Dirty Little Lies

by James, Clare

  “Stevie’s pretty,” Free tells me, bringing a new round of tears. It was the first thing Max taught him to say.

  I text Daniel in the office and tell him I’m ill. It’s not a lie; I throw up on the way to bed. Then I burrow in the covers, listening to Free’s random chatter before sleeping the day away.

  What follows is a blur. Thirty-six hours of eating, drinking, and sleeping. Yes, I’m counting the hours now. When I finally wake up in my nest of Bit-O-Honey wrappers and Pop-tart crumbs, I immediately grab my phone to see if Max has called.

  He’s called five times and sent another six texts—all some version of an apology or a ridiculous rationale for what he did. I get more furious with each one I read. At this point, I don’t even want to know the details.

  Under their own volition, my fingers begin to move across the key pad—a familiar pattern I could make in my sleep: Max’s number. That’s it, I’m going to tell him off. Tell him what I really think of him.

  This isn’t about one person, he said.

  My stomach clenches, and I stop mid-dial. What am I thinking? How can I call him at all after everything he’s done?

  Manwhore.

  And that’s when I start to lose it. In my mind, he’s with a new mystery woman now. He’s touching her, wanting her, pleasuring her in ways he never could with me. Maybe I’ve been the issue; maybe I’m cold, or frigid, or bad in bed. It’s been so long since he’s made me come, and now I wonder if—despite my Oscar-worthy performances—he’s known all along. Lord knows that can’t be good for a man’s self-esteem.

  I throw the phone back on my bedside table, brush the crumbs out from under the covers, and try getting back to my sugar-induced slumber. My mind’s too busy to let it happen. This is fucking pathetic. I’m the one who has been stuck with a bad lay for over a year, but do you see me going out to sow my oats? No, I grin and bear it and let my battery-operated boyfriend pick up the slack in privacy like any self-respecting woman. Well, there was that one time I did it in the bathroom after he blew his load all over my ass. Classy. But after he comes, he sleeps like the dead. There’s no way he knows.

  Still, here I am all alone: a twenty-nine-year-old woman—supposedly in her prime—in bed at eight o’clock in the evening wearing worn-out Hello Kitty pjs with chocolate ice cream stains all over the front. My legs are prickly, my hair needs to be colored and conditioned, my nails are a disaster, and I swear I’ve somehow grown a muffin top overnight.

  Look away, I’m hideous.

  A knock rattles in my head, but with all commotion going on in there it takes me a beat to understand it’s coming from my front door. I pull my covers up over my head, willing it to stop. Then comes the yelling.

  “Stevie,” a girl’s shrill voice booms. Our hallway has fantastic acoustics.

  Tia.

  “I know you’re in there, I can smell the Pop-tarts out here. Open up.”

  Flipping the covers back, I silently count to ten.

  More pounding.

  I take a few cleansing yoga breaths, remove the junk food remnants from my pjs, and meet her at the door because she won’t give up until I do.

  “Mother of God,” she says, assessing my pitiful condition. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say.

  “You’re not looking well,” she retorts. “What’s going on?”

  With a raise of an eyebrow, she knows the answer.

  “Max trouble?”

  “Yep.”

  Tia pushes her way through the open the door—despite her waify bod, she’s especially strong—beelines to the kitchen, and takes out a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses from the freezer.

  Leading me to the couch, Tia sets up her make-shift bar on the coffee table. She fingers the ice cream stain on my pjs and shakes her head. Her short pixie hair bouncing as she does. Tia could pass for Rihanna’s sister and tonight she’s even more striking than normal. Her typical minimal look is gone in place of berry-colored lips and lashes that go on for days. I feel like an absolute troll next to her.

  “Oh, hon,” She exhales. “This can’t be good.”

