by Lisa Ferrari
I’m not working today, so at least that’s something.
My phone pings.
Fuuuuuuuuudge.
I reach out blindly and fumble about on my nightstand, until I finally manage to grab it and pull it under the pillow and read the text.
Holy pubic hair.
It’s from Kellan.
I sit up.
Kellan asks:
You free for lunch?
Oh crap. Now what?
Yes, I’m free. But do I want to be free for him?
Didn’t he pretty much blow me off last night?
Is this me putting myself at his beck and call, like a mewling, pathetic little fan girl who’ll do anything for his attention?
Part of me definitely wants to go. The kinder, gentler, less insecure, only-marginally psychotic part of me says I’m jumping to conclusions, that I should give Kellan the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he simply had important stuff to do last night, just like he said he did.
Or maybe he’s just a misogynistic, womanizing, megalomaniac asshole who runs around lining up women he can bang whenever he feels like it.
I despise myself for admitting it, but I wouldn’t mind being one of those women. Even if it’s only for, say, a month. At least then I’d get to sleep with him; have a tryst; a fling; I’ve never been flung. Not once.
I ponder what Denise said about that guy she let get away. Missed opportunities.
If I don’t see Kellan for lunch, and I wind up never seeing him again, I’ll always regret it. I know that for certain.
I don’t know what his intentions are, or what he thinks about me, or if he even likes me.
But if I don’t go, I’ll always wonder about him.
I text him back:
Yes.
I WALK INTO the restaurant and Kellan is already there, sitting on a bench, waiting for me.
“Hi,” he says, standing up. He comes over and gives me a little hug.
WTF?
Is it a friend hug or a I-want-to-rub-my-genitals-against-your-genitals-but-for-now-I’ll-just-break-the-ice-with-this-little-hug hug?
He looks positively scrumptious in his jeans and a faded white tee shirt and beige leather jacket. The combination really brings out his eyes.
And, also, the bulge in the front of his faded jeans.
Wow.
WE SIT DOWN and Kellan orders two platters of the spicy chicken and white rice. At first I was going to get something else, but I kind of like it when he orders for us, the way he did at Mel’s with the omelets. It makes me feel taken care of and included in a sweet, romantic, 1950s sort of way. I’ve never had a guy take care of me before.
Nor have I ever wanted to be taken care of.
Yet here I am liking it.
What is wrong with me?
“Listen,” says Kellan, and my heart drops into my stomach. Here comes the official you’re-not-hot-enough, let’s-just-be-friends-with-benefits speech.
I remind myself that I was prepared for this.
At least, I thought I was. I thought I was open to having a friends-with-benefits situation with Kellan.
But now that he’s laying it on me, I don’t like it.
I envision myself listening to what he has to say, because I’m always so friggin polite, and then excusing myself to go to the ladies’ room to weep, but instead going out to my car and getting the hell out of there as fast as possible.
Except that that’s passive-aggressive and cowardly and stupid. I need to tell him the truth, tell him off, maybe throw a drink in his face or dump all the food on his head like Elisabeth Shue did to Tom Cruise in Cocktail.
“I want to apologize,” Kellan continues. “I’m sorry I left the gym the way I did last night. I totally left you hanging and that wasn’t cool. At all. I would’ve liked to go to Mel’s and then back to my place for a swim and a movie. An encore of the night before. That was fun. So, first and foremost, sorry I was such a dick. Okay?”
Where is he going with this?
Is this the part where he butters me up so I’m no longer angry when he suggests I drive out to his house once a week for a booty call?
Man alive, do my pubes itch.
“Okay.” Good, Claire. That’s not noncommittal at all.
“The reason I was acting nuts last night was because I had just gotten some bad news and I was not in a good place mentally. I’m sure you noticed it during our workout.”
“Yes, I did. You were on your phone the whole time.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t fair to you. So I tried to at least finish our workout. Sorry I was such a spaz.”
