Screwed

by Kendall Ryan

  Beth carries a platter of baked chicken into the dining room and sets it in the center of the table. “You want a beer or something?”

  “Only if you join me.”

  She gives me a sarcastic smirk. “Anything for you.”

  When she returns, she wrangles both kids into their booster seats and sets their plates in front of them. Then she hands me a bottle of beer and a little plate of those crab roll-up things she usually only makes for special occasions or holidays.

  “You’re my favorite sister,” I say, stuffing one into my mouth.

  “Love you too.” She smiles.

  “This almost makes up for you sending me to an advanced yoga class.” I look at her and frown.

  She smiles, and the twinkle in her eye tells me that was quite intentional on her part. Brat.

  When she encourages me to sit, I take in the table filled with steaming bowls of veggies, potatoes, and a platter of chicken. She rocks at this mom thing.

  “Should we wait for David?” I ask before popping another of the roll-ups into my mouth.

  She shakes her head. “He’ll be home any minute. He said to start without him.”

  We’re digging into our food, making small talk about what’s new with the kids, when David comes strolling in moments later.

  He leans down to give his wife and children each a kiss before greeting me. “How’ve you been, Hayden?”

  “Good,” I say. “Come on, food’s getting cold.”

  For being a guy who’s fucking my sister, he’s actually pretty cool. They’ve been married seven years and are good together. He joins us, sitting at the head of the table. If it weren’t for their generosity, I’d eat takeout most nights of the week. Instead, I come here.

  After dinner, David and the kids play in the driveway while Beth and I tackle the dishes. I used to try to encourage her to go out and play, let me handle the work, until I realized that she’d been playing with them all day and actually just wanted some adult conversation. Now I happily supply that.

  We have a system. She passes me plates, and I rinse and stick them in the dishwasher. Only tonight, she uses our sibling time to grill me.

  “So . . . Emery. Yoga. You owe me details, little bro.”

  “That’s what those crab roll-ups were about. Damn, you’re good.”

  She grins an evil smile at me. “Don’t mess with the master.”

  I chuckle. “She just moved in last weekend. She’s from Michigan and is working at a law firm downtown.” I fill her in on my experience at yoga, and before I know it, I realize I’ve been prattling on about Emery for ten minutes. I’ve only stopped short of describing the fabulous way she smells and her glorious rack.

  I can’t help but remember how cute she looked after her first day of work. Rumpled suit, killer heels, and little makeup smudges underneath her eyes. She’d put in a hard day’s work and was obviously tired, but there was still that undeniable spark of excitement simmering just under the surface that I’d grown to appreciate about her. I still wonder what might have happened if she’d said yes and taken me up on my offer for a drink.

  “Wow. I’m impressed,” Beth says, taking a break from wiping down the counter with a dish towel to face me. “Are you finally going to settle down and date a nice girl? She sounds sweet and normal.”

  “No, come on. We’ve had this conversation before. I’m not looking for anything serious.”

  She tosses the towel into a basket in the pantry. “God, what’s wrong with you? This girl sounds great. Why not just see where it goes?”

  “Because, Beth, not everyone wants a house in the suburbs with two kids. It wasn’t the life I was meant for.” Not anymore, anyway. Not after what happened with Roxy. But I do my best to push that from my head.

  “Right, because emergency trips to the clinic when your pee-pee burns are so much fun.”

  I square off, facing her with an angry scowl. “That was one damn time, and it turned out to be nothing. And you’ve been hanging out with toddlers too much. It’s called a cock.”

  “On that note, I have to get them ready for their bedtime routine.”

  Beth heads for the back door, and I reach out and stop her. “Hey. I didn’t come here to fight with you. Just let me live my life my way, okay?”

  There’s fire in her eyes, and she puts one hand on her hip. “You’ve never dated your emotional and intellectual equal. You always go for these one night is good enough girls who jump into bed with you on the first date. They don’t have goals. They don’t have careers. And surprise . . . they don’t hold your interest longer than one night.”

