by Claire Adams
“Sometimes life gets in the way,” she said.
“It always gets in the way. You just have to adapt. You are a smart girl, what are you doing?”
“I’m doing what it takes,” she said.
“Don’t forget what you’re capable of. I don’t want to see your potential go to waste.”
“Thank you.” She finished her cone, and we walked back to the limo. “This was an amazing night.”
“I had fun. I should take you out more.”
“Yeah.” She got in the car before I could open the door for her.
When I got in, she scooted close and laid her head down on my shoulder. Her red and white gown contrasted starkly with the black leather seat. Her hair hung in curtains around her face. Her eyes were closed, and a smile lit her face.
Just having her next to me put me at ease.
She laid like that the whole way back to the house. I wanted to keep the limo outside and let her rest. I didn’t want to disturb her. She was perfect where she was, drowning in roses. I ran my index finger over her cheek. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it.
A smile curved her lips, and she opened her eyes to look at me. I couldn’t help but tilt her chin to taste her lips.
“Are we there?” she asked.
“Yeah, would you like to come in?”
“Of course,” she said.
I walked around the back of the car to help her out of the limo and led her into the house.
“Thank you for taking me tonight,” she said, sitting down on the couch in the living room.
“You really enjoyed yourself?” I asked.
“I did.”
I poured myself a scotch and offered one to her.
“Oh, no thank you.”
“You know what my goal was today?” I asked when I sat down beside her.
“What?”
“I wanted to give you the time of your life, from the moment you woke up to the time you went to bed.”
“Oh,” she said, understanding lighting her eyes. She groaned and leaned her head back. “That spa.”
“You were dead set against going,” I said, grinning.
“I loved it, though,” she said.
“I’m glad.” I took a sip of my drink and swished the liquid around. “Your reaction to the presentation was a little surprising. I didn’t know you cared about cancer research so much.”
“It’s a little too close to home,” she said, her eyes darkening. “My dad is having some trouble. He was diagnosed with leukemia.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “It must be difficult for you. And your father, of course.”
She bobbed her head back and forth, like she was unsure how to answer. “It’s not easy. That’s for sure. But we’re handling it. And my father has a sense of humor about the situation. He’s not letting it get him down. I think it bothers me and my mom more than it bothers him.”
“That sounds like a refreshing attitude.”
“It’s not, but it makes things a little more palatable. I mean, there’s always this dark cloud hanging over the house. Is it going to get worse? Will we lose him? The uncertainty about what’s going to happen is hard for me. Not so much for my dad. Somehow, he’s come to terms with the possibility this disease might kill him. He doesn’t care if he goes. He’s at peace with it. My mom isn’t.”
“And you? I asked. “How do you feel?”
“Scared,” she said, sighing. “I try not to think about it too much, but it keeps getting pulled back into my thoughts. It’s like, subconsciously, I want to think all the dark thoughts now, so I can be prepared for the worst if it happens. I think I’ll have to pick up the pieces for my mother. She never used to work. She was a stay-at-home mom. She used to stay in the kitchen, reading and playing crossword puzzles every day until he got home. But not anymore.”
“I can tell that bothers you,” I said.
“It does. She’s working three jobs just to pay for them to survive. Now the insurance wants to cut him off. I really think he has a chance to live if he can get his chemo, but they’re not gonna pay for it. Which is why I have to figure something out to help.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said and took her hand.
“That’s why I’m doing this,” she said softly.
“No, it’s not. We both know you could make money some other way.”
“Do you know what it’s like out there right now?” she asked, angry. “The cost of living is through the roof, and there aren’t enough jobs to go around. Everyone is struggling. I’ve been holding out for something decent, but it’s been months. No one is hiring. My family needs help, now.”
I felt like a complete idiot. I should’ve known that she was in trouble. It was so apparent now. She wasn’t shy or innocent. She was hurt. She stayed quiet and maintained her dignity, but I knew inside she was screaming. I slid my hand behind her back and pulled her closer. Then I laid back so she could rest her head on my chest.
“You know what I don’t get?” she asked.
“What?”
She sat up. “Why you can’t control yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “You’re an animal. Just the slightest touch and you go off.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said and slammed my drink back. I contemplated getting up to refill it. “It’s not something I talk about very much.” I cleared my throat. I really needed that drink. I didn’t do this. I didn’t talk to anyone like this. But somehow, she got me to open up. “It’s not a pleasant story.”
“I’d like to hear it,” she said. “If you’re okay with sharing.”
“When I was 13, my parents had a lady from our church watch us. Her name was Mildred, and she must’ve been at least 80. She was a mean old woman. She looked like a twig. She’d post up in my father’s armchair and yell at me to get her things, like water and chips and shit.
“One night, my parents went out to the movies, and they called her over. She had this bottle that she kept in her purse. Now, I know it was vodka. She had me bring her a glass so she could get drunk while she watched some old game show.
