by Jamie Knight
Why did I like it? Why did I let her keep kissing me like that? Why did I let her do that to me at all? Why couldn’t I get away? Why didn’t I? Why can’t I do anything to her once she looks at me that way? Talks to me that way?
I wipe at my tears and sweat vigorously, fearing being joined in the elevator at any moment.
How is she doing that to me? Is she some sort of sorcerer? Some sort of vampire?
My heart is pounding, but I don’t know from what. From fear, obviously. But there’s something else, adrenaline and horror, that I just can’t make sense of. I just can’t accept or reject it.
How do I stop her? Can I? And what do I do come Monday, when she expects me to do all of that for her?
I don’t have any answers, and I’m not likely to get any.
But what I do have is a friendly face. An ally. Melissa.
But as I’ve done all week, I don’t stop for her. I don’t wait, even when she shouts after me. She’s just seen the worry and fear covering my face as I run past her and out toward my car.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Melissa
It’s Friday, almost the end of the workday, and the workweek. Over the last couple of days, I’ve made good on my promise to Dennis to get him on something. I’ve done research on my own, as well as talked with Kane, about possible charges or suits I could file on my ex-boyfriend. We’ve also talked about how to negate any conflict of interest that there might be, considering I work for the company I’m seeking representation from.
Kane’s promised me he’ll look into it and get back to me, and I’ve been so preoccupied I’ve had to be satisfied with that much. It’s been enough to get me to actually move Dennis’s picture back a little from its place of honor. Though it’s not completely gone from the desk, it’s not as front and center as it used to be. Which is an odd metaphor for what’s going on in my heart at the moment.
And now, I’m just sitting here finishing up the last few minutes of my day. Isabella’s decided to go home early, and I let her, considering that I ditched out early last Friday.
What I’ve been through in a week, most people go through in a year. I’m exhausted and amazed by this fact, but that quickly gets moved to the back burner when I see Tommy. He bolts out of the elevator, face red and covered in sweat. He appears to be hyperventilating, his expression is terrified and guilty.
He notices me watching him, but that doesn’t make him slow down. It only makes him run faster, with his head down and his eyes away.
“Tommy!” I shout, feeling panic well up inside me. I yank off my headset and move around my desk to follow him. I don’t know what it is, but I have this horrible feeling of dread inside of me and rising nausea. “Tommy, please wait! What happened? What’s wrong?” I’m shouting all these things at him, but he just moves faster and further away from me. “Tommy!”
I pick up my pace, literally chasing after him now, down the hall, through the coffee bar, and towards the stairs. He doesn’t answer me or slow down, but I keep going.
I don’t bother to say anything as we both run down the stairs, but my mind is going a mile a minute — fretting and panicking for him. What in the hell has happened? Whatever it is, it’s not good! Whatever it is it has to do with her, Vanacore, says my heart. That predator, says my soul.
As I burst out of the doors on the ground floor, still following Tommy across the parking lot toward his car, I shout, “Tommy, go to my car! Please! Wait there for a minute and calm down!”
At that moment, it occurs to me he doesn’t know my car from the other fifty or a hundred still parked in the lot, but I don’t care. Something about what I’ve just said has finally stopped him. Either that, or he’s finally exhausted himself or winded himself enough. Either way, he’s come to a stop, and it’s not far from my car anyway.
I catch up to him and take him under his shaking arm. It, like the rest of him, is still dressed in a frumpy, ill-fitting suit and tie. “Take a deep breath. Deep breaths, Tommy. Just relax, and let’s get in my car to sit and talk for a moment, okay?”
I know Tommy is in no mental or emotional state to really answer me, but I feel it’s important to get his permission and to get him on the same page, even if he’s not in the space for responding. I still need his consent. He manages something like a nod, and I take that as my permission to take him to my car, leaning him against it momentarily as I unlock both the passenger side and the driver’s side, and lead him to the former.
