Chasing Vivi

by A. M. Hargrove

  “You were supposed to call me. Did you forget? Or … wait. How could you? I texted you, let’s see”—he pulls out his phone and silently ticks off the number of messages he sent—“six times, Vivi. I texted you six times.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jackie observing this exchange with her mouth agape.

  “About that. I was busy.”

  “At”—he checks his phone again—“twelve-thirty in the morning? Were you entertaining someone, Vivi?” He leans on the counter, caging me with his arms. “Are you in the habit of receiving guests at such an hour because as I was led to believe you only had two—”

  “That’s enough, Prescott.”

  “Oh, Vivi, it’s not even close to being enough.” His lips are a hair away from mine and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to kiss me, or maybe even bite me. Then he surprises me by stepping back and aiming his finger at me. “You owe me a call. I expect it today.”

  He walks out as though he owns the world, and in many ways, he does. The next hour and a half are so busy, my hands are full helping Jackie fill orders. But my mind is glued to Prescott Beckham. What would it be like to go out with him? To sleep with him?

  But I know the answer to that. I’d be ruined for anyone else forever. There’s absolutely no way I can do it.

  When the crowd finally thins, Jackie leans on one of the stools we have in the back and asks, “Who was the god?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Vivi. Don’t play dumb.”

  “Nobody, really.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I’m starved.” I walk over to one of the soup pots and ladle up a cup. It’s minestrone and delicious. “Mmm. I love this stuff.”

  “Almost as good at Prescott looks,” she says.

  Her grin has me smiling back.

  “Shut up,” I say. “And how do you know his name?”

  “That’s what you called him. That man is totally off the hot charts. Is he an ex or something? The heat rolling off you two was enough to cause the soup pot to boil over.”

  “No, he’s not an ex,” I huff.

  “I sure wish he looked at me the way he looked at you. I’d nibble on his baguette any day of the week.”

  “Jackie! Jeez, you don’t even know him.”

  “So? With eyes and an ass like his, who needs to know more than that?”

  Leaning away from my tasty cup of soup, I say, “Come on. That can’t be all it takes.”

  “Hmm. Sometimes.” We’re interrupted by a group of customers but when they leave, I prod her to continue.

  “It depends on the guy. The one who was after you reeks of money.”

  “How do you know that?” I’m truly curious to see what she says.

  “His clothes. He was wearing a Burberry coat, those fucking awesome Louis Vuitton high tops that I’d give my pinky toes for, and—wait a sec. Don’t you pay attention to this shit?”

  I’m tying a chunk of my hair into a knot, untying it and retying it. “Actually, no. What’s the point?”

  She smacks me on the shoulder. “The point, my friend, is you can learn a lot about a person by what they wear.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Jackie tilts her head, then bites the corner of her lip. “Let me see. While your coat isn’t cheap, you’d totally love a thick warm coat, but can’t afford it.” She pinches my sweater between her thumb and forefinger. “This sweater isn’t heavy enough for you either, is it? You’re freezing all the time, and from the looks of your wardrobe, my guess is you’re on a super tight budget. Every time I see you, you’re dressed in clothes that are suitable for a warmer climate. Your boots are several years old, and not something you’d wear when it’s freezing in New York. That tells me you’re not from here and haven’t spent much time in these parts. Oh, and one other thing. Your messenger bag is quite worn and looks like it’s seen better days. It doesn’t really match the rest of your stuff. Wanna know what that says to me? If I were to bet, I’d say you used to have a better one, maybe even a much more expensive one, but maybe sold it in a consignment shop for some extra cash.”

  “What are you? A detective or something?”

  “Nope, just very observant. I take a lot of creative writing classes. And I take my studies very seriously. See, clothes say a shit-ton about someone.”

  I don’t respond, though I know she’s waiting for me to.

  “What happened, Vivi?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The bell rings again and she’s torn away by a customer, thank God. The last thing I need is her snooping into my life. Unfortunately, the customer only orders a regular coffee and a cookie.

  Instantly, she’s back to her probing questions. Only this time, her eyes are soft and sympathetic. “You can tell me. I know what it’s like to need a friend. You and Vince are close, I know. I also know it’s nice to have a girlfriend, too. Not that I’m trying to push Vince out of the way or anything.”

  I bat my hand, saying, “No, it’s not like that at all. It’s just, well, my mom died and things got a little rough with the medical bills.”

  Suddenly, I’m unexpectedly being hugged. It’s weird as hell because I can’t remember the last time I was hugged by anyone. The time I saw Prescott in the restaurant, I hugged him to make a point to Joe and that was weird as shit, too.

  The thing is, while my mom was ill, she couldn’t put her arms around me. I held her many times, but there were never any warm embraces returned. My eyes fill with water and that familiar knot, the one that used to live in my throat, reappears. There’s no way in hell I can break down in here. There are people twenty feet from us.

  “Um”—I clear my throat—“Jackie, you’ve got to let me go.” When she does, I dart into the bathroom to regain control. I’m a trembling mess. Leaning on the sink, I splash water on my face. As I stand there, my phone buzzes. Why am I not surprised to see who it is?

  I’m still waiting for a call.

