Problem Child (ARC)

by Victoria Helen Stone

down with him. Stop constantly masquerading as normal.

  It was nice.

  But I haven’t told him the real truth, and I won’t; so as

  fun as this relationship has been, it’s over now. The end.

  “The fucking end,” I growl past clenched teeth.

  I ignore the phone and peel out onto the quiet down-

  town street, desperate to get home. Four blocks away

  from his building I have to slow for a small bar district.

  People walk past, young and happy and buzzing. They

  all seem to be in groups, connected by companionship

  and looped arms. Their faces flash beneath streetlights

  that light up their joy in the dark.

  I want some of that. I’m too empty. Always too empty.

  Impulsive is my favorite speed, so when I see an open

  parking spot at the end of the block, I drop my desper-

  ate run for home and swing toward the curb to park. As

  I shove my phone and wallet into my coat pocket, the

  unfamiliar claws of that bad feeling—anxiety? fear? I’m

  not experienced enough to identify it—begin to retreat,

  and by the time I reach the door of the closest bar, the

  pain is gone entirely.

  The biggest sign on the window reads tapas in fancy

  letters. Below that is a promise of “curated cocktails,”

  whatever the hell that means. Most important, the music

  shaking through the glass is far too loud, and laughing

  people crowd the tables, even on a Thursday night.

  I open the door and walk into the friendly chaos, and

  that’s all it takes. I’m instantly myself again. No scratchy, strange pain. No doubt about anything.

  Fifteen minutes later I have a seat at the bar, a delicious dish of melted cheese and toast points in front of me, and

  one perfectly curated cocktail in my hand. There’s a man

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  next to me, working hard to get into the good graces of

  the woman next to him, and I eavesdrop with delight.

  “Yeah, I broke up with her last month,” he shouts

  over the music. “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No, but we’re not really that close,” the woman

  responds. “I mean, we’re friends, I guess, but she seems

  really high-maintenance, and I’m not into that kind of

  thing. Too much drama.” She laughs coyly as she throws

  her friend under the bus.

  “Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, she seemed down-to-

  earth at first, but then shit got really demanding, you

  know?”

  Way to set up this new woman to lower her expecta-

  tions. Don’t expect things from me—that’s unreasonable—and if you do, I’ll leave. I love it. So does the skinny brunette, who tosses her hair and laughs, desperate to be cooler

  than her friend.

  Ah, the cool chick. We’ve all been there. Pretending

  to love sports and unsatisfying booty calls just so he’ll pay attention to you. Even I’ve walked that line in four-inch

  heels, though I never did it in the pursuit of love. I had

  other motivations.

  Mr. Low Expectations waves a hand and orders two

  shots of tequila. The bartender, who has a styled mustache

  and probably calls himself a barkeep, flinches a little but sets two shot glasses down with an elegant spin. I raise

  my eyebrows in acknowledgment of his craft and he

  winks as he pours.

  Low Expectations is utterly focused on his prey and

  hasn’t noticed me at all. Why would he? I’m ten years

  older than the brunette and I’m still dressed like the

  badass bitch I am in my pin-striped suit. He doesn’t need

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  that kind of trouble. Still, plenty of other men are will-

  ing to screw a girl like me, even if I’m nothing close to

  a ten. Theoretically, a few extra pounds and a lack of

  striking beauty make someone like me more desperate

  and therefore better in bed. Or so I’ve heard. It’s amaz-

  ing what you can pick up on the dating scene if you pay

  close enough attention.

  The flirting pair down their tequila and giggle together

  as if they’ve done something particularly naughty.

  “I probably shouldn’t have skipped dinner!” the bru-

  nette declares.

  Instead of offering to order some delicious tapas, the

  guy calls for another round of tequila, then mentions

  something about how he has all the ingredients for a

  late-night grilled cheese at his house. She laughs at his

  obvious plan to get her to drink way too much and come

  home with him. “You’re so bad,” she squeaks.

  Already bored with this tired scene, I make eye contact

  with a forty-something guy at the end of the bar wearing

  a too-tight shirt, but it’s just habit on my part. I don’t need that kind of energy tonight. I already had sex with Luke,

  and it was hotter than anything I can get with a stranger.

  Even during a frantic quickie in a bar bathroom, Luke

  took the time and effort to make me come. Half these

  guys couldn’t even do that if they were trying, and—let’s

  be honest—they wouldn’t be trying.

  I sigh and sip my spicy ginger highball before digging

  into the cheese.

  I haven’t cheated on Luke once. It’s not that I’d feel

  guilty. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t understand it. If you don’t get caught doing something, nothing terrible happens to

  anyone, so why would you bother feeling bad about it?

  I could have sex with any one of these guys right now,

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  and my boyfriend would never find out. But I don’t want

  to. I’m physically satisfied, so there’s no need to risk a

  wasted thirty minutes with Bad Sex Bob. That’s just

  common sense.

