by Mia Kayla
“Okay, no red.” He picked up the pink shirt. “I’m not one of those guys who can pull off pink? Interesting. I thought I was.”
I looked from the pink shirt to his perfectly placed hair and to the Hugo Boss polo he was wearing. “Never mind. Pink suits you. I mean, you are metrosexual.”
“I’ll take this one.” He handed the pink shirt to the saleslady.
As he glided farther down the aisle to a pile of shorts, I followed behind him as I noticed the two women from before were roaming around to the other side, staying in his plain view. I found it humorous that they were both vying for his attention. I raised my eyebrows toward them, and once they caught my stare, they looked away. I bet they thought I was his girlfriend.
“So, friend, where are we going for lunch?” I asked loudly, emphasizing the word friend, as I gave him a brotherly shove on his shoulder.
He regarded me and furrowed his eyebrows, most likely at the increase in my tone. “Anywhere you want.” He lifted up two pairs of khaki shorts. “Which one?”
“I like the ones you’re wearing now.” I laughed because the shorts in his hands matched exactly to what he was currently wearing.
“Funny girl. No, it’s different.” He held both shorts against his own. “There is a difference in the material. See?”
I compared the three pairs of shorts. One was a tad bit lighter, but I could only tell the contrast between them by looking closely.
“Seriously, Kent?” I gave him the most incredulous look as I stepped up to him and took hold of the shorts. “They’re the same. Khaki is khaki. It might be different material than yours, but the color is very similar to the ones you’re wearing. Also, I think the two you picked up are the same shorts. There is no difference in color here.”
Smiling, he grabbed the shorts from me. “No attention to detail, Beth.” He handed them to the saleslady. “I’ll take both,” he said, amusement in his tone.
“You know you just bought two of the same thing. You probably have two more of those pink shirts at home, too.”
He shrugged.
“You do, don’t you?” I wondered what his closet looked like, and I had no doubt that this well-dressed, metrosexual male had more clothes than most of the women in this store. I glanced at my watch, noting the time. “Although I love being your personal shopper, I have to go back to work. My lunch break is almost over.”
“I already have a personal shopper, who works at Neiman Marcus. I made the mistake of sleeping with her, and it didn’t work out too well.”
He turned to the register before seeing the appalled look I was giving him.
“Wait, let me pay first, and I’ll walk you back. I told you I’d get lunch,” he said, placing his black AmEx on top of the counter.
I waited outside the store, leaning against the red brick building. I lifted my head again to enjoy the sunshine one last time before I had to step back into the office.
Kent strolled his way toward me, holding the bag of purchases in his one hand. “Not bad, Miss Beth—one shirt, two pairs of shorts, and a phone number.”
“You got Miss Pretty Brunette’s phone number?” I asked. My eyes widened in shock.
I didn’t know why I was surprised. She had practically stripped in front of him.
“Yes, I did. Do you wish it were you?” He took my arm and linked it through his.
“No, I prefer to avoid sexually transmitted diseases, thank you very much.”
I stuck my tongue out at him, and his dimple appeared. We strolled down the street, comfortably connected by our arms. I found it odd that just a few days ago I hated this spoiled brat next to me and now, we were friends. There was a part of him, maybe his honest humor, that reminded me of Kendy.
“My mother enjoys shopping as much as I do, and I have to admit, I love spoiling her,” he said, breaking me from my thoughts.
His eyes lit up as he spoke of his mother, and part of me was curious to meet her.
“I should take you shopping sometime,” he added.
“Uh, no.” I rolled my eyes at him. “That’s not going to happen. Friends just don’t take friends on shopping sprees. It’s not normal.” I wondered if it was typical for the elite to take turns splurging on each other. “You get this friendship,” I motioned between us with one hand, “for free.” My eyes moved to the time shown on a nearby clock tower. “But you can buy me lunch. I’ll let you do that. Really, I have to go though. I don’t have time to eat out, so I’ll have to eat at my desk.”