  I want to yell, “Yeah? You’re going to be waiting for quite a while, dude!”

  Jackie’s waiting for me with an apologetic frown. “I’m sorry, Vivi. I didn’t mean—”

  “It wasn’t your fault. You were trying to be nice. To be honest, it felt good to be hugged and it sort of threw me.”

  “I meant what I said about being your friend. That is, if you’re ever in need of another.”

  The rest of the afternoon goes by smoothly, except for the damn texts I keep getting. Then around five, a man shows up with a gigantic box. It’s wrapped in beautiful paper and tied in a pretty bow.

  “I have a delivery for Vivienne Renard.”

  “I’m Vivienne.”

  “Sign here.” He hands me a computer pad and I put my signature on it. The box sits on the counter and he leaves me staring at the monstrosity.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Jackie asks.

  “I guess.” I tear the paper off and the box is from Saks.

  “Oooh, pricey.”

  When I lift off the lid, I forget how to breathe. Inside is a gorgeous, tweed winter coat. I pull it out as Jackie gushes over it.

  “Jesus, Vivi, it’s a Chanel. That must’ve cost at least a few grand.”

  “What! Who pays that much for a coat?”

  “You know who.”

  When I go to stuff it back in the box because there’s no way I can accept anything like this, I notice there’s something else inside. It’s not exactly little either. I push the tissue paper out of the way, reach in, and pull out a Canada goose down coat.

  “Somebody really likes you, girl.”

  My brain fires in all the wrong places.

  “At least you won’t be cold anymore.” She giggles.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Oh, come on. By the way, who’s Mr. Prescott Moneybags?”

  “Prescott Beckham.”

  “Say what?”

  “Prescott Beckham.”

  “You mean the rich dude?�
��

  I gesture toward the coats. “Do you really have to ask me that?”

  “You need to chase him down.”

  I stare at the box and only then do I notice the card and underneath something red peeking out. When I pick up the card a satin thong sits there.

  Of all the …

  Jackie looks over my shoulder and snickers. “Seems to me he has plans for you.”

  Opening the card, I shiver at the words that blare at me. “Will you please call me now?”

  “I’d be dialing that man’s number, if I were you.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not me, are you, Jackie?”

  A week passes with no sign of another job. I resign myself to the fact that I’m going to have to quit and take a waitressing job or two until I can land something permanent. My funds aren’t exactly plentiful.

  There’s another option. Pulling out my phone, I check out the pictures there. The diamond ring and bracelet are the last things I have left of my mom’s. They should bring in a hefty price because the ring is over two carats and has plenty of smaller diamonds around it. The bracelet is loaded with diamonds and sapphires. The jewelry is all that’s left from what Dad gave her during our better days, when money was no object. I had hoped I could keep them as a reminder of those times, but that’s not going to be an option. The thought makes my stomach churn with acid.

  If I could sell at least the bracelet, the money could pay my mortgage for six months. The problem might be finding a buyer who is willing to pay the asking price. I do have the option of going to a pawnshop, but they don’t always give the best price.

  Turning on my computer, I run a search for websites that will allow me to sell it online. It doesn’t take long to locate one, but I must send them appraisal documents to prove the value of the bracelet. Luckily, I was forward thinking and did that before leaving Virginia. They are scanned into my computer. I email the company and send them the appraisal, along with a photo of the bracelet. Then I go to the closet and check the bin where the stuffed animals are kept. Inside each one is where the jewelry is hidden. I didn’t know what else to do. Knowing where I was moving, and that there might not be a safe place to keep them, I figured it would be best to keep them here. It was a smart move, considering how dangerous this area is.

  Next, I start a job search for any kind of work that can keep food in my fridge and the electric bill paid. If I can sell the bracelet and work a couple of jobs until I land a real job, perhaps I can make it here. If not, plan B will be instituted. The problem is, I don’t have a plan B.

  Gotta get working on that.

  On Monday morning, I meet Joe at his office to offer him a deal. If he doesn’t stop harassing me, I slap him with a lawsuit.

  “You’re funny, Vivi. How exactly have I been harassing you?”

  “Come on, Joe, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You want one thing from me and it isn’t training on the new system I installed. So tell me, do you want me to continue my rotation in the shops or do I resign now?”

  He pushes his large leather chair back and stands.

  “Vivi, you’d really resign?”

  “Yes, I’m prepared to do that.”

  He takes my hand and I shudder, jerking it out of his grasp.

  “What, you don’t like to hold my hand?”

  His slimy voice sends a chill down my spine.

  “No, I don’t like to hold your hand. I don’t want you to touch me.”

  “But we could have such fun together.”

  “Joe, you are my boss and this is inappropriate.”

  “Only if you don’t want it.”

  I flash him a scathing look. “What makes you think I want this? I’ve told you no on how many occasions? I can’t even count them anymore.”

  He runs his hand over his greasy hair and I want to gag. “I promise, one night with me and you’ll change your mind.”

  “Enough.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. “I have enough here to prove sexual harassment. This has been going on since the beginning of our work relationship and I’m taking this to an attorney. Consider this my resignation.”

