What I want and what I have are two very different things, but I don’t say any of that because my jaw is clenched tight. Becca has dropped snide remarks like this before, but she’s never been this harsh. She sounds like someone far too familiar, and it pisses me off. I turn my body to face her, pointing my mascara wand in her direction. “Who are you? Grandmother? Because you sound just like her, Bec. You know how I feel about all of this shit. This life. I’d give it up in a heartbeat if it meant I could have …” But I have to stop there because I start to think of my mom and all of the things I’ve missed without having her in my life for so many years.
I’ve never told Becca what I remember from that horrible day all those years ago. I never plan on telling anyone. The images that haunt me as I sleep secretly hold me in fear that I’ll someday meet the same fate as my mom. Which leads me to think of the nightmare my life has actually become. Because, as Becca sees my life as opulence and wealth, all I see around me, all I know, is pain and sadness, cruelty and greed. “Never mind. I’m ready. Let’s go.” I stand with a huff and head for the door. If there’s anything I’ve learned living in this house, it’s that this is a battle I can never win.
We take Becca’s car to the bar. She drives a fully loaded Range Rover, so although she may be envious of what I have, she’s definitely not hurting. Becca comes from “new money,” first generation earned by her father’s success in the software industry, along with other smart investments. He and Becca’s mom were both raised middle class and remember what it was like to have shoes from K-Mart and hand-me-downs from siblings. And because of this, he tells Becca time and again to never take anything for granted. But Becca doesn’t listen. She doesn’t appreciate all of the beauty around her. Two parents who love and support her. Siblings who look up to her. And most importantly, the freedom to be who she wants to be, and do what she wants to do. Sometimes I don’t know how we’ve managed to stay friends all these years. But Becca is the only friend Grandmother and Father approved of when we were going through private school together. She’s been a part of my life ever since.
Cadillac Ranch, the bar Becca pretends to dread, is located well outside the city in rural New York. It’s a bit of a drive, but totally worth it. It’s like another world. The people are friendlier, and the air is lighter. I’ve done my research on small towns, and I think I’ve found the perfect one, similar to this, when the time comes. I don’t know when that will be, but I can’t wait. I smile to myself just thinking about it.
Becca interrupts my thoughts as she parks the car. “Okay, you know the rules.”
“Fuck ’em and fling ’em!” we say in unison, laughing as we exit the car. Neither of us is much for relationships. Becca’s attention span is too short to be in one, and I tend to shy away from them because they don’t ever end well.
“What’s on the menu tonight?”
She swipes on a quick layer of lip gloss. “Same thing I look for every time we come here. Hot and horny.” I have to laugh and shake my head sometimes. We’re so different. I don’t even know if she believes in the concept of love, or simply equates its value to a person’s bank account. We don’t have deep conversations on the subject. Or any subject, for that matter. That makes me think of the one friend I could always count on for sensible advice, Katie.
“All right then, let’s not forget, I’m Candy and you’re Courtney,” she says, as she links her arm in mine and leads us to the door.
I use my free hand to straighten my denim miniskirt and glance down at my custom cowboy boots with the chocolate leather and pink stitching, before approaching the bouncer stationed at the entrance. “Got it, Candy. You do know that name sounds like a stripper, right?”
We both throw our heads back and laugh. I can already tell it’s going to be a crazy night.
Inside, Cadillac Ranch is floor-to-ceiling wood. Literally. Wood floors, wood walls, wood stools, and an enormous wood bar that runs the length of the building. Wood planks even cover the ceiling. A mounted black bear, buck, and bobcat keep watch over the crowd. Any space left is filled with neon beer signs that cast a hot pink glow up to the ceiling and onto the heads of the patrons below.
The bar is packed, shoulder-to-shoulder tonight, as I imagine it is every Saturday night. I wouldn’t know though, because this is somewhat of a rarity for me. Most Saturday nights are spent at various galas and fundraisers I’m forced to attend with my family. My family primarily being Father, Grandmother, Grandfather, and my cousin, Nicole who all live at the family estate, located about an hour outside of the city.
