Jane Doe

by Victoria Helen Stone

  CHAPTER 5

  On Monday, Steven finds me in the break room once more. He can’t very well come by my desk to chat. It’s in the middle of an open room full of desks and low cubicles, and health insurance administration is boring work. If he lingers, his interest will be noticed by the whole floor.

  This works well for me. He’s forced to time his approach carefully. He has to plan ahead. This makes me seem more desirable than I really am.

  I pretend not to notice him standing in the doorway. Frankly, I’m deeply absorbed in my book and resent having to jump back into real life. Or unreal life. Whatever this is. But when he clears his throat, I look up and smile at the sight of him. “Oh, hi!”

  “Hey, Jane. I was thinking we could grab a sandwich. I figure you’re not familiar with the neighborhood, and my favorite place is just one block over. Gordo’s. Have you tried it yet?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I gesture toward the whirring microwave. “I already started cooking my lunch.”

  He checks the box on the counter. Spaghetti with low-fat meat sauce. “Sunk cost,” he says. “Throw it in the trash and I’ll buy you something better.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “I couldn’t. But thank you.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  Glancing down, I feign shyness, but I’m really calculating whether he’d be more interested in a yes or a no. I should probably keep up the chase, but I’ve been a little bored with all the planning. And I don’t want to bruise his ego this early in the game. Decision made, I risk a yes, but I spice it with obvious hesitation.

  “It’s probably not a good idea . . .”

  He smiles because he knows I’m giving in despite my gut instinct. “Nah, it’s a great idea.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely. Tomorrow?”

  “Okay. All right. Tomorrow.”

  He stands taller, his chest puffing out before he inclines his head toward my book. “What are you reading?” I hold it up, showing him the name of a famous thriller author. Steven grimaces. “Genre fiction?”

  “My favorite.”

  “I only read nonfiction.” He wants me to feel self-conscious, but the truth is that a man like Steven doesn’t want to immerse himself in someone else’s world. It gives the author too much power. It makes Steven feel small.

  I ignore all that and pretend I don’t register the implied insult in his disapproval. “Nonfiction? What kind?”

  “US history, mostly. Civil war stuff.”

  “Oh, cool. I watched that Ken Burns documentary.”

  “It was okay but pretty general.” Neither my books nor my viewing habits are good enough for him. I have to bite back a grin. If this were a bar, I would’ve told him to sod off by now. But right now I’m supposed to believe he’s better than I am. More discerning. I should probably apologize for my inferior preferences, but screw that. I don’t have the patience today.

  The microwave dings and I get up to open it, then set the meal on the counter and lean down to poke around at the plastic tray. The soft pink-and-tan fabric of my dress gapes to reveal a lacy white bra beneath. I peel back the plastic wrap and frown as if the spaghetti is not quite done. When I look up, his eyes dart away from my cleavage.

  “I’d better head out,” he says. “Meet you at the elevator tomorrow at noon?”

  “Sounds great!”

  When he’s gone, I’m relieved. Partly because I can get back to my reading, but mostly because I know he’s on the hook. Goal achieved.

  I’ve never had too much trouble getting dates, but I’m not beautiful, and people are unpredictable about attraction. Maybe his number one turn-on is an adorable button nose. Maybe he can only get hard for tan blondes. You can’t tell these things from a distance.

  But I know which emotional buttons to push. I know what he likes in a woman’s personality. And manipulation is my specialty. Still, if he didn’t even nibble at me as bait, I have backup plans, but there’s no need yet. Apparently I’m good enough for Steven despite my subpar entertainment choices.

  Snorting in amusement, I carry my lunch to the table and settle back in with my book. I love losing myself in someone else’s world. I like learning how others’ lives work even if I don’t understand them.

  Frankly, fictional people appeal far more to me than real people do. In fiction, the choices have to make sense. The timeline proceeds rationally. Emotions are explained to me. Characters feel the way they are supposed to feel in response to the actions of others. Nobody stays in a bad situation because of inertia or low self-esteem. That would make for a truly shitty story. But in real life . . . God, in real life people so rarely behave in ways that improve their circumstances.

