The Position 3

by Izzy Mason

  I turn quickly and tiptoe to the door, letting myself out.

  Chapter Three

  I stand in the middle of the room surrounded by boxes, conducting a symphony of chaos. A parade of sweaty, burly men with thick necks and hairy arms come into the apartment hauling furniture and I wave my arms and hold up my hands, explaining where to put it. A small cafe table with two chairs. A brand new beige fabric sofa. Glass coffee table. Mattress and Ikea bed frame. Six drawer dresser. Night stand. Furniture. I have furniture. I have a home.

  The boxes are filled with everything I kept in my car—clothes, shoes, groceries—plus new sets of plates, glasses, silverware, serving bowls, and a small microwave. It’ll take time to fill in the spaces to make a fully furnished, functional place of my own, yet I feel like I’m living a dream. As the movers settle my new couch against the far wall, I move to the window and gaze out at my new neighborhood.

  Good-looking, young people gather outside the restaurant-bar across the street waiting for tables in loud, chatty groups. I watch a handsome couple roll up to the café-bookstore on their bikes and lock them together against the potted fig tree on the sidewalk. It’s as if there is no one in the world but young professionals. Interloper! My mother’s voice screeches in my head. Fraud!

  But I don’t care. Fuck you. This is my world now.

  “Lady, where do you want this?” A gravely voiced guy with a broad shoulders and a saggy beer belly leads another guy carrying my new mattress through the door. My very first queen size. A girl has to be optimistic.

  “Bedroom,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic. I point in the direction of the open door at the back of my apartment. I stare at the mattress in wonder as it’s hauled inside. A real bed. I have a bed. I imagine myself star fishing my limbs in every direction as I sleep. Even though I try not to, I also imagine naked bodies entwined, rolling around the mattress from end to end.

  “Hey, new girl!”

  The voice pulls me out of my reverie and I see a tall, thin African-American guy leaning on the door jam. He’s gorgeous and impeccably dressed—black sweater, Italian jeans, and a tweed sports jacket. His head is shaved, which throws even more attention to his striking features. I can tell right away. Gorgeous and gay.

  “I’m Evan. 302. Across the hall.”

  “Hi!” I give him a friendly smile and weave through the maze of boxes until I reach the door. I have neighbors! “Michaela. Call me Mickey.” I extend my hand and Evan shakes it warmly.

  “Mickey, girl,” he says primly shaking his head. “Am I glad to see fresh blood in this place! I thought that grouchy old cow would never leave!”

  “The old tenant here?”

  He pinches his lips together and shakes his head. “Not the nicest neighbor in the world, I can tell you that. She used to wait for me to come home from work and then whip open her door and scream that I was stealing her vanity magazines. Like, what the hell is a vanity magazine?”

  I shake my head sympathetically and try to picture an old woman living in my new cosmopolitan pad. She must’ve felt like a fossil living in this neighborhood. “Well, you keep your mitts off my People Magazine and we’ll get along just fine.”

  Evan whoops with loud, exuberant laughter that resonates over the empty walls and hardwood floor. “Oh, honey. You slay me!” Then he presses a hand to his chest and leans forward, dropping his voice. “You don’t really read People…”

  “No,” I say with a grin. “And you should come by for a drink sometime.”

  Evan throws his hands in the air, ecstatic, and gives me a big hug. “Oh, you’re fabulous! Ding dong that witch is gone! Hooray for the new girl!”

  The moment the movers have filed out the door for good, I make myself a cup of tea in my brand new electric kettle and get to work. I wash my new plates and glasses and silverware and find cabinets and drawers to put them in. Amongst the boxes I find my brand new electric coffee maker with a reusable filter, a simple thing, but I’ve always wanted it. I clean it out and find the perfect place for it on the counter.

  Later I lay out all of my clothes on the bare mattress, amazed how many are Liz’s. What a cool chick. She never even bothered me to give them back. I make a mental note to take myself shopping with my next check and bring it all back to her. After endless searching, I locate my new bunches of hangers and get everything nicely hung in my new closet or folded in my new dresser.

