Suburban Cyborg

by Gloria Martin

  “So all of you sleep with him?” I ask. It’s the last thing I wanted to say, and I pray it doesn’t let on the fact that Denver and I were together last night.

  “No, all of us don’t sleep with him,” she hisses. Now the tables have turned and I’ve offended her. “I just thought that out of anyone in his life right now it would be you he’d want to be with.”

  “That makes absolutely zero sense to me,” I say, and it’s true. “We just met. Why would he want to be with me out of anyone else? I’m sure he’s got women lined up to be with him. I don’t know about you or the other girls, but I just do my job, okay?”

  How long can I keep this lie up?

  She doesn’t blink in this last, hesitant gaze and then she swallows hard, going on about the search. She checks the drawers, takes off the sheets, looks in the shower—even the smallest corner is turned over for any clue that could lead us to Denver.

  “Alright, I’ll let Mae Lin know that he’s not here,” she says with a smile. And, walking toward the hotel room door, she says without looking at me, “And that your hair was all over his sheets.”

  *****

  On the way to Point Dume I don’t say a word. With the remark about my hair being in the sheets, now I feel the same way about Gloria as I did when Jill told me that I didn’t want to know how she knew that I was with Denver. I’m starting to feel like I’m on some kind of sick reality show. If that’s the case I don’t care how much it costs, I’m suing up the ass.

  The gorgeous blue ocean and sky have now turned gray, and as we enter the beach it looks more desolate than exotic, especially with police cruisers idling around Denver’s car. This sight is unreal—the car is literally between the parking lot and the water, in the sand, all doors open, trunk and hood popped.

  “Did they do that to his car?” Gloria asks me. I suppose she forgot we’re not on speaking terms at the moment.

  “I have no idea,” I whisper, trying to look around the parameters of the windshield to get a better view. As Gloria’s car rolls up closer, everything seems more fake. The car looks like it was meant to be abandoned. Did Denver get hammered? Maybe someone really did steal the car. But that doesn’t explain where Denver is.

  Is it possible that he got kidnapped again?

  Here, the whole time I’ve been getting offended but if I was honest with Gloria and told her that Denver and I were together last night, maybe that might put us one step closer to finding him. Whatever, there’s no need to admit it out loud, I think. She already knows. The hair doesn’t lie. I can at least keep my pride for a little while.

  Gloria stops the car at enough of a distance so that we don’t have to be bombarded by the police right away. “I don’t care what your story is,” she says, “just keep it straight when they start asking us questions. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I answer. As she opens her door, I’m unsure as to whether she wants me to follow her.

  “Yes, you’re coming,” she says, practically reading my mind. “The way I see it, this is probably your fault anyway.”

  This car ride has certainly taken a turn for the worse. If I was my sixteen-year-old self in Cleveland right now this girl might seriously get jacked. Let’s just say I’ve come a long way since then.

  Getting out of my side, I don’t hesitate to slam the door closed. Her car is the least of my concerns, and I have some pent up anger that I need to let out. Looking forward to the ocean, the last thing I want to do is approach these police officers. I’m sure Gloria and I are feeling the same thing on this one, fearing that they will tell us the worst.

  “Hello, how are we doing today?” the taller officer asks. He’s about six even and looks like he’s at the gym when he’s not on duty.

  “Well, we were hoping you could tell us,” Gloria says. “We work for the man who owns this car, and we understand that his whereabouts are currently unknown.”

  The officer hesitates to answer. He looks over to his partner, an older woman who looks like she can handle herself. Their silence tells me that they’re unsure if they should talk to us or not. Gloria takes the hint.

  “The vehicle belongs to Mr. Denver D. Phillips, owner of Paerotech, a very big software company,” she says, bypassing them to get to the car. I’m surprised that they don’t restrain her. “We don’t know where he is, and that is a problem for us because we are legally obligated to find him. In fact, I think you might be able to confirm this with Lieutenant Hasboro in the LAPD. Since the car is registered to Los Angeles County, technically you have no jurisdiction here, officers.”

