Depths

by Liz Reinhardt

  “I’m so sorry.” She twists her hips and bats her eyelashes, pulling me close to her by my belt. “I’ve been really bad, haven’t I?”

  I know some girls think the baby voice thing is sexy, but it seriously creeps me out.

  “Super bad,” I say dryly. I tap on my aunt’s contact and ask for a cab. “It will be twenty minutes before she can get all the way out here, but then you can get home and sleep this off.”

  She plops on the sand and presses her bottom lip out. “We could have had lots of fun,” she whines.

  “Yeah. It could have been a real ball.” I tuck my hands in my pockets and will the crashing waves to drown her whiney voice out.

  “It’s a little chilly here.” She rubs her hands up and down her arms, and, suddenly, she looks very frail and worn-out, like her internal light has gone out.

  Or her buzz is wearing off and the beginnings of her hangover are starting to riot in her brain.

  “C’mon.” I hold a hand out to her. “We can go wait in my car.”

  “What about the restaurant?” she asks. “We could get one more for the road!”

  I haul her to the car and get her in the passenger seat. “You don’t need any more, Claire. What you’ve already had is going to hurt like hell tomorrow.”

  The sun is setting. I thought, by this point, we’d maybe take a walk on the beach, maybe head somewhere quiet and have coffee, tell stories, laugh. I hoped the night would end with something…not sex. The first date is freaky fast for sex. But maybe just kissing. Holding each other. Just enjoying the kind of romance that had seeped out of my relationship with Kensley in the end.

  “Whatchathinkin’ about?” Claire asks, turning in her seat. Her shirt pulls up on her back and her skirt is low, but I don’t even try to sneak a peek at her bird tattoo. This is beyond sad.

  “Nothing. Work. Things I have to do,” I lie.

  “Work?” She reaches her hand over, pressing on my leg. “That makes me feel kind of depressed. No guy ever thought ‘bout work on a date with me.” Her fingers slip up my pants and yank at my belt.

  I put a hand over hers. “Claire. Don’t. Look, your cab will be here soon. And, to be honest, something just didn’t click on this date.”

  “I know,” she says, nodding emphatically. “I know it. You think I’m an airhead.” I’m about to protest, but she puts a finger to my mouth. “I smoked a tiny bit before I came out, okay? But I was so nervous. And then I tried to loosen up by drinking, but you’re kinda intimidating. I never was with an engineer before. And all that credit talk?”

  Her fingers are working to unbutton and unzip my pants, and it seems like she’s growing multiple arms, because, no matter how I bat her away, she’s always got a hand on my crotch. And then my pants are open and she’s yanking at my boxers.

  “No. Listen to me, Claire. No.” Claire is surprisingly strong and persistent, and I have no damn clue what to do. I just pray the cab shows up fast, so I can get her out of my car and into it and be done with this hellish night.

  “Maybe I don’t have the brains you do, Calvin, but I have other things. Things guys like. A lot.” After she says those words, she nosedives for my junk, and I scramble to get the car door open.

  I’m willing to jump out of this car with my pants half off my ass if that’s what it takes to shake this girl.

  But my door is stuck and she’s wiggling around, trying to pin me, and suddenly she heaves.

  The sound is so specific and disgusting, I almost heave too.

  “Claire!” I reach down for her shoulders, but she already has her hand at her mouth and is bucking, trying to hold it down.

  Before I can sit her up and attempt to get her out, there’s a hot, wet torrent on my lap and down my legs.

  I finally manage to elbow the door open, which just gives her the opportunity to finish what she started on my driver side seat.

  “Calvin?” she gasps. “I’m so sorry. I think I drank too much.” Her mouth twists into an ugly shape and she starts to sob.

  I may be covered in her vomit and out of patience, but I’m not a total dick. I go around and help her out of the car. I lead her back into the restaurant and explain what happened to the hostess, who’s so disgusted, she waves us to the ladies’ room and promises to not let anyone in for a while.

  I manage to prop Claire on the counter and use wet paper towels to clean her up as best I can. “C’mon,” I say, leaning her over the sink. “Take a sip and rinse your mouth.”

  “Cup,” she moans and burps.

