#TripleX

by Christine Zolendz

  The horrible noise continued.

  My hands fumbled around clumsily for whatever was making the sound. I peeled my eyes open and saw nothing but darkness—just the screeching sounds of someone’s alarm or phone penetrated my eardrums. My neck was stiff and every inch of my body ached. I lifted my head slowly only to realize I was on the floor in front of the bed.

  Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I tried to focus. There was a pile of what looked like corndogs next to me on a plate, and they smell like fried death.

  Climbing up to my legs, I looked around and found the culprit noisemaker. Ang’s damn phone again. Walking over, I peeked at the screen. The caller ID read: “ASSHOLE.”

  I looked around the room, and Angelisa wasn’t there. “Ang?” I called out.

  No reply.

  I swiped her phone open and yawned. “Mmm hmm?” I muttered sleepily into the phone.

  “Good afternoon.” A woman’s voice said pleasantly. My eyes darted to the clock. It read 1:30 p.m. I shook my head in disbelief and tried to focus on the woman’s call. “This is Emily, Mr. Ryan’s personal assistant. Am I speaking with Angelisa Stone?”

  “Nope,” I answered. Then yawned loudly and opened the hotel blinds. Bright sunshine filled the room.

  “Christine?” The voice asked.

  “Yep,” I answered.

  “Thank you. Please hold for Mr. Ryan.”

  Hold for Mr. Ryan?

  What the Hell does this dude do for a living? I sat holding for five minutes listening to a horrible rendition of some One Direction song being sung in slow motion. Just when I thought there could be no music worse than country, I hit the jackpot of crappy tunes thanks to Mr. Ryan.

  The phone clicked, and Jake’s voice boomed. “Why do you keep answering her phone?”

  “The caller ID said asshole, and I wanted to hear what one sounded like,” I snapped. I held the phone between my shoulder and ear and walked around the room looking for Ang. “Why do you have a PA? You cure cancer or something?”

  “No. I—”

  I didn’t have time for his crap. My head was pounding, and I noticed the sheets of my bed covering something extremely huge. I wasn’t going to uncover it until I had Ang for backup. I was positive I remembered only half the stuff we did the day before.

  “What do you need Mr. Ryan?” I asked, walking into the bathroom. I found Ang asleep in the empty bathtub, cuddling with a pink stuffed unicorn.

  “I need to talk to my sister,” he explained.

  “She’s in the bathtub,” I replied.

  “Hold on please?” he asked and clicked off—before I could tell him no. More stupid music bellowed in my ears. If they started bleeding, I was going to sue Mr. Ryan for mere 31 mill.

  “Sorry. Hello? You still there? I’m going to call you back on FaceTime, so I can work and talk at the same time,” he commanded.

  The arrogant self-important jerk.

  “Nope. I have a really busy day—” I didn’t get to finish, because the line clicked off and started ringing at the same time. That son of a… I swiped the screen again and Jake Ryan’s big, stupid face filled the screen.

  Except Jake Ryan’s face wasn’t stupid.

  Or grotesquely sized in any way.

  It was actually perfect.

  So perfect that I didn’t know where to look first. The bright blue eyes? The full dark hair? Chiseled cheeks? I squinted at the tiny box of the screen that was capturing my reflection and cringed. Jesus, I looked like death—fried death. I had corndog crud all over my face. I rubbed at my cheeks self-consciously. I was going to kill Ang for not warning me about Jake Ryan looking like Robert Downey Jr. suited up and made for sex.

  “Hey,” he smiled, cocking his head to the side.

  “Hmmm,” I answered. ‘Cause I was an idiot.

  One corner of his mouth quirked up higher, “How’s Chicago?”

  I nodded and shrugged. Still an idiot. My face heated, turning visibly crimson.

  And so did his.

  He looked down and shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Okay. Just… just tell Ang I need to talk to her, okay?” he whispered, raising his eyes to meet mine.

  We stared at each other for a moment. Then I nodded and pressed the end button—my heart pounding.

  The phone pinged a text message in my hand. It was a one word from Asshole: Wow.

