by Sonia Hartl
Like I could forget.
“What about Eve, Mom?” I couldn’t keep the exasperation out of my voice.
My mom acted like my falling-out with my friends had been my fault. If I’d just stuck to psych, we’d still have things in common. It didn’t surprise me that she felt that way, since all of her so-called friendships were also transactional in nature, but it stung. Not even my own mother could be bothered to stand by me. My friends had big, impressive careers in academia. They’d moved ahead in life, while I’d fallen so far behind I wasn’t worth dragging along anymore.
“She mentioned Dr. Faber’s retirement, and did you know Eve applied for his position? I was rather surprised. Of course, she’s still working on her double doctorate in psych and anthropology, and they’d really prefer a candidate who is finished with their schooling, but—”
I sat straight up in bed. “No.”
My mom huffed at the interruption. “What on earth are you saying no to?”
“Eve doesn’t deserve that position.” She shouldn’t be rewarded for being a shitty friend. Karma had to pull through for me at least once in my life.
“I beg to differ. She’s had some setbacks, sure. But she’s been a highly adept adjunct, and her last peer-reviewed article is creating quite a buzz. Who knew that the correlation between social media usage and isolation in teenagers would be so successful?”
I knew. Because that was going to be the topic of my master’s thesis if I’d stuck with psych, which Eve was well aware of. “Listen to me very carefully. If you love me at all, you will use whatever evil power you wield at Northwestern to make sure Eve doesn’t get that job.”
“What is this nonsense? I have no sway in the anthropology department.”
“You have sway everywhere. You’ve never been modest a day in your life, so please don’t start now.” Eve could not get that position. “I know you think my friends ditching me is all my fault, but she used me to make connections she never would’ve made on her own.” She had the personality of one of those oily rags mechanics kept tucked in their back pockets.
“We all use what we can to network, Brinkley. That’s not a crime.” Of course she couldn’t take my side in that matter. Then she’d have to admit her own faults in the Being a Decent Human department. Using people was all part of the game.
“Maybe using someone isn’t a big deal to you, but in the real world, we don’t think of friends as juicy husks just waiting to be sucked dry. Oh, and that article she’s getting buzz for? That was going to be my thesis if I’d completed my master’s. She knew it too, because we’d discussed it at length several times.”
“Come again?” Now I had her attention. It was perfectly fine for my friends to use me, then toss me away like yesterday’s garbage when I fell on hard times, but taking an idea I had no intention of putting into action was abhorrent. My mother was nothing if not predictable.
“Guess I can’t return to school now that my big idea was stolen by someone else.” I might’ve dropped out for good, but I could still play the dirty politics of academia.
“We’ll just see about that.” As much as my mom pissed me off, I respected the way she chewed through the food chain like a boss-ass shark. “I have a lunch date the week after next with some of the committee members who will be deciding between applicants. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let a few hints drop about Eve’s lack of character.”
We made plans to meet next weekend. Maybe I’d figure out a way to be civil to my mom. We could call a temporary ceasefire, at least until she blocked Eve from getting that job. Better if Mark got it and got out of my way. I didn’t appreciate him invading my dreams, even if he did have Jason Momoa’s body and a mysterious third arm that I was pretty sure was just a terrifyingly large dick.
Since I was already up, I called Emma. “How’s day one of unemployment?”
“Glorious.” Her voice reminded me of Winnie stretching under the window on a sunny day. “I was supposed to have dinner with that asshole pilot tonight, but instead I’ll be watching The Good Place and drawing up my business plan.”
“What plan? Tell me.” I knew Emma wanted to start her own advertising agency, but I thought it was a lot like my gallery. A big-dream, someday kind of thing.
“I’m putting every cent of my H4H money into starting my own agency. I have experience from my advertising days, and I still have contacts from JBM. Getting out from under Margo’s thumb has given me so much clarity. I don’t need her, and I’m better than being someone else’s little revenge puppet. No offense.”
