The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series)

by Tami Anthony

  “I can do tonight then,” I tell her. “Where should I meet him?”

  “Le Bec Fin in Center City,” she tells me. Ugh, French food. I could just die.

  “Le Bec Fin is fine,” I tell her.

  “Great, so at nine o’clock you can meet him there,” she says. “You’ll know it’s him because he’ll be the best looking guy in the room. His name is Sal by the way.”

  “Sal?” I ask. Like Sally? “It sounds good to me then.”

  “OK, I’ll let him know,” Selena says. “Good luck!” We end the call. I look at everyone in the room.

  “I have a date tonight!” I say sticking out my tongue. “My video is good! Beat that, bitches!”

  “I’m surprised,” Karen says. “It should be fun.”

  “Yup!” I say. “And we’re meeting at a very fancy restaurant,” I brag.

  “Le Bec Fin,” they all say in unison.

  “Yeah, Les, we heard you loud and clear,” Karen says.

  “Well, speaking of dates,” Eric says, “I should get going. I’m meeting up with this little Italian number and she’s a hot one.” I cringe. Why am I cringing? Why should I even care what Eric does? Maybe it’s just the way he said his date was just a number, another notch on the belt. Typical manwhore shenanigans.

  “Well, I’m going to get ready for my blind date and he’s a hot number, too,” I say to Eric.

  “Good,” he says.

  “Good,” I repeat. “OK, well I’m going to take a shower,” I announce.

  “You want company?” Mike asks me.

  “No,” I say, disgusted. Is he serious?

  “That’s fine,” he tells me. “I have a hot date myself with the neighbor next door.”

  “Eww, Shrek?” Karen asks. “I can’t believe that you’re dating her. Ugh!”

  “Well now that we’ve established all of our hot dates, I’m going to get ready,” I say as I walk past everyone in the living room. Tonight will be the night for romance. I can guarantee it!

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I’m the lady in red tonight. Red is making its fashion comeback, I can sense it. I found the cutest firetruck red V-neck dress in my closet that I didn’t even know that I had and I’ve successful paired it with my Louboutins. I’m smoking hot tonight. No one can touch me without getting burned … OK, maybe that’s overdoing it, but I do look good. I let my hair down in very loose waves … I’m sexing it up tonight!

  I decided to take a cab to Le Bec Fin and meet my date, Sal, there. I didn’t want to drive my car for obvious reasons. Truth be told, it shouldn’t matter what kind of car I drive, but to spare me the embarrassment, a taxi cab it is.

  As I pull up to the restaurant, my stomach fills with butterflies. Why am I nervous? It’s not like I’ve never been on a date before, but then again, it’s never been a blind date … or a date where the guy knows what I look like before I know what he looks like. I exit the cab, pull my dress down (I’ll probably be doing a lot of that tonight), and walk inside the restaurant.

  Fabulous, I think to myself, just fabulous. Probably the most gorgeous restaurant that I’ll ever visit in my life. From its gold chandeliers to its classical French motif, it is more than I ever expected for a first date, and here I look like a hooker. My dress stands out in the crowd of patrons waiting to be seated. I walk up to the hostess and smile.

  “Hi,” I say. “I am meeting someone here for dinner.”

  “What’s your party’s name?” she asks.

  “Sal,” I tell her. I didn’t even get his last name. Maybe that’s against the rules of Lonely Hearts.

  She looks on her list of reservations. “Is that a first name or last name?”

  “First name,” I say as she continues to look on the list.

  “I found it,” she says. “Right this way, Miss.” She leads me through the dining area to the very last table in the corner. “This is your table. Enjoy,” she says as she walks away. Sal is at the table facing the opposite direction. From the back, he looks good. Dark hair, nice suit, a bouquet of roses on the table … I’m assuming they are for me, of course.

  “Sal?” I ask and the man turns around in his seat. If perfection was created on Earth, it would be Sal. He is gorgeous. From his caramel skin to his perfect brown eyes and perfect smile, metrosexual for sure. Then I begin to wonder. It hits me as he rises out of his seat: he looks a lot like my ex-fiancé, Victor. Oh my God, I think to myself. It’s Déjà vu! OK, maybe not Déjà vu, but more like something out of a parallel universe. This cannot be. Are all these Victor clones the only ones attracted to me?

