by Erin Lee
Not Sorry
Erin Lee
Present day, Friday afternoon
Jenner
This is not happening. There is no way. How is this even my life?
I stared down at the bag. Where rhinestones and the word ‘Coach’ should have been was a shiny tag that read “1000 Pound Club” – whatever that meant. I sighed. A six hour flight was enough time to know that the baggage tag was perfectly typical of Rob. I hardly knew the guy, but after a six hour flight with him, I knew enough. He was exactly what I would never want. Cool about anxiety or not, Rob was bad news. He probably did it on purpose. What the hell’s in that thing? Will he run up my credit cards? No. He can’t. My purse. It’s with me.
I tried not to imagine him rummaging through my bag. I could see him laughing at the concealer and setting sprays. I refused to open his. I was better than that. Instead, I reached down to verify what I already knew; we’d accidently switched. Flipping the cheap, pleather tag over, his name was scribbled in scratchy letters. Hardly legible, I squinted to be sure. ‘Robert Brambly.’ My heart sank. Why does shit like this have to happen to me? Why can’t one trip go smooth?
Under his name was his number; an invitation from the not-so-coy man slut who’d spent the better part of the ride from California to Beantown trying to impress me with his stupid forearms. I wasn’t ignorant. At twenty-eight years old, I’d been around enough players to know there wasn’t much more to Rob than protein shakes, raw eggs and breaking women’s hearts. And for God’s sake, that nasty accent. How many times could a man say the word ‘wicked’ without choking on it?
I made a quick mental list of the items I remembered tossing in my bag. I could get away without the outfits I’d picked for day one of the Girl Power Business Leaders’ Conference. But as the keynote speaker for day three, I’d be lost without my speech. Cosmetics, I could replace. Not that darn speech! I’d printed it out and specifically packed it in that carry-on bag just so there was no way it could get lost. For as much as I hated to admit it, public speaking was not my best gig. I needed that thing. Why didn’t I bring my tablet? I know better. Why didn’t I keep a copy on my laptop? Put it on a flash drive at least?
Figuring it best to start with a text, I went for it. It wasn’t like we needed small talk or an introduction. We’d had enough of that. And the way things had ended, I couldn’t imagine Mr. Fucks-For-Cash being interested in much of a dialogue. He needed his bag too. It wasn’t like I was alone in this. For better or worse, we were in it together.
“You have my bag. Where can we meet up?”
I looked around the hotel room, grateful I had my purse. Pulling my stow-away suitcases onto one of the two double beds in the modest room, I yanked one open. A full inventory was in order. God knew how long it would take for Rob to text me back. He was probably already at the gym, or worse, with his next customer. Must be nice to have nothing better to do all day than work out and be taken to fancy restaurants. Loser.
I had my socks folded and all three suits ironed and hung up before he bothered to return my message. By the time it came, I was convinced men from Boston were entirely rude. This wasn’t how things were done in L.A.
“Knew you’d ask.”
I wanted him shot. The idea of ever seeing his smug face again was enough to make me stay up all night rewriting my presentation. How he got women to pay him for his time was a thing I’d never understand. It made me want to change the entire angle of my speech all together with some sort of message about not wasting cash on crap money can’t buy – like personalities and self-esteems.
Two could play his game. Turning off my phone, and grabbing my purse, I headed to the hotel bar. It was going to be a long night. It would start with a martini. Fuck knew, I deserved it.
Beantown, I hate you. Wrong tickets. No Xanax. A panic attack. Coach. And now this? What else? A weekend with Lydia? I’d have been better off hitting up Jack for a supervised visit with the fucking cat.
Rob
“You have my bag. Where can we meet up?”
I smiled. The bitch probably thought I’d done it on purpose. Like fuck I wanted to run into her again. It had taken everything in me not to message her first just to get it over with. A guy has his pride. And if it weren’t for being on my home turf, I wouldn’t have had a choice. I had bigger problems to deal with than chasing some Boss Bitch around town for my wallet. I had no idea where to start with Renee or how to keep Mom calm from cross country.
