by Deena Bright
“Whoa, whoa,” I say, blocking her path to the door. “Hold on. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I’m sorry. I just… I can’t…” Char sobs, trying to circle around me toward the door.
“Did something happen with Blaine?” I ask, ready to kill him.
“No, not really,” Char admits. “He bought that puppy… for me. Said it was the start of our future… said we had to start thinking about our future… together… and so I… I…”
Nodding, I understand, I understand Char all too well. “So, you broke up with him?”
“What’s wrong with me Jasper?” Char asks, slumping down on my couch. “Blaine is perfect. Absolutely flawless. He’s smart, funny, successful, so fucking hot, and so unbelievable in bed—like so unbelievable—”
“Alright, that’s enough. I got it—no need to go into any more details,” I say, cutting her off before my ears began to bleed.
“I mean, he’s so in love with me—would do anything for me,” Char explains, throwing her head back on the couch cushion. “I like him, I really do. It’s just that I don’t love him—not like that.”
“Char, I’m not really the one to give you advice about love and crap,” I say, sitting on the coffee table in front of her.
“But I tried, I really tried, Jasper. Blaine’s the marrying type. He is. I think I’m just damaged goods, too contaminated to actually fall in love with someone,” Char says, shaking her head.
“Well, I’m happy about it,” I say, before thinking about it.
Char’s head shoots up off the couch, “You are?”
“Hell yeah, I am. That means he won’t be in Miami Beach this Christmas with all of us. Joz and Nelle have both been talking nonstop about how they can’t wait to see him in swim trunks,” I joke, making her laugh. “I had to up my workouts, overload on protein shakes, just to be able to stand next to the guy.”
Char laughs and snorts, shaking her head at me. I’m happy that I could cheer her up and make her laugh. Giving chicks advice just really isn’t my thing.
“Shut up! You guys aren’t even going to Florida this Christmas,” she says, rolling her eyes and smiling.
“Yeah, but it made you laugh.”
“True. Damn it, what am I going to do? I haven’t told Nelle yet, either. She’s going to be pissed. She’s been living her sex life vicariously through me for the past few months,” Char blurts out.
“Why does my sister have to live vicariously—wait—no! Don’t answer that,” I say, stopping her from responding before I accidentally unleash a whole slew of knowledge about my sister’s sex life on my poor defenseless ears.
“Char, Blaine’s not that great, either. He just knows how to play the game. Everyone in advertising knows how to get what he wants by manipulation. I’m actually surprised you dated him for so long—almost a full year.”
“It was a year.” Sitting up with her knees against mine, Char says, “Honestly, I’m surprised you let me date him that long, Jasper. What if I would have married him?”
“Then you would’ve married him,” I reply, suddenly feeling the shift in the conversation and the tension in the air. Whenever we’re alone the tension is so thick, I can barely breathe or focus.
“Jesus Christ Jasper, I can see how you look at me. I’m no fool,” Char argues.
“I know you’re not. I never said you were,” I admit.
“Last year, you asked me if I was afraid. I wasn’t. But, can you say the same thing, Jasper?” she asks, leaning in closer to me.
“I can’t do this with you, right now,” I say, feeling cornered.
As I begin to stand, she grabs my hand, “No, stay right there. Answer me? What are you afraid of?”
“Char, you’re dangerous—It’s too risky.”
“Risky? What’s risky?” she asks, searching my face for answers I don’t want to give her.
“You. Us. We’re a dangerous combination,” I admit. “When it comes to you, I have no control.” I’ve never spoken those words aloud to anyone—ever. “I’m a man who has to be in control—needs to be in control. With you, I feel my sense of power and self-control wane.”
Char doesn’t stop me this time when I get up and pace the living the room. This past year, I’ve been disgusted with myself for pushing her straight into Landers’ bed without a second glance or thought. The night I left her apartment after the fundraiser, it wasn’t long before Char and Blaine were hot and heavy and nearly inseparable. So, I basically spent the last year hearing from Janelle and Jocelyn how perfect the two of them were together and how happy they were that Char had finally found “The One.” Granted, my sisters had no idea about Char’s DUI or that she escorted me to my work event. Char and I agreed to keep that under wraps. Therefore, Joz and Janelle spoke very freely about Char’s budding romance with my advertising firm’s biggest rival. However, Char did tell me a few times that she never even considered Blaine her “boyfriend.”
