by J. Kenner
"Of course not," I say automatically, even though I vaguely remember waking in the middle of the night, groggy from some dream I can't remember now, and unsure about pretty much everything. But that had been a dream, whereas the man in front of me is real. He's my best friend, and he has been for years.
The truth is, I hadn't expected that we'd end up in bed after drinking too many homemade margaritas while watching movies and commiserating over his latest breakup with Courtney, his on-again, off-again girlfriend. But we did, and I can't deny that it feels comfortable. Easy, even. After all, Ollie knows about my demons, about my scars. And considering the shit I've been through with men, I know that has to be a good thing.
He's hinted around that we should get together before, but I'd always deflected, scared that something physical between us would screw up the friendship. But last night the power of tequila overcame the fear, and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe me and Ollie were inevitable.
Maybe the man I've been looking for has been right under my nose my whole life.
I tilt my head as I smile at him. "So do you really have to go in on Christmas Eve?"
"All part of being a big-shot lawyer in a huge law firm," he quips. "We're filing an appellate brief on the twenty-sixth, and if I don't have the draft on Maynard's desk by the time I leave tonight, I'll have to cancel my trip tomorrow." He moves to sit on the edge of my bed, then reaches for my hand. "Although I wish I wasn't going. Especially now."
"Me, too."
"You could come with me."
"No chance in hell," I say. Ollie is going back home to Texas to see his parents for a few days. Theoretically, I could go with him, but that would require seeing my mother. And just the thought makes me queasy.
"You don't have to see her," he says, because Ollie knows exactly why I have no desire to go to Dallas. "We can stay at a hotel. Veg in the spa. I'll go back to the house without you, do the loving son thing, and then come back and spend time with you in the evenings." He lifts my hands and kisses my fingertips. "My treat. This year's bonus was pretty damn nice. I'm happy to share the love."
"No thanks. I'll just drive you to the airport in the morning." Honestly, I'm not sure why I'm determined not to go. Because he's right. I don't have to see my mother. And it's not like work is keeping me tied to LA. I have my own business that is reasonably portable, especially over the holidays. Plus, I've been seriously overworked lately, and a spa week sounds like heaven. But something about going with him just doesn't feel right.
I bite back a frown, my thoughts in a jumble. It's not Ollie. Why would it be? Being with him is good, after all. Nice and warm and safe.
And, no, last night wasn't full of knock-you-off-your-feet passion, but honestly, I don't believe in those storybook tales. Besides, I'm not a woman who likes to lose control.
"You're sure?"
I nod. "It's not you. It's Texas," I decide. "I escaped. Going back is like the opposite of a Christmas present."
He nods, and because he really is my best friend, I know that he gets it. "Fair enough. But you realize this means I'll have no excuse not to stay at my parents' house. They're going to expect me to sit and watch their Murder, She Wrote DVDs. One after the other after the other."
I laugh. "And you will, because you're a good son."
"If your mom comes over? What should I say?"
"Don't tell her shit about me unless she asks. And then just say I'm doing fabulously."
But I don't expect that my mother will ask Ollie any more than she'll bother to call me over the holidays. I'm not my sister, Ashley, so why would she think about it at all?
Ollie glances at the clock, then bends down to kiss me. It's a gentle peck, sweet but oddly settled. And despite the fact that I've already told myself that I neither need nor want nor believe in wild passion, I can't help but feel weirdly disappointed. As if we skipped right over courtship and settled straight into a boring marital rhythm.
Where the hell are these thoughts coming from?
"Go on," I say, motioning for him to leave. "Go start working toward another fabulous bonus. I'll see you tonight?"
"Absolutely," he says.
I nod, but I don't believe him. When Ollie's working on a brief, dinner usually falls by the wayside. I don't expect that either Christmas Eve or this new shift in our relationship will change that.
I hear the front door slam, and instead of feeling a loss, I feel the strangest sense of relief.
I shake my head, frustrated with myself, and decide it's just the tension that comes from the shift from friend-friend to girlfriend. Perfectly normal. Perfectly understandable.
