by Kent, Julia
“You did.”
“A billion dollar shit!” Her voice was like a gospel preacher, the intonation more revival than revulsion.
“Yes, ma’am!”
“And if those two fuckers thought they could have the best sex ever with me but couldn’t bother to tell me the truth about something this big, then they don’t deserve me!”
“Indeed.” Josie sat back down and leaned forward. “Billionaire bastards.” Laura shot her a harsh look, wondering if she was poking fun, but she wasn’t. The words mattered, and they were true. Both men were such steaming assholes she couldn’t believe it, the urge to start hyperventilating competing with the desire to punch them both in the face, even if she’d need a stool to reach Mike.
“I can’t believe Dylan tracked you down like that,” Laura chuckled.
“Should I reply?”
Blinking, Laura came to a screeching halt in her mind, the question jarring. Should Josie reply? What would she say? What should she say? No etiquette manual was designed for this. Dan Savage needed to write one. How should your best friend reply when both of your threesome boyfriends turn out to be billionaires and one stalks you to try to make up?
That would be popular.
Laura smoothed her sweater over her belly, which pooched out enough to send some sort of a cat invitation to Dotty. She plopped down on Laura’s lap and turned into a furnace, which was great in January but horribly warm in August. Get used to it, Laura, her mind said. It’s the only touch you’re getting for a long time that doesn’t involve plastic and batteries.
For some reason, that made her finally break down and sob. Not the sheer humiliation in the work lobby. Not the rage that claimed her so easily on the staircase, her feet still aching from that howlingly stupid move. And not the thought that once again, as with Ryan, as with so many guys in high school and college, as with Dylan and Mike the first time they made love, she felt tiny and cheated and shamed and grotesque because nothing had turned out as planned, and her own blind naivete meant that here she was sobbing and racked with grief, her best friend stroking her shoulder and nothing had changed.
She was the same Laura this happened to, time in and time out, a decade and more of falling for guys who cared less for her than she cared for them, respected her in a way that made her queasy with doubt, and who managed to give her just enough hope such that when it all came crashing down what hurt most was that they ever gave her any.
It would have been easier to become a cat lady who never bothered, and she was about to do just that. As soon as it was safe to go home. If Dylan was hunting down Josie’s number and texting her, then she damn sure couldn’t go home right now. Weak and addled, her mind might play a game of sabotage on her, believing whatever smooth line he came up with to try to convince her that she should get up once more, strip naked before them, and let them ridicule her pure, loving heart.
Nope.
Done.
“Josie,” she announced, her voice sounding like a drill sergeant’s. Wiping the tears with the bottom hem of her sweater, careful not to get cat hair in her eyes, she sniffed and demanded, “you are going to text that motherfucker back.”
“Yes, Ma’am!” Holding her phone, Josie looked expectantly at Laura. Hmmm. Now what? What could she possibly say to Dylan that would make him stay away? That would make him just evaporate, with Mike, and let her go on and live a life that didn’t have so much pain and wonder in it? Were there magic words she could fit in a text that would do that?
She had to try. “OK, so type, ‘If you say it’s complicated I’ll cut your balls off and put them on the warlock waitress.’”
Josie choked and clapped. “Fucking brilliant!” Tap, tap, tap—
“No! Don’t do it. Changed my mind.”
Pout from Josie, then a quick change to a neutral face. “Sure.” Tap, tap, tap as she erased it.
In her heart, what she wanted was an apology from them both. A long, drawn-out pleading and self-flagellation filled with regret and recriminations and sorries and kisses and flowers and all that crap. More words than things, though, more affection than promises, and more attention than empty phrases. At the center of it all was a ball of pain that now lived in her stomach, hot lead and napalm and poison that leaked and festered in her, planted there by Mike and Dylan because this?
This was a bitter pill to swallow. And swallow it she had, whole and dry and without any awareness of what it meant.
That was all fantasy. Her dream world was about her, about people caring what she felt, what she thought, what she needed and wanted. Fantasy.