Every word, every compliment, every ohhh and ahhh, over “Charblaine” (Janelle made that up.) sent me barreling into my work even more. I’ve spent the last year, working out, running, eating right, and making bank, while my biggest rival got chummy with my sister’s best friend. I more than doubled last year’s revenue and profit, because I was on a mission to make enough money to erase that relentless gnawing regret of “what if” that’s been chewing at my ass all year. If Blaine was getting the girl, then I was getting the money and the clients—except for the last one. Fucking puppies. Dude got soft this past year. Chicks did that to you, man. More specifically, Charlene Palmer did that to you.
“Ya know Jasper, it wouldn’t kill you to take a ride on the wild side every now then—a little risk never hurt anyone,” Char states, relaxing back on my couch.
Laughing, I shake my head at her. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say—and that’s saying a lot. Haven’t you ever heard of Amelia Earhart?” I ask, making my point. “She took risks. Look where she is now. No thank you.”
“First of all, that was almost 100 years ago—I think. But, I’m fairly certain she’d be in the same spot now, with or without her risks,” Char argues. “What about Bill Gates? He took some risks and look where he is now,” Char counters.
“Bill Gates never took a risk as risky as you, but it’s no wonder you do so well in real estate. You’ve got mad persuasion skills, Charlene, using Bill Gates against me—talking my language, the language of money,” I compliment.
“Darling, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I’ve not yet even begun to attempt to persuade you,” she states, smiling mischievously. “Once I start, there will be no turning back.”
“I don’t doubt that. Not one bit,” I relent, nodding defeatedly.
“So Jasper, what would you do if I walked across this room, trapped you against the wall, and kissed you?” she asks.
“Same thing I always do. Stop you,” I confess.
“Hmmm, I don’t think you would. Not this time. Not anymore, you won’t. I’m pretty sure those days are coming to an end, Jasper,” she says, standing confidently, smiling assuredly. “But lucky for you, I like a few weeks of ‘freedom’ before I jump back into bed with someone else. Ya know, I like to get Blaine’s scent off of my sheets—and off me.” Just the mention of his name tightens my jaw and flares my anger.
Shaking it off, I reply, chuckling, “Oh you do—do you? Never realized you had rules you followed.”
“Of course, I have rules, “she states, flinging her purse on her shoulder, walking toward the door. “And Jasper, the biggest of my rules: I don’t beg.”
The door closes behind her, and I’m left standing in the middle of my entranceway shocked at her abrupt departure. No sooner does she leave, my phone buzzes. Opening my text:
Char: Didn’t want to take anything away from my sexy exit, so I didn’t want to come back in. DO NOT TELL JANELLE ABOUT THE SNIP-SNIP. She can’t handle it yet.
Char’s goofy, fun, witty, sexy, smart, outrageous, comp
letely out of control and inappropriate at that most inopportune times, which is why she’s pretty much had me bewitched since the moment I met her in that bar years ago. There’s something so beguiling about her that you’re just left speechless, brainless, and weak once she’s gone. And it’s never “out of sight—out of mind” with her—it’s longing, waiting, and basically full out “jonesing” for the next time you get to see her, listen to her, be around her.
I also have no idea how we’re going to keep any more secrets from my sister. Women are fucking batshit crazy. Truly fucking nuts. If my wife were a cheating, lying whore of a hole, then some-fucking-body better lay it all down on the line and tell me. If I found out my buddy’s wife was cheating, I’d take him out for a beer, probably more, and tell him straight out. I sure as fuck wouldn’t wait and see. Why should Janelle waste any more time on that prick? God, listen to my mouth? Christ, whenever I’m around Char, I turn into a dumbass, foul-mouthed sailor with the mental capacity of a 13-year-old boy with a hard-on.
