Except there was no more us. I flung the shirt to the floor as if it were toxic. Fuck that man! Fuck that beautiful bastard! He was just trying to get to me. Rage consumed me. With all the muscle strength I could muster, I hurled the bag off the bed. The contents sprawled all over the floor. My room looked as if it had been ransacked by a burglar.
The truth was, I had been robbed. Robbed of my heart. Wrapped in my robe, I curled up on my bed and began to sob. I was almost glad I didn’t have my meds because the intense pain in my foot was the only thing that kept the pain in my heart at bay. Clutching the soft white cuddly tiger, I cried myself to sleep.
Chapter 15
Blake
I didn’t expect Jennifer to show up at the office. In fact, I was surprised I showed up. After dropping her bags off last night, I had gone to some seedy Hollywood bar where no one knew me and drunk myself to oblivion while some skinny, shaggy, out-of-work musician sang Passenger’s “Let Her Go.” After the third whisky, I’d stopped counting. I don’t know how I got home. I couldn’t remember. Amazingly, I wasn’t stopped by some cop and hadn’t gotten into some head-on collision. The minute I got home, I’d puked my guts out. I was lucky I’d made it to the toilet in time. Vaguely, I remembered collapsing onto my bed without undressing. This morning I was paying the price of my fucked-upness. I had a raging headache; waves of nausea still swarmed my chest, and I looked like shit—eyes bloodshot, hair disheveled, face stubbled. And worse, I felt like a dick. A fucking prick. A stupid bastard. A goddamn asshole. I was the Dickwick, not Bradley Wick, DDS.
No girl had ever walked away from me. I was a player. I was the one who did the walking. But Jennifer McCoy was no ordinary girl. She had made me feel things I’d never felt before. She’d showed me my heart wasn’t just an organ for pumping blood to my cock. It was something more—a home. A home for love. But now, my heart was vacant. The lights were out.
I’d fallen hard in love with Jennifer and I’d stupidly, selfishly fucked it up. In all my almost thirty years, I’d never before had a moment of self-loathing. I’d gotten everything I’d wanted. Done everything I’d wanted to do. Never had a regret. But now, self-loathing ran deep through my veins, darkening my already black heart. I fucking hated myself for what I had done.
Nursing my headache, I was drinking black coffee at my desk and about to boot up my computer when Jennifer hobbled into my office, still on her crutches and wearing the backpack her parents had given her. She looked somber in all black—a full calf-length skirt, a simple black tee, and a pair, or rather, a single ballet flat on her good foot. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed behind her glasses, her skin paler than usual. A new wave of nausea swelled inside my chest. Her frail state made me feel even sicker to my stomach.
“Take a seat,” I managed, setting down my coffee.
“No need. I won’t be staying long.”
My heart stuttered. “You’ve come here to resign?”
She adjusted her crutches and met my gaze. “I’ve come here to do my job. I’ll be working all day on my Gloria’s Secret PowerPoint presentation.”
I floundered for words. “How’s your foot?”
Her eyes sliced into me like razor blades. “It hurts.” With that, she hobbled out of my office, leaving me the stupid prick I was.
I spent the rest of the morning answering e-mails and watching dailies of a new porn flick we were shooting that was scheduled to air in the Fall. Usually, I got a boner watching some dude massage his nine-inch dick between the planet-sized tits of some blond bimbo, but today, I didn’t. I could barely focus. And my cock was comatose. My mind was totally consumed by Jennifer. I had the burning urge to burst into her office, sweep her off her feet, and shower her with make-up kisses. The fact that she couldn’t walk away made it even more tempting.
Just as the clip of the porn flick ended, my cell phone rang. I glanced down at the caller ID screen. It was Jaime Zander. Fuck. I hadn’t even called or e-mailed him to thank him for letting me use his beach house. I had to admit it. I was a prick of epic proportions.
“Yo, Blakeman, how did it go?”
“I fucked up.”
“What do you mean?”
I told him about the video. Then, I told him what had happened.
“Jesus. You really did fuck up.”
