Bossy Nights

by Liv Morris

  Instead, she stops at the kitchen island, sitting her behemoth bag on the granite countertop, and I groan internally. “Your luck ran out, Lucky.” Throwing back her head, she cackles, causing the hair on my arms to stand straight up, and I wonder if she’s wanted back at the psych ward.

  She opens her bag and pulls out an odd-looking doll. It’s more like a stuffed ragdoll with black buttons for eyes and knotted yarn for hair. I move closer, trying to get a better look. When a pin sticking out of the stomach of the doll comes into view, I nearly lose my footing. I shake my head back and forth while stumbling a little, not sure whether I should haul her ass out or be thoroughly terrified of the voodoo doll hanging out in my kitchen.

  An eerie heaviness fills the air as she begins to chant in a foreign to me language. Raising the pin up, she plunges it into the doll’s groin and I flinch. Jeez.

  She waves her hands over the doll and gives me an evil glare. “Yes, you’re cursed now, and it will take a special woman to break it. Your days of fucking like an animal are over.”

  Picking up her doll and throwing it in her bag, she heads toward the door, leaving me standing in the kitchen with my jaw dropped open. I don’t believe in voodoo—or, at least, I don’t think I do, but I’ve never been voodooed before either. My eye twitches and I shudder as another chill crawls up my spine, freaking me out.

  “God help the woman you end up with,” she says while turning the door handle, “because God will have nothing to do with you now.” The door slams behind her and I try to shake it off.

  It’s all make-believe, I tell myself after checking the front door a couple times to make sure it’s locked and glancing in the peep-hole to see if she’s truly gone.

  Her little shenanigans are just a game. She was just trying to scare the shit out of me. Besides, I’m Catholic…on occasion. That has to count for something.

  I walk back toward my bedroom with the urge to pull out a can of Lysol and some bleach. A condom wrapper lies on the floor next to my bed and I let out a long breath. At least I was smart about one thing last night.

  Talking myself out of torching the bed, I yank the sheets off and wad them up in a ball, along with her pillowcase, ready to chuck them out the window.

  My phone rings from the nightstand and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Get it together,” I mumble to myself while picking up the receiver.

  “Hello,” I say, my voice a little uneasy.

  “Brady, have you seen the papers?” my brother greets me in his typical non-greeting way. Bryce, who plays quarterback for the Bears, is a couple years older than me and twenty years wiser, or so he thinks.

  “Haven’t been up long enough.” I hate conversations with him that start this way. They’re never about my grand slams or great plays on third base—it’s always a lecture.

  “There’s a pic with your tongue down Marie Lafayette’s throat. Do you know who she is?”

  Ah, Marie…at least I now have a name.

  “Well…” I trail off, not needing to say anything more.

  “You’re such a dumb shit. She’s a self-proclaimed voodoo queen.” My blood turns cold. “She’s bad news, Brady. The stories I’ve heard from guys on the team…”

  “Er…what stories?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. I wonder if any of the Bears have had her pull out that fucking voodoo doll on them.

  “Bad stories. Scary as shit stories.”

  “Like voodoo doll stories?”

  “Don’t tell me she pulled that voodoo shit on you, too?”

  “Um…maybe,” I sort of confess.

  “You’d better call mom and catch her before mass starts. She needs to light a candle for you.” He sighs into the phone. “Mom’s going to be all over your ass at dinner tonight, so get ready.”

  Shit! Hanging up the phone, I blow out a breath, trying to come up with an excuse to get out of this dinner…

  Two

  Cali

  My closet resembles the aftermath of a tornado with more clothes lying on the floor than the plastic hangers. Grumbling, I search below the top layer of jeans and discarded tops in hopes of finding my brunch appropriate heels. They’re not too tall, but still give me some needed height. At only five foot two, I get mistaken for a twelve-year-old way too often. I stopped wearing my hair in a ponytail, so at least that helps me look like I’ve graduated high school.

  Voila! I find both shoes in less than five minutes under the dress I wore last Sunday and chalk that up to a miracle. Glancing at the ceiling, I hold them in the air, half in thanks and half in victory that I won over the mess.

