by Xavier Neal
With my hood up, keeping my face concealed in case Brynley manages to wander this way, I jog on the treadmill determined to stop the lingering uncomfortable thoughts. I run faster. Push my body harder. Force myself to concentrate on controlling my breathing and speed. With everything I have, I drive my energy to do what I want, when I want, and how I want because I know it's the only way to keep the guarded world I've worked so hard to create on its axis. Before too long my body is throbbing and desperate for me to stop. Now soaked in sweat under the layers I hide beneath, I cautiously make my way to my bedroom down the hall.
After quickly locking the door, tossing the clothing into the laundry, and starting the shower, I take a moment to stare at the horror I am. The discoloration alone of the leathery patches, which cover my toned flesh would cause anyone to cower. Never mind the scars from where my flesh was stitched back together like some fucking modern day experiment of Frankenstein. Before the accident, the only reason people would stare was the anomaly of my two different colored eyes. Having one brown and one blue could be seen as something spectacular, sexy even, but the mismatched display alongside disfigured flesh just reiterates the revulsion I am. I plant both my hands on the marble counter and shake my head slowly. Brynley shouldn't be exposed to any part of this. Any part of me. It's the punishment I deserve for destroying my family and hers.
I watch as excitement dances in my mother's eyes from waking up to me. “You're really here.”
Leaning over to give her a brief hug and kiss, I assure, “I really am.”
The moment I'm seated back in the chair at her bedside, she sighs, “Wes let you come.”
With a smug smile, I shrug. “Couldn't have kept me away if he tried. You've met me, right?”
“I birthed you,” she mutters playfully. “I'm more than aware of what you're capable of. The rest of the world is just playing catch up.” We giggle and she continues, “I'm glad you're here, Bryn.”
“Me too.” My hand finds hers to give it a warm squeeze.
“I've missed seeing you.”
“I know...” I try to push down the guilt. Making time to sit around and play 'how the daughter you helped put through college is failing in life today' isn't high on my priority list. Neither is looking in her eyes as they cloud with disappointment when she finds out I was fired or spontaneously left a job again. Verbal let down over the phone is much easier to deal with than combining it with the physical. “Are you sure you shouldn't be in a hospital? Because I really think you should. In fact, if I have to-”
“Here,” her insistence reinstates my annoyance. “I'm good here. Dr. Hamilton is one of the best physicians in the country. I trust his judgment.”
Well, I don't. Seems like everyone on the billionaire's payroll just blindly accepts his word as decree. Did I miss when he was declared dictator? Should we rename this country The United States of Wilcox? How can any one man have so much power someone won't even go to the fucking hospital when they're ill?
“Wes is a good man, honey.” She squeezes my hand again. “He'd never do anything to hurt me or you.”
“Hard to believe that when you're lying in a hospital bed and no one can figure out what the hell is making you sick.”
My mother tries to force a smile. “I'm sure we'll get it figured out soon.”
I don't waste my breath arguing. We differ in one blatantly obvious aspect. Her ability to be optimistic in the face of adversity. She looks for the best in people. The silver lining in a nightmare. The beautiful in the hideous truths. Even when my father's gambling addiction nearly cost them their marriage, she looked at the situation as an opportunity to show me the importance of being able to take care of yourself. To learn to provide and be independent if necessary. To not wait for someone else to save you. Save yourself. Now that, much like the mac and cheese lesson, is one I've never given up.
“Tell me Bryn, how's work?”
I let her hand go to lean back in the seat. “Switched jobs.”
Her bright blue eyes light up with so much hope, that even more shame stirs. “Are you finally wearing more clothes for a living?”
“About the same amount,” I mumble.
My muttered response is met with a frown. “Brynley.”
“What? You act like I'm not trying for something better, Mom. I went to school. I got a degree, albeit it took a little longer than it probably should've. It's not my fault I can't find something with six figures or whatever to use it. Hell, I'd settle for mid-level five figures right now, but even that seems impossible.”
The joke is met with a huff, “Brynley-”
“I swear, I'm trying, Mom. I haven't given up. I'm not giving up. I don't do that. We don't do that. I keep applying for something better. You think I like having to work shit jobs where my tits hang out of a halter top rather than a cool lab coat with my name embroidered on it?”
She gives me a pointed look. “You don't exactly hate it.”
“Fine. But I don't love it.”
