Becoming Blue (Chubby Chasers, Inc. #1)

by Angie M. Brashears

  “Wait, my car!” I’m all about having an adventure today, but I don’t wanna pay for it tomorrow by having to take the bus.

  “Which one is it?”

  “It’s the Sentra in the back, the blue and gray one.”

  Her eyebrow lifts. “Who has a car the color of a bruise?” She asks while scanning the parking lot, looking for my pile of shit.

  Shrugging, I say, “A person with too many fender benders under their belt. It used to be blue. The Bondo added the gray touches.”

  Holding out her hand, palm up, right under my nose, she snaps her fingers and asks, “Keys?” While I scrounge in my big purse, looking for them, she sends a text.

  “Okay, all set. Go leave the keys under the front seat. My friend will pick up your car.” As if that’s settled. Like I’m going to let a stranger just take my car. But all I ask is, “Won’t someone steal it?” She throws her head back and laughs at the idea of somebody stealing my clunker.

  “Will your friend steal it?” She just keeps laughing, shakes her head no, and shoos me out of her car. In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.

  As I walk to my car, conscious of her eyes on me, I think of just getting in and leaving. What’s there to stop me? Will she chase me down? Follow me home? What does she want with me? She did say something about recruiting me, right? Lesbians don’t recruit, do they?

  Chapter 3

  When my car gets stolen, I’ll have no one to blame but myself. “Who’s this friend of yours who is picking up my car?” I holler over the roar of the engine.

  “Javi,” she yells back as she burns out of the women’s club parking lot. Hmm. Javi? Doesn’t sound like someone who would steal my car and chop it for parts, does it? Javi’s Chop Shop does have a sinister ring to it. Then I let it go. Car or no car, this is by far the best Sunday of my lonely little life.

  We drive too fast, taking corners on two wheels, all the while blaring Mötley Crüe as they sing about being too young to fall in love. I find myself singing along with Sasha, who’s bleating off-key at the top of her lungs. I realize that my face hurts from all the smiling going on.

  She pulls into a coffee shop, barely missing a long hair on a skateboard. He yells something at her, to which she proudly answers with a pointy bird salute. Her door slams shut, and I just sit and watch her sashay up to the glass door. She’s over the top, imposing, beautiful, and fun! I can’t get out of the car fast enough.

  A waitress, gray around the edges, tries to hand her two greasy menus before we sit, but she waves them away with a toss of her gorgeous red hair and a flick of her wrist.

  “Get your pen ready, honey. This one’s a doozy… we’ll take two stacks, buttered and dripping with extra maple, hash browns, crunchy on the side, two chocolate milkshakes.” She tilts her head to the left, furrowing her brow like she’s forgetting something, snaps her fingers, and adds, “Two sides of bacon, too. Extra greasy. Got all that?”

  The waitress is still scribbling as she nods and walks away.

  Then the red ball of energy, with a laser-like focus, shifts her gaze onto me, making me squirm in my seat. Who is she? And what does she do besides crash WW meetings and lure fatties away? “Did you get the diet bullshit out of your system?” I nod, but it isn’t necessary. She just talks right over it.

  “Was that alright? Me ordering for you? I’m starving and don’t have time for ‘non-fat, low-fat, dressing on the side, how many points is in a pancake?’ crap right now.” A wink and whip of her hair softens her words, but she’s got me pegged.

  Shrugging, I say, “That was perfect!”

  It’s a friend first date, and while I’m trying to be someone as interesting as her so she’ll maybe want a bestie second date, I do notice that men—and I mean really good-looking men— are staring at her like she’s naked, and not with disgust either! It’s strange, I think as I size her up, she’s bigger than I am, louder than I am, just more than I am, yet no one’s ever looked at me that way.

  One man in particular, tatted and matted and looking like he just jumped off a Harley while fleeing a crime scene and ducked in to have a quick bite, is off his stool at the counter and headed our way.

  Holy fuckballs!

  “By the bow of your shoulders and the way you’re curling in on yourself, I’d guess we have a visitor headed our way.” She smacks her red lips, wiping powder off the corners of her mouth. She pulls the sweater even tighter over her tits before turning to greet Tatted and Matted.

