by P. Dangelico
“He had to bail me out of jail for starting a fire at my ex-boyfriend’s house!”
“That is sooo cool,” says the junior criminal in training that I share blood with. All I see is purple metal for days.
“Stop smiling. That is not cool. Not even in the least bit, Audrey. I could be going to jail. Real jail. Not Orange Is the New Black jail. Bad stuff happens in real jail. I don’t want anybody calling me Sparkles.”
“Why would somebody call you Sparkles?” she asks with an adorable look of confusion.
Sighing loudly, I answer, “Never mind.”
“You’re not going to jail,” Ethan announces as if he’s judge and jury.
“Thanks, Nostradamus, but you can’t say that for certain, can you?”
“Do you trust me?”
My irritation crumbles in the face of that sweet, earnest way of his. “You know I do,” I mutter sourly.
“I won’t let that happen.” Underscoring his promise, those devastating eyes hold mine.
“This is sooo cool. I’m so happy you’re my sister.” I glance at Audrey and find her mid-swoon, licking fancy hot chocolate off her top lip. I take in the happy expression and metallic grin.
“Time to let your parents know where you are,” I say, holding my hand out for her phone.
As if our differences weren’t already glaringly obvious, where we shop for our food is another perfect example. He’s a hardcore Whole Foods fanatic where as I’m more likely to shop at the corner Seven-Eleven than walk ten blocks to go to a real grocery store.
“There’s nothing for me to eat here,” I whine while I push the cart loaded with a bunch of healthy crap down the grain aisle. “Everything’s brown. I’m not a fan of brown food. I prefer food with color. Specifically Blue #1 and Red #40.”
He caught me as I was stepping out the front door to go to the corner market and summarily steered me in the direction of his favorite place.
As usual, Ethan’s busy ignoring me. He grabs a box of quinoa and holds it up for my edification. “You’re not getting any younger, Jones. Time to start watching what you eat.”
Not getting any younger…same thing Marty keeps telling me.
I randomly pick up a small box of rice. “12.99 for a tiny box of brown rice? Was it harvested by the fingertips of angels? Did a fairy fart gold dust in here?”
Ethan’s quelling raised eyebrow does not quell me. A beat later his expression changes to surprise.
“Jane?”
My gaze tracks Ethan’s over my shoulder. A woman wearing a bright smile stares back at us. She’s the girl next door, pretty in a wholesome way. Pin straight brown hair, delicate features. She’s even wearing pearls with her cashmere sweater. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, and the pit in my stomach agrees. Ethan has a smile on his face, the genuine kind. The pit gets larger.
“Jane? What are you doing in New York?”
The two of them hug. It doesn’t take much for me to infer that this is some kind of long lost lover, or maybe an unrequited love. Whoever she is, Ethan seems to genuinely like her in an unfriendly like manner. As far as I’m concerned, Jane sucks.
As they exchange pleasantries, I’m forgotten. That doesn’t bother me. What does, however, is that Ethan’s face lights up every time he looks at Jane.
“And you said you’d never move to New York,” he says, beaming sunshine and rainbows at her. The fire-breathing dragon that lives in the darkest nook of my soul rouses from deep sleep.
“Yeah, lesson learned. Never say never,” replies Jane, with a lilting chuckle.
Her attention shifts and finds me looking bored. She smiles. “We’re being rude,” she tells Ethan, who looks at me like he suddenly remembered I exist. Yeah, jerk, you’re being rude, my eyeballs say while my mouth stays shut.
“Jane this is Amber, Amber Jane.” The way he says her name makes me want to stab him in the neck with one of those overpriced, wooden spoons made from the hands of blind little old Peruvian ladies I saw in the kitchenware aisle. I slap on a super fake smile.
“Nice to meet you, Jane.”
Her rosebud mouth quirks at the inflection in my voice.
“Likewise.” She turns her bright smile on Ethan. “Well, I should get going. Scotty’s waiting for me.”