  Why?

  Why, why, why? This is one of those things I’ll never understand. All I know is books are better.

  Just as I’m closing the paperback, my phone buzzes, surprising me. No one calls me. No one except—yeah, it’s my mother, the call forwarded from my real phone number. I ignore her and let it go to voice mail. She knows what to do. I wouldn’t want to actually answer her call and shock her into a heart attack or something. She hasn’t lived a healthy lifestyle.

  I toss the remains of my lunch, refill my water bottle, and wait for the message chime. I don’t really need to listen to her voice mail, but I do. When I get back to my desk, I write a check for $800, then steal an envelope from the supply closet and beg a stamp from the receptionist. Five minutes later my mother and her broken-down car are out of my thoughts.

  Ten years ago I would have called her back and grilled her to be sure the money was actually for car repairs and not bail for my brother, but I no longer care. It’s worth the money to not have to bother with any of them.

  Maybe I love them in some way, because I don’t have to send money but I do. Or maybe I feel freakish for not feeling one damn thing for them and the money is an easy salve. I have no idea, and I don’t waste time thinking about it. I have more data entry to do.

  CHAPTER 6

  “So did you grow up here?” he asks over his chopped-beef sandwich. It was either that or the meatball. No tuna and sprouts for this guy.

  I finish chewing a small bite of my salad. “I went to high school here for a couple of years. We moved around a lot.”

  “Military family?”

  “No, it was just me and my mom.”

  “Sounds like it may have been difficult.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It was okay when it was just us. But she was in and out of relationships. That part was hard. A lot of those guys were creeps.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. Maybe he even means it.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Do you have family in Minneapolis?”

  “Sure. My dad and his wife are here, and my mom’s in Rochester. My sister moved to Milwaukee, but my younger brother is still nearby. We get together quite a bit.”

  “That sounds so nice. I don’t have any other family.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Oh. No.” I shake my head and keep my eyes on my salad. “I don’t really know him.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “I don’t know. I hear he wasn’t a good guy. What’s your dad like?”

  “My dad’s the best. A really great man. He’s a minister, in fact. He has his own church.”

  This salad is causing me heartburn. Or Steven is churning up the acid in my stomach. But I sit straight and force my face to light up. “You’re a Christian?”

  “Of course. Are you?”

  “I am, but I kind of fell out of it. My ex wasn’t a believer. I haven’t been to church in years.”

  “You should get back to it!”

  “Maybe I should. I have been feeling a little lost lately. I mean . . . gosh, you know what? I think you’re right. Just thinking about it makes me feel a little better. Do you know a good church around here?”

  “No, ours is out in the suburbs. It’s a great place, though. You should definitely check it out
.”

  “I don’t have a car. But I’m sure I’ll find something nice near here.”

  He glances around as if he’s doubtful. I suspect this area isn’t nearly white enough for him.

  I’ve been to church plenty of times. When you grow up in rural Oklahoma, there’s no avoiding it. My parents would occasionally find God for a few weeks and we’d attend services for a month or two, but Sunday mornings were rarely a convenient time for my family. Saturdays went pretty late at the trailer park . . . or at the casino or the bar.

  Regardless, I know from experience that suburban churches are the most boring and least generous. We’d always been looking for generosity. We had no use for pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps Christianity. If there wasn’t a big potluck after services, what was the point of going? My mom always stayed late, putting on a show of helping clean up. I liked that part. There were lots of leftovers, and she usually smuggled out a couple of free serving bowls.

  “Thank you for lunch,” I say for the third time.

  “It’s nothing. I couldn’t bear to watch you eat another of those microwave meals.”

  Way to make me feel shitty about myself, Steven.

  “I’d love to take you out for dinner sometime,” he adds.

  I act flustered. I squirm and take too long to chew my food before answering.

