by Holly Rayner
And then the call was over, and I was late to work. Though it hardly mattered—as of now, being late was the least of my worries. Yes, my life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.
***
The next few weeks passed in an anxiety-filled, party-filled blur. Khabib took me everywhere with him: to car shows, Hollywood shoots, meetings.
At first, I accompanied him with shy reticence, trying to casually steer him to the tamer parts of each event, as I had been instructed. We lingered by the food table, avoided the drinks as long as possible. I tried roping him into conversation with any female who looked remotely Middle Eastern and unmarried.
Yet, soon enough, I found myself irresistibly gravitating to the wilder parts along with Khabib too: the exploding spectacles of opening champagne bottles, the blaring dance floors, the delicious masterpieces of cocktails. We went to wrap parties on the weekends, spending the night dancing and drinking until we collapsed into a limo that took us to the next car show. We gulped down coffee and popped sleeping pills like they were going out of style.
And yet, still, every Monday at 7 p.m., I sat down on my rickety kitchen chair and told Ra’id everything. That is, everything, minus a few particular details, such as the drinking and late-night partying. If Khabib’s parents had wanted a good spy, they should have searched for someone with credentials, not some born-and-raised California girl whose closest experience to spying was following her crush home as a pigtailed six-year-old.
Even so, even as I tirelessly detailed every car show, meeting, and wrap party that Khabib and I attended, even with my failed attempts at matchmaking, Ra’id was still unsatisfied.
“There must be something more—you did not see my son disappear with any women? Go into any back room or anything like that?”
To my “No, I’m sorry”, the clean-cut man only frowned.
“Just make sure to be on the lookout for any suitable wives at these functions you go to. Some nice, upstanding woman—there must be some nice Arab women around at these events, no?”
“Maybe,” I said, though mentally I was doing the biggest eye-roll of the century.
Unless Ra’id considered car models or actresses who had posed nude to be “nice Arab women”, then he was sadly out of luck. Still, I promised to do my best, which wasn’t entirely a lie. After all, there were no suitable women for me to foist on Khabib. Though, truthfully, even if there were, I wouldn’t venture to do such a thing, not anymore.
Khabib was different than I had expected, kinder. Now, in my kitchen after my latest “spy video chat” with Ra’id, I sat back and thought of the latest extravagant wrap party we’d gone to, just a few days ago. I’d shown up in the nicest dress I had, a stunning royal blue satin gown.
“I do love that dress,” Khabib had joked, his eyes lingering on me approvingly, “But it seems like I’ve seen it several times these last few weeks—is it the only one you have?”
To my faltering “Yes”, he had almost looked embarrassed, before instead joking, “I guess I don’t pay you enough for a proper Hollywood-ready wardrobe, eh?”
My embarrassed, strangled laugh had been so unconvincing that I’d had no choice but to explain, “My mom, she’s sick. The drugs are expensive.”
At this, Khabib had looked like he was the one who wanted to disappear into the soft velvet carpet underfoot (when I was the one who actually wanted to disappear). He had put his hand on my shoulder.
“Lucy, I…I had no idea. I’m so sorry. Do you…need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
His touch had been warm, gentle, gentler than I’d have thought. That had been the first time he hadn’t spoken to me with his usual smoothness, and his awkwardness had been endearing. I had shaken my head.
“No, I’m fine. Really, it’s…it’s just been a bad month. But thank you.”
I’d put my hand on his, and our gazes had met. For a second, I’d felt the warmth of his hand shoot down the rest of my body with an excited tremble. Sliding his hand away, his gaze still on mine, Khabib had smiled.
“Your concern for your family, I really respect that. Your country is a wonder in many ways. And yet—” a shadow had crossed his face, “In other ways, not so much. The value placed on family, for instance. It seems like most people here do not have it to the same extent as you, and are lonelier. It is refreshing to find that is not universally the case.”
At the admiration in his dark eyes, I had been momentarily speechless. When I’d shifted my gaze away to my hands, I’d found the words.
