Contusion

by Ofelia Martinez

  “That’s me.” I buzz them up.

  Three muscular men trickle in and out of the apartment as they bring in all the furniture I could possibly need. I even ordered a second bed for the guest bedroom. When I’d shopped online, I’d opted to buy entire showcase rooms from the website because I’ve never been good at putting together home decor. Pilar would have loved to help, but the less she knew, the better. I didn’t want to slip up and have her get suspicious.

  Feeling more in the way than helpful, Mandy and I press our backs against the living room window. A few of the pieces of furniture require assembly. One man goes into the bedroom to start on that while a second crouches in front of us, putting together the sectional.

  “I’m so glad I came,” Mandy says. I look at her to find a twinkle in her eye. It’s amusing until her intentions become clear. “Go talk to him,” she says in a hushed tone.

  “What? No!”

  “Remember what I said about the sex drive? He is so hot. Do it.”

  I panic because even though we are whispering and the living room is large, he is right there, and I’m sure he can probably hear us.

  “Fine. You’re too slow. I’m calling dibs.”

  “What? Mandy!” I warn, but she only puts her hand on her hip and tussles her hair over one shoulder.

  “Hey,” she calls toward the man. “What’s your name?”

  The tall, dark, and handsome man looks up at us with a bright smile. He had introduced himself to me when I opened the door for them, but Mandy was at the other end of the room. “Chris, ma’am,” he says.

  Mandy walks toward him. “None of that ‘ma’am’ business. I’m Mandy.” Chris stands to stretch out his hand, and their hand-shake connection lingers for a beat too long.

  Chris is much taller than Mandy, allowing me a view of the amusement in his eyes from her flirting. She finally lets go of his hand and starts rummaging through her purse. I see the corner of a piece of paper that she pulls out and hands to him. “I have a solo art show soon. You should check it out.” She gives him what I assume is a flyer. “Hold that,” she says and keeps rummaging through her purse.

  Chris smooths out the flyer in front of him and looks at it. His mouth forms up into a smile. “An artist, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’m a painter. Landscapes and portraits mostly. Here.” She stretches her hand out so he’ll give the flyer back, and she starts writing something on it. “My number,” she hands back the flyer to Chris. “You know, if you want a sneak peek before the show.” Mandy turns and starts walking back to me. She continues to ogle Chris as he works and brings more furniture in, both of them smiling like fools the entire time it takes the three men to get my apartment furnished.

  “Ma’am,” the man who seems to be in charge calls after me, a clipboard in his hands. “Could you please sign here that you received everything you ordered?”

  “Sure.” I sign, and the men leave. Mandy looks out onto the street as she watches them go.

  “You are shameless,” I say to her jokingly.

  She turns and winks at me. “I’m so tapping that ass,” she says, and I laugh.

  There’s not much moving around I want to do, so Mandy and I try out the sectional.

  “So, you’re an artist?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I’m an RA, and I work the information desk at the hospital so I can have health insurance, but one day I’ll make a living just from my painting,” she says as she stares dreamily into space.

  “I’d love to go to your show too.”

  “Well, duh, you are going,” she says and rolls her eyes. “I have to go. Still have half a shift I have to cover.”

  “Thanks for everything, Mandy. It’s nice to know someone here.”

  Mandy smiles at me. “I’ll see you soon, okay? And hey, think about what I said,” she says while turning the doorknob.

  “About what?”

  “Have a sexathon tonight, then let your body rest the last two days before treatment starts.”

  I throw one of the sofa cushions at her, but it only hits the door after she is on the other side.

  After she leaves, I try to remember when was the last time I got some. I’ve been so numb and in shock since my diagnosis. Sex has been the last thing on my mind. I’m lucky not to have some of the more embarrassing symptoms many women in my situation have. Maybe a night of reckless abandon will help me feel alive again. I’m not dead yet, I remind myself. And the furthest thing from the act of dying is the act of lovemaking.

