by Penny Wylder
I lay the woman down on the bed and take off the sexy black heels she wears and tuck her in under the covers. She pats the empty space beside her.
I smile at the offer. “What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Cadie,” she mumbles.
“That’s a pretty name. I’m going to get you some coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee,” she says through a yawn. “I want you.”
God, she’s making this difficult. “I’ll be right back.”
The dog trots behind me as I walk into the kitchen. Going through the cupboards, all I find is an expensive dark roast. I can’t even find a coffee maker, only a French Press, and I have no idea how to use it. I’m a simple Folgers kind of guy.
Water it is. I grab a bottle from the fridge and take it to her. When I get back to the room, she’s passed out. Her hair is splayed in a web across her face, lips slightly parted. I can tell by the way she snores like a truck driver that she won’t be waking up any time soon.
I move her hair off her face and tuck it behind her ears. Even through the mess of makeup, it’s easy to tell that she’s beautiful. Hard to believe such a beautiful creature can make such a horrendous noise. I juggle with the idea of recording her and sending the video to her once she sobers up, but that’s cruel, and I suspect I’ll be the only one laughing.
I put the bottle of water next to her on the nightstand.
She seems so vulnerable passed out with a stranger in her room. I shudder to think what could have happened if she’d called anyone other than me. I’m not comfortable leaving her alone in this state. Especially after seeing the broken candlestick on the ground. Safety doesn’t seem to be much of a priority while she’s hammered. Maybe there’s a friend of hers I can call. I contemplate going through her phone, but even if there’s a list of people I can call, I don’t know which ones I can trust. What if I called a co-worker or some sleazy guy she picked up in a bar? Or her boss, and managed to get her fired somehow?
My phone keeps chirping in my pocket. I pick it up and read the messages. There are several texts from different women wanting me to come over. I could be sweaty and rolling around in the sheets with some hot, naked bombshell right now, but no, I’m here babysitting a complete stranger.
I sigh and look at the woman in the bed, knowing I’m not going anywhere tonight, and I’m certainly not getting laid. Clearly this chick is going through something. I can’t help but wonder why she decided to get so wasted.
I look down at the dog. His collar says ‘Hercules.’ I flip the tag over, and on the other side it says, ‘My mommy loves me, please bring me home,’ followed by her address and phone number. Hercules’s big copper eyes stare back at me. He wags his tail so hard his entire backside moves. “Looks like you’re my date for the night, buddy,” I say.
I order a pizza and camp on the couch. Hercules climbs onto the couch with me and I give him my crusts. He chews with vigor and leaves a trail of slimy drool on my pants when he’s done. The dog and I are practically the same size. He lays his head on my lap and we watch Shark Week on the Discovery channel until we fall asleep.
2
Cadie
I wake up just before nine in the morning. It feels like a heavy metal band is playing drums in my head. Did Hercules shit in my mouth while I slept? It tastes like it. I grimace and smack my dry lips. Gross. I haven’t been this hung over since college. Everything hurts. Why the hell did I drink so much?
It’s not like me to get wasted alone on a weeknight. In fact, that’s never happened before. The whole night is a blur, so I try to retrace my steps, struggling to put the pieces together. I remember going to the dance studio yesterday morning and getting a text from Gina …
It all starts to come back to me. While rehearsing in the studio, I got a text from Gina saying she saw Evan in town. It’s been a month since he moved out. I try not to think about him.
We were good together. I may have even loved him. I don’t know. It wasn’t like an epic love story where you would do absolutely anything for that person. We didn’t exactly have a Romeo and Juliet connection. I’m fairly certain neither of us would have taken a bullet for the other, but there was respect, and for me, that was plenty. Everything we did, we did it together. And I was content. My friends told me that wasn’t enough. They thought for love to work, there had to be passion and longing, but I don’t know. I’ve never had either of those things with a man, so I couldn’t say whether they’re important in a relationship. I was perfectly fine being content.
But being content wasn’t enough for Evan in the end. One day, I came home, and all of his stuff was gone. He just disappeared. I texted and called, worried about him. Eventually he texted back and said he wasn’t happy and needed to move on. I understood.
I was crushed, of course. Who isn’t after a breakup? Part of me thought he would eventually come back, and that all we needed was some space. I asked him about it. He agreed that was probably what our relationship needed. He had my hopes up. I stopped crying and got myself back in the studio. I was determined to work on myself so I could be better for him. When he came back I would be a different person. I would be loving and passionate, all the things he needed me to be.
But then I got that text from Gina yesterday. It wasn’t just that she’d seen him in town. She saw him there with another woman. They were kissing and holding hands and looked cozier than two people who were just on a date. I asked her who the woman was, if she was someone we knew, but she wasn’t able to get a good look at her, afraid Evan would catch her spying.
When I texted Evan later that evening, he admitted that he’d been seeing her for a year before he moved out. For an entire year of our two-year relationship he was seeing someone else and I didn’t even know it. How could I have been so blind? The betrayal was more than I could handle, so I opened that bottle of wine we’d been saving for a special occasion and I drank it. The whole thing.