This does nothing to appease the fire-breathing dragon. For all I know, Scotty could be a Scottish freaking Terrier. I immediately look for a ring. No such luck. Jane is wearing gloves.
Ethan watches her walk away with a soft smile on his obnoxious face. I’m pretty sure if I open my mouth I’m going to start saying stuff I’ll regret, inappropriate stuff, stuff that I have no right to say. Therefore, I keep my lips locked tight, only allowing for an occasional ‘yes’ and ‘no’ for the rest of our shopping expedition. Given my propensity for saying inappropriate stuff on the regular, I give myself major kudos for that.
As soon as we get back to the house, I plead a headache and bolt to my room. The perplexed, semi-hurt look on Ethan’s face elicits not one drop of sympathy from me. This experience only cements the fact that I need to keep some distance between us. We’ve been getting way too chummy lately. It is madness to have any feelings, proprietary or otherwise, for this man, pure madness for a multitude of reasons.
My cell phone signals.
Fancy: I made buckwheat noodles with pesto. Want some?
I’ve barricaded myself in my bedroom like a moody teenager.
Me: No thanks.
My pride won’t allow it even though I’m starving and the noodles sound utterly delicious. Don’t you fucking dare, you spineless pathetic excuse for a female, she whispers in my ear. My pride is a vicious bitch. She scares me. I don’t dare cross her.
Fancy: I’ll leave some for you anyway.
By nine, I’ve managed to distract myself from sulking with a couple of episodes of The Affair. The door to the bathroom swings open and Ethan is standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms hanging low and a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. And by the looks of the V taunting me over the waistband of his bottoms––no underwear. God almighty, what does he have against underwear?
One look at him and a deep flush starts at my scalp and moves all the way to my toes. Actually it feels more like I’m being roasted at the stake. I’m chalking this up to my cooch being lonely. You can’t blame her. She hasn’t had a visitor in a really long time.
Grabbing the toothbrush, he says, “Are you mad at me?”
My attention darts back to the television screen. “What makes you say that?”
“You haven’t said a word to me since we left Whole Foods.”
“I have a headache.” The quiet provokes me to steal a glance. His eyes are on the script I’m holding, and his brows drawn together.
“Can’t be that bad if you’re reading and watching TV.”
Note to self: you’re an idiot and for future reference, stay away from lawyers.
“Thanks for the brilliant analysis, Sherlock, but it is and you’re making it worse.”
“You’re definitely mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you,” comes emphatically rushing out of my mouth. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“Exactly. Why would you be?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“And yet, you are. Why?” His expression says I may as well be the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. He can’t make heads nor tails of me.
“I’m not mad at you, damn it,” I bark. “Do I need to draw you a happy face?”
Crossing his arms, he cocks his hip and casually leans against the doorframe like he hasn’t a care in the world––not a care. Which only serves to fuel my rage. “You’re downright furious.”
“I am not mad!” Popping up on my feet, I’m standing on the bed I’m so freaking mad. “God! You’re such a megalomaniac! Everything isn’t about you. Sorry to disappoint, but I haven’t sucked down the Jonestown brand of Cool-Aide! I don’t think you’re the sexiest thing since Bieber hit puberty! My pan
ties aren’t about to start a five alarm fire by exploding or disintegrating or combusting every time you bat your eyelashes. My panties are just fine. So save it for Jane and the rest of the pussy parade!”
His expression morphs from surprise to…what’s he smiling about?
“Now if you don’t mind, can I have some privacy?” Pointing to the door, I fall back down on my ass. He doesn’t budge, though his smile grows increasingly wider. “Vaughn, if you don’t stop smiling, I am going to throw something at you.”
Unfazed by my threat, he stands, extends his arms, and then proceeds to stretch from side to side. True story.
“Go do your little aerobic stretches elsewhere please.”
“I’m going.”
“Good.”
