The Renegades

by P. R. Paige

  India surprises me when she massages my shoulder and arm as if she's consoling me about some tragic occurrence. "You'll join us tomorrow, won't you," India says.

  I glance over at Rome, waiting for him to rescue me, but he says nothing. Why would he? Surely, this is all his doing anyway.

  "I guess," I say, out of obligation, thinking if I say yes, maybe she will stop massaging my shoulder and arm.

  "Rome tells us that you like to sail," Storm says. "We were thinking about chartering a boat along Lake Michigan."

  "Will you be joining us?" I ask Rome.

  "It's up to you," Rome says. He leans against the back of his door, as if posing for a high-end women's magazine.

  "Would you like for Rome to join us?" Storm asks me.

  "I don't really think I could stop him," I say, knowing full well that there is no way Rome would allow himself to not be a part of this.

  Rome and the ladies wear down my defenses, and I agree to spend the day with them. I do a good job of pretending that I was oh so not interested, but I am insanely curious about the set up that Rome has established with these women. I want to know not just how it works, but more important why they have chosen to be in a part of it.

  I have been working for Perrin as his personal assistant for three years. He is the perfect employer. For the small things I do for him, I am paid more than $80,000 yearly. So when he asks me to do menial tasks such as preparing his showers, my only question is: How hot do you want the water, and which bathrobe will you be wearing? My job is simple. I cater to his every need and want. I manage his errands and do for him everything that he would rather not do himself.

  It is now 5:30 p.m. in the evening when I adjust the water temperature for Perrin's shower. I don't usually work this late, but I have been late the last few days and want to make up some of my time. Once Perrin is in the shower, I login to his Citibank account and pay his monthly expenses. I then head downstairs to the lobby and withdraw $400 from the ATM. He always likes to have several hundred dollars on hand.

  I prepare his favorite evening cocktail, a Bill Clinton. This potent concoction consists of blue curacao liqueur, three kinds of vodka, light rum, dark rum, pineapple juice and a splash of lemonade.

  Perrin is still in the shower when he summons me into the bathroom.

  "You rang," I ask him as I stand at the entrance of the bathroom door.

  "I want to hear more about this rendezvous on the lake before you leave," he says from behind the shower curtain.

  I close the top of the toilet seat and drop down onto it. "Here's the situation. It's not easy to say no to this man or his lady friends. But in light of all of that, I'm actually looking forward to it."

  "It seems as though you have agreed to be a part of this after all," Perrin says.

  "No," I say with conviction. "This is just a friendly get-together. Nothing more."

  "That's not what it sounds like to me," Perrin says.

  Could Perrin be right?

  Have I, on an unconscious level, agreed to be a part of his deranged lifestyle without even know it?

  Episode Five

  A glorious Chicago Saturday morning greets me with a stream of sunshine. The funny memories of my unusual encounter with Rome and his ladyloves flood my mind and force me out of bed earlier than usual.

  My day begins with a hot shower, where I shampoo my hair and shave my legs. I am in good spirits for my day at sea with Rome and his ladyloves. I wear my white ankle pants, pink t-shirt and taupe sandals. I am almost finished eating my oatmeal for breakfast when the doorman calls and informs me that my car is ready. Rome has arrived.

  Wanting to make a good impression on the ladies and Rome, I dash into the bathroom brush my blunt cut bangs, apply eyeliner, mascara and mauve lipstick.

  I grab my white Fossil clutch purse, my keys, and I am out the door.

  Why would three women choose to live with one man?

  That is the question, but what is the answer?

  These are the thoughts that populate my mind as I exit the revolving doors of my high-rise building.

  It is a zealous eighty degrees. There is something about warm weather that makes life seem so freaking grand.

  To my wonderful surprise, there is a stretch limousine awaiting me.

  Standing at the door to greet me is not a chauffeur, but Rome dressed as a chauffeur, and he is decked out in full white chauffer attire with a white Fedora hat to match. I smirk because I like what I see, and his creative attire is giving me some ideas of my own.

