by Genna Rulon
My life has never been easy. In fact, every second of my existence has been the definition of complicated. The nicest way to describe the last ten years would be messy. Each milestone brought a new level of cluster-fuck-upedness. Yes, some circumstances were so extreme they required the innovation of new word combinations, and my history has been responsible for countless additions to the American lexicon.
When I awoke after surgery, GriffLo was waiting with a heavy dose of gratitude and responsibility, which kicked their respective caregiver and protector sensibilities into overdrive. Under the pretense of invitation, Sam advised me that I would be staying with her upon my release from the hospital and throughout my recovery. Having no one else to call and in need of assistance, I caved like a poorly excavated mine shaft. A week to recover in the comfort of Sam’s home was the answer to un-prayed prayers.
I was relieved…until they requested the keys to my apartment to pack a bag for me. Then I panicked. They could not go to my apartment. I protested, offered weak excuses, and finally begged that they forego the visit. I could have swiped a hospital gown before leaving and rocked it for the entire week, possibly even starting a new trend. Infirmary chic—the runways in Milan and Paris might be littered with hospital-inspired gowns next fashion week, all made of luxe fabrics and embellishments.
Unfortunately, Sam had a determined glint in her eye that proved to be stronger than my drug-addled resolve. Reluctantly, I relinquished the keys to my apartment. It was luck (otherwise known as a potty break for Sam) that provided a moment alone with Griffin. I made him swear on his love for Sam that he would not let her visit my apartment alone, and that they would go during daylight, preferably armed with Mace and a stun gun. Griffin studied me with keen eyes before nodding his agreement. When they left for the day, I spent hours dreading the pitying looks and questions their return would bring.
My tiny studio apartment was located in the worst possible neighborhood in a building that should have been condemned twenty years prior. On its best day, the building was a rat-infested shithole that no one, not even those living well below the poverty line, would dare enter. In truth, it was only a step above a crack house, and a tiny step at that. The only ‘luxury’ the tiny studio boasted was a minuscule bathroom. The premium for this convenience pushed my limited budget to the max, but communal bathrooms in the type of areas I could afford were a considerable safety risk for single females.
It was not ‘home sweet home,’ but I’d disinfected every square inch with bleach until my skin burned, painted the walls, and added a few touches of color with end-of-day garage sale bargains. I’d scored after one such garage sale when I found a small table and dresser curbside. These were the only furnishings I had other than a futon, which doubled as both a couch and bed. But regardless of how much dollar store make-up you slapped on a pig, it was still a pig. Oink, oink!
Thankfully, GriffLo didn’t question the state of my humble abode when they returned, but they wasted no time in shuffling me off to Sam’s house. Not long after, Sam invited me to live with her permanently, reassuring me that I would be doing her a favor by alleviating her guilt, since I’d incurred my injury in her defense. Right! She insisted I live rent-free, which was out of the question, and we eventually agreed that I would pay a very modest rent for the room. The savings increased my budget from $27 per week to a whopping $102, allowing me to sustain myself on something other than Ramen noodles and peanut butter straight from the jar. I was still poor, but I now lived in a luxury townhouse and slept on a top-of-the-line queen pillow top. My diet included consistent calories from healthy sources, and I was able to save a little money each month for my next—still unknown, yet undoubtedly coming—car trouble.
Beyond the improvements to my housing and diet, I also gained a family in Sam, Everleigh, Griffin, and Hunter. That was the most profound change: friendship, family…a connection. They were only on loan. I couldn’t keep them—I loved them too much to be that selfish—but I treasured every day with them and soaked up their friendship and support like a flower in drought, thirsting for water. Knowing how dismal my life could be, I cherished this gift. It was my season of love and security, but like all seasons, it wouldn’t last forever. Winter would return and I would be alone once again.
As I said, had I known being shot would be the impetus to completely transforming my wretched life, I would have painted a giant bull’s-eye on my tummy and stood downrange as a volunteer target.
With a smile on my face at the thoughts of my change in fortune, I dragged my suitcase to the laundry room to start my first post-vacation load. After a quick shower to wash away the travel grime, I threw on a pair of black leggings, a moss green tank, and a comfy pair of black Muk Luk slipper-boots. Glancing down at my uber-comfortable attire, I couldn’t help but chuckle—this would drive Sam nuts! Ev used to share stories of Sam’s intense need to ensure that none of her posse were seen out-and-about in loungewear (the bane of Sam’s existence). I thought Ev was exaggerating for maximum impact. Boy, was I wrong.
After seven months of living with Sam, my comfy clothes, which constituted the majority of my wardrobe since they were cheap and—as the name implies—comfy, still regularly disappeared. When asked, Sam always told me that the missing items must have been lost in the move, regardless of the fact that said items were purchased after the move to replace items that had also mysteriously ‘disappeared.’ It turns out she was every bit the appearance-Nazi Ev accused her of being. I couldn’t help but find it hysterical. It may have been less humorous if she hadn’t replaced the absconded articles with Sam-approved alternatives, thus preventing me from blowing my meager weekly budget on replenishing the ‘missing’ cheap clothes with even cheaper alternatives.