He’s still stretching. I can see him from the periphery of my vision. My blood pressure must be at three thousand. I’m ready to bust a vein.
“I left a bowl of noodles on the counter in case you get hungry.” With that, he closes the bathroom door behind him and I flop onto my back.
I’m so hungry I’m ready to chew my arm off. As I stare at the ceiling, my stomach growls at me. I’m pretty sure it’s saying that the last thing I should be doing is listening to my damn pride which is not to be trusted with our welfare. I give it a respectable fifteen minutes before I sneak downstairs and inhale the delicious noodles. My pride and I are no longer talking.
Chapter Fifteen
“I’m doing a Black Sails marathon. These bitches are badass. What I wouldn’t do to get on a show like this,” I say into the phone, the one squashed between my shoulder and ear. After which, I shovel a spoonful of rocky road ice cream into my gapping pie hole.
The lounge being closed for a private event, I’m making good use of a rare Tuesday night off by binge watching my favorite shows in the newly renovated den.
It’s been two days since Audrey’s impromptu visit and Ethan’s been acting strange. Strike that, stranger, ever since. After we let Dan and Eileen know that Audrey was not chained up on a rack in the dank basement of some nice man who likes to experiment with knives, Ethan made dinner. He’s actually an amazing cook when he’s not trying to poison me with his kale concoctions.
Since then I keep catching him looking at me with a puzzled frown. Well, no, not quite a frown, but a look that says he can’t figure something out and it’s frustrating him. To that I say join the club.
In the meantime, David has been making progress with the case, trying to negotiate with the Gregorys some kind of settlement that doesn’t entail me draining whatever money my Grandmother leaves me so I can stay out of jail.
“What I wouldn’t do for the time to watch a single episode,” Camilla whines. “The traveling gets old fast. I’m actually excited that I’m not allowed to fly anymore.”
“Stop complaining. At least, you’re getting some on the regular. If something doesn’t give soon, I could wind up on a sexual offender list and the first victim may very well be my roommate. He has no idea what kind of danger he’s invited into his life.”
“What about Kurt? All that ink…”
My mind shoots straight to Kurt, one of the security guys at the lounge, and a shiver crawls over me.
“Nope. Mouth breather. We made out once. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to kiss me, or practicing CPR.”
“That’s not good,” she says, stifling laughter. “What about that cute bartender that only works on Thursdays?”
“Shane?”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“I slept with him after Parker the Penile Implant dumped me.”
“That’s the guy you had revenge sex with?”
“Yeah, except the revenge was on me.”
“I’m scared to ask.”
Hunting for a stash of marshmallow, I pick through the ice cream and hit pay dirt. “Porn sex.”
“Oh, God. What does that mean?”
“Ass slap, hair pull, pump, pump, pump, ass slap, hair pull, pump, pump, pump. Turns me onto my back. More of the same. Porn by numbers.”
“Ugh.”
“Besides, he’s bare down there. Not my jam.”
“Bare? As in totally bare? Men are doing that?” she says, practically gasping.
“Welcome to twenty first century. How was your trip?”
“How the frig am I supposed to know this? I’ve only seen two in my entire life.”
“Anywhatever, now do you see why I prefer dicks of the plug in variety? He managed to put me off sex with another human being since then.”
Speaking of humans. A man suddenly appears in the doorway of the den. Tie and jacket discarded, hair messy from running a harried hand through it. He ambles into the room and heads straight for the couch.
“Somebody just stepped into my den of iniquity,” I whisper into the phone. My eyes commit a lecherous perusal of his person. “He wouldn’t even have to do any work. He could just lie down and close his eyes.”
Camilla chuckles. “Don’t leave any evidence. You know I can’t lie for shit and I don’t want to raise my child in jail.”
“Call you later,” I mumble and hang up.
He drops onto the opposite end of the couch with a tired sigh.
