by S. Ferguson
“I see Ron didn’t exaggerate at all,” Ze mutters, mostly to himself. “Let’s go.” He’s walking off towards the treadmills before I can even open my mouth to ask him what he means. “Get on this, and we’ll do a quick warm up to get your blood flowing. I’ll take it easy on you today since you said you’ve not been working out regularly.” He winks, and I know I’m fucked.
For the next forty-five minutes, I am subjected to what I’m fairly certain are CIA tactics to get enemies of the State to talk, all under the guise of a fitness test. I do pull ups, pushups, squats, lunges, leg presses and sit ups. I run a mile on the treadmill and survive two rounds of full minute planks. When it’s over, I’m drenched in sweat and sitting on the floor with my knees against my chest and my arms wrapped around them.
“First, you need to stop that smoking shit.” Ze hands me a bottle of water. I sip it gratefully, and give him a questioning look. I hadn’t mentioned smoking at all. “You’re what, twenty?” He doesn’t give me time to answer before speaking again. “You’re way too young to be heaving and breathing that hard. You’re not even gonna be able to walk to the toilet without an inhaler if you keep that shit up.” He gives me a stern look. “Other than that, you’re not in horrible shape. We are going to make you stronger, and then we are going to make you faster.” He leans in conspiratorially, before whispering, “We have the technology.”
I think water comes out of my nose as I gasp and wheeze, laughing at his insanity. Ze gives me a sad smile. “When was the last time you laughed, kiddo?”
Tears well in my eyes and I purse my lips together, shaking my head. He leans forward and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’re the only one that can fix anything, but I can damn sure give you some tools to help.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “OK, enough of the girl shit. Start running. I want 2 miles on the treadmill before I’ll let you go home.”
I give him a horrified look, but he just stands there expectantly. Wincing at my sore muscles, I rise to my feet slowly and make my way to the treadmill.
11
Declan
My head feels like it was on fire, then someone stomped on it to put it out before they re-lit the fire. Seriously, I must be dying. This has to be Ebola. I lick my lips, trying to find some moisture left in my body. Based on the stale taste in my mouth, and how hot I feel, I must be in a desert somewhere, too. Cracking my eyes open as little as possible, I squint and look down the length of my body. I’m naked, which isn't too far out of the range of normal, but there is a tiny hand on my junk.
The fuck?
Tilting my head slightly to the right, and ignoring the dizziness it causes, I follow the arm the hand is attached to up to a slim shoulder. Raising my gaze high, I see a nest of bottle blonde hair resting right in my armpit. That can’t feel or smell pleasant right now. As the fog clears, I realize Blondie has her entire body wrapped around me, and is holding my dick. I’m a little scared.
“Yo, wake up,” I whisper, in case her head hurts as much as mine. I shift my body to the left, trying to ease out from under her, but her hand on my dick tightens and I freeze.
“Mmmmm, good morning, baby,” she coos, sending a whiff of vile-smelling morning breath across my face. It takes me about two seconds to realize trying to stop the gagging is impossible, so I give up all pretense of gentleness, and lunge to my left away from her. I grimace when her nails scrape across my groin.
“What’s wrong?” she shouts. Okay, it probably wasn’t a shout, but it might as well have been with the hangover I’m suffering.
“Sick,” I manage to grit out right before sliding into my bathroom and slamming the door shut.
Once I finish puking my fucking soul up, I brush my teeth, and decide to take a quick shower. Once I’m standing in the stream of hot water, I take inventory of my body. My back is burning, so I yank the shower curtain back, and look over my shoulder into the mirror on the cabinet. It looks like I got into a fight with a lion or a tiger. It looks like I lost. I am bleeding from some of the cuts. I see something on my neck, and turn around to face the mirror. I have two hickeys on my neck and one, no lie, two inches from my dick.
What. In. The. Fuck.
I finish my shower pretty quickly, and wrap a towel around my waist, before walking out. Blondie is sitting up in my bed, the sheet draped across her waist, and her tits are hanging out. Her hair looks like something my neighbor’s cat coughed up. Her makeup is smeared. She looks like she’s trying out to be the next Alice Cooper with all the black eye liner smeared around her eyes and running down her cheeks.