“What was the bad news?” I’m wondering if someone passed away.
“I was getting texts from a police detective. It seems my piece of shit brother and his shithead of a wife have been stealing from me. My brother is a CPA so I agreed to let him do the books for all my business matters. Apparently, some of his other clients noticed some discrepancies in their own books and called the cops. They’ve been investigating for the past year. And yesterday, they raided my brother’s office and arrested him and his wife and seized everything. They have special forensic accounting people who know how to go into the computers and dig through the spreadsheets and find all the money. Last night, the detective was texting me updates.”
“How much did they take?”
“Three million dollars over the past six years.”
Ho…ly…crap. “Three million dollars?”
Kellan nods slowly.
“From you?”
Kellan nods.
He shakes his head in disgust. “I never saw the money so I had no idea. There were times when it seemed like something might be amiss, when I would ask to see some accounting and he would always put me off and tell me not to worry about it, blah blah blah. But I never in a million years thought he would actually steal from me. How do you steal from your own brother?”
I have no idea.
I don’t even have a brother.
But if Beth ever stole three million bucks from me, I’d kill her. Or more likely simply never talk to her again and pretend she doesn’t exist.
“So, anyway, that’s why I was so pissed.”
“Okay. What are you going to do now?”
“Get a new accountant, I guess. And a new brother.”
“What about the money?”
“Oh, it’s gone. They said no one ever gets the money back.”
“Are you bankrupt? Are you going to have to sell your house and cars? Are you going to have to close Iron Palace? Where am I going to work out? I’ll have to join Gold’s. They’ll make me sign a contract. I’ll never be able to get out of it. The collection agencies will start calling me and I’ll never get away.”
“Thank you for your concern, Claire.”
“Oh, sorry. So, are you bankrupt?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m fine. I’m making money with my supplements and clothing line and guest posing and my endorsements and the gym. I own a bunch of rental properties. No, I’m fine. But three million bucks is a lot of money. That’s a tough pill to swallow.”
Our food arrives and we eat.
We don’t say much.
I think we’re both a bit somber over Kellan’s newfound financial woes.
Our waitress comes to our table too frequently, filling up water glasses that are barely half empty. I catch her looking at Kellan. He doesn’t look at her once.
Despite the downer mood, and the annoying overly-attentive antics of our waitress, whose nametag reads Mischief (wtf?), I’m happy. Kellan hasn’t given me the let’s-be-friends talk, nor the see-you-around-but-hopefully-not spiel.
As we’re finishing lunch, I get a text from Denise. She says she’s at the Auto Mall looking at a car and can I come help her. I tell her I’m at lunch with Kellan.
SLUT!
Shouty capitals.
She texts again:
Bring him.
Maybe he can help me
get
a fat discount
because he’s famous and shit.
Almost as fat as his COCK!!!!
I note Denise’s use of four exclamation points. I find them… endearing.
To say nothing of the reference to Kellan’s manhood.
I tell Kellan what’s up and he says he’ll come along. He wants to continue talking.
He offers to drive.
His white Mercedes wasn’t in the parking lot when I arrived.
He says he’s on the other side of the restaurant.
We go outside and his green Lamborghini is sitting there.
Holy merdre.
It was one thing seeing it in Kellan’s garage.
It’s something else entirely seeing it sitting here in the daylight, all green and black and shiny, looking sexy and fast.
And sexy.
And fast.
Wow.
It’s like… a work of art.
A work of art you can drive.
Kellan opens the passenger door for me.
I lower myself down into it and almost come. It’s like a fighter jet space ship. I feel like I should take off my shoes and probably wear latex gloves. And maybe a surgical mask over my mouth so I don’t breathe on it.
The seats are soft, supple black and green leather. The doors and roof are like green and black suede. Kellan says it’s called alcantara; it looks and feels like suede but it’s polyester and polyurethane so it lasts longer and resists stains better.
