How Hard Can It Be

by Robyn Peterman

  “Did Belvedere give you the list?” Evangeline inquired, thankfully making it down the stairs in one piece.

  I was not mistaken; her bosom was larger. As in, look at my boobs . . . they are almost level with my collarbone. The visual was so shocking, I couldn’t look away.

  “Impressive, aren’t they?” she asked seductively.

  “Good God, they’re bigger,” I gasped. Shit, had I said that aloud?

  “Thank you for noticing, Rhoda. It’s a new procedure from Bulgaria. No surgery, just some Silly Putty and a pump. It’s not legal in our country, but I have my sources,” she informed us slyly, running her hands lovingly over her obscene boobies.

  “You pumped Silly Putty into your chest?” I felt a little woozy. She was deranged and probably going to die. Silly Putty was meant for stretching and putting into your sister’s hair so she screamed bloody murder and had to get it cut out . . . not to make your boobs bigger. Shoshanna stood beside me . . . stunned to silence. Probably a first for her.

  “Of course it’s not Silly Putty from the toy store, you imbecile,” she sneered. Her bulbous lips made a sneer—one of the most frightening things I’d ever seen. “It’s a highly secret compound discovered in Newark, New Jersey, and manufactured in Bulgaria. Only those with means can afford such quality.”

  “I think she meant those that are mean,” Shoshanna muttered under her breath.

  “I heard that, Sholumpy. Since Alfred can’t seem to do anything right, I’ll just explain to you what I need done today,” she said sweetly.

  My gut dropped and a chill skittered up my spine. Evangeline was anything but sweet.

  “The babies need their teeth brushed and their anal glands expressed, I need someone to run a package to the news station, and my breasts need to be massaged. If they’re not manipulated every half hour today, they’ll harden. And that’s out of the question. I paid fifty thousand dollars for my bosom and it shall remain supple and beautiful.”

  My stomach roiled and I almost threw up a little bit in my mouth. She wasn’t joking. My gag reflex precluded me from squeezing anal glands, so touching her breasts was . . . was, um . . . probably the most repulsive thing I could imagine. And I had a very well-honed imagination. The news station thing didn’t sound bad, unless it was WMNS. I wasn’t allowed within five hundred feet of that one. But if I went to the news station Shoshanna might have to touch those horrible soccer balls protruding from Evangeline’s chest.

  “Rena will go to the news station,” LeHump informed the hag, trying to save me yet again. “I’ll brush the skank dogs’ teeth. Cecil can express their glands unless you’d like me to puke all over your house, and you can play with your own tits. It’s not my bag.”

  The witch narrowed her eyes and much to my and LeHump’s great surprise, accepted the terms. “Fine, Shobooboo, we’ll do it your way. Rollo, you will take a package to WMNS. You will take it to the production offices on the main floor and get written confirmation of receipt. Do you understand me, Rula?”

  I said nothing, I had no idea what to say. Sharp tingles of panic began dancing in my chest. I couldn’t go there . . . I had a restraining order against me. If I stepped within five hundred feet of the WMNS building, I would be breaking the court order and could end up in jail. I started to sweat, little droplets of fear and shame dotting my upper lip and forehead. Should I just come clean and explain why I couldn’t do it? No, I’d just offer to massage her boobs . . . fuck, I couldn’t massage her boobs. I could barely look at them. Touching them would scar me for life. Maybe if I got a nose plug and a blindfold I could squeeze her dogs’ anal glands. I didn’t even know exactly what that meant, but with the term anal involved, I assumed it would smell bad. My gag reflex was real, and I knew anything that had to do with butt smells would set it off with a vengeance, causing me to hurl repeatedly. Of course vomiting gave me migraines, and migraines led to me lying in darkened rooms for days on end. I didn’t have time for any of this shit, but I needed the thirty thousand bad. Cars didn’t buy themselves. Butts, boobs, or the pokey. How in the hell did I get into these messes?

  I knew what I had to do.

  “I’ll massage your hooters,” I whispered, horror and fear clinging to each word.