There's an awkward pause before she asks, “If you're no longer working as a bartender at a gentleman's club, what are you doing?”
Folding my legs in the chair, I huff, “Now I'm a cigar girl at a cigar club.”
She tries to hide her disappointment.
“Pays better...”
My follow up only seems to sadden her more. Can't say I'm surprised. What mother wants her child half-dressed getting paid to have her ass grabbed at, just to barely make rent? At least at this place, the ability to afford rent, bills, and groceries would be slightly less difficult. You know. If I had a place to rent.
“Bryn, if you need money-”
“I'm good,” I cut her off before the lecture can ensue. “You paid for every bit of my education by cleaning Casa de Creepy, you don't need to pay for the rest of my life too. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself.” Or I can at least fucking try to. “How about I go grab you something to eat or drink? Are you thirsty?”
“A little,” she softly replies. “But you don't have to do that. Clark or Penny-”
“I can get my own mother something to drink.” My argument is met with a small smile. “Tea? Can you have hot tea?”
“You'll have to ask Lucky or Clark. I'm sure they were informed what I am and am not allowed to have at this time.”
I do my best to hide the increase in irritation. Having an extended stay in a place where I can't sneeze without a green light is going to get very old, very fast. Wonder how much more trouble I'll get into before the day is over. Went exploring before I came to see her and almost got a minute alone with Wes as he ran vigorously on the treadmill. Penny managed to catch me and shoo me away before I could make the connection. She must've snitched to Clark because he advised that was not a wise choice shortly after.
“You can use the phone in the room.” Her head tips to the side. “Just hit the kitchen button for Lucky who rarely leaves his sanctuary unless he has to restock. Or HH if you wanna speak to Clark. With me laid up, he's taken over my responsibilities.”
Without further hesitation, I reach for the phone and hit the kitchen button. While this isn't exactly how I prefer to live my life, she seems content here, which is what really matters I guess. After all she's sacrificed in her life for my father and then me, the least she deserves is the tiny bit of happiness she's somehow found in this place over the past ten years. Hopefully, this sickness is a brief, unexpected glitch. Hopefully, she's just having some sort of weird allergic reaction to some new plant or fertilizer they’re using now. Hopefully, she'll be back on her feet in just a couple days and the nagging feeling nestled in the pit of my stomach that this much bigger than any of us realize, is just indigestion.
“Do you always wear that shit on your eyes?” J.T. asks grabbing another slice of pizza from the pan on the coffee table in front of us. “Why's it always blue?”
“It's eyeliner and mascara,” I answer, swiping my beer bottle. “And because I like it. Brings out the color in my eyes.�
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“Definitely does that,” he agrees between bites.
“You like staring into my eyes?”
When my grin playfully grows, he back peddles, “That's not what I meant.”
“You don't like staring into them?”
“I didn't mean that either,” he quickly argues which is when I erupt into laughter. “You know, you have this odd way of making people uncomfortable.”
“It's a gift.”
J.T. rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation playing on the flat screen.
For the past three nights we've had dinner together. While my mother seemed to be getting better, things took a turn the wrong direction today. Not that I'm rushing to flee the scene here. Despite the fact I have trouble following the basic principle of 'Do Not Wander Down That Hall', I've come to enjoy hanging out with J.T. when he's not working, usually in the evenings. Besides, it's not like I exactly have anywhere to go. Living out of a hotel or the back room of Fire and Ash for the price of one blowjob a night doesn't seem nearly as appealing as The Dark Knight's castle.
I have a swig of my beer before I ask, “Hey, do you have a computer I can borrow?”
J.T. shoves the thick crust in his mouth. “You don't have your own laptop?”
“If I did, why would I borrow yours? To check out the type of porn you watch?”
His eyes slightly bulge. “How do you know I watch porn?”
“Is that a joke? All guys watch porn.”
“Not all...”
“All. And the ones who say they don't are lying so their naggy ass girlfriends or wives still allow them to touch their naughty bits.”
J.T. tosses his head back on a loud laugh while I giggle. After he's finished, he leans his back against the couch arm. “Have you ever had your own?”
“I've had many.”
“What happened to them?”
“Met the same fate as your childhood television.”
He nods his understanding. “Yeah. It's no problem. You can borrow my personal one.”
“You've got two?”
“One for business. One for pleasure.”
“See. Porn.”
