by Lisa Ferrari
By the time I’m called on stage, the Jaeger has kicked in. Big time. I’m pretty hammered. My head is heavy on my neck. My eyelids are heavy.
I wrap my hands around the cold microphone stand. Through the glare of the cheesy white spotlight shining down on me, I can see Kellan sitting at our table. Stacy is beside him. I hate her. No I don’t. Yes I do.
The music starts and I do my best to keep my eyes on Kellan, just like he told me to. I remember when we were at the Crow Bar last night, standing on the table. The way we kissed.
I do my best to do a faithful rendition of “I Touch Myself” by The Divinyls. Part of me knows it’s forced and obvious and that girls like me have been singing it for years and the whole idea is pretty lame. But the rest of me doesn’t give a rat’s ass; because it’s true; the lyrics resonate with me in a way I’ve never felt before.
I stare at Kellan throughout the entire song (while also trying and mostly failing to follow the yellow lyrics on the TV monitor in front of me).
I can also see Denise sitting there, looking back and forth between Kellan and me.
Stacy is doing the same thing.
Finally the song ends.
I replace the mic.
I’m lightheaded. Though if it’s from the singing or the alcohol, I can’t say. I’m such a lightweight.
Denise slides off her barstool, speaks to Kellan for a second, and then rushes over and hugs me.
I make my way to Kellan.
He’s smiling.
“Did you like it?”
“It was really good. You can sing, Claire. You have a nice voice.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her for years,” says Denise.
Stacy leans across Kellan’s lap and looks at me. “You were a little fat.”
“What?” I ask?
“You were a little FLAT,” Stacy says.
I ignore her and focus on Kellan. “I sang it for you.”
I burp up a bit of vomit.
And there’s more on its way.
I run out the front door onto the wooden patio deck and projectile vomit my chicken and green beans and rum and Coke and Jaegermeisters over the wooden rail and into the dry river-rock creek bed below.
Everyone on the patio says “Ohhh!” They all moan at once. A bunch of people whip out their phones and get pics and video. I can see the insanely-bright LED flashes come on.
Denise and Kellan are by my side at once.
Denise says she’ll take me home.
I refuse, insisting that Kellan take me home, that I’ll only go with him.
Kellan says he’ll take me.
Denise acquiesces cautiously.
She and Kellan help me into the Huracan.
Kellan slides behind the wheel. “Don’t worry,” he says, “this isn’t the first time I’ve had a drunk girl in my car.”
I know he means well, but the mention of other girls doesn’t sit well with me. Has Stacy been in here, plastered off her ass, slobbering all over his dick as they drove home from a club? In this very seat, getting vaginal secretions on the green leather because her stupid shorts were so short?
But this isn’t just a car. It’s an effing Lamborghini. If I puke in it, I’ll never, ever forgive myself. Ever. It’ll be a billion times worse than puking Taco Bell all over Tommy’s crotch; especially since I actually like Kellan.
Before we drive out of the parking lot, I see Denise and Stacy standing there watching us go. Stacy has her hands on her hips, all long legs and big boobs. The guys around her are practically drooling over her. I clearly hear Stacy say, “What does he see in her?”
Denise looks Stacy up and down in an exaggerated way. “He could do a lot worse.”
Thanks, D.
Chapter 8
BACK AT MY apartment complex, Kellan carries me upstairs.
“I can walk,” I blather.
“No, you can’t.”
“I’m too heavy.”
“No, you’re not. This is great for the shoulders. At least I think it is.”
I’m pretty loaded, but I think Kellan is doing his Rocky Balboa impression. It’s spot-on. I want to tell him so but I’m clenching my teeth so I don’t hurl on him. Adrian never hurled on Rocky.
Once we’re actually in, he asks me where I want to be.
Sofa.
I curl up against the armrest, my head back. I’m beginning to spin. Oh, man.
Kellan turns on the TV and finds something uninteresting to watch. I think it’s The Kardashians.
Not even ten minutes later, I get up and run to the bathroom to puke again.