  “Steven, I . . . I just started at this job. Aren’t there rules about dating subordinates?”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “They wouldn’t know.”

  “Someone might see us.”

  “Then come to my place and I’ll make something.”

  “I couldn’t come over to your place! On a first date? I’m not . . . I’m not like that!”

  “Shit.” He reaches out for my wrist to stop my flailing hand. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re not. I didn’t mean it like that. At all. Okay?”

  I nod but let him see that I’m shaken by the very idea of putting out. A woman shouldn’t have her own sexual needs. My role is to resist. That makes me a nice girl.

  “Jane, I’m serious. That’s not what I was thinking. I was just trying to protect you from prying eyes.”

  “I know.”

  “How about if I take you to a little hole-in-the-wall? Someplace we won’t be seen. Then would you go to dinner with me?” He ducks his head a little, trying to meet my gaze. He raises his brows like a begging puppy, showing me his harmless brown eyes. “Please?”

  I giggle. “I shouldn’t be dating again so soon.”

  “We won’t call it a date, then. Just two colleagues having dinner.”

  “You’re a manager and I’m a data entry clerk. We’re hardly colleagues.”

  “Then I’ll be your mentor.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “You’re bad.”

  “Technically you don’t even report to me. No conflict of interest.”

  Ridiculous, of course. He could still have me fired. I simper a little more. “Why do you even want to go out with me? You hardly know me.”

  “Come on. You’re gorgeous.”

  I’m not gorgeous. I’m just a vulnerable girl who wears lacy bras. But I get it. Even a sociopath likes to hear that she’s beautiful. “I’m not,” I protest quietly, but I’m smiling.

  “How about tomorrow?” he presses.

  “All right. But only if you promise to mentor me.”

  He grins like a cat with too many teeth. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” Ha. Not everything he knows, but everything I need to know. Nice touch.

  After lunch he walks me back to the building and rides up the elevator with me, so I don’t have a chance to run to a newsstand and grab a protein bar. I hope to God there’s a birthday on the floor today, or I might pass out from hunger.

  CHAPTER 7

  No birthday cake appears. I’m starving by the time I leave the office, so I hurry home and change into something more comfortable. Tight jeans, ankle boots, a black sweater. I wash off my colorful eye shadow and replace it with a few simple black lines, then pull back my hair into a tight bun. I’ve lightened my hair and I hate it. It’s too soft-looking. I like it dark and straight, no highlights.

  I want a meal, and I want a drink too. But, more than food and alcohol, I crave an end to my boredom, so I walk a few blocks into downtown and head into a high-end business hotel. I sit at the bar and order steak frites and a gin and tonic. Both are perfect.

  There are several businessmen at the bar with me, all separated by at least one empty chair. Half of them watch me in the mirror above the bar. I watch the news channel behind the bartender’s head.

  As soothing as my easy new work is, my brain is starting to crave exercise. Business stories slide across the crawler, and it’s news I haven’t heard before. That never happened in Kuala Lumpur. I heard about most international trade news before it ever hit the business channels.

  I finish my first drink, and before I set it down, a man in a suit approaches. “Buy you another?” he asks. I turn to look straight into his face. He’s well over fifty and his cheeks and nose are already pink from alcohol. His suit is expensive and he’s not bad-looking, but I imagine his face turning beet red as he pumps furiously above me.

  I don’t pretend to be insulted, nor am I flattered by his attention. This has nothing to do with me. I could be anyone. I am a woman with a hole he can fill. He might have a chance to screw me, so he may as well try. It’s that simple. He didn’t even bother slipping off his wedding ring.

  “No.” I turn back to the television and raise a hand to signal the bartender.

  “Same?” the bartender asks. I nod. The man in the suit walks away.

  “In town for work?” the barkeep asks as he makes my drink. It’s nice of him to make conversation with a woman being bothered by men at his bar. He has the jaded air of a man who’s been serving drinks for a long time, but he’s still young. Twenty-eight, maybe, though he could have a baby face under that beard.

