“Cool, cool. No worries.” Looking me over, Kitta flashes a Cheshire grin. “How’s the hangover?”
“Almost gone after a hot shower and two extra strength mega aspirins, but I have these weird little bruises on my arm.” I lift the sleeve of my Army jacket putting the marks on display.
“Did you watch the recording to find out how that happened?”
“I watched enough to know where my car is,” I half-lie. The scene in the elevator with the guy replays in my head like a dreamy movie. His eyes are in the forefront of my mind. The second I think it, my stomach crimps making me take a long, shallow breath.
“Aren’t you curious? I’d be! I mean, come on…TWO condoms missing?” Kitta’s eyes twinkle with curiosity.
“I don’t care, there’s no permanent damage. As long as I don’t have an STD, or she gets me preggo and I wake up in my own room, I don’t give a shit what she does.”
That’s a lie too. I’d watched Marvy a lot when she first started taking my body out. But after a while it became the same ole, same ole, SSDD as Kitta would say or in this case SSDN. N standing for night.
Kitta is a bit shocked by my nonchalant attitude. “You don’t care if she’s whore-hopping around with your body?”
Exasperated, I sigh. “I do, but it’s not like I can stop her from doing things. We tried, remember?”
Kitta and I experimented a few different ways to stop Marvy in the past, but Marvy always found a way out. We even attempted tying me up and locking the door. The only thing that came out of that was rope burns on my wrists and a knob-less door. That took a lot of explaining to my mother.
Stocking up on condoms was less complicated than convincing my mother I needed to go on the pill. Using the excuse of regulating my periods was Kitta’s brilliant idea.
“Yeah,” Kitta exhales. She shoots me an apologetic look. “And that is a sucky way to find out you weren’t a virgin anymore.”
Last summer, Mom took Jones to his baseball camp in Southerby so Kitta and I took a road trip to the Springs. Kitta had only met Marvy a few times so when they somehow ended up at a party in a hotel suite, she didn’t realize it was Marvy, not me, until afterward. It was the first time either of us got drunk and Kitta didn’t notice the shift. She said I was a whole different person, chatting with everyone, flirting with all the boys, but Kitta blamed it on the alcohol. I was even smoking! It was fairly innocent figuring I was as shit-faced as she was, so she went on with her own fun. The party crested into the early morning hours and Kitta was tired so she went looking for me. Marvy was sprawled on the bed, face down and naked, lying next to a naked boy. To this day, I can feel the guilt eat away at Kitta.
“Stop it. How were you to know? I didn’t even know she’d take it that far. At least she used protection.”
We’ve had this conversation a million times since then. Now every time we go out, Kitta never lets me out of her sight and constantly looks for the shifting signs.
Casting her a sideways glance, I pursed my lips. “You can’t watch me forever, especially when I go to Baylor.”
“God Tris, what are you going to do then? I mean, here you have some control. But college? With college guys at college parties? Have you thought of all the damage she could do with your reputation? With your life? With your future?”
“Kitta,” I sigh again. “I can’t think of that right now. I just want to get my car, work at Mr. P’s, and get done at Metro. I’ll figure the rest out later.”
Shaking a bejeweled manicured index finger at me, her concern is distinct. “Girl later is coming quicker than you think.”
THE DRIVE IS GOING to take forever so I tell Kitta about the valet guy and the vile men at the club.
“What a bitch! But the bartender sounds HOT! What’s his name?” Kitta asks.
My face scrunches up at the thought. “Please, let’s not live vicariously through Marvy, okay?”
“Calm your tits, I just asked his name. It’s not like I can get in and meet him. It’s an Over Twenty-One club. How did Marvy get in?”
“I think she’s been there a few times, everyone seemed to know her. They treated her like some flippin’ queen. She didn’t have to wait in line to get in, pay cover, or for her drinks. I have no idea where all my money went.”
“Probably the cab to take her drunk ass home.”
“I guess.” I lean my head against the window not wanting to talk about Marvy anymore. “So, anything new at school? What gossip am I missing?”