  Wow, I think, this chick really knows her stuff.

  The female officer nods, confirming with the male. She walks past me without a glance to her cruiser and radios over to ask about Lieutenant Hasboro. By the sound of it, the story actually checks out. Gloria stands there with a gaping smile, the ocean breeze blowing her dark hair about. That’s a smile of victory.

  “Alright, Davis, looks like we might as well head back on this one,” the lady officer says.

  “Well, we’ll leave it to you, then,” the man says. “Good luck.” He puts his sunglasses down over his eyes and enters his own cruiser. They both back up and pull away from the Point Dume beach entrance. When I look over to Gloria, she’s beaming at me.

  “I can’t lie,” I say. “I’m impressed.”

  “You’ll start to learn, too,” she says, “if you open up a little.”

  She could be right about me, but I’m still more concerned about where my man is.

  My man? I must be tripping.

  “So now what?” I ask. “He’s not at the hotel, he’s not in the car. Have you heard from Mae Lin?”

  Gloria looks to her phone and shakes her head. “She texted that there’s no sign of him and no sign of Jill.”

  “I honestly don’t know where else he would be,” I say. I wish I did, but we haven’t exactly gotten around to talking much. The physical tension between us was atomic, and I assumed we’d get around to getting to know each other soon enough.

  “Catch,” she says, tossing something to me.

  I open my hands, and by luck I catch the object—car keys. The keys to Denver’s car. Does she expect me to drive his Mercedes Benz? That’s downright preposterous.

  “Meet me back at the mansion,” she says.

  “Wait, wait,” I stumble. “Why don’t you drive this and I’ll drive your car?”

  “Technically, they’re both Denver’s cars,” she says, “And I’m contractually—”

  “—Contractually obligated to never drive this car?” I finish, to her excitement.

  “Now you’re getting it,” she smiles.

  “I can’t drive this car,” I say. It’s a definite fact.

  “It’s easier than you think,” she says. “Welcome to the family.”

  She turns to walk through the sand and down the empty lot back to her car without turning to look at me once. With Gloria backing out of the beach, I’m left here all alone—just me, the ocean, and Denver’s car. I graduated from Le Cordon Bleu, I’m not supposed to be driving a billionaire’s deserted vehicle out of the sand and back to his mansion while he’s missing the morning after making love to him. I’m Tara Rogers from Cleveland—this kind of thing just isn’t supposed to happen to me.

  *****

  The beach is desolate, and I can’t believe I’m seriously about to drive Denver’s very, very expensive car. Looking inside, I can at least relax when I see that it’s not a stick shift. I might have had to call a tow truck.

  I shut the hood, the trunk, and the three other doors before getting into the driver’s seat. Inside, it smells brand new. He could get a different car every week with the money he’s got. I find it strange that there aren’t even any lifeguards here. Am I missing something?

  Putting the key in the ignition, something feels wrong about this. I haven’t signed Denver’s little contract yet, so am I allowed to drive this? Instantly the sirens go off in my head—Tara, I think, the last
chef was POISONED.

  Something in me starts to believe in the likeliness of this car blowing up when I turn the ignition over, and I quickly open the driver side door and jump out into the sand. Hustling to my feet I try to run as far away from the car as I can. With all of my heart I anticipate an explosion that will send me off my feet—but no sounds come except the whisper of the ocean, and no feelings come except for its cool breeze against my skin.

  “Seriously, Tara,” I say aloud. I look up to the sky and feel the urge to drop down on my knees and cry, but right now I need to be stronger than that. Why haven’t I just tried calling Denver myself? I take my phone out of my pocket and realized since I stepped foot in the mansion this morning, I’ve been around the other girls. The thought never even crossed my mind.