I hurried and tugged him forward. We ended up in line at a taco place. Kent motioned for me to order first.
“I’ll have two tacos, a nacho supreme, and a side of rice. Oh, and please give me a glass of horchata,” I looked at Kent and back at the cashier, “and a churro for later. All to go, please.” I wrinkled my nose at his amused smile.
“You know, it’s cheaper to buy you clothes than to support your food habit,” he said while turning to pay.
“Shut up,” I whined.
So what if I have a healthy-eating habit? I wasn’t the typical girl who counted calories and watched what she ate. If I wanted a cupcake, hell yeah, I’d have that cupcake without even thinking twice. Where other people my age could throw back beers, I could eat and loved doing it.
“If I didn’t see you eat before, then I wouldn’t believe you could finish it all. With all you eat, it’s amazing you are not obese. Tell me, Beth, where does it go?”
“I just have a fast metabolism.” I replied.
After the cashier called out our number, we grabbed our food and strolled our way back to One Financial.
“Next week is restaurant week. I’ve scheduled us lunch on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I had to book these things early as reservations fill up quickly,” he said, squinting at his calendar on his phone.
“And when were you going to ask me?” I took the bag full of food from his hands. “Thanks for assuming that I had no plans.”
“Well, you don’t. You can’t possibly. You don’t know many people here yet, and I only wanted to go with you because you can eat. You eat like a horse actually.” He laughed at his own joke that he thought was funny. “Plus, I know you can’t turn down three good meals.”
He looked to me, and I shrugged.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Food is my weakness.” I gave him a quick smile, a half hug, and walked inside the bank.
Out the door of One Financial, I began strolling home after work when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I pulled one earbud from my ear and wheeled around to see all-American Brian Burcham standing behind me.
“Hey, where you headed?” he asked.
There was something about a man in a suit. He looked professional and adorable all at the same time. I blushed at my inward thought.
“Nowhere special. Just going home.”
“I’m walking you home. You might get lost.” He reached for my laptop bag and carried it over his shoulder.
“I live four blocks away from here. I think I’ll manage.”
He had the most boyish grin on his face, and I didn’t want to tell him no. There was no wonder this man was in sales. I’m sure it was hard for his own customers to tell him no especially with a convincing face like his.
“Well, I’ve heard it’s quite dangerous here in Chicago. As a man of honor, I have to make sure you’re safe,” he said, placing his free hand on his heart.
“Okay.” I nodded and crossed the street while he followed.
“So, where were you today for lunch? Caroline was terribly disappointed that you didn’t show up.”
“I went shopping with a friend. Totally my fault that I didn’t even tell Caroline.”
I mentally kicked myself. I’d been having lunch with Caroline almost every day, and I’d forgotten to tell her about my surprise shopping date. Brian had joined us a couple of times when he wasn’t on a customer lunch.
“I’m just playin’. Caroline went on a customer call. I, on the other hand, was waiting fo
r you all alone at our lunchroom table.” He frowned slightly and looked to the ground, feigning sadness.
I had an urge to take my finger and lift his pouty lip. He was truly adorable—an all-American man package wrapped up in a suit. It wasn’t that he was just good eye candy, but the fact that he was such a motivated go-getter added to his appeal. Management loved him and not because he brownnosed with the bigwigs. It was because he worked hard, loved his job, and had fun doing it.
But we worked together, and although this flirting back and forth was fun, work was the single most important thing for me. What I didn’t want to do was mix business with boys.
“Brian, listen—” I stopped. What if he is like this toward everyone? I didn’t want to assume he was interested.
“I’m listening,” he said, waiting for me to speak.
“Brian, well, um…we’re friends, right?” I lifted my eyebrows to make sure he knew what I was trying to say.
He lifted his eyebrows to mimic mine. “Friends? Sure, unless you want to be ‘friends-friends’”—he made air quotes, “which is all right with me.”