I needn’t give them a second thought as they are out of town for the weekend to attend the wedding of the president’s daughter at his home in North Carolina. Of all of the events I’m forced to attend, this was one that I was actually looking forward to. My family is a major contributor to the Republican Party, so I’ve attended a number of political events, including inaugurations and state dinners, and I have gotten to know the current president’s daughter Katie fairly well. She’s genuinely sweet and funny and wants to accomplish great things with her life. We’ve talked for hours about hopes and dreams and even boys and love, and seem to share a lot of the same ideals.
When Grandmother told me that she, Grandfather, Father, and Nicole would be traveling to Katie’s wedding, and I wasn’t invited, I was crushed. I immediately picked up the phone to ask Katie why, because I knew it had to be a mistake, but Grandmother ripped it from my hands and told me, “You’ll do no such thing. I will not allow you another opportunity to embarrass this family.” One of the many times Grandmother has told me what a disgrace I am to the Harcourt name. Naturally, I was devastated, but I tried my best to not let it show. One of the things I remember my mom saying to me, even at the young age of six or seven, was “never let them see you sweat.” I didn’t know what that meant back then, but I never forgot those words, hoping to one day understand them. As I grew up without her, I started to get a pretty clear idea. So no matter what they do to upset me, I do everything in my power to never let them know it. Unfortunately, they’ve given me plenty of opportunities to practice this skill over the years.
Becca walks over from the bar and hands me a gin and tonic. We both take a sip as we stand and survey the room. A lot of beer bellies and cowboy hats tonight. It looks like Becca’s got her work cut out for her. She won’t have trouble though. She’s the typical all-American girl. Tonight, she’s wearing her long, over-processed bleached blond hair down over her shoulders with a bit too much makeup on her blue eyes. I try to tell her she’s pretty without it, but she always ignores me. “Here, hold my drink.” Becca hands me her glass and heads to the dance floor. It seems she’s spotted tonight’s victim.
I don’t care much about finding a guy when we go out. Not that I’m totally opposed to it, but I like to feel some kind of attraction to a man. I’m not so desperate that I’ll take anything with a pulse and a penis, like Becca tends to do on nights like this.
I finish my drink and consider finishing hers, when I see it’s already empty. They may not have the best gin here, but they always make them strong. A fact I can appreciate. But I like this place. Nobody cares that my family name is on the Forbes list of wealthiest people in the world, or that in my usual social circles I’m considered an heiress. Best of all, there is no social etiquette here. I don’t have to worry about posture and poise or discussing current events. There is no ballroom dancing, no gowns or tuxedos. Just regular people out for nothing more than a good time with good friends.
“Can I get you another drink?” I hear from over my shoulder. I’m about to respond with a polite, “No, thank you” when I turn and lock eyes with the most gorgeous shade of blue I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. They immediately conjure up memories of my time on the Mediterranean, with its varying and endless hues of azure. They’re framed by dark ash blond hair and tanned skin. Combine that with a strong jawline and a hint of scruff, and I’m about to poke him with my cocktail straw to see
if he’s real.
“Vodka tonic?”
I admire his tall, lean frame, before lifting my eyes back to his. “Pardon?”
He looks toward the empty glasses then back. “Are you drinking a vodka tonic?”
“Oh! Uh, no. But thank you.”
“Gin and tonic?”
My shoulders stiffen at his intention. “Well, yes, but you don’t …”
“Gin and tonic it is then. I’ll be right back.” He takes the empty glasses from my hands and heads toward the bar before I can get my wits about me and tell him a definitive no. With our short exchange, I already have the impression that he’s confident. And gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Is that possible? Can someone be too gorgeous in the span of thirty seconds? He turns to look at me, only a few feet away while waiting for our drinks. And it’s confirmed. Yes, a person can be too gorgeous.