  I look for his number in my recent calls because I haven’t even bothered programming him in yet. Without a moment’s thought I click the number and the screen switches to call mode. With the phone up to my ear, I hold my breath while it rings. Two rings, three—I count seven altogether and finally it stops. Did someone pick up? There’s no voicemail prompt.

  “Hello, Denver?” I say.

  “Tara, I’ve been waiting for you,” a voice says.

  It’s Denver.

  “Denver?” I say, nearly stuttering. “Where are you? Are you okay? Did someone kidnap you?”

  “Relax,” he says in a calm voice. “I’m safe. You’re safe. We’re both safe. That’s all that matters.”

  How can I relax? Does he not realize that there’s an outright manhunt going on in his name right now? “Denver, everyone has been looking for you,” I say, trying to stress the severity of the situation.

  “I know that, Tara,” he says. “I’m able to track everyone I have on contract. They know that.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Does that mean my phone’s bugged? I haven’t signed anything yet.

  “Listen to me,” he continues. “I want you to get in the car and drive. Head north on the PCH and I’ll guide you from there.”

  “Denver, this is crazy,” I say. “Jill, Gloria, Mae Lin, they’re worried about you. I’m worried about you.”

  “If I told you that I was waiting for you, would you come for me?” he asks.

  “Of course I would,” I say. Standing in the sand, my feet are now covered in the stuff.

  “I’m waiting for you,” Denver says.

  “The car’s not going to blow up?” I ask. I have to clear the air. I’m afraid here. He laughs on the other end.

  “No, the car’s not going to blow up,” he says. “Please, just come see me. I need you. Right now.”

  “There’s one thing I need to know first,” I say. It’s the one thing ringing the alarm in my mind.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Who is Danielle, and how did she die?” I know that deep down I don’t even want to know the answer.

  “Danielle…” he whispers. “Danielle was a very dear friend and employee. She was poisoned, killed. She was my previous chef.”

  “And you don’t know who poisoned her?” I ask.

  “No, I don’t. It was a terrible loss. Please come to me and we will talk about it, Tara. Together, in person.”

  The ocean is on my left, the Mercedes Benz is in front of me, and a cliff of jagged rocks sits to my right and behind me. I could drop the phone in the sand, take the car, find my way home without it, and forget all this. Why is he pulling me further and further down? Why would he have gone through something so elaborate just to get me alone?

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m on my way.”

  *****

  Driving the Benz is like walking on air, and on the vast California road there is nothing more freeing than cruising with the windows down, my thick hair frizzed and swirling about. Gloria expects me to drive back to the mansion. Won’t she come looking for me? And what about the police?

  I voice all of my concerns to Denver—he stays with me the whole time on speakerphone, giving me directions. “Don’t worry about them,” he says smoothly. “Everything will be taken care of. I’m currently announcing my status to everyone online, and the vehicle will be spoken for. I will tell Gloria that I urgently needed it and told you to bring it to me at once.”

  “What happened? Why was the car out there on the beach? Did you just leave it there so I could conveniently get it and come to you? How did you get where you are now? Where are you now, anyway?”

  “I realize you have a lot of questions,” he says. “But they will all be answered in due time. It will all make more sense after we can see each other.”

  “You just want to fuck me again,” I say, keeping my beaming smile silent. He doesn’t respond for a good minute.

  “I was hoping that we could be together again, Miss Rogers, yes,” he says, fumbling like I’ve got him off guard. “But there are some other matters to sort out as well. Paperwork, for example.”

  “Oh, right, the contract,” I say. I’m tired of hearing about this thing. “I’m not so sure I want to serve life like the rest of your girlfriends, let alone be together again.” For some reason I feel like mocking him is the only power I have right now. It’s childish, but it feels good. Just because I brought up sex doesn’t necessarily mean that I want it.

  One should never assume, Denver, I think.

  “Okay, that’s perfectly understandable,” he says. “I can see why you might be frustrated after this morning.”

  “Frustrated? You don’t even know the half of how I feel. Used. Cheap. That’s just to start.”

