I sit up in a hurry and look around the room. Heavy black curtains cover the windows, to keep the sun out I'm guessing. The room is quiet and dark, as well as cold, reminding me that I'm naked. Pulling the comforter up to cover me, I look down at the piece of paper in my hand, but it's too dark to read without a light. On the nightstand is a lamp. I reach over and turn it on. I need a few minutes to wake up before I attempt to read it with this alcohol-induced headache.
Pieces of last night start to replay in my mind; so vivid that I would think it was just a dream if my vagina didn't feel like it was recently used as a punching bag. Maybe I should think twice next time, before agreeing to basically fuck all night...
Nah.
He held up his end of the bargain though. There are many men out there that are lucky to get it up for round two so soon after round one. I think I stopped counting after round four last night...or early this morning. Honestly¸ I'm not even sure if I've slept more than two hours total.
I quickly glance over the side of the bed on the floor for the proof that I know is there if it really happened, but everything is spotless. There isn't a condom wrapper present. I drop the paper to jump out of bed and run to the garbage can beside the desk, and then bring it back into the light. It's empty.
What the fuck?
Sitting it back down on the floor I make my way to the nearest curtain and open it for more light, looking down over the entry to the club. Is this where he was the whole time? Sneaky bastard. I'm so confused. Where is he?
I place my hands on my hips as I look around the room. Nothing looks out of place to prove last night happened...except the unfamiliar set of clothes lying at the foot of the bed that I’m just now noticing.
I walk over to look at them, inspecting them carefully. My eyes widen as I take in the brand. No fucking way. Surely he can't afford this shit.
The note...
I crawl across the bed until I reach the center where I threw it down and grab it. I hold it in both hands as I read the messy handwriting scribbled on the front.
Lux,
I had work that couldn't be postponed. On the bed you will find a set of clothing you should find presentable for your particular taste, to replace the dress that will no longer be of use. I suspect you would rather go against the grain of most women, so on the back of this note you will find my number. Give it to NO ONE. Use it, tonight preferably. I'm saving you the awkward tiptoeing walk of shame when you think I’m asleep that I know you would be attempting if I had stayed. You're free to go when you please. Everything said and discussed last night still stands. If you were overly intoxicated, then I suggest you start now trying to recall that conversation. Call me. Don't make me come find you...
Kaston
Asshole. I wad it up and throw it down, then pick it back up and un-crinkle it. Sexy asshole. Where the hell is my purse? I wad the piece of paper up again and toss it in the trash. I bet he would get his fine ass briefs in a bunch if I just casually misplaced his number and make him do all the work. I walk to the set of clothes and touch them. Everything is new with tags, including the underwear. He has good taste. I'll give him a little credit.
I pull on the matching lace underwear first. Sexy asshole that gives really good orgasms....
Oh hell.
I walk in a hurry to the trashcan and grab the piece of paper, opening it once again. I flip it over to stare at the ten-digit number. Fuck my life. I've already gotten addicted to sexy-man sex. I'm screwed.
Fuck him once and he does it right, then you'll fuck him twice and keep coming back...
I want to face-palm myself. I lay the piece of paper neatly on the bed beside the clothes, staring at the phone number every few seconds as I finish dressing. "What happened to your woman balls, Larsen?"
Fully dressed, I grab the piece of crinkled paper and begin looking for my purse. "If I were Kaston where would I put you?"
The desk was the first place we went. I walk toward it. My purse is lying on top. I grab it and open it, pulling out my cell phone. I don't even look through the missed calls and texts. Instead, I open the lock screen and key in the number from the piece of paper, pressing the call button. To my surprise, the name Kaston appears with a photo as the call dials. Was someone worried I may forget what he looks like? All I can do at this point is roll my eyes. It's scary to think of the girls in his path before me. He's a damn lunatic. Maybe I should have a password on my phone.
I'm about to hang up when the line picks up. "I see you got my note."
"How were you sure it was even me calling? You really should stop that shit. It's only going to get you in a bind one of these days. Besides, that cocky ass shit is going to land you in bed alone.... I almost threw your little note in the trash."
"But you didn't."
"Luckily for you, you know how to use that dick of yours beautifully. It can be quite persuasive even when absent." I place my purse underneath my arm and look around for a pair of shoes. Of course there is a pair of flats on the floor in front of the bed. Does the man miss a single detail? My heels would have been fine.
"That's interesting. I can be persuasive with a lot of things in my grasp. I thought we established that last night."
"Yeah, yeah. You got in my pants. That's not really a big accomplishment, Cox. I wanted you, so I had you. Technically you didn't have to try real hard. Nice try though. A+ for effort." I walk toward the door, checking through the room one last time.
He laughs. I stop mid step in the middle of the room. He has a beautiful laugh. I look at the phone and press the mute button, then slap myself across the face. "Stop it."
I take a deep breath. I feel better now. I un-mute the phone and press it back to my ear. "Well, I just thought I would say good morning since you were thoughtful enough to clean up and leave a note."
