by Kim Karr
Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn’t a word I am going to allow myself to say . . . out loud, anyway.
Yes, I admit it—I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I’m boring.
The sting of the word still hurts.
Sebastian was wrong. Is wrong—I am not boring, and even though he is out of my life I am going to prove him wrong. No, scratch that—I am going to prove to myself that I can live my life wild and free, because truth be told, I may not be boring, but I am bored.
I need a change.
To find myself.
The chorus starts up again and although we sing about coming to New York, we all do so knowing that I’m leaving.
I still can’t believe I’m doing it.
When my best friend, Maggie, suggested on the phone, “Why don’t you quit your job and move out here with me?” I nearly broke out in hives.
I thought, why would I do that?
My life was settled. I had a good job, an apartment, and a fiancé. Then I remembered that my boss was an ass, my apartment was a sublet, and my fiancé, well, he wasn’t mine anymore.
Once I let the idea of moving sink in, I thought, why not make a new start? At twenty-four and a half, I can afford to make a change. I’ll get a new job. Give myself a year. Who knows, maybe even find myself.
I have nothing to lose.
If Laguna Beach isn’t the place for me, then I’ll come back to New York. And if I have to, I’ll grovel to get back my old job at the fashion house. My soon-to-be-former boss might be an ass, but he knows my value to the company as a designer.
Completely oblivious to how this song ends, I mumble through it, laughing the entire time. When it’s over, I’m the first to stumble off the stage. Soon after, my friends follow, and we all huddle together. The group of boys our mothers warned us about have reoccupied their seats, leaving us homeless.
“Let’s sing another one,” India suggests, practically jumping at the idea. India is—no, as of today, was—my coworker at Kate von Frantzenberg. We’ve been friends since we both started there right out of college. She’s married to a great guy named Elvis—yes, Elvis. And she, like Sandra, saw me through the dark times following my breakup with Sebastian.
Another song does seem like fun. Karaoke is addicting. However, my bladder is about to burst. “You guys go for it,” I tell her. “I’m going to use the bathroom and I’ll hop in when I’m done.”
“Stay out of trouble,” she calls to me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” I tell her and weave my way through the crowd toward the restrooms.
Trouble.
That’s a laugh.
Even if I went looking for it, it would never find me.
Boring.
My life is that boring.
Wonder of wonders, there is only a very short line. Gleeful and relieved when I finally push through the bathroom door, I hurry to find an empty stall. The hard part comes next. My dress is tight, too tight to shimmy over my hips. With its large silver zipper running up the entire back, I have to use both hands to get it down. Getting it back up is just as much of a bother.
An episode of Sex and the City comes to mind. One in which Carrie Bradshaw finally accepts being alone and figures out how to zip her own dress.
If she could do it, so can I.
Channeling my inner Carrie, it still takes me a few minutes. And when I come out of the stall, the bathroom is jam-packed. I wait my turn for a sink behind two women whispering loudly about the tragedy of it all and how they don’t blame him for leaving the city. Him. I don’t know who they are talking about, but by the time the two women leave, even I feel sorry for this him.
After I wash my hands and dry them, I follow the surge of people down the dimly lit hallway. There are rooms reserved for private parties and with my feet killing me, I slip into an empty one to check my messages.
Strips of neon-pink bulbs along the perimeter cast an almost strobe-like effect in the room. Ignoring the fact that it’s messing with my vision, I pick a booth out of sight of the door. My screen saver lights up when I pull my phone from my purse. It’s of the Statue of Liberty. A photo I took last summer when Sebastian and I were goofing off one Saturday instead of looking for wedding locations.
I should have taken it as a sign.
Resolved to stop thinking about Sebastian, I thumb across the picture and go directly to Google. Once there, I search for a picture of something that will have meaning in my new life.
Bingo!
More than satisfied with my choice, I save it as my new screen saver and start singing the song that the bright photo reminds of: “If you like piña coladas . . .”
With a smile on my face, I finish that verse and flip to my message. When I do, I see that I have a text.
Maggie: Are you still out?
Feeling on top of the world that yes, I am, I look at the time and smile. It’s 12:35 a.m. And I’m still out. Having fun.
See, I’m so not boring.
Excited about this, I have to retype my reply three times to get the one word correct. Just as I go to hit send, my phone slides out of my grip.
Crap.
Camouflaged beneath the black tablecloth, I lie on the seat and reach onto the carpeted floor. The smoothness of the vinyl bench and soft material of my dress don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, and somehow I end up falling to the ground. It’s more than a little grimy and I’m more than a little grossed out. With my fingers curled around my phone, I’m about to get off this disgustingness when I hear the sound of voices and the door closing to the private room.
I freeze right where I am.
From under the table I can see two silhouettes. A man. And a woman. I can’t see their faces from this angle, only their bodies. Just as I’m about to announce my presence, my eyes drift down to a perfectly shined pair of men’s shoes and a very familiar pair of high heels. I know by the Louboutins that the woman is the Megan Fox look-alike.