When he is safely in the passenger seat with the door closed, I head over to the driver’s side. Taking my seat and closing my door, I don’t question him about anything right away. I just let him sit there, try to catch his breath, and compose himself.
It takes several minutes for him to calm down and get his breathing under control, but finally, Tommy is able to talk, and when he does, they are just as devastating as I feared. “She kissed me.”
I heard him, but I didn’t hear him. “What?”
“She kissed me,” he squeaks, looking over at me like he’s the dirty, guilty cheater in all of this. “Ms. Vanacore. She forced herself on me and kissed me.” He looks at me like I might not believe him, like I might not understand him, like I might be judging him for being a victim.
“I don’t know what happened, she was just suddenly right there, suddenly on me.” He wipes at his face and nose angrily. “I don’t know what happens around her. I just freeze. I lose control or whatever, like I’m paralyzed. I don’t know. I just can’t get away. And I end up giving her the impression that I like it! That I want it!” He starts to cough and gasp now, growing more hysterical. I do everything to keep him calm and keep him from making himself pass out.
“It’s all right,” I said soothingly, “It’s all right, Tommy. It’s okay. You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing at all, I promise,” I say, resisting the urge to kiss the sweat from his brow. I really want to, but can’t and won’t, given the circumstances. “You’re all right, Tommy. Just relax.”
Tommy shakes his head, his face scrunching up into even more sadness and sorrow or self-hatred and fear. “I don’t want it,” he says. “I don’t want that kind of thing from her.” He quickly sucks in a few breaths of air, like he’s drowning. “I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to just shove her away. But my body betrays me!” He looks like he’s going to tear his hair out, but I stop him. I hold his hand in mine. “And I shouldn’t be burdening you with this! I’m your boss! I should be the listener in this situation!”
Although he’s being so rough on himself, I can’t help but smile. It’s cute for me to see how much he wants to be dependable and strong for the people under him, even when he’s having a moment like this. I can’t help it. I reach up and touch his hair. I stroke it a little bit, which amazingly, seems to help him calm down even more.
For a few long minutes, I don’t do anything other than stroke his hair. I don’t say anything. I just touch him in this way and wait for him to calm down enough again.
“She’s promised — swore that she will make me hers and that I am hers — come next Monday,” he says as if he’s suddenly run out of emotions about it and is now just quoting facts to me. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do. If I don’t, she’ll send me back down to Cubicle Hell. If I do, I’ll just be what everyone else already accuses me of being: a corporate hoe. And I’m not about to tell anyone about this,” he adds, looking at me as if he’s seen where I might have even attempted to go with this revelation. “I’m not going to. I’m not going to ruin my promotion. Not with this kind of attention.”
I don’t say anything to this. And Tommy doesn’t add anything. Not for a good while. But when he does, an energy starts to fill the car that is intoxicating, masculine, and dominating. “I’m going to take her down. That’s what I’m going to do,” he says. “I’m going to keep a record of her behavior toward me. I’m going to let her think I’m all for this little game, and then get her on all of it. Not just for me. But for every other gu
y or young kid she’s ever gotten her way with. Ever victimized in this way. Including Huckleberry.”
Inside, I’m starting to feel warm and fuzzy and hot and tingly in other places. Out of all the lawyers I’ve met, I’ve never seen one be so bold and so noble.
He looks at me, looking for some kind of confirmation. So, I give it to him. I nod and say, “If you’re going to get her, be careful. Cover your ass, even if you are going to offer it to her.” I take out my phone, wiggle it at him. “Get as much as you can on audio or video. Something more than just your words, as I have a feeling that unlike you, Ms. Vanacore’s been at this little racket of hers for a long time. She knows how to wiggle out of it, knows how to spin it, so you need to get her on things she can’t retract or twist. Which would be her own words or actions, captured on a phone.”
Tommy nods but gives me this look like maybe I shouldn’t know how to do these kinds of things.
