The Best Laid Plans

by Mataya, Tamara

  She definitely had withdrawals, pathetically enough. They’d been together exactly twice; it wasn’t as if he was a regular thing. But she wanted him to be. I’m definitely calling him.

  She unlocked her cell. Her office phone buzzed. Damn it! Work, you are seriously cock blocking me right now! Was there a female equivalent to that? She answered the call. “Jayne speaking.”

  “Your three-thirty is here to see you.” Jenny the receptionist sounded bored.

  “Thanks. What’s the name?”

  “Sarah Bray.”

  Sarah Bray? Jayne’s heart beat a little faster and her face flushed. Beads of sweat formed on her upper lip and under her arms. Surely it wasn’t the same woman. Please don’t let it be her.

  “Jayne?”

  “Yeah, send her up.” She weakly set the receiver back in the cradle and shook out her hands. Of all the people to see … She quickly scanned her office, reassuring herself it was immaculate. Good. She blotted her hands on her skirt, smoothed her shirt, and dabbed a tissue over her face, removing shine and sweat. She had to look killer. It had never been more important than in this moment. Ten years in the making. Well, not quite in the making, but this would be a great moment in Jayne’s personal history if all went well.

  She sat down, crossed her legs, and fluffed her hair. Then uncrossed her legs and grabbed a pen. A knock at the door. She dropped the pen, re-crossed her legs, and glued her eyes to the computer screen. “Come in.”

  “Sarah Bray?” Jayne’s voice barely shook.

  “Braid, actually. You’re Jayne?”

  “I am.” She stood and shook her hand. It wasn’t her. Relief punched through her knees. This Sarah was a gorgeous African-American woman with sparkling brown eyes and a friendly smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “I recently came into some money and would like to make more.”

  “Ah. I should point out that futures trading is high risk, more so than the average stock market trading.”

  Sarah smiled. “I am aware of the risks. I also know that you are one of the top ten brokers in the city.”

  “True. But if you’re looking for a guaranteed profit, a low risk lower yield might be better for you. Even a savings account with high compound interest would be a good bet.”

  “I inherited the cash. I make a good living, so this is pretty much free money. I’m not putting my house or livelihood on the line.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It’s a no risk for me. Even if I lost it all, I’d be in the same position I’m in now. But I won’t lose it all. Not with you.” She leaned forward and set the folder with her financial details on the desk. “I’ve done my homework.”

  Jayne looked it over. Some inheritance. It took her a second to count all the zeroes.

  “With a portfolio like this, all the top brokers would be salivating to have you as their client. Why choose me?”

  Sarah sat back in her chair and cocked her head to the side. “Of all the top brokers, you’re the only woman.”

  That was true. Jayne had had to fight her way into the financial old boys club in this city, and despite her impressive track record and proven successes, some of them still treated her like a temporary fixture. A pretty little girl playing around with the money rather than a serious contender. “I am.”

  “I’ve also had to prove myself in a male dominated profession. It’s largely what’s driven me to the top. I’m hungrier than a lot of them. More driven. Less likely to fail because that would prove them right.”

  Jayne liked Sarah more by the second. “Go on.”

  “I want to work with you. Someone who understands why I need to take bigger risks, and never let them see me sweat. Someone who understands just why it’s so important to succeed. I think you do.”

  Jayne pulled open a drawer, removed a folder filled with paperwork and slid it across the desk to Sarah. “Ms. Braid. I’m in.”

  ***

  Despite the day ending well, and landing an amazing client, Jayne felt unsettled and left the office early. She got home, drew herself a hot bath and poured a glass of champagne from her emergency baby bottle in the fridge. Bubbly always buoyed her spirits and she was slowly sinking into the feeling she’d been treading the surface of for years.

  Insecurity.

  A name had been all it took to bring her new persona tumbling down. Three syllables that turned her confidence into a gibbering wreck curled up in the corner with mascara trails down her face and lipstick on her teeth. She drained her glass and emptied the miniature bottle into it. There was no other liquor in the house. She couldn’t decide if that was for the best, or a catastrophic oversight on the part of Past Jayne, who should have replaced the last bottle that she drank five days ago.

  Normally, she looked in the mirror while stripping, not from arrogance, but from pride. She’d worked hard to be in good shape. Her body wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for her to feel content with. Today she removed her clothes and slinked to the tub without a glance at her reflection.

  She stepped into the too-hot water, sat on the edge of the tub and turned on the cold tap, swishing her foot around until the temperature was perfect. As she shut off the faucet, she decided to pour in some lavender and vanilla bath oils. She’d never liked the smell of lavender, but the package said it was supposed to be soothing.

  The warm water embraced her body as she slid down until her breasts were submerged. Surrounded by the warmth of the water and the sweet fragrance of the oils, she allowed her past to rise up to meet her. Memories she’d done her best to forget completely.