“Sorry about that, I’m good now….” I let my words drop off. I have no idea who this chick is.
“Candice. I’m Candice. I can’t believe you can’t remember my name. You sure were screaming it last night,” she says, giving me her best impression of a seductive look.
I literally have no idea what to say to that because:
1)I’ve had sex enough times in my life to know I’m not a screamer. I’m a dude.
2) I can’t remember a goddamned thing from last night.
3)I’ve never had a one-night stand with someone that stayed the night. I always bailed before that could happen. I must have been completely obliterated to bring someone back to my apartment. I’ve had actual relationships with girls who never saw the inside of my apartment.
“Mind if I use your shower?” she asks, and I immediately feel relieved. Cool, she’ll shower, then bail, and I can forget this ever happened once my back heals and I find a dermatologist that specializes in scarred tissue repair.
“Sure, I’ll… um… I’ll make some coffee,” I mutter, walking to my dresser and pulling out a pair of gym shorts. I wait, thinking she’ll be walking to the bathroom but she’s still sitting there in all of her tits-out glory, staring at me like I’m a piece of chocolate. This has got to be the most awkward experience of my life. Finally, I say fuck it, and slip my shorts on under my towel. She smirks at me and stands up, letting the sheet fall to the ground. Her body is noticeably absent of marks. Hmmmm. She shuts the bathroom door, and I all but run to my kitchen.
Coffee, this is a job for coffee.
My apartment is really small; I have a tiny-ass kitchen, which is connected to a tiny-ass living room that my tiny-ass bedroom door opens off of. The one and only bathroom is in my room, but as a single guy, it's not a big deal to me. Less space means less cleaning. When I open my bedroom door, my living room looks like a fucking bomb went off. Honestly, at this point, I’m not surprised. Pillows and cushions are thrown all over the place, and a lamp is knocked over. My coffee table is skewed and my one pride and joy, my huge flat screen TV, is on but the screen is blue. Thank God nothing got left on and burned into the screen overnight. I stumble through the wreckage, and find my beloved Keurig.
Once I have steaming coffee in my mug, my Darth Vader mug I might add, and way more than the recommended dosage of Motrin in my stomach, the world starts to make sense again. I stand in a thoughtful silence, leaning against my kitchen counter, and waiting for my unwanted guest to leave.
Blondie… Candice comes out of my room wearing one of my t-shirts. Not cool. She looks much better now that her hair is washed and combed, and all that makeup is gone from her face. She’s actually pretty. I wish I could remember what she looked like last night for comparison. She walks up to me, and wraps her arms around my middle, leaning her head into my chest. Okay, then…
“Thank you so much for last night. Jake told me his brother was a stud, but I had no idea. I’m gonna walk funny for a week,” she says against my chest.
All I can think is yeah me too, wincing as my shirt rubs against the claw marks on my back.
“You’re um, you’re welcome. But I…uh…” Way to communicate, Dec. I take a centering breath, and look down at her face, as I slowly try to extract my body from her death grip. Seems like this chick is always holding onto me.
“Oh, you’re one of those?” she says, standing back and putting her hands on
her hips.
“And here we go,” I mutter under my breath. I don’t know if she hears me or not, but she assumes what can only best be described as the ‘You’re About to Get Your Ass Handed to You’ stance. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s when chicks put their hands on their hips, then cock one leg to the side, while they lean to that same side, giving you a look that could peel paint. If you’re a straight dude, you’ve experienced this stance. Usually right before you—hey, you guessed it—get your ass handed to you.
“I know you weren’t expecting to meet me and, to be honest, I wasn’t expecting to meet you either, but I won’t complain. Last night was unexpected and magical. I’ll give you some time to process. I mean, I totally understand you needing some time. It’s not every day you meet the person you’re supposed to be with. I’ll be here when you’re ready, baby.”
WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK. I repeat, what the fuck?
