Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  “She can make another one,” I said, slapping each other five.

  We used our hands like spoons, shoveling the warm bread into our mouths until there wasn’t even a crumb remaining. It was so damn good; we didn’t pause to get forks. Mom found us there with our hands in the oven, and boy, did she yell.

  I take another swig, laughing.

  Aaron standing at the door next to my father, watching me as I readied myself to leave for boot camp. His blue eyes were full of hero worship for his older brother, who was willing to risk his life for God and country.

  As he was three years younger than myself, life with Aaron was a continual test of strength and strategy. And, by that, I mean, we basically beat the living shit out of each other on a daily basis. Still, we were tight when it mattered.

  The Twin Towers had fallen weeks prior, and we’d watched a documentary on television about the strength and pride of our Navy.

  After all, good ole boys like us had been raised to represent our country and do it proud.

  After I made my choice to go, he swore to join me after he turned eighteen. We shook on it.

  On the brick steps leading to our front door, my father hugged me to his chest. “It’s what we do,” he said into my ear. As a Vietnam veteran, he’d seen and done his share.

  My mother’s tears weren’t silent as I left home. She was proud but terrified.

  “I’m proud of you. But what about school? Your football scholarship?” She reminded me of my old plans, worry etched within her words.

  “When I come home, I’ll finish it all up. I swear.” I hugged her, but she shook in my arms as I kissed her good-bye.

  Four years later, Dad died of prostate cancer. One year after that, my mama died from breast cancer. And, two years after that, Aaron was gone when a roadside bomb went off in Iraq.

  And my world turned.

  Some hearts are full of gratitude and joy, eager to make the earth a better place. My heart? It’s disfigured, and it can no longer be trusted.

  I retired to an empty house with nothing inside but furniture, photographs, and ghosts. In my bed that first night, between stale sheets that smelled vaguely of my high school gym locker mixed with my mom’s detergent, I stayed up late to watch TV, hoping to adjust to the time change. A commercial came on for gourmet cat food served in a shimmering crystal bowl. In my mind’s eye, I saw children rummaging, barefoot, through trash, looking for scraps to eat. Meanwhile, here in the USA, cats ate salmon out of gemstones.

  What is this world coming to?

  I became angry.

  It took a few weeks, but I called friends to try to reacclimate. Reading the pamphlets, I was urged to reconnect. But it was all in vain.

  I called my high school girlfriend, Sally.

  She had been the cheerleader, and I had been the football captain. Cheesy, sure. But we had some real good times. We were innocents back then. Not that we weren’t partying, having sex, and drinking beers from kegs because we were. I’d always been the type to enjoy life. Still, we were innocent in our thinking. All I thought about were grades, college, sports, and getting laid once or twice a day by my sweet and super-hot girlfriend. It had been a fun life. A simple life.

  I picked up the phone and dialed with hope in my chest. Turned out, she was married with three kids. I could barely hear her over the sound of children screaming in the background.

  Next, I called Tex.

  He told me he was running the town auto shop and married to Jane, his own high school sweetheart. “Let’s get a beer sometime.”

  Sure.

  Hanging up, I called Billy. A CPA now living in Connecticut with his wife, whom he’d met at Yale. Always was a smart guy.

  Hell, I am, too. But, with no college degree or work experience in the field, I’m behind.

  Shannon was next. His mom answered and told me he’d died in a car accident during his senior year in college. I was floored. No one had told me.

  Some friends from the SEAL Teams wanted to connect, but I didn’t. Could barely look them in the eye after Rex’s death. Loneliness and guilt threatened to pull me under at every turn.

  Like my father, physical labor was a go-to. I refinished the wooden staircase in my family home, repainted the shutters blue, fixed some shaky white tiles in the bathrooms, and finally sold the house in an auction.

  It was time to hit the road. Bouncing from spot to spot, I found myself in New York City and did a little fighting for cash.