“HEY LOVE,” I say, kissing Nelle on the cheek, “Sorry I’m late. Did you order for me?”
“You always are and of course I did,” she says, handing me an iced tea. Waving over the server, I ask for a shot of vodka.
“Vodka? It’s 11:30 in the morning,” Janelle questions. “Wait, wait, get me one too. I just didn’t know we were drinking our lunch today.”
“Speaking of lunch, why are you off today? Don’t you have some fucking little assholes to teach?” I ask, stirring sweetener into my tea.
“Nope, teacher in-service.”
“Well, shouldn’t you be getting serviced then?” I ask, kicking myself, hoping Janelle and Marcus’ sex life doesn’t turn into our entire lunch conversation. I’m going to need something stronger than vodka if so—like a vodka laced with Vicodin.
“I wish. Nah, teacher in-service days blow cats, so I schedule all my dentist and doctor appointments on these days, instead. I just met with a podiatrist.”
“Podiatrist? For fucking what? That’s foul.”
“I thought I had an in-grown toenail,” she says, pouring her shot into her iced tea. “Turns out, I didn’t… and voila… whole day off. I’m getting a facial at 2:00.”
“Nice,” I admit, smiling. “I should’ve been a teacher.”
“You always say that, but can you imagine YOU teaching?” Janelle asks, laughing. “You’d actually have to give a shit about someone other than yourself.”
“Fuck off, I care about other people,” I reply, defensively. I hate when she gets on this kick of how selfish and self-absorbed I am. “As a matter of fact, I care about you. How’re things going with you and Mar—”
“No, don’t go there. We’ve gone over this. He’s off limits, Char. I mean it too,” she says, glaring at me.
“Okay, but, I just thought that you should—”
“I will get up and walk out right now—I swear to God,” she threatens, grabbing her purse.
“Fine, won’t say a fucking word about your marriage. But don’t you think—”
Standing up, she takes another drink of her iced tea, and says, “I’m out.”
“Fine… fine… fine! Sit down,” I relent, wondering how in the fuck we’re ever going to tell her about Marcus’ vasectomy.
Janelle never lets up on me about how into myself I am, but that’s where she’s 100% wrong. I’m into her. (Fuckers, not in that way!) She’s my best friend, the sister I never had, the family I’ve wanted my entire life. I’d die for her—or kill for her. That would be better! I could fucking hire some hit man to off the damn douchebag. He’s a worthless dirtball.
“So why are we drinking our lunch? You never drink before a showing. What’s up?” Janelle asks as our lunches arrive.
“Cheeseburgers and fries? I thought we were getting salads?” I ask, eyeing my food as my mouth waters like a 16-year-old virgin about to eat his first pussy.
“You know I never cheat alone. I still have seven more pounds to lose. I just know that if I can get down to the lowest end of my goal weight on the weight chart that Marc… that… that I’ll feel better about myself,” she states, squeezing catsup all over her fries.
God damn it, Marcus isn’t fucking her again. The question is: Who is he fucking now? I thought after I caught him with Kayla from the tanning salon and threatened to tell Janelle and everyone in the whole city that he’d keep it in his pants—or at least try to. That mother fucker, literally. Kayla is only 22-years-old and has four kids—from different men. He’s a mother-fucking, fake-tanning douchebag dickhead. What dude tans anyway? Douchebags, that’s who! No wonder he got a vasectomy. He probably got up close and personal with Kayla’s cunt and kids and decided that he wasn’t getting anywhere near a train wreck like that again and snipped off the only track to the ride ‘em hard railway. I have got to find a way to derail Marcus’ runaway fuck train.
“What’re you scowling about?” Janelle asks, staring at me.
“Nothing… nothing… I was just thinking if I should eat the onions or take them off since I’m meeting with this potential buyer,” I lie, picking the onions off.
“So, who’s this buyer anyway?”
“I don’t know, Chrissy scheduled the appointment and said he asked specifically for me.” I explain, cutting my burger in half. “Chrissy said he sounded sexy as fuck and was interested in that house on Sharon Falls.”
“No fucking way? That mansion? The one with the pool and tennis courts?”