Alarm bells are going off in my head. Phrases like Stage Five Clinger and Red Alert are ricocheting around my head. My eyes widen, and I almost look around for Jake because this has to be some sort of prank. No way is Candice really that crazy.
While I’ve been standing in a fear-induced stupor, Candice walks over to me and leans up on her toes to give my cheek a kiss. Apparently, my stunned silence is taken as agreement. Then, she grabs what I’m assuming is her purse from the carnage in my living room and prances out the door, wearing nothing but my t-shirt. My Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt, too. Motherfucker.
I decide I need to finish another cup of coffee before I even try to interpret what the fuck just happened and then I’ll call Jake. Fortunately, he must have used his evil little brother senses to know I was thinking of him because my phone chose that exact moment to ring. After telling Bree the story of Jake’s old nickname, I changed his ringtone to “Space Lord” by Monster Magnet. It’s as close to acknowledging his Lord Pussy Magnet title as I will ever get, and it definitely makes me laugh every time I hear it play.
“So, did you survive Crazy Candice?” He’s speaking before I’ve even raised my phone all the way to my ear.
“So, I take it the ‘we’re meant to be’ speech wasn’t a prank?” There is no disguising the hope in my voice.
“The fuck?” I hear Jake laughing so hard he’s snorting. There is even laughter coming from around him, so he must have stayed above the bar last night. I stand stock still, clenching my jaw, while he and his friends continue to laugh at my expense.
“I’m glad I can be so amusing. What the fuck did you get me into, asshole?” I seethe, when I’ve decided I’ve had enough.
“Honestly, we all knew she was a little clingy but she’s hot as hell. She’s never pushed the bullshit that hard before. Usually, she just shows up where the guy she’s fixated on works and calls his phone a bunch. You didn’t give her your phone number, did you?” Jake is suddenly serious.
Fuck, did I? I still have no memory of last night, and I already broke my rules by bringing her here. “I don’t know. Let me check.” I switch Jake to speakerphone, and exit the call screen to look at my contacts. The background on my phone is a selfie of Candice. I cringe, and can already tell where this is heading. Sure enough, in my contacts list, the number one on my favorite’s list, no less, is “WIFEY.”
“I don't wanna talk about it,” I mumble to Jake’s guffaws. I hang up on him; I’m actually starting to be a legitimately scared now.
I toss my phone to the side, and rub both hands down my face. I absently notice my beard is longer than normal. Maybe it’s time for a trim. I debate this for about five seconds and decide it’s not worth the hassle. Despite my vicious hangover, I know a run is going to help cleanse my mind from all of Candice’s crazy. I’ll even pretend, when I run by a certain park, that it's an accident.
That night, back at Keegan’s, I make a futile attempt to talk to Bree about Ron. She’s mostly healed now, but she’s stonewalling my conversation in a way that would make the CIA proud.
12
Bree
“Come on. Ron’s like a father to you. You respect him.” Declan turns slightly so he can see my face. He looks at me intently and again, I feel like he sees far more than he should. I quickly avert my gaze.
“I…” I stop speaking because I don’t really know what to say. I never thought of Ron that way. Sure, he looks out for me, but I’m his employee. Obviously, he has to make sure I’m taken care of so I’ll continue to work and keep my mouth shut about his business. Why would he care about what happened to me if I wasn’t useful to him?
Declan continues to look at me, and when I risk a quick glance at him, his eyes look sad. He shuffles a little bit closer. Just those few inches make the moment feel far more intimate.
“You do know he cares about you, right?” he whispers, moving even closer to me.
I blink my eyes rapidly, not sure why I feel like crying. I don’t wait for Declan to get any closer, so I just turn abruptly and flee to the ladies room. When I burst through the door, the tears are on the verge of escaping, and a few women who are standing in front of the mirror turn to look at me.
