Fahrenheit

by Alex Rosa

I refuse, even if I am gasping for air.

  I purse my lips in pride. “Nope. I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s going to be amazing.” My words come out too sharply, but I nod as if to give them better veracity, even if it’s fake.

  “Great,” she says again, resuming her standing position, but continuing her dissection of me over her glasses, smoothing out her shiny blond bob. “Then I’d really like the final piece on my desk tomorrow.”

  I tight gasp erupts from me. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, we have an issue with the printers, and deadlines have been moved up. That’s why I’m here. To let you know that we’ll need to put a rush on the issue because it’ll hit shelves sooner than normal. Plus, I can’t wait to see your work, and if I’ll be needing to change the job title engraved on your door.”

  She gifts me a smile in an attempt to lift my weighted spirits. It’s supposed to inspire hope, but for some reason, the promotion doesn’t seem as magnificent as it did before, but I know that’s my irrational heart talking. When the ominous, pink puffy clouds of heartbreak and confusion clear in my head, I’ll be good, and I’ll remember how much I want that job. At least, I think so.

  I force a smile in return. “No problem. Tomorrow it is.”

  I wipe at my upper lip, that nervous sweat appearing again. I can’t let her see me staggering more than I already am.

  She’s about to turn around and make her leave, but I stop her.

  “Becca! What would you like to see from this article? Any specific angles I should aim for?”

  The question proves I’m struggling, but her sad smile has me worrying she figured out the real reason why.

  She comes back to my desk, placing palms flat on the surface as she leans forward. “I just want to hear your voice. I’m not looking for anything specific. Just write from your heart—”

  She stops when my head starts shaking left and right with a little too much umph.

  “Lo,” she whines. “Make this article yours. That’s all I care about. It’s an example of your skills and yourself. Write from your soul. You didn’t just read a bunch of blogs to figure out what the sexual underbelly of this city is like. Instead, you put yourself in the throws of it. Whatever raw emotions you’re feeling inside, use them. I guarantee the readers will feel it, too, and that I won’t be thinking twice about the promotion.”

  “But you don’t actually want me to succeed,” I sneer, getting defensive.

  She shakes her head. “No. I’ve watched you grow so much within the past few weeks. It’s been inspiring to see. I look forward to seeing your full potential. Maybe before I was hesitant because I was being selfish. Not anymore. You have a lot to offer this magazine …” Her sentence trails off as she reads me like a fucking book. “And you have a lot to offer others, even if they’re too stupid to see it.”

  She could be talking about Garrett, but right now, that’s not the man who’s most relevant in my life. She must see it. Girls can see other girl’s woes. It’s a curse. They can use it for good or evil, and in true Rebecca fashion, it’s a little bit of both.

  “Whatever is going on, I want it to manifest in your article. Make your mark, help the magazine sell, and you get everything you wanted. You’re full of angst? Write it. You’re sexually corrupt? Write it. You’re heart hurts and you’re confused? Fucking write it.”

  There it is.

  I purse my lips, nodding. “I’ll write it. There’s a lot to know about what goes on when the sun sets and people want to get frisky.”

  She cracks a smile, which is my goal. Whether she’s right or not, I don’t want to talk more about using my agony as a professional tool. I’m ready for this conversation to be done.

  She sighs, the corner of her mouth lifting into a remorseful smirk. “Do you want to talk about it?” she offers.

  I exhale. “No. I don’t.”

  She nods, lifting her hands in front of her, and acts out breathing, puffing out her chest, and waving a hand with an exaggerated inhale, then deflating with a flick of her wrist on the exhale. “In and out, Lo. Just breathe. You don’t have to talk about specifics of whatever you’re going through, okay? But how about you use your writing as a form of catharsis? I can sense through my third eye that this is bout that guy.” She raises her brows in a comical dare of try me.

  I petrify in my seat, giving her a flat stare as she swivels on her heels with a wide red lipsticked smile. She’s always toying with me. I love and hate her.