  I spend hours going through it all, settling in. I feel so happy and light. It’s the first time in ages that everything feels right in the world. That I feel like I’m in control of my life and my feelings.

  Finally, most of the boxes are empty. I stack them in the coat closet and collapse onto my sofa, exhausted. The lively sounds from the street drift in through the windows. I kick my feet up and stretch out, trying to slow my brain and fully comprehend the reality of this. Is it possible? Did I do it? Am I really here?

  I close my eyes. And, as I have done every five minutes since it happened, I think about Lazarus in the restaurant closet. I imagine his sultry, amber eyes, his strong, warm hands on my body. His mouth on my breasts. Between my legs. The thought makes my heart race and the heat gather in that special place again. My hand slides under my waistband. Why not? I’m in the privacy of my own apartment. I let my fingers slide into my underpants with a sigh.

  Just then, I hear my phone chirp. I pull out my hand and grope around on the ground where I’ve left it beside the couch. When I look at the screen, my heart seems to stop. J. Lazarus. Well, speak of the devil.

  It says, “New phone. Whose number is this?”

  I feel a pang of disappointment. He isn’t writing because he wants to see me. He’s just figuring out his contacts list. “Michaela,” I type.

  There’s a long pause. I stare at the screen until my eyes begin to water, waiting to see if there’s more. Maybe he’ll want to have a drink tonight. I could show him my new apartment. We could… Finally, another message pops up.

  “Deleting your number. Do not call me.”

  I blink at the phone in disbelief. What the fuck?

  “Why?” I type.

  I wait forever, but no response comes through. It’s driving me crazy. What is wrong with him? What is wrong with me? Why do I keep falling for his fucked up games? I know I should leave it alone, but I just can’t. I start typing. My hands are shaking so much I can barely get the words straight.

  “Fuck you, Lazarus.”

  I feel sick to my stomach. Why does everything have to sour so quickly? Why can’t I get a full 24 hours of unperturbed happiness just once? Fuck my life. When my phone chirps one last time, I can barely bring myself to look at it. When I do, I can only stare in disbelief. My whole body goes icy cold and nausea blooms in my stomach. The message is a single word.

  “Whore.”

  Chapter Four

  I fight the urge to throw my phone against the wall as hard as I can. Why punish myself for his cruelty? Fuck him. I set my phone down carefully on the coffee table and go to the mirror to check my hair. My hands are shaking like crazy and I feel sick to my stomach. I’m a mess. But I have no choice but to shake off the shock and anger. My new boss, Devon, is coming by any minute for a working dinner.

  Quickly, I run a brush through my hair and clip it up out of my way. I change out of the dusty, sweaty clothes I’ve been working in all day and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater.

  I’m not thinking about it. I’m not thinking about it. I’m not thinking about.

  I pull my new drawings from my portfolio and put them on the cafe table to show them to Devon right away.

  I’m not thinking about it. I’m not thinking about it.

  I open the cabinet and pull out two of my brand new white wine glasses. Then I get a bottle from the refrigerator and fish the corkscrew from my now-stocked utility drawer.

  Not thinking about it.

  Just as I pull the cork free with a satisfying pop, the downstairs buzzer rings. Relieved for the distraction,
I set the bottle on the table and head for the front door to hit the intercom release button. When I open the door, Evan is just leaving. Again, he’s impeccably dressed, his dark skin beautifully contrasting his cream jacket that’s pressed and meticulously clean. He’s wearing beautiful leather shoes and an adorable gray tweed flat cap. He flashes me his million-dollar smile.

  “Hey gorgeous! You got a hot date coming up to your bachelorette pad tonight?”

  I smile and shake my head. “Just my work colleague.”

  He waves a hand me. “Good for you! Who needs a man to be happy, anyway! Right?” Ouch. But I manage not to flinch. Then he gives himself a joking once over and rolls his eyes. “Okay, obviously, I do.” He disappears down the hall, leaving a trail of baritone laughter. “Have fun, sweetie!” he calls.

  Devon rounds the corner, a large bag of Chinese takeout in her arms. She’s wearing a black jacket over a basic white tee shirt that she’s doodled all over in Sharpie pen, and faded blue jeans. Her pink converse high tops seem to glow neon on her feet. Immediately, the air is filled with warm smells of sesame chicken and pork fried noodles.