“SSDD, babe. Dumb bitch is cheating on douche-nugget football player, Ms. Mary Poppins is diddling the history teacher, teams win, then they lose, no one pays attention in class and everyone cheats on their tests while the teachers play Candy Crush on their phones. It’s all so fucking juvenile. Damn, I can’t wait to graduate already! In a few months, I’ll be taking summer classes with you at Metro! Well not the same classes, but we can have lunch or some shit like that. At least I’ll see you more, I hope.”
Chuckling at our frequently used acronym, SSDD, I shake my head. The phrase, ‘Same Shit, Different Day’ came from a movie we saw and it just stuck. We use quite a few of them. It is like our secret code, but some people know what we are talking about. FUBAR is one not many get. Fucked Up, Beyond All Recognition came from a World War II movie we saw on cable. Same goes for SNAFU, Situation Normal, All Fucked Up. Honestly, I’d rather use the acronyms than say the actual swear words, although Kitta speaks them freely. She laughs at my chastity, but my daddy would have frowned on unlady-like language. Out of respect, I try to honor his wishes. I miss him, but what I wouldn’t give to have Kitta’s spirit and let the words fly.
With the help of GPS directions we approach the club, but as usual for a late Saturday afternoon in a beach town, there’s no parking. After circling the block a few times, I get out and tell Kitta to find parking while I try to get into the club. Standing there staring at the entrance, my lack of common sense hits me. The velvet rope is gone and the door is locked. I shut my eyes and hang my head.
Of course it’s closed and no one is here. It’s daytime, stupid!
There’s a voice box on the side of the door so I figure it wouldn’t hurt to try it. Maybe it would call a staff person cleaning up the club or getting ready for tonight. After pushing the button for a second time, the box crackles and a voice comes on. “Yeah?” the voice straggles.
I push the button again and speak. “Hi. Um…I was here last night and had to take a cab home. Is there any way I can get my car from valet?”
“Marvy?” the scratchy voice asks.
Oh snap, he knows Marvy! Panic shoots through me and my hands slap over my gaping mouth.
The voice from the box crackles again. “Hold on. Let me come down.”
“Aw hell,” I say scrubbing my face. My stomach bounces with nerves as my heart pounds in my throat.
Flickin’ fudge farts! What was I thinking? I should’ve let Kitta do this. CRAP!
I pace back and forth, debating if I should make a run for it. “Gosh damn it Kitta, where are you?” I snap my head searching the street, but there’s no sign of the gas guzzling sedan.
The door swings open and a guy stands there staring at me. THE guy; the one from last night’s elevator scene. EEP!
Speechless, I stare back blinking with my open mouth going dry. With his bed-head hair and only wearing cotton pajama bottoms that loosely cling to his waist, he looks at me perplexed. A blaze rises from my gut to every hair on my head. Fuck me! In the heat of the moment I can’t think of anything else more appropriate.
“Why didn’t you come through the lobby?” he yawns and scratches his head. Confusion fills his brilliant yet sleepy, hazel-green eyes.
Holy cow! Even better in person! My toes curl in my military boots as a shimmy takes over my body. My stomach tightens with a thousand knots, but I disregard the neon flashing warning signs and go into the club anyway.
HE STARES AT ME in the elevator, waiting for me to say something. I nervou
sly keep my eyes forward, trying not to catch his reflection, but it’s pointless in the mirrored elevator. Struggling to suppress the smile pulling the corners of my mouth, I pucker my lips when I catch myself glimpsing his well landscaped body. My heart slams my ribs with fear and admittedly, a little pleasure.
Frozen in place, I finally swallow the deluge of saliva building in my mouth. “About my car, my friend drove me here and she’s waiting for me outside.”
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me, but they narrow as he tips his head to the side. “Yeah, I saw it last night when the valet guys brought me the keys. It’s safe.”
Tilting my head down, I dart my eyes left and right. “So…um…can I get them?”
“They’re in the office.”
I blanch and my head jerks up. “What the heck? Then why are we going to the penthouse?” My voice squeaks like a prepubescent boy; I can’t help it. For a moment, I stop breathing.
Please don’t let him want to get some. A twisting pain guts me as the knots in my stomach clamp down.