  “Fuck you and your third eye!” I shout at her disappearing form.

  “Assignment. Tomorrow. No exceptions. Love you!”

  I grumble. Seething under my pout, and stare at the disarray of random letters on my screen as an act to trick Rebecca. She saw right through me.

  Refreshing the page, I force myself to write. I start with something simple, and to the point. Something this article was intended for.

  What do the people of Los Angeles do when they want to have freaky sex and not get caught? Some would say, ‘There’s an app for that,’ whereas others know their release lies in a place far more exclusive and sinister.

  Fahrenheit.

  It’s a place made of whispers that get this city all hot and bothered. Is it the mystery, or the price tag that entices people? Or is it something else that brings sexual deviants to their knees, begging for Fahrenheit to solve all their problems.

  I huff, shaking my head as my fingers pause, hovering above the keys. I read through my words, not necessarily hating them, but thinking them stale. This isn’t the story I want to tell, at least I don’t think so. I need a different angle. This article isn’t what I want to say, even if the words came from me.

  I grit my teeth, selecting all the text in the document with my mouse, close my eyes, and press delete before opening them.

  I stand and lean over my desk to turn off my computer. I even slap at my mouse as I move to grab for my phone.

  I can’t be in this office. Not with this new twenty-four-hour deadline, which feels as much a game as it was when Rebecca gave me the assignment. A countdown to make-it-or-break-it.

  It won’t help me figure out what I want to say. My world is shifting, just as much as my goals. The stakes have changed with this article, and I need to figure out what I want.

  Now I know the meaning of the saying, “Feeling the weight of the world.” It’s like brick upon brick on your shoulders, each a different problem or emotion. You can’t simply shake this weight off, because it’s piled too precariously. It requires you to handle each hardship, one by one.

  I grab for my purse, looking to handle this my way, whatever that means.

  My bare feet hit sand as the sun hangs low in the sky. I stare at the horizon, and the thinning crowds on the beach.

  I drove around downtown looking for some writing inspiration, realizing that I still have no idea where Fahrenheit is located, but thought I might’ve driven past the unmarked glacial building Nate and I had dinner at. I thought it might inspire me to pick a gritty direction for my article. I toyed with the subject matter in my head, wondering if the exposé approach I had before is the only way to get this assignment done.

  However, when I cruised past what might’ve been the restaurant, I couldn’t stop thinking about Nate and me in his car that evening, laughing and struggling to keep our hands off each other, and how his smiling lips were determined and hungry as they pressed against my skin. It was so much more than our average lesson, and so was the night he fell asleep with his arms wrapped around me like a security blanket. I refuse to think I’m making that up.

  It makes me angry with him all over again. Anger is still the wrong word, and that’s half the problem. I can’t seem to find the words to describe how I feel.

  Without realizing it, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of the same beach I encountered Nate on accident weeks ago, hoping for the same fate.

  Now that I’m standing here on the beach, I keep thinking I’ll see him emerging from the waves, s
urfboard in hand, and a slack smile plastered on his face.

  I don’t.

  I wade through the sand, and plop down ten feet from the tide.

  At least the salty air clears my head. Listening to Katy Perry on full volume while cruising around downtown Los Angeles was doing little for my clarity.

  It could almost be considered quiet here, other than the crashing waves, and chatter of the last families on the beach as the sun dips low in the sky, preparing for slumber. The buzz here is even, and soothes me a little bit.

  I look off into the horizon, noting the few silhouettes on the water. The last surfers of the day. They aren’t Nate.

  I grab for my phone to see if I’ve missed his call. No, of course I haven’t. No reply whatsoever, in any form.

  I imagine he’d be off work. It’s almost six o’clock now.

  Why wouldn’t he face this—me? Is calling me back that horrific of a thing to do? Is it because he doesn’t owe me anything, so why bother? Or maybe he’s just …

  “Scared,” I whisper into the evening.