“None taken,” I murmured.
I barely heard her as my thoughts had already gone running. Emma was starting her own business. She was actually doing what all of us had talked about for years. I was thrilled for her, but at the same time it felt like I was being left behind again. Because there was always a voice in my head that said I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, fast enough to hustle in this city. I was a pretty face. Good for breaking hearts and egos and little else.
“And if you haven’t opened your gallery by next year—which you might, in which case you can ignore me—I’d love to have you on board,” Emma said.
“I’m sorry.” I needed to pull my head out of my ass and be a friend. “You’d want to hire me? Why? I don’t have any skills.”
Emma laughed, and the careless freedom of it carried through the line. “Oh my God, B. You need to stop putting yourself down. Your mother already does enough of that for the both of you. Of course you have skills. You’re a damn good artist. I’d love to have someone with even a fraction of your skills helping with preliminary sketches, and you have an eye for aesthetics that most advertising majors would kill for.”
“Thanks.” Everyone deserved an Emma in their life. She was good for my soul.
“What’s up with you and Mark?” Emma asked.
“Nothing. Why are you asking me that?” I pulled my phone back and narrowed my eyes at it, like it was a can of snakes that would erupt at any moment. “Are you messing with me?”
“I think you like him,” Emma sang.
“I tolerate him. There’s a huge difference,” I said.
“Oh, please.” I could practically hear her eyes roll through the line. “You couldn’t take your eyes off him when he showed up at the Gilded Swan in that suit.”
“It was weird, like fun-house mirror weird. I wasn’t used to it, that’s all.”
“You want Marky Mark to give you those good vibrations, and you know it.”
“You’re the worst, and I’m hanging up now.”
I tossed my phone on my bed and frowned at my reflection in the closet mirror. One day away from H4H and Emma was already thriving. I hadn’t heard her that excited about anything the entire time I’d known her. Maybe there was life outside the bubble I’d been living in after all.
CHAPTER 16
Emma sent me a video clip of the office space she’d put a down payment on as I put the finishing touches on my look for the evening. I sent her back a few confetti-cannon emojis. A second later, my phone buzzed. Probably Emma wanting to give me more details.
Without looking at the screen, I answered it using my breathy, phone-sex voice: “Brinkley’s House of Blow Jobs. You fuck ’em, we’ll suck ’em.”
“Brinkley Marie. This is your mother.”
Shit. I hung up and threw my phone across the room. Why was she calling? She’d already done her obligatory call this weekend. It started buzzing again, MOM clearly lit up on the screen. I let it go to voice mail. She wouldn’t give up that easily though. On her fourth attempt, I finally answered.
“Mom, hey. Strangest thing. I was just on the line with the phone company, and they said I’ve been hacked and people I don’t know and have never met are now answering my calls. Can you believe it?”
“Give me a break. Do you think I was born yesterday?” Her clipped tone, laced with her ever-present disappointment, had me seriously regretting not sending her to voice mail again. �
��I don’t care about the pranks you play with your friends. I have important business to discuss.”
She always had important business to discuss. “I’m not going back to school.”
“You know my opinions on that matter, but that’s not why I called. It turns out, the young man you tried to make me hide from in the bushes also applied for Dr. Faber’s position. Is there something I should know about him? A reason why he wouldn’t be a fit candidate?”
“No, Mom.” Not that she’d take my word for it. She’d probably already run a background check on Mark the moment she found out his name. “We went on a date, but he was too into academics. You know that’s a sore spot for me. He’s also really career-focused and passionate about his work, and my taste runs more toward underemployed losers, so I had to cut him loose. But I’m sure he’s better suited for someone who shares his thirst for knowledge and his dedication to teaching.”
My mom’s long-winded sigh rattled in my ear. “I had hoped when you couldn’t find a suitable career, you’d at least find a suitable man, but I guess that’s asking too much.”