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he greets me as he takes my hand and kisses it. He picks up the roses from the table and hands them to me. “I thought you would like these.”

  I blush. “Thank you,” I say. “They match my dress.” I can’t think of anything else to say. I’m so embarrassed. Should I worry that he looks like Victor? Should I run?

  Sal pulls out the chair for me and I sit down. He smiles at me. “You are stunning,” he tells me. “You are better looking in person than in the video.” I guess he knows that compliments and flattery will get you everywhere. I can’t help myself. I’m loving the attention.

  “Thank you,” I reply. “And I love your suit. It’s very sharp.”

  “Thank you,” he says. “I picked it out myself.” He looks around the room then turns back to me. “So we should start off with some appetizers and some wine, perhaps?”

  “That would be lovely,” I answer and he snaps his fingers in the air. The waiter rushes over to our table.

  “What can I get for the most stunning couple in the room?” the waiter asks. Sal looks over his shoulder, then back at the waiter.

  “Can we have the Escargots Cassolette and the Roasted Petit Beets as an appetizer?” Sal asks the waiter.

  “Very well, sir, and your wine of choice?” the waiter asks.

  Sal looks over his shoulder yet again, and then looks at me and smiles. “The Bourgogne Blanc if you have it,” he answers.

  “Right away, sir,” the waiter says and scoots off. Sal looks around the room again. He turns back to the table and scrunches his body down in the chair.

  I laugh. “Is there something wrong?” I ask him and he shakes his head. “You seem a bit paranoid.” Oh shit, he must be married. Only married guys are as paranoid as he is.

  “No, not paranoid,” he tells me and I raise an eyebrow.

  “Are you married?” I ask him hoping that this isn’t true. What if he’s married to another crazy bat lady? God, would that suck.

  “No, I’m not married,” he says as he takes a menu and covers his face.

  “Oh,” I answer. “It seems like your mind is somewhere else.”

  “Can you excuse me for a second?” he asks. “I need to go to the men’s room.” Without even waiting for an answer, he rushes off in the wrong direction.

  “Sal, the men’s room is that way!” I call after him, pointing in the right direction but he keeps walking the other way. Did he just ditch me? Was I just dumped not even five minutes into our date? What a fuckin’ douchebag!

  “Excuse me, miss?” a man says walking up to my table in navy blue slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a blue stained tie. He definitely does not belong in this restaurant, at least not while he’s wearing that.

  “Yes?” I ask as another man approaches my table.

  “Was that Salvatore Giavanni you were sitting with?” he asks me.

  “Excuse me?” I say confused.

  “Sal!” the other man says. “Was that Sal Giavanni you were sitting with?”

  “I don’t know his last name,” I answer. “I guess so.”

  “You guess so?” the man asks me snidely.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “I just met him tonight.”

  The two men look at each other, then at me. “Lady, was that Sal Giavanni, the mob boss, that you were sitting with?”

  “I don’t know!” I exclaim. “Stop giving me the third deg
ree. Who are you?”

  “Detective Cook and Detective Elliott of the FBI,” the other man tells me. I rise from my seat with my purse hoping to get away from these crazy men.

  “Look,” I start, “I don’t know what you’re looking for and quite frankly, I don’t care. I was on a date with this man named Sal who obviously just dissed me for no apparent reason whatsoever. So now I would just like to go home and forget this night ever happened so if you gentlemen would excuse me …” I try to walk pass the detectives and one of them grabs my arm. I glare at him. “What are you doing?”

  “We’d like to ask you a few more questions,” the detective tells me. “For verification purposes.”

  I swing away my arm. “I already told you that I don’t know anything about this guy so if you can excuse me, I’d like to go home right now.” I push pass both detectives and begin to walk quickly through the dining room. I can hear the detectives’ footsteps not far behind me. One of the men grabs my arm again and doesn’t let go. “Are you crazy?!” I exclaim. “Stop harassing me! I already told you that I don’t know anything.”