  Luckily, I never face this closet on workday mornings. Since I’m a physician’s assistant, I wear scrubs at the office. It’s a dream wardrobe and the upkeep is as easy as pie. Wait, pies are one bitch to bake. Who made up that crazy saying? Betty Crocker? Anyway, all I do is wash the shapeless maroon tops and bottoms, and keep them stashed in a hamper along with my work approved shoes sitting close by.

  Scanning the clothing explosion on my floor as I slip on my heels, I spot my favorite Chicago jersey in the corner with the name LUCK written across the back and the number 7 beneath it.

  Weak-kneed, I lean against the wall, remembering last night and my close encounter with Brady Luck. Well, it was more than a close encounter. He actually picked me up off the bar floor after I humiliated myself by swooning into a heap of mushy Jell-O in front of him. I still can’t believe he asked for my name, or even noticed me. Then again, how could he miss the human lump he had to step over.

  My face flushes as the mortification comes back. At least I have this one meeting to remember for my lifetime, because I’m sure I’ll never get another chance to feel his touch again. But the way I reacted is something I’d rather forget.

  I push off the wall and straighten my white dress with its conservative black floral print. It’s bright but professional—somewhere between office and club attire.

  I rush out of my apartment on my sensible heels and make the trek to the restaurant for brunch to meet my clan of besties. The sun shines overhead and warms my exposed arms. I didn’t think to grab a cardigan before I left, but I’m lucky the wind is non-existent today—an uncommon occurrence in Chicago.

  I arrive at Lark’s a few minutes late and spot my three close friends, Taylor, Erin, and Laurie, in the corner, each of them holding a full mimosa. I wave to get their attention and start my walk toward the back of the restaurant.

  Taylor, my best friend who witnessed my Brady encounter last night, seems way too excited to see me. She places her drink on the table and starts talking with her arms flailing about. Everyone at the table flashes their eyes from her animated storytelling to me in a rapid back and forth motion. It doesn’t take an IQ above a housefly to know she’s retelling my bar debacle.

  I’m tempted to turn around and retreat, but my need of a mimosa is much more important than a little humiliation.

  “Here she is,” Taylor announces as I slide into the open seat left for me at the table. There’s a full glass of the good stuff waiting for me at my place setting and I bring it closer. “The penis handler.”

  “Whatever brownnoser,” I quip back at her.

  “When will you two stop making fun of your professions?” Laurie asks.

  “Never,” Taylor and I reply in unison, then glance at each other and laugh.

  “We need to laugh to keep sane,” I add, because it’s true.

  Taylor and I met our freshman year in college while pursuing degrees to become physician’s assistants. We studied together while our friends were out partying and it helped to have a friend in the same position as me. No one likes being stuck in a dorm room on the weekend alone with their nose in a book.

  After graduating a few months ago, I found a position working for a urologist focused on men’s health, which helped me earn the title “penis handler.” She landed at the proctologist office in the same building and deals with assholes all day—literally.

  “Taylor told u
s about last night,” Laurie says while leaning forward with wide eyes. “Did you really fall on the floor after he touched your face?”

  “If swooning were an Olympic sport, my fall to the floor would’ve been a perfect ten.”

  “Ouch,” Erin says with a wince. “That had to hurt.”

  “Only bruised my self-esteem.” I pause and take an overdue gulp of my drink. “Besides, I don’t have a chance in hell with a player like Brady Luck. He’s a god in this town with women at his beck and call and I’m not a slut.”

  “You totally pinged his radar last night, so there’s that,” Taylor pipes up.

  “So did that girl in the gossip column this morning,” Laurie adds, and I glance over the table at her with narrowed eyes.

  “What girl?” I ask.

  “You should’ve kept your mouth closed,” Taylor scolds, and Laurie mouths, “Sorry.”

  “Cough it up. It’s not like he’s cheating on me,” I laugh.

  “There’s a photo of him from The Wit last night. He’s with some black-haired girl. She’s straddling his lap and his hands are on her ass. Rumors are he left with her,” Laurie dishes the sordid details, and boy how I wish I’d been the girl with his hands on my ass.