  I’ve never had a serious long-term relationship. I mostly lived at the gym. Luckily, Chema’s gym is full of hot men to pick from, and I have a deep bench of booty-call friends I call on when I need to scratch the itch or just relax after hefty training.

  I sigh because I have to admit it has been too long, and that bench is oh so very far away in Mexico City. Maybe I could offer to pay for one of them to come here?

  No. Not only was that too desperate, but I would lose a day or two before they could get here, and treatment starts in three days. Not to mention a disrespectful use of my sister’s money when she thinks she is sponsoring a future UFC titleholder. Looks like the bar it is.

  In the evening, I shower and throw on a pair of faux-leather leggings with a navy-blue silk camisole. My breasts are on the small side, so I feel comfortable skipping a bra and showing a bit of cleavage. I hate wearing high-heels and instead opt for black moto boots that I leave untied and slouchy.

  The one girly thing I do enjoy is makeup. I don’t get to wear it often because I’m always training, but now seems like the perfect opportunity to wear it.

  I opt for a smokey eye with charcoal-black eyeliner. For the lips, I wear a kissable nude shade just a few shades darker than my tanned natural color to give my face some life.

  Standing in front of the mirror, I look at my full figure. Taking in those slim, toned muscles I worked so hard to perfect sends me into an emotional state I wasn’t expecting. I look great, and I know I won’t look this way again for a long time, or maybe even ever. I can’t even begin to imagine the many ways in which my body will change and am so grateful Mandy suggested this so I could enjoy my body—this version of it—one last time. I blink away the tears before they get the chance to ruin my makeup.

  Not wanting to take a purse with me, I place my ID and credit card in my back pocket. I secure my apartment key into my boot laces, and I head outside.

  I have several options to choose from as I walk down my street. For some inexplicable reason, I walk toward the hospital instead of away from it. I hadn’t noticed the bar precisely across from the emergency room entrance. Smart location, I think.

  The door's sign is in a simple font with white LED lights that reads La Oficina. Looks like I found my bar.

  Chapter 3

  It’s early, and the bar isn’t even at quarter capacity. It’s easy to find a space at the bar, and I pull out my credit card to open up my tab.

  A bartender so beautiful I find it hard to formulate words comes over to take my order. She has the body of a model, and I can’t tell what race she is. She has an other-worldly face, fair skin, and a perfect black bob hairstyle. Her beautiful full lips move again, and I replay what she just said in my head. What can I get you?

  “Um—sorry. Whiskey sour, please.”

  She takes my credit card and comes back with my drink a few minutes later.

  “Here,” she says. “I like your accent.”

  “Thanks.” My face grows hot, and it’s not the whiskey.

  “¿Hablas español?”

  My head snaps up to her in surprise. Her Spanish is impeccable. “Sí,” I say. We switch back to English after that. “Where are you from?” I ask.

  “I’m Chicana. Mom’s Mexican, and dad’s Chinese. It throws people off. I know.” She laughs easily as she says this. “I haven’t seen you around here. You work at the hospital?”

  “No. New in town,” I say.

  “I’m Sofia,” the bartender says and stretc
hes her hand out to me. “I own the place.”

  I shake her hand and smile. “Valentina. Nice to meet you.”

  “Welcome to KC. Let me know when you want another one, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  Sofia walks away to flirt with two customers a few seats down the bar. Poor suckers don’t know she is playing them so that they buy more drinks. I smile. I like this woman.

  Sipping on my cocktail, I scan the room for a potential one-night-stand. Someone muscular and handsome who won’t need to ask for my phone number after. Someone alone, and more importantly, someone single. Nothing on the menu is appetizing yet, so I order a second drink and nurse it as I wait for the place to fill up.

  A few guys come up to hit on me, but they aren’t my type. I don’t feel any attraction physically, and if Mandy is right and this is my last hurrah for a while, then I want something yummy. I mean, someone yummy. Fuck it. Men objectify women all the time, so I have exactly zero qualms about objectifying them just this once. They would be doing a humanitarian service, I decide. Would they go for it if I sold it as some sort of make-a-wish-for-adults service? No. That would probably kill the mood.