The center console is an array of switches that look like something out of a jet fighter. Kellan says that is, in fact, the inspiration for them.
The interior smells wonderful, like leather and speed.
“It’s nice and everything,” says Kellan, “but it’s still just a car.”
But when he lifts a red cover and pushes the Start button and the engine roars to life and I hear it behind my head and feel the vibration through the seat and into my body, I am sexually aroused.
Kellan and I look at one another.
“It’s more than just a car,” I say.
EVERYONE STARES AT us as we drive.
At every red light, people around us point and look and snap photos on their phone. Kellan explains that the windows are tinted so they really can’t see us.
Kellan guns it off the light and I’m thrown back in my seat.
I’ve never felt anything like it.
The acceleration….
It’s more than taking off in an airliner.
More than a roller coaster.
I love it.
We pull into the Auto Mall and find the BMW dealer. Denise is out front, looking at a car, along with about a dozen salesmen in shirts and ties and polo shirts.
They’re all drooling over Denise.
She’s wearing a short, tight, hot-pink skirt and white heels, and a little black top that shows off her perfect implants. She’s looking to make a deal on a new car. She’s no dummy.
Everyone stops what they’re doing and watches us as we pull in.
When we get out, Denise comes over and hugs me. But it’s brief and she seems irritated. Maybe envious?
“That was fast,” she says.
“We were around the corner at P.F. Changs,” Kellan explains.
Denise leads us over to a brand new $95,000.00 BMW M5.
I stand there like a moron while she and the salesman throw some numbers around.
All the other salesmen stand there, torn between the green sex-on-wheels Lamborghini and Denise’s chest. And legs. And butt.
Kellan suggests she buy a car that’s one year old and has already suffered most of its depreciation. That’s what he did with his Mercedes.
“Is that what you did with your Stingray and that green Italian monstrosity?” Denise asks. She’s pissed that Kellan is undermining her new-car shopping.
“No,” says Kellan, “the Vette was actually a gift because I helped raise more than a million dollars for a children’s charity. The Huracan is on a month-to-month lease. I didn’t actually buy it. Yet. But I’m thinking about it.”
“Fuck,” says Denise.
All the guys look at her, startled and even hornier than they already were. A woman who drops F-bombs like that will surely do anything.
“Now I don’t know what to do,” Denise says.
The salesman, who is actually kinda cute and is clearly hot for Denise, says that yes he wants to make a fat commission on a new M5, but does she really need that much vehicle? Maybe she’d like to do a one-year lease on a Z4, a little convertible roadster.
Denise asks to see one.
The salesman, Mark, leads us over to a long row of cars, all sitting perfectly in a line with their tops down, shining in the sun.
Mark opens the door on a red one and Denise gets in. It’s the same little car she showed me on her phone yesterday at Pluto’s. She does look damn good in it.
Denise and Mark take the little roadster for a test drive.
While they’re gone, all the other salesmen ask Kellan if they can check out his Lambo. I notice that it’s not only salesmen. Four women have joined the group, although they seem more interested in Kellan than in his Lamborghini. I catch them looking at me and whispering. They’re speculating. I pretend to ignore them.
Thirty minutes later, we’ve had a complete tour of the Huracan. Kellan has been gracious enough to open the engine compartment and to let everyone sit in the car and even start it up. It does sound amazing and even scary when he revs the motor, which he explains is a V-10. I’m not really certain what that means, but it sounds like a lot and all the salesmen nod appreciatively.
AT LAST DENISE and Mark return from the test drive.
I can tell from Denise’s body language that she’s awed by the crowd around Kellan and the sexy green spaceship car.
I think nearly the entire staff of the dealership has come out to see the car and take pictures of it and to get selfies with Kellan. Even the people from the parts department and the mechanics from the garage have come out, as well as sales people from nearby dealerships.
Kellan is beyond gracious. He says hi to everyone and shakes their hand and looks them in the eye and actually listens to them when they speak. My own parents don’t do that with me.