  “Whatever,” I say as any delusional hope of more with Brady Luck dies inside me. “Besides, athletes don’t make faithful boyfriends. Believe me, I should know.”

  We all look down at the table and take sips of our mimosas. They know I swore off discussing my painful breakup with Mitchell Davis, the star baseball player for Northwestern, and now the Yanks. We dated for two years until he dumped me after leaving college to head to the pros. He’s in the past and I need to keep him there.

  I raise my now empty glass in the air to catch the server’s eye. I need a damn refill. The server nods and brings a mimosa-filled pitcher my way. We come here on Sundays for the fifteen-dollar unlimited brunch drinks, though there is a two-hour limit.

  “They’re called players for a reason,” I add, my fresh mimosa in hand, leaving out the part about me having a weakness for them, especially baseball players. Their tight pants that show off even tighter asses, gunned up biceps, and those cocky attitudes flip my hormonal switch. Give a guy a ball glove and I turn to goo.

  “You’re probably right. But I’d still love to hear the play by play from last night. The before the fall stuff.”

  “It started with me dragging her butt out of her apartment.” Taylor sits up and sticks her chest out like she accomplished an impossible feat, and maybe she had. I can’t remember the last time I went out to a club.

  “I’ll admit I’ve been on the hermit side this winter.” I can’t go clubbing too often, because I still have a ton of debt left to pay on my student loans.

  “No more staying at home,” Taylor gives me an ultimatum.

  “Okay, as long as you’re picking up the bar tab,” I jab, but halfway mean it. She’s from the North Shore, or what I call the old money area of Chicago. She even has season tickets to watch Chicago. Since she doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment, I am her sidekick to every game. Lucky me, I get to drool over Mr. Luck from the third base sideline.

  “More of the story,” Erin says, drawing me back to Brady. I sigh.

  “Taylor dragged me to the bar where the hot threesome hangs out.”

  “She’s been avoiding the place,” Taylor adds. I start to protest, but shrug my shoulders instead. I am not a social butterfly and groups of hot single guys make me nervous as hell. Add those hot guys being baseball players…my stomach turns into knots just thinking about it.

  “She made me get a blow out, buy a new dress that barely covered my ass, and wear heels I could only shuffle my feet in,” I say, outlining Taylor’s pre-bar prep work of me.

  “And she stopped Brady Luck in his tracks,” Taylor adds. “My push to get you out and noticed succeeded.”

  “Getting noticed is one thing, going out with him is another,” I confess.

  “Baby steps,” Taylor says. “Besides, those guys don’t date, they fuck around.”

  “Just once I’d like to go out with a decent guy,” I say, finishing off my second mimosa.

  “That’s bullshit. Decent guys are boring for smart girls like us,” Taylor starts, giving her usual take on why we crave the bad boys. “We need a mental challenge in our lives to have happiness in the bedroom. It goes back to Anthropology one-oh-one. We are all desperately seeking a cave man. Yours just tend to be wearing baseball uniforms with numbers on their backs.”

  “You’re right. What am I supposed to do about it though?”

  “Chicago’s back in town next Saturday. We’ll try The Wit again after we go to the game. You know who they’re playing?” Taylor asks with a pointed stare.

  “Don’t tell me. The Yankees, right?”

  “Yep, one of those interleague games from hell,” Taylor confirms my fears. The team my former boyfriend plays for seldom comes to town. The Yankees are on the American League side versus Chicago being in the National League division. “At least we sit by Brady on third, and not the first base line where Mitchell plays for the Yanks.”

  “That’s not much consolation.” I hope he doesn’t try to reach out to me while he’s in town, because I’ll likely cave and see him.

  “And no texting with him. Got it?”

  “What are you now? A mind reader?” I quip.

  “No, I’m your best friend.” Taylor gives me a side hug, and much to my delight, we go back to discussing our jobs and the new boutique that opened on Michigan Avenue. All thoughts of baseball and the boys who play it float away in my mimosa soaked brain for now.

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