My stomach growled as I headed to the kitchen, reinforcing my intent on foraging to find dinner in our bare post-vacation pantry. Luck was on my side when I located a portion of vegetable lasagna in the freezer, which I’d made for GriffLo and myself a few nights before our trip. With Griffin’s frequent visits, food rarely survived more than a day. That man could eat! Then again, he was the size of a Hummer so it was to be expected.
After a brief defrost in the microwave, I popped my soon-to-be dinner in the toaster oven to finish cooking.
I ran upstairs to snag one of Sam’s naughty books to pass the time until dinner was sufficiently warm when I heard the unmistakable sound of grinding metal and an air-break release. Ever the curious kitten, I peeked out the front window to assess the situation. A huge moving van was parked in front of our neighbor’s driveway, partially obstructing ours. Oh well, I didn’t have anywhere to be, so why complain?
"Love thy neighbor—and if he happens to be tall, debonair and devastating, it will be that much easier." -Mae West
Meg
I was nearly done with dinner and thoroughly engrossed in my borrowed romance novel—a surprisingly emotional story given the fact that the alpha-male hero spoke in fragments often beginning with ‘babe’ and ending with ‘yeah?’—when the doorbell sounded, startling me. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Hunter and Everleigh were still on their honeymoon. Griffin and Sam both had keys. No one should be at the door at seven o’clock.
I fought to calm myself as I quietly crept to the front window. At dusk, it was difficult to see any details about the unexpected visitor, other than it was a man in jeans, a dark, fitted t-shirt, and a baseball cap.
As I debated my best course of action—run, hide, or answer—the doorbell sounded again, and again…and again. Then came the knocking, or more accurately, banging. Well, that was rude. Who bangs on a door like they’re carrying a portable battering ram unless there’s a fire? Or an emergency…what if he was hurt or in trouble? I couldn’t ignore him now that the seed had been planted. He could be in desperate need of help.
I scurried to the door, the incessant hammering ramping up my concern with each step. After disarming the alarm, I hastily swung the door open as my concerns tumbled from my lips, “Are yo
u okay? What’s wrong? Should I call an ambulance?”
When he didn’t reply immediately, I took quick inventory of his body. His face was shadowed by the brim of his hat and the porch light was of little assistance in my assessment, but there were no obvious injuries to be found. His extended silence unnerved me and unease quickly overcame my concern.
Before seeking approval of my brain, more questions poured out, “You aren’t a serial killer, are you? I mean, serial killers don’t knock and call attention to themselves before committing a crime. No…serial killers are all about the stealth.” I nodded to myself, confident in my conclusion. “Okay, you’re not a serial killer. So stay right there, sit if you need to. I’ll grab my phone and call an ambulance. Don’t worry, you are going to be okay. I’m going to help you. Just stay calm,” I continued to ramble as my fear waned and my concern for his well-being returned in full force.
A hand grabbed my wrist, derailing my plan to call for medical assistance.
“Calm yourself, beautiful. No reason to get your panties all tangled. I just need the number for the maintenance office. I can’t find it online and the movers cracked one of the sprinkler heads in my yard, causing water to pool everywhere. It’s a mess,” his smooth voice explained.
“Oh, of course. Sorry. The way you were banging on the door, I thought it was life or death,” I gently chided, partly because his rude ringing and nonstop knocking were over the top, but also because I was embarrassed by my own worried ramblings. In the spirit of neighborliness, I continued, “However…moving is stressful, so I guess your frustration is understandable. Give me a minute and I’ll see if we have the number.”
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the small contacts book we kept near the phone. When I approached the front door, I noticed he had taken the liberty of stepping into the foyer during my absence. It was a presumptuous act for any man to invite himself into a woman’s home without her permission and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him as much, but my reprimand was diverted by the view.
Dang! The man’s behind was fiiiine, with a capital ‘F.’ I stole a moment to appreciate the fitted denim encasing said fineness. He was tallish, probably six feet two, with a swimmer’s build—toned with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, well-muscled but not bulky. Even at five feet nine I could wear heels and he would be taller than me—unless, of course, they were stripper heels. Then again, why the hell would I wear stripper heels? Hmmm…
He turned to face me just as my musings drifted from PG-13 to R-rated, allowing the chandelier to illuminate his face. The address book slid from my fingers and fell to the floor as my brain struggled to process the information my eyes were relaying. What the—?
“You!” I accused harshly.
His condescending smirk was the only reply I received.
“What are you doing here, Black? Are you here to threaten Sam again? You better get the hell out of her house before I call Griffin to come and kick your ass.”
“I see your temper hasn’t improved,” he muttered. “Nice to see you again, Meg. I just need the number for the maintenance office and I’ll be on my way. And for the record, I never threatened Samantha, I merely…cautioned.”
“That’s semantics and you know it!” I charged. “You tried to bribe her and then intimidate her from testifying against that piece-of-shit psycho, Heath. The only reason you backed off was because he pissed off a bunch of inmates who decided to relieve him of the burden of breathing.”