  “That looks like a lot of food!” I force a smile and give her a hug.

  “I should never let myself order when I’m starving. We’ll put the leftovers in the fridge for when we’re hungry in an hour.”

  I step back and let Devon inside. She stops in the living room and looks around. “Settling in nicely.” Then she frowns at all the bare walls. “You’ve got to get something up on those depressing, naked walls. Color. Vibe. You know what I’m saying? Own this motherfucking place. Make it yours.”

  I nod. “Yeah. But first I should get some sheets.”

  Devon laughs. “That might be nice!” She heads for the kitchen shaking her head. “Ah, youth.” Without hesitation, she pours us each a glass of wine. “When you’re young, you don’t appreciate the finer things in life. When you’re older, you’re too stressed out to enjoy them.” She picks up the glass and holds it in the air. “To seizing the fucking day, right here, right now. Shall we do that, Mickey?”

  I’m NOT thinking about it! “You’re damned right we shall.”

  We both take excessively long sips of wine.

  “Mr. Hollywood was in the office today,” Devon says with a wide, weary eyes. “What a diva! My God! He’s such a pain in the ass!”

  “Chance is in town?” I nearly gasp. I’m still pretty star-struck, even though I’ve never met him in person. Chance Monroe is about as A-list as you can get. He’s in his late twenties, ripped like the superhero he plays in the movies, with the strong jaw and rugged good looks to boot. I’ve never met a famous person in my life, much less a gorgeous one like Chance Monroe. I don’t know how Devon can be so blasé about it.

  “Oh, he’s here,” she says, settling into one of the cafe chairs while I get the silverware and plates. “This guy is such a head case, I can’t wait to finish this job.”

  I shrug and fetch a bunch of serving spoons. “If you say so. I think he’s hot as hell.”

  “Well, he would agree with you.” Devon sighs and takes a long drink of her wine. “White wine and Chinese food are the magical combination for unvarnished creativity, right Mickey? That and post-coitus refreshment.” She picks up the drawings on the table and looks at them.

  “I’m experimenting with several ideas,” I say watching her self-consciously. I pull out the little white and red boxes of food from the bag and arrange them around the table. “You know, just sketching things out. They’re still pretty raw.”

  While Devon studies my work, I find myself gazing across the room to where my phone rests on the table. It sits there like a grotesque insect filled with deadly venom. Whore. What kind of man is Lazarus? To do all of those amazing things to me, to make me feel like that, to rock my world, and then spit on me when it’s done. How can he be so deranged? It’s pathological.

  Shut up! Shut up! Remember? I’m not thinking about it!

  “Wowza, kiddo!” I snap out of my reverie to find Devon gaping at me over the drawings. “These are amazing! I mean, that whole ‘ethereal experience’ Mr. Hollywood keeps yammering about? I just didn’t get it. But all the white? And this crazy-ass butterfly thing? Is this even possible?”

  I smile for real this time, relieved. “Of course,” I say, confidently. “It’s a question of keeping the conditions right—the heating lamps, the natural gardens, the lights. If the glass is thick enough, they won’t even notice the bass beat of the music. I mean, it’s not cheap, but it can work.”

  “Un-fucking-believable!” Devon puts down the drawing and shakes her head. “You have to be there to present it, Mickey. It’s the shit. No one else can pull it off.”

  My stomach clenches with nerves. “Seriously?” I try to imagine presenting my work to a bona fide movie star like Chance Monroe. It’s unreal. “If you say so.”

  “You’re a genius, M.” Devon dips her fork into one of the boxes and shovels a forkful of noodles into her mouth. Then she drinks long and hard, wiping the back of her hand across her wide, smiling mouth. “And you, little girl, are going to blow this fucking town away!”

  Chapter Five

  Chance is staying on the forty-fifth floor of the Four Seasons Hotel and, for some reason, he’s elected to hold this meeting in his room. It seems extremely weird to me, but Devon assured me that celebrities hold lots of events in their rooms, press interviews, rehearsals, story pitches, it’s really very normal. Of course, none of it feels normal to me. The white trash scion of violent, small town drunks is about to present architectural illustrations to a movie star. As far as I’m concerned, the world is on its head.