Then I climb out of bed, pull on a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, and head into the kitchen for coffee.
The condo's two bedrooms and one bath are at the top of two stairs. If you're descending, the dining table is on the left and the galley-style kitchen is on the right, with the front door and living area pretty much filling the space in front. It's still early, and Jamie, my best friend and roommate, rarely drags herself out of bed before noon, so I'm surprised to see that the coffeepot is half full, and even more surprised to find Jamie at the table, nursing a mug so full of cream that the coffee looks white.
"You're up," I say. "Merry Christmas Eve."
She narrows her eyes at me. "It would be merry, except my parents are incapable of remembering that I'm two hours behind them. They called an hour ago. Ugh."
I turn away and pour my own mug so that she can't see my smile. Jamie has great parents. If it were legal, I'd have them adopt me.
"So you and the O-man have a good time last night? Then again, maybe I shouldn't call him the O-man," she says mischievously. "I didn't hear any screams of pleasure coming from your room in the wee hours."
"Seriously, James?"
She holds up her hands in surrender. "Sorry. Couldn't resist. But, honestly, I'm right, aren't I? You two didn't just share the bed for sleeping, did you?"
"God, you're nosy."
"Ha!" She can't keep the triumph out of her voice. "About damn time."
"You think so?" I take my coffee and slide into the seat opposite her.
She lifts a brow. "Well, that was way less enthusiastic than I was expecting. I was joking about the lack of O-ness, but if there's a problem in that department..."
"No," I say, pressing my hands to my cheeks in an effort to stop a rising blush. "That department was just fine."
"Then what?"
"It's just--" I cut myself off, because I really don't know. But somehow I feel like I've stepped through the looking glass and am living a life that isn't really mine. Or that's wrong somehow.
But how the hell do I say that? For that matter, why would I even feel that way? "Nothing's wrong," I begin. "I think it's just all new, you know? I mean, we've known each other our whole lives, and now everything has shifted. Growing pains, I guess. That's got to be normal, right?"
"Sure," she says. "But at the same time, Ollie's been in love with you forever. So it's a little weird, but not unexpected, you know?"
I nod, because I do know. "I think I just drank too much last night. My head's been feeling fuzzy for hours, and I had a seriously bizarre tequila-induced dream."
"Yeah? Tell?"
I take a sip of my coffee as I try to remember. But I can't seem to grasp anything. It's faded completely, and all I am left with is a hollow sense of loss.
"I can't. It's gone. But I can remember it was weird. And, I don't know--now it feels like my world is off-kilter." I shake my head. "Sorry. I know that sounds nuts."
"I think it sounds like you're right about the margaritas."
"Nothing more coffee can't cure," I decide. "And you? What did you do after the movie?"
I hold my breath, afraid she's going to say Douglas or Kevin, two of the guys in the complex that she fucks regularly. Jamie is my best friend, but that doesn't mean I approve of the way she goes through men like some people go through Diet Coke. But, honestly, I don't know if s
he's ever going to find a guy who can tie her down.
She purses her lips. "Sat in bed and read, can you believe it? But that's okay. I'm totally finding someone new tonight."
It takes me a minute to remember that we're going to a holiday party at Jamie's agent's house in Malibu. Evelyn Dodge is a Hollywood institution, so much so that even I--who know next to nothing about television and movies--have heard of her. Jamie introduced us once, and I could immediately see why she's such a fixture in this town. She's brassy and smart and doesn't take anyone's shit. She's held pretty much every job in the industry, and has recently returned to agenting.
She saw Jamie in a commercial about a year ago and signed her, which surprised the hell out of Jamie, but not me. Jamie's movie star gorgeous, and the camera absolutely loves her. Since signing with Evelyn, she's landed a few more national commercials, and I'm certain that she's going to get a series or a movie soon. At least, I desperately hope so. If for no other reason than maybe a daily routine will keep Jamie from screwing her way through Los Angeles County.
"We're supposed to meet Lisa for breakfast in less than two hours," she says. "I'm gonna hop in the shower first, then you can, okay?"