Everything that came after that is pixilated. God, I hope I didn’t drunk-text him. I look around for my phone, but don’t see it. It’s probably in the living room. Hopefully it’s in my purse and hasn’t been touched.
I sit up. The sheets fall off of me. Why the hell am I wearing this bra and panty set as well as my sheer robe? This isn’t my normal sleeping attire. This is something I’d wear when trying to be sexy, and I’m pretty sure after what happened with Evan, I was not feeling sexy last night.
And where’s Hercules? He always sleeps at the foot of my bed. There’s a permanent indention in the mattress where he curls up at night. My door is shut. I must’ve left him in the living room. He’s not whining at the door, so he’s probably still asleep. Getting up, I look at myself in the mirror and cringe. My hair is a rumpled mess and I have makeup smeared all over my face. Before taking the dog for his morning walk, I decide to brush my teeth and jump in the shower really quickly. The warm water cascading over my shoulders feels wonderful, and my headache starts to ease. I feel much better after, and I almost look human again. Grabbing a couple ibuprofens from the medicine cabinet, I pop them in my mouth and try to swallow them dry, but they get stuck in the back of my throat. I go back into my room and find a bottle of water next to my bed and take a gulp. But I don’t remember putting water next to my bed. I’m a sound sleeper and never need to get up in the middle of the night for water. What the hell did I do last night?
A pair of yoga pants, a t-shirt, and some running shoes are the outfit of the day. Nothing special. There’s no one to impress while I take my dog out to shit. My hair goes into a ponytail and I’m ready to face the day. I vow not to let Evan’s betrayal ruin everything. I don’t love him, I decide. I probably never did. I’m certain of that now. If I loved him, I would be devastated right now. I’m not. Not at all. What I am, is pissed. I’m so fucking mad I could rip out his throat with my teeth. How dare he? I was faithful to him every step of the way. Believe me, I had plenty of chances not to be. Every time I went out to a club with my girlfriends, there w
as no shortage of men at my heels, trying to get me to go home with them. Every single one was better looking than Evan. But I respected Evan far too much to ever betray him like that.
I have to take a deep calming breath to keep my rage from bubbling back up. A drink sounds good right about now. Hair of the dog. I’m not going to do that, though. It will only make me feel worse. Fuck that guy. I’m not going to let him ruin my day further than he already has. I refuse to let him turn me into someone who’s bitter and suspicious. Today I’m going to take care of me, and get back to being myself. The confident, happy girl I was before I met Evan.
As soon as I open the door to my room, I’m hit by the smell of bacon and … is that pancakes? Whatever it is smells delicious, and my stomach rolls with hunger. The neighbors must be making breakfast.
I walk down the hallway. When I turn to go into the kitchen, I see a strange man standing in front of my stove, shirtless, his back to me. My breath freezes in my throat, legs refusing to move, shoes adhered to the floor. At first I think it’s Evan, and wonder if there’s a knife nearby so I can stab him in the back with it. But Evan isn’t that tall, he doesn’t cook, his hair isn’t that light of a color, and his back doesn’t look like that—not unless he somehow managed to exchange his pasty dad-bod for a golden God-bod. Somehow I doubt he could pull that off in the month that we’ve been separated. Whoever this man is standing in my kitchen has smooth tan skin over thick muscle.
My dog sits beside this stranger, waiting for food to drop. My heart is hammering in my chest. It’s hard to breathe. I don’t know what to do. Neither my dog nor the man has seen me yet. How could Hercules let a stranger into the apartment? That’s kind of the whole point of owning a Great Dane. They’re supposed to protect you from random strangers who break into your place.
I desperately look around for a weapon. All I find is an empty wine bottle on the coffee table. I pick it up by the neck and wield it like a sword. But hitting him with it means getting close. If I don’t knock him out right away, he could turn around and grab me. I decide to sneak toward the door instead. My keys are in the kitchen, and so is my phone and purse, so I can’t call 911, but if I can get out of the apartment without being seen, I could run to a neighbor and get help.
I take a step toward the door. The floor squeaks. Both the man and Hercules turn around and see me. I imagine I look like a deer caught in headlights. I blink. Without thinking, I throw the wine bottle at the guy’s head. I miss and it shatters on the cupboard next to him. His eyes grow wide and he ducks as glass shards rain down around him. When he stands back up and looks at me, he looks confused, and a little angry. Shit.
“What the hell?” he says, his eyes narrow, voice a deep rasp that is both frightening and hot at the same time. The thought of his sexy voice is both jolting and fleeting. How can I possibly be thinking something like that when he could very well be here to kill me, or worse … “You almost hit me!”
“I was trying to!” I yell at him.
I turn to run for the door, but Hercules is in the way and I trip over him and land on my knees. The sound my skin makes against the laminate floors is like clean Tupperware and feels like someone took a cheese grater to my knees. The pain hardly registers over my fear, but I know I’ll be feeling it later—or not, if this man decides to cut me up in tiny pieces. My scraped knees might end up being the least of my worries.
The man moves, to either help me up or block my way—I’m not sure. I glance at Hercules. Get him you traitorous mutt! But the damn dog just sits there, his tongue lolled out, wagging his tail like the big happy ray of sunshine that he is.