Kellan holds my hair.
I gasp for air in between heaves so intense they make me fear for my life. I manage to say, “You don’t have to do this. I’m a big girl.” I immediately regret my pun.
“I know.”
“It’s very gallant. Very Christian Grey of you. Minus the psycho stalking and morally questionable cell phone hacking and light anal fisting.”
“The night is young. Maybe a little light anal fisting is exactly what you need. I’ve heard it’s great for hangovers.”
I flush, stand erect. Is he into that? During this brief interlude of feeling well, I have the strength to say, “You fist me, I fist you.”
“I’m kidding,” he says.
“I’m not.”
Kellan looks terrified.
I let him think about it for a minute while I splash some water on my face, wash my hands, rinse my mouth out, and swish with some minty blue Listerine. It burns my tongue but the mint is better than the sour barf.
At last I turn to face Kellan. By way of explanation for the fisting, I say, “You made me sing at the turtle. That’s why I had to pound two shots of Jaeger, to get the liquid courage to actually go through with it. This is all your fault. So if you’re fisting me, I’m fisting you right back. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
Holy butt butter what does that mean?
The wooziness is coming back so I return to the sofa.
Kellan detours to the kitchen and starts looking through my cupboards and fridge. He prepares for me a mug of hot tea with lemon and honey. I didn’t know I even had lemons and honey.
“Here. This should relax your stomach and hopefully stop you from throwing up again.”
I sip the tea and we watch TV. Kim is at the gas station getting gas. I see a million paparazzi photos of her putting gas in her black SUV. Why is she always getting gas? NASA doesn’t use that much fuel.
The tea helps and I don’t immediately revisit the toilet. Though it was nice having Kellan hold my hair and rub my back with his big, warm hand.
I wake up later, unaware that I had fallen asleep. I’m propped up against the arm of the sofa, my legs outstretched, my feet in Kellan’s lap. Oh God, my feet must stink so bad. My work shoes are so grungy.
Kellan is still there, sitting on the sofa, reading his copy of Harry Potter. I like seeing him reading it. He could’ve bought the ebook and read it on his phone. I have the entire series in hard cover and ebook. But he opted for the printed version.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“About seven hours. How do you feel?”
I sit up and withdraw my stinky feet. “Thirsty.”
Kellan goes to the kitchen and comes back with orange Gatorade. Again, I didn’t know I had Gatorade; was it hiding behind the lemons and profligate jars of honey?
I take a long drink. It’s cold and sweet and perfect. “Where’d you get this?”
“Safeway.”
“You went to Safeway?”
“No, I ordered a bunch of stuff online on my phone and they delivered it. Showed up about an hour ago.”
“What else did you get?”
“Just a few things.”
“What are you reading?”
“Chamber of Secrets.”
“Where’d you get that? Safeway?”
Kellan laughs. “No, from your bookshelf. Gilderoy Lockhart is awesom
e. Total douche. But awesome.”
“What about Sorcerer’s Stone?”
“Finished it while you were asleep.”
“How’d you read it so fast? You just bought it Friday at the airport.”
“Read it while I was doing cardio today and while I was soaking in the spa. Can I borrow this?” He holds up my beloved hard cover of Chamber.
“ ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’ ”
“Excuse me?”
“ ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.’ Or something like that.”
“Sounds like Shakespeare.”
“Very good. Hamlet. Or is it Romeo and Juliet? I can’t remember. I think it was Polonius talking to his son before the kid went off to France to go to school to party, although I can’t remember the son’s name.”
Kellan pulls out his phone and says, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be.” He reads the search results. “Yep, it’s from Hamlet. Old Polonius talking to his son Laertes. Laertes…that’s a cool name.” He puts his phone on my rickety hand-me-down glass-topped ugly brass coffee table and turns to me. “So, really, I can’t borrow it?”
“Um.” God, I feel so uncomfortable. “I’d really rather you didn’t. It’s a hardback and it was expensive and I don’t want the cover to get messed up.”