Worse? Jenner had an advantage. I’d give her that. Chicks carried purses. It was likely that she had her ID with her. Not me. Mine was in the bag I’d have to fetch from Princess Aisle Seat like some kind of servant. Oh, she’d love that. I knew her type too well; a total pissa’’. Chicks like Jenner were exactly why I didn’t bother with relationships. Nothing to gain and everything to lose. I’d been hurt enough and Mom and Renee needed me to keep my shit together.
I stared at her message before deciding she could wait. I had through Monday at the latest. I’d overheard her telling the stewardess that her diva conference had set her up with first class tickets and ran through the weekend. Sucked for her she’d got that first class part wrong. Or, maybe it was karma. Fuck if I knew. Fuck if I cared either. I just wanted my god dammed wallet back.
Leg day. The worst day at the gym. But after a week in Los Angeles visiting my sister, I needed it. The hell I wanted to look like Harry or Corey. Their chicken legs were exactly what the guys made fun of and for good reason. It was a wonder they could keep clients at all. The women I spent my time with wouldn’t have it. In that way, I supposed, they were like Princess Jenner. Difference was, they paid for it. Even then, they weren’t as rude.
I took a wicked swig off my favorite water bottle before heading to the leg press. Miss Thing could wait. I had hours before my date with Rena Edwards. Rena and me went way back. A widow after her old man died of a brain tumor at forty-three, the chick had grown on me. She wasn’t about the sex and really was only interested in the companionship. Corey was always begging to trade with me – said he wished he had a regular like that. But I knew what I had in Rena and I wasn’t giving up the gig for anything. She wasn’t having it either. It’d been too long. She said I reminded her of her husband in his younger days. I wasn’t sorry I’d met her and actually was fond of her husband in spite of never meeting him. Regularly, we even took trips together to his grave. And that was the thing I’d tried to explain on the plane – being an escort isn’t what people believe it to be. At least, not in my case. Not with Rena anyway. She was a reason to stay. She was how I could get Renee where she needed to be. It was complicated.
An hour later, I decided Miss Thing had waited long enough. She was staying in Harvard Square about two blocks from the convention center. I could get up there within an hour if I played my cards right. I needed that ID in case Rena wanted to stop for shots; something she often did when it got close to her dead husband’s diagnosis anniversary. Worse, since her mother got sick. I knew that feeling too well and, frankly, wished I could talk to her about it.
“Knew you’d ask.”
And for hours, even though my date with Rena, nothing from Jenner. Wicked rude.
Earlier that day, on the plane
“I’m sorry, there’s been some sort of confusion. I tried to explain it when I boarded but I have a first class ticket. The Girl Power Business Leaders’ Conference is this weekend. I’m sure you’ve heard all about it. I’m the keynote speaker. I need my seat changed. They specifically ordered me first class tickets. I need to be able to think. I need to work on my speech.”
I had to cover my mouth with my hand. The chick was unbelievable. Did she intend to keep the flight on the ground while people accommodated her? Fuck, I missed Boston. Every visit with Renee go
t worse and worse and so did her plastic caretakers. From Orange County to even the worst parts of LA, people sure were something. How my sister put up with it was beyond me but she didn’t know better. Mom? Another story. Regardless, every trip confirmed to me that I was a Boston man straight up. But then, me and Renee were different. Always had been. It wasn’t like that would change now. Why did she have to be so stubborn?
The stewardess, who had a great rack and the perfect smile, did her best to pretend she was hearing this for the first time. “All the seats are taken, Ma’am. I’m not sure who told you your ticket was first class but this is your seat. 34B. If you hand me your bag I can put it in the overhead stowaway for you. But you’ll need to buckle up soon. The plane needs to leave. Schedule to keep.”
I hardly believed it when Little Miss Thing clutched her standard, just like mine, leather carry-on bag and stood her ground. “No. I am sure. The mistake is on the part of the airline, not me. And it needs to be corrected. Who here is in charge? Do I need to talk to the pilot? Or should I call American Airlines?”
