You Own Me (Owned Book 1)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  This is perfect. It wasn't famously haunted, but, then again, the only “famously” haunted place in Santa Barbara was an old mission. An old mission didn't exactly scream sexy, and it definitely wasn't “Old Hollywood,” the official theme of the party.

  The mansion I was touring wasn't a rental venue; in fact, it was a private home about to be foreclosed. The homeowners, Carl and Eileen, were eager to work with me. The money would help them start their life over. That kind of made me feel warm and gooey inside. Instead of continuing to make the rich richer, I was helping a couple that had hit hard times to start over.

  Then they told me how they lost their money: in a pyramid scheme that they started. Carl and Eileen didn't explain it precisely that way. But, if all of their “employees” started suing them for money they had taken as a result of an “investment and recruitment process,” it's a pyramid scheme.

  Still, I worked with them. I stomped on the gooey feeling inside me and pressed forward to close the deal. They had the only suitable venue that wasn’t booked. I couldn’t sit on my ass waiting for some fairytale cancellation. I had to send the invitations to the printer pronto, and the address couldn’t very well read “We're still figuring it out.”

  The mansion itself was great; it was one of the few in Santa Barbara that was not Spanish Colonial.

  Instead, it was American Baby Boomer meets Old Victorian architecture. I'm sure there's a legitimate name for that style, but I sure as hell don't know it.

  The house looked a little like the one on American Horror Story. Just looking at it scared the shit out of me. The angular, slate roof cast gaunt shadows across its face and onto the large, circular driveway.

  “Mr. & Mrs. Hammersmith,” I said.

  “Please, call us Carl and Eileen,” Eileen said.

  “Okay, Eileen,” I said, looking at her and then to Carl. “Carl, based on the contract and assuming the changes to Section Two are acceptable, Simply Santa Barbara would like to make a bid—”

  “Let me stop you right there,” Carl said.

  What was with people interrupting me lately? Carl poured some lemon water into his glass as if his entire mansion wasn't empty and we weren't sitting on plastic, foldout chairs around a cheap, picnic table.

  Carl continued, “New details have come to light, and that contract isn't going to work.”

  “New details?” I blinked at Carl.

  “Yes, like the fact that your client Regal is in a legal battle. And that it would look very bad for their investors if this party didn't happen,” Carl took a sip of his water, watching me like a hawk watches a mouse.

  Ugh. These people were such scuzzy losers. They’d found out I was in a bind, and they were using it against me. They were willing to forgo a bid on their pretentious and (almost) foreclosed, home for the chance at a little more money. Just the type of people that would have started a pyramid scheme.

  I pursed my lips then forced a smile. “So, what does that mean for our relationship, Mr. Hammersmith?”

  Carl shrugged casually. “You tell me.” He was trying to get me to offer him a bribe. I'd been in this situation before with vendors that thought they had the upper hand. I had easily walked away from them with a quick “fuck you.” Not this time; Carl actually did have the upper hand. If I said “fuck you” to Carl, I may as well hold up a mirror to myself at the same time.

  I folded my hands in my lap as I deliberated my next move, feeling underdressed and so young.

  I’m tired of not seeing myself as an adult, as a career woman, as someone who had survived mental disease and a mother's suicide. I still feel like a little girl unsure of the future. Time to fake it ‘till I make it.

  I sat up straighter in the plastic chair. “You know what I think? I think that you're also in the middle of a lengthy and expensive legal battle, but you just can't quit your ways, Carl. Listen, I don't give a shit what happens to this party,”—not true—“so your little attempt at dominance does nothing but waste my time. You can either take the money to buy a shovel and start digging yourself out of this hole you've got yourself buried in, or you can keep wasting my time and suffocate to death.”

  I glared at him, my body unflinching, unwilling to betray my fear and uncertainty. I was angry at him, I was terrified of losing my job, and I was worried I'd made myself look like a fool. I didn't want him to see the child playing as an adult.

  “We'll take the money!” Eileen cut in before Carl could say anything. Eileen reached for my hand to shake.