  “First of all, I’m not dating anyone. And second, what’s wrong with one night? I have needs, you know.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I know. I shared a bedroom wall with you in high school, remember?”

  “Where is this coming from all of a sudden?” I’m trying to understand, because up until this point, sure, she’s occasionally given me shit for my lifestyle, but it’s always been with a mocking laugh in her voice, a jab to the ribs while she grins at me. Right now she seems legitimately pissed off.

  “You were top of your class in high school, graduated early and with honors in college. It makes sense that you should be with a smart, capable woman you can have lively discussions with, someone to hold your interest and challenge you.”

  It’s strange that she uses that word—challenge me. Isn’t that exactly what Emery did? Making me go to yoga, asking me to explain my past. Refusing my offer for a late-night drink.

  “Who’s going to take care of you when you get old, Hayden? I want you to have a partner in this life. God, I picture you sixty years old with a bad fake tan and dyed hair, still trying to live this playboy lifestyle. It’s sad.”

  “I’m only twenty-seven, Beth. Calm down.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re going to blink your eyes and tomorrow you’ll be thirty, and all the good, quality girls will be married. I’m only trying to look out for you.”

  “I know you are. But just try and relax, okay? Everything will be fine.”

  She lets out a heavy exhale. “I just don’t think you can do it, being friends with a woman. Be careful with this one.”

  Her lack of faith in me feels like a kick to the balls. Beth’s always been my biggest cheerleader, supported me in every crazy thing I wanted to try.

  “I’m going to go. Kiss the kids good night for me.”

  She nods, her face solemn.

  • • •

  On the drive home, I can’t keep my thoughts from replaying Beth’s angry words and her condescending tone. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and try to focus on the road. The sun is just beginning its descent for the evening, casting a hopeful ambient light on everything. I grab my cell and press the contact I call most often.

  “Hey, dude. What’s up?” Hudson answers after a couple of rings. “You got an update on Summer’s Edge?”

  We just spoke a couple of hours ago about a poorly performing apartment complex called Summer’s Edge we’re trying to offload onto another investor. It’s in a decent area of town, but the complex itself is comprised of older units that rent for cheap. There always seem to be several vacancies and unpredictable tenants, which doesn’t help when you need steady cash flow to plan your business. It’s also going to need a new roof and an overhaul to the heating and cooling system within the next two to three years. If we can sell it for the right price before then, Hudson and I won’t have to deal with the headache of owning Summer’s Edge anymore, something we’re both very much looking forward to.

  “No. No updates yet,” I tell him. “I’m guessing we’ll hear back from the investor sometime tomorrow.” Without taking a breath, I add, “Beth doesn’t think I can have a female friend.”

  He pauses for a few seconds, as if trying to catch up to the abrupt topic change. “That’s bullshit. You can do anything you set your mind to. I’ve seen it.”

  Hudson, only a couple of months older than me,
has always been infinitely wiser.

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling the tiniest bit redeemed. “I’ve sort of struck up a friendship with the newest tenant, Emery. Beth was giving me shit about it.”

  Several moments of stony silence follow, where I’m sure Hudson is trying to process what I’ve just told him.

  “Well, don’t torture yourself. Just because I’ve laid down the law on not hunting in the herd doesn’t mean you can’t get laid. You can be friends with Emery. You’ll just have to go back to hitting the bar scene again to hunt for pussy.”

  Why does that idea hold zero appeal? Standing around in a too-loud bar, buying drinks for girls who I know after one glance will let me walk them outside and fuck them in the back of my BMW. The idea just doesn’t excite me like it used to.

  “Yeah, of course.” Suddenly I don’t know why I’ve called him. “Update me if you hear anything from the investor.”

  “Will do, buddy. Have a good night,” Hudson says, ending the call.

  As I pull into my usual parking spot, I can’t help but look up at Emery’s front window. It’s dark, and I wonder if she’s still at work. The idea depresses me on her behalf. No one should have to work that hard. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure she has fun when we go out to eat this weekend.

  Not too much fun, though. The kind of fun where my cock stays neatly tucked into my slacks. Oh, joy.

