Perhaps agreeing to a weekly girls night out with my bestie would be a beneficial part of helping that process along. I need to explore other interests other than Roman if the two of us actually plan on moving forward in a healthy way. I need balance. We both do. I don't think I'd survive it if he became tired of me. Not after all it took to get here.
I'll probably have to fight Roman tooth and nail for him to agree to this though, because no matter how much I talk up her attributes, Sloan and her very large personality have not grown favorably upon my boyfriend. It's no secret that she isn't his favorite person. I think he believes she's a "bad influence" and simply tolerates her for my sake.
"Okay let's do it," I say.
I agree partly because I think it's a good idea and partly to shut her up. I just want to sleep this hangover off.
"Friday nights?"
Fridays? Oh boy, he's definitely going to hate this idea.
"What?" She notices my hesitance. "Are Fridays going to be a problem with the Dark Knight?" she asks with one hand on her hip. "Even Batman takes a night off."
"Oh would you stop it already."
I don't really want to give Sloan any more ammunition to talk negatively about Roman than she already does. Some days it's funny, but on other days it makes me uncomfortable.
"I mean Fridays are the best party nights in the city. Plus it's the easiest way I can get some of the guys from work to pay for a round of drinks, so it doesn't have to come out of our pockets all night. The whole office goes out Friday nights."
"You sure are cheap for someone who just got a raise."
"I don't care if I become a billionaire. A lady should have her drinks paid for by a gentleman. That's just how shit is supposed go down. My daddy taught me that a man who won't at least pay for a round isn't worth a second glance."
"Earth To Sloan. Your daddy is a millionaire. Of course he'd say that."
"He wasn't always a millionaire, and I know for a fact that–"
"Oh my God. I'm going to vomit in your bed if you don't shut up now. Fridays are fine, okay?"
Sloan sits on the edge of the bed while drying her mouth with a fresh towel.
"Good."
She stops what she's doing and begins to glare at the screen of her phone with a perplexed look on her face.
"What is it now?" I ask.
"I'm not trying to sound like I'm full of myself, but this is the third guy in about six weeks to basically blow me off. I mean ... I'm no hot model chick, but I've got a halfway decent ass and an amazing pair of tits, so I just can't believe that not one of these dudes is even remotely interested in seeing what I'm like in bed."
"You're right, that's not egotistical at all," I say sarcastically as I pull Sloan's feather down comforter back over my head. "Gosh, it's so bright in here. Can you please close the shades?"
"I mean look at this text." She shoves her cell phone under the covers ignoring my obvious pain.
"Sloan, please," I whine. "That screen is like a sunbeam. You could at least turn down the brightness level."
"All right, lightweight." She adjusts the settings. "Here." Then she shoves the phone back under the comforter.
215-555-7982: Hey I can't make it tonight. I'll call u when my schedule clears.
"That's all he said?" I ask.
"That's it, and I'm absolutely confused as all hell. Me and this guy had some serious chemistry percolating. Tall, built, tax attorney, and twenty-nine years old. He's perfect on paper and even hotter in person. We would make beautiful golden babies in an alternate universe where I cared about shit like that."
I hand Sloan the phone back and she tosses it in the center of the bed. "Well I guess he wasn't as perfect as you thought. Maybe your radar is off."
"Maybe you're right. Hell, maybe he's gay. I don't know what the hell is going on. Maybe I just need to chill out for a minute, and stop looking so hard for Mr. Right."
"Mr. Right?"
"You know what I mean. Mr. Right In Bed."
"Ahh, yes. Good idea," I mumble, curling back in my fetal position. Hoping she's finally done talking.
I can't deal with one of Sloan's pity parties right now, because that means she's going to talk me to death, when all I want to do is sleep off this throbbing pain in my head. Maybe I can manage to listen to her grumblings after some breakfast, a couple of those Motrin I never took, and a hot shower ... in like five hours.
* * *
I fall in and out of sleep for what seems like an eternity, but really only ends up being about ninety minutes. When I sleepily stretch and adjust my position in the bed, it clues Sloan in on the fact that I'm not in a deep sleep any longer. So she decides to pounce on the opportunity and much to my chagrin ... makes a suggestion.
"Bitsy."
"Yep," I say tersely.
"Let's go get coffee."
"Now? What time is it?"
Eww, my throat sounds raspy.
"Noon."
Ugh, I never sleep in this late. Okay that's it. I'm on an alcohol hiatus at least until Christmas.
"Did Roman call?" I ask.
"Nope."
Her gleeful response irritates me, because she's supposed to be cheering for my new relationship, not wishing for its demise, but that's an argument for another day.
"Looks like he'll be totally fine with this new Friday arrangement, huh?"
Sloan can be a real bitch sometimes.
"Oh be quiet."
I briskly grab my phone and check it for any text messages. There's nothing there, which I already knew would be the case, but I just wanted to make sure. So I decide to text him instead.
Me: Hey
Roman: Duchess
Me: Are you all right?
Roman: No
Me: What's wrong?
Roman: Why aren't you at home?
Me: Because I'm at Sloan's
Obviously, duh.