I have the sudden urge to flee. Like a rabbit sensing a wolf. They freeze, perk their ears up, then run as fast as their little bunny feet can take them to safety. Every nerve running through my body is telling me to run—to grab Becca and get the hell out of here. Because any guy who looks like that has brought more than one woman to her knees. Both literally and figuratively. And I’m all for a hot, fun hook-up but not when I feel this much electricity flowing and we’ve yet to exchange names.
“Gin and tonic.” He hands me my drink, his fingers brushing up against mine, and I can’t help but stare a moment too long at his hands. They’re strong, with slender fingers and well-groomed nails. He must not be from around here.
“You must not be from around here,” I blurt out nervously as I take a sip of my drink and hope that my brain soon reconnects to my mouth.
“Is it that obvious?” He smiles. Holy shit. His smile. It’s all lips and teeth … and lips. All I want is to lick them and suck them and bite them and …
“I’m visiting a buddy from college.” He tilts his head, inquisitively. “I could say the same thing about you.” I’m snapped back to reality by his comment. There is a deep-seated need to maintain a low profile while out in public as safety is always a concern.
“I’m just here for a night out with a friend. Courtney.” I share my bar name and give a slight head nod, clinging to my drink with both hands so I don’t have to shake his hand or touch him in any way. I’m actually afraid to touch him. Because whatever it is that I felt in that first moment we locked eyes is only getting stronger. And instead of wanting to take him to the parking lot and steam up the car windows, I’m thinking it may be best to slowly back up and make a mad dash for the door. Run bunny run.
“CJ.” He raises his drink and waits for me to meet him halfway. We clink glasses, and I take a generous sip, all the while never taking my eyes off his. Among the chaos of the music, dancing, and conversation taking place around us, we’re just staring at each other, taking each other in. Finally pulling my eyes from his, I work my way across his fitted navy T-shirt and down to his jeans.
Suddenly, my glass is pulled from my hands. “Come on, Courtney. Let’s dance.” He flashes me his irresistible smile and grabs my hand, leading me out to the dance floor. I freeze for a split second, expecting a shock to travel from his hand to mine, but am relieved when it doesn’t come, because there’s definitely a current pulsing between us. A warmth that runs through my fingertips, up my arm, and into my chest. It’s been a long time, but I remember this feeling. And for a fleeting moment, I remember the pain that followed. Pushing that thought aside, I weave my fingers with his and follow his lead.
A slow country song begins as we find an open spot on the dance floor. He turns to me and wraps one arm around my waist with the other clasping my hand in his. I’ve never heard this song before, but that can be said for most country songs. Truth is, I actually don’t care for country music except when I’m here. So I guess you could say Courtney likes country music.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks, with a smile to match my own.
“I didn’t realize I was smiling.” I catch myself and immediately stop.
“Don’t stop on my account. Your smile, it’s … stunning.” I look away. I’m not used to compliments, especially from gorgeous strangers I’m in close proximity to.
Without turning back, I answer, “I was just thinking that I don’t particularly like country music. Except when I’m here.”
“And do you come here often?”
I throw my head back and laugh because that is the all-time most quintessential pick-up line in the history of pick-up lines. “You did not just ask me that,” I say as I shake my head and continue to laugh.
He looks away and I swear I catch a blush. “You’re right. That was bad. But at least I didn’t lead with it.”
I tilt my face towards his, wanting his eyes back on mine. “True. You would’ve been done before you started.”
Instead of giving me what I want, he leans in close, whispering, “So, that must mean we’ve started.” The music is loud, but I heard every word and felt the way he gripped my back just a little tighter as he said it. I instinctively tense up and panic.
Tugging back until he’s forced to look at me, I answer pointedly, “CJ, there’s nothing to start here.”