  I am all smiles when I approach the shiny car, my clutch purse underneath my arm.

  "Good afternoon, Ms. Darling," Rome says, then opens the door for me.

  "Seriously?" I ask him, smiling.

  "Yes, seriously. I'm escorting you to our destination." He wears burgundy tinted sunglasses, which complements his chauffeur attire.

  If this is how the day begins, I can't wait to see how it will end.

  Upon Rome opening the door for me, I slide inside and find a nice cozy seat across from India and Storm. This is my first time in a limousine and I have to admit, I am impressed.

  "Hello, ladies," I say to them.

  Rome gears the car into drive and we are off and running.

  No sooner than my bottom hits the leather seat, both India and Storm immediately flock around me. If India and Storm are the paparazzi, then I must be the star because that's what it feels like. India is on my right side and Storm is on my left. India slithers up on me, her face in my neck. "You look lovely this afternoon, and you smell good, too."

  Ordinarily I would find a buzz cut on a woman unattractive, but India wears it well. It gives her the beautified appearance of a China doll except, she's not from China.

  "You look so pretty in your white," Storm says to me as she layers her lips with peach-scented lip gloss.

  "You girls are so sweet," I say.

  "I'm the sweet one," India says, "not Storm."

  "Storm," India says. "Doesn't Thursday smell wonderful?"

  It is now Storm's turn to inhale my neck.

  Storm sniffs my neck like I am a piece of merchandise for sale, and I am cracking up inside. This is funny, and these women are nuts, especially since I'm not even wearing any perfume.

  "That is nice," Storm agrees with India.

  "Thank you," I say. At this moment, what else could I say?

  I witness Rome's amused eyes in the rearview mirror, seemingly quite entertained.

  "Is everything okay back there," Rome asks. "Maybe I should come back there."

  "We have it all taken care of," Storm says to Rome. "We'll let you know if we need you back here."

  While Storm and India continue to fret over me as if I am the late Princess Diana, I have to stay, I enjoy the attention.

  "You ladies are just full of wonder, aren't you?" I say to them.

  "You could call it a whole lot more than that," India says.

  Storm gently gropes my left breast. "Are you a 34 or a 36?"

  Before I can even answer, my eyes widen and my mouth pops open.

  "You look more like a 34," Storm says. "What do you think, India?"

  India grips my right breast and explores it. "I think you're right," India says to Storm. "She's a 34."

  They both feel me up real good, and I gleam with amusement. These women have no shame. "Please forgive me for being so honest, but are you two ladies trying to seduce me?"

  "No," India is first to say, "Why would you think that?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Maybe it was because you were groping my breasts."

  "That doesn't mean anything," Storm says.

  "That's right," India says. "If we were trying to seduce you, we would have removed your blouse first and then maneuvered you into a horizontal position."

  "Oh, I see," I say, "Thanks for the clarification."

  "Is everything back there all milky smooth?" Rome asks us all.

  "Yes," we all say in unison.

  "I'm so gl
ad you decided to join us." Storm says.

  "Yes," India says. "We're quite excited.

  "You two look like you're in a good mood," I say to the both of them. "Are you always this chipper?"

  "Why shouldn't we be?" India says, with her arms stretched out. "It's a magnificent day, I'm happy, young, beautiful, spending the day with my guy and my girls."

  "That's right," Storm says. "We have it all." Storm initiates the high-five and India slaps her hand hard.

  "Would you like a glass of wine, Thursday," Storm asks me.

  I glance at my watch. It's just noon. "Isn't it a little early for cocktails?" As soon as the words leave my mouth, I rethink my statement. "Who am I kidding? It's never too early for a glass of wine."

  "Or too late," India agrees.

  Storm smiles at me, dousing me with admiration. "I knew there was a reason that I liked you."

  Storm pours a glass of wine for the three of us.

  "I don't even think about it or worry about it anymore," India says. "I know I am a lush, and I'm proud of it."