  He pulls out his handcuffs and puts both of my arms in the back of me. “You’re under arrest, Miss.”

  “Under arrest?” I ask. “For what? I didn’t do anything!”

  “For resisting arrest, prostitution, and the association of criminal conspiracy,” the other says to me.

  “The association of criminal conspiracy?” I ask. “Are you serious?”

  “Come with us,” the detective says. “We have more questions to ask you about your friend.” They begin to walk me through the dining room in my handcuffs. The other patrons look at me like I’m some sort of disgusting rodent ruining their meals. It’s the walk of shame that I’m taking, the worst walk in the world. I can’t believe this! I’m getting arrested over a guy that I don’t even know. How is this even possible?

  As we walk outside, I growl at the officers. “You’re both gonna pay for this,” I tell them. “My daddy’s a retired judge in Philadelphia and he will get you both fired.”

  The officers laugh at me as they push me into the police car. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what all the hookers say,” one of them tell me.

  “Give that story to someone who cares,” the other chimes in and shuts the car door. I look out the window at the outside of the fancy restaurant and wish that I never endured this night at all.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “Don’t I get a phone call?!” I yell through the metal bars of the holding cell. I still can’t believe these assholes arrested me when I didn’t even do anything wrong. I’m innocent just like O.J! Okay, maybe not like O.J. because who really knows if he’s innocent or not, but still. This is ridiculous! How did I end up in jail? Me, Leslee Robinson, former straight-A student and paralegal. When did my life take a turn for the worse? And these conditions? Dirty, nasty silver toilets that haven’t been cleaned in over a decade connected to an even more filthy water fountain. And this bed isn’t even a bed! It’s just a thick metal sheet attached to the wall with no blanket and no mattress. What am I, some type of animal? And to top it all off, I’ve been in here for what seems like hours and I haven’t gotten my damn phone call yet! Ugh!

  “Officers, I need to make a phone call!” I yell. “Please! Someone let me out so I can use the phone!”

  A female officer walks to the outside of my cell and looks me up and down. She smirks at me. “You’re a prostitute, aren’t you?” she asks me.

  “No, I’m not a prostitute,” I snap. “I’m a law abiding citizen that doesn’t deserve to be here.”

  “That’s what they all say,” she tells me.

  “Yeah, well it’s true,” I say to her. “I need to make a phone call. I need to call my dad so he can just fix this little issue we have going on here and I can be released, so if you just let me out, I can do that, please?”

  “Look,” she starts, “it’s almost feeding time. Do you want a cheese sandwich and some water?”

  “No, I don’t want a freakin’ cheese sandwich!” I exclaim. “I want to call my dad so he can get me out of here.”

  The woman just stares at me. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” she says.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because there’s another inmate on the phone already,” she tells me. “You’re gonna have to wait like everyone else.”

  “But I’m not everyone else. I’m Wayne Robinson’s daughter! He’s a retired judge.”

  “I don’t care who you are. You could be Obama’s daughter and you’re still gonna have to wait for your phone call.”

  “Fine,” I snap and plop down on my metal bed which isn’t the best idea. Not only am I locked up, but now my ass hurts. This doesn’t get any better.

  “You’ve got company, hooker,” an officer says as she opens up my cell and pushes three other women in with me. They’re overgrown, scary, dirty women who are way past their eyebrow waxing sessions and hair appointments. One of them doesn’t even look like a woman. She’s more ape-like than anything. I gulp.

  “Hi,” I say, smiling. “Welcome to cell number nine.” One of the women pulls down her pants, sits on the toilet, and pees. She’s obviously drunk because she begins to sway back and forth on the toilet seat. I see a mouse scurry across the floor and I jump. I grab onto the jail bars and begin to yell some more. “This isn’t even sanitary!” I say. “You have a rodent problem! This isn’t safe for anyone, not even the common criminal!”

  Another guard walks pass my cell and I attempt to reach out to her. “Officer, I need to use the phone!” I say quickly and she ignores me. Why am I being ignored? Are these what the conditions are in jail? I’d rather be homeless than live in these cells.

