Just a Number (Downtown #1)

by Fifi Flowers

  Taking a deep breath, I swear corporate-girl’s scent was looming all around me. I had escaped one woman to be enveloped by another far more desirable one. Was she near? Had she just walked down the very street I was on?

  “Get a grip, Dash. She was in a city bar last night. It doesn’t mean she worked in the city. Lived in the city. She could’ve been on a business trip. She could be miles away.” Damn it! I was actually talking to myself, walking down the sidewalk. Not that that was an unusual occurrence on the streets of downtown.

  “You’ll find her, love. Keep looking,” a female British voice greeted me. “She’s just around the corner.” She was a stunning older woman. She was dressed stylishly. So was her cat, walking happily on a leash. Like I said, nothing was out of the ordinary in the city.

  “Excuse me?” I watched, fascinated by her furry friend wearing four small, suede boots on its paws, sitting patiently like a dog at his master’s side.

  “She’s the one. Give it a go.” She smiled and patted my arm. “Promise me you will.” Apparently, satisfied with the affirmative nod of my head, the British woman and her companion strutted off down the avenue. Her last words had me baffled. “Bob’s your uncle. Remember.” How did she know I had an Uncle Bob?

  Changing my direction, I headed home recollecting what the Brit had said to me. For some reason, I didn’t find her words crazy. I found them comforting. She could be right. I needed to find her. “I will find her,” and I was back to talking to myself out loud. I shook my head, attempting to make sense of my irrational thoughts. I really needed a rest. Damn! Even the cat’s eyes reminded me of Corporate-girl. Not the cross-eyed part, but the same icy-blue color. I was losing my mind over a stranger.

  Yes, tomorrow. A new day. Miles away. A new woman to fuck her out of my illogical brain. Relaxation. A new clear vision. I would be myself again.

  Chapter Five

  Willow

  With my bags tossed in the closet, dresses hung up, clothes in drawers, and toiletries lined up in the bathroom, it was time to find the pool. I was in great need of an umbrella decorated tropical cocktail and a lounge chair to begin relaxation mode. Shit! No swimsuit. Refusing to abandon poolside drinking, I found a short, lightweight jersey tank-dress—the next best thing to a bikini. Slipping it over my head and my feet into flip flops, off I went.

  Combing the huge man-made lagoon, dotted with several bars, in the water and out, I found an empty chair. Located at the edge of a wide, grass strip, separating the pool area from the sandy beach under a few palm trees, I set up camp. Draping a resort towel over a striped, vinyl, outdoor cushion, I set my bag on a low, bamboo table, and pulled out my ever faithful tablet and scrolled through my reading app.

  “Hello, miss. Can I get you a drink? Food?” A smiling cabana boy stood above me, handing me a slender, rectangular menu. Happily, I accepted it and ordered one of their specialties. A fruity-something-or-other with a bit of a kick! That was the exact description I read on the list.

  A young woman arrived with my fun punch. Perfect! I needed some help. Not only had I not brought swimwear, I really didn’t bring much for warm weather. Scatter-brained and worried about my job, inappropriate items—not in a good way—accompanied me to a tropical haven. I definitely needed to make a few purchases.

  “Excuse me. Before you run off. Could you tell me if they have cute beachwear in the gift shop? Is there a gift shop?” My questions caused wrinkles to appear on the girl’s peaches and cream face.

  “Yes, there is,” she answered and looked around before settling my libation on the table. “But, only if you’re an old goat. Head into town. The hotel can arrange a car for you. Katie’s Swim Shack has the best suits on the island. Handmade, even. She has everything you’ll need. Anything else?”

  “No.” I took a sip my drink. “This is yummy! And thanks for the shopping tip.” She nodded and moved on to the next guest, with her ponytail bouncing behind her.

  With the information she supplied me, I searched the internet. I found an uninteresting website. Very basic. I hoped the store was more enticing. The girl seemed genuine—excited about the shop and its fashions. It had to be better than their advertisement. I’d check it out in the morning after the sunrise yoga session I had signed up for, trying something out of the ordinary.