  Chapter Eight

  Emery

  On Friday evening, I walk to Rico’s Taquería with a plan to scarf down dinner in twenty minutes and hightail it back to work. But as soon as I sit down with a cold beer and a hot quesadilla, the fatigue of my first week suddenly all comes crashing down on me. I must have been running on pure adrenaline for a while now. The office was almost deserted when I left, anyway, so I decide to call it an early day and head home. After polishing off the huge quesadilla and a beer, I’m more than ready for the weekend.

  I’ve just taken off my shoes when someone knocks on my condo door. I open up to see Roxy. Her outfit tonight is even more memorable than the one I first saw her in. Tonight she’s wearing a skin-tight leopard-print minidress with side cutouts and matching platform stilettos.

  She gives me a little wave. “Hey, girl,” she sings. “Want to hang out sometime? I meant to ask you sooner, but this past week has been nuts. Desiree got food poisoning, so Angelique and I had to take over her shifts.”

  Still feeling loose and carefree from a good time with Hayden, I answer on impulse. “Is now a good time? I’m not doing anything.” The night is still young, after all. Even if I can barely translate legalese right now, I have enough energy and focus for casual chatting. A little girl talk sounds like fun.

  Roxy raises her penciled eyebrows in pleasant surprise. “Awesome. Wait a sec, I’ll bring over a bottle of wine. You like red or white?”

  I shrug. “Whatever is fine.”

  She leaves and comes back in a few minutes with a big bottle of local Shiraz. As she sets it down on the dining table, she asks, “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Um . . .” I look around my fresh-smelling, pale-carpeted place. “Let’s sit on the balcony.”

  We grab two wineglasses and a corkscrew and go outside. The moon is almost full; the stars twinkling invisibly in the sky are reflected in the city lights below us. I pour the wine while Roxy lights up.

  The night is calm and she tries to exhale away from me, but sometimes a gentle breeze still catches her smoke and makes me splutter a little. The smell is faintly nostalgic. Dad used to sit out on the porch and smoke a pipe in the evenings. Although he was gone by the time I was two years old—and even though the smoking probably helped kill him—the scent of tobacco sometimes reminds me of Mom’s stories. She always talks so affectionately about him, it’s like he just stepped out for a moment.

  Roxy takes a long drag and sighs it out in feathery white tendrils. “So how’s the Golden Coast treatin’ ya?”

  I start recounting my first week in Los Angeles. Mostly my shiny new job, since I’m still starstruck about working for an actual law firm, and I’ve done almost nothing but work since I got here. Not that I mind practically living at the office.

  I’ll probably repeat most of this stuff to Hayden over dinner tomorrow, minus the goriest details about Larry The Creeper. It’s stupid, and I know it’s stupid, but I still feel embarrassed about how I let my boss treat me . . . and how I intend to let him continue treating me, all for the sake of keeping my job. I don’t know what would be worse—Hayden failing to see what the big deal is about Mr. Pratt’s behavior, or Hayden demanding to know where he lives so he can kill him in his sleep.

  So it’s nice to talk to a woman who can really commiserate about the problem without trying to play Mr. Fix-It. Roxy cackles and grimaces in all the right spots of my stories. As good a friend as Hayden is becoming, there are some things that most men just don’t understand.

  “I think changing my outfit helped a little,” I say as I finish. “Flats instead of heels, pink lip gloss instead of red lipstick, dress pants instead of a skirt. And a camisole under my blouse to make sure there’s no cleavage showing.” Not that Mr. Pratt hasn’t looked for it. He practically broke his neck trying to see down my collar at the Wednesday lunch meeting.

  “So has he stopped touching your ass and acting like it’s an accident?”

  “No, but he does it less often. Although he’s started dropping all these passive-aggressive comments, like ‘Where’s the funeral, har de har?’ or ‘Oh, you looked so sweet before, what happened?’ Or my personal favorite, ‘You don’t need to dress like a nun, sweetheart. You should enjoy that amazing figure while it lasts.’ So I consider it a mini victory.”