Kellan also introduces me several times. He involves me in the discussion, too. Whenever I find myself standing apart and merely looking on like an outsider, he brings me back in. Several times he tells me to get into the car and rev the engine or turn on the lights or pop the hood so everyone can see the cute little space that passes for a trunk.
Regardless, I am the one sitting behind the wheel of his sex machine.
It’s not long before all the women have gone back inside the showroom. I really have no idea what Kellan and I are, but it seems they picked up on something and decided to retreat.
Denise explains that Mark is going to let her take the little red Z4 home for three days to see if she likes it.
Kellan closes up the hood and engine on the Huracan and we all head toward the showroom so Denise and Mark can do the paperwork.
On our way in, she pulls me close. “Mark and I totally just had sex in the Z4.”
I can feel my eyes bug out of my head. “What?”
“We pulled over halfway through the drive and did it. I came in like 30 seconds. I think I’m in love. I invited him over for dinner tonight. I hope he’s hungry for pussy pie.”
Denise throws her head back and laughs as Mark holds the showroom door open for us.
He’s grinning ear to ear behind his aviators.
It turns out, Kellan chatted with some of the other salesmen and discovered that Mark is the general manager and he’s loaded. He’s planning on opening his own dealership and most of them are hoping to work for him.
While Kellan is filling me in, Denise wanders over to a big, black, shiny M5 sedan and leans in the open window. It makes her black Lexus look like a toy.
“Shoot,” says Denise. “I don’t know what t
o do. Claire, what do you think?”
I can’t believe she’s asking my opinion. “I thought you were taking the little red one home.”
“I was. But does that little red car say Partner! to you? I’m not sure it does. Kellan, what do you think?”
Kellan appraises the M5. “Well, the M5 is nice. It’s big and black and sleek and obviously has gravitas. Along with more features than the Enterprise. It screams money. But it’s big. Plus, it’s made for high speeds on the German Autobahns. We don’t have those here. You can really only go about 70 or maybe 75 on the freeway before you’re pushing your luck. Seventy miles per hour in this car will feel like 30. And it’s big. The red one is cute and fun and it’s a convertible. It’s only a two-seater but it’s a lot sexier than the big black one.”
“Yeah, but the Z-4 is so small,” Denise says. “The trunk is small and you have to lift up that partition thing to put more stuff in the trunk and then lower it again to put the top down and I don’t wanna mess with all that. Besides, what if I need to take clients to lunch?”
“Well,” Kellan asks, “how many times have you taken clients to lunch in the past…year?”
“Never.”
“So get the convertible. They’re awesome. There’s a reason I own two.”
“But it’s so small,” says Denise. “Maybe I should just get a Range Rover.”
“If you want something big and spacious and luxurious but still fast, like, really fast,” says Kellan, “get that.” He points to something over Denise’s shoulder.
We all turn to see a big black SUV standing there looking like a shiny tank designed in a wind tunnel for a race track.
Denise goes over to it. “What is it?”
“X-6,” says Mark. “It’s probably the most bad-ass SUV on the planet. It’s what I drive most of the time when I take a car home. But they’re not cheap.”
“Well, shit,” says Denise, “this is supposed to be a celebratory purchase, you know? I’ve been busting my ass for the past 12 years, so I was planning on going a bit nuts and getting a car that’s really, really nice. I’m single, I don’t have any kids, my house is paid off, so now’s the time. And then in a few years, or maybe ten, when it’s soccer mom time, I’ll sell it and get a minivan.”
“Since you put it in that context,” says Kellan, “you’re right. You’ve definitely earned this. So you should go big. You’ll always regret it just a little bit if you don’t. That’s why I got the Lambo. I got it down in Newport Beach. $43,000 down and $3000 a month. I’d wanted one since I was a kid. I was young and unencumbered, self-sufficient, and I’d achieved my goals, so I went for it. And you know what?”