Like a cat, my curiosity is back.
And when she shoves the man against the door, I feel my heart start to pound. The man is likely Cam—the dark-haired guy she trampled over me to get to and then dragged away from his friends. Getting a better look at him, I can see that his body is taut with tension. A live wire, I think. Definitely an uptight suit.
Trust me—I know the type well.
Right now is when I should announce myself. Yet I don’t. Instead, I cover the screen of my phone to shield its glare and watch for what she’s going to do next. Maybe yell at him. Cry. Or even break up with him. She’s a woman on a mission, and I feel an odd kinship with her because I’ve been there before.
As if releasing her rage, she rips his shirt apart, and I panic as the buttons jump across the carpeted floor and land very close to my table. The couple doesn’t even seem to notice, though, because the woman is already running her palms up his smooth, muscled skin. When she bends, I think for a moment she might bite him or pinch him, and then tell him to go to hell, but instead she starts licking him.
Wait!
She was mad at him.
Wasn’t she?
Had I gotten her body language all wrong?
From my downtown view, I can tell she’s working his one nipple hard. His hands claw at the door behind him as if he needs the support, but his satisfied groans tell me he likes what’s going on. When Megan moves to the other side of his chest, my gaze lands on a tattoo of a scrolling letter B right over his heart, and I think Megan must be B.
Brittney?
Breanna?
Bailey?
Bethany, I bet. She looks like one.
Megan with a B traces the scrolling letter. For some reason, I can’t call her Bethany. To me she’s Megan. I’ll stick with that. “I’m sorry, Cam. I’m so sorry,” she whis
pers.
“Just shut up,” he hisses, and I wish I could see his face so I could tell if he’s angry or if he likes to be rough.
My thoughts are soon left in the dust because red soles are all I can see when she drops to her knees. Shocked, I have to use my hand to cover my gasp. This is not what I expected. Either way, it’s too late for me to say a word.
Slowly, she unzips the fine fabric of his trousers, and I want to die.
I can’t watch this.
Yet, I do.
The pink lights flicker over and around me, and if either of them looks toward the corner, they might catch a glimpse of my extremely bold, large silver zipper. Remind me why I suggested this change to the designer? Inching my way farther back, I make sure to blend in with my all-black attire.
“I want you,” she moans with a harsh breath.
“You don’t get to have me,” he sneers at her.
“How about this, then?” she asks as she strokes his cock, which is still covered by his boxers, and then kisses it.
From the groan he makes, it sounds like he’s battling himself. “You don’t want to do this,” he replies, and something in the sound of his tortured, low, creamy voice sets my blood on fire.
She ignores his response and yanks his pants and boxers past his knees. No pants required for this act. And then without any more preamble, she takes him in her mouth and sheaths him with her lips. I can’t see his cock, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Really, I’m not a pervert. I’m not even the least bit kinky. In fact, I’m the opposite of kinky. I jill off with my fingers. I like sex missionary style, on a bed, at night, in the dark. And I’m not very good at blow jobs. I usually gag.
There’s a dull thud against the door, and I imagine it is Cam tipping his head in pleasure despite the fact that he’s mad at Megan with a B.
Why is he mad?
What did she do?
Who is she?
A random pickup?
His girlfriend?
His fiancée?
His wife?
I’m going with girlfriend. I feel like the intimacy she used to trace the letter on his chest meant something. Not fiancée or wife—I don’t see rings—but I guess if they are in a fight they might have taken them off. What did she do to upset him? Spend too much money? Get tipsy at lunch? Refuse to spread her legs when he wanted her to?
The act continues. Her long, dark hair bobs. His shirttails practically cover her head. And then his tie whispers across the hint of skin I can see between the folds of fabric, and I start to feel a little overheated. None of that seems to bother her, though, as she works him with both her hands and her mouth.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
My eyes feel dry. I blink them a few times. Damn contacts. The movement of my head causes the gemstone around my neck to fall and hit the side of the floor.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Like a clock, it moves until I grab it.
Suddenly, B stops what she’s doing and looks up at Cam.
Did she hear it?
I stop breathing.
“You like it when I do this. Admit it,” she purrs.
Phew. She didn’t hear anything.
Angry or not, I know I don’t imagine the sound of laughter he makes or the hand he puts on B’s hair as he pushes her head down. “In the condition I’m in tonight, sweetheart, any whore will do.”
Mean, vicious words meant to hurt, or is this just their way?
The use of the word sweetheart tells me he refuses to call her by name. Megan with a B doesn’t seem to mind, because soon enough the wet noise of mouth on flesh is the only sound besides my heavy breathing that I can hear.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Cam groans.
“I know how you like it,” B tells him, looking up again.
Okay, so at least they’re well acquainted. Again, I’m going with girlfriend.
Cam doesn’t seem to want to look into her eyes, because he once again pushes her head down. “Who wouldn’t?” he tells her, and for the first time, I hear the slur of alcohol in his voice.