  “Oh Sweet Baby Jesus, no,” Shoshanna shouted, grasping Tiny Penis Man’s whip for balance. My volunteering for the heinous chore clearly made LeHump’s knees buckle.

  I quickly whispered to Shoshanna, “I can’t deliver the package. I’ll explain later.”

  LeHump stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. I’m fairly sure I had, but when it boiled down to going to jail or touching the scariest boobs I’d ever seen . . . the answer was clear. Boobs.

  “I don’t think so.” Evangeline smiled, and something odd colored her tone. “Shodunky has a point—I do believe I’ll enjoy playing with myself all day. It’s clear to me, Ruby, you harbor lesbianic tendencies and want to caress my bosom, but I’ve decided to deny you that pleasure. If you’d like to keep this job and earn the obscene amount of money I’ve offered you, you will leave this room immediately, change your clothes, and go.” She held the package out and watched me closely.

  Lesbianic tendencies? WTF? She should be so lucky. Something didn’t feel quite right, but with everyone staring at me, I had no time to figure it out. I supposed if I kept my head down and moved quickly through the lobby of WMNS I could get away with it. I’d keep my hat pulled low and tuck all my hair into it. My dressy clothes included an awesome cashmere turtleneck sweater. If I pulled it up over my mouth, between the hat and the sweater, my face would basically be covered . . . I could do this!

  “Fine,” I said, throwing my shoulders back, ready to dive into the Fourth Circle of Dante’s Inferno. That would be the Circle of Greed. I had turned into a whore. I was risking jail time to make thirty thousand dollars because I needed a car, and I was terrified of a woman sporting bowling balls on her chest.

  I grabbed the package out of her hands, picked up my bag, and turned to leave, only to find Cecil-Jeeves blocking my way.

  “I’ll take it, Rena,” he squeaked out in his prepubescent voice. “You stay here.”

  I knew this game. I had a sister. He was so not going to get out of butt gland land by pretending to be concerned about my mysterious stress at going to the news station.

  “Absolutely not,” Evangeline spat, giving Cecil a hostile glare. He immediately shrank back and lowered his eyes. “Ruthie is going and I will hear no more about it.” Her face was a glowering mask of rage. I had never seen anything so frighteningly unattractive in my life. This was the weirdest place ever . . . and I knew weird.

  “Take her to the powder room to change,” she seethed, “and do not speak to her. Do you understand me, Kato?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, appearing scared out of his gourd.

  I was completely confused about their relationship. I’d thought he was her bodyguard and possible lover, but he now seemed more like a servant. A horribly treated houseboy with a plethora of butler names. I found myself feeling sorry for him, but that didn’t mean I trusted him. He gently took my arm and led me away. I went into the powder room to change and when I came out he was gone. Everyone was gone. I checked myself in one of the many full-length mirrors placed around the foyer and was pleased with what I saw. My super cute plaid woolen miniskirt looked hot with my tight black turtleneck. My knee-high black boots made the outfit kick-ass, not that anybody would see it . . . I planned on staying very covered up the entire trip.

  Glancing around the pink hellhole, I wondered again what I’d gotten myself into. No time for thinking . . . I grabbed my purse and the package and headed out to do one of the stupidest and most illegal things I’d knowingly ever done.

  Chapter 5

  The WMNS lobby was nuts, people everywhere . . . like Grand Central Station, but that was a good thing. More people, less chance of being noticed. Several businessmen in suits glanced curiously at me, some with pity at my obvious lack of fashion sen
se. If I got one more gawk, I was going to lift my middle finger. Shit, that’s probably not in my best interest. Do not draw attention . . . I suppose the hat-turtleneck-face-covering style statement was a little unusual. I wrestled a tiny bit with my vanity. I knew I looked like a freak, but the choice between fashion victim and inmate was a no-brainer.

  The sickeningly familiar lobby was enormous. The ceiling rose about five stories up and a fountain dominated the center of the room. Very modern, very stark. Not very Minnesota. There were two fancy restaurants and a coffee shop that was kind of a dive. I quickly hustled past the coffee shop. I knew all the guys who worked there. We’d become buds during my monthlong disastrous attempt to become the Sunshine Weather Girl. They were the cutest, hairiest little men I’d ever had the pleasure to know. My buddies had been pulling for me to get the job and were possibly more devastated than I was at my arrest. All I needed was for one of them to run out here, recognize me, and scream my name. There was a gymnastics meet going on in my stomach and my mouth felt like the Sahara Dessert.