  “Good choice,” I said, shaking her hand but keeping my eyes on Carl.

  “What do you mean you don't have order number 217?” I leaned over the counter, hands splayed on the surface for balance. The girl on the other side snapped her gum and stared at me impassively. No, actually she looked annoyed with me. Like I was messing up her perfectly planned day of snapping gum and staring off into space.

  “It wasn't in the system, so we didn't make it. It's not here.” Snap, snap.

  I'd called a week ago to order one thousand custom party favors, but this girl was staring at me like I was a spider that crawled on her food. First the shit with Carl, and now this girl? It's almost as if people who do quick work aren't into quality service.

  This vendor specialized in quick, custom party favors. For the theme of Old Hollywood, each guest was to receive a monogramed film tin. Inside the tin were a bunch of themed favors.

  It was hard to secure the party favors, especially for a party of Regal's size. Party favors make a party. If you have bad party favors, you may as well not do the party. So the fact that I had only three weeks to secure amazing party favors for one thousand guests was almost Mission Impossible. It ruled out Tiffany's, it ruled out concerts, it ruled out almost anything, but then that’s why I love party planning.

  If you're good at planning, it's about so much more than color and theme. It's about knowing how people tick. It's getting to know someone so well that you know how to make them happy before they do. It's power, and it's fucking addicting.

  Where was I? Oh yeah, the bitch behind the counter. I give the girl a saccharine smile, and pulled out my smartphone. Quickly, I pulled up the invoice for my order. Bingo! The invoice had the confirmation number and, most importantly, the delivery guarantee.

  “If you don't have my order, I expect it to be ready within the hour.” I put my phone on the counter displaying the invoice. “If not, my order is free. All my orders are free. Forever.”

  Yeah, that's some kind of guarantee. It was another reason why I had selected this company. They had promised to deliver my one thousand monogrammed film tins within two weeks, or all of my future purchases would be free forever. For a party planner, getting free party favors forever is like hitting the lottery.

  Snap, snap. “I'll go get my manager.”

  Queens of the Stone Age’s “Make It Wit Chu” came on over the store’s speakers. Unbidden, Vic's face popped into my mind’s eye. The vision was like an unwanted fly; I tried to swat it away, but it kept returning. The longer the song went on, the more the words drilled into my brain, the more I couldn't stop seeing him. I gave up shooing Vic away, and let the song's seductive melody fill me like a drug.

  “Ms. Moore?” A woman's cool voice broke through the spell.

  I blinked, clearing my eyes, to see a woman not much older than me. She looked normal enough.

  “Yes,” I responded. “Are you the manager?”

  “I am.” She said curtly.

  “Did your associate fill you in?” I asked, gesturing to the gum smacker.

  “Yes.” The woman said, even more curtly.

  Huh. I don't understand the people who get, let alone succeed, in a customer-oriented business, yet seem to possess no people skills. It weirds me out, and it makes me feel like it's just me they don't like. As if they’re super friendly to every other person who comes in, but then I walk in and they're like “Oh, now look at this bitch.”

  “Well, Ms. . . .?” I said, trying
to lead her to tell me her name. At least some of us knew how to talk to people around here.

  “Ms. Friendly.”

  I stared. I couldn’t help it. Was she fucking with me?

  “My name is Amelia Friendly,” she said.

  I nodded, too dumbstruck by the irony. “Okay. Ms. Friendly, you are aware my order hasn't been processed. Your guarantee says—”

  Ms. Friendly interrupted me. “We'll have it by tomorrow. The guarantee says that if it's not ready within twenty-four hours of the delivery date, then all future purchases are free. Not within the hour.” She bit off the last word.

  I had half a mind to bitch at her for the company's terrible customer service, misrepresentation, and headache-inducing machinations. But I didn’t, because the reality was I only had a week until the party, and they were my only hope. It didn't matter that they would give me free party favors or not. If I didn't make this party a success, I wouldn't have any more parties to use their free party favors for.

  I swallowed my anger, and felt instant indigestion. “Alright. That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

  Ms. Friendly only nodded at me.