  Tia hands me an ice-cold shot glass. We clink and shoot it in record time. “Again,” she says and we repeat. This has been our ritual since college, our pick-me-up for boy trouble, parental issues, bad grades, you name it. Since college, it’s been the way Tia’s taken my mind off sucky jobs, fashion disasters, and failing relationships. I haven’t had to reciprocate in quite some time. Then again, Tia is a grown up.

  “Now, tell Mama what happened,” she says.

  We get comfortable on my couch and I tell her the whole story. I try to be tough, but it doesn’t work. The waterworks start up, and I’m a blubbering mess within minutes.

  Tia goes into her planning mode. “You’ll move in with me,” she says without a second thought. “Come on, let’s pack up and get you the fuck out of here.”

  “Be serious, Tia, you have a houseful already,” I say, knowing I can’t do that to her. Tia’s roommate has her boyfriend staying with them in their one-bedroom sublet. There’s no way another person could fit. Still, her offer warms me.

  “But I feel responsible,” she says. “You told me things weren’t going well months ago, and I blew it off.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I tell her. This one is all on me.

  “Okay, you don’t want to live in the freak show that is my home anyway.” She taps a finger to her temple. “I know, we’ll go to Nora’s. That’s what your big sis is for, right?” Tia reaches out, yanking on my arms to pull me up from the couch, but I can’t do it. I can’t move.

  “Not yet,” I tell her. Though I’m thinking, not ever. “Daniel told me to take an extra day off because he thinks I have the flu. And I really need another day to figure this out.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Stevie,” she says, rubbing my arms.

  “Max is gone all week; I have some time to work with here.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am,” I say to her as much as to myself.

  “Okay, babe. One more day. But when I check on you tomorrow, I want you showered, packed, and ready to go.”

  I nod and Tia kisses my cheek on the way out.

  Surprisingly, I do feel better when she leaves. Until Free starts calling for Max in my voice. “Max, Maaaaxxx,” he mimics from the bedroom.

  I grab a bottle of wine and bring Free back into the living room.

  “Max is an ass,” I tell him, clinking the bottle to his cage.

  He puffs out his tiny white feathers and latches onto the words. “Max is an ass,” he says over and over. And that is my soundtrack as I sit on the couch and work on my bottle of red.

  It’s not long before I’m restless. I can’t handle the sound of TV or music, so I absent-mindedly flip through my magazines until a title captures my attention: “How I Got My Sexy Back in Six Easy Steps.”

  Now this is something I can get behind. If there has ever been anyone in need of getting their sexy back, it’s me.

  I lean back on the couch and read the list aloud:

  #1—Look the part.

  #2—Be assertive and confident.

  #3—Get away from your normal surroundings.

  #4—Flirt with a stranger.

  #5—Go dancing.

  #6—Have a sexual adventure.

  As I read the article, one thing is glaringly true—my sexy has long left the building. But no more. My mind races, forming a plan and I go with it. I mean if Cosmo can’t help put my life on the right track, what can?

  I finish my wine, rip the article out of the magazine, and get to work.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself. In the shower, I shave every last hair off my ever-loving body, do a home conditioning and color treatment on my fading blonde locks, then I paint my nails and really do it up. No shortcuts. Just because my world is falling apart, doesn’t mean I have to look like a
hot mess.

  And if I want to keep one last shred of dignity, I can’t stay here any longer—so I get ready to tackle my list. After all, looking the part is my first step on the journey back to sexy.

  I take flat iron to smooth my shoulder length bob into a style, paint my lips with the reddest tube I can find, and slide into my itchiest most uncomfortable underwear—the pair way back in my drawer that I always promised to wear for Max, but never got around to. I wonder if we’ll have another chance. That fact that this is where my mind goes is pathetic. How could I even consider being with him again? And why are people more desirable when they seem unattainable? I didn’t want Max sexually, until I found out someone else did.

  It’s messed up.

  I pack up all my belongings and load up my SUV. That’s one good thing about moving every year. It’s taught me how to live light. I feed Free and stroke his soft feathers, whispering parting endearments to the only pet I’ve ever had. Then I leave Max a note telling him I’ll let him know where I land. One final dose of guilt.