  I could do this . . . head down, deliver package, get receipt, get the fuck out. The receipt part was worrisome; I didn’t want to make eye contact. In the car on the way over I practiced accents. My New York sounded like a mentally challenged woman—that was out. My Southern sounded equally horrific, so I decided on British. It was bad, but not quite as bad as my German. My Italian was pretty good, but in order to do it well, I had to do it loud and use tons of gestures. I figured that would draw too much attention. All my accents sounded a little off due to my turtleneck-covered mouth, but that couldn’t be helped.

  After bashing into eight people, I realized keeping my eyes glued to the floor was a bad idea. I covertly glanced around, looking for security . . . not a one. Thank you, Jesus. Just regular people, working and minding their own business. The preppy business guys, the twentysomething gals with short skirts, pantyhose, and stilettos flanked by the fortysomething gals in pants, sensible flats, and big bunions from their own high-heel-wearing twenties. Just normal, everyday, boring, run of the mill . . . Holy Mother of God! He is not normal.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Ten feet away stood the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life. More beautiful than my new neighbor, Mr. Fine-ass. I felt light-headed and realized I’d ceased to breathe. Sandy blond hair, full lips, eyelashes that belonged on a girl, and a build like a brick shithouse. He didn’t fit in here. His jeans and dark gray T-shirt covered by a rockin’ black leather bomber were hotter than hot. He was holding a folder and kept glancing at it. No ring on his left hand. Aces! He looked about thirty-five or so. Absolutely perfect. With my luck he was probably gay.

  What the hell was wrong with me? I wasn’t here to pick up guys. I was here trying not to get arrested. My brain knew that, but all my girlie parts were screaming something else entirely. There was no security guard in sight . . . maybe, just maybe . . . No, absolutely not. I couldn’t take the chance of going back to jail. It wasn’t a parking violation; it was a restraining order, for shit’s sake. But if I didn’t show myself, there was no way my future husband would notice me. I was covered up like a fashion-impaired nun. Maybe I could remove the disguise just for a minute . . . make eye contact, ask him to marry me, and then finish what I came for. No, wait, maybe I’d deliver the package first and then tackle him to the ground and have my way with him . . . No, wait, what if he left while I was delivering the goods? And what if I got arrested before he noticed I was alive? Jesus Christ, I needed to get laid. This was the second stranger I’d considered marrying in two days and I’d only seen the other one’s butt.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it. The tingling in my nether regions was fogging my brain and self-preservation skills. What if he was my soul mate and I walked away and ended up a shriveled old sex-starved maid? What if I was denying myself the best, most mind-blowing orgasms imaginable? What if I revealed myself and he didn’t like me and some undercover security dork arrested my ass? Or what if he fell instantly in love with me and the same said security dork from the previous scenario came up and arrested my ass?

  What was happening to me? Had I jumped into the deep end of my own cheesy romance novel? I felt squooshy and short of breath. My lady bits were on fire, and I might possibly be in heat. I didn’t even know this hunka hunka burning love . . . I hadn’t made eye contact, yet I was picking out china patterns in my head. WTF? Was love at first sight real? I hadn’t been this whipped up about a man in . . . well, ever. That wasn’t exactly true, I had been fixated on my neighbor’s ass since I’d seen it with Shoshanna, but he could be ugly or married. This one was hot, and wasn’t wearing a ring . . . I was going to go for it. I would not go through my life wondering what if . . .

  In a move of gargantuan stupidity, I peeled my turtleneck off my mouth, yanked the hat off my head, and let my long, naturally (eat that, Jenny) blond hair spill over my shoulders. I considered taking off my coat to show my boyfriend my fine derriere, but my hat in one hand and the package in the other made that move an impossibility. Of course I did unzip my coat to reveal my frontal assets. I mean, if you’re gonna go there, you may as well go.