Roman: Aren't you two a little old for sleepovers?
Me: I drank too much. So I stayed here.
There's a delay in his response. That pause is his way of letting me know that he's annoyed with me for staying out and probably irritated more so with my drinking. Although I find him to be such a hypocrite.
He's fine with me drinking as long as he's around to reap the benefits of my inebriation. He can get away with murder once I've had my usual limit of two drinks. Although some of it is pure acting on my part. I'd allow Roman Masterson to do almost anything to me with or without the liquid courage.
Roman: We agreed to Fridays. Not Saturdays. I'll talk to you later.
Jerk.
Me: Fine
I refuse to engage him when he acts like this, and honestly he's been acting like this a lot lately. It's starting to make me think all sorts of crazy things. Like maybe he's growing tired of me or tired of a committed relationship. I mean this is the longest one he's ever been in, or maybe the only one he's be in. Or maybe our differences are starting to take a toll? I don't know. Some days I can see us as a gray haired couple sitting on rocking chairs, and some days I'm not even sure we'll make it past next week.
"What did the Dark Knight have to say for himself?" Sloan asks with the same disingenuous tone that Roman uses when he asks about her.
"Nothing at all."
"Mmm-hmm. So you ready for that coffee then?"
"Yep, but I'm going to need a sweatshirt and a pair of your Converse."
"No problem, girl."
* * *
As I lean against the cool ceramic tiles in Sloan's shower, I put myself through a mental checklist of all the things I have on tap for next week. I have an interview with my first national newspaper on Monday, thanks to some coverage I received a month ago from a local blogger. It will be amazing to have a spotlight interview and start getting the word out about School Bucks in a bigger way.
Sales for my app have picked up during the autumn season, because that's when parents begin to earnestly look into SAT coaching and testing, early admissions, and sch
olarship searches for their kids. This is a great time to actively expand the database as well as strengthen features of the app, which is why I'm so fortunate to have such a great coder like Blake (my new employee) on board.
With his help, I don't think it's too much of a stretch to have an expanded and updated version of the app ready by Christmas. A lot of students will be getting new smartphones for the holidays as gifts and will download lots of new apps when they do. I want School Bucks to be one of those apps, because who doesn't need money for college right?
On Tuesday I'll be working most of the day, and on Wednesday I've agreed to help Juliette with a little home project of hers. She wants to re-shelve and paint her pantry. Why she won't spend Joseph's oodles of dollars to just hire someone to do it is beyond me, but who am I to refuse my very kind hearted aunt. Plus it's a great way to spend time with her. We don't see each other that much anymore now that I've moved out.
I typically reserve Friday afternoons and evenings for Roman. Even though we talk to each other everyday and try to see each other several days a week (i.e. The Roman bubble), it's on Fridays that we have our own version of a date night. We try to do some sort of activity, like a normal dating couple, and then we spend the rest of the night wrapped up, around, and inside each other. I'm going to have to move that date night to Thursdays now, and I already know that Roman is going to give me hell about it. I don't look forward to that conversation.
Even though I'm doing this for us, to make sure that there is an "us" over the long haul, I don't really want to do it. Which is exactly why I should. Even if I don't really want to hang out with Sloan every Friday night. Even if I'd rather be spending my entire weekends with Roman. I cannot allow that desire to influence every single decision that I make.
Plus, I think Roman may be getting a bit used to me making decisions that revolve totally around him. I will not give him utter and total power over my life, and I refuse to let him think that he has it. No matter how much I tell myself that it wouldn't be bad at all. That it wouldn't be a problem. That I would in fact welcome it, want it, and enjoy it. Because to admit that, would be like handing over my independent woman card at the front door, and Beyonce would be standing right in the doorway, in her sparkling leotard and high heels, waiting to bitch slap some sense back into me.
So here I am.
Showering in Sloan's bathroom, about to put on some of her clothes, to go have coffee at Java, and to try and think about all the other things I've got going on in my life other than Roman.
Maybe I'd have better success at it if only I could stop thinking about that thing he does with his tongue, oh and his fingers, and then of course that massive cock of his. Yeah, not thinking about any of that would make this whole independent woman thing a lot easier.
Because right now all I feel like doing is putting on a dress, pouring Roman a drink, cooking his dinner, lighting a cigarette, and waiting for him to get home from work like one of those good little 1950s housewives.
To hell with Beyonce.
6
Elizabeth
As soon as we walk inside of Java, the smell of freshly roasted coffee hits me like a ton of bricks. My stomach begins to growl in angry protest. It wants caffeine. And what's interesting is that I'm not a huge coffee drinker, but I think alcohol does weird things to my body and makes me crave things I normally wouldn't desire.
"Seriously?" I rhetorically ask the cashier.
It's just my luck that Java is out of caramel drizzle, so both Sloan and I are going to have to order some other sort of specialty drink. I had my mouth all set for an extra hot caramel macchiato, but now I'm just annoyed. And it gets even better.
It looks like Java has recently redecorated the interior of the shop, eliminating all the comfy club chair seating they used to have. Now there are more places to sit, but it's all hard, wooden chairs with metal legs. Totally practical but terribly uncomfortable. This wasn't a good idea. I want to get back into bed.