“Oh, honey, I hope you kicked his ass out. Don’t put up with that shit,” says an older woman with bright orange hair sympathetically, nodding toward my bruised cheek.I just nod and keep my head down until the women make their way back out to the bar. I lean with both hands on the sink and close my eyes, lowering my head. How is it that I’ve been around the same people for years now but Declan, the guy I’ve known for such a short time, seems to see everything no one else does? I feel the panic rising in my chest. My self-preservation screams to avoid, to run, but I don’t know how I can avoid Declan. We are working together for the foreseeable future, and as much as I want to run away again, I have nowhere else to go. Sure, I’m older now but no other bar is going to pay me what Ron does. Not to mention the heavily discounted apartment he allows me to live in. I also get the distinct impression you don’t just walk away from Ron. I would be a liability, someone that knows too much to walk away free and clear.
“You can do this. Just focus on work. Just stay busy,” I whisper to myself, trying to somehow reinforce the mask I wear, the mask that Declan doesn’t even seem to notice.
A few deep breaths later, I feel calmer and raise my head to meet my gaze in the mirror. What I’m not expecting is to see Quinn behind me. I scream and jump around, so we’re facing each other.
“Did that fuck make you cry?” he says, taking a step toward me. He’s so close to me now I can feel his breath fan across my face, his breath smells like beer and cigarettes. He’s breathing heavily, and something about his eyes seems off. I can’t quite place it, but he just doesn’t look right. It also makes me nervous. I can’t help but flash back to the look in Nate’s eyes the night he raped me.
I lean back on the sink, bracing my arms behind me, trying to create some distance.
“Who?” I ask, confused and increasingly nervous about his proximity. Quinn’s always had a thing for me, but he’s never acted on it. Not one of the guys, except for Declan recently, has ever gotten this far into my personal space.
“Declan,” Quinn spits out Declan’s name like a profanity. His spit flies across my face, and I try not to cringe. Standing in front of him reminds me of being in a confrontation with an animal. No sudden movements and maintain calm eye contact, I remind myself.
“No, Declan didn’t do anything. I just had some stuff on my mind.” It's not really a lie, it's not really Declan’s fault that I’m an emotional basket case.
Quinn just nods in response and reaches his hand up, running his fingers gently down my un-bruised cheek. He doesn’t say another word after that, just turns and walks back out of the ladies’ room.
I stand there for a minute or two, trying to figure out what just happened, before I shake my head and turn back around to the mirror. I refuse to add Quinn’s strange behavior to the long list of shit I have on my mind. Fixing my hair in a sloppy bun, I head b
ack to the bar.
13
Declan
I feel bad after Bree all but runs to the bathroom. I feel especially bad when Greg looks at me from across the room, his eyes shooting to the bathroom door, then back at me before running his finger across his neck like he’s slicing someone’s throat. Jesus Christ.
Does Bree not realize that she has a family here? It’s not conventional, by any means, but it’s pretty obvious that’s exactly what this group is. I notice Quinn following her to the bathroom, and I walk closer to that end of the bar to try to watch him. He pauses at the door, and gives me a chin lift, his mouth formed into an evil smirk, before he walks in. It takes everything in me to not leap over the bar top and follow him in. I try to listen, but I can’t hear anything. I don’t think Bree’s in any danger but Quinn following her into the ladies’ room makes no sense to me. He comes back out no more than 2 minutes later, and gives me a look that would make a lesser man cower. I stare right back into his eyes. I’ve already lived with the devil; there isn’t much anyone else can do that will scare me. His eyes seem slightly glazed and his hands are clenching and unclenching as he finally breaks our staring contest to walk away.
Bree walks back behind the bar, and I feel like I need to do something to lighten the mood, so I look around. Then, I see Jake and, if it were possible, a light bulb would have lit up over my head. I mash my lips together trying to hide my devious grin and decide that the ass kicking I’m going to get is worth it.
“Hey, Lord Pussy Magnet!” I shout over the noise of people partying and music playing. Once Jake’s horrendous high school nickname leaves my lips, it’s like a scene from a movie where the music stops and everyone just stares at me. The majority of people are looking around, trying figure out who exactly ‘Lord Pussy Magnet’ is. My eyes scan the room until I find my brother’s blonde faux hawk.