  “Why, hello there, handsome,” she purrs, while she looks him up and straight down, eye-fucking every dirty hard inch of him. I have to look away, it’s that obscene. With my eyes down, I cast a quick look at his package, snugged up tight against his button fly. For my first up-close-and-personal look at a bulge, I’d have to admit that this one’s spectacular.

  He walks right up to our table—I mean right up—and shoves his dick bump against the hard Formica. If he was naked, we’d be getting a banana split on the house! Our complimentary water sloshes in its glasses, but even that doesn’t stop Sasha and her long, drawn-out eye-fuck. He stands and takes it, letting her look her fill, proud, peacocky, even. His hand combs through his long black hair, moving it away from his pale blue eyes, which match her look for look.

  “Is there something I can do for you, sugar, or did you just get an urge to show off?” She’s snarky, and he’s having all of it.

  “Oh, I can think of a few things you can do for me.” He drops a wink my way and turns back to Sasha. “Let’s start with your number and work our way down the list from there. His voice is whiskey-rough. As he motions for her to scoot over, his male scent wafts over our table, making my legs fall open of their own accord. I’m an amateur swimming with the sharks, however, all of this that he’s got going on doesn’t affect Sasha in the least. Unbelievably, she’s holding her hand up and stopping him! What are you doing?

  ‘I’m here with a friend, sugar. However, if you’re serious and just want a number, I’ll give you one, but there are no free samples.” She rifles through her white leather bag and pulls out a silver, rectangular case, flips a button on the side, and pulls a red and black business card from inside.

  I lean forward, trying to catch the writing on the top of it, but she palms it to him, stroking those long, black, kitty claws across his palm as she does. “My number’s 9, as in 69?” Her eyes flash green through her long black lashes, connecting with his blues, which then travel down to the torpedoes that are resting on the table. She rubs them back and forth along the slick Formica top, inching closer and closer to his man bump, which is still jammed into the edge of our table, and she’s smirking up at him the whole time.

  A throat clears, breaking their connection. I look up as he jumps out of the way of our harried waitress and her tray, which is loaded down with our feast.

  “It’s on me.” He tosses three twenties on our table, throws a shit-eating grin our way, and saunters his tight ass back to his own—now cold—breakfast-for-dinner plate, card in hand. I watch as he looks down at it, raises an eyebrow and laughs before pocketing it.

  “What was that? Do you know Tatted and Matted?”

  She giggles at my moniker. “Tatted and Matted? That’s so him in a nutshell.” We both look to our waitress, who I’m sure cannot be more put out than she is right now.

  “Eat.” And like the sheep I am, I do.

  Chapter 4

  With no skinny grocery shopping to do, my night has suddenly freed up. I didn’t even think to pick up my Weight Watchers meeting propaganda. It’s still back on the folding chair, next to the rolling donuts. I smile around a forkful of dripping pancakes at the memory of Sasha’s antics. It’s not like I don’t have two other starter packs at home, so it’s no great loss. She smiles back around her own mouthful, playfully opening her mouth wide to show me her ABC meal. I don’t think this girl ever closes her mouth to chew.

  Her perfect, penciled brow arches. “You interested in hanging with me awhile? Maybe lear
ning a little more about my card? Or do you just wanna head home after dinner?”

  Interested? More like obsessed at this point!

  She takes a card from the same silver case that I can’t take my eyes off of and slides it across the table to me. I reach for it.

  And am floored by the slogan: Chase me…I don’t waddle too fast.

  It really says that. I couldn’t make this shit up.

  My eyebrows hit the ceiling, but she doesn’t make eye contact with me. Just keeps chewing with her mouth open, swaying to a song only she can hear.

  “Sasha…” I don’t know how to say it without sounding like a condescending bitch so here goes. “What is this? A joke?” I think back to the card she gave the now-gone Tatted and Matted and cringe for her. He must be laughing all the way to his motorcycle by now. “You gave that gorgeous guy one of these….” I can’t even say it, it sounds so bitchy in my head. “He was so into you, and you turned yourself into a joke?” Joke goes up high on the end, haughty and white just like my mother would have said it.