  A couple more sips of my second addicting beverage (the first one went down pretty quick), I closed down my latest erotic romance e-book to look over a couple emails I had been anticipating. With a couple of events coming up, arrangements needed to be confirmed. Actually, they could probably wait until I returned. I was supposed to be relaxing. It was difficult for me to just shut down my corporate mode.

  As if an angel or gnat was sitting on my shoulder, I heard a nasally Brooklyn accent from the direction of a lounge chair next to me. “I don’t believe you’re supposed to be working while on retreat, pretty lady. It’s time to unwind. Let go. Loosen up.”

  “How do you know I’m not reading a book?” I shielded my eyes to look over. Handsome in an Italian mafia way: Slicked back black hair, dark eyes, stubbled face, shocking white teeth, complete with a cross on a thick, gold chain, resting on a more than speckled hairy chest, and a diamond pinky ring. Not my type.

  “I don’t believe books are set up like emails.” Nosey man.

  “Maybe I was checking my emails.” Maybe you shouldn’t be snooping. Invading my space. And maybe, you should skedaddle back to wherever you came from.

  “You said you were reading a book. Which is it?” Was a corporate spy following me? Making sure I wasn’t working. Or was it possible he was making a move? Did the badgering work for him? Hmmm. Did I have I’m looking to be hit on painted on my forehead?

  “I’m very good at multitasking.” I smiled close-lipped, politely… phony. You are a task I don’t wish to accomplish.

  Definitely hitting on me. Out came his sexually charged, raised and perfectly groomed eyebrows. “I bet you are.” You will never find out. Move along! Stop licking your lips. There will be no tasting for you. Ever!

  “Excuse me. What did you say?” I heard you, slime ball. I’m letting you know I’m not interested. Not paying attention to your words. Or your so-not-sexy animation.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” No amount of alcohol will help you.

  Lifting my three-fourths filled glass of tropical delish. “I’m good. Thank you.” And as if the phone gods were looking down on me, my cell rang. “Husband. I need to find out how the kids are doing. Two of them have been sick. Sorry.” I slid my finger across the screen. “Hello darling…” Yes, he was shifting off the lounge, making his escape from a woman with children. Ha! Listening to a recorded message for my dry cleaning and nodding, I made sure he was out of sight before I clicked off.

  Men! They were so easily predictable, and nothing I wanted permanently. I never wanted a domineering husband, like my father or a player, like Mr. Slick. I definitely did not want a cheating man. Best to play the field.

  In college, I learned lessons from Men Studies 101, a non-curricular class. Determined to excel in all of my courses, I decided to stay away from the dating pool. I needed to prove to my father that women could succeed in the business world. They could be more than household servants. I had four years to make it happen; no time for a boyfriend or relationship. Thanks to a going-away-to-college gift from Tomasina, I had my first battery operated boyfriend. He was attentive to my needs and—better yet—not needy.

  Real sex (if I wanted it), could be found at parties, sporting games, and college events. Even the library; study buddies made easy fuck buddies. No relationships, I learned, equaled no cheating. Where there was a boyfriend-girlfriend thing going on, there was often someone waiting in the wings for a little side fun. I saw it all around me. But one incident scarred me and probably others.

  I was not cheated on. My roommate, whose name I will simply call Roomie to protect her, was the victim of a serial cheater. She was dating a guy she knew since high school. Sweethearts
who decided to go to the same college together.

  A bad idea, as far as I was concerned. College was a time to grow, to learn, to discover, and to gain knowledge in academics and life. Bringing the boy from your childhood along just seemed so wrong. It seemed like it should be a time to experience and explore other people. Settling down should be something done after college. And, if you still wanted your high school sweetheart, go for it. That was my philosophy.

  In my third year of college, I met these two, unfortunately… mainly him. Maybe if someone had advised these two high school sweethearts, it could’ve helped them. Maybe not. Maybe some things were just in one’s makeup and nothing caused things to happen, DNA or situation. I was not sure, but it affected me.