“Really?” I couldn’t help myself. My mom and sister had always said I didn’t know when to stay out of shit but this was over the top. Besides, the stewardess reminded me of my other favorite client; Heather Brown. Same curves and fat lips that always appeared to be on the verge of a pout.
The diva, whose hair was overly processed and colored a ridiculous shade of Hollywood blonde, spun around, glaring at me in the aisle. “It’s not your problem. Stay out of it. No one asked you. This is between me and the airline.”
“It kind of is.” I held my ticket out. “Call me a chump, but I have coach seats. 34A. And you’re holding up the plane. I gotta get back to the gym. I have stuff to do.”
She snorted, looking me up and down from my tennis sneakers to my heather gray Champion sweatshirt. “The gym. Of course.”
“I’m not sitting next to him,” Little Miss Thing informed the stewardess. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with his all-important ‘stuff’.”
“Then you can leave the plane. Unless you can find someone to trade spaces with you, I’m sorry but this flight is full. There aren’t other places to sit. You need to get seated, Miss. Your seat’s right here.”
“I’ll switch,” a heavy-set man with a uni brow and sparse hairline said. “I don’t mind at all. Just want to get to my grandkid.”
“Your seat is?” the stewardess asked, sighing.
The guy looked down. “34C.”
Little Miss Thing let out a loud groan. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m calling the airline after this flight! This is insanity. I have a first class ticket. I don’t get why this is even a thing!”
“You guys can work this out, I need to see to other passengers,” the stewardess said, thanking the man and smiling at me.
“Yep. Sure thing,” I said, grinning.
Miss Thing wasn’t fucking around. She insisted on the aisle seat, leaving me with the window simply because she refused to be any closer to me than necessary. The poor guy, who introduced himself as Thomas Ardis, got smashed between us in 34B. It was gonna be a hell of a long ride. I’d need a nap before Rena. I hadn’t slept in days thanks to Renee’s protests and over and over threats of suicide if we took her out of L.A.
***
Jenner
I seethed. The whole trip had been one disastrous shit show after another and I wasn’t even off the ground. From issues with the valet parking to the mix-up with seating, I was already about to snap when I found myself smack dab against some loser who called himself Rob and spoke without no awareness at all of the letter ‘r.’ The second the flight landed, I was calling American Airlines. There was no reason for this. I’d double and triple checked with the convention planners. Hell, I was the keynote speaker. I’d worked too hard for this. Shit was bad enough on the ground. The last thing I needed to do on my way to listen to Lydia—the bitch who thought she was better than the rest of us—was more problems. Of those I had enough.
The guy next to me, who reminded me of my father, reeked. Stale cigars and pickles threatened to seep into my Armani suit as I tried to remember where coach passenger’s peed. The last time I’d ridden in the back of a plane was years before meeting Jack. Nope. I wasn’t going back.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I grumbled, after the flight finally left the ground and the pilot came over the loud speaker to let us know we could take our seatbelts off. With hours to go, I at least wanted to patch up my foundation. There was no way I was hitting the ground looking like I’d sat in coach. I had an impression to make and I wasn’t letting anything stop me. Granted, with the way this trip was going, my driver would probably be killed in an accident on the way.
“Why? You planning on joining the mile-high club?” Rob, who apparently lived for the gym and wanted to be sure everyone knew about it, hissed.
“Back there,” the guy between us said. His name, I couldn’t remember.
“Thanks.”
“Pissa’,” Rob mumbled.
Ignoring my rude, forced companion, I unbuckled my seatbelt and stood to reach into the overhead for my purse. When I returned, I’d come back for my speech. I could work on that and tune everyone in coach out. At least the speech would keep me distracted.
Inside the bathroom, I tried to collect myself. I knew better than to let a guy like Rob get to me. I’d spent all of high school as the girl not quite popular enough to prevent guys like him from picking on her. A prep school my parents insisted upon, I was a horrible student who people thought would never be anything more than someone’s wife. That wasn’t happening. While I’d almost thrown in the towel with Jack, I had a fresh start with my business.
