not the guy who just texted you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Eat your burrito, butt brain.”
He laughed before chomping his burrito.
I forked up a bite of my cheese enchilada and chewed it down. “So tell me, Brodie. What do you do when you’re not busy fixing broken doors or saving damsels in distress at the local grocery store?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.” He smiled and took another bite of his burrito.
“Handyman?”
He finished chewing and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Not anymore.”
“Don’t retire too soon. You still owe me a painted door.”
“Don’t worry, I always finish what I start.” He winked, clearly making an allusion to sex.
I ignored it. “Okay, you’re not a handyman. Auto mechanic?”
“Used to do that too. Now I just work on my bike or my friends’ bikes when they need help.”
“Okay, how about drug lord?”
He grinned, “Not that either.”
“I’m running out of ideas, Brodie. Help me out.”
“Keep guessing.”
“Underwear model?”
He arched an eyebrow.
“You are not an underwear model.”
“Was.”
“What? I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me,” he laughed. “You gonna eat that second enchilada?”
“Go ahead,” I said absently, my iPhone already in my hand. I swiped over to Safari and typed Brodie Bolden into Google. A bunch of black and white photos loaded, all showing Brodie in underwear with the same incredible abs I’d seen in real life. I clicked on a bunch of the photos to enlarge them. “Holy shit! That’s you!”
He smirked while forking up my enchilada.
I looked at several more pictures. “Wait, did you pose for Calvin Klein?”
He smiled around a big mouthful of enchilada.
I gasped, “You did not!”
He just grinned and chewed.
“Wow, I live next door to a CK celebrity!”
He shook his head, “No. I’m just a regular guy.”
“B.S.! Look at you!” I showed him another photo on my phone.
“That’s me,” he said, dismissively.
“How did you get into modeling?”
He shrugged. “Met some guys at a gym here in LA who were doing it. They were putting together a beefcake calendar and needed another guy. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, my abs were everywhere. But it was always more of a side thing. Never did it full time. Always had a regular job.”
“Even when you were doing the underwear stuff?”
“Yup.”
“Are you still modeling?”
“Nah.” He wiped his fingers on his napkin. “I got tired of it. Too much competition. And it got old after a while. People judging you solely on your looks. Seemed like a waste of my life.”
“Whoa, who are you? Are you the Brodie I know?”
“Same one.”
“Okay, if you’re not modeling anymore, what do you do for your regular job now? Or did you retire on all the money you made?”
“It doesn’t pay that good. I’ve got some cash saved up, but I’m not retiring on it. So I’m still working. I’ve always been working.”
“Doing what?”
He took a deep breath. “You really wanna know?”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“I teach developmentally challenged adults how to manage their lives.”
I laughed in his face for a full ten seconds. “You do not.”
He scowled at me, sat back in his chair, and tossed his wadded napkin on the table. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me. And, yeah, I do.”
“Wait, really?”
“Really.”
“Like, what do you do?”
“I’ve got a bunch of clients. Right now, most of them are young autistic men. Couple have Asperger’s. Most are high functioning enough to work regular jobs, but they need a lot of help managing the basics like paying bills or getting around town or remembering to brush their teeth and take a shower. One of my kids, Wyatt, can’t even do that.”
I felt my heart pinch when he called Wyatt his kid.
“He’ll probably never be able to work a job. I’m like his big brother. I pretty much just spend time with him so his parents get some down time. They’ll have to take care of him his whole life. See this?” He pointed at a small fading bruise shaped like a crescent moon just below his left eye. “Wyatt clipped me there a couple weeks ago when I took him to the Santa Monica Pier to ride the rides and play all the games. He doesn’t like the coasters, just the basic stuff like the merry-go-round or Pacific Plunge. That’s the one that bounces you up and down like twenty feet. Pretty chill. He loves that shit. Laughs his ass off the whole time.”
“How old is Wyatt?”
“He’s seventeen.”