  But this relationship is drawing to a close, and I’ll have

  to get back in the game. It’ll be fine. I haven’t lost my edge.

  I can glance right down the line of men at this bar and

  immediately tell which guys might make a woman come

  and which of these jokers have never given it a thought.

  Still, caring isn’t doing. There are no guarantees for us

  humans born with clits. It’s a crapshoot but without all

  the fun crowds and shouting. Usually.

  When we first dated in college, Luke was fine in bed,

  but during our years apart he became downright delight-

  ful. I ran into him unexpectedly when I was visiting

  Minneapolis, and I took him home for old times’ sake.

  That gamble really paid off.

  Since then our time together has amped up his kinki-

  ness. He was a pretty vanilla guy, but a little time with a horny monster like me can inspire a man to live out his

  secret fantasies. Anal? Yes. Spanking? Yes. Rough role

  play? Heck yes, miss, I’ll try anything.

  But they’ll all try anything. I can find someone else.

  I’m scowling into my delicious cheese dish, and that

  won’t do. I get the bartender’s attention with a lingering

  glance, then I order a gin drink made with blood orange

  essence and pink peppercorn, of course. When I hear

  Mr. Low Expectations trying to talk the drunk girl into

  a third shot, I tap him gently on the shoulder. He turns


  and raises his eyebrows in friendly question.

  “Don’t you work at Sebastian and Fields?” I ask, nam-

  ing the big accounting firm whose logo I see on a key

  card clipped to his coat pocket.

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  Victoria Helen Stone

  He brightens a little. “Yeah!”

  “Hi, I’m Jane.” I offer my hand.

  “Kyle,” he says as he shakes. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you on the elevator recently.

  I work in Human Resources.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you,” he says, just as a little twinge

  of uncertainty dances over his face. His eyes dart toward

  the four empty shot glasses and the pretty woman who’s

  trying to wait patiently. She likely doesn’t realize she’s

  frowning over his diverted attention, and that makes her

  eyes look small and slightly crossed.

  “Long week already, huh?” I offer Kyle with a hint

  of kind amusement in my voice.

  “Ha. I guess.”

  “I get it. You’re not on the clock or anything, so please

  don’t worry. Have fun!”

  “Right. Sure. Thanks.”

  I hold up my hands in assurance. “I’ll close my eyes

  and ears, Kyle, I promise! Do your worst.”

  His uncertainty is blooming into fear now. I watch

  as the fear twitches momentarily into panic. And then,

  finally, the delicious slow slide of his face into the sad-dog curves of disappointment. He can’t take a drunk woman

  home for sex with a witness from the HR department

  looking on. He’s an upstanding young man on the rise

  at Sebastian and Fields, and people in a corporate en-

  vironment suddenly care about harassment and sexism.

  Damn it.

  “This manchego is amazing,” I gush. “You two should

  try it.” I grin past him to the woman, whose pinched

  scowl has gotten a little blearier since I last looked.

  “Right. Yeah.” Kyle smiles tightly and nods. “Good

  idea. Can I get one of these?” he calls to the bartender,

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  Problem Child

  pointing at my half-eaten cheese. “And then I’ll wrap

  up that tab.”

  People have never called me a hero, but ten minutes

  later the drunk brunette is happily eating her crock of

  manchego cheese and Kyle is heading out to catch an Uber.

  The woman has totally lost her irritation with me, and

  if she registered my conversation with Kyle about work,

  she’s forgotten it now.

  She’s regaling me with the story of Kyle and High-

  Expectation Girl’s abrupt end. I order some bacon-wrapped

  shrimp and dig for all the deepest secrets as if I’m part of this woman’s world.

  “Let me ask you something serious,” I say.

  “Okay!” She claps her hands onto her thighs and sits

  up straight as if she’s ready for a quiz.

  “Is your friend really high-maintenance, or is Kyle

  just a fuckboy?”

  The brunette—Laura, I think—squints hard, wrinkling

  her nose. “I don’t know. Genevieve is kind of demanding.

  She gets very touchy when you don’t return her texts.”

  “But Kyle is also clearly a fuckboy.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess he is.”

  “So it won’t be worth it if high-maintenance Genevieve

  decides to slash your tires and shit-talk you to all your

  mutual friends. There are a sea of fuckboys here tonight.

  Choose one that didn’t date in your friend group. It’s

  just smarter.”

  Her eyes widen. She pops a shrimp into her mouth

  and nods. “Oh my God, you’re so right. What am I do-

  ing? Oh my God, you’re my new best friend!”

  I’m finally having fun, and when I accidentally catch

  the eye of the guy in the too-tight shirt at the end of the bar, I realize he’s still watching for another signal from

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  me. Before I can shake my head, he vanishes, then reap-

  pears next to me and begins to slide into the seat I vacated when I moved closer to my new friend, Laura.