“Thank you, I…well. My mom’s always been there for me, always been my greatest supporter, my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Feeling tears forming in my eyes, I had moved my hand to brush them away. But it was too late; when my hand had been inches away from my face, Khabib had grabbed it. Catching my surprised, nervous look, he’d put my hand down and patted it.
“Don’t be ashamed of your devotion to your mother. Or anything else, for that matter. Your authenticity is one of the things I like best about you. Lucy, these past few weeks…”
He had fallen silent, then his gaze had flicked to the dance floor. Grabbing my hand, he had grinned.
“What do you say we dance the night away?”
And dance it away we had. We’d moved and grooved until we’d been completely out of breath and our faces had hurt from smiling so much. It had been an unbelievable experience—me in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by gorgeous Hollywood stars and a whole bunch of strangers and yet, despite that, dancing as if I was alone in my room. Dancing as if I was the type of person who went out dancing, who had wild, irreverent fun.
That had been the best night of my life. The best night of my life, just a few days ago. The best night of my life, scattered amidst all the other incredible recent experiences of my life, all of which involved Khabib. There were countless numbers of these: a gala where I’d seen my favorite actress from my favorite sitcom, a car show where I’d had the best pâté I’d ever tasted, a meeting where Khabib had, out of the blue, declared to a roomful of top business executives and high-class investors that to him I was the most valuable person in the room.
Ah yes, Khabib. Who would’ve thought I would’ve been so lucky to work for such a kind man? Although he could sometimes be abrupt, there was no denying how compassionate he could be other times.
Like yesterday, when I’d received an envelope filled with a grand in cash, and the handwritten message: For your future party outfits. When I’d tried to return it, Khabib had pleaded ignorance and refused to take it, despite my insistent requests.
Leaning back further in my kitchen chair, I almost toppled the thing over. At the clattering and re-steadying that followed, Oscar gave a belligerent bark. I sighed, sat on the floor, and started petting him, my whole body still shaking like it had fallen on the floor after all.
Oscar was right. I had to be more careful. Whatever was happening with Khabib, whatever exciting events we were going to, whatever intimate moments we were sharing—he was my boss. My boss, who I was spying on. My boss, who was a notorious womanizer, who apparently had a new girl in his bed every month, if not week. I’d seen myself the way women reacted after he’d spoken to them, or when he’d even just looked at them.
Falling for him, letting my crush develop into anything more, would be nothing short of emotional suicide. If I did end up giving in to my attraction, then I could say goodbye to my job, Khabib’s respect—everything.
I stood up, took my gym membership card off the fridge, and turned it around in my hand. It had been over a month and I still hadn’t used it. Still, it was never too late to try.
So, I threw on my never-before-worn purple leggings and moisture-wicking black shirt. Yes, today I would go to the gym, and tomorrow, I would keep doing my job: helping Khabib in business-related matters. That, and only that. Nothing more.
Chapter Four
Khabib
I woke up at 6 a.m.
as normal, had my usual breakfast while I scanned through the messages on my phone. More business, more girls, the usual. Leona was getting pesky; I’d have to break things off with her even sooner than I’d planned. Tonight, maybe.
After I’d fed Bruno, my dog, his breakfast, I went out onto my balcony. The city was just waking up, with lights flicking on and dozy shapes of people meandering about. Even the sky wasn’t fully bright yet; the sun couldn’t make up its mind about peeking out above the horizon.
I stared at the scene blankly. Strange. The sprawling view of the city was much like the other things in my life: the more I saw them, the less impressive they seemed. Art, movies, friends, girls—it didn’t matter; familiarity bred boredom. Just like today—the same old job, the same old investors, the same old faces.
Except her. Lucy. No, I hadn’t gotten to know her enough yet for her to be relegated “boring” like the others. Not yet. Maybe I’d never get tired of her. Maybe she and I…
No. Get your head on straight. Stick to the routine.