The real world involved self-centered men who didn’t trust her enough to tell her their second-biggest (or first!) secret and who let her learn about it from a fluff-chick morning chat show cougar who had the self-awareness of a bottle of nail polish remover. If that wasn’t a big sign that their respect for her was in the crapper, nothing else was.
Add in the little detail that they clearly didn’t trust her to be anything but a money grubber and she was, well, she was still struggling to sum all that up into one pithy text.
“Try this,” she ordered. Josie’s finger hovered over the glass keyboard. “Don’t chase me. Give me that one shred of respect. Why? Because it’s complicated.” Josie typed it in and looked at her, eyebrows raised with a question.
Laura nodded and Josie tapped “Send.” Laura took a deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth, making a weird vibrating sound with her lips.
Bzzzz. “Man, he’s fast,” Josie muttered. Dotty made a hissing sound and arched her back. “It’s just a phone. Not a predator,” Josie chided the cat. “She does this all the time,” she explained, squinting at the screen.
“He replied, didn’t he?”
“Yep. Wanna hear it?”
No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Ye—“Yes.”
Josie made a disgusted sound, complete with a slow shake of the head that Laura interpreted as not good. “He says, and I quote: ‘It’s always complicated.’ With a little smiley face.”
A slap across the face would have shocked her less. Laura felt a rising numbness take over, blinking furiously with a neutral face, completely unable to comprehend what on earth had possessed Dylan to think that that—that?—trite and flippant response would somehow be perceived as funny. Or endearing. Or clever.
If the intended effect were to charm her, he’d failed miserably. If his goal was to piss her off and harden her resolve never to see him—or Mike—again, then he had succeeded wildly.
Yay, Dylan.
“Am I crazy for thinking he’s a fucking asshole for sending that piece of shit text?’ Laura railed.
“Not crazy.” Josie seemed to be keeping her face as still as possible, watching Laura with a wary eye. “It’s insulting, really.”
“Thank you. Thank you! Because it is, isn’t it?”
Bzzzz.
“Don’t you answer that! He had his chance. One. I gave him one. And that’s more than he and Mike deserve.”
“OK. Whatever you want.” Thank God for Josie, because right now she was rising to the occasion in a way Laura had never thought possible. Of course, they’d been there for each other over the years, through heart breaks and break ups, through angry, gritted-teeth conversations where they’d tried to convince each other to DTMFA, as Dan Savage would say. Dumping the motherfucker already, though, was easier said than done in most cases, and this was another one of those, ahem, complicated situations.
Not really, she argued with herself. Its simple. DTMFA. Both of them. Because the lack of respect they’d shown her told her everything she needed to know, even if that feeling of “fuck you” went against everything her heart was crying out right now, its words pleading with her to give them at least a quick meeting to hear why they hid this from her.
Why she had to learn about it at work, in a lobby, on a cheap television while two women who knew more about anal bleaching than world affairs got to prattle on and drool over Dylan
and make comments that made her feel tiny and small and—
Ashamed. God, that really was a huge part of this, wasn’t it? It had taken so much effort to overcome her feeling of discomfort at owning her own desire for both men, and here she was tentatively growing and accepting who she was and what her authentic self really needed and wanted. And it was Dylan and Mike, together as a trio that would make everyone so happy.
Her shame, now, was overflowing. Shame at thinking she could really have it all. Shame at wanting something so unconventional. Shame that they couldn’t trust her.
Shame that she had trusted them.
And, worst of all, shame that she had something inside her that made her feel so much shame! She couldn’t win.
She just couldn’t win.
“You’ve got Netflix, right?” she asked Josie.
“Yup.” Josie’s face changed, shifted to something softer. “Ooo, I know what you want to watch.”
Laura sighed. “Let’s do it.”
“Oh, my God! It’s the billionaire bachelor!” the receptionist screeched as the elevator doors parted and Dylan stepped out onto Laura’s floor. The lobby at Laura’s work was more crowded than it had been when he’d delivered flowers to her last month and heads turned. Then more heads.