  Why would she degrade herself, and why, for crying out loud, would she carry these things, these personal barbs, around in a sterling silver case?

  Maybe she is a lesbian after all. Not at all into guys? Is that why she gives these out? To ward off men? It all makes me very sad, and while I’m talking to her open mouth, she doesn’t give me an answer. Just chews and dances. Chews and dances.

  “Why’d I give up my seat at Weight Watchers?” squeaks out of me, before I put my head down onto my folded arms. Careful to keep my hair off my sticky plate.

  Chapter 5

  “Right about now, I’d be willing to bet my Mustang that you’re thinking I’m some kind of lady rapist that goes around the country, checking into meetings, kidnapping and feeding poor helpless victims.” The thought had crossed my mind, yes. She looks over at me, tilts her head to the side, and since she must think I need to hear it, says, “And no, Sara, I’m not into chicks, but I am into friends.” A long sigh escapes me at the mention of being my friend. I’m finding that I’m into having one of those, too, but my guard hasn’t totally gone down.

  Once back in the convertible and all buckled in, we head to a different location, which she doesn’t divulge to me. Probably the kill zone. But cheese and rice, I can’t help myself. She’s got my curiosity piqued, dammit! And I’m finding the Sasha scavenger hunt much more entertaining than a night in with my cat.

  So kill me, whatever you have to do, but explain some shit to me first. Preferably like I’m a fourth grader! I say none of this, of course, not wanting to give the Amazon woman any ideas.

  I’m fingering the raised lettering on the card as she drives. “What do you think of the name?” I don’t know much about her yet. But I do know her well enough to know that I’ve never met anyone like her, and if I live to be one hundred years old, there will never be another Sasha Berlin. She wouldn’t fit into my old life, the fat sidekick life, but I’m hoping with a cherry on top that she will be my first friend/friend now because I really need one of those. And I’m not going to cement this bond that’s growing between us by holding myself back any longer.

  “What? The Husky Hoes?” She giggles at my joke. I’m smirking, something I never do. It gives me a double chin, so I usually avoid it, but she makes me smirk. Hell, she makes me do all sorts of crazy things, like bust out of WW meetings like my hair’s on fire, eat carbs at night, and take rides from strangers. That’s weird, though, because she doesn’t really feel like a stranger. I watch her drive and take inventory, just in case this night goes south and a police sketch is needed later.

  Red hair, gobs of it, blows back in the night air. Not the frizzy kind, no, the soft, loose, curly kind. The greenest eyes I’ve ever seen—all I can think of are cat’s eyes—are rimmed with thick, black lashes. Her skin is alabaster, with a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. Big red lips, big boobs, a big ass—the kind rappers wanna tap—and long legs. Sassy while being friendly, that’s her police sketch right there.

  It’s strange that nowhere in that description did I use the word ‘fat’ to describe this goddess sitting in the driver’s seat. That dirty, filthy word I’m quick to throw in my own face twenty times a day. Why is that? I’m a wildebeest, but she’s an Amazon? What is it about her that makes me jump in a car, stuff my face in public, and not give two shits? Whatever it is, I need some in a hurry.

  She catches me looking and raises her brows, “Are you interested?” Her hand rubs her thigh. “Gonna get all rapey on me now?” There’s that smirk again. On skinny bitches, it would make my stomach turn. On her cherubic face, it makes me smile. Big.

  Her brow furrows like she’s forgotten something. Her purse? I start to look around the floorboards for that big white bag, but her words stop me. “I kinda took over your night back there. I tend to do that…a lot.” She tilts towards me and winks. “But when I know, I know, and baby, you’ve got something we can work with, as long as the cops don’t put out an APB on your ass and hunt us down…”

  “No, sadly my cat can’t put out an APB on me.” It’s out before I can even register how pathetic it sounds. Her laugh, loud and throaty, surprises me, and soon I’m laughing right along with her.

  With a wink she says, “That would be some pussy, though, wouldn’t it?”

  We drive in silence after that, each lost in our own thoughts. Me? I’m wondering where it is we’re going. And if this is a one night kinda thing. No one’s missing me, unless you count my cat, but I know if I never see Sasha again, I’d definitely be missing her. She just has a way about her.