  I considered this option when he left, but the fact he hasn’t called me back practically confirms it.

  Nate isn’t one to avoid a problem because it’s inconvenient. No. He’s too pragmatic. A psychiatrist wouldn’t let something like this go unsolved. They’re all about tying up loose ends and solutions. Unless, this problem is something rooted in their personal fear, one of which Nate unintentionally made known to me and struggles with to this day.

  Fear of a connection. Fear of love. Fear of the unknown.

  He’s not answering because he doesn’t know what to do. He won’t shut the door, but he won’t open it either. Instead, we stand on either sides of this wall. We don’t have to end this in hearts and flowers, but confronting it is mandatory for both of our existences. Can’t he see that?

  It’s complicated. Maybe he thinks it’s better to let this one float on to be dealt with on another day, but I’m sick of that. I’ve had enough of letting things go for the sake of others issues.

  A part of me feels for Nate, too. As upset as I am that he’s not confronting the issue, I want to mend the situation and us.

  His eyes flashed pain, sadness, and a sense of loss before he left. It was as if when he woke up next to me, I triggered everything he’s tried to avoid. He panicked like a kid who woke up next to his nightmare. I felt like the boogeyman.

  I imagine before all of this that Nate was a devoted boyfriend. I have seen glimmers of it since I met him. Foul mouth and dirty mind? Yes, but the way he made sure I was okay, gave me my due time, and was diligent with his words and touches spoke volumes to what lie below the icy surface he tries so hard to keep solid. All of those qualities transcend into all planes of a person’s life, and most importantly love.

  He spoke to me about knowing when a person is worth risking your heart for. He took the biggest risk when choosing someone to love, and he lost everything because of it. I can understand that, can’t I? I’m just more of an optimist.

  He ran from me, though. I can’t let him run. Not because of what I want, but because he needs to know he doesn’t have to run from his fears, and instead face them. He should know that, but fear is a bitch.

  I’ve never had to be the bigger person before in this department of life, but meeting Nate changed that. He somehow taught me to allow my curiosity, to be fearless, to give control as much as I take it, and above all, that I deserve to be loved the way I want, and that I’ll know when someone is worth taking the leap for. I had no idea I was missing those qualities, or if I had them, that they needed strengthening. Because of this, I almost feel like I owe it to him to give back. The research for the article doesn’t compare to what he’s given me, whether he knows it or not.

  Sure, the logical part of me thinks I should let it go and move on, but the irrational romantic in me is clinging onto something intangible, and since I’ve already lost everything in this regard, I tap out a text to him, inspiration hitting me like a hurricane.

  Some risks are worth taking.

  My article will hit Frenzy Magazine in less than two weeks. Read it.

  Of course, he doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to.

  I grab for my notebook and pen, and start to write.

  As the words flow from pen to paper, the lyrics strumming through my head all day reappear, but this time there’s some hope there:

  You can’t always get what you want

  But if you try sometimes, you might find

  You get what you need.

  My nerves are getting the best of me as I stroll into Rebecca’s chic office. The colorful accents and fresh bouquet of flowers on her desk do nothing to soothe me. I can’t tell if this is because I don’t know what Rebecca’s going to say, or if it’s because of the solution I have in mind to remove this void between Nate and me.

  Well, that’s if my boss lets me.

  “Hey, Becc,” I greet.

  She gives me raised brows from behind her desk, reading my tone.

  Great. The last thing I want to do is give her more reasons to doubt me.

  I turn around, my nerves vibrating most prominently at my elbows and knees. I thought I managed to contain them during my walk across the office. I pull in a deep breath, steadying myself as I close the door, giving us privacy.

  I swivel around on my heeled boots, which are a more professional transition from the disaster I was yesterday.

  “Whatcha got for me, Lo?” She grins.

  I want to believe her smile is sincere, but I’m scared to disappoint within so many facets of my life right now, I fail to see the hope.