“Jay-Z, why don’t you meet me for lunch at Factor’s? I could use some cheering up.”
“Man, I can’t. I’m still in Hawaii. I won’t be back till the end of week. I’m flying to Asia tomorrow for business.”
Fuck. In the background, I could hear one of the babies crying.
“What should I do?”
“Don’t give up on her.”
I digested his words. Jaime had deceived Gloria for her own good, too, and had almost lost her. And then he came to her rescue. But this was different.
The crying in the background grew louder. I could hear Gloria telling my best bud to get off the phone.
“Listen, I’ve gotta go. Call me if you need to talk, pal. Good luck.”
We ended the call. I was going to need all the luck in the world to win back my wounded tiger.
Chapter 16
Jennifer
The Kiss. That was the first thing I saw when I’d hobbled into my office—the magnificent painting Blake had given me for Christmas. Before leaving for Boise, I’d had someone from maintenance hang it on the wall.
Debilitated as I was, I wasn’t prepared for my reaction. My aching heart almost went into cardiac arrest and my good leg went weak. All at once, every memory associated with that painting bombarded my brain. Each one more beautiful and gut-wrenching than the one before. Unwanted tears—hadn’t I cried enough?—spilled from my eyes. God fucking damn it. Blake was back in my bloodstream and knocking at my heart. Places he no longer belonged. I steadied myself on my crutches and tried impossibly hard to will him away. He was toxic. I was stricken by his poison. When I finally managed to settle at my desk, I composed an e-mail to maintenance, asking someone to come by and take the painting down. What was I was going to do with it? Tears flew onto my keyboard as I cluelessly typed. About to hit “send,” I deleted it instead. Sobs shook my body. Thank goodness, the door to my office was closed. I was a confused, tormented, blubbering mess.
I seriously don’t know how I made it through the next couple of days. I woke up, went to work, came home, did more work, and then cried myself to sleep. My parents, of course, called me right away, eager to hear how things were going with Blake. Just the mention of his name had my eyes welling with tears. Fighting back the waterworks, I lied and told them that New Year’s was fun and everything was going “just great.” I knew if I told them what had happened, they’d freak and be on the first plane to LA. As much as I craved a hug from my mom and another from my dad, I needed time to sort through my emotions and gain some form of composure.
“Honey, you don’t sound like yourself,” commented my perceptive, overprotective mother.
“I’m just tired, Mom,” I replied. “I’m working very hard on a presentation. If you don’t hear from me this week, that’s why.” With an exchange of “I love you,” we ended the call. The tears that were threatening trickled down my face. Blake had promised my father he wouldn’t hurt me, but he had.
I couldn’t snap out of my depression. I had restless nights and barely ate a thing. By Wednesday, I noticed my skirts were getting loose on me. I was losing weight, something I didn’t need to do. Libby was concerned about my well-being and offered to take me out for dinner with Chaz night after night. I declined, telling her that I had too much work. That was partly the truth, but there was more. I just couldn’t. I wasn’t in the mood and I would be terrible company. What a shit way to start the New Year. I was fucking miserable.
Being on crutches didn’t help either. Everything was a challenge—even the smallest things. The only good thing about them was everyone was so nice to me. At the office, co-workers opened doors for me as well as offered to bring me lun
ch and even take me back and forth from work. Fortunately, Libby was able to do the latter. She was a total saint.
I immersed myself in my work, avoiding Blake as much as possible. I spent as much time as possible in my office, behind a closed door, developing my erotic daytime block and working on my PowerPoint presentation for my upcoming meeting with Gloria Zander. I really wanted to woo her and get Gloria’s Secret on board. I couldn’t blow it.
Whenever I could, I e-mailed Blake so I didn’t have to see him. When I was summoned to his office, I sat on the couch far away from him. Both of us refrained from eye contact as well as from calling each other by our first names. I was Ms. McCoy; he, Mr. Burns. I said as little as possible, responding to his questions about my projects with a few monotone words. Whenever I stepped into his office or passed by him in the hall, the temperature in the air dropped and my stomach twisted into a painful knot. He avoided me as much as I avoided him.