His hand on my back pulls me in, closing the remaining gap between us, as his warm breath hits my ear. “Then how come I don’t want this to stop?” I have no response except to close my eyes and squeeze him just the tiniest bit harder in return. I know it’s way too fast, but I’m going to let myself have this one brief moment of bliss. Because I know, like everything else good in my life, it’s only a matter of time before it will be torn away from me. It’s simply the way it is, and I’ve come to accept it. So, I hold him tight and remind myself it’s one night. What could possibly happen?
We stay like that the rest of the song and even the next, never once speaking. And although you’d expect it to be awkward and uncomfortable, it’s anything but. Slow dancing with this complete stranger, holding his hand and wrapping my arm around his muscled back, feels like one of the most natural things in the world.
After the second song, the music picks up so we take a seat at the bar and finally get a chance to talk. For the most part, it’s a one-sided conversation, but I’m enjoying hearing about him and his family and friends more than I’ve enjoyed anything in a long time.
CJ places his empty glass on the bar. “I work on the production line of a distillery out in San Francisco.” There’s distinct pride in his voice.
“Oh yeah, what’s that like?” I’m swirling the straw in my glass, never pulling my eyes from his.
“Actually, it’s pretty great.” He smiles as he speaks. “I work with my brother and a friend of mine, the one I’m here visiting. There’s a lot of lifting and boring work, like moving product from one side of the warehouse to the other, but we manage to make it fun. Every now and then we’ll go out to the parking lot and have forklift races. Stupid shit like that.” He laughs at the thought. “Although, my friend started working at a new east coast distillery the company recently opened, so I don’t see him as much.”
I nod in appreciation before taking a large sip of water. It’s good to hear he’s a blue-collar worker who gets satisfaction from his job, but I’m more fascinated in hearing him talk a little about his family. Admiration seeps from his words when he tells me about his parents, brother, and sister. Everything is positive and funny, and there’s a definite sense of love there. It’s so foreign to me, yet so refreshing at the same time. I can’t get enough. I know families like this exist. I just don’t know many personally.
When he turns the conversation to me, I lie and say I’m waitressing and cleaning houses, trying to save money to go to grad school for my Masters in Social Work, and that I share an apartment over a dry cleaner with a girl I work with. But what I don’t tell him is the version of myself that I wish I was. That I one day hope to be. A social worker like my mom once was before I was born. And how I’d like to open a private practice and help people, whe
ther it’s coping with the darkest period of their life, or just learning to juggle all that life is throwing their way. Or that I want a family, full of loud, crazy kids and a husband who coaches T-ball and tells me I’m an awesome cook even though I’m not. And never, ever lets me fall asleep without kissing me goodnight.
We’re interrupted by drunken giggling as Becca and her new friend practically fall into us. “Hey Courtnnneeey,” she slurs as she singsongs my fake name.
I look from her to her new friend, then back again. “Hey Candy, who’s this?” She’s got her arm around the waist of a lanky, dark-haired guy, while his arm is up around her shoulders.
But CJ surprises me and speaks directly to the guy. “Eric, man, where’ve you been?”
My confusion is obvious, but Becca’s too drunk to care. Turning towards CJ, I point to Eric and ask, “This is the friend you’re visiting?”
He doesn’t answer. He sets down his drink and puts his hand out to Becca. “CJ, nice to meet you.” CJ and Eric share a glance before Becca grabs CJ’s hand with both of hers and gets in his face.
“Seriously!” she speaks too loudly. She doesn’t notice him wince back in shock and distaste. “Courtney, you get all the hot ones.” She turns to look at me with a pout on her face, still holding tight to CJ’s hands.
“Hey!” Eric yells. “I’m right here, Candy. Or do I need to remind you whose name you were just moaning in the bathroom?” He wraps both arms around her waist and pulls her back, forcing her to release CJ’s hands.
I stand and step towards her. “Maybe we should get you home, Candy?” I’m telling her more than asking her now. Even if she hadn’t already hooked up with a stranger in a dirty bathroom, the electrical current I feel with CJ hasn’t weakened, telling me it’s definitely time to end the night. “Give me the keys.”
Beautiful Lies Page 2