“You know me. Forever ruining the promising prospects in my life. It’s almost like I’m doing it on purpose. I have to go now. I’m on my way to drink too much with friends at the local biker bar. I’ll probably go home with a Hells Angel and have unprotected sex.” I hung up and tossed my phone on my bed.
That was as close to an apology as Mark would ever get from me.
I went to the kitchen and downed a few aspirin, rubbing my temples. I’d spent an hour getting ready for tonight, and all I wanted to do was crawl under the covers and deal with my assignment tomorrow. But the knock at my apartment door had me scrambling. Earlier, Mark and I had agreed to meet at my place and share an Uber to the Stir-Up. He’d said it seemed only fair for him to know where I lived, in case he got drunk one night and needed somewhere to throw up. Bastard.
In a last-ditch effort to avoid his judgment, I shoveled my painting supplies into my studio, threw all my coffee cups into the dishwasher without rinsing them, and gathered up my clothes and shut them in my bedroom. There. Not as neat and sparse as his apartment, but passably clean.
I flung open the door and swiped at the bead of sweat that rolled down my ample cleavage thanks to my rush. “Almost ready.”
He stood in my entryway, somehow taking up more space than his physical body allowed. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a light dusting of dark hair on his strong forearms. He had on cowboy boots and a pair of tight jeans that left nothing to the imagination. My throat went dry at the bulge in his pants. There would be no need for him to stuff. The man was packing just fine on his own.
A warm tingling spread through my stomach at the sight of him in my doorway looking like a farmers-market wet dream. Unfortunately, I did not have the same effect on him. He threw back his head and laughed so hard he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. And knowing how ridiculous I looked, I couldn’t help but crack a smile in return.
I’d gone full Dolly Parton circa 1985. I’d curled and teased my hair until it stood two feet high. Stiffly sprayed feathered waves stuck to my overblushed cheeks. My sparkly blue eye shadow matched my sequin-and-fringe vest and cowgirl boots. The falsies I’d tucked into my bra made my boobs so big, the vest could barely contain them. I’d be lucky if I got through the night without one of them popping out.
“You look great.” He managed to get the last shaky word out before he lost it again. “I’m not sure why you go to all this trouble though. You’re a beautiful woman, charming even, when you’re not being a pain in the ass. Can’t you get a guy’s attention without the dramatics?”
I tucked away the words beautiful and charming to be examined at length later, when I was alone and feeling sorry for myself and questioning all of my life choices. “It’s not just about getting attention. I have to make the guy believe I’d be his perfect match.”
“You’re certainly good at that.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, you’ve been at this for two years, so you must know what you’re doing.”
“Margo trained me well.” As much as I hated her sometimes—a lot of the time—she’d also plucked me off the street when I’d been at my lowest and given me a purpose. Something to channel all my helpless rage into. She’d honed me into a weapon and taught me how to take pleasure in the pain of others. “The trick is making them think of me as a reflection of how they view themselves. Their egos will tell them they deserve me. It’s a blow to them when they figure out they don’t.”
“I’m aware of how it works.” He pointed at himself. “Been there, done that.”
“Right. Okay, let’s move it along.” I shooed him, but Winnie chose that moment to leap on the couch and hiss. She was not a fan of my look for the evening.
He slammed his back against the wall. If he’d been a cartoon, he would’ve Kool-Aid Manned right through it. Apprehension clouded his features as he took a careful sidestep toward the door. “What the hell is that thing?”
“This is Winnie.” I reached out a hand to pet her, and she took a swipe at me with her claws. “We’re thinking about couples counseling.”
“Why is it wearing a sweater with bananas on it?”
“Because she’s a fashionista. Aren’t you, bébé?” I smooshed Winnie’s head against my falsie. She growled and bit down on the fake nipple. Bless the extra layer of protection.
“Maybe she wouldn’t try to eat you if you didn’t dress her up like a doll.” His voice dripped with disdain.