  For the first time in almost twenty years, I felt a flutter of excitement ripple up in my chest. But that Wow could have meant anything. It most likely meant Wow Ang, you’re friend’s a beast. I completely get why her husband traded her in for a newer model.

  I sat down heavily on the bed at the same time Angelisa staggered out of the bathroom. “What the Hell was in that joint?” Angelisa’s hoarse voice asked.

  “The Hell if I know. I haven’t smoked anything since 1991. They must have upgraded the stuff—lucky fricken teenagers!”

  Pulling a folded up piece of paper out of my front pocket and opening it, I stared at it for a moment. Then, I casually asked, “Who’s Linda?”

  “Linda? I don’t know a Linda,” she stated, shrugging.

  “It says, ‘Next time, I’ll take you to the skydeck after hours and you’ll never want to come back down.’ Then there’s a number and her name,” I remarked, baffled.

  Snorting and shaking with laughter, Angelisa squealed, “No way! I can’t… no… Oh my God. That is the funniest effing thing… Son of a bitch. No way!”

  “What? What am I missing here?” I asked, totally confused.

  “Linda, the security guard… he… she… you made out with her!” she cried, doubled over in laughter.

  “Holy shit! No way,” I said, looking down at the paper again. “He… she… really did have soft lips.”

  Still laughing, Angelisa added, “This trip cannot get any better.”

  “It really is pretty incredible, isn’t it?” I agreed. Lying against her headboard, I closed my eyes, praying for the pounding to stop.

  Angelisa nudged me, and pointed to my bed. She raised her eyebrows, “What’s that?”

  I shrugged. “I can only imagine. I was waiting for you to help me uncover it—in case it was alive.”

  Both of us pulled the covers away slowly.

  There was Tatum Channing. The bicycle built for two, completely covered with rhinestones and ribbons and what looked like crazy string. Slung over each handle bar were two Kate Spade bags with matching wallets. Lying safely underneath were four shopping bags filled with brand new designer clothes—that we never ever bothered to try on.

  Shit. My ex was going to kill me.

  But at least I’d die in style.

  Twitter: Missed my calling. Should’ve been a sex ed teacher. #GetTurnt #KegStands #TopGun #PackingHeat #KarmaKock

  “I don’t even—do you realize—” the judge frowns, shakes her head, and rubs her temples. “Let’s start with, I counted at least five criminal acts in one day—”

  “You’re Honor,” I yawn and hiccup nearly simultaneously. Giggling, I cover my mouth, and say, “Pardon me.”

  “Yeah seriously, if you could just ‘pardon us,’ then we could get out of your hair, and be on our way,” Christine pipes in with authority.

  “Nooo, this is the part of the story where you’re going to realize that we’re just a couple of do-gooders just doing good all over the country,” I encourage.

  “Oh that’s right. On our last night in Chicago, we morphed into a couple of bounty-hunting vigilantes,” Christine confirms excitedly.

  Sighing, “A vigilante is actually derogatory, implying that legal authorities are inadequate and unable to perform their jobs efficiently,” the judge clarifies.

  “Exactly,” Christine nods.

  “No!” I shake my head, elbowing her. “We just meant—mean—that we were helping out, because y’all get so busy and bogged down. Plus, you didn’t see what we saw and all—”

  “Just go on,” the judge orders, taking a long drink out of her water bott
le. My mouth dries and waters metaphorically as I lick my lips, trying to find moisture from the cottony-coating that had overtaken my mouth. “Ms. Stone, is there something you’d like?”

  “Oh my God, if you could just give me one sip—just like a little drop—”

  “Did you really just ask the judge for a drink of her water?” Christine sighs, shaking her head at me.

  Pushing the intercom button on her phone, the judge speaks into the air, “Please bring in two more bottles of water.” Making a note on a post-it note next to her, she adds, “Go on… tell me how you took the law into your own hands and saved the world.”

  “Ummm, you’re not going to hold any of this against us, are you? Like what we say in here is all confidential and stuff, right?” I ask naively.

  “How have I spent three months with you and not realized how incredibly stupid you are?” Christine marvels. “Of course she is. We’re talking to a judge! A judge in court! After being thrown in jail! She’s going to use all of this against us.”