  “What a douchebag.” Roxy rolls her eyes. “I’ve had gross customers before, but I knew what I was getting into when I started working at Kitty Queen’s. You didn’t bust your hump in college just to put up with some old perv. And strip joints have a bouncer who can step in if someone gets too rowdy. At your job, you’re on your own. Worse than on your own, actually, since the problem is with the guy who’s supposed to protect you. Not that I haven’t had a few handsy bosses before . . .”

  When she first told me she was a stripper, I barely batted an eyelash. Once you meet her, it seems the most obvious profession in the world for her. She’s outgoing, gorgeous, and confident, with just a hint of being a wild child. The only thing that surprised me was that she didn’t use a more subdued euphemism, like dancer or exotic entertainer or something. Then again, there’s nothing subdued about Roxy.

  I swallow my mouthful of wine. It isn’t great—not far from the realm of two-buck Chuck—but it’s loosened me up just fine. “Sometimes I think you can never win with men,” I add.

  “Words of goddamn wisdom.” Roxy gives a huff of acrid laughter, smoke pouring from her nose. It reminds me of the femme fatale from some noir film. Or a dragon wearing expensive lingerie.

  Wow, I think I’m getting a little drunk. Maybe that’s why I suddenly feel the urge to talk about Hayden. “Sometimes they aren’t so bad, though.”

  “You mean for decoration? Boys do make great accessories.” She nods, her chandelier earrings bouncing.

  “No, I mean . . . I’ve been hanging out with Hayden, and he’s actually pretty cool. We do yoga together almost every morning now. And tomorrow, he’s going to a vegetarian restaurant with me, even though he’s clearly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.” I realize that a silly little smile is pulling at the corners of my mouth. It’s so odd. When I hang out with him, I have a mysterious sort of glow for the rest of the day. He makes me laugh, and heaven knows I could use a good laugh with the seriousness of my job.

  “It’s great that he hasn’t screwed you over yet,” Roxy says, her tone abruptly tense. “But he’s still bad news. Ask any of the girls here.”

  “He’s been a perfect gentleman so far.” Well, not perfect, but good enough for government work. “We’re just workout buddies.”

  “You think
he’s your friend? Sorry to burst your bubble, hon, but he doesn’t bother with women for anything other than the obvious. He’s working for a reward that starts with ‘p’ and ends with ‘ussy.’ Get out while you still can.”

  Once again, I wonder where all this barely suppressed rage is coming from. But mostly I’m annoyed. Roxy is talking down to me like I’m some naive country girl who doesn’t know her ass from third base. I’ve met my share of shitty men, thank you very much, and I like to think I can see them coming by now. I’m old enough to make my own decisions and smart enough not to get in over my head. Plus, for once in my life, I want to do something really impractical—like own a convertible in Seattle. I want to say fuck it and just have fun.

  “I know he’s a player,” I say, a little more testily than I intended. “I knew that when I started hanging out with him. A guy doesn’t have to be perfect if all I’m after is a casual friend. It’s not like we’re getting married—it’s just nice to have someone to eat with sometimes.”

  That’s part of the reason why Hayden can be so refreshing. Neither of us has to be perfect. We don’t even have to act perfect. We aren’t putting on performances or evaluating each other. We can just enjoy the good parts of each other’s personalities and not bother stressing over the bad parts.

  At the same time, though, a little voice in my head whispers, Maybe Roxy is right. I can’t help but remember how obviously Hayden was lying when he said that he had female friends. Both the truth and the fact that he lied about it are potential bad signs.

  I try to ignore that nagging voice as I finish my point. “I’m not under the delusion that my magic vagina will cure his no-good womanizin’ ways. I just escaped Boyfriend Hell; I won’t go back to see if it’s frozen over since the last time I checked. I’m on a no-man diet until further notice. So if Hayden does try to get into my pants, I’ll tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree, and he can either stay one hundred percent platonic or fuck off.” I look up at Roxy with close attention. “Unless you’re trying to tell me to look out for roofies in my drink?”