  But if all goes according to plan, he’s going to be the one looking for me when he returns. And then I’ll get to decide what we do next.

  I take one last look around the apartment and say a silent goodbye. But when my eyes meet Free again, I can’t do it.

  Fuck it. He’s mine, and he comes with me.

  Despite Tia’s protests, I decide to stay in the Loop for a few days. My sister’s away on business so I can’t crash there, and there’s no way in hell am I going to my parents’ house in the suburbs. Plus, there’s a nice Marriott in the neighborhood, and I have enough points to stay until the end of the week without having to dip into my measly bank account. Like my list says, get away from normal surroundings.

  I check in and bring up my first round of luggage before sneaking Free to my room.

  After I settle myself, and Free, into our new home, I finish getting ready for the evening. I complement my polished look with an LBD and my highest black shoes with a million straps. And with a quick, but appeasing, look in the full-length mirror, I head out and make my way to the lobby bar. If I’m going to change my life in one week, I need a little liquid courage to begin.

  The cocktail waitress comes over to me. “Hi there, what can I get for you, hon?”

  My first test. I will not hem and haw. I will not ask what she recommends. I will not change my mind five times. I will be clear. Assertive. In charge.

  “A martini would be great,” I say. “Ketel One, up, dirty, extra olives.”

  Nicely done, Stevie.

  “Sure thing. Coming right up. Great shoes, by the way.”

  “Oh, thanks. They’re old. On sale at—” I stop myself before I can get both shoes in my mouth.

  First test? I fail with flying colors.

  I shake my head. “Never mind,” I say. “Thanks though.”

  My bouncy server smiles and goes to the bar to retrieve my drink, and I pull out my notebook to get to work. But before my eyes can move to the table, they get snagged on something, or rather, someone. Yes, sitting at the table to my left is the epitome of bringing sexy back. Look out J.T., this man has brought it to the nth degree. Massive locks of dark hair frame icy blue eyes—bedroom eyes, as Mom would say. Fuck me eyes, Tia would call them. His olive skin is covered in the perfect amount of stubble, contrasting with his impeccably-pressed suit. A striking dark suit that somehow looks more rock and roll than leather.

  My breath actually hitches at the sight of him.

  He smiles and then tips his head to look under my table. It takes me a minute to understand what he’s doing, until he sits back up. He nods, mouthing the word, nice. Ah, he heard my conversation with the server. And, if I’m not mistaken, he likes my shoes, too.

  Hmmm. Let’s see if I can cross off something else on my list: flirt with a stranger.

  I smile with a contrived come-hither glance that I’m sure looks more like I have a weird facial tick. I’m so not the flirting type. Crazily enough, that’s how I landed Max. He liked the chase. Little did he know, I wanted him. I just didn’t know the way to show him how much. Deep down, I think I’m really hoping that’s what this little experiment will help me do—start over with Max.

  No, I’m not ready to go there. This week is about me, not him.

  Come on, Stevie. Time to get your head in the game.

  I rest my chin in my palm, looking over to the server, pretending to be interested in the bartender shaking my drink. An easy smile rests on my lips. I stretch my leg out, offering my shoe aficionado a better look. But when I steal a glance, I see he’s moved on. He’s deep in conversation on his cell. I laugh at my ridiculous attempts at flirting. And when the waitress comes over with my martini, I chug down half of it and order another.

  “I gotcha, doll.” She winks. “This time I’ll bring the shaker, too.”

  Continuing to sip the ice-cold drink, I let it warm my insides while I stare at the magazine article and make notes about my new transformation. This may take a while.

  A silver shaker covered in condensation enters my line of vision. Perfect timing, I just finished the last of my drink. But when I look up to say thanks, it’s not my server standing in front of me.

  It’s my footwear fan.

  “Care for some company?” he asks, pouring the drink from the shaker into a fresh, frosty glass.