  “I live here, actually.”

  His dark eyebrows fly high. “Really? We don’t get many locals in here.”

  “I didn’t want to go somewhere romantic and sit by myself.” I don’t really mean it, and the way he laughs says he’s picked up on my dry tone. He fills a new bowl with pretzels and slides it toward me. He’ll get a good tip for looking out for me.

  Not that I need protection.

  Now that one of their kind has been shot down, the men at the bar aren’t studying me quite so closely. They likely thought I was a prostitute. You see them often in bars like this, even more often in the business hotels overseas. Women who look as professional as their clients but with open-necked blouses instead of loosened ties. Not that the men wouldn’t like their whores to dress like classic streetwalkers, but the hotels can’t have that kind of obviousness hanging around.

  I watch the men now that their gazes have drifted hazily back to the second TV, which flashes the bright greens and whites of a football game. Two of the men, including the one who already approached, are middle-aged or better, their suits a little looser and more creased from travel.

  A third man is younger, his suit pants cut slim, his widespread collar ostentatiously white against blue fabric. Cuff links glint when he raises his drink. He’s handsome in a big-nosed kind of way, and his body is great, but I don’t like the look of him. I imagine that he always watches himself in the mirror during sex, admiring the way his own ass clenches with each pistoning thrust.

  My nose wrinkles at the thought. I’d bet he thinks his penis is all it takes to make a woman climax, and he continues to believe that no matter how many women tell him otherwise. I used to be better at giving men the benefit of the doubt, but it’s hardly doubt after all these years. They’re not difficult to figure out.

  The fourth man, though . . . the fourth man has potential, and thank God for that. I’m so bored and restless tonight, I might have even given old Piston Ass a try.

  But there’s no need. The fourth man is dark skinned and handso
me in a boyish way. Early thirties, maybe. His curly hair is cut close to his scalp. No wedding ring on his hand and no oversized Rolex either. He wears a simple white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the fabric a gorgeous contrast to his brown skin. His long fingers loosely grip a bottle of domestic beer: no expensive brands for him. A man with no need to show off. In my estimation, that makes it a decent chance he’s actually good in bed. Oh, lucky day.

  His gaze leaves the game and slides along the mirror until I catch his eye. The right side of his mouth tips up and I grin at having been caught. When I don’t look away, the quirk of his mouth widens into a smile. I raise my glass in greeting. He does the same.

  I’m not shy about approaching men when the situation calls for it, but there’s no need. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who jumps into bed with every woman he meets, but he looks open and friendly, and there’s no good reason not to chat up a single lady on a boring evening. Worst-case scenario is we won’t hit it off and he’ll be out a few minutes of conversation. But I’ll make sure we hit it off.

  To give him a little space, I check my email. I don’t have an email address for this new identity, because this Jane doesn’t need one. Who would write to a blank slate? The mail coming into my phone is from my real life. Business news, LinkedIn invitations, junk mail written in Malay, very exciting offers to meet Hot Asian Girls! Plus one actual personal email with a sender’s name that makes my breath catch like a burr in my throat.

  Cheryl Peterson. It’s Meg’s mother.

  She’s a hapless woman, and I’ve always resented the bad decisions she made during Meg’s childhood, but even I can’t deny that she’d loved her daughter. She’d loved her daughter almost as much as she’d loved having a man in her life. Almost. A pretty typical story.

  With Meg gone, there’s no reason to ever interact with Cheryl again; we have nothing concrete or logical in common. She’s a mediocre hairstylist who adores kids, lets worthless men treat her like crap, and seems confused about why she’s perpetually broke.

  But emotion isn’t logical, is it? Emotion is sticky as tar, and it’s hard to get off you, which is why I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid exposing my skin to it. But with Meg I was naked as a babe, and part of me is stuck to Cheryl now. I don’t like it. I’ll free myself as soon as I can.