I smile. “I got your tormentors on the legal aid’s floor to leave you alone and be jobless with just such a tactic,” I say. “Just be discreet and clever with how you obtain it.”
I take this moment to start my car, to turn on the air-conditioning.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Melissa
Now Tommy’s looking at me like I’m wonderful, amazing, and surprising.
I just smile and start driving us out of the parking lot. It isn’t until we almost turn onto the main road toward the middle of town, that I realize I hadn’t made any plans to take him with me anywhere. And now I am without a second thought.
I stop, embarrassed by how natural all of this feels. “Oh, my God! I meant to just talk with you a moment, and now here I am driving away with you!” I chuckle, glad when Tommy looks the same way. He’s embarrassed but also oddly relieved. “Now that we’re here, would you like to go to dinner with me?” I lick my lips. “Maybe talk out a few more plans of how to deal with your big, bad boss?”
To my unending delight and secret pleasure, Tommy accepts immediately. “I’d love dinner. After all, it’s been nearly a week since I’ve had a good lunch or dinner, since Vanacore only gives me enough time to get food for her, and my dad eats all the food out of my fridge and cupboards.”
I roar out of the opening to the company’s parking lot, making a decision right then and there. “That’s it! We are going to one of my most favorite places, and I am buying you appetizers and desserts in addition to your main course! And you don’t get to object,” I add, feeling that he’s going to say something about not allowing me to pay or to treat him. “This is my treat.” I soften my tone, making it gentler and less commanding.
“Fine,” answers Tommy, sounding and looking touched, though I see he’s trying to keep some of it from me. “But I will find a way to pay you back, Melissa.” He looks right at me, his eyes glowing strangely, yet beautifully, in the more muted light of the evening. “You’ve done way more than I ever expected or dreamed any woman would do for me.”
And with that, I’m breathless. I’m speechless, as we make our way to my favorite restaurant in town, with a man I wasn’t ever expecting — or expecting to need — as my companion.
Call it what you will, but the restaurant I take Tommy to, a restaurant called la cuillère du petit prince — the little Prince’s spoon — is one of the best French restaurants in all of America, let alone Manhattan.
Ever since our lunch was cut short, and he seemed interested and excited by French cuisine, I’ve been hungering for more — more French food for Tommy to try, as well as more actual time with him, without Ms. Vanacore or my ex-boyfriend interrupting.
The moment we walk in, I’m greeted by the hostess. Because I know Tommy likes it, I speak in French to her. I ask for a table for two in one of the nicer, more open spaces, and told her that we will be ordering a multi-course experience.
She nods, tells me that will be fine, and shows us to our seats. There, we are almost immediately greeted by a waiter, who runs down the wine list, in French as well, since I let him know on the slide that my “companion” is enamored of the language, and thinks me extra impressive when I speak it in front of him.
“I see,” says the waiter, winking, and proceeds to be very impressive in his French as well. He gives me opportunities to show off while ordering wines and looking at menus. Which I involve Tommy in, helping to explain what dishes are, and starting to use some isolated words in French as I do, so that he begins to learn a bit.
We settle on some fondue as one appetizer, artichaut poivrade (poached artichoke) for the other. The artichokes are in a lemon and herb liquid, making them extra tasty and tender. Something that Tommy isn’t immediately keen on but says is better than snails.
I laugh and say, “With enough garlic and butter, you won’t be complaining about the taste of snails, Tommy. I promise you, you won’t.” Before I think about what I’m doing, I reach over and hold his hand. I put mine over his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “If it isn’t or wasn’t good, trust me when I say no person would eat it.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything as the waiter brings us our chilled wine and fresh glasses to pour it in. It’s only when the appetizers arrive, and one of the servers looks down and smiles at my hand, do I realize where it is still. At that point, I quickly move it off.
Tommy notices, but instead of looking surprised or offended, he looks abandoned. It’s like he is hungry for the touch that’s just left him. But he quickly wipes the emotion from his face and asks me about the appetizer again, the artichoke one.