And in case I loan it to you and never see you again because you go running back to Stacy, I don’t want to look at the gaping chasm on my bookshelf every day and feel like a complete idiot.
“Okay.”
“I would, it’s just that I’ve loaned books before and never got them back. Ever.” I leave out the part about the gaping chasm. “They’re kind of like my babies.” Which they are; I adore books.
“Claire, it’s okay. I understand. I’ll pick up a copy on my way home. More Gatorade?”
“Please.”
Kellan goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge and from my vantage point on the sofa I can see that the fridge is frickin full. Like, far fuller than it was the last time I looked in there. I drag my weak, still fairly nauseated carcass off the sofa and go to the kitchen. “What’s all that?”
“Staples.”
My fridge is full of eggs and cartons of egg whites and sugar-free yogurt and non-fat cottage cheese and tomatoes and cucumbers and apples and spinach and almonds and a bunch of other stuff. The freezer is full of bags of frozen vegetables in microwave-ready bags that boast of easy preparation in bold red letters on the front of the package. My ice cream is gone. My Chunky Monkey. My Cherry Garcia. My Phish Food. Uh…
“Where’s my ice cream?”
“Outside. In the Dumpster.”
“What?” I can’t believe he actually tossed my ice cream. Each pint is almost five bucks.
“I went through your entire kitchen and tossed all the junk food. I replaced it with real food, healthy, clean food like oatmeal and rice and sweet potatoes and quinoa and veggies and lean protein.”
I can see by the insane quantity of food in my kitchen that he spent a lot of money. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You shouldn’t have tossed my ice cream, though.”
“If you want ice cream, go out and get a scoop and be done with it. Don’t bring it into the house. If you do, you’ll sit on the sofa and watch Game of Thrones and eat the whole thing.”
Holy incest! Game of Thrones. I missed it because of work and drunken karaoke and forgot to DVR it. Damnit…
“Don’t worry,” Kellan says, “I DVR’d it at my place. We can watch it tomorrow. Speaking of which, are you working tomorrow? Which is actually today?”
“Tonight. Monday Night Football party.”
“What time you off?”
“After the game. Probably 9:30-ish.”
“Cool. I have to go home now and change and get some work done but I’ll see you at the Palace at 10:00 p.m.”
“I can’t train tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I drank too much and I puked my guts out and I’m hungover.”
“So? Eat a lot and drink a lot today. Replenish your fluids and electrolytes and your calories, take your gym bag with you to work, and I’ll see you around 10:00. But before I go…”
Kellan opens the cupboard where I used to keep Oreos and Twinkies. He pulls out a big plastic jug of chocolate brownie-flavored protein powder. I watch in semi-awe as he flits about my tiny kitchen, grabbing ingredients. Oatmeal. Milk. Bananas. Blueberries. Raspberries. Peanut Butter. Ice cubes.
He blends all that stuff up in my blender I haven’t used, I think, ever. Kellan pours the shake into two glasses and hands me one.
“Cheers,” he says. We clink glasses and drink.
“Holy crap that’s good.”
“You’re not lactose intolerant are you?”
“No. Why?”
“Some people don’t do well with dairy. You can always use almond milk if the milk bothers your stomach.” Kellan pounds the rest of his shake. “I gotta go. Drink the rest of that today.” He points to the blender still more than half-full of shake. “Steam some rice and eat as much of it as you can. Eat some apples. Drink at least two more bottles of Gatorade. The rum and Coke and Jaeger dehydrated you. That’s why you feel so bad. You’re playing catch-up now so fluids, fluids, fluids and lots of carbs. Your body will extract water from them.
“Do what I say and by the time you have to leave for work, you should be feeling a lot better.”
Kellan steps close and slides his arms around me in a long, slow hug. His body is so big and strong. And warm. He kisses me on the forehead.
It’s sweet and tender, but…on the forehead? That’s our third kiss. Shouldn’t it be…I don’t know…better?
On his way out of the kitchen he smacks my ass. Kinda hard. Visions of Christian Grey come flooding back to me.