Fascinated by the exchange before me, I’m more than aware that I shouldn’t be watching this or listening to this private moment, but I want to know if being an asshole is how he gets off, or if Cam is truly mad at Megan with a B.
A light flickers under the table and I grab for my phone. It’s another text from Maggie, same as before.
Maggie: Are you still out?
More soft, wet noises cover up the vibration. Thank God I turned my phone to vibrate earlier. With the screen covered with my palm, I try not to move or even breathe.
Cam is making a lot more noises now. Groaning. Swearing.
Why are his sounds turning me on?
Feeling a way I know I shouldn’t, I close my eyes, unable to watch anymore, but soon enough another thud against the door has me opening them just in time to see Cam’s back arch.
I know he’s coming by the way his body is reacting—the sounds he’s making, the curve of his spine, the sudden thrusts he makes into B’s mouth. “That’s it, right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”
Megan with a B swallows all of him to the last drop and from what I can see, she doesn’t seem to have a gagging issue.
Lucky bitch.
Right now, I’m more than a little hot and bothered. I know what I’ll be doing when I get home to relieve the ache I’m feeling.
Megan’s arm rises and she wipes her mouth. I wish I could hand her a napkin. Soon after, she gets to her feet and I can no longer see anything but the back of her red dress.
She’s the devil.
Or maybe he is?
“No,” says the very male, very drunk, voice.
No.
No to what?
Oh, God, I hope she doesn’t want to lay him down on the floor and fuck him, because if that happens, I’m so caught.
“No?” Megan with a B repeats in a questioning tone.
“No!”
“Wait. Let me get this straight—you’ll let me suck your dick, but you won’t let me touch your mouth with my lips?”
Cam’s polished shoes shuffle. He pulls his shirt together. Tucks it. Zips his pants. Then he moves away from the red dress in the high heels and opens the door. “I’m done letting you do anything else, sweetheart.”
Well, that is just rude.
“Camden,” she calls, sounding a little frantic. “Give me a chance. I want to make it up to you. I’ll do anything.”
“There’s nothing I want from you—that’s the problem.”
Cam. Short for Camden.
I rather like it.
Too bad Camden is a prick.
“Then why let me do this?”
There is no answer, just his feet moving out of my sight.
“You’re a fucking asshole!” she cries after him.
Those polished, very male shoes come flying into the room.
Hell hath no fury like a man scorned.
He steps very close to her. I imagine him tipping her chin up to look her in the eyes, although I can’t see up that high. “Just so we’re clear on this—I owe you nothing,” he seethes, and this time when he leaves the room he doesn’t return.
Ouch!
“But I still want you,” she whispers, more to herself.
I think she’s used to getting what she wants, and this Cam is it. I wonder how far she’ll go to get him. Wish I could find out.
Soon after, Megan with a B stumbles, and then slumps onto the bench at the table across from me. I can see her face now.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
Please don’t look this way.
If I can see her face, does that mean she can see mine?
It’s dark enough in the corner and I hope the glow of the pink lights helps to camouflage me, but if she looks hard enough, she’ll see me.
/> Sadness consumes her and her crying is as heavy as her breathing. She’s not looking anywhere but into her own lap. I feel a little sorry for her. I don’t know what she did to Camden, but it must have been very bad, or this is one really fucked-up sex game they’re playing.
Too bad for me I will probably never know because as if reborn, she wipes the tears from her eyes, takes a deep breath, and stands tall before she walks out of the room with a very steady stride.
Boy, does she put herself together quickly.
I could take a page or two from her “how to” book.
Hard to believe I just did that—watched a girl give a guy a blow job. Honestly, I didn’t see much, just the back of her head, but still, that has to count as anything but uptight.
Right?
When the coast is clear, I grab my phone, finally press send with the one word, yes, to answer Maggie, and make my way into the lounge. There is no sign of Megan with a B, and although I’m uncertain what Cam looks like, something tells me he’s gone too.
“Happy” is playing and my friends are onstage moving like Pharrell Williams. Practically skipping toward them, I hop up and join in. Moving my hips, snapping my fingers, clapping my hands, I have no trouble belting out this tune all the way through.
“Clap along, if you feel like that’s what . . .” I finish the song on a high note, with my hands together and a sense of being reborn myself.
What I watched in that private room makes me realize everyone has issues, and everyone has a way of dealing with them—beg, cry, get mad, say things that hurt, curl up into a ball, and even have sex. However you deal, at least you deal, and I’ve done my fair share of all of that.
I’m done dealing.
I’m ready for tomorrow.
Ready to start anew.
Be a hot-air balloon, just like the song says.
Within minutes of our grand finale, I’m drunkenly hugging my friends goodbye.
“Don’t forget to call us!” they holler as I get into a cab.
“I won’t,” I answer, closing the window, and then turning around to wave goodbye as the taxi pulls away.
Slumping against the door, reality dawns. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be on a plane to Orange County.
I can’t believe it.
I’m really doing it.
New start.