  For once, she’s still, not dancing to the music that, I noticed, she turned way down. So low, in fact, I have to strain to hear it. Feels like she’s trying to break something to me. Wants to tell me something. Like she knows what she wants to say, just hasn’t quite figured out the phrasing yet. From the look of utter concentration on her face, I can tell it’s important to her that she puts it to me just right, so I don’t jump out of her car and run the other way.

  I give her space, figuring she’ll explain it when she’s ready. Her mouth opens. I turn, ready to hear it, hoping my expression is one of open-mindedness. But her trap closes with a pop, and it’s back to silence again. I want to tell her, whatever it is, I’m in. This has been the greatest night of my life. Period. I am down with whatever crazy adventures the rest of the night holds. But then that card she gave me comes to mind, and my own trap snaps shut before my words of reassurance are even out.

  Chubby Chasers, Inc. a phone number, her number—#9, as in 69—and the dreaded catchphrase: Chase me…I don’t waddle that fast. All written on an expensive black matte card. What is this? Some kind of fat club for men? Is this even legal? What will my cat say?

  Lost in my own thoughts, I’m jolted back as the car slows, turning onto a hillside road. It’s dark, but I can smell money. The houses here are huge. No walking to the neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar, I think as we ascend, passing bigger and bigger homes until we are at the top of the hill. She takes a hidden drive, narrowly missing a gate that glides on a track, before turning onto a private road. The gate rolls silently shut behind us. Trapped, I think, but there’s no real threat to the word.

  We drive down a tree-lined lane, which leads to a sprawling ranch-style home. And it’s huge. White with black shutters and a red door. There are no lights on inside, but the front landscaping is backlit, and a shimmering light shines over the back gate. Is that a pool? The double garage opens automatically, and we drive right in.

  “Is this all yours?” I’m flabbergasted. How can she afford all this? Do I even wanna know? Without a doubt, yes!

  “Yep, well, if you’re asking if I own it, I’m a part-owner. Along with my roommates.” Grabbing her purse, she motions for me to follow. “Thought we’d stop in for some coffee, dessert, and a chat, of course.” She tosses a wink over her shoulder at me, and I wink back. When did I get this cheeky?

  With pan
cakes and milkshakes for dinner, I’m scared to see what dessert consists of in Sasha’s world.

  Chapter 6

  “Welcome to our home,” she says as she walks around, turning on lights as she goes. A path of light follows behind her, just like me. The house is stunning, overwhelming really, like it belongs on the cover of House Beautiful. All the furniture is soft and cozy, no hard edges, just like her. I try to look everywhere at once but have yet to find anything out of place. It really is a showpiece.

  “There’s someone I want you to meet.” She opens a door—which leads down to the dungeon?—and yells, “Gretchen Manson!” Please don’t let her be related to Charles. She shrugs as she closes the door, turns, and leads me by the arm down the hallway to the rest of the house.

  “Gretchen is working.” She nods to a green light like I should know what this means. “And since a picture is worth a thousand words…” She doesn’t finish, just leads me through a sunken living room at the rear of the house to see this picture.

  A wall of glass faces an Olympic-size pool, a waterfall, and a pool house. Heat is escaping in a mist that hangs over the pool, making the whole scene seem ethereal, otherworldly. Blue LED lights shimmer under the water, highlighting a naked girl. Well, not totally naked, there are a few strings here and there.

  She’s floating, long blonde hair trailing behind her, her skin tan and glowing against the deep blue of the water. If I’m not mistaken, she’s wearing some contraption on her legs. What is that? Instinctively, I lean forward to get a better look, leaving a smudge on the glass where I rest my forehead. Is that…a mermaid tail? Oh my God. It’s made of some type of wetsuit material, only pink, not black, and shimmers each time she kicks her feet inside of it. Her hips are encased in the material, and though she is a big girl, it looks, well, sexy.

  This is work? According to who?

  Maybe working out, but to me, it looks like she’s playing in the pool. We watch her float on her back, a halter bikini top covered in seashells encasing her ample breasts. With a kick of that enormous tail, she glides as if above the water, barely moving her arms, looking like a water nymph. She’s absolutely beautiful.