Pulling out the foundation, I tried to balance myself against the tiny sink. Its sink, with a hole the size of a toilet paper roll, was stained a deep shade of blue like no one had bothered to wash it. On the edge was a tiny black hair that made my stomach lurch. It was never like this in first class. I wondered if the ticket mix-up had been Lydia’s work.
Whatever. Don’t let her get to you. Bad things come in threes. You’re there. The rest of the trip will be amazing. Focus on that speech.
***
Rob
“…Yeah. Six days a week, like it or not. It’s good though. Gotta keep that pump on,” I said, watching the blonde bombshell with the stick up her ass roll her eyes and shake her head as she approached our row. “Stuff to do.”
Tom picked up on none of it. It was like the guy was immune to a tension thicker than any I’d ever felt before with a stranger. Instead, the guy just went with it as if he and I were old friends. In a way, it felt like it. Tom was my accomplice in getting under the diva’s skin. In that way, I looked forward to the rest of our trip. It was better than worrying about Mom.
“My son is the same way. He’s been working out since his high school days on the track team. Now he plays basketball for Ohio State.”
“Really? No shit. That’s fantastic. Good for him.”
Tom smiled and launched into a story about his newest grandson just as Little Miss Thing finally finished getting her crap put back away up top again. Keep arching your back, Princess. I’ve seen better tits. Heather, for one. Still, not bad. I’ll give you that. She had to have been gone an hour. And when she returned and finally sat her entitled ass down, there was no missing the fresh application of eye make-up.
“Prettied up for us?” I couldn’t help it. This chick was exactly the type that gave Renee so much trouble in school. Had we been closer in age, I’d have set that shit straight. But as the little brother five years her junior, there wasn’t much I could do. It wasn’t like Mom could do much for her either. She was too worried about the medical bills, IEP plans, special ed and whether or not Renee was depressed again.
“Yeah. That’s what I did. Had to keep that pump on, ya know? Stuff. It’s a pissa’.’” she spit back, flipping her hair enough to toss a whiff of product in my direction. A combination of strawberries and lavende
r hit me in the face and reminded me to text Rena. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember where we were meeting for our date. But the text would have to wait til we were back on the ground.
I gritted my teeth, pushing my arm in front of me and giving Jenner the best shot I could of my forearm as I pulled the plastic tray down. “When do they bring the drinks?” I asked no one in particular.
“They have drinks in coach?” Bitch Face griped.
“No. They let us die of thirst while the chosen ones get drunk.”
“Oh. I just thought they served first class first. We’re hardly off the ground.”
“I think they do it at the same time,” Tom said, his neck growing red.
I felt bad for Tom. The guy only wanted to get to Vermont to see his daughter and her four-day-old son. Now, he’d have to spend hours stuck next to the diva and listening to her bitch and moan about her supposed ticket mix-up.
“Yep. Imagine that. Of course, not top shelf. I think they pull it from the bathroom. Did you see a mini bar in there?”
“Hilarious,” she said, pulling down her own tray and popping in the ear buds. I hoped she’d leave them in there the rest of the trip. At the same time, torturing her might be fun. We had a long-assed ride ahead. I’d be bored and had nothing better to do. People like Jenner deserved it.
“What did she name your grandson, Tom?”
“Jaxon. Jaxon Thomas. Imagine that? After me.”
“That’s pretty epic, dude. Congrats.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I’m so excited to meet him.”
Present day, just before midnight
Jenner
I returned to the hotel room fully buzzed. Thankfully, as the keynote speaker, they hadn’t stuck me in the same hotel as the regular convention speakers. I needed away from people. Listening to Rob pick at me for hours had worn me out. The last thing I wanted to deal with was running into other convention goers early and having to put up the shop talk pretense. Lydia and her sidekick Heather Brown? No thanks. The hustle wasn’t always glitter and rainbows. At the same time, this hotel was kind of a dump. It was tired or something. Nothing like back in Orange County. But after the trip I’d had? It wasn’t worth complaining.