“Doubtful.” Winnie let me love on her the most when I changed her sweaters, something most cats hated, while she growled and hissed whenever I tried to pet her. I appreciated her incongruity. “I know you don’t like it when animals are dressed like people, but this is our thing. It keeps our love alive.”
“How do you know—” He frowned. “Never mind. Cheat sheet.”
He looked around my apartment, and I toed a lacy bra I’d missed under the couch. I never had company, so I generally didn’t feel the need to waste time making my place look presentable. But most of the mess today was just paint supplies, which I tended to drag along with me while I paced for inspiration.
His gaze fell on the walls I’d covered in my art. Even if I didn’t have the nerve to attempt to sell them yet, I still took a lot of pride in my pieces. Each of them reminded me of how far I’d come, and how far I still had to go. They pushed me to be better.
I had a few modernist florals from my Georgia O’Keeffe days. None of them looked like vaginas. But most of my more recent work had been inspired by scenes from Chicago, though not the fun and vibrant parts of the city. I’d always felt too separate from that hopeful world of first-date butterflies and career-win celebrations. I preferred to capture old ladies feeding birds in the park who still left room on the bench for their deceased husbands, women waiting for men who never showed at a coffee shop, little girls staring in wonder at the toys they’d never be able to afford in a display window. All the sad and empty places inside me I could only touch with oils and acrylics and brush.
“These are stunning.” He gave me a funny look. “You’re really an artist? That wasn’t part of your act?”
None of my evening with him had been an act, but telling him that would’ve made me vulnerable in a way I hadn’t been in a long time. Pretending it had all been bullshit kept a safe distance between us and that night. Though having him view my work already made me feel more stripped-down than when I’d writhed beneath his tongue.
“Aspiring artist.” An important distinction. Real artists weren’t afraid to put their work out there. I pushed past him, making it clear it was time to go. “It’s not a big deal.”
He caught my hand. “How much of that night was real?”
All of it. “It was just an act, Mark. Yes, I paint, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
He moved in closer, and the air left my lungs. The scent of rain and moonlight surrounded me as he leaned against me
, his hard body pinning me to the wall. My legs became jelly, even as I tilted my hips toward him. I was already wet, and he’d barely touched me. I lifted my chin and met his gaze in challenge.
“How many of your other targets know you paint?” His breath whispered across my lips. “How many know you want to open your own gallery one day?”
“Just you.” I trembled from the low rumble those words made in his throat.
And that’s when Winnie gave him a scathing hiss and went for his legs. He let out a strangled yell as she dug in her claws, spitting and tearing at him as she tried to shred through his jeans. My protective little guard cat.
“Get it off, get it off!” He made a grab for Winnie, but she swiped at his hand. He ran in circles trying to dislodge her, but she held tight, growling as she bit his knee. She climbed higher, and he covered his crotch with his hands as he shook his leg.
“Hold still. I can’t grab her with you flailing around like that.” I shook with laughter as I plucked Winnie off his thigh and set her on the back of the couch. I’d have to give her a treat for saving me from myself.
Even if I was starting to find Mark not nearly as terrible as I’d assumed when he walked into the H4H conference room, he was still the enemy. My mark of a different sort. The other girls might’ve gotten on board thanks to Margo’s scare tactics, but I’d never forgive her for hiring my former target.
With the moment now broken, I grabbed my purse and headed out of my apartment, with Mark behind me. He kept a wary eye on my cat as I shut the door. The weight of what we’d almost done hung between us, but neither of us mentioned it as we kept a safe distance from each other. We rode down the elevator in silence and left my building.
CHAPTER 17
The Stir-Up was just as tacky as the name suggested. Bales of hay around wooden crates served as chairs and tables. An Old West–looking bar, a huge space for line dancing, and the mechanical bull made up most of the ambience. The place was packed full of the glitter-and-fringe version of urban country folk, and even with his boots and Wranglers, Mark looked woefully under-cowboyed.