  I stepped out into the warm Santa Barbara air. The sun was shining bright, and I felt almost hopeful. With the favors taken care of, the party was in place. Only a week away and I had everything ready except a date. Which, to be honest, wasn't going to happen unless vibrators had become acceptable life partners now.

  On Friday, Vic brought home a skank. I'm calling all of Vic's conquests skanks because I'm petty and jealous and have no respect for my own gender, okay? Get off my back. Anyway, on Friday, Vic brought home a skank. She was tall and beautiful and had gorgeous brown hair that fell to her butt. She looked like a goddess plucked right out of the Amazon. I shot them both daggers as we all got into the same elevator.

  She was giggling and flirting with him, calling him “baby” and “darling.” He had a stupid grin on his face. I about vomited on them both.

  The doors opened onto my floor, and I stepped out. Over my shoulder, I called cheerily, “Vic, I'm so glad you found a partner who doesn't mind your herpes.”

  I was determined not to scuttle away; I held my head high and walked slowly down the hall. When I heard the elevator ding shut, I quickened my pace until I was safely in my apartment. It wasn't the most mature thing to do, but it was classier than vomiting on them. I think.

  I've had sex with someone who had herpes before. It really isn't that hard to protect yourself if you're educated about it, but most people aren't. And most one-night stands don't want to risk it.

  I cackled maniacally to myself, feeling smug. That is, until Saturday.

  On Saturday, I brought home a skank of my own, this one of the penis faction. I swear to God Vic was waiting for me in the lobby. He folded his newspaper, stood up, and walked with us into the elevator.

  On the ride up, I braced myself for the worst—he was going to get me back for what I said the day before.

  The elevator pinged for my level and I stepped out.

  Or, I was about to.

  “It was lovely meeting you,” Vic said, reaching for my skank's hand. “Just don't forget, she has a curfew.” Vic turned his head and winked at me.

  I spent the rest of the night trying to convince my skank, err, date that I wasn't underage and that Vic wasn't my father. Vic was only a couple of years older than me. Vic isn't even the same race as me. Look around, can’t you tell I live in my own apartment?

  Ugh. My date wouldn’t believe any of it. Once statutory rape is even alluded to, most guys run for the hills.

  When he left fifteen minutes later, he was freaking out about what we had done in the bar’s bathroom earlier that night. “I’m a consenting adult, dammit!” Hmmm, I probably shouldn’t have yelled that down the hallway at his retreating back.

  Well played, Vic. Well played.

  On Sunday, we both brought home dates. The silence of the elevator was a tacitly agreed upon ceasefire. I was okay with that . . . but then I said fuck it. Kamikaze, bitches!

  “He's wonderful,” I said to Vic's date. She smiled, loving the compliment that I had paid to her date. I touched her forearm gently. “Just don't get pregnant. I made that mistake with him . . .” I gave my best drama queen impersonation: right hand pressed against my chest, tears welling in my eyes, left hand flapping.

  Her jaw dropped. My date quickly stepped away from me. Vic smiled.

  Neither of us got laid.

  Now it was Wednesday, and once again I was glaring at Vic. My mouth was pressed firmly on whomever this guy was that I had picked for the night. Vic glared back at me, his mouth pressed firmly on whoever that girl was. This was the only way we could stay quiet—our respective mouths locked on a stranger’s—neither of us happy.

  I watched in fascination as Vic slowly pulled away from his date. I gave my date a little push to get him off of me.

  “I'm sorry, I just, I just can't.” Vic said, looking pained. His date looked seriously confused. “I can't let this happen. This girl is a whore,” Vic said dramatically, gesturing to me. “She'll make you pay afterward and if you don't, well,” Vic paused for effect, “I hope you're not attached to your kneecaps, buddy.”

  I took a step toward Vic, eyeing him down as if he wasn’t a whole head taller than me. “If I'm a whore, then you're a rapist.” Never mind that was a complete non sequitur. I wanted to do the most damage to Vic and his chance with his date.