He chuckles once more, shakes his head, and grabs his beer. “What do you need it for? So you can watch porn?”
“I do that on my phone like an adult, thank you very much.” The two of us laugh again and I answer, “Need to look for a new apartment. Kinda got kicked out of the last place for refusing to blow my roommate's boyfriend.”
“Wow,” he whispers out. “No, shit?”
I simply shrug. “Story of my life.”
“That's....that's pretty bad.” With a soft smile, he states, “You can borrow my computer anytime. You wanna come to my house to use it?”
All of sudden there's a small grumble from across the room. My eyes immediately cut to the doorway, where I can barely see the black sleeve of my mysterious host. The man whose presence is easy to feel even when he's not seen. Oddly enough I never feel threatened by the simple notion he's watching my every move. It's actually quite the opposite. It intrigues me to know I'm worth pursuing even when he's convinced he shouldn't. That's why he follows me as opposed to staring at me from behind his screen. In a way, he observes me the same way I love to observe the ocean life. Up close yet protected by a glass wall until I understand the situation enough to engage in it. His continuous examination is flattering.
“By your boss' growling, I'm going to assume he's not a fan of that suggestion,” I tease, eyes still fixated on Wes' slightly swaying body. “Which means I'm all for it.”
There's another humph and J.T. glances over his shoulder at the sound.
Unable to resist pushing him further I tempt, “Or you could let me use your computer, Wes.”
His face briefly turns allowing me to catch the smallest glimpse of a blue eye. Hm. That's weird. I remember them being brown. With his back completely to us again he states, “I'll have Penny place one of mine in the library on the second floor for you to use.”
J.T. smirks to himself, hangs his head, and shakes it slowly.
“Thanks,” I sweetly coo in return.
Wes' shoulders seem to relax at the same time he replies, “You're welcome.”
“Why don't you come have a beer with us?” I suggest, extending my legs on the empty space of the leather couch. “I don't bite....I mean, not unless you want me to.”
An unmistakable groan escapes, most likely without his consent. To no surprise, he shakes his head, and declares, “I have work I should do. Enjoy your night.”
He doesn't wait for a response. He merely disappears as quietly as he came.
I have another sip and turn my attention back to an amused J.T. “Well that was progress. He actually spoke four complete sentences to me.”
My couch mate gives me one more shake of his head at the same time he whispers, “If only you knew how much progress that truly was...”
The cryptic sentence causes a curious expression to expand across my face. Maybe I'm just what the big bad wolf needs in his life. Maybe while the good doctor delivers the best care he can to my mother, I'll give Mr. Wes Wilcox a minor dose of me. Who knows. Maybe I'm just what the doctor wishes he could've ordered.
“And you have everything ready for the promotional event?”
J.T. nods and leans against the edge of my desk beside me. “You do realize it isn't for another few weeks, right?”
I refocus my attention on the paperwork spread out in front of me. “Of course.” Shifting scanned data from one pile to the next, I add, “However, given the fact the other members were not so thrilled about the new promotional technique, I would rather we stay ahead of everything rather than right on time.”
He slightly shifts.
While I think it's a wonderful idea and know how much it means to J.T. to feel like his opinions matter for more than just a fraction of the company he is invested in, the others do not. When he first approached me suggesting an elite, private party style sampling at the finest lounges or clubs, basically giving away the product in hopes of securing new investors or customers, I knew the immediate appeal. People with the amount of money we're looking to swoon, can't help but indulge in any activity that makes them feel less like a commoner. Classic royalty desire. However, J.T.'s pitch came out a little rocky and most of the committee voted to leave the project dead. Well...most of them that weren't me. Sometimes being the majority shareholder and main voice for a business can actually do some good.
“You should come,” J.T.'s suggestion pulls my eyes back to him.
“What?”
“To the event,” he continues. “It's at this cigar lounge. Private closed off section. Private room with a back entrance. You should come and see how this thing plays out for yourself. Hell, you being there alone would inspire a new wave of support. The man in the castle finally leaves his palace walls-”
“I leave this place.”
“Not for much.” When my stern expression doesn't waiver he sighs, “I'm just saying, consider it. It would be good for the project. Good publicity. Good for morale. Good for you.”
I tilt my head to the side. “And how the hell would it be good for me?”
“You mean besides to see the world isn't just one viscous cesspool of harsh judging and cruel actions?”
His sarcasm lowers my eyes to a glower.