  “It sucks to have to train these Wall Street fucks,” a guy tells me after an underground bout beneath a shitty bar on the outskirts of Times Square. A gash over his blackened eye trickles blood as men yell and jeer around us. “But it’s a good way to ease back into the real world after leaving the military. Money and hours are pretty good, too. And the guy who owns the place, Joe? He’s a decent guy.” Lifting a small, clear plastic cup filled with water, he swallows it down like a shot of tequila. “He was in the Navy himself. I think Special Forces. He gets it,” he adds.

  Blood continues to ooze.

  “You need stitches.” I point to his brow with my forefinger.

  He shrugs. “Whatever,” he says like it’s the least of his worries. “It’s just one of many.”

  I hand him my sweaty white towel. It’s better than getting blood in the eye. Lifting it to his brow, he presses firmly to stop the flow.

  I pull the gun from my pants, spinning the black piece on the wooden table. What’s the point of life really? My bladder reminds me it’s full. I lean against the wall, letting it support me as I make my way to my small, blue-tiled bathroom.

  “Want a smoke,” I say to no one.

  Unzipping my jeans, I lean my hand against the sink to keep steady.

  Heading back into the kitchen, I check the junk drawer by the fridge. I push random keys and takeout menus around until I find the pack.

  Shit. It’s empty. I crunch it in my hand as my phone buzzes.

  On shaky legs, I make my way to the table where my phone and gun sit. It flashes red. I’ve got a message.

  Vincent: Yo. Dinner at my place tomorrow night? Eve’s cooking.

  It only took a few months of training and sparring with Vincent at Joe’s Gym, and I was lucky enough to call the man my friend. As it turned out, Vincent was living in New York while out on parole, but he was in the midst of completing construction on the Milestone, a large-scale hotel and casino complex out on Nevada’s tribal lands. When he offered me the job to head security, I jumped at the chance. Even though I had no prior experience, Vincent trusted me to figure it all out. Luckily, my extensive military background easily translated into the security business. I connected with some of my brothers from the SEAL Teams, and together, we began VST, the Vulcan Security Team.

  Would I let Vincent down? The Milestone is his life as well as mine. Vincent gave me this opportunity on a silver platter. He and I have a good thing going, and more is yet to come.

  Bringing fresh water onto the reservation is next on our agenda, and hiring veterans to do the work will be a great thing.

  I continue to spin my gun, dark thoughts pushing through. I wonder … Why wait? Others can take my spot with Vincent. I’m not afraid of death. In fact, it would be better there. Valhalla. No more nightmares. No more waiting for the last shoe to drop. I almost killed a woman tonight. She could have died. I’m a loaded gun.

  My hands shake as I lift my phone. I type and delete. Put it down. Spin the gun. Pick the phone back up again.

  Finally, I type, Yeah. I’ll be there.

  Send.

  One

  Lauren

  Las Vegas is completely phony but fun if you buy into its game.

  When Sanam said she was getting married to the super-wealthy Reza Nader, everyone begged for a bachelorette party in Vegas. It seemed like it would be a fun idea at the time, but now, I’m seriously regretting saying yes. They’re all in amazing places in their lives while I’m stuck in the same spot I’ve been for the last t
en years—a legal secretary at Crier, one of the most prestigious law firms in LA and completely single. I’ve had boyfriends, of course. But none to love. I’m thirty-two years old, and I want to settle down with a smart, intelligent, kind, and handsome man who loves me. Where the hell is he? I’ve dated men who checked every box in my credential list. And yet all of them have turned out to be utter assholes.

  The heavy rap music bounces against high concrete walls painted to look like marble, and bursting against my eardrums. Bodies, costumed and practically nude, gyrate on the dance floor. A life-sized metal birdcage dangles from the ceiling by our table. A woman dances inside, if you can call spreading your legs and grinding against the bars dancing. It’s Cirque du Strip. I don’t want to stare, but it’s hard not to. I mean, how the hell does she contort herself in these positions? The theme of the party tonight is Turn a Trick, Get a Treat, and my entire group, along with the rest of the club, is dressed accordingly.