  A third man walks over to hit on me, clearly inebriated. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Could he even get it up, as drunk as he seems to be? Probably not. I smile and do my best to be nice to him—though I hate that’s my impulse.

  He sways a bit, but it’s enough for me to notice. His black hair is slicked back with gel, like this is the nineties or something. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

  I point to my glass, showing it’s half full. “Got one. Thanks, though.” I smile curtly and divert my eyes from him, hoping he takes the hint.

  “Oh, I like your accent. Where are you from, señorita?” he asks.

  I do roll my eyes this time and take a sip of my drink. “I’m from Mexico. Where are you from?” I ask pointedly, though I probably shouldn’t engage him any further.

  Sofia looks at me with a question in her eyes. I roll my eyes and shake my head as if to say I got it, thanks. She tips her chin, and I know she’ll throw his ass out if he gets rowdy. Hopefully, I can get him to back away without having to make a scene. I am here to catch a big fish, after all. I won’t have a bite if I come across as drama before the night even starts.

  “I’m from this here, the U.S. of A.” He grins, and it feels eerily like he is about to pound his chest with his fists like a Neanderthal. He is somewhat handsome, tall, black hair, blue eyes. If he wasn’t that far drunk, and he hadn’t opened his mouth, I may have considered him as my boy-toy for the night. “I’m Doctor Keach,” he adds. When he says doctor, I take it I’m supposed to be impressed.

  “I’m actually waiting for someone, so if you don’t mind . . .” I trail off, hoping he gets the hint this time.

  “Oh, come on. You look so exotic, like a spicy Latina.” He says Latina with a mocking accent that I can only assume is meant to mimic my own. My nostrils flare, and I count to ten.

  This idiot doesn’t realize I could have him on the ground and begging for his mommy in less than ten seconds flat. Don’t use your power on civilians, Valentina. I remind myself of Chema’s anger management lessons. Leave it for the cage. Never out in everyday life.

  “We can have a good time, honey,” he slurs.

  “Sorry, buddy, she’s with me.” A voice much too deep for the body it came out of turns both our attention. I do a double-take when I see Rory, who is in the process of placing his hand on the small of my back. He doesn’t make contact with me, though, and instead lets his hand hover over my backside. He wants drunky here to believe it, and he is selling it good.

  “Like I said,” I tell Dr. Keach, “I was waiting for someone.”

  “All right, all right. No harm done.” He raises his hands in surrender as he walks backward, stumbling on a few people before he turns to face the opposite direction.

  “Thanks,” I say to Rory.

  “No problem. It didn’t look like you were having fun.”

  “I wasn’t, but I had it under control.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” says Rory. “But I thought maybe I could save you some time.”

  My gaze sweeps his body from face to shoes. He is wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, but the outfit is polished. His short, reddish beard is expertly kept, and he looks fresh like he just got out of a shower. This will do nicely. Very nicely indeed.

  “That’s the second time you saved me this week,” I say.

  “I thought you looked familiar.”

  “The vending machine?” I remind him. “You bought me a Pop-Tart.”

  “That’s right. That was you.” His eyes squint like he is trying to place my face in that scenario.

  “In your defense,” I offer, “I look much better tonight.”

  He smirks, accepting my awkward flirting. God, I’m so bad at this. My booty-call bench is so much easier. All I have to do is text one of them, at random, so no one’s feelings get hurt, and ask: Free to fuck tonight? Somehow I don’t think that methodology will go over well with Rory. “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.

  “Um—” he looks toward a group of men sitting at a table in the corner of the bar.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it.” My heart sinks a little, but I keep smiling. “I just wanted to thank you for the Pop-Tart and for coming to my rescue tonight. Let me buy you the drink—no strings. You can take it over and enjoy it with your friends.”