  Storm raises her hand to India and India high fives her.

  It is impossible to experience anything less than a joyous state of mind in the presence of these women. Their enthusiasm is insanely contagious.

  The cool AC surrounds me as I sip my glass of oh-so-good, sweet and yummy white wine. I lean back, relax and enjoy the wondrous moment. These women are fun.

  "What great things has Rome told you about us?" Storm asks me.

  "Rome told me that you were two lovely women and that you all live together in unholy matrimony, and, most importantly, he told me that you ladies wanted me to join you."

  "Is that something that you are open to?" India asks me, "joining us?"

  I don't answer right away, then "To be honest with you, I don't really know."

  "By the end of the day," Storm suggests. "You'll know."

  "Are you lesbian, bisexual or straight?" India asks me.

  If only I had been warned that that question was coming, maybe I could have prepared for it.

  "What?" I say. "Do you have to ask?"

  "Yes, you do," India says. "Women are very hard to figure out."

  "You weren't expecting that question, were you," Storm asks me.

  "No, I was not," I say to Storm.

  "Well, I personally think that she's straight," Storm says to India.

  "I don't know," India says, "sometimes looks can be deceiving."

  "Seriously? I'm sitting right here," I say.

  Storm laughs. "We were just playing around with you, Thursday, just having a little fun. We know that you're straight."

  "Thank you," I say, relieved.

  Now I am not sure who is more amusing, India and Storm or Rome for setting this whole thing up in the first place.

  Episode Six

  Fifteen minutes later, we reach the dock at Navy Pier and board Rome's chartered yacht, complete with a staff of five. The Summer Moon is outfitted with every amenity possible to keep us happy for many hours to come, such as a small cinema, a whirlpool and sauna with a view, an ice bar, a culinary center, a balcony porthole, and a lawn club grill, just to name a few.

  A pretty Mexican woman, wearing a black floor-length dress and ponytail, pilots us to a table on the outside deck. Rome, it seems, has mysteriously disappeared as Storm, India and I make ourselves comfortable underneath the hot sun. The pretty woman wearing the long black dress, who I dare not call a waitress as she's dressed too elegantly. She fills our crystal glasses with crushed ice and water.

  "Ladies, I'm Gypsie," she says, studying all of us. "Let me see if I can remember all of your names. "You have to be Storm, she says, pointing in Storm's direction, "And you're India," she suggests, directing her attention at India, "and you must be Thursday," suggesting me.

  "Very good," Storm says, "I'm impressed.

  "So am I," I say.

  "Rome told me a little about all three of you."

  "Care to share some of those tidbits," Storm says to Gypsie.

  "Not particularly. Anyway, I have gifts for all three of you. I will be right back."

  As soon as Gypsie whisks herself away, I guzzle down my water. "What happened to Rome?" I ask India.

  "Who cares?" Storm says, turning to me. "Besides, it will give us more time to get to know Thursday," referring to me in the third person.

  "Is that okay with you, Thursday," Storm asks me.

  "Why not? After all, I am the main attraction, am I not?" I ask Storm, lifting my water glass.

  "That you are," India says.

  "Now, for starters," Storm says. "What's with the name Thursday?"

  "Actually, that's the same thing I asked my mother, and she has no idea why she named me Thursday."

  "I don't know," India says. I kind of like it. It's different. It reminds me of a character on this old TV show the Adams Family. They had a son named Wednesday."

  "It wasn't a son," Storm objects, "It was a daughter."

  "No, it wasn't. It was a son."

  "I think I would have remembered," Storm insists.

  Since I was formally initiated in the backseat of the limo, I have earned the right to interject. "Ladies, if I might be so bold," I say, "does it really matter whether Wednesday was a girl of boy?"

  "No, it doesn't matter," India says, "but I know I'm right."

  "Moving along." Storm directs her attention towards me. "You said your mother didn't know why she named you Thursday?"

  "That's right."