  I turn toward my friends, simultaneously cringing at their antics and wanting to make sure they’ve had enough water. They’re all rolling on Molly, and their happiness has reached cloud-nine status. Apparently, Roxy and Allie got it from Sandy, who swears up and down it’s as pure MDMA as you can get. The alleged result? The euphoria of ecstasy without any down. I know because I did all the research beforehand. Everyone’s been texting for weeks about the party favors tonight, and of course, I immediately looked up all the details. I’m not planning to partake, but I’m also not one who appreciates a surprise. If everyone around me is going to be on drugs, I need to know what to expect.

  Sanam moves to where I stand, hugging me with more empathy and love than I ever thought she was capable of feeling. I’m furious with her for rolling on drugs, but her kindness right now makes it hard to be angry. Her expensive perfume moves through my nose, making my eyes tingle. It’s the same scent she’s been wearing since we were in college, reminding me of when we lived together during our senior year at UCLA. Memories of how we’d find lunch specials from the fanciest restaurants and eat there, waiting for rich businessmen to see us and ask us out for dinner. It was all fun and games for me but not for Sanam. Over time, finding the man with lined pockets became everything to her.

  We used to be inseparable. But our priorities changed drastically over time, and at this point, we couldn’t be more different. I want to still love her because of what was, but it feels as though I can no longer trust her. In fact, everything in my life these days looks and feels like filler, overstuffed with fleeting conversations and pretentious hellos.

  She pulls back, smiling. “I know I’m getting married, and you’re not. I mean, not for a really long time at least. But we have to stay best friends forever, okay?” Her voice is high-pitched and haughty.

  For the millionth time tonight, I ask myself if she has always been this bitchy and I never really noticed or if it’s a new development in her personality now that she’s about to be Mrs. Reza Nader.

  Pushing her thick black hair over one shoulder, she smiles like she just won the lottery. Technically speaking, she has. Reza is rich.

  I let out a, “Mmhmm,” as I try not to slap her off the metaphoric high horse she’s sitting on. Turning my body to the side isn’t a choice but done for her preservation.

  From my side-eye, I see her duck lips purse. She clears her throat, as though she’s trying to get my attention.

  “I’m telling you this because I love you. You’re getting older, and it’s time to wake up. There’s no such thing as love. What’s real is money. You are beautiful right now, but in a few years, you’ll be older. Newer stock is going to rise. Just get in the game and close the deal with one of these wealthy men we know.”

  I swing around, facing her head-on. “I can’t just—”

  “Yes, you can,” she interrupts. “You can, and you should. I know you believe that love will conquer all and blah, blah, blah. I thought, over time, you’d grow out of it, but you’re still stuck in that stupid mindset. Why should you live in a small and crappy apartment with a man who’ll eventually cheat on you with some dumb slut in his office? News flash: whether he’s loaded with money or poor and hood, they all do the same shit. At least with the rich one, you’ll be able to live an amazing life of travel. Parties. Dinners. Private planes. Reza has a lot of friends I want you to meet at the wedding.” She smiles excitedly.

  Sanam doesn’t realize that it’s not about money. It’s that I’m sick and tired of eating shit from men who think that, because they buy me nice things, I have to say yes to their demands. I’d explain this to her, but how can I? Sanam’s entire life is a transaction. She’ll be a good wife in the ways Reza expects, and in return, he’ll take care of her materially. She’s followed this pattern since college. Sure, the trips we took in our twenties to St. Barts and the South of France with handsome and rich men were fun. But, for me, that’s all it ever was—fun. As I got older, it became less and less so.

  “We’ve always done everything together. I know we’ve separated some since I met Reza, but let’s get you on my train. All you have to do is pick one of his friends. You’re brilliant and beautiful and the nicest girl ever. It’s all so simple! The only person to convince is yourself.” The look in her eyes is full of honesty.

  Before I can reply, Daniela comes over. Long red hair and completely coked up, she’s totally out of her mind. She just got out of rehab, but clearly, it didn’t help her. Anyway, I heard she’s leaving for South America to help her father do some business. Good riddance! She opens the flap of her designer purse and dips a black manicured nail inside. Slowly pulling it out so as not to spill a grain, she sprinkles white powder in Sanam’s palm. I try not to cringe over their blatant drug use. I love Sanam, but I hate some of the girls she surrounds herself with.