  Vic halved the distance between us. “Whore.”

  “Rapist.”

  It didn't feel like we were joking anymore.

  We continued spitting hateful words into each other's faces, no mind given to anyone else. When I finally looked around, the elevator was empty save the two of us.

  I sighed. “We need to stop doing this.”

  “I know,” Vic agreed, stepping back.

  “So, why are you doing it?” After I asked the question, I knew it wasn't fair. I had started it, and I had kept it going.

  Vic surprised me. Instead of being angry, he seemed remorseful. “I get jealous when I see you with other guys, Lenny. I know I shouldn't, but I do.”

  I wanted to scream in response, but instead I whispered, “That's not fair. You left me. You rejected me.”

  Our relationship was such a broken and dangerous roller coaster that I swear my spine was starting to snap from the jarring twists and turns.

  “I know.”

  “So let me go. It's hard enough living in the same building as you.”

  Vic nodded solemnly.

  Since we’d stopped hurling insults, Vic hadn't looked me in the eye. I was grateful for that, because I don't know if I could’ve held my resolve while gazing in to their fathomless depths. Still, I missed looking into them. His stare had a unique, almost worship-like quality. It was like a drug to me. My own black-eye heroin.

  “This is your floor. I'll ride back down,” I said. I wanted this conversation over. Now.

  “Lenny—”

  “No. This is it, Vic. No more back and forth. I don't even think we should be friends. We're not good at any of this. Landlord and tenant, okay?”

  His answer was all I had. If he said no, if he said we would be friends or we would be fuck-buddies, I would say yes to either. I was utterly his. He owned me. I wanted to kill myself at the notion that I was enslaved to someone else, but I couldn’t, because that power didn’t belong to me anymore. I was waiting for his answer, an answer that could free me and give me power again.

  “Okay, Lennox, just landlord and tenant.”

  Two days until takeoff, and everything was going according to plan. Maybe it was fortuitous that Vic and I weren't together: I can't imagine having pulled this party together while being tangled up in him. Even that short amount of time where I had been distracted by him and his dates (skanks!) had nearly been enough to derail me. Still, I made it back, and now the caterers had just confirmed. Now all I had to do was—

  Knock, knock, knock.


  I flinched at the loud noise. Even BD (before Dean), I hated the noise of a delivery man knocking. They're so loud and intrusive. I get why they need to be that loud, but it's still horrible. It makes my heart jump out of my chest, and requires me to rein in my instinct to grab a knife before going to the door.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Okay!” I yelled ungraciously as I walked toward the door. I checked through my peephole, making sure it really was a deliveryman. There was no one there. Adjusting my angle on the peephole, I saw a big, white box with a red bow on the hallway floor. Suspiciously, I cracked open the door and looked up and down for the deliveryman. Seeing no one, I gathered the box up and quickly shut the door behind me.

  I flipped the card over for more clues about the box. Nothing. Hmm, this is weird.

  I tugged at the taped lid. It came off with a silent whoosh and a rustle of tissue paper. Inside lay a swath of red fabric. I held it up to the light and my eyes popped. It was a fire-engine red dress, with a deep V-neck and high slits up both sides. It was so not my style. Neither was it Bethany’s. What was she up to? I gingerly set the dress down in the box, afraid it was going to leech onto me and turn me into a succubus.

  Already having decided what I was wearing for the event, I wasn't about to change my mind now. I'll thank Bethany at the party, but tell her the red dress didn't fit.

  I picked up my dress from the back of a chair where I’d laid it a few days ago. I held it up to me in front of the mirror, swaying side to side. It was a deep emerald satin number. It was sexy, but not overtly so. I think it fit the theme of an Old Hollywood masquerade perfectly. It highlighted my assets, hid my flaws, and it made my red hair flame and my pale skin shine. It really was a fantastic dress, and I looked damn good in it. And hey, I'd picked it up for cheap at a vintage store.

  Knock, knock, knock!

  I jumped and let go of the dress. It gently cascaded to the ground like a green smoke tendril.