“Yep, do you know what my commission would be if I sold that one?” I ask, getting excited.
“Hell yeah, I do. You could finally buy those tits you’ve been eyeing forever,” she jokes.
“Shit yeah I could—both of them,” I add, laughing too. “Seriously though, I could pay off what’s left of my student loans and still put a couple grand away for my boobs.”
“Then let’s drink to this sale baby!” she squeals, waving over the server. “We’d each like a long island iced tea to celebrate the mounds of money my friend here is going to make.” Leaning across the table, Janelle unbuttons one of my top buttons, “You should go a little lower—more cleavage never hurt anyone.”
“What cleavage?”
THE HOUSE IS immaculate. The previous owners never actually lived in it. They spent a fuck-ton of money designing and building it, but the pressure of building a home and trying to raise two kids in the process sent them straight to divorce court—and the poor house. Neither the wife, nor the husband wanted the house in the end. The wife took the two kids and moved back to her hometown in Wisconsin. The dad is shacked up in some apartment, paying alimony and child support out his ass. Our agency has wanted to sell this money-maker for months now. Everyone wants to tour it, pretend they can afford, but nobody really can. I don’t know why the owner just doesn’t get rid of the apartment and live in this beautiful home at least until it sells. He doesn’t want it though. I can’t figure it out. People do some crazy shit; it’s not up to me to judge them or try and figure them out.
I don’t particularly like showing homes that aren’t furnished. I never know what to do with myself while waiting for the showing. Typically, I just go through the cabinets, try on clothes and shoes, snack on whatever is in the cabinets and fridge. I’ve even been known to arrive earlier than planned and take nice long bubble baths or soak in hot tubs. I’d swim in this pool if it weren’t November in Ohio, which is synonymous with frigid as fuck. If I ever own a pool—in Ohio—I’m going to blast the heat in it all year long and swim when there is snow on the ground.
Janelle and I had a sorority sister in college who was from Bexley, Ohio, which breeds old, snooty-ass money. We didn’t particularly like this bitch, but her family had a pool. The dad had some arthritic condition that swimming seemed to help. Their pool felt like a hot tub all year long. In the winter, steam rose off the pool like some horror movie starring a creepy virgin slasher with a vendetta.
Typically, we’d get all liquored up, pick up
our Frat boys of the week, and skinny-dip all night in Hillary’s pool. She got knocked up our senior year by one of her anthropology professors. They moved to Colorado to open some yoga-meets-granola health food and outdoor activity joint. Last I heard, they moved into some side-of-the-mountain tree house and stopped shaving and bathing. Her absence didn’t stop us from our late night naked water rendezvous sessions, but her parents and the Bexley police did. Like I said, total selfish bitch.
Picking up my cell phone as it plays the Ohio State fight song, “Chrissy, please tell me that he didn’t cancel—”
Chrissy’s high-pitched anxious voice interrupts me. “He just called to say that he’s about five minutes away.”
“Okay, should I roll out the red carpet?” I ask, disconnecting the call. Chrissy is a thorough secretary and as nice as Holly Hobbie on Xanax, but Christ, she’s annoying as fuck. I’d like to get her laid—like a bona fide deep-dicking from an expert. God knows she could use it. Hell, we could all use it.
As soon as I see the car turn down the driveway, I’m equally pissed and pleased. Walking down the path to the driveway, I yell, “Jasper Garrity, I will lay you flat right here and right now for wasting my afternoon and getting my hopes up.”
Getting out of the car, Jasper smiles widely and shrugs out of his suit coat, throwing his jacket on the front seat of his car. Walking toward me, he loosens his tie, and says, “Is that any way to talk to a potential buyer?”
“Shit, the only thing you’re going to buy today is—”
“This house.” Jasper states, walking past me to the front door. Opening it, he adds, “After you, Miss Palmer.”
“Jasper, what the Hell? You know you’re not going to buy this house. You’ve been talking about buying a house for ages… and to do that, you’d have to actually spend some of that money you’ve got stockpiled everywhere… and we both know you’re not going to do it,” I say, walking through the door.