“She drank more than a pint and then called me over to where she was sitting.” There it was, that explosive rage inside me that erupted whenever I remembered what she did to me. “She made me do things. Things a child shouldn’t have to do. She didn’t even care. It was nothing to her. They say that when it happens to boys, it’s not a big deal. They like it. Well, that’s not fucking true at all. I’m sorry.” I got up and poured myself another drink. “Every time I talk about it.” My hands shook when I picked up the decanter, and I struggled to get the lid off. “You shouldn’t have to hear all this.”
Mercedes came up behind me and kissed me on the neck, then wrapped her arms around me. I felt the tension in my body ease, and I set the decanter down. My head fell. “She left me cursed. I have to get off at least five times a day just to feel right, and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t suppress the urge. Every time I do, I can’t focus. Even when I’m out of the house, I’ll have to run to the bathroom. Normally, when my family’s around, I can control myself. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize.” She dropped her hands. “Don’t you dare. You’re not the only one who has to go through this. It happens to girls and guys, and it’s not your fault. It’s the bitch that did this to you. You understand me?” I turned to face her. “I know you probably think that you should be finding a way to control yourself, and that your sex drive is your fault, but what that lady did to you can have this effect on people.”
“You don’t think I’m sick?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t think you’re a pervert. You’ve been tainted by a predator, and it’s kept you from having the life you deserve. You shouldn’t have to hire hookers. Any woman would kill to be with you. You should have somebody special, and that pisses me off. How sick could a person be? She robbed you of love.”
“She
did, and it fucking kills me.” I flipped around and collapsed on the couch. “I sorry. I never tell that story to anyone. Almost no one in the world knows. Not even my brother, Andrew. It always ends up infuriating me when I think about it, because I know you’re right. I can’t have a normal relationship.”
“You’ll find a way, Jake.”
“I don’t know if I will.”
Mercedes sat down, pulled me close, and let me rest my head on her chest.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mercedes
I spent the weekend lounging on the couch with a neverending bowl of popcorn. I firmly believed that binge watching TV was as necessary to human life as air and water. I lost myself in mindless comedies, and of course, a stream of chick flicks.
Monday morning, the house was empty. My mom took my dad to his treatments early, and he wouldn’t be done until the afternoon. So I went back to watching TV with a bowl of cereal. The money I made would help him through his treatments. It wouldn’t cover everything, but we’d make do. It occurred to me that had my father not been sick, I would’ve had it made.
If I had that extra money laying around, I could’ve had a nice car and a place of my own, something that I could make a home. It was strange the way that life worked out. I spent years doing nothing but studying and coming home, thinking that I was building something for myself. Instead, I was still stuck sitting on the couch in my parents’ living room.
I was trying to distract myself from what was really on my mind. Jake’s confession about his childhood lurked in the corner of my brain. Even though I refused to look at it, it wouldn’t be ignored, and it wouldn’t go away. I had no choice but to face it head on.
Jake was in pain. The wounds inflicted on him by that filthy old bitch had never healed. It was the kind of thing that could haunt a person for the rest of their life.
I’d heard about women who were violated like that when they were younger. They’d go from one man to another. Every night a different guy. Some would fall for abusive men that didn’t love them.
When it happened to a guy, they acted differently. They were detached, even cold sometimes, but their sex drive was insatiable. The worst part was the guilt that plagued them. They couldn’t control themselves, so they thought it was their fault. Sex was dirty, wrong—a sin. That self-blame ate at people.
I couldn’t possibly understand what Jake was going through; I was just an observer looking in, but he was hurting. That much was for sure. Somebody destroyed his life, and he still hadn’t recovered. It wasn’t fair. He could’ve been married with little kids running around the house with a good, beautiful woman sleeping next to him.
I could see his life the way it should’ve been. They’d all travel together. There’d be camping and hiking trips, nights in the city, summers in France, Spain, and Italy. Jake was jaded to all of those things now. He didn’t have anyone to share them with, and it hurt him. To be robbed of the ability to love, to have a family, and watch his kids grow up—he was missing out on life. It made me feel terrible.
I took my bowl back up to the kitchen and set it down in the sink. I was still wearing my pajamas. I hadn’t even showered. Maybe this was getting to me a little more than it should. I walked into my room, pulled out a fresh pair of clothes, and took a long shower.
When I got out, I checked my phone. I had six missed calls from Tony. He was the last person I wanted to talk to, but he was a necessary evil to get to Jake.
“What do you want?” I texted him.
He called right away.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Yo, what you texting me for? I need you to come down here, stat.”
“Uh, all right.” I wiped the fog off the bathroom mirror. “Can’t you just talk to me on the phone?”
He hung up.
I wanted to punch the mirror. Just the little things that he did were enough to throw me off. I dried my hair, added a bit of makeup, and chose a nice pair of jeans. I didn’t want to show any skin.
He was sitting on the front porch when I pulled up into the gravel drive.