  I cup my hand and catch some water in it, then hold it to her mouth. She sips and winces as she swishes it around. After she spits, she sticks her tongue out. “Tastes sweet,” she mutters.

  I brush her sticky, wet hair out of her face and all my aggravation melts.

  I don’t want a second date, but I feel bad for Claire. She’s probably going to be too mortified to ever call me again by tomorrow anyway.

  “You’re so nice,” she says sleepily. “Why am I so drunk?”

  “Too much tequila,” I explain. She sags against me so heavily, it’s easier to just carry her out.

  My cousin Madeline is in the parking lot when I get there, tapping her foot, but her aggravation turns to disgust mixed with hilarity. “Holy shit, cuz! When you have a bad date, you go all the way!”

  “Hardy har har.” I nod at the door. “Help me get her in.”

  “Wait.” Madeline goes to the trunk and takes out the heavy, plastic-backed blankets my aunt made especially for situations like this. Her company runs taxis just for women who are more comfortable having other women drive them home. And situations like Claire’s are common enough that they have puke-resistant seat covers.

  My cousin finally waves me over, then rifles through Claire’s purse and finds her id.

  “Is it far?” I ask.

  Madeline laughs. “I hope you’ve been selling lots of corner units, Cohen. Her place is forty minutes away in Friday night traffic.” She jumps in the cab and leans out the window while I close the door on Claire, curled up and moaning on the back seat. “You need a ride?”

  “Nah.” Madeline would have to drive in the opposite direction for me. “I’m cool.”

  “I’ll send you a bill!” She calls as she pulls out.

  I’m left in the middle of the parking lot with puke dripping down my pants, slightly too buzzed to drive safely, and with a seat full of vomit even if I was sober. I could call Deo and Whit, but I’m not in the mood for his laughter and her pity. I’m way too far from home to walk. But my parents’ storage warehouse is twelve blocks from here. It’s got a little office in the back that has a tiny shower my father uses on his gym days. If I’m lucky, my over-prepared dad may have left an extra gym bag there. At the very least I can lie down on the couch and sleep my buzz off in peace.

  When I get to the storage warehouse, I luck out on every count, though it would be a serious stretch to say I’m feeling lucky after tonight’s date.

  I shower and change into my dad’s too-short gym shorts, then settle back on the couch to catch some sleep, wishing Deo’s mom made some kind of potion that could erase the memory of the world’s shittiest date along with your hangover.

  4 MAREN

  Jacinda and the group of a dozen women she invited, who range from her neighbor’s obnoxious teenage daughter to Jacinda’s half-deaf grandmother, are sitting in her sparse living room, vibrators and anal beads covering every surface, playing a “game.” The “game” consists of screaming “dildo” whenever the words man/guy/boyfriend/husband/fiancé come up. The Jell-O shots, which Obnoxious Unsupervised Teen has already partaken of twice, are making the game even more hilarious and fun.

  Hardy har har.

  I’ve got a half hour drive home after this shindig, so, as appealing as berry blue flavored vodka is, I’ll pass.

  The problem is, a bunch of shrieking women going nuts, so to speak, over sex toys wouldn’t usually be my scene on my craziest, drunkest night. So
being stone cold sober isn’t helping me deal with this at all.

  I’ve been playing Scrabble against some random player on my phone and wishing I had earplugs, when an email pings, interrupting my game.

  Usually I get irritated that work occasionally interferes with my free time. Now, I’m ecstatic.

  I try to wave Jacinda down to let her know I’m going to use her office to take care of this issue, but there’s a knock at the door, and when it opens, a cop with a huge, white smile bursts in. The entire mass of ‘dildo’-screaming women hushes when he points a baton at them.

  “I’m Officer Miller. I got a report there are some very bad girls in this room. Very bad.” He grabs at his shirt and rips it away, revealing a very nice, tanned set of abs and pecs.

  “Stripper!” Obnoxious Teen yells, jumping on Jacinda’s couch. The ladies go ape shit. Jacinda smiles smugly, winks at the ‘officer,’ and turns on Jace Everett’s “I Want to Do Bad Things to You.” He hip-swivels in, and I dart for the office, secure in the knowledge that no one will miss me or care that I’m gone.