I laughed at him and his boyish grin. Just so I was clear, I took the more formal and direct approach. “Brian, we work together, and I don’t date coworkers.”
He took his thumb and forefinger and ran them against his chin. We were stopped at a light as the bluest of blue eyes squinted down at me. I felt the first of the butterflies fluttering in my stomach as he stared at me intensely.
“What?” I laughed at his look of concentration.
“I’m debating if I should quit.”
I hit him on the shoulder. “You’re so crazy.” The crosswalk sign turned to walk so I continued to cross the street.
“So, if you don’t date coworkers, how about a drink after work?” he asked, catching up to me. “Next weekend. As friends.”
I couldn’t hide the incredulous look I gave him.
He continued, “It’s Tim’s retirement party. A bunch of people from work will be going. Caroline might even go.”
We were stopped in front of my apartment as I stared at his charming face. His eyes were the deepest set of crystal blue.
“Come on, Beth, I can’t attack you in front of all those people. It will be fun.”
I grabbed my laptop bag from him. “Fine, I’ll go, but strictly as friends.”
He smiled again, and my breath caught. I waved to him before I stepped inside my apartment as I secretly wished he wasn’t off-limits.
Saturday afternoon, the aroma of fresh basil and tomatoes filled my one-bedroom apartment. I was multi-tasking—cooking dinner and watching reruns of my favorite reality TV show. Slowly lifting the wooden spoon from the saucepan, I tasted my concoction. The loud banging from the door caused me to drop the spoon, spilling hot spaghetti sauce on my leg before it hit the floor.
“Open up! I know you’re in there.”
I froze, no longer concerned with my burned leg. My heart pounded loudly in my ears as my pulse accelerated.
“Open the door. Now! I know you’re in there, and I’m not leaving till you open up.”
My hands started to sweat and my eyes scanned the room as though someone would miraculously appear to save me.
The banging on the door continued, and I knew my neighbors down the hall could hear all of this. I took quick deep breaths through my mouth and out my nose, to try and calm myself.
“Open up now!”
Maybe he has me mistaken for someone else.
“I hear the TV. Open up the door.”
Crap. I closed my eyes tightly and tried to think of what to do.
Embarrassment gave out over fear. Before his abrasiveness caused me more embarrassment on my floor—where I’d wanted a new start, where I had been living for less than a month, and where all these people did not know about all the havoc in my life—I decided to open the door. And as soon as I did, I regretted it.
Every muscle in my body tensed as a tall, burly man with a goatee stood in front of me. The only barrier between us was the chain lock that I was peering over. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d come straight over from the county jail. He’d come here to do damage. I was sure of it.
I gave him my meanest face and mustered all I had inside as I said, “What do you want?” My voice was firm and powerful, opposite of what I was truly feeling—ultimate fear.
“You’re gonna let me in, and I’m gonna tell you what I want.”
My heartbeat resonated in my ears. Haven’t I seen this scenario in movies? This was the part where the serial killer cut up his victim before putting her in the fridge or scattering the body all over the city. “No way. You’re not coming in here.”
Mr. Goatee pushed at the door, the chain now taut. “Don’t tempt me to use force.”
“Stop,” I said, my voice wavering. I used my foot to prevent the door from opening farther. “Tell me what you want.”
“Open the damn door, woman!”
Mr. Goatee shoved the door, and I jumped back.
He shifted toward me and I flinched. “I’m here to collect a debt.”
Shit. The mob.
My clammy hands pushed at the door with all my might, but Mr. Goatee placed his steel-toed boot in the crack to stop it.
“You’re pissing me off, lady,” he said, his eyes hard. “Give me the car, and I’ll leave you alone.”
I took in his words and took a step back. “What car?” I asked, peering up at him and noting all the tattoos that lined his neck.
“The Chevy. You haven’t paid on it in six months,” he said, leaning toward me.
“Wait a minute,” I said, realization setting in. I placed my palm against my forehead. “Shit,” I muttered.