  "She's not a drunk, is she," Storm asks me, so matter of fact.

  I'm supposed to be offended by Storm's remark but for some unknown reason, I am not.

  "No," I say in answer to Storm's question. "Anyway, here's what I'd like to know," I say to the both of them, "how did you two ladies end up with Rome?"

  This is the question that's been front and center of my mind since the moment they crashed my apartment.

  "We dated a while back," Storm says, "much like yourself."

  "As did I," India says.

  "It's all beginning to make sense to me now. We are all former girlfriends."

  "Who else would put up with this radical shit," Storm says, "definitely not anyone he just met."

  I squint my eyes as Storm's outburst rattles my brain. "But I thought that you two were in love with this arrangement."

  "We are, but I think it's only because I dated him in the past," Storm says. "I doubt if I had met someone new, I would have been as interested and willing to be a part of this thing."

  Storm says she's okay with the arrangement, but I am not totally convinced that is the case.

  "And this arrangement is totally okay with you," I ask them both. "I mean Rome sleeping with the both of you?"

  "Is that so hard to believe?" India asks me.

  "Of course, it is," I say. "It is my belief that women, as well as men, are very territorial. We want our own. I know I do."

  "True, but wanting it and having it are two totally different things," Storm says.

  "What does that mean?" I ask Storm.

  "Well, I wanted my husband all to myself, but it never happened," Storm says. "Of the one year we were married, he had extramarital affairs for the entire year and to top that off, the man I was married to before that had many suitors as well."

  It's finally sinking in now why both India and Storm have agreed to this lifestyle. They have become heinously jaded.

  India joins in. "As far as I'm concerned, it's unrealistic to even think for a moment that you will actually have one man to yourself for a significant length of time."

  "You don't think it's realistic to have a man all to yourself?" I ask them both.

  "I don't," India says.

  "Neither do I," Storm says.

  "Really," I question.

  "No, I don't," India says.

  "Neither do I," Storm says again.

  "I didn't say it was impossible," India says, clarifying herself. "Just not probable."

&nbs
p; These are two of the most cynical women that I have ever laid eyes on. I can only imagine what has happened to them to make them so pessimistic about men.

  "Why bother looking for something that you will not find?" Storm says to me.

  "I guess I just don't see it that way." I don't care what either of them believes, I will never give up on my one man happy ending.

  India chews on the crushed ice from her water glass. "I am thinking about how these celebrity women have their groom-to-be sign these agreements, stating that if they stray into the arms of another woman, they will have to pay a large sum of money to the wife-to-be."

  "Yeah, it's like these women know or are predicting that their husbands will be unfaithful and so perhaps they are hoping that the penalty of a million or so dollars might lessen the possibility of infidelity," Storm says.

  "Which doesn't work," I agree. "It's like a restraining order. It doesn't prevent your attacker from assaulting you any more than an agreement to pay a million dollars will prevent a man from exploring his sexual appetite."

  Though I'm not in the least sold of the idea of women sharing their men, some of what they are saying is making a lot of sense.

  "What we're saying isn't sounding so insane anymore," Storm says, "is it?"

  "Actually," I say to them. "I never said what you were saying sounded insane, but I'm still not sure I'm ready to completely write off the possibility that a man can remain faithful to one woman, and more importantly, I'm definitely not ready to share that man either."

  "Who says you haven't shared him already," India asks me, finishing off the last of her crushed ice.

  "What are you saying," I ask her.

  "You dated Rome in the past right?" Storm asks me.

  "That's right," I say.

  Storm stretches the tube of lip gloss across her lips. "Honey, Rome is the biggest whore ever."

  Storm's statement completely soaks up my oxygen, and I gasp.

  Could Storm be right?

  Was Rome fooling around on me the entire time that we were together?

  "Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting," I ask Storm.

  "I'm sure that I am."

  I am now speechless, but as much as what they are saying might possess some truth, I refuse to give up on the happy ending, which is one-man-one-woman for life.