  Obviously, since my being out of the living room means more ‘Officer Miller’ for the sex-crazed women out there.

  In the safe comfort and quiet of the office, I skim the email from one of our suppliers and decide to leave a message on Mr. Rodriguez’s phone. There’s no point in trying to email him. I love that man to death, but he’s practically Amish about technology. I’m just thankful he uses voicemail…unless of course he has an actual answering machine in his office. The thought of some old push button machine that works off cassette tapes makes me smile through the message I leave.

  “Hello Mr. Rodriguez. I hope you get this bright and early Saturday morning so you can get back to your lovely wife and all those sweet kids. Sherman’s called and they promised they could get a definite AM delivery on Mrs. Guarez’s mirrored hutch. Just use Marty’s extension and tell him which location to deliver to. If you have any questions, just call me—”

  “Hello?”

  The shock of having someone pick up makes my heart skip a beat, but I pull myself together because I can be professional even when I’m holed away at a party full of lusty women screaming sex words and running their hands over a stripper’s oiled body.

  “Mr. Rodriguez! I thought you’d be home for the night. I could have sworn you were taking your wife to that heist movie?”

  The low chuckle on the other end is half sleepy, half sexy. I’m mortified to feel a tingle of heat low down between my legs. I press my lips together to choke back a groan. Bad Maren! He’s a happily married man with five children! I have no business being turned on by his laugh.

  “Maren? It’s Cohen.”

  Relief rockets through me. “Cohen!” I actually squeal, relieved that I’m not some pervert home-wrecker. “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you to pick up. Honestly, I didn’t expect anyone to pick up. I was just leaving a message for your father because an email we needed for scheduling came in late.”

  Oh, and I was also just getting hot and bothered over your sexy-as-hell laugh, but we can totally ignore that little fact.

  I smooth my hair like he can see me, then drop my hand quickly because he can’t. And I feel stupid worrying about my hair like some high school girl anyway. Anyway this is Cohen. He wouldn’t care.

  Would he?

  Ugh. Maybe all the dildo chanting and male stripping is just pushing my hormones into overdrive.

  “I didn’t expect to be here, either.” I can hear him moving around, like maybe he’s just waking up, and the first thing that crosses my mind is that he’s there with a girl. He’s newly single, and, though I’ve never seen him, he can’t possibly be bad looking. Who could have a laugh that sexy and not be hot? Shitshitshitshit! I interrupted Cohen’s rebound sex! “So, do you need me to leave a note for my dad?”

  “Um, the message pretty much sums it up, but if you want I can repeat it. Unless you’re, um, with someone.” I wait, hoping he’ll ask me to repeat the message so we can stay on the phone for a few more minutes.

  Wow, my life really had sunk to new lows, and it gets even worse when he tells me ‘no’ and my heart flops pitifully in my chest

  “I’m alone, but it’s okay. You know Dad’s pretty OCD about how his work stuff is organized. He’d rather have the message than a note.” I wilt in the chair and wait for him to get off the phone. “So, that sucks that you’re working this late on a Friday night. You should have just let it go til Monday.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I settle into Jacinda’s rolly office chair. “Mrs. Guarez has been a pain in the ass for weeks, stressing your poor father out like crazy. Now she’s going to be taken care of, and then he’ll be free of her and her constant bitching.”

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. Damn! Mrs. Guarez is a pain in the ass, but she’s also a customer at his family’s business, and I definitely stepped over the professional line even more than Cohen and I usually do.

  “Ah, Mrs. Guarez. Trust me, she’ll be back,” Cohen says, that great, gravelly voice a low rumble in my ears. “The pain in the ass ones never go away. But thanks for going the extra mile for my dad, Maren. That was really sweet of you.”

  “No problem.” I pause, totally debating if I should fish for some personal Cohen life details. “Are you working late?” Fish it is.

  His chuckle becomes a full-on laugh. “Tonight was one of those nights I wish I’d pulled an extra shift at work. Have you ever had a date so bad, it makes you contemplate a lobotomy?”