He hopped off the porch and swaggered up to the driver’s side with a blunt behind his ear. He motioned for me to follow him inside the house, where he had a hip hop song playing at full blast. He turned to say something to me when I walked in, but all I could see were his hands moving up and down. I pointed at the pile of cords and amplifier he had set up at the front of the room, and he walked back to turn the music off.
“Have a seat,” he said.
I wiped a pile of tobacco off the couch behind me and sat down. “What’s going on?”
“I just thought I’d a check in, ma, shit.” He pulled a chair away from the card table set up in the living room, and it shifted the stack of cardboard boxes on top. The top box tipped over and fell onto the chair, sending the box below it flying. Stacks of cash flew out of both of them.
He turned back, wide-eyed, and pulled up his pants before he ducked down to pick the money up. His pants fell back down, and I caught a whiff of old, rotten jock. I had to cover my nose.
“What are you looking at?” he asked and shoveled the cash into an overturned box.
“Nothing.” I turned away.
“You keep your mouth shut; you got that?” He set a chair in front of me and sat down on it backward.
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Shit, I’m just fucking with you. You raking in the cash faster than I can spend it.”
“Thanks.” I kept my eyes on the floor so I didn’t have to look at him.
“You’re working it. It’s that magic pussy.” His eyes rested right between my thighs. It felt like a cockroach falling down my chest. I tensed up.
“You got yourself another client,” Tony said.
“Really?” I met his eyes.
“Uh-huh. They want you there in an hour. You’d better go get yourself cleaned up.”
“Oh, really? You don’t think I look good in this?” I spread my arms to give him a look. He nodded and smiled. “Yeah?” I stood up, bit my finger, and took a step closer. “You like this?”
“Yeah, mama, I love it.” He grabbed his crotch.
I kicked his chair, and he fell off the back, straight on his ass.
“What are you doing?” he cried.
“I’m not working with any other clients, asshole,” I snapped, fuming. I had already made this clear to him.
He looked up at me dumbly from the floor. “You’ll work with whoever I say, ho.”
“Fuck this,” I said. “We’re done. I quit.”
I turned to leave. He lunged forward and tried to grab my ankle. I kicked him right in the nose, and he shrieked in pain.
“That’s all you get,” I spat and walked out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jake
Montenegros was the kind of place that everyone wanted to go to. It had the right look, with bare brick walls and white globe lights hanging up around the room. It was nothing special, just overpriced pasta and sandwiches with trendy ingredients. I had a booth set up in back for business lunches, so I could take clients out.
We were opening up a chain of restaurants in Japan. They had a new trend where they embedded deep-fryers in the tables and brought out platters of meat, so you could batter and fry individual pieces. It was impossible in America. They wouldn’t have allowed it, and I was concerned with the health risks. Somebody was going to get hurt, but it was taking off in Kyoto, so the board sent me out to speak with the owner of a small chain.
I could see him coming in the front door, wearing a sleek black and white suit, hair parted to the side. He carried a briefcase. He was young, stuffy, and looked around the room as if something smelled. I liked the idea that he was uncomfortable.
When he caught my eye, he moved past the podium and walked back to where I was seated. He moved slowly. I could tell he was waiting for me to stand up, bow and lick his shoes, but I’d learned a long time ago that avoiding all that would catch him off guard,
so I waved.
He balked, just enough that I could barely notice, then moved faster to take a seat. “Are you Mr. Ryan?” He reached out a stiff hand for me to shake it. I motioned for him to sit down.
“Sato, right?” I knew exactly how to address him.
“Sato-sama, yes.” He pulled his hand back awkwardly and sat down.
“Sato-san?”
“Sama,” he corrected. ‘San’ was too casual for business meetings.
“So.” I waved my hand across the table. “What do you have for me?” A completely disarming question.
“I, uh,” he stammered. He lifted his briefcase on the table and opened it to pull out his laptop. “I have six restaurants in Kyoto.”
“Right.” I nodded. “How much are you making?”
“Three million every quarter.”
“For each restaurant?”
“No, total.”
“In US dollars?” I had to keep pressing him.
“Yes,” he said.
“And your overhead? Where did you get the three million?”
I could see him getting confused. “It takes $75,000 a quarter to run each restaurant.”
“That’s very high.”
“Yes.” He nodded.
The waitress walked by. I motioned her over. “Have a beer, Mato.”
“It’s Sato-sama.” The waitress stared at him. “Oh, yes. I’ll have a beer, thank you.”
“So, what are your plans for the business? What direction would you like to take it in?”
He gave me a blank stare. “I’ll have to look into that.”
“Okay.” I laughed. It was time. “How much of a stake are you looking to sell?”
“Twenty percent.” He was fast.
“I’ll be pouring a heck of a lot more than that into the company. I’ll tell you what, you sell me rights to the name, and I’ll do 30.” The waitress came and set our beers down on the table. I waved her away.
“I can’t sell.” He stared down at the sweaty green bottle.
“And why not?” I took a sip and sat back, totally casual.