I knew the ride and pictured the two of them on the bench seat with their arms in the air, laughing as they bounced. I hid a secret smile.
“Anyway, he got too excited when he was playing that game where you smash all the mechanical gophers with the padded mallet. When he finally hit one, I cheered him for doing a great job, so he hit me with the mallet like I was a gopher.”
“Really?”
He grinned. “Yup. Whacked me good. Right in the eye.” Brodie chuckled and shook his head as a faraway smile eased onto his face. “Great kid. But I always gotta be on my toes with him. He almost broke my nose a month ago. Tried to hug him and he bashed me with his forehead and gave me a bloody nose. Kid’s skull is made of steel.”
“Wow, Brodie. How did you ever get into doing this sort of thing?”
He shrugged. “My older brother Brian is autistic. I did the same thing for him growing up. By the time I was sixteen and had a driver’s license, and he was twenty-two, I knew more about how to take care of myself than he does now. Back then, I was always showing him stuff because he was my brother. It’s just what I did. You ever see that movie Rain Main?”
“No, sorry.”
“Rain Main is a movie with Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman. They’re brothers and Hoffman is autistic. Watch it some time. That’s kind of what it’s like with me and Brian, except Brian can’t count cards in his head like a human computer or hear a song once and play it note for note. He can’t do any of that savant stuff. He’s just autistic and needs a lot of help. Still lives with my parents down in Garden Grove, but I see him all the time. Anyway, I do the same thing for my clients that I did for Brian growing up. Kind of fell into it, I guess,” he smiled.
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
My heart had completely melted for Brodie.
He smiled at me like it was business as usual. “That’s what I do these days. Between that and my savings, I get by.”
I was suddenly seeing Brodie in an entirely new light. “That is incredible, Brodie.”
“Nah. It’s just my job.”
“Wow. Do you, um, do you ever work with women? Do women even get autism? Sorry if I sound stupid. I’m just curious.”
“Nah, you don’t sound stupid. But it’s funny you say that. Until a few years ago, there’s been almost zero research about women with autism, how to diagnose them, t
reat them, all that. It used to be women on the spectrum would get misdiagnosed with all kinds of other mental health problems. Borderline personality, OCD, agoraphobia, bipolar, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, you name it. All kinds of wrong things. Nobody knew it was autism or Asperger’s underneath it all.”
“Wow.” I was partially wowing because I could imagine how hard it must be for women with autism to get the help they needed, but I was mainly wowing because Brodie knew all these facts off the top of his head. I was definitely impressed.
“I know, right? The good news is, nowadays there’s all kinds of studies looking into it and the therapy strategies are way more effective.”
“Do you know why it took so long for science to realize that women can have autism too? It just seems so bizarre they didn’t know.”
“One key thing they’ve worked out is that girls tend to go undiagnosed because they’re a lot better at faking social relationships. On the outside, they seem normal. It’s what’s going on inside that makes all the difference.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. They say for a girl with autism, the social part of her brain can be just as active as the social brain of a normal boy the same age. But they aren’t boys. They’re girls trying to relate to other girls, and girls are all about relationships and emotions. So girls with autism have to use other parts of their brains to figure out how to act in social situations, which stresses them out because it’s hard work. It’s like they’re pretending they’re sociable when they aren’t. They force eye contact, force body language, mimic mannerisms, that kind of thing. Some autistic women say it’s sort of like doing advanced math to solve every social situation. Math all the time, whenever they’re around people. It doesn’t come easily or naturally for them. So they end up feeling disconnected from other girls. They’d rather be alone reading books or playing with dolls or whatever. They can’t relate to all that gossipy social hierarchy bullshit that normal women love to worry about. Does she like me, does she hate me, are we friends, are we feuding? Shit, I can’t even relate to that shit.” He smirked and the cutest dimple tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Me neither,” I laughed. “I’d rather read a book or play with dolls.”
“You? Nah. I can’t picture you sitting around by yourself. Too many guys chasing you around. You probably spend all your time fighting them off.”