  My heart thundered in my ears as I moved toward my intended. I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, like Simon to Garfunkel, like my Uncle Sven to a case of beer . . . Crap, I feared what would fly from my lips when I spoke to him.

  Who cares? I promise I will refrain from potty words till the third date. Lethimlikeme, lethimlikeme, lethimlikeme. I swear to everything chocolate, I will love him, cherish him, and have sex with him on a daily basis, but I won’t pick up his dirty socks and underwear. Oh, and I’ll occasionally cook, but I’d prefer to eat out.

  I took a deep breath and moved stealthily toward my lover. A sense of urgency drove me toward him . . . Just as I was about to ask for his hand in marriage or, at the very least, a quickie, he looked at me.

  And the world stopped.

  Holy Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, and Robert Redford (when he was young). My husband-to-be was H-O-T, hot. His eyes were the most gorgeous blue gray. The chemistry that burned between us was palpable and my entire body felt steamy hot. He stared at me and my heart began to hammer in my chest. His eyes traveled from my head to my toes, lingering briefly on my bazooms. I had never been so turned on in my life. I fought an overwhelming need to body slam him and shove my tongue down his throat. Thankfully he seemed to be having the same issues. His body language implied he would happily be my sex slave.

  “Hi there,” Mr. Sex-on-a-Stick said in a husky voice that made my knees buckle. He grabbed my hand to balance me, and I swear electricity shot up my arm. The left side of his mouth curved into the hottest crooked grin I’d ever seen. I was a goner . . .

  “Hi yourself,” I giggled. Really? Did I really just giggle? Shit. “I just saw you and I, um . . . was wondering if you, well, you know . . . um . . .” Eloquent much?

  “Can I help you out there?” he laughed.

  Christ, he was even hotter when he laughed. “Um, yes. English seems to be my fourth language today.”

  “Well in that case, you’re doing pretty good.” He smiled, watching my mouth intently. My tongue darted out to lick my dry lips and his smile grew wider. Ilovehim, Ilovehim.

  “Do you work here?” I asked, putting my best flirt on.

  In a move that I knew looked good on me, I went to flip my hair and somehow nailed myself in the cheek with the package. Dang it, not smooth.

  Shit—the package. I quickly scanned the area for security. Nothing.

  “You okay?” Mr. Hotpants asked, gently running his fingers across my cheekbone. More electricity shot through my body, and I leaned into his hand.

  I am no ho-bag, but I’d never been so taken with someone in my thirty years. Time to get down to business. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I narrowed my eyes and assessed him.

  “Nope. Boyfriend?”

  “Nope,” I grinned. “Married?”

  “No, you?”

  “Absolutely
not. Never have been.”

  “Me neither.”

  His closeness was like a drug. He smelled beyond delicious, like clean laundry and soap and man. I was very close to asking him to marry me, but I wasn’t quite done with my interrogation.

  “How long was your longest relationship?” I asked. No way could he father my two unborn children if he had commitment problems.

  “A year and a half. She left me for another guy.”

  Was she on crack? “Mine was two years. He was more into his job than me.”

  “Stupid man, but hopefully his loss will be my gain.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “I don’t want to be forward”—he tilted his head to the side, his breathtaking gaze bored sexily into mine—“but can I buy you a cup of . . .” He trailed off. His eyes got wide and he appeared to have swallowed a lemon. “Oh, hell no,” he muttered, looking down at his folder. “Please tell me your name isn’t Rena Gunderschlict.”

  Panic like I’d never known rushed through me. I had no idea why he didn’t want me to be me, but I had a bad feeling I was about to find out . . . and I wasn’t going to like it.

  “Why?” My voice seemed to be coming from a hundred miles away.

  “Just please tell me you’re not Rena.”

  “I can’t,” I whispered.

  He looked up to the heavens and ran his big hand through his hair. As terrified as I was, I was jealous of his hand. I wanted my hands in his hair, but as much as I wanted that, my instinct told me to run. Something was off . . . very off.

  Still staring at the ceiling, he muttered, “Goddamn it, I hate my job.”