  I shake out my limbs as I approach her desk.

  Her eyes soften as she blows out a huff of air, examining me. “All right. What the hell is going on? You’re weirding me out. I was going to let it go yesterday, but your puppy dog eyes are messing with my head.”

  An exasperated grunt escapes me as I plop down into the plush leather chair in front of her desk, my arms flaying over the armrests in exhaustion. I flick my head back to move a rogue piece of hair that’s fallen from my haphazard high-bun.

  I worked so hard last night that I never really slept. I ignore my want to yawn as I chew my bottom lip, searching for a response.

  “I don’t think I can explain,” I reply.

  She shakes her head. “Now, you’re not making sense.”

  A smile peaks through my lips. “It’s better if I just kind of … show you.”

  “What are you talk—?”

  “Check your email,” I interrupt. “All the answers are there. Everything you’ve been curious about and more …”

  She grins like kid on Christmas morning who was gifted a unicorn. “The article?” she squeals. I nod. “Did you pour your heart out?”

  I grit my teeth. “I cut the damn thing out of my chest, and laid it on the table actually.”

  She breathes my words in with a squirm to her lips that has me realizing that there’s so much at stake, but I know it has to be this way.

  Turning to her computer, and a few clicks later, she gives me one last glance over her glasses to gift me another tight smile. It’s a nudge of, you got this.

  I smile back, and I hope for the best as she starts to read it aloud.

  Sex. What does that mean to someone who lives in the throws of life in the City of Angels? It’s practically our reason for living, at least for some. The grit and the glam create a perfect fetish cocktail for anyone seeking an outlet.

  In an average city, this might be a strip club or a red-lit street corner, but L.A. operates differently. With its high-end societies, and enough money to power a small country, there’s still one thing that’s hard for this city to manage. Secrecy. For the most part, “sex” and “secrets” aren’t two words that stay together for long. What with the paparazzi, social media, or any other forum to feed the gossip mill, this city struggles to hide its addiction to sex. Because that’s the problem we have whether we know i
t or not.

  Sex sells. It moves us. It saves us. We practically worship it. Sex is the religion we don’t talk about. It’s shamed for its beliefs, based in sin we can’t ignore, which makes it harder to hide from.

  Oh, but Los Angeles finds a way, and it comes in the form of the neon underworld that’s known only as Fahrenheit, where temperatures do rise.

  Now the question is, am I believer in this prehistoric faith?

  I am now, but it took convincing. I’m still working on restoring my faith in sex. I’m also working on something else I didn’t realize. My faith in myself.

  Which is what a place like Fahrenheit is all about. It’s a nightclub where the elite can partake in their sexual fantasies, and feed into their most lustful obsessions with willing participants, all the while getting a grip on themselves.

  It’s about finding yourself. An ideal that most patrons don’t realize upon entering, because let’s be honest, usually we’re all just looking to get off.

  I’m supposed to tell you what it’s like when you gain entry to somewhere as sexually prestigious as Fahrenheit.

  I can tell you there are lots of neon, professional employees, wealthy patrons, and an endless array of A to Z sexual exploits you can indulge in. It’s members only, all of which are allowed a plus one, as long as their guest obeys the basic rules.

  Most importantly, anonymity.

  I was lucky enough to stumble upon this opportunity, and I do mean, I literally stumbled into this, catching the attention of someone who I will call Batman.

  Yes. Batman.

  His identity I must keep secret. He wears a lot of black, has a troubled past, an impressive utility belt, and he has wants and needs as strange (and as hot) as the label.

  I didn’t know I needed saving when Batman stalked into my life, but who does?

  Just like the self-deprecating superhero from the comic books, he pens himself as the villain of this city.

  There wasn’t a moment I believed him. How could I? In effortless, orgasmic fashion in the underworld of a sex club, he saved me from myself. He doesn’t know that yet. However, he might now, if he’s reading this.