  I cradle the phone close to my ear “Brain annihilation, huh? Sorry, but you have to spill now. I’m intrigued. And definitely wondering if I can one-up your story.”

  “I doubt it.” I imagine what his smile looks like, because I can hear it netted over his words. “Unless you have a story where you end up covered in your date’s vomit?”

  “No!” I cry, pressing my fingers to my lips so I don’t laugh. “Really? Was it food poisoning? Oh, poor girl. She must have been so embarrassed.”

  “Well, maybe she ate something bad. But the half bottle of Tequila she sucked down across a couple double margaritas probably didn’t help.” He pauses like he’s wondering whether or not he should say the next words. “And the, uh, position she was in didn’t help.”

  I feel a blush run over my cheeks and wonder if this conversation is about to go the way of the raucous party I can hear through the closed office door. “So, um, she was…”

  “She was eager to take the date to the next level in my car. Which is weird, since she didn’t make any actual attempt to talk to me while we were together and seemed to think my name was Calvin.”

  I giggle. “Uh oh. So her last ditch effort to salvage the date wound up a little less romantic than she expected?”

  “Unless a puddle of vomit on my lap is what she was going for. I’ve been told I’m that kind of boring. Is that what the kids are into nowadays?” I love that he had this mad, crazy night, but is still laughing about it.

  “Ugh. I don’t think I can beat that story. My worst was going on a date with a guy who left me at a party one of his friends’ friends threw. I wasn’t even that upset about him ditching me, because, frankly? He was a complete dickhole, pardon my French. But I’d driven us to the party, so when he wanted to leave and didn’t feel like coming to get me, he stole my keys and took my car home.” I grimace at the memory.

  Cohen is very quiet on the other end. “He just left you there?”

  He sounds pissed. Furious, even. I’ve never really heard Cohen’s voice like that, and we’ve been in some pretty infuriating situations. Missed orders with customers screaming in his face, employees not showing up leaving departments understaffed at Christmas, deliveries getting sent across towns…all kind of things that would test a saint’s patience, and I’ve never heard him use the tone he’s using now.

  “Yep. And his friends were all talking about Danish cinema and how the climate changes are actually part of this big multi-layered gov
ernment conspiracy and tortes are going to be the new ‘it’ food after people rebel against cupcakes. It was freaking ridiculous.” I wait for him to laugh, but the other end of the line is weirdly silent, so I rush to finish, “Thankfully my sister was right around the corner, and she offered to pick me up.”

  “So he just left you there?” Cohen clarifies, his voice steely.

  I feel embarrassed.

  I feel like such a fool all over again. Ricky made me feel like a jerk the entire time I dated him, and I wanted the story of that awful night to be…funny or something. But, instead, Cohen makes me feel like an idiot, and I wish I could get off the phone.

  “Yep. It wasn’t even the first time, either. Look, I’m at this thing for a coworker of mine.” I try to make my voice cool and breezy. Not the voice of a girl who gets left places by guys whose interest she can’t hold.

  “Yeah, of course. I’ll let you go. Just, Maren?”

  I can hear him hesitate, and I don’t want that. I don’t want him to stop saying what he needs to say.

  “Yeah?” The artificial brightness in my voice makes me squint.

  “I don’t know about the guy you were with that night, but I hope he was just some random asshole and not someone you dated long-term. I might be sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong and all, but no guy should ever leave a girl alone anywhere. Ever. Even if she vomits on his lap. He should still get her home and make sure she’s safe. That’s, you know…that’s just my opinion.”

  There are a few beats of silence while I collect my thoughts, and, finally, allow a smile to break across my face.

  “You know what, Cohen? You’re a stand-up guy. And you deserve way better than a lapful of vomit.”

  His laugh is the best sound I’ve heard in a long time. Deep and throaty, and disturbingly sexy. But so genuine and kind. “Thanks, Maren. Now, go enjoy your night off. I won’t hog your time anymore.”

  “Goodnight, Cohen.”

  “Goodnight, Maren.”

  I click off and hold the phone hard in my hand for a few minutes.

  Cohen. I wonder what he’s like when he’s not just a voice on the phone. I wonder what he’s like in person.