  “No, that’s not what I—um, just, let me go say bye to them, and I’ll be right back.”

  My heart flutters, and I don’t understand this new sensation. It must be the whiskey. “Sure. I can order in the meantime. What’s your poison?”

  “A beer?”

  “You got it.”

  I order his beer, and Sofia has it ready for him before he gets back. I swivel in my barstool to look at him standing near the table with his buddies. They roar with laughter, and one of them pats him in the back. His fair complexion makes the reddening of his neck glaringly obvious, and I smile. He palms the back of his neck as if he can feel the heat there. It’s cute, really.

  Rory is nerdy and slim and oh so very handsome. I hope he’ll let me take him home tonight. If this fails, I have to make a mental note to hit the nearest adult toy store first thing in the morning.

  He grins as he takes the barstool next to mine. “Thanks,” he says as he grabs his beer and takes a long pull. He is nervous and buying time. It’s adorable.

  “It’s the least I could do,” I say, opening up the conversation for him. He seems lost for what to say next, so I speak again. “Are you from Kansas City?” I ask, starting with a safe topic I hope will engage him.

  “No,” he says. “I’m from Minnesota.” His entire face brightens when he thinks of home, and I know I’ve chosen the right topic. “Here for work. I’ve been here a few years now.”

  “I’d love some advice on what to check out. It’s only my second night in Kansas City. Sofia?” I call her attention, and she looks over right away. She smiles knowingly as she looks between Rory and me, and I point to my empty drink.

  “Oh, KC is great. You’ll really love it,” says Rory.

  I start on my third drink, and Rory falls silent. His brows crease like he is thinking of something and he is unsure if he should say it. “Well?” he asks finally. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” I ask.

  “I’m going to show you Kansas City.”

  “Tonight?” I set my drink down and wipe my mouth with a napkin.

  “No time like the present.”

  I cock my head to the side. Is this man serious? No time like the present?

  “Come on. You are wearing walking shoes. Let’s do this.”

  “Can I at least finish my drink?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Sure. The night is young.”

  I almost spit my drink. Does he only speak in clichés? “Did you just say that?”

  “What?”


  “The night is young? That’s such a cliché,” I inform him.

  “It’s going to take a lot to impress you, isn’t it, Miss Valentina, um—what’s your last name?”

  “Almonte. And are you trying to impress me, Rory . . . ?”

  “Dennis,” he says. “And, yes. Maybe I am trying to impress you.”

  I bite my lip as I lock eyes with him, and his jade-green eyes darken. The third drink is plunging me into tipsy territory, and I push it away. As I stare deep into his eyes, I realize even his eyes have freckles.

  “What are you looking at?” he asks.

  “Your eyes have freckles. These little flecks of brown swimming in the green.”

  “Ah, that.” He takes another swig of his beer. “Yeah, my mom used to tell me it was poop.”

  “What?” I almost yell as I ask, my eyes wide with surprise.

  “Yeah, when I was a kid, she had me convinced the little pieces of brown were tiny flecks of poop floating around my irises. Said it was because I was so full of shit.” He smirks and drinks from his beer bottle again.

  I throw my head back with laughter. This man is funny. “Your mom sounds like a badass,” I say.

  “She really is.”

  We are both laughing and relaxed. I don’t remember feeling this way with anyone on a first date. “I don’t think I’ll be finishing my drink after all,” I say. We both stand, and I press my hand to his chest. It’s firm, and my body heats at the feel of it. “Rory,” I say with a breathy voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “If we go out tonight, I hope you understand I intend to take you to bed before the date is over. Don’t leave with me if you are not interested in that.”

  His eyebrow arches, and he pushes his glasses further up his nose so he can better look at me. His jaw slackens, and I know his brain is misfiring. I walk out of the bar without looking back but hope he is right behind me.

  I step into the warm night and take a deep breath of air. Not even three seconds pass before Rory is at my side.

  “Sorry,” he says. “You kind of caught me off guard there.”