  “No,” I say, and turn my back to him. You have to

  be cruel or they won’t believe you. Even then it’s pretty

  dodgy. I can feel him hovering, the possibility of sex too

  buoyant a lifesaver to let go of easily. But a few minutes

  of staring at my back finally begins to sink him. “Fucking

  bitch,” he mutters.

  “Good food is one hundred times better than random

  dick,” I say as I pop my last toast point into my mouth

  and chew. “Every time.” My new friend collapses with

  laughter. A nice evening, all in all. By the time I finally head home to feed my cat, I’m not worrying about Luke

  at all.

  32

  CHAPTER THREE

  Good times always come to an end, and I’m restless now

  that I’m clean, well rested, and back at work. Rob’s door

  is closed when I get in. It stays closed all day, though I

  can hear him furiously typing away, likely producing the

  best work he’s ever done for the firm in an attempt to

  claw his way back into the partners’ good graces.

  All I have to work on is boring prep stuff and contract

  research, so when my phone rings, I snatch it up quickly

  out of desperation.

  “I have another call about your niece,” I hear in mourn-

  ful tones. What the hell? My family is pure trouble, and

  I cut contact with my parents a year ago. They’re the

  only family that would ever get in touch. My grandma

  is long dead, and my brother and I haven’t spoken since I

  left Oklahoma ten years ago. Truth be told, he wouldn’t

  bother reaching out even if Mom and Dad were struck

  dead in an entertaining freak accident. So what’s up?

  I open my mouth to tell the receptionist to put the call

  through to voice mail again, but I hesitate. My parents

  are overstepping by tracking me down at my new place

  of employment, but I’m also really bored, and my family

  is great for providing eye-rolling stories. I always feel superior after our interactions, and that’s an additional plus.

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  Victoria Helen Stone

  “I’ll take it,” I finally answer, and the line clicks open.

  “Yes, this is Jane,” I say, a warning in the words.

  “Jane? Jane, oh my gosh!” Not Mom or Dad. So maybe

  they are both dead. The unfamiliar voice keeps gushing.

  “I’m so glad I got through to you! This is Joylene. Did

  you get my message?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She takes a breath and blows it out for long

  seconds. “Okay, I’d better start from the top, then. I found your name and office number online, so I thought I’d

  reach out. I hope that’s okay.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m your brother’s ex. Joylene?”

  I roll my eyes and wait to hear how much money she

  wants and for what. Does this woman really think I give

  a shit what happens to my shiftless, asshole big brother?

  I care exactly as much about his well-being as he cared

  about mine when we were growing up: not one good

  goddamn tiny little bit. And I ca
re even less about his

  exes and children.

  Finally giving up on any gracious forgiveness on my

  part, Joylene takes another deep breath. “I think we met

  once at Christmas a long time ago. When your brother

  and I were together.”

  “I’m sorry,” I offer, and she actually laughs like she

  gets it.

  “Yeah, well. I was young, and times were desperate.

  Regardless, we have a son together, so I stay in touch,

  and I’ve been involved with his other kids, because they

  are Wesley’s siblings and I feel like he should have a re-

  lationship with his own family.”

  Wesley. I remember them now. Joylene was a short,

  curvy black woman who’d seemed far smarter and more

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  Problem Child

  responsible than Ricky or any of the other women he’d

  ever dated or impregnated. He complained bitterly that

  she was no fun after he knocked her up. Apparently she’d

  been quite a drunk, which explains her long-ago attrac-

  tion to my brother. Once she got pregnant, she went cold

  turkey and turned her life around. Ricky was outraged

  at her sobriety. Her naming the boy Wesley was the last

  straw. “Fucking nerd name,” he’d grunted out right in

  front of the child.

  “The reason I’m calling is,” Joylene ventures, “well …

  you’re an attorney.”

  “I don’t practice criminal law, so whatever he’s done,

  I can’t help.” And I won’t help. My brother has been in and out of the system since the age of seventeen for

  various felonies. Breaking and entering, grand larceny,

  aggravated assault. That kind of thing. He impregnates a

  woman during each brief furlough, like a salmon return-

  ing home to spawn.

  “I wouldn’t ask for him,” Joylene says. “This is about

  his daughter. I really don’t care what happens to Ricky. If he violates probation again, he’ll be back in for four years and out just in time for Wesley’s graduation, and that’s

  all I care about. A boy needs his father.” She said that last part hard and fast, as if she’d been trying to convince her son and everyone else of that for many years.

  “But this isn’t about him,” she continues. “His daughter

  Kayla is missing and no one gives a damn.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “Yes. The girl just turned sixteen and no one has heard

  from her in a month. The officials don’t care because

  everyone involved is considered trash. I don’t know who

  else to call. No one is doing anything. Not the police.