“Long day, counselor?” I place the spoonful of ice cream back into the container, and before I know to protect my booty, he snatches it out of my hands. That’s booty as in treasure, not as in my nonexistent ass. I wouldn’t be upset if he snatched my ass––the ice cream is a different matter altogether.
“Heeeyyyy.”
Ignoring me, he starts eating, slowly bringing the ice cream laden spoon to his lush mouth. Yes, I’m staring again. Sue me for having ovaries. If I didn’t know any better I would think he’s trying to seduce me with the way he’s sucking on that spoon. Except, I do know better.
Blindly, he stares at the television screen as he eats––the new television screen that is.
“Hmm, the draft.”
“You’ve officially hit your quota on that word. Unless you want to see me on the evening news mowing people down with a BB gun, you will refrain from using it ever again.” That’s all he’s been talking about lately. The draft this, the draft that. Every time someone orders a draft beer at work I get a nervous twitch of the eye.
A lazy smile brightens his face. “Occupational hazard. What about you?” His eyes drop to the script I’m browsing, and as he’s looking down, I’m looking at him. A smear of ice cream on his top lip taunts me. For the love of lips, I’m human. How much temptation can one woman resist?
“You’re doing the spacing thing again.”
Right, if he only knew.
“Second call back tomorrow for a play. It’s a small part, but it’s juicy.”
“You’ll get it,” he says with absolute conviction. My insides feel fuzzy. I don’t know whether it’s the way he’s looking at me that’s causing it, or his unwavering belief. No one other than Camilla has ever had belief in me of the unwavering kind. Some belief? Sure, my grandmother. Waning belief? Marty, as of late. But unwavering? Nobody else.
“Why would you say that?” I ask, my tendency to be suspicious of anything good cropping up. I’m simultaneously starving for his good opinion, and ready to discredit it for any no-good reasons.
“Because I know you’ll give it everything you’ve got and leave nothing on the table.”
His words hit me in a soft spot, part of me embarrassed at his unabashed praise because I’m not sure I deserve it. At one time, I did. I was that person, no holds barred, balls to the wall. I was born that way. Except I’ve spent so much of my life trying to make myself small to please other people, or rather not to aggravate them, that I forgot who I was along the way.
Sincerity. That’s all I see in Ethan’s eyes when I look over. And as I stare into them, an epiphany hits me with the force of a speeding car. The decision I’ve been hemming and hawing over for years suddenly seems so clear. And I’m pretty sure my face is wearing my thoughts because Ethan tilts his head
and regards me curiously.
“I’m going to do it,” I blurt out.
“Do what?”
“Move to L.A. as soon as I legally can. You’re right. I can’t have it both ways, and time is running out for me. I have to give it an honest shot––” I’m nervous, talking quickly, this revelation suddenly so clear my heart is racing. “Leave nothing on the table.”
He slow nods in understanding and takes another bite of my ice cream, his eyes glued to the bottom of the container. And as I watch him something tender and fragile unfurls in my chest. Something that scares me.
“What’s with all the women you’re always running from?”
He turns to face me with one of his signature cocky smiles, but there’s something missing. Something he would have no problem hiding from someone that isn’t as adept at pretending and hiding as I am.
“Believe it or not, I’m considered a catch,” he replies without looking at me, his tone irreverent. Though I detect a sour edge.
“I don’t doubt it,” I murmur. “I don’t doubt the women of Manhattan would find you the crown jewel of bachelors.”
He’s gorgeous, smart, a decent human being. On top of that he’s also wealthy and successful. What’s not to like? Not my thing personally––hard not to look like Igor standing next to him. However, I could see how other, more ambitious women than myself would welcome the challenge. He would make quite a trophy.
And that’s when it dawns on me.
“You don’t like it. You’re not interested in women that are attracted to this,” I say, motioning up and down the delicious body draped on the couch with legs spread apart. The spoon pauses halfway to his mouth for a moment, then continues its journey to its sexy destination.
“You’re not.”