Kellan smiles that million-watt smile and fixes me with his cornflower-blue eyes on his way out the door.
After he’s gone, I turn the deadbolt.
I merely stand there, my vagina lubricating, and listen as his feet clomp down the stairs.
About ten seconds later the Huracan roars to life. I hear some people outside talking and Kellan talking back. It sounds like my downstairs neighbor complimenting the car.
I do my best to follow Kellan’s instructions. I convalesce on the sofa a bit longer, drinking the rest of the shake Kellan made. I then make another one, doing my best to make it just like he did. I think I put too much peanut butter, though. But it’s still sooo good.
I sip on it while I go into my bedroom and change out of my utterly disgusting work clothes. I toss them in the little washing machine and check my phone.
Denise is going friggin ape. She goes on and on in her texts about last night. She sends me links to at least a dozen videos of Kellan singing, of me projectile vomiting, in slow motion, and then the green Lambo pulling away and taking off down the street, belching actual yellow and purple flames out the exhaust.
I take a nice long and very hot shower. I grab my razor and shave my legs. I then re-shave my pubic hair, making the skin nice and smooth again, because a girl can hope. It turns me on even more than I already was. I masturbate with the shower head aimed between my legs, pretending it’s Kellan’s mouth and lips and tongue and teeth licking and sucking and nibbling. I manage to come, but the increase in my heart rate makes my head pound.
I slide naked into bed, set the alarm on both my phone and my actual little bedside clock, and go back to sleep. The sheets are cool and soft and feel wonderful. I put a pillow behind my back and lean against it as I fall asleep on my side, pretending it’s Kellan holding me.
Chapter 9
I ARRIVE AT work feeling a million times better. Almost back to normal. I did exactly what Kellan instructed and drank all the Gatorade and ate two huge bowls of rice and three apples. I’m so full I kinda want to throw up, but I’m no longer nauseous and my head isn
’t hurting. I’ve only been wasted a handful of times in my life, but this was without a doubt the fastest hangover recovery ever.
My clothes are clean, not wrinkled, and the dead ant paste actually came out of my shirt. I didn’t think it would. I have my bowtie in my pocket. I even have my gym bag packed, including a complete change of clean clothes (I even dared to pack toiletries and overnight stuff), and I’m ready to meet Kellan at the Palace later. I’m so excited to see him again that I’m nearly giddy.
I clock in and Chris is there like a flash. He’s speaking a million miles a minute about how awesome Kellan is and what a cool guy he is. Chris asks how I’m feeling. He saw me throw up. But then, pretty much the whole bar did. And half the Internet. There’s going to be memes about me for sure.
I tell him that Kellan nursed me back to health.
“You like him, don’t you?”
I suddenly feel awkward and embarrassed. Saying yes will mean that nothing is going to happen between Chris and me. I can’t bear to hurt Chris’s feelings.
“It’s okay,” says Chris. “I like him, too. Not that way. But if I were a chick, I’d be totally freakin gaga over him, swollen meat curtains 24/7, 365.”
Meat curtains?
“It’s cool,” Chris continues. “Just…you know, be careful. I’d hate to see you get hurt. You’re a sweet girl, Claire. You’re one of the good ones. You deserve to be treated right.” He smiles at me. “I gotta get back to work. The tri-tip isn’t going to cook itself. Buffet tonight, right?”
I quickly scan the contract tacked to the cork board next to the time clock. Nancy posts it there before every shift. We’re all supposed to read it so we know what the event is and what’s being served. I swear I’m the only one who ever reads it, though. “Yep, buffet. Eighty people. Easy.”
“Cool.”
DURING OUR DINNER break, I get a text from Kellan.
How you feeling?
Better than I deserve.
Almost normal.
Whatcha doin?
Nothing. On break. You?
Out for a drive.
Out for a drive? I didn’t know people still did that.
I didn’t know people still did that.
People who own Lamborghinis do. :)
Actually, I’m in the parking lot.
Holy smokes. He’s here? I tell him to come inside.