  “I’m sorry, Tara,” he whispers.

  “By the way, you still didn’t tell me what happened,” I say. “Managed to slip by that one, Denny.”

  Now his minute-long silence is unbearable. Maybe I’ve said too much—it wouldn’t be the first time the old Rogers mouth cost me a man. I don’t want it to cost me this man, though.

  “There’s no excuse for what is going on. I know that. Maybe we should cease chitchat until you arrive. Would you prefer that? No communication at all?”

  I must have hit a sore spot with him. Okay, he’s a talker, I note. Or does he just like to listen to the sound of his own voice? “Yeah, maybe we should just stop talking period,” I say. Why am I acting like this? It’s not like I’m going to stop driving to him, and if I were really upset or whatever it is that I’m revealing I’d turn right back around.

  “Maybe that’s best,” Denver says. I didn’t expect him to agree with me!

  “Look,” I say, trying to make up for lost minutes. “I’m just in a weird state of mind.”

  “I understand,” he says. Nothing else. He’s really taking this seriously.

  For the rest of the drive he tells me exact directions so that I can get to him, but nothing else. I tell him when I’m stopped by a red light or other traffic obstacles, but other than that it’s just quiet awkwardness. After an hour he’s guided me with little direction until I have to get off the exit for Simi Valley. I’ve only been this far northwest in passing, and have for years admired the beautiful dirt and stone of the light brown canyons, and greens of the mountains. California can be so lovely, which is something I often forget in the bustle of the city.

  As I exit the freeway, Denver guides me down neighborhoods and around curvy turns, through a path of modern, out-of-my-price-range homes and finally I’m parked at the curb on a normal looking, urban street. This is the last place in the Golden State where I’d expect to find my sexy billionaire.

  “You sure this is the place?” I ask, looking to my right at the old-fashioned house. It’s a diamond in the rough in this neighborhood, but still many, many steps down from the mansion I expected.

  “I’m sure,” he says. “Nobody knows about this place. I bought it in secrecy, and as soon as you come inside you’ll be the only guest I’ve ever had here.”

  Okay, so despite all the mixed feelings I’ve had today, that statement really makes me feel fuzzy inside. This man had better not break m
y heart, so help me.

  I get out of the Benz and feel weird hitting the clicker to beep it locked. Walking up the stone pathway to this quaint, yet expensive, blue house, my heart beats faster than it did before I showed up to his mansion before the interview—even faster than before we made love last night. And that was record breaking.

  Approaching the front door, I feel dumb because I’m not sure if I should knock. I mean, he’s expecting me, right? Probably staring at me right now through one of the windows. I exhale, realizing that I’m going to have to play along.

  Knock. Knock. Knock. I do it slowly and deliberately, trying to message how irked I am through the sound of my hand against the door. Why isn’t he answering? I wait for about five minutes before trying the handle only to find that it has been unlocked this entire time.

  I push the door forward and it’s so well oiled that it doesn’t creak at all. Inside his house I feel like I’m stepping into a different universe entirely—one where I would never expect a man like Denver to exist, or at least exist in my orbit. All of the furniture is throwback and the lighting is low with red and pink colored curtains creating a hazy glow all over the entire place. Also, the smell of lavender permeates the place. I shut the door behind me, locking it. Even though he left it open for me, locking all doors to keep myself safe is an old habit of mine.

  “Denver, you can come out now,” I say. I’m not in the mood for games, I just want to see with my own eyes that everything is okay, that this whole morning has just been a wonderful mess of events. I can put everything in the back of my mind if I could just lay my eyes on him.

  “There you are,” he says, even though I can’t locate him visually yet. “You’re just as stunning as ever.”

  I turn to my side and see him standing at the foot of a stairwell. It’s old wood, shined wood with white paint beneath each step and a white railing. “As stunning as always?” I ask. I look at my phone to add to the joke. “You’ve known me like, what, five days now?”