  “Then why in Hell would you tell her about the ecstasy, smoking pot, and stealing bikes?” I scream, incredulously.

  “Do you really think she gives a crap about what we did over a month ago in Chicago? That’s not her jurisdiction, but now that I think about it, I’m not so sure telling her about ‘you-know-what’ is such a good idea,” Christine lowers her voice through gritted teeth.

  “I disagree. I think she’s going to see us for who we really are—good people,” I explain.

  “Quiet!” the judge snarls. “For some ungodly reason, I do care. I care, because something, something I cannot quite figure out, brought you two women to my city and into my courthouse, and I would really like to know the details behind it. I could do without all the smathering of fluffy details.”

  “Your Honor, smathering isn’t a word—”

  “Really? You thought that was important? To correct the freaking judge?” Christine grumbles, shaking her head at me. “But Your Honor, we’re writers. Details are kind of our thing.”

  “Oh but that’s important? Reminding her what we do for a living? I forgot, you can never do anything wrong—can you?” I remark, glaring at her.

  “You’re just mad, because I let Jake—”

  Turning away from her, throwing my hand in her face, “Don’t even say it. Don’t even mention it. I swear to God, I will—”

  “Ladies! Step two feet away from each other,” the judge instructs. We do exactly as we’re told. “I’m not sure what just happened here. You went from being best friends to nearly ripping each other’s heads off.”

  “Well, you can ask Christine about that.” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, stubbornly.

  “Ms. Stone, just tell me what happened in Chicago.”

  On our last day in Chicago, I woke up early and headed to Wal*Mart. Christine was adamant about not buying one and getting all caught up in numbers. But quite frankly, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed one. I needed to know. I had to know. It had been so long; I needed to see actual facts, actual numbers. So, I snuck out of the hotel room and went to the store to buy a scale. Never in my life have I coveted and longed for a scale more. I knew my clothes were getting roomier, and every morning when I stepped out of bed, I just felt lighter, healthier, and bouncier.

  Yeah, bouncier.

  Looking at all the scales, I didn’t feel dread and like I was about to hurl all over the aisle. I actually felt excited, ready to know if the healthy eating and constant, yes constant, exercise were starting to pay off. Honestly, I hadn’t stuck to a diet for a whole three weeks in a very long time. That’s the thing; people always say, “Diets don’t work.” That’s total BS. Diets work—they really work. It’s the people who don’t work. Every diet I have ever been on works. It works right up until the minute I get lost in a gallon of ice cream or a can of Pringles. Then, I just blow it. Or inhale it like a vacuum cleaner in a need of a sugar-coated fix.

  This time though, everything just felt different. After I got caught stuffing cheese doodles down my throat, I went right back to staying on track. Typically, I would allow that to force me into a downward spiral of a self-induced food coma—for days. It’s just so much different when you have support and a friend to stick with you through it. Chris and I have been good for each other. Believe it or not, we even shared a bowl of ice cream last week. Then right after we ate it, we went for a walk around the city, burning the calories and enjoying the sights. We weren’t starving ourselves. We weren’t depriving ourselves. We were just two middle-aged women trying to better ourselves and reach some goals we thought were beyond our reach.

  I grabbed a scale off the shelves, looked around, and ripped it out of the box, tearing it open like a child opening a present on Christmas morning. I’d never been so excited to see and handle a freaking scale.

  Things were changing.

  I was changing.

  I remembered hearing once that it took something like 21 days to break a habit or to make something a habit—one or the other. Something like that. Hell, maybe I didn’t even read it. Maybe, I just made it up. Anyway, it’d been close to 24 days since we started this “New Us” business. I just hoped it stayed.

  I stepped onto the scale, took a deep breath, and looked down. My jaw dropped. My eyes widened. I looked around again to see if anyone was watching me. I jumped off the scale, shook my head in disbelief, and stepped back on. I stared straight ahead, not looking back down at the number until I knew for sure that the digital assessment was complete. I dropped my head and saw the same number as the first time.

  Holy Hell.

  Holy freaking success.