"Let's just take our drinks and head back to your place." I suggest.
"Let's just sit here for a few minutes. You never know who we might see."
"Exactly. I look and feel like death warmed over. I don't want to see anyone I know."
Sloan ignores my complaining, as usual, and grabs us two chairs at a small circular table in the far corner of the shop.
"Just for a few minutes. To celebrate my promotion. And we'll be able to people watch at this table without people really being able to see us."
"And just how long are we going to celebrate this promotion of yours."
"Don't be a hater, Bitsy."
"Who's hating? I have no interest in selling Viagra to horny old men like you do. I just want to get back into bed."
"Remind me never to drink with you again. You are so damn cranky on the hangover day."
"Whatever. So just tell me, who exactly are we waiting for?" I ask suspiciously.
"No one in particular, inspector gadget. I just wanted to get out of the house."
"Yeah right," I mumble.
* * *
Sloan and I spend the next few minutes debriefing each other about the previous night's escapades. She tells me about a guy she met at the second bar we visited last night, and how they flirted with each other for a while then exchanged numbers. Now she's waiting to see how long it will take him to call her, and wonders if this one's going to blow her off too.
I, on the other hand evidently spent a lot of time at the last bar we stopped at talking to a bartender named Mark. A conversation that I have very little recollection of.
"How do you know his name was Mark?" I ask Sloan in an attempt to remember what ridiculous things I may have said last night.
My memory is spotty, but when I concentrate really carefully, I think that I can remember bits and pieces of a conversation between the two of us. I'm pretty sure Mark and I attempted to have some sort of philosophical debate about the liberal agenda in Hollywood, bad reality TV, and maybe something about a kitten he adopted; but I'm not one hundred percent sure. I lost chunks of our conversation to plenty of red wine by the time I woke up this morning. Similar to waking up from a dream that you can only remember snippets of.
"How on earth can you not remember him? Every time you asked him a question you drawled out his name like you were Scarlet O'Hara holding court before the big ball."
"If you actually watched the movie, you'd know that Scarlet O'Hara didn't ever drawl her words out. She was actually a fast talker."
"Whatever." She quickly cuts me off. "You were like Marrrrk how long have you been a bartender? Marrrrk, is the house merlot good? Marrrrrk, can you ask the deejay to change the song?"
Oh crap. Did I say all of that?
"You're such a little flirt once you get some vino traveling through those Type A veins of yours, Babygirl. I think it helps to clear out all the Dark Knight cobwebs from your brain, and you start seeing the world for all that it truly has to offer and not just what's inside your little love bubble."
"Oh please. There's no flirting involved. I just become a Chatty Cathy when I drink. I like to talk to people. I'm not always on the prowl like some people I know."
"Then why do you end up chatting up only hot looking bartenders everywhere you go? Why didn't you talk to the humongous guy who was sitting right next to you, and staring you down the whole time we were there?"
"Was he hot?"
"The big guy?"
"No, ding-dong, the bartender."
"Absofuckinglutely, but how convenient of you to not recall that part of the evening. So I guess when your boyfriend asks you what you did last night, you won't bother to make mention of Marrrrrk will you, because you don't remember. How very convenient."
I roll my eyes upward in exasperation.
"Everyone has their weird thing, Sloan. I think flirting with bartenders may be mine."
"Either that or you've figured out the smartest way to drink for free all night."
We both start crac
king up, but then I shut my mouth instantly once I hear it.
"Grab that chair over there."
My ears must be playing tricks on me.
"Why do you have that look on your face all of a sudden?" Sloan inquires.
I'm staring blankly inside my coffee cup.
I can't speak.
I can barely breathe.
I'm waiting to hear it again. To make sure.
That voice.
I don't want to do it, but I have to. I turn my head and scan the room looking for it. I need to be sure, before I lose it right in the middle of Java.
Sloan shifts nervously in her seat.
"You're freaking me out, Bitsy," she whispers quietly. "What the hell is it?"
The voice speaks again.
There's a low, callous timber to it. It's familiar and frightening. And when I hear it for the second time my blood runs ice cold.
"That one there, dumb ass."
I pray it isn't, but I think that I know that voice.
Shrek.
"Let's get out of here, Sloan," I speak quietly.
"Not until you tell me why right now," she says while looking around the room frantically for the cause of my distress.
"Don't turn your head!"
Sloan's eyes bug out.
"What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On. Dammit?!"
"He's here," I whisper with a voice dripping in fear.
"Who's here?"
"The guy who attacked me."
"Where?"
Sloan is about to pivot her head once again, until I move across the table and firmly grab her forearm to stop her.
"I said stop turning your head. He knows what I look like, Sloan, and I have no idea what he looks like. Only his voice. We have to get out of here ... now."
Sloan nods her head finally in realization. She knows more than anyone how my life was turned inside out after the assault, and she definitely knows just how frightened I am of my attacker. It's the sole reason why I immediately picked up and moved in with my aunt.
Masterson In Love Page 5