I open the door to the stairwell. "Oh, thanks for the clothes. It probably would have looked a little strange with me walking home naked or in a bed sheet through Atlanta. Anyway, I guess I'll see you around..."
What the hell, Lux? See you around? You just slept with him for fuck's sake.
"I have to go."
"What are you doing later?"
"Working."
"Where?"
"I prefer to keep that personal at this time. You know, you could be a stalker or some shit. I don't really know you that well. What if you try to kill me?"
He laughs again.
My heart starts to race.
I really need to clear my head. "You know my number now. I'll talk to you later."
Before he can say anything I disconnect the call, shoving my phone into my purse. I need to get my head back in the game. I'm not that girl. My heart doesn't pitter-patter at the sound of a random guy's laugh. I don't get all nervous with his touch. I sure as hell don't develop emotions with simple flirting, or sex for that matter. Emotional attachments don't exist with me. They never have. This is a business investment. This is a temporary job; common interests. We are not friends. We are sex partners; fuck buddies. Once we're finished with each other, we will go our separate ways and never see each other again.
I run down the stairs and outside of the club before anyone can stop me to ask questions. I still have a while before work. I'm not really in the mood to sleep; yet I have no idea what I want to do.
I shove my key into my mailbox and unlock the door, opening it to retrieve my mail. Once I grab it I lock my box back and extract my keys, turning to walk through the narrow hall toward the stairwell as I shuffle through the stack of mail in my hand: bills, junk, useless invites to shit that I won't attend, Culinary Institute of America.
I stop suddenly, causing the person walking behind me to run into me. "Shit, I'm sorry," I say as the middle-aged man continues walking, staring at me like I have a third eye as he passes. I remain standing in place as I look back down, staring at the envelope before me, imprinted with the name of such a sacred place. I run my fingers over the name in ink as if it's a mirage. I close my eye
s and open them again, thinking maybe it's just the effects of no sleep and lots of alcohol, but the words are still there accompanying my name and mailing address.
My brows dip. Why would they send me something? I've never applied. It's pointless and I know that, so there was never any reason to be let down over something I can't control. I realized a long time ago that culinary school would never happen for me. Even if I was accepted, I can't foot the bill and support myself. I'll take money from men for a lot of things, but that isn't one of them, because that would require me actually giving that piece of myself away to someone else, someone besides Delta, and opening myself up to idea of letting someone in. When you reveal your deepest wants and desires to someone, it gives him the power to hurt you. That's something I'll never do.
I don't want someone knowing that part of me, the part confirming that just like everyone else I have a humble dream that isn't shallow. I'm fine taking care of myself. When Delta and I decided to stay in Atlanta I got a job doing the next best thing, still surrounded by amazing chefs. I've been fine with it ever since.
I flip over the envelope and slide my finger beneath the flap, tearing the paper along the seal until it's open. My hands start to shake as I remove the paper, creased neatly in a trifold. I open it to company letterhead that matches the envelope, taking precedent to a typed out formal letter.
Dear Miss Larsen,
Thank you for your recent application to Le Cordon Bleu, college of Culinary Arts, Atlanta division. We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to attend the 2015-2016 school year, the start to your path in graduating with a degree in culinary arts or baking and pastry from the number one culinary educator in the country. Please contact the registration office for schedule and financial information. We look forward to having you as a part of our program.
Best regards,
John Thomas
Director of Admissions
My arms fall to my sides as I work to breathe. My stomach feels like it's twisted into a million knots. I've been accepted? I didn't even apply. My heart is pounding a hundred miles an hour and my head is spinning. I feel sick. Why would I get this? Is this some cruel joke?
Delta...
We've been best friends for years and still we care about each other more than ourselves. God, I love her. I have one dream and this is it. Is there a way I could swing it? I keep telling her to go after her dream of being a tattoo artist, so it would be a little hypocritical not to go after my own.
My mother coming into town surfaces in my mind. As quickly as my dream was granted it was also taken away. I blow out. Who am I fucking kidding? I can't afford to pay for this shit and everything else I have going on. She needs me. She may be a pain in my ass but she's still my mother. Secretly I long for her to be well, to be more like the mother and not the child. I'm not sure she has been mentally stable my entire life. Her whole mindset is completely fucked up.
My eyes set on the trashcan at the end of the narrow hallway. My eyes develop a gloss overlay, but I blink it away. This is real life. It isn't a fairytale or a happily ever after. Girls like me don't get wishes from a genie in a bottle. Me, I just drew the short end of the stick. Crying and whining doesn't change the outcome. Sometimes life is shitty. This is mine.
I push my shoulders back and walk forward, tossing the letter into the trashcan for mail recycling. I'd probably fail anyway. Things are better this way. Success just isn't in the stars for me. I'm the girl that likes to party, the girl that spreads her legs, the gold digger, and the mistake. I'm the pretty face and sexy body that men want to fuck on Thursday nights while their wives sit at home pregnant. I'm the temporary affair they lie in order to obtain, and I'm okay with that, because in being that I ensure that I never end up completely destroyed at the hands of someone else...like my mother.