  I’m sitting in the expansive lobby waiting for Devon, but she’s inexplicably late. I look at my watch. Ten minutes past our scheduled meeting time. I take a deep, nervous breath and dial her number again. And once again it rings and rings until her voicemail picks up. What the fuck, Devon?

  “Shit,” I say out loud rubbing my icy hands together. I’m so freaked out that my body thinks I’m in fight or flight mode and is sending all the blood to my vital organs. Which will it be, I ask myself. Fight? Flight? The thought of going up to Chance’s room on my own makes my windpipe close up and my heart race. Just when I’ve decided on flight, my cell phone rings. It’s Devon. I answer almost instantly.

  “Oh, thank God!”

  “Fuck!” Devon is frantic, her voice breathy and loud. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Small accident here. I’m okay. But you’re going to have to go up on your own.”

  My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

  “Mickey? Are you there?”

  I nod stupidly, and then finally manage a squeak. “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ve had a fender bender. We’re already late. Just go up. Do your thing.”

  “Do my thing?” I shake my head in disbelief. All around me people come and go, blindly sauntering past me. The universe does not care about your nervous breakdown, I remind myself.

  “Yes!” she yells. “Your fucking thing! You’ve got it down! Now get in the goddamned elevator and make magic happen.”

  By the time I’ve hung up, I’m fifteen minutes late. No flight for you, girl. Get off your ass and put up a good fight. I take a deep breath and force myself to my feet. My drawings tucked under my arm, I weave unsteadily through the collection of sofas and chairs. As I drift toward the elevator in a daze, I try to collect my thoughts, to remember the presentation I so carefully put together. But nothing comes to mind. It’s a big fat blank. Still, I leap into the abyss.

  The elevator ride is simultaneously short and eternal, the way I imagine drowning would be. When the bell dings at floor 45 it sends piercing pricks through my whole body. I wander like a zombie up and down the labyrinth of halls until I discover a more secluded, exclusive wing of suits on the corner of the building. There is Chance’s room number: 4522. I don’t even give myself the chance to take a breath or get my bearings. If I stall, I just might chicken out. I knock loudly on t
he door.

  There’s no answer. My heart sinks. I’ve missed my big opportunity. Big shot celebrities don’t wait around for little people like me. Shit shit shit shit shit. Just when I turn to go, I hear the inside lock unlatch and the door swings open. When I turn around I feel my mouth fall open, and I just can’t seem to close it again. It’s him. Gorgeous, sublime Chance Monroe. And he’s wearing nothing but boxers. Perfection.

  “Are you my four o’clock?” he asks casually, as if he weren’t standing there barefoot, his naked, sculpted pecks, rippling abs, and godlike shoulders staring me in the face. Even though I’m standing close to him, I can’t detect a single pore on his face. His hair is slightly longer than usual for a role he is expected to play in the coming months, a period drama that, I’ve heard rumored, just may land him an Oscar.

  I clear my throat and try to pull myself together. “Yes. Sorry I’m late. My colleague had a car accident and I was… I…” The words seemed to be sucked into the vortex of Chance’s glory.

  “Oh, God!” he exclaims, furrowing his brow. “Is everything okay?”

  I force my eyes away from his body and up to his face. His eyes are blue and they glimmer like a clear summer sky. “Yes. I mean, I think so. She just called.”

  Chance nods thoughtfully and opens the door. “I hope so. Come on in. I was just watching reruns of The Sopranos. You like The Sopranos?”

  I walk into the room. It smells of coffee and cologne. I throw quick glances around the suite, amazed at how huge it is. The first room is sprawling and airy, with a couple of sofas and chairs surrounding a huge plasma TV, a work desk, a meeting area with a small conference table, and a giant window with a balcony. Toward the back is a lovely kitchenette where I see a half full carafe of coffee and a box of Cheerios. Somewhere, God knows where, is the bedroom.

  “I never really watched it,” I say. “Kind of before my time.”

  He pretends to flinch. “Ouch! You make me feel old!”