  The guard walks back to my cell and opens it. “Leslee Robinson, you can make your phone call now,” she tells me and I sigh a breath of relief.

  “Thank God!” I say aloud as I rush out of my cell.

  “Robinson?” a woman from my cell says. “Are you the daughter of Wayne Robinson?” she asks me.

  “Why?” I ask as the guard shuts the cell door.

  “My sister was locked up by Judge Robinson.”

  “Really?” I ask. “What did your sister do?”

  “She killed her husband after she found him cheating,” she tells me. “That motherfucker gave my sister twenty years to life.”

  “Well, your sister probably deserved it,” I say.

  “What did you just say?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly fearing the consequences of my big mouth. “Officer, can we go?” I whisper as the officer pulls me to the phone area.

  “Three minutes,” the officer tells me. “That’s all you get.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I reply. This place is so disgusting. I can’t believe that even mice live here. There has to be cleaner places for rodents to live.

  I pick up the phone to collect call my father. He’s gonna be so pissed at me.

  “Hello?” my dad answers.

  “Dad, it’s me,” I say. “Don’t be mad.”

  “Do you know what time it is, daughter?” he asks me, obviously irritated.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “One in the morning, maybe?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Now, Dad, don’t get mad,” I say. “I only have three minutes to talk.”

  “What? Where are you?”

  I begin to sob. “Daddy, I’m in jail and I scared as shit right now!” I say, screeching.

  “You’re WHAT?!” he yells through the phone. “Jail? What in God’s name did you do?”

  “Daddy, I didn’t do anything! I’m innocent!” I yell through tears.

  “Calm down,” he tells me. “Which jail are you at?”

  I sniffle for dramatic effect. “The one on Race Street,” I tell him. “Get me out of here! These women are crazy and they tried to feed me bad cheese sandwiches!”

  “All right,” he tells me. “I’ll call the chief of police and he’ll get
you out of there.”

  “If I don’t make it out of here,” I start, “I just want you to know that I love you, Daddy!”

  “You’ll be fine. It’s just a bunch of drug users and prostitutes in there,” he reassures me, but I beg to differ. Why do the women (dare I even call them women?) in my cell look like they’ve just killed someone?

  “Daddy, hurry!” I say as the young Leslee emerges in my voice.

  “I’ll be there. I’ll call the chief of police.”

  “Thank you,” I say and I hang up the phone. I wipe away the tears from my face to try and toughen myself up. The officer walks me back to my cell, pushes me in, and locks the door. I just gulp. “So, um, what are you in for?” I stutter, trying to use the jailbird lingo.

  “I set my ex-boyfriend’s house on fire,” the woman on the toilet says. Psycho pyromaniac.

  “I left my kid in the car in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart,” another one says. Responsible ‘Mother of the Year’…not.

  “I slit some bitch’s face with a razor,” the last one says. Crazy, dramatic, overly tempered assclown. “What are you in for?” She looks me up and down. “Let me guess: prostitution?” she asks and they all laugh at me.

  “No,” I say quietly as I sit on the metal bed. “I’m a sociopath and a serial killer,” I tell them and they look at me in awe. “I killed three cops with my bare hands tonight, and then I ate their legs for dinner.” Yup, I’m totally hardcore. I could never kill anyone, but I damn sure can pretend. The women move away from me in fear and decide not to look in my direction. Yes, I think to myself, lie to survive, lie to survive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  So, since being back to Philadelphia, I’ve been on this incredible journey to find a man, a boyfriend, my soulmate if you will (all for scientific purposes, of course). On this journey, I’ve taken some pretty drastic measures to complete this never-ending task including speed dating (which has scarred me for life in the worst way—I will never look at my feet the same again), video dating (worst idea in the world which led me to an unlawful arrest) a personal ad in the paper from which I’ve gotten no results, and consistent bar and club hopping which has gotten me nowhere, nowhere! As my final attempt to finding the one, I’ve decided to go ultra technical … OK, maybe it’s not ultra technical, but it is technical. I’ve decided to take my chances online, or as Dr. Phil would say, I am now “fishing with a ‘net.’”