On Wednesday afternoon, I managed to get out of the office at lunchtime. Libby gave me a lift to Century City where I was going to Bloomingdale’s while she met with a research supplier. No matter what had happened at her house, I still wanted to get Gloria Zander a gift to thank her for her generosity before our meeting.
Suddenly ravenous from not having eaten much all week, I headed first to the food court for a quick bite. I longed for something comforting like chicken soup, but ended up with a bowl of hot and sour soup from Panda Express. One of the workers was kind enough to bring my tray to a table. It never ceased to amaze me how much goodwill I’d discovered disabled on crutches.
The piping hot soup was tasty though zingy. Both my stomach and heart were grateful for a little nourishment. As I lifted another spoonful to my mouth, a familiar voice sounded in my ear.
“Bubala!”
I looked up. It was Blake’s silver-haired grandma. She sprightly headed my way. She was wearing a soft blue jogging outfit and was in amazing shape for a woman her age. She plunked herself down on the empty chair across from me. Her eyes stayed riveted on my crutches, which were leaning against the table.
“Oy! Vhat happened?”
“Just little accident,” I said hesitantly.
A sly smile, that reminded me so much of Blake’s, splayed across her crinkly face.
“Skiing with my Blakela?” She winked. “Or a little rough shtumping?”
Speechless, I cringed. She knew about Blake and me.
“Blakela is meshuganah about you.”
I plastered a fake smile on my face. I wasn’t quite sure what meshuganah meant. “I feel the same way,” I said tentatively.
She blew an air kiss. “Finally, my gorgeous grandson has found a beautiful hamishah girl to marry.”
As much as I adored Blake’s theatrical grandma, I was falling apart at the seams. I needed to get away from her. But she wouldn’t let me. She pressed her bony, veined hand on mine, holding me prisoner. I couldn’t break away and hurt the sweet woman’s feelings. She continued to rave about Blake.
“Such a good boy! And vhat a shmekel!”
Every nerve in my body buzzed. Desperate for words, I asked what she was doing here.
“I meet here every veek with my erotica book club. Alvays, they’re late. Too much Botox shmotox!”
Despite my anxiety, I had to stifle a little laugh. Blake’s grandma loved to read erotic romances and was one of the first to support my idea of creating a SIN-TV block of programming targeted at women—turning top-selling, hot novels into compelling telenovelas.
“So, bubala, ve’re running out of books. Can you recommend something?”
I thought for a moment. “Blind Obsesssion by Ella Frank. It’s beautifully written and highly erotic.”
Her gray-blue eyes lit up. “So it’s got a lot of sexy shmexy?”
“Yes.” I nodded. I just didn’t tell her it was very sad. Not every story ended with happily ever after.
I felt my eyes watering. “Nice to see you. I have to run an errand.”
She stood up and came around the table to give me a warm hug.
“So, boobie, I’ll see you Friday night at Shabbat?”
“Y-yes.” No. Not then. Not ever. Every vivid moment of that first night with Blake danced in my head. How he’d held me in his arms as I anxiously lit the candles. How I’d accidentally found him jerking himself off. How I’d almost peed in my pants when I saw his cock for the very first time. How I’d imagined wrapping my lips around his succulent balls when I put that matzo ball to my mouth. How I’d felt his heat seated next to him. And my own rise between my legs. There was no denying it. I was already in love with him.
Grabbing my crutches, I bid Grandma good-bye and hobbled away before tears betrayed me.
*
The Bloomingdale’s housewares department, located on the store’s upper level, was moderately busy. I noticed a number of young women wandering around, with their iPhones or iPads, taking photos of china, crystal, and other home basics. Definitely brides-to-be sorting out their registries. A pang of sadness stabbed at my heart. Perhaps, if Blake hadn’t taken that vapid video, I would have been among them. The Almost Bride. That was me. What a perfect name for a movie.
I hopped around the display tables in search of the perfect gift for Gloria. Nothing stood out.