  I clear my throat. He’s even more spectacular up close. Thinner than Max, but I don’t know, somehow he seems even more masculine in this tight package. Tailored pants that show off his … assets … paired with a black shirt rolled at the sleeves. How the hell did he lose the jacket and tie in all of the ten seconds I was looking away?

  “Sure,” I tell him, gesturing to the open chair.

  He takes a seat and extends his hand. “I’m Gabe.”

  So this is what goes on outside my door on a Tuesday night? Who knew?

  “Stevie,” I reply, offering him my hand.

  He takes it in both of his and shivers tingle up my arm to the top of my scalp.

  “So what brings you to town?” he asks, sliding his chair dangerously close.

  “A little stay-cation, I guess you could say. I don’t live far from here.”

  Or I didn’t. But I’m not going to tell him I’m currently homeless.

  “What about you?” I say quickly so he doesn’t get a chance to ask a follow-up question.

  “Not sure,” he says. “I was supposed to have a business meeting, but my client canceled at the last minute. And I’m not quite ready to go home yet.”

  The server comes springing back to check in. She takes my empty glass. “Doing good, hon?”

  I nod.

  “What about you, Gabe?” she asks.

  “I’m good, thanks,” he says before swiping the spear of olives from the glass she’s holding.

  Once she leaves, he turns to me and says, “Open up.”

  Without thinking, I do as he asks and he slides the vodka-soaked olives into my mouth.

  Hey, I’m doing it. I’m actually flirting with a stranger.

  He smiles. “Don’t want to waste your dinner. I’m getting the impression that’s all you’re eating tonight.”

  “There’s a meal in every glass,” I tell him.

  “Well, be careful. Johnny’s martinis have made men three times your size turn into a drunken puddle.”

  “Come here often, then?” I ask. “I see you’re on a first-name basis with all the staff.”

  “Yeah, I’m here a lot. I don’t like to be home much,” he adds with a trace of sadness in his eyes. “May I?” he asks, motioning to the chair.

  “Yes, of course,” I say, wondering what it is at home that keeps him away. I let my gaze move from his eyes down to his ring finger. It’s bare, without a trace of a tan line.

  He shakes his head with a faint smile on his lips. “No, it’s not that. I’m not married. Trust me, if I was, I wouldn’t be hanging out at a hotel bar.”

  “Well, being
home is overrated,” I say, trying to make his sad eyes go away.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  “Totally.”

  He chuckles, and I feel it all the way to my core.

  “Is that what prompted this stay-cation of yours, Stevie?”

  “Something like that.” I go for coy. I’ve heard it’s a good flirt tactic.

  “Hmmm.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eyes and it is so sexy. He is so sexy. I find myself licking my lips, I’m not kidding. How cheesy, but I can’t help it. It just happens. Between my sexual frustration, the break-up, all the crying, and now the plan and scheming, I’m a complete hormonal mess.

  Gabe’s lips tighten in a thin line, like he’s trying to prevent the laughter. I think he’s onto me. Must remember that licking lips during flirt session is over the top. But he hasn’t run yet, and that has to be a good sign.

  “So no husband for you I take it?” he asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  I take another gulp of my martini and blurt out, “Not anymore. I caught him cheating on me and had to move out of our place.”

  And this is why I don’t drink in front of people.

  “Shit,” he says under his breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. I don’t know why I’m compelled to tell him my shit, but he somehow makes it easy. “I have a feeling after my little get-away, he’ll be fighting his way back to me.”

  “Really?” Gabe smirks. “Interesting. Tell me more.”

  “Well.” I take a peek at him from under my lashes. Then I just do it. I push the magazine article forward.

  He shoots me another one of his sideways glances and pulls the article closer. He turns to me with a blank expression, and I immediately feel the need to break the silence.

  “After I get through this list and make some changes, there’s no way he’ll be able to stay away from me. And then I’ll be back in the driver’s seat.”