  I’m marching to the door on my way out of his office, when he slams me against the wall. Air gushes from my lungs in a whoosh as my chest is crushed into the hard surface. It happens so fast I can’t process. As awareness hits, I realize I’ve underestimated Joe and that I’m in real danger.

  He whispers against my cheek and his steamy rank breath fans across my face. My body vibrates in terror. “You think you’re pretty fucking smart, don’t you, Vivi? With that degree from MIT and your little nasty trick? You also thought I bought into that Prescott Beckham bullshit too, didn’t you? Well, I followed you for weeks and never saw any interaction with him.” He grabs my phone and even though I can’t see what he’s doing, I’m sure he’s erasing the conversation I recorded.

  “Now try to see what your little attorney or your so-called friend can do with that.” I hear my phone drop to the floor. Then he unbuttons my coat and says, “You’ve teased me long enough, you little whore, and I’m finally going to get what I deserve.”

  Think fast!

  My back is toward him, so I can’t knee him in the groin, but I can struggle and scream. A screech unlike any I’ve ever let loose before belts out of me and goes on and on. I squirm enough so he can’t get his hand clamped over my mouth. Somehow he loses his grip and I wiggle enough to elbow him in the solar plexus. It’s not sufficient to do any damage, but it allows me room to turn and knee the hell out his balls. Now I make a break for it and run like my ass is on fire, screaming for help.

  By this time, people are gathering about. Maybe they heard my scream. I’m not sure. But I keep yelling, “He tried to attack me. He tried to rape me.” And I keep repeating myself.

  Some kind woman takes me in her arms and someone else calls the police. Joe stumbles through the door and claims I’m a lunatic who attacked him. The police arrive and take us both in for questioning.

  A female officer asks if I want to go to the hospital, but I decline. I explain everything that happened, starting from when I was hired. I don’t leave out any detail, including what Vince told me about Jenny, the girl who resigned. My chest and the front of my shoulders are sore where Joe slammed me into the wall and I keep rubbing them, trying to relieve the ache.

  “Are you okay?” the officer asks.

  “It’s just bruised, I’m sure.”

  “May I?”

  I take off my coat, but my sweater covers up everything.

  “Would you mind slipping your sweater off your shoulder a bit?” When I do, I’m shocked to see the purple already showing up.

  “Yeah, that’s going to be a lot worse by tomorrow. You should get that checked out by the hospital. You might have a fractured collar bone or something.”

  “I don’t have any insurance.”

  She pats my hand. “If he caused this, you may not need it. It’s also another way to add evidence.”

  Maybe she’s right. I don’t know anymore. Why did Joe have to go and do this? Now I won’t be able to look for another job. Dammit.

  “Come on. I’ll drive you over.”

  “Thanks.”

  As it turns out, I have a cracked rib. The doctor says there’s nothing they can do but treat the pain. The police officer has them take pictures to submit as evidence of the attack.

  On the way back to the station, she says, “I don’t suppose you threw yourself into that wall, did you?”

  “What?”

  “He’s claiming you attacked him.”

  “Yeah, I usually like to break my own ribs.”

  She chuckles. “That’s what I thought. I think this will work out for you.”

  “I was going in there to resign. I recorded his conversation. It wasn’t the first time, like I said. All I wanted was to get out and find another job. Now I’ve got a broken rib to deal with and most likely a court date.”

  She casts me a sympathetic
glance. “Hey, one good thing came out of this. He won’t be doing this anymore.”

  “Don’t count on it. I wouldn’t put anything past that slime ball.”

  Chapter 6

  Prescott

  Why the hell won’t she call me?

  After I sent the coats, I thought I’d immediately hear back from her, but nothing. She didn’t even send me an acknowledgement. Then almost a week later, the box was sitting on my desk when I arrived at work with a note inside. She’d written: “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  The Little Wolf struck back.

  She’s devouring up my days, not by the hour, but by the second. I wanted to possess her. Well, that joke is on me. Vivienne Renard fucking owns my ass, balls, and dick. I have to figure out a way to get all of them back, because I’m a worthless piece of shit without them.

  “Mr. Beckham, your father would like to see you in his office,” Lynn says through the phone. Then she whispers, “Tell the bastard to fuck off, and you’ll see him in yours.”

  “Lynnie, I’d never put you in that position. Let him know I’m on my way.”

  “Chicken shit.”

  She’s right. For the life of me, I don’t know why I let the son of a bitch get to me. Maybe it’s because I still want his praise. And why the hell is that?

  When I get to his door, the one thing I don’t do is knock. This is more my business than his. Granddad is right. I have more of a right to the Whitworth name than he does. And now with him siding with the step-cunt, he doesn’t deserve much respect at all. My grandfather barely acknowledges him anymore.

  “You wanted to see me.” It’s not a question. I’m brusque and to the point.

  “Sit.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Fine. You need to straighten your ass up.”

  “You’re not in a position to tell me how to run my life. You lost that ability at Christmas.”

  He winces. That’s a surprise.

  “Your stepmoth—”

  “She’s nothing to me.”

  “Prescott, please.”

  “No. In fact, I’d rather you never speak of her in my presence. I’ve made that perfectly clear.”