  The loneliness. She’d always been alone in a room full of people, even in elementary school. The girl who always said what was on her mind. The girl who didn’t bother hiding her talents to fit in. The girl who had friends, but they ditched her in middle school because she wasn’t cool enough, then pretended they’d never shared sleepovers and secrets. Acted like they hadn’t practically lived at each other’s houses for an entire summer. The one ex-friend who forgot that Jayne had been there the night her little brother had to be rushed to the hospital, and it had been Jayne who had comforted her when she cried.

  All because they had a chance to be in the cool clique, they trampled on her to get there. Jayne didn’t understand why they were in such a rush to be in a group where you couldn’t have your own opinion about anything. Where if you wore the wrong thing, laughed at the wrong joke, talked to the wrong person, those cool friends would crucify you. Where was the appeal in that?

  Maybe it was poetic justice, or karma that that had happened to them after ditching her so cruelly. But Jayne had never hated them. She remembered what they were like before when they were friends. She’d never have been friends with them again, the trust had gone, but she didn’t have it in her to hate them. Not even when they put pencil shavings and staples in her hair and ground them into her scalp.

  Not when they’d throw her backpack into crowded classrooms, and she’d have to wait by the door and face the teacher’s annoyance when she asked to retrieve it. Not even when one of them gave one of the popular boys a note, pretending Jayne had written it, asking him to a dance. The humiliation from his rejection that never should have occurred sucked.

  No, she didn’t hate them. She pitied them. Most of them. She hated Sarah Bray. Jayne had been content to ignore her until the day Sarah stabbed her with a pencil. A small scar still lived on her forearm. Except for Sarah, Jayne didn’t hate any of her former friends. She pitied them. And hated herself.

  It would have been way easier on her if she hadn’t been so opinionated, correcting the cool girls, been openly condescending to them when their answers were stupid. But she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t trying to be a badass, or impress any of the other kids. She just couldn’t stand wilful ignorance, or girls who couldn’t name three of their country’s enemies in World War Two.

  One of the popular guys had pulled her aside once in the eighth grade. He did it after school; they’d b
oth had detention, but he made sure no one saw him talking to her.

  “You know, Griffin, you could be one of us. One of our crowd. If you didn’t talk so much. You’re not bad looking and you’re good at sports. That could be your in. If you just tried a little harder to fit in, maybe get some cooler clothes. Do something with your hair … ”

  He may as well have asked her to sprout wings and fly. She was lonely, but she liked herself. She liked her clothes. She liked beating them all in sports and kicking their asses in math. Dumbing herself down would have been ridiculous, and so would changing herself to fit in with people who weren’t going to accept her as she was. She never caved on that.

  But it didn’t mean that sometimes she wished she could have. It would have been a lot easier if she’d been able to shed some of that boisterous personality and been accepted. One of the popular girls, Carly, had been nice to her with no agenda. She was the quietest of them and one of the prettiest, but her face had some acne scarring. Maybe it made her self-conscious, or insecure. Maybe it made her realize that appearances weren’t everything.

  But she’d been legitimately nice to Jayne. They been assigned seats next to each other in computer lab, and Jayne had helped her out with some programming because Carly had been failing. But the friendliness always ended when the bell rang. Jayne hated it, but understood why Carly ignored her outside the class. Carly’s life was all about pleasing her popular friends. But Jayne knew that wasn’t what a real friend should be.

  Maybe that’s why it hurt. Because they’d all happily, or unhappily, ignored her to be friends with people who were in truth friends to no one. Even her own sister had betrayed her, though more recently. A couple years ago, Charlene was relegated to Jayne’s memories with the rest of her tormentors. She was dead to Jayne. Nothing but a painful memory.

  Jayne’s bath had grown cold and the champagne was gone. Rejecting the temptation to drain and refill it again, she pulled the plug and stood, wrapping a towel around herself. Thoughts of her past had made her hyper aware of her present. Carrying the glass back to her kitchen, she gazed around at her reality.

  Expensive, yet tasteful furnishings in a place her parents never could have afforded. Expensive hardwood floors, and Italian marble counters. As soon as she’d made enough money, she’d paid off her parents’ mortgage. Financially, she sat pretty, and she’d done it herself. She hadn’t had to win a lottery, or have anything handed to her. She hadn’t had to marry for money or dig for gold like she heard a lot of women talk about. All of this was her creation, made possible by her brain and hard work.

  But she had to admit that if not for those girls in high school, those betrayals, she might have taken a different path. She had all that she did because she’d wanted to show them. She wanted to make herself more successful than any of them. By herself. On her own terms. Not piggybacking on someone else’s success. She wanted them to know it was her own ambition, that the result was all her, erasing any doubt they may have had that she was a successful somebody.

  And maybe make them see her for who and what she really was. Worthy, powerful, someone to be respected and noticed.

  Until today, she’d truly felt good about herself. Confident. Powerful. Beautiful.

  But the insecurity she’d felt inside when she’d thought it was Sarah Bray, ringleader for the popular bitches, all that had been eclipsed. She’d reverted inside to that lonely girl in high school. The one nobody wanted to talk to. Not where anyone could see.

  It was like finding out her identity was really an elaborate costume that could be stripped away from her at any moment.