"Sure," I say. I freshen my coffee and then take my mug to my room. And as soon as I hear the shower turn on, I yank open my middle dresser drawer.
I know I shouldn't--I know I should just look in my closet for an outfit or fire up my computer and work--but I can't help myself. This is what I need. Something to center me. To push me back upright so that I no longer feel like I'm toppling out of my own life, overwhelmed by how fast things are shifting, even if those changes are for the good.
The antique leather case is small and battered, and I take it out reverentially. I open it up to reveal a plain interior with little pockets and elastic loops, all filled with gleaming metal tools.
I take out an X-acto knife, my hand closing reverentially around the handle, which fits comfortably in my palm. The negligible weight is almost misleading, because this blade will do the job so perfectly, so brilliantly.
I have alcohol in a little bottle along with cotton balls. And I pull them closer so that they are at the edge of the dresser. Then I peel off my yoga pants and sit on the foot of the bed in my underwear, my legs spread wide.
I haven't cut since I moved to Los Angeles. Getting away from my mother was the best thing I ever did. And in celebration, I threw away all my blades even before I got here.
But that's not to say I haven't wanted to, which is why I bought this case a few months ago at a flea market when I was feeling lonely and a little lost.
I tell myself this is a one-time thing. I touch the blade to my inner thigh, then slowly and lightly drag it over my flesh, running parallel to the scars that already mar my legs. I bite my lip as I watch the beads of blood rise from this first, thin cut. The blade is so sharp there's not even any pain initially, and it's almost as if the blood rises from magic alone. As if the pressure that is building up inside me has been searching for release and has found it here, along a mystical line of blood.
It's not enough though. I don't just need to cut; I need to feel. And so I take the blade back, craving another stroke, deeper this time. Harder. I need the pain. I need the release.
I need to know that I am real--that this is real--and that I'm not trapped in some dream world where everything is--
My door bursts open. "I'm totally out of deodorant," Jamie says. "Do you have an-- Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Nicholas!"
I toss the blade onto the ground and whip the bedspread over me the instant she barges in. But it doesn't matter. She sees it all.
"What the hell?" Jamie's voice is soft, but fierce, and she kneels in front of me, her hands on my knees, her expression earnest as she looks into my eyes. "How long, Nikki? How long have you been doing this?"
I can barely see her, and I realize that I'm crying. "I haven't. I swear. But today--" I wipe my eyes violently.
"Because everything is off-kilter? Like you were just saying?"
I nod.
"Oh, man. Oh, Nik." She climbs up onto the bed beside me and pulls me close. "Don't do that. You scared the crap out of me. You don't need that. You're better now. You've been better. Just talk to me. Okay?" She pulls away and looks into my eyes and the fear I see there is enough to make me agree to anything. "Okay?"
I nod. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me today."
Her shoulders sag. "It's the holidays. Everyone goes nuts over the holidays."
I nod. Maybe she's right. Maybe that's it.
"Don't tell Ollie," I beg. I don't want him to worry that this is because of him.
"Cross my heart. But, damn, Nik, if you do it again--"
"I won't. I swear I won't. Take it. Just take it the hell away."
She does. Right then and there she drops to the floor to get the knife, then puts the case back together and holds on tight to it. That's how I know just how much I've freaked her out. And I really am sorry--so damn sorry--but that doesn't change the fact that I'd needed it.
"We really are going to be late if I don't go shower," I say as I stand up. "Deodorant's on the rack inside the closet," I add, then hurry out of the room. Because, honestly, I can't get out of there fast enough.
--
"It's a great opportunity if you can swing it," Lisa Reynolds says as she digs into her waffle. We've met at Du-par's in Studio City, just down the street from the office condo that she's suggesting I buy. "And we already know you like the place."
"I love it," I agree. I'd met Lisa over a year ago when I'd lost my job at C-Squared and decided to try and make my own web and app design business a reality. I'd answered an ad for office space, and met Lisa, a business consultant who was trying to sublet a property for a client. She's about as native as Angelenos get, having moved from China when her parents adopted her at the age of three. She's funny and energetic and even though I couldn't afford the space, she and I and Jamie became friends, and we've been doing regular Wednesday happy hours for months now.