Once I got my sports car on the road, I saw that the streets were empty as I sped through them to work. Yes, it was too early for most. I liked waking up early, getting little sleep. It was easier to get through this life half-awake. Then, responsibilities and tasks were carried out in easy autopilot, wants were simply attained, effortlessly. No use overthinking things.
At work, Lucy underwent her work with a dedicated cheerfulness. When she caught me looking at her, she blushed, then looked away. Poor girl, she didn’t realize it was only a matter of time. I always got what I wanted and, right now, what I wanted was her. So, I let her sit there in her glass office, watched her when I got bored, let her hurry off to wherever she’d have her lunch. I was in no rush; she wasn’t going anywhere.
Today, I left the office late after returning my father’s call. It was the same conversation as usual, with him pleading me to stop the partying, the girls, the late nights, suggesting I pick up a ‘good’ hobby: badminton, golf, whatever. I said the right reassuring words, acted as if I was actually considering what he said. Then, as soon as I hung up the phone, I called Leona.
“Want to meet up?”
“Now?” Her voice was angry and yet, unmistakably, eager.
“Haven’t you missed me?”
“Well, I…”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t.”
“Khabib…”
“I’ll pick you up in 15.”
After I hung up the phone, I reflected that Father was right, really. I should work less, drink less, party less, sleep more, and so on. Yes, he was undeniably right—I should. It would probably make me happier, more relaxed. My father understood this and yet, he didn’t really understand anything at all.
No, to stop would be to die, to have what these past few years had been come crashing around me, to have my whole life fall to my feet. No, I was too far in to stop, too far gone to even try. Once you got started, the only thing to do was keep on going, keep on going until the bitter end.
When I got to her place, Leona made me wait an extra fifteen minutes, but that was just a show, to punish me. I hadn’t called enough, she’d found out about Kailey or Cassie, she missed me. Nevertheless, when she slid into my car with a put-on pout, there was no denying it: she was excited to see me.
As I drove, however, the line of interrogation began.
“It’s been a while. What have you been up to?”
“Oh, you know, work, play.”
“I heard you got a new personal assistant.”
“Sure did.”
“What happened to the old one?”
“Who knows. My father has his peculiarities; I have mine.”
She sighed and pulled a face. Her arms had remained crossed for the whole ride so far.
I pulled over to the side of the road.
“Leona, baby. I’m happy to see you, but I can’t do this, okay? Just tell me—why are you upset? What’s up?”
Her eyes were like searchlights, scanning my face for the answer of what she hadn’t even asked yet.
“I know.”
“Oh?”
I took her hand and squeezed it. She wrenched it away.
“I know, okay, Khabib? I know.”
I transferred my gaze to the window.
“You know what?”
“About the other women. About Sharon, your old personal assistant. I know, okay?”
I kept my gaze on the window, on the cars zooming past.
“Ah.”
“What, that’s it? No slick denial, no apology, nothing?”
I turned to face her. Her face looked even more harried than her voice had sounded, all one connected system of clenches and bulges.
“What do you want me to say?”
A slap was her answer.
“You jerk. I want you to apologize for leading me on, for having me think that we were ever anything serious, like you actually cared.”
“Leona, honey, I am sorry. I mean, some part of you had to know, though. Seeing each other once a week, if that…hazy future prospects, at best. I mean, I may have been a bit misleading, but you can’t say that you’re entirely surprised.”
Now, Leona looked like she was about to kill me, so I changed tactics.
“Leona. Please. I’m sorry.”
Her sneer only grew.
“Say it like you mean it.”
I turned away and she laughed, a terrible crackling sound.
“God, you really can’t, can you?”
My quiet only spurned her on more.
“You can’t even feel anything at all, can you? You never cared for me, because you haven’t cared for anyone, not in a long time, or ever.”
Her car door opened and I turned around to face her again.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. I’ll walk.”
“Leona—”
“Goodbye, Khabib. I would tell you to go to hell, but by the looks of it, you’re already there.”