“Can I help you?” came a throaty voice from behind me as I admired a silver picture frame that was way out of my price range. A prim, fifty-something saleswoman, who looked like she used every penny of her sales commissions on hair dye and fillers, strode up to me. I flashed her a small smile as she eyed my bandaged foot. I hoped she wasn’t going to ask me what happened. Fortunately, she didn’t.
“Yes, I’m looking for a thank-you gift. Preferably something with a nautical or marine feeling to it.”
“How much do wish to spend?”
I told her my price range was between thirty and fifty dollars.
She winked and raised a knowing forefinger. “I know the perfect item.” Glancing down at my foot again, she told me to stay put. She skirted away, and in a few short minutes, she returned with small box in her hand. She lifted off the lid. Inside was a lovely silver-plated picture frame that was engraved with seashells and starfish. The stock photo beneath the glass sent a wave of sadness through me. It looked just like the beach where Blake and I had made passionate love.
“They’re very popular and on sale. Half price. Twenty-five dollars, marked down from fifty.”
“It’s perfect,” I murmured.
“Wonderful.” The saleswoman beamed triumphantly.
“I need to have it gift wrapped and sent.”
“No problem. Follow me and we’ll get it all taken care of.”
I followed the slender woman to a nearby cash register. I paid for the frame with my credit card and then filled out a form with the address of Gloria’s Secret’s corporate headquarters in Culver City. I couldn’t remember her home address, and there was no way I was going to ask Blake for it.
“Would you like to include a gift card?” asked the saleswoman, handing me back my credit card.
“Yes, definitely.”
The woman handed me a small card, with the signature “B” for Bloomingdale’s on the outside, and a pen. I flipped it open and neatly wrote:
Dear Gloria~
Thank you for sharing your magnificent beach house. And for all the beautiful lingerie and clothes. I had a beautiful weekend.
With my deepest appreciation~Jennifer McCoy
As I signed my name, my eyes grew watery. A tear dripped onto the black ink, smearing it. Some beautiful weekend. It ended up the ugliest, suckiest weekend of my life. Wiping away my tears, I asked for another gift card and rewrote my words quickly before another round erupted. I handed the card to the woman.
She quirked a smile. Again, I was grateful she wasn’t too nosy.
“She’ll have it before the end of the week.”
I shot back a faint smile. “That’s great. Thank you.”
&nbs
p; While she marched off with the frame and the card to help another customer, I put my credit card back into my wallet and adjusted my new backpack, which came in very handy being on crutches. Just as I was about to head out of the store, a familiar voice sung in my ears.
“Jennifer?”
Clutching my crutches, I pivoted around. My heart plunged to my stomach and every muscle scrunched. It was Bradley.
“Hi,” I stuttered. Get me out of here.
“What happened to your foot?” he asked, eying me from head to toe.
“Nothing. What are you doing here?” My voice quivered.
Before Bradley could answer, a familiar saccharine voice sounded in my ear. “Sweetie pie, look what I found. Don’t you just love the pattern?”
In a pained breath, she was in my face. Candace, Bradley’s hygienist, wearing tight-ass jeans, mile-high stilettos, and a tight V-neck sweater that all but exposed her melon-sized boobs. In her hand was a large dinner plate with tiny pink hearts dotting the rim.
“Oh hi, Jennifer,” she snipped in her singsong voice before placing the plate on the glass counter.
“Hi.” I wanted to rip out her larynx and step on it.
She flung her left hand through her mane of brassy blond hair and then I saw it. My mouth dropped open.
My engagement ring! On her fourth finger.
Bradley flushed and then flashed his mega-sized pearly white teeth. “Jen—” Unable to complete his thought, he anxiously turned to Candace. “This place is a rip-off. Let’s go to K-Mart and—”
Candace brusquely cut him off. “Oh, did Braddie Waddie tell you we’re engaged?” Her possessive, predatory eyes sent daggers my way. “We’re getting married in May. We just started picking out our registry.”
I registered her words. An unexpected, sickening feeling filled me. My pulse quickened and then I succumbed to numbness. “Congratulations to the both of you,” I spluttered as they argued over the plate. I hobbled away as fast as my crutches would let me.
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