The man is close enough to touch now and my fear makes my vision blur. I hold out my hands as if that might keep him away. To my surprise he stops and just looks at me with an expression that’s hard to read. Is that concern? I don’t know. It’s hard to say. It could very well be the kind of look a serial killer gives his victim when deciding whether to strangle or stab.
“Who the hell are you and why are you in my apartment?” I demand, my voice failing to sound as confident as I was hoping.
“You’re joking, right?” he says.
There’s something about him that looks familiar, but I’m not sure why. I don’t know men who look like him. Everyone I know is terribly average. He looks like he could be an actor or a model.
“No, I’m not joking. I feel these are the appropriate questions to ask when a strange person breaks into your apartment.”
His smile comes as a surprise. What’s even more surprising is how appealing I find it. The white arch of his teeth is like a halo in his mouth and does lovely things to his face. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle gives him a friendly, open look.
He finds this funny? What kind of sick person is he? Oh God, what if he’s smiling as he imagines what I look like with my skin peeled off? I feel sick. Last night’s alcohol isn’t sitting well at all.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask—no, I demand. My voice is firmer this time, and the tremor that was there before is gone.
“You don’t remember last night, do you?” he says.
Last night? Shit, what happened last night?
“I don’t remember much about last …” My words trail off.
The answer backhands me in the face and I realize why this man looks so familiar.
“You’re Ram Bed Shaker,” I say. It sounds ridiculous to say out loud.
He must think so too. His smile is almost shy when he raises his arms. “An unfortunate nickname, but it is what it is. I’ve learned to embrace it.”
An unfortunate nickname, yes, but well deserved according to my friend Gina. After she told me about seeing Evan with that woman, and she heard how upset I was, she told me about a guy with the Instagram handle of Bed-Shaker, a well-endowed man with a reputation for being incredible in the sack, and a cure for a broken heart—or at least a distraction. I remember going through his Instagram photos and becoming hypnotized by his breathtaking good looks, and that smile … I’d gone weak in the knees.
I also remember that he’d saved a boy from drowning yesterday. It was all over the comments. A hero and a hottie? Double threat. I wanted him in the worst way. There was an instant animal attraction when I saw his photos, impossible to deny.
“A friend showed me your Instagram account and told me about your reputation, but why are you here?” I ask.
Oh my god, did Gina tell him about me? Did she give him my address?
“You texted me,” he says.
“What?” I don’t remember that part.
“Check your phone,” he says, that sly smile still on his face like he knows a secret that I don’t. Butterflies instantly rise in my chest. What the hell did I text him?
I look at my purse on the counter beside him with my phone in it. Since my memory is shit right now, I resign myself to the fact that I might be the reason he’s in my apartment. But that doesn’t mean I trust him any more than I would if he were a stranger who broke in.
I carefully make my way toward my purse. He’s standing in the way.
“My phone is in my purse,” I say, pointing at it.
Still with that cocky, beautiful smile. He looks at my open purse. “I see that.”
“I need to get by you.”
“Okay,” he says, but doesn’t move.
He knows I’m asking him to move in a roundabout way, but he’s playing with me and refuses to budge. Pressing my lips together, I push past him. Our bodies rub together and my arm, where our skin touches, feels as though it’s been set ablaze. I shiver. I’m utterly confused by my body’s reaction to him. I bump into people at the mall and grocery store all the time, but it never feels like that.
I grab my phone and step away as fast as I can. When I look at him, he’s staring at me with a strange look on his face, a mixture of curiosity and confusion. I wonder if he felt it too, that spark between us. I try to brush it off as static, but I’m not so sure that was it.
Unlocking my
phone, I look at my texts. First I look at the texts Gina sent last night. She’d asked me if I wanted Ram’s number in case I was interested in his services. I told her I wasn’t, but she gave me his phone number just in case I changed my mind. I guess when I got drunk enough, I changed my mind. I roll my eyes. I’m the worst drunk person ever.
Next I check on my texts to Evan. Thank fuck and all that’s holy I didn’t text Evan too … oh God, no. No, no, no. Panic rips through me when I see that, no, I didn’t text Evan’s personal cell phone: I texted his work phone. With shaking hands, I open the text next to the company name and nearly scream when I see a picture of me in my pink bra and panties, the same ones I woke up in this morning. There’s no reply from Evan, but there’s a little icon in the corner saying it’s been read. Fuck. Fuck my life.
I’m going to throw up. How can this be happening? I’ll have to move out of town, join a traveling carnival, or get plastic surgery to alter my appearance. I’m not even joking—maybe I’m being dramatic, but I’m definitely not joking. I’m going to be the only person in recorded human history to actually die from humiliation.
“You all right?” Ram says.
I look up at him. The skin between his eyes knits with concern. I have no words so I just nod my head.
Since this day can’t possibly get much worse, I look at the texts between me and Ram and the blood rushes to my face, my cheeks blazing.
Cum ovr an fuk me. I wrote that… Oh look, I sent more pictures. The same ones I sent Evan. Real fucking nice. I wonder how many other people I sent them to. I’m such an incredible idiot. Well, at least they weren’t nudes. That’s the only ray of light shining through this shit storm.