And then, she was gone, leaving her words resounding in the car. I exhaled and yet, I felt tenser than when she’d been in there with me.
Leona was wrong; she had to be. I still cared about things—my family, the business, Bruno. Just because I didn’t care about her didn’t mean that I couldn’t. No, she was completely wrong. Yet, as I sped down the freeway in my car, the queasiness in my stomach suggested something else.
Halfway home, I pulled over into a fast food parking lot and called up Gina. She was surprised to hear from me.
“A date, right now?” she replied to my spur-of-the-moment question.
“Yes. I thought of you, and I couldn’t wait.”
A pause, then, “Okay!”
“Great. I’ll pick you up in 15.”
Gina was less than five minutes away, but I needed to sort my head out first. Leona had really put me in a bad mood, the dramatic prima donna. Sure, we might have been on different pages on what we’d wanted, but that was no reason to throw a ridiculous temper tantrum and accuse me of being some kind of sociopath. So what if certain things like girls and nights and drinks had started blurring together? That didn’t mean she was right.
Once I picked Gina up, I started feeling a bit better. She was a nice distraction, laughing at my jokes and delighting in the rooftop bar I took us to. Before I knew it we were back at my place. I almost couldn’t wait, had to have her there and then, release this stupid tension that was all coiled up in me. Bruno eyed her warily as I tossed her onto my bed. He was used to this by now.
Afterwards, as I lay in bed with the Spanish beauty sleeping beside me, I stared into the dark.
I couldn’t sleep. All I could hear were Leona’s words resounding in my head, over and over again: “I would tell you to go to hell, but by the looks of it, you’re already there.”
No matter how I tossed and turned, I couldn’t shoo the phrase from my thoughts. Leona was wrong, clearly. And yet, when I turned to look at Gina beside me, as I swept the chestnut wa
ve of hair off the face of the girl who’d gushed about how much she’d missed me a mere hour ago, I felt nothing.
No, even as I did a mental scan of the women I’d been with these past few months, face after face slipped by inconsequentially. They were all part of a pointless reel, a swapping of one girl I didn’t care about for another. Sure, they were fun, pretty, enjoyable to be with. Yet, the longer I thought about it, the more it hit me—I didn’t really care for any of them.
No, all I could think about and wish was that I was with the girl I hadn’t had yet—my personal assistant. Lucy Morrison.
Chapter Five
Lucy
I had the day off, since Khabib wasn’t going in to the office for some reason. It was a normal, boring day without the excitement of work or Khabib’s company. I played cards with Mom, and she gently chided me about what I was and wasn’t doing.
“Enough of this card-playing with me, why don’t you go out, do something fun? Maybe you’ll meet a cute boy! Ask your friend Sandra to go on the hunt with you.”
I could only roll my eyes at her, so she wouldn’t catch how much her words affected me.
“Sandra has a boyfriend. And I don’t have the time, energy, or prospects for one.”
“Okay, okay, I’m just saying, it wouldn’t kill you to switch it up a little.”
Just like you did, Mom? I almost said, but didn’t.
It was true, though—Dad had been her “switching it up”, her flirting with badness. She’d told me the stories: them racing down the highway on his motorcycle, dancing on street corners, making love on the train track. Yes, Dad had been her “living on the wild side”, her fun, and we all knew how that had ended up. He was gone, and we were alone. Saying that, bringing him up, would be cruel and unnecessary. Mom had enough sadness now as it was.
Still, as I went through the rest of my day, Mom’s words kept coming back to me. As I went to my usual grocery store, picked up the usual bread, ham, eggs, and blueberries. As I walked Oscar on our same route, as he peed on his favorite tree. Back home, once the TV was on and I sat with a bowl of stir-fry, which I made for dinner every Wednesday, I dared to glance at my calendar, which didn’t have a single personal plan written on it—just work events. I sighed and curled up further under the blanket on my couch. Maybe Mom was right.