  After she rubs the white crystals on her gums, it’s only moments before a bright, demonic smile fills Sanam’s face. Still, her crown continues to sparkle. On anyone else, it would look tacky—Bride-to-Be spelled out in shining, faux diamond letters. But, on Sanam, it’s perfection. She’s so attractive that, even drugged up and starving, she looks perfect.

  “Most of Reza’s friends are assholes,” I add.

  They’re all big in California and New York City real estate, and they come to my law firm for closings. Any chance they get, they hit on me. As the head legal secretary on the real estate transactional team, it’s my job to know every single client who works with the real estate team. Unfortunately, it’s also my job to make sure they’re comfortable and happy. This means that, oftentimes, I have to plaster a smile on my face—even if it hurts.

  “And they’d do anything to get into your pants. This has never bothered you before. What’s changed?” Her eyes plead before sparkling at someone or something over my shoulder.

  I turn my head and groan. There’s a man behind me, tall and muscular, with an interested smirk on his face. He stares between the two of us, implication clear that he wouldn’t mind some fun with us both. I quickly turn away, not wanting to give him any ideas.

  “Anyway”—she brings her focus back to me—“I know your office has strict rules about dating clients, but, girl, get a clue. Every secretary on earth is working to meet a rich businessman. No one is actually working to work.”

  “I’m not just a secretary. I’m a legal secretary,” I huff, feeling defensive. “And, while I’m not crazy about my job, it isn’t just to meet some—”

  “Whatever. Same difference,” she interrupts, circling her hips to the music.

  I narrow my eyes, wanting to shake her back to reality and then stab her with my red Louboutin stiletto. Sanam isn’t cruel; she’s just clueless.

  Or maybe it’s me who’s dense. No. It’s her.

  The girls around me flit in excitement as some rap song I’ve never heard comes on. I can feel my despair seeping through my thighs, heavier than I wish they were.

  Should I just take some Molly? Maybe, if I did, I could actually be happy again.

>   I bite my lip, running through my usage checklist for the millionth time. I have no preexisting health conditions. I am not taking any medication that interacts with MDMA. I’m aware of the dosage guidelines, and I know that the positive effects of this drug are maximized between eighty-one to one hundred ten milligrams. I will be sure to drink two cups of water. My costume is thin, which should keep me cool to avoid heatstroke. Molly could be the pause my body yearns for, but my mind won’t allow.

  Sanam brings her skinny, hairless arms high above her as the music thumps.

  “I never really liked this rap music.” She shakes her tiny ass as sweat beads at her unlined forehead. “But I love the vibrations. Can you feel it? We’re all one. Humanity is meant to become a single body, full of unity!”

  I cock my head in confusion at her spiritual words, so unlike her.

  “And I’m getting married. And that house he just bought me? God! Can you believe it?” she squeals.

  In front of us, Allie climbs up onto the rectangular table overflowing with liquor and ice. Lowering her own diamond-encrusted hand, she brings Sanam to stand up with her. A few bottles of vodka topple to the ground, the glass shattering near my feet and soaking the floor. The girls only laugh at the mess they made. Reza, of course, is footing the entire bill for the weekend. Meanwhile, they’re dancing like they’re starring in a porn, making come fuck me eyes at any man with a pulse. Okay, maybe not that bad. But still.

  Sanam screams to me, “Come up, Lauren!” She’s enjoying the attention she’s receiving from partygoers, her moves exaggerated and overly sexy.

  I click my tongue, turning away. No way in hell am I dancing on a table. Jesus, but I need an escape right now. Still, I wish I weren’t the way I was. I want to just take the drugs and be happy like everyone else. I want something to shut me up for once, so I can actually enjoy life instead of questioning and thinking of all the possible outcomes. I want to dance without a care, too. But … I can’t.