  And she didn’t know how to make that feeling disappear. But there was one person she knew who was guaranteed to make her forget all about feeling this way. Someone whose hands and mouth and body made it impossible to think at all.

  Tightening the towel around her, she moved to the coffee table to grab her phone, then perched on the couch.

  Malcolm.

  Eight days was long enough to deprive herself. She tapped the screen and waited for him to pick up. It rang three times.

  “Jayne Griffin.”

  Every muscle in her body relaxed at the sound of his voice. “Hello. Is this a good time, or did I catch you in the middle of playing with your G string?”

  His laughter was warm and she knew she’d gained points for the guitar reference. Playing it forward worked.

  “Now’s fine. How have you been?”

  “Oh, you know. Work tried to kill me, but I wrestled it into submission.” She cringed. Why had she said that? He didn’t need to know the reasons she didn’t call. The whole point of not calling him sooner was so he’d think she had a fabulously busy life!

  “I bet you did.”

  Why couldn’t he live in her bed? His voice was hot sex on a cold day. She already felt better than she had for most of the afternoon. “Play me something,” she demanded. It was that, or ask him what he was wearing, and phone sex definitely wasn’t nonchalant. She moved to her bedroom, removed her towel, and sat on the bed.

  “Did you have anything in mind?” he asked after a moment.

  “Something beautiful. Something relaxing. Unwind me.”

  “Let me grab my guitar.” She heard a tapping sound and a scrabbling. “I’ve put you on speaker.” He strummed a few slow chords and Jayne slipped between the crisp sheets, letting the soft melody seep into her skin like cool lotion, soothing her further.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sing to me.”

  She couldn’t tell when the random strumming became a song, but chills claimed her body when he began singing. It was stark, and pure, and gorgeous. About uncried tears and a closed heart. His voice wasn’t flawless, but it was perfect, and the high notes broke her heart with their beauty. She curled up against the onslaught of raw emotion that welled up.

  But somehow, his singing and playing were a release. The notes, the words reached inside her heart and pulled her from the tarry pit of her past she’d been sinking into. He should be on stages giving this gift to millions, and he should never sing to anyone else because someone would whisk him away and she’d never be able to call him up late at night and have this again. Instead of mourning the loss, she lived inside the product of his hands and voice. It was transcendental.

  The last chord faded away, and his last note ended softly, high, fragile.

  “Please,” she whispered only when the song truly ended. “One more.”

  He didn’t speak a word, only held her safely in the shimmering tendrils of another song immediately played. This afternoon had torn her down and he was rebuilding her one note, one skillfully sung breath at a time.

  He played another without being asked. This one, Jayne smiled through the whole thing. He finished and she heard him set the guitar down and pick the phone up. Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

  “Are you still with me, beautiful?” His voice wore white gloves to handle her delicately.

  “Yes. Thank you for that.” She couldn’t even joke right now, too grateful for what he’d just unknowingly given her.

  “Anytime.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  “I can work with ‘might.’”

  She smiled, remembering the last time he’d said something similar. But the conversation was beginning to be a bit too emotionally charged, from her end anyways. It had been an emotional day.

  “Thank you again, Malcolm.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She didn’t want to initiate plans right now, too full of peace to be shaken up by excitement. “You have my number now.”

  “I do.”

  “Use it.”

  “I will.” A thousand smiles hid inside his voice, not quite showing themselves.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Jayne.”

  Malcolm walked into the Dead True Studio right on time. He prided himself on never being late after one too many artistes ha
d kept him waiting, disrespecting everyone’s time. He swore he’d never be That Guy, and so far had met that goal. But he also hated when people showed up way too early and hung around being a pain in the ass. If he said he’d be there at seven, he was there at seven.

  Or eight-thirty p.m. as the case was tonight.

  “Malcolm!” David, in house producer for Dead True stood to greet him.

  “Hey.” Malcolm shook the hand he’d been offered, and nodded at the people around the room. Three women who made up the band, their manager, Eric, and David. “How’d it turn out?”

  “Perfect,” Deanna, the lead singer, answered, glancing at the other girls. They smiled and nodded, but Malcolm felt like he’d missed something.

  “Have a seat, Malcolm,” Eric gestured at a free chair. Malcolm sat. “The album sounds great. You were amazing, just a flawless job.”

  “But?”

  Eric vigorously shook his head. “No, no! No buts. The thing is, we’ve been discussing album art. And we had a concept going that requires, how do we say, a man’s man.”

  “Hot, sexy, with a killer grin,” Tanya, the drummer, added. “You remember the one track, Killer Grin?” Malcolm nodded. “Well, we want that to be our first single, and we want you to be in the album art as that guy with that smile.”

  “Oh.” He couldn’t think of any other words.

  “We have a photo shoot set up for next Thursday. Will you do it?” Tanya leaned forward. “Please?”

  The other girls joined in with the flattery and the begging. Malcolm blushed deep and viciously, but he nodded. The room erupted in happy shrieks and celebratory jumping up and down. When the band settled, they all listened to the tracks once more. By the time they’d done, Malcolm had to get going to a gig.