I know it’s a dodge, but I give in to it anyway. I fill him in, taking a sip of my wine as I do. He takes a couple cautious bites after that. At first, he is not sure what to do with the lemon or the herbs, but by the end of the plate, he’s a fan.
“That was much better than I thought it was going to be,” he says, legitimately pleased by it. “I never thought I would like artichokes.”
“You probably never thought you would like French food or the French language either,” I point out, and watch him blush. He grins sheepishly at me, which I love every moment of.
“No,” he admits, “I didn’t think that would happen either.”
“That’s the magic of life,” I say, taking another sweet sip of my bitter wine. “When I was growing up in England, I didn’t think I would ever come to America, let alone set up a life here. And yet, I’ve done just that. With no intention of ever going back.” As I say this, I take another sip of my wine. Except this one is more like a gulp. Dennis has just reared his ugly head in my thoughts, and I’m determined to drown him out.
Tommy, unfortunately, decides to summon him. “What does your boyfriend think?” Cautiously, he starts to move a piece of bread into the fondue. “About you not going back to Europe?” He pauses a minute, then realizes what he’s just asked me. He bugs his eyes out, and he says, “Never mind! You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Melissa. It’s really none of my damn business.” He sticks that cheese-covered piece of bread in his mouth, careful not to fork himself in the lips as he does.
“He doesn’t like it,” I say, feeling heavy in my heart. I take another big sip of my wine. “But it doesn’t matter what he thinks or likes anymore.” I swallow, looking at Tommy over my glass.
“It doesn’t matter?” Adorably, Tommy looks shocked as well hopeful. “Why?” In his eyes, I can see he knows something. I can also see he’s hoping for something, though he won’t admit it or acknowledge it, so I don’t either. Not yet.
I just answer his question. “We are not together,” I say briskly. I take another drink of my wine glass, draining it. I hadn’t meant to drink like this in front of Tommy, but Dennis seems to be making a mess of things, even when he isn’t around.
Tommy’s look of shock and hope intensifies.
I finish my answer to his question. “Yes. He dumped me last week, after over a year of a long-distance relationship, eighteen months committed in total.” My voice cracks around this,
and I fix it with another glass of wine from the bottle. “He said it wasn’t worth it to him anymore, that he couldn’t and wouldn’t put forth any more effort.”
Tommy doesn’t say anything. He can’t, anyway. The maître d’ has just returned to take our entrée order. With the conversation at hand now, there’s only one choice to make, and that’s to order my version of comfort food: Duck confit, cheesy, creamy potatoes, and garlic and herb fried greens. Enough for both of us. A whole duck.
I order, watching Tommy sip his wine and listen to me. He gets drunk on more than the alcohol and ponders what I’ve just told him. That I’m newly single.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tommy
Not together? He broke up with her after over a year of commitment? I take a sip of my wine, followed by another. I can’t quite wrap my head around these thoughts as they come, let alone what they make me feel.
On the one hand, I’m saddened to hear that Melissa has been so cruelly dumped. I’m angry for her that her boyfriend decided to do this, to say everything wasn’t worth his time or effort, after months of putting forth time and effort. But my final feeling is the one that causes me the most discomfort and fear, as well as joy. The fact that part of me is happy. I’m excited that she’s free, that she is no longer “taken.”
I sip at my wine, looking at Melissa. At the beginning of her confession to me about her relationship status, she looked deflated, empty. Now she looks emboldened or confident, I guess. As if she’s come to terms with what this boyfriend of hers was really worth to her.
She gives me a small smile as she tops off my wine. And that smile, the glitter in her eyes, is enough to make my head spin with yet more thoughts. Different ones. No boyfriend now. She’s free. Available. Perhaps that means I can be the one to take the reins, take his place, and take care of Melissa the way she deserves to be taken care of.