“Semantics, sweetheart, are my bread and butter. And threatening a witness is a prosecutable offense, which I would never risk. Cautioning a witness of the rigors and trauma of trial is a kindness. Furthermore, what you call a bribe, I call restitution, which Mr. Varbeck would have been ordered to pay if found guilty in a civil court. I was simply trying to expedite the inevitable outcome without all the legal woes and media frenzy,” he replied, unperturbed by my hostility.
“Is that the line of bullshit you feed yourself so you can sleep at night? That bullying victims until they are too afraid to seek justice is in their best interests? That money tainted with their own blood will heal the scars on their souls? Lie to yourself, if you want, but don’t you dare lie to me. Sugarcoated intimidation is still intimidation. You victimized those poor women all over again and left them with one more regret to face in the future. But hey, you billed your hours and bought a sweet new townhouse, so the ends justify the means for you, don’t they?” I was breathing heavily as I finished hurling my accusations like knives. Apparently, my aim was stellar, because I caught a glimpse of something akin to pain on his face before he masked it.
“Is it hard to breathe up there? The air must be very thin way up on that high horse,” he replied coldly. “As riveting as this debate has been, I have an appointment to watch paint dry that I simply cannot miss. I assume you won’t be providing me with the number?”
“Oh, I’ll give you the number because—unlike you—I do the right thing, even if the jackasshat doesn’t deserve it.” With my last dagger thrown, I opened the book, angrily flipping pages until I found the number in question, and rattled it aloud with no small dose of resentment.
He silently headed to the door but paused to look back at me over his broad shoulder.
“Thanks for the number. I’m sure you’ll sleep better knowing you did the right thing, despite my inferior character. I’m sure that small concession you condescended to make completely offsets the fact that you’re a hypocrite. I may be an asshole, but at least I own up to it. You’re a judgmental bitch who masquerades as a compassionate do-gooder.” Then he left, having thrown a dagger of his own.
I reengaged the alarm after closing the door and stomped to the kitchen.
How dare he? That pompous, slimy, immoral jerkface had the balls to call me a hypocrite? Who was I kidding—his balls were big enough even if he’d been skinny-dipping at the North Pole in sub-zero temperatures. Not that I knew from personal experience, but to stand there and call me a judgmental bitch after what he’d put Sam through…those had to be some huge elephant balls.
Westly Black—asshole extraordinaire—the defense attorney who represented the family of Heath Varbeck, the man who raped and beat Sam until she was on the brink of death. How could a person represent the devil’s kin and still look at himself in the mirror every day? How could he go to the homes of all the victims—those who survived anyway—and persuade them not to testify in exchange for huge settlements? It was unconscionable.
And yes, some of my anger may also stem from his manipulation of me personally. He invited me to dinner during the ordeal, happily taking advantage of my ignorance, as I had no idea who he was or what he was doing to Sam. I may still be pissed that it was the best date of my life—not that the bar was set very high given my extremely limited dating experience. There may also be residual anger because he gave me the best kiss I ever had, again with very limited comparison. And I may have intended to sleep with him on our next date in my quest to find the fabled orgasm that Sam and Ev assured me did occur in real life. However, after committing myself to riding the Black train to Orgasmville and fantasizing about what his magical mouth could do to the rest of me, I was blindsided to learn he was the scumbag lawyer harassing Sam. So there was definitely history that contributed to my need to remind him that he was a slimy bottom-feeder.
It was this wealth of evidence that I’d assessed before rendering a judgment about his actions. I may have been a bitch in how I delivered my verdict, but I was justified in the defense of my friend and myself. What bothered me most about his barb was that ‘judgmental’ and ‘bitch’ were two adjectives no one would ever use to describe me. I strived to be objective and understanding—that was a freaking requirement for my professional aspirations as a sociologist. I also tried to be kind and bring joy to everyone I meet. It was only this specific instance that induced my judgmental bitchiness, and I felt that my uncharacteristic show of temper was completely understandable given the circumstances. No
t to mention, I did give the man the number he needed!
After cleaning my dishes, I headed to bed, exhausted from the days of travel and the evening’s dramatic exchange. Mr. Sandman, unfortunately, proved elusive. As my mind wandered, his voice emerged with one word repeating—hypocrite. Wes’ knife had found flesh, because despite my harsh yet accurate summary of his offenses, and regardless of how dirty and vile he may be, I knew—deep down—I was just as vile and offensive as he was…I just hid it better.
"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." -Carl Jung
Westly
Son of a bitch!
I marched back to my house, dodging furniture and movers along the way, not stopping until I reached my home office, where my cell phone and solitude were located.
Son. Of. A. Bitch!
I swore if I ever saw her again I would either: a) pretend I didn’t know her, or b) coax her into my bed. Nothing in either plan dictated cursing at her; it was an inexcusable fumble. Dammit! The only good news was that my father wasn’t alive to hear me confess my crimes. He would have ripped me a new one for talking to a lady that way, even if the description had been accurate—which unfortunately, it was not. Therefore, I couldn’t even comfort myself with the knowledge that I’d simply verbalized the truth because Meg was a lot of things, but she was definitely not a bitch.