“You bought a car six months ago, brand new, and you haven’t paid on it.”
“Hold on.” I left the door and snatched my mace out of my laptop bag.
Unchaining the door, I stepped to the side and let him in. I held the mace in full view and tilted my head back to take in all of the six-foot, large and in charge, scary guy. If he hurt me, I’d mace him in the face and scream till my lungs fell out. It wouldn’t even matter anyway because I was sure Mr. Goatee could break my neck in one swift move, if he wanted to.
“Where are the keys to the car?” he pressed, stepping closer.
“I don’t have them. It was never my car. I cosigned with my mom—I mean, Jamie,” I stuttered. “I don’t have the car. It’s back in Bowlesville.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, aggressively inching forward.
I backed away until I felt the wall against me, until I couldn’t move any further, stuck in between the slab of concrete behind me and the massive male in front of me. “Stop. Don’t move an inch, or I swear to God, I’ll mace this whole can into your face,” I hated how everything came down to this whenever Jamie brought me into her drama.
“I told you, I swear, I don’t have it. Do you think I need a car in downtown Chicago? I walk everywhere. I work four blocks away. I have no need for a car here. I cosigned with my deadbeat mom because she didn’t have good credit to get a car on her own,” I said, my voice firm and shoulders tense. “Now, leave. Look for that car in Bowlesville, and I hope you get it.”
His eyes narrowed, studying me. I steadied myself against the door as I tried to calm my already shot nerves.
“If you’re lying, I’ll be back,” he said as he peered down at me.
My eyes locked with his. I didn’t break eye contact so he knew I was telling the truth. “You won’t because I’m not.”
When he left, my legs gave out underneath me. I slumped against the door, slid to the floor, and released the breath that I’d been holding. I felt tired all of a sudden, the rush of adrenaline no longer present.
“Crap. My spaghetti.” I got up and jolted to the stove.
My sauce was burned. My eyes focused on the dark crusted sauce at the bottom of my pan and at that moment, I wanted to cry. I flipped
off the stove and placed both hands at the edge of the counter, head hanging low.
Why is my drama from Bowlesville leaking into my new life in Chicago?
I stood there for a minute before grabbing my cell phone. I called Kendy first, but her phone went straight to voice mail. I huffed with frustration. I needed someone to vent to, and I needed to be out of my apartment—now.
When Caroline’s phone also went straight to voice mail, I left a message. “Caroline, it’s Beth. Wondering what you are doing tonight. Want to go out with the new girl for a drink? Call me back, and let me know.”
I didn’t want to call Brian and lead him on any further, so I called Kent.
He answered on the first ring.
“Hey, I’m calling in my friendship card,” I said, staring at my failed spaghetti on the stove. The smell of burned sauce filled my nose. “What are you doing tonight? I can’t stay here.”
Somehow, I could feel his slight smile through the phone.
“I’m sure you called everyone down your short list. What? They didn’t answer?” he asked.
I laughed. “Actually, yes, no one answered. Anyway, do you want to hang out tonight or not?” I instantly wished I hadn’t called but there was no way I could just hang up on him now.
“Sure, Beth.” He paused before he continued, “I’m going clubbing tonight. Small-town girl, you think you can handle that?”
“Listen, buddy, you don’t know me or what I’ve been through. I’m sure I can handle going out with you.”
“I’ll pick you up at eleven,” he said.
“See you then,” I said before hanging up the phone.
I shuffled to the bathroom to get myself ready to hit the club.
Punctual, Kent had picked me up exactly at eleven. I’d settled on wearing a jean skirt and a black halter-top and felt satisfied with the only fancy outfit I had in my closet besides my suits.
“I don’t get it,” Kent said, his face perplexed as he drove through traffic in downtown Chicago.
“I told you, she’s a deadbeat mother. She left me with Nana when I was six and ran away with one of her boyfriends. She came back when I was eighteen. I thought she wanted a new start, but her habits hadn’t changed.”