The guy flashes a smile that should be illegal in this universe. My mind begins to wander with Marvy-like thoughts.
“You look different in the daylight.”
My ears erupt in flames. Instinctively, I move my ponytail forward trying to block my face. I wish I had a hat on.
Irritated at both myself and his comment, my back stiffens. “I like this look,” I say flatly.
“I do too! But it so doesn’t look like you.” Unabashed, he moves closer.
On impulse, I try to match his steps moving farther away, but he closes the distance.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, brushing his fingers against my arm.
The knots sail from my stomach to my chest and then back down to my stomach. I know I should keep my distance, but my feet aren’t moving this time.
“Nothing,” I whisper, my breath lost.
Leaning in, he traps me between his arms and the mirrored wall. I have no choice but to spin and face him. His closeness makes me back up, only to realize I’m against the same wall he was against last night. He cocks his head to catch my gaze. The flare in them should be a warning I heed, but I’m lost in a sea of hazel-green. Dipping his head, he kisses the nape of my neck below my ear and I am drowning.
Oh my God! My eyes flutter back as I unsuccessfully try not to enjoy it, but my mind is in a freefall.
The knots melt, turning warm and slick below my hips. Between my thighs they explode with pulses. His soft lips explore behind my ear, and with small soft teasing bites. When he moves to my mouth, every resolve I walked in with disintegrates.
His kisses are rough at first but he must notice my unease. Pulling back, he holds my face, and searches my eyes for a few blinks. The next kiss is a baiting tender lip touch and small nibbles. I respond to the sweetness and part my mouth to taste more of him. When his hands go to my hips to pull me closer, my arms go around his neck as if they belong there. I stand on my tippy toes to maximize every inch to reach him. He moves his hand up to my breast, cupping it like he did with Marvy last night.
Reality slams into me and I snap my eyes open, tears stinging my sight.
Panting, I shove him back. Fucking fuck–all! I was right! He is a great kisser, but I can’t do this. This is her, not me. I look at the lights indicating floors. I swear this damn elevator was faster last night!
Catching my breath I rattle, “I…I...I can’t do this right now. I just came to get my car. I have shit to do today and my friend is waiting outside.”
Stunned, he blinks at me. “Oooh–kay.” He narrows his eyes again. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I shed my jacket as it’s suddenly piping hot in the elevator. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“What the hell is this?” he asks, grabbing my arm with the bruises. “Did he do this?”
My eyebrows shoot up. He? So it wasn’t this guy! I think happily with a small smile of relief.
“Wipe that look off your face, Marvy. I told you he’s dangerous!” He points a finger and the severe tone tells me more than I want to know about Marvy’s outing. The guy growls and rakes his hands through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve seen how he treats women,” he says with a softer tone, tracing the bruises on my arm.
I jump a few inches when Kitta’s ringtone, Baby Got Back, pierces the silence. I step out of the guy’s grasp and fumble with my phone to answer it.
“BITCH, WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO? YOU SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME!” Kitta screams.
Fingertips stroke my shoulder, the other hand moves across the front of my body pressing me snug against him. Moist lips on the back of my neck move to my shoulder blade as he is tugging on my t-shirt. My skin sparks to life sending a bolt of lightning to the pulsing between my legs making it ache. With a deep inhale, I try to refocus. “I’ve got my keys. I’ll be right down,” I blurt the lie into the phone. Before I can end the call, I hear Kitta, “Wait, down?”
Oh my God, this is so many levels of wrong!
Bending my knees, I dip forward maneuvering out from under him. “Look, I gotta go. Call you later?” A promise I know I will not keep.
He grabs my hips pulling me backward. The pajama pants he wears provides no barrier to shield me. At the curve of my lower back, I can feel the long, thickness of his thingy through them. “You’re not coming tonight?” His lurid words tickle my ear sending a ripple through me.
I pull away, turning around to meet his beautiful eyes. Regretting it the moment I do, I close my eyes and turn away. “No.”
MY CONCENTRATION IS crap at Mr. Peterson’s shop and I keep having to redo what I had just done. Even after that, the ancient vacuum cleaner keeps blowing out dust.
“SSSHHHIIIIITTTT!”