  I was down 17 pounds in 24 days. (And, I’d even had cheese doodles and half of a bowl of cookies-and-cream ice cream.) I did it. I lost weight—the right way. It was working. I was working. I couldn’t wait to tell Christine. I bet we were both down to a 2XL now. Screw the Triple X with a rusty, old, fat screw. So help me, I’d drag her kicking and screaming onto that scale if I had to. I wanted her to feel as elated and successful as I felt.

  Deciding to stock up on some personal, female products for the next week, I stopped in the aisle, only to find three extremely beautiful boys staring at condoms and lubricants. Noticing the one guy’s Greek letters on his sweatshirt and another’s “Northwestern” ball cap, I felt no sense of remorse for thinking they were hot. They had to be “of age” if they were in college and in a fraternity.

  I grabbed a box of tampons, threw them in the cart, and eavesdropped in on their conversation:

  Northwestern: Hannah said she can’t tell the difference.

  Greek letters: Then why does it say, “For her pleasure.”

  (holding ribbed condoms)

  High School Musical: Duh, marketing ploy. Isn’t that your major?

  Greek letters: Shut the fuck up. When was the last time you needed condoms?

  High School Musical: I need condoms all the time.

  Northwestern: He means to actually use.

  (Northwestern and Greek Letters high-five)

  Greek letters: I think I’m getting these. It says, “It gets hot and then cools.” Abby might like that.

  At that point, I couldn’t take it any longer. I felt like I had an obligation to Abby and her hoo-ha to save it from anything that claimed to burn and cool. That just screamed yeast infection coupled with a urinary tract infection. I couldn’t let Abby endure that burning and itching, due to the stupidity of her dumbass boyfriend, or Saturday evening hookup. Hell, maybe he was just one of those “friends with benefits” that got popular—right after I got married and shot out three kids.

  I wondered if wives were allowed to have a few “friends with benefits.” Christine would claim that my neighbor, Pete, and I were headed in that direction, but she was so wrong—couldn’t be more wrong, actually. Pete and I were just friends. The only benefit I had from our friendship was that he had some pretty damn kinky ideas for my books. Returning my thoughts to Abby and her frozen
and fiery vagina, I added my two cents:

  (Middle-aged Mom) Me: Excuse me, I have to pipe in here. I just can’t help it. I’m nosy and feel like I need to help ya out. In no way, should you buy condoms that may burn your girl’s “down there.” That’s not an area you really want to burn—if you know what I mean… Unless of course, you’re talking in the metaphorical sense.

  They stared at me for a moment, and then finally the hottest of the hot spoke first.

  Northwestern: Dude, ain’t nothing on Abby gonna “burn” for you.

  Greek letters: Fuck off.

  (punching him)

  Northwestern: That’s what she said.

  (laughing)

  Greek letters: Well what kind should I get then? Think I need lube? Something like that?

  (Middle-aged Mom) Me: Honey, at her age, she shouldn’t need lube if you’re using your tools right—she might need it if you’re visiting in through the back door.

  That pretty much solidified my newfound friendship with a few Northwestern fraternity boys. They convinced me to eat breakfast with them at the Subway in Wal*Mart, which broke two of my personal rules. (1.) Never eat a meal at Wal*Mart. (2.) Never eat breakfast at Subway. I had to admit; the breakfast wrap was pretty damn good—and healthy. Win-win.

  I spent a good hour and a half schooling two of them on how to please a woman. Greek letters, who incidentally turned out be Jason, was adorably sweet and shy, almost too innocent and naïve. I ended up giving him a copy of one of my books that depicted a hard-ass older brother who nailed chicks left and right. Jason could use a little more alpha. Abby fell for his sweetness, but all girls like a little manliness every now and then.

  Northwestern, Nick, knew what he was doing and how to do it. I found myself—my head—going places it had no business going. He reminded me of Matt back in college, cocky and self-assured, and willing to experiment with whatever. I pulled the reins in on Nick though, going over how to slow down and focus only on her—and forget about himself for a change. Hannah couldn’t live only on good sex for the rest of her life. Nick needed to romance it up a bit, woo her out of the bedroom too. I also gave him a copy of a book, one that focused more on romance than on hardcore putang-popping.