"But you know I can't afford it," I remind her.
"I have a thought about that, too," she says. "I think we should pitch your web-based note taking app to Stark Applied Technology."
I gape at her. "Seriously?"
Lisa's fiance, Preston Rhodes, is the head of acquisition at the lucrative company, a division of Stark International, which is one of the most profitable corporate conglomerates in the world, headed by one of the wealthiest men in the world, Damien Stark.
I'm not a follower of high finance, but since I haven't lived in a cave my entire life, I know who Stark is--a man who made a fortune as a professional tennis player, then parlayed his winnings and his talent into business. He's exceptionally easy on the eyes and has a reputation as both a brilliant businessman and something of a bad boy, with the tabloids often doing Stark-watch, a pictorial account of whatever woman happens to be on his arm that particular week.
I'd actually considered applying for a job at Stark Applied Technology after I'd gotten laid off. But I'd talked myself out of it, deciding to give working for myself a try instead. I'm glad I did, too. I like the freedom and the challenge. And even though I'm not exactly raking in the big bucks, I'm doing well enough.
Not, however, well enough to buy an office condo.
"Do you really think Preston would go for it?"
"Why wouldn't he? It's brilliant. And it's the kind of thing the company could really use. Hell, you could license it to all of the Stark companies. That kind of a deal would give you enough income to get the condo."
"You think?"
Lisa slides a piece of paper toward me, and my eyes go wide. "You drew up a spec licensing agreement? And a P&L?"
"Which is mostly on the P-for-profit side," she says, "since you've already got the product and your overhead is fixed."
I glance at Jamie, who gives me a tiny, excited nod. "Okay, then," I say. "What have I got to lose?"
"Not a thing," Lisa says.
"And, actually, I didn't really tell you everything."
I was about to take another bite of my omelet, but now I lean back in the booth. "Oh?"
She clears her throat. "As your business advisor, I sometimes have to strike when the iron is hot, and with the condo on the market now I figured there was no time to waste, and so--well, I already pitched it to Preston."
"Lisa!"
"And he loves it."
"Seriously?" I'm not sure if I should be thrilled by the news or irritated that she went behind my back. Since I'm ultimately pragmatic--and since pragmatic small business owners do not scoff at possible licensing agreements with major international companies--I settle on thrilled. "He really likes it?"
"Yup. But it's the kind of license that has to get approval from the CEO. So it has to be approved by Damien Stark."
"Oh." My euphoria starts to wane.
"Don't worry," Lisa says. "It's an amazing product. And Preston actually had dinner with Mr. Stark last night and told him all about it. So you may even know before the new year."
Jamie picks up her orange juice and lifts it as if in a toast. "Well, merry freaking Christmas," she says. "This one may turn out to be spectacular."
It really might, I think as we head back to the condo. Then I think some more as I try to work on a commissioned app that's supposed to launch mid-January. And later, when I'm doing the dishes that Jamie habitually ignores, I actually fantasize about having my very own office space.
The possibility makes me giddy, but I also know that it could be a huge, massive disappointment. And I'm trying really hard not to get my hopes up.
"If you're that worried," Jamie says as we are driving to Malibu that evening, "maybe you should just ask Stark directly."
I glance at her sideways. "What do you mean?"
"Evelyn said he's coming tonight."
"Really?" From what I've heard, Damien Stark is exceptionally particular when it comes to accepting invitations.
"Apparently they go way back. She's repped him on and off since his tennis days." Jamie glances at me as she waits for a light to change. "It's weird, though, isn't it? Stark's the reason you don't have a job at C-Squared. And now here you are trying to get him to license your stuff."
"Small world," I say, but it is a little weird. I'd just started at C-Squared when my boss pitched a new software product to Stark Applied Technology. Stark had turned it down--too similar to another product that was just about to hit the market. Unfortunately, although I didn't know it at the time, I'd been hired to work on that account. When the anticipated deal went away, so did I.