Then every.single.head.
Oh, geez. The last thing he needed. “You remember me, right?” the receptionist crooned, walking over and extending her hand. “Debbie. I was here the day you delivered flowers to Laura.” Wink.
The absolutely last thing he needed. He didn’t shake her hand. “Where is Laura?” he asked, not caring that he was being blunt, pointedly ignoring all the eyes on him.
“She went home sick.” A deep male voice answered, to Dylan’s left. The man was middle-aged, greying temples, a bit of a paunch. Nice suit. Her boss? He nodded to Debbie, who skittered over to her station and began answering phone calls, eyes glued on the two men.
“Oh. Is she OK?” He frowned, concerned.
“I won’t comment on that, but after she watched the news report featuring you, she clearly wasn’t doing well.” Ah. This guy was a straight shooter. A little angry on Laura’s behalf. Dylan could understand that.
And respect it. Even if it pained him deeply to have caused her pain.
“Thanks. I’ll try to catch her at home.” Debbie’s eyes widened and she reached for a smart phone, texting furiously. Gossip. Great. Poor Laura.
Poor Laura? He was the cause of what made her poor Laura. Holy fuck. He’d never considered that the fallout could do this to her.
A hand on his arm. Firm. Unyielding. His hackles went up and a thin thread of fight grew in him. The boss’s eyes were cold steel, pointed directly at Dylan like a weapon. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. If she wants to see you, she can contact you.” This wasn’t advice.
This was a veiled threat. Or, at least, that’s how it sounded to Dylan’s hypersensitive ears. Who was this tool to tell him how to handle Laura? He shook the man’s hand off him roughly and got right in his face.
“I’ll talk to her if I want to.” His face was inches from the boss, who stood up and matched Dylan on height. This guy was twenty years older and probably out of shape, but he was a fierce dude who wasn’t backing down, even in the presence of a very muscled fire fighter.
“If she wants to talk to you. Otherwise, you’re just an angry stalker.”
There was that word again. Stalker. “You don’t know anything about—”
Ding! The elevator behind Dylan slid open and he heard two heavy steps, then Mike’s breathless voice. “Is she still here?”
Debbie just about had a heart attack, her jaw dropping so low her mouth could have been a dustpan. “Thor,” she whispered. Dylan nearly barked out a laugh, the comment shaking him from his stand off with Laura’s boss.
“No. She’s gone,” the boss said, then looked at Dylan. Hard.
A new hand on his arm, this time Mike’s. “Let’s try her apartment.” He jabbed the “down” button for the elevator as Debbie removed her telephone headset and stood, smoothing her tight skirt, then sauntering over.
Mercifully, the doors opened before she got to them, Mike practically dragging Dylan in. With a pneumatic hiss his last view of Laura’s work floor was Debbie’s disappointed voice and the back of the boss’s head.
Good riddance to both.
Mike stared up at the ceiling and blew out a huge breath of air. “Has she answered your texts or voice mails?”
“Nope. You try?”
“Once, for each. No luck.”
“Where were you when that stupid television report came on?”
“At work.” A low whistle from Mike, whose eyebrows shot up, made Dylan wince. He took in Dylan’s uniform and cringed. “Yeah. It was bad. Let’s just say I am no longer gainfully employed.”
“Joe fired you?”
“No. I resigned peacefully.”
“Peacefully?” Mike smirked. Damn it, he knew him too well.
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s always complicated,” Mike said bitterly.
“I’m getting really tired of hearing that.”
“I think you started it.”
“Do we really need to go there right now?”
“No. We need to go to Laura’s place right now. But tell me what happened with the chief.” Mike didn’t seem to care on an emotional level; he was just asking out of voyeuristic curiosity. The difference in tone and demeanor was starting to freak Dylan out.