Don't ask me why I came here. I have no fucking idea. I have a ton of other shit I need to be doing, like starting up a business that's been ran from another country for years, or meeting with prospective clients, but after she called me I had to see her, so I came. As far as I'm concerned the woman that made me come multiple times in one night deserves the world at her feet. I’m still coming down from the high. My dick is happy and exhausted, yet still wants more.
Here I stand, staring into the entryway as she tosses a piece of mail into the garbage. It's not an abnormal act. People throw away junk mail all the time, but the pause as she read the sheet of paper and the change in her body language as she did so were the hints that she's hiding things, that there's more to her than what meets the eye.
I walk to the trashcan when she's out of sight. She never looked back at me the entire time I've been standing here. I reach inside and grab the sheet of paper on top, reading the piece of mail now available for public knowledge; an acceptance letter. Who throws that away? Usually it's something a person initiates first, like applying for it…. I have questions and I don't work well without answers. I'll just have to find the answers, but now is not the time. I think I'll be making plans for tonight...
I fold the sheet of paper in its original position and put it in my interior jacket pocket. I'm about to find out why someone accepted to a culinary program at a top end school is still a willing server at a job that will never have room for climbing the corporate ladder.
I turn and walk away. I'll just have to wait a few more hours to see her. There is work to be done. I have a new set of things to do now...
I walk into my apartment and go straight for the kitchen, laying my clutch on the bar along the way. I'm hungry and I despise takeout. I prefer to cook my own food always, but not before aspirin.
Opening the medicine cabinet, I grab the small bottle before twisting off the cap and popping two small pills in my hand, tossing them in my mouth at the same time. I grab a glass and fill it with water, then drink it in its entirety to relieve the cotton mouth I've had since I woke up.
I set the empty glass on the bar. "Where have you been?"
I jump at the sound of that deep voice and turn around. He looks tired. "What the fuck are you doing here, Callum? It's not even Thursday. I'm sure your wife is wondering where you are. Where is my key? Give it back and leave."
He walks toward me, his arms by his sides. "Angel. We can and we will figure this out."
"We are way past figuring things out. Give me my key."
He stops in front of me and leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head. He places his palm against my cheek. "You didn't really think I was going to give you up that easily did you? Oh no, angel. I didn't get to the top by following simple orders. Everyone has a breaking point. It's just about finding it. You were mine and you still are. You will cave."
I look at him. "You have lost your fucking mind. You are married. She's pregnant, you asshole."
"I'll leave her. It's already been done." He runs his hands down my body, but instead of turning me on it now makes me feel like a cheap whore. "I never wanted kids and she knew that, but she refuses to get rid of it, so she can raise it alone. Money talks. I can make her go away."
"Who are you?"
I push on his chest, but he presses his body against mine, holding me against the counter. He leans in again and I attempt to push him again. He grabs my wrists in his hands and presses his lips to my neck, running them up the length until he's just outside my ear. "Someone else fucked you last night, didn't they? I can smell him on you."
His voice becomes angry, mine quickly matching his. "It's none of your fucking business anymore. You lost that right when I found out you were married, as in fucking another woman when you were only supposed to be fucking me. Get out of my damn apartment, Callum. I mean it."
He cups my ass and squeezes, pissing me off further. His hands are all over me. "Stop seeing him. We'll start over. Just me and you this time. You know I can give you everything you want."
For the first time that does not sway me...
His hands disappear underneath my shirt, rubbing along my sides. He's pre
ssing his erection into my pelvis. Bringing my knee up, I drive it into his nuts, causing him to move back in a hurled over position as he grabs them in his hands. "Now get the fuck out."
He stands slowly as he steps toward the door in a limp. "Get rid of him, Lux. I'm warning you. If I can't have you, no one will. When I return I'll have the fucking divorce papers for you to see."
He opens the door and hobbles out, slamming it shut behind him. I walk over quickly and lock the door, before turning and pressing my back against the door. I really missed the red flags with that one. Sleep suddenly sounds better than food, and nothing ever takes precedent over that. I love food. It's why I work out as hard as I do, and also why my life is mapped out around it. What kind of life would it be if all a person ever ate were lean protein and veggies? Fuck that. I'd rather eat a chocolate soufflé and then run five miles immediately following.
I push off the door and begin walking toward my bedroom. I'll just grab something at work later. I may even stay with Delta until I can get my damn locks changed so Callum's crazy ass doesn't pull a repeat of just now.
Opening my bedroom door, I immediately head toward my underwear drawer, opening it. I dig around until I find what I'm looking for hidden beneath the various shades, styles, and colors of the material filling the drawer: my pink and black Glock G42, 380 Caliber. I'm not some dumb girl living alone in a big city. I have fucking pistols hidden all over this damn apartment, as well as the smaller one I carry in my purse, and my aim is impeccable. I don't purchase them to collect dust or to brag that I have one. I purchase them for safety, knowing there is a possibility that I may have to lay someone's ass on the ground, which is why I go to the shooting range at least twice a month. I've heard all my life that an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure. You don't bounce back from death.
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