“Trista! Watch your language!” Mr. Peterson yells from the front room. “What the heck are you doing back there anyway?”
My rag is already filthy, but I wipe the dust from my face with it anyway. “Sorry, Mr. P. This stupid vacuum is beyond repair. These people should just buy a new one.”
“If everyone had that mindset, I’d be out of business and you’d be out of a job, young lady. Come up and grab a sandwich.”
Anxious to take a break, I wash up and join my boss at the front of the store. When business is slow, Mr. Peterson fills the hours with food and conversation. There’s always a lull on late Saturday afternoons.
I have to smile, Mr. Peterson is such a nice man. Being a life-long bachelor, he has no family to speak of so he treats Jones and I like his children. He would’ve made a good father. He and my dad used to golf every weekend, spent lazy days barbequing together and went on fishing trips every summer. After the accident, Mr. Peterson fell into a deep depression. He felt the loss as much as I did. We both miss my dad and would spend hours reminiscing and healing each other. Despite the years passing since his death, we still console each other.
Mr. Peterson is sitting at his desk near the front door with an eagle eye watching as I eat. “You okay? You seem a little frazzled today.”
“I’m good. Sorry, just distracted,” I say shoving a big bite of turkey sandwich in my mouth hoping it will be a good excuse not to talk.
Eyeing my arm under a cocked, bushy eyebrow of concern, he pushes up the glasses that sit on the edge of his nose. “Where’d you get those bruises?”
I take a moment, slowly chewing and quickly thinking. “Jones and I were fighting over my car keys,” I finally say after a slow swallow.
It’s a believable lie. Mr. P. knew we used to fight all the time. When we were kids, it was physical fights and ridiculous verbal lashings. As teenagers, we don’t really see each other long enough for fights to erupt. But every now and then there are fireworks exploding from our house.
“What’s wrong with his car?”
“Mine’s nicer so he always wants to take it on his dates.” That part is true, it’s happened before.
Disapprovingly, Mr. Peterson shakes his head. “Your brother needs to get
a job.”
“He thinks he can make a career playing video games.”
He smiles with pride. “Looks like you got the brains and the beauty in the family!” Old fashioned flattery, I roll my eyes.
Mr. Peterson is the reason I got into Computer Science and chose it as my major. He watched me easily work through a problem with his complicated bookkeeping program. Poor Mr. P paid a grip of money for it and the scum-bucket geek that created it didn’t bother to return any of his calls for help.
In high school, I studied beyond the AP classes’ Open Source Java and CSS to learn coding for both Sequel and Linux. This way I could be either a front-end or back-end software engineer. My plan is to attain an internship and gain work experience in my last year at Baylor. After graduation, I’d be highly sought after and could command any job in the industry.
I politely throw Mr. Peterson a smile for the compliment with a raised eyebrow. “You need your eyes checked old man,” I say after finishing my sandwich.
“HA!” he burst out as I head back to the broken vacuum. After another hour, I toss my screwdriver and give up, deciding to leave it for Mr. P.
Other electronics at different stages of repair wait for me on different dust covered shelves against the wall. Any motivation to tackle the wall crumbles when my eyes fall on the dancing screen saver on the office desk in the corner. Drumming my fingers, I suck in my lips considering options. I look over my shoulder toward the front room, then back to the corner. Overcome by temptation I quietly roll over to the back office computer and type “The Rush AND Key Stone” in the browser. I can’t restrain my curiosity about the guy in the elevator.
If this guy has the penthouse, then maybe he owns the club too. He did have keys.
A bunch of articles pop up as well as the social networking sites for the club. I click on a link for a magazine that has a whole article written on the club. The Rush is part of some nightclub conglomerate called Connessioni LTD. Other than the mention of his sister, the article provides little personal information about him. There is a photo though that makes my head spin. The guy with those gorgeous eyes and sculpted face looks dapper in a casual suit, straddling a chair with an expression that torques my gut. A sigh escapes my lips. Below his picture, a caption reads Alexander Rush, co-owner and proprietor. The tight knot comes back with my slipping smile.
Pieces Of One, Part 1 (The Dark Life Collection) Page 3