Dylan laughed, a cold, harsh sound that hurt his own ears. “He said there was a waiting list out the door for the jobs, that if I was a billionaire I sure didn’t need the pay, and that I was welcome to join the volunteer force.”
“Ouch.”
The volunteer guys were welcomed by the regular staff, but often considered weaker contenders when it came to running calls. There was more to the conversation he wasn’t going to tell Mike right now, how the chief had looked in the envelope and found all the cash Dylan had stuffed in there, how Dylan asked about sending a much larger amount directly to Murphy, and how within the course of a painful fifteen minute talk he’d managed to lose his only career but gain some insight into how his future could unfold, using Jill’s money for good.
“Yeah. So I guess I’m free now.”
“Free.” Mike snorted. “If this is freedom, I think I prefer...ah, I don’t know what I’m saying any more.” Definitely not the time to tell Mike anything.
Ding! The elevator reached the main lobby and they walked out of the building, the August heat hitting them like a wall of soup. “You drive here?” Mike asked.
“No.”
“Good—I’m over here,” he nodded, “so let’s get to Laura’s. You remember her address?”
“Yeah. In Somerville, over near Tufts.” They walked down the cold, concrete staircase, descending two levels to the underground spot where Mike’s Jeep sat, patient and still. In silence now, they were perfunctory. Get in car. Turn on car. Screech tires on painted concrete to exit. Pay. Leave. Dylan hoped like hell she was at home. It’s not like there were many more—
“Wait. What about Josie?” he asked as Mike made a tough left turn.
“What about her?”
“Maybe she’ll know where Laura is. Or maybe Laura’s with her.”
“Let’s get to Laura’s and see what’s going on. Josie’s kind of...” Mike made an inscrutable face.
“Batshit crazy?” He didn’t relish seeing her under these circumstances. Getting whacked with the plastic balls at Jeddy’s had been bad enough. Now that they had fucked up even worse, what would she use to arm herself? Eek.
“Not what I was going to say. My words would have been ‘fiercely loyal’.” He paused, then added, “I don’t think she’s truly crazy. Just a little unbalanced.”
“She whacked my real balls with the fake ones and teabagged them in the restaurant while you were talking to Laura.”
“Says the man who actually
fucked a blow up doll.” Mike’s droll delivery didn’t surprise him. The words did, causing him to choke with shock.
“How did you know that?”
“Who actually names a blow up doll? You were so bizarre that first year of college.”
Dylan laughed. “That’s true.”
“Besides, I didn’t know you fucked it. You just confirmed it, though.” Smirk.
Shit! “Oh, please. It was a dare and we were drunk and I was stupid enough to want to be in the fraternity and they...just. Ugh. Let’s drop this.”
By his judgment they were five minutes or so from Laura’s place. Parking would be a problem, until Mike pulled into a “Permit Only” spot and turned the car off.
“What are you doing? We’ll get a ticket.”
The look on Mike’s face was so out of character as he said, “We’re billionaires, Dylan. Who gives a fuck about a $25 parking ticket? That’s like losing a penny now.” The same wolfish look, a deeply-ingrained expression of cold, brutal action, that he’d seen only once before on Mike’s face, when...when...
When he’d told Mike about Laura.
Bounding up the steps to Laura’s landing, Mike poked the buzzer over and over, like a little kid calling on a friend for a play date. No answer.
Dylan reached over and rang the bell, too. “Right. Like it didn’t work the twelve times I just pushed it,” Mike practically growled.
What the fuck? “So sue me,” Dylan scoffed, rapidly getting pissed. He grabbed his phone and tapped rapidly. Search, search, search—there! Her last name was Mendham, he remembered that much, and she said she lived in Cambridge, and—
Score! Josie Mendham’s phone number. Some charity thing she organized in Allston for old people, the number and email were posted on a web page. He furiously tapped out a text and hit “Send.”
“I just texted Josie.”
Mike pushed the buzzer again. Like it would magically work now? Laura clearly wasn’t home. Gone from work. Not at home. She must be with Josie. He tapped on his phone.