  During the winter semester, while studying in my dorm room alone, my roommate’s boyfriend stopped by, looking for Roomie. I told him I didn’t know where she was or when she would return. He said he would wait for her and proceeded to sit on her side of the room. Making himself comfortable, he sprawled out on her bed and made noises that sounded like he was pleasuring himself. I refused to look his way. The more grunts he made, the more uncomfortable I got. Finally he stopped, but I could feel his eyes on me. I did my best to ignore his stares. It wasn’t long before I gave up and attempted to leave. Before I even knew what happened, he was on top of me, mauling me and pulling at my clothes.

  Struggling to get him off of me, in walked my roommate to find her boyfriend pinning me firmly to my bed. Thank God, I thought. He jumped off me as she began to scream: “What the fuck is going on? You fucking whore!”

  Screams at me?! Yes, of course I was the one to blame.

  The innocent girl he jumped off.

  The innocent girl who was struggling.

  The innocent girl whose clothing was ripped.

  But I was not the innocent one in her eyes. He was innocent. He was the victim. He was the one defending himself, pointing his finger my way. “You know, babe, I love you. She leads me on every time I come around… when you’re not here.”

  What?! I tried to voice my shock at his accusations, but I remained silent as he went on to smooth talk her. Winning her over. I watched her pack a bag and leave with him. I never saw either of them again, in person.

  However, come spring semester I did see him on a local news station, sporting handcuffs and being carted away from the college campus. Apparently, I was not the only coed that found themselves violated by him. It took one complaint too many to bring forth other victims ready to state their assault. The attacks, fortunately for the girls, were not violent. The cases were labeled date rape. He led several females on, took them out, but ignored their simple word “no” when he pushed himself on them. No means no. Unwanted sex. Rape. He was found guilty and is still serving time, last I heard. As for Roomie, the rumor was that she had transferred to a distant college before the semester even ended, before he was sentenced.

  As for me, I graduated the first semester of my senior year and moved right into a paid internship, ready to soar up the corporate ladder. As for men, I handled them as associates. Colleagues. We were equals in the office, the bedroom, or wherever the act took place. Equals in my mind and in front of me, for the most part. But behind my back, there was the backstabbing, the name calling.

  I was fierce in my firm. I wanted to work with fashion. I went after clients of my own. I wanted to be an account manager. I wanted my own office. I heard: “Watch out for the new women, she’ll have your balls and serve them to you. She’s a real bitch.” Not once did I steal a campaign or customer. I went out of the usual realm. Brought in up and coming people and products in the fashion world. The men in my company were respected for doing the same thing. Even our female CEO felt it. She helped me learn to ignore and move past it.

  That mentality wasn’t just in the boardrooms. No. It was the same in personal lives. The name calling just got worse. Our favorite Sex and the City girls expressed our shared feelings to the masses, but it didn’t stop the finger pointing. If we liked to have casual sex, we were labeled as a slut, skank, or whore.

  Why couldn’t we be called a playgirl or something appealing? Desirable. “Look at that desirable woman commanding the room with a very handsome gentleman at her side. Lucky guy.” Ha! That would never happen. Men, on other hand, have always been tagged a playboy, a player, and looked up to by their fellow man, and even by women that were vying to be in their company.

  Even in the age and marriage department, we lacked a decent title. Unmarried women beyond thirty still heard the term old maid. Seriously?! How did that live on? And if that wasn’t bad enough, those who were over thirty, hoping to marry one day, were told they had a greater chance of them being struck by lightning. Good thing I wasn’t in that group. But they should call us bachelorettes like our equal aged counterparts, eligible bachelors. Headlines scream: “So-and-so, the most eligible bachelor in the country is doing this and that.” As opposed to: “So-and-so, the unmarried, probable multiple cat owner, is doing this and that.” Eligible bachelorette, is that term so hard to use?

  Bringing another factor into the mix—age. There was the whole other subjects of age appropriate mates. If I was to date somebody younger, I would be called a cougar. A man occasionally was called “a cradle robber,” “a dirty old man” or Viagra use could be referenced in his pairing with a younger woman. But most of the time, society gave a high-five to the older man lucky enough to have a trophy on his arm.

  Why I fretted over these questions and issues, I don’t know. Some things never change. Until the end of time, stereotypes will continue. The fact that I was often given one with my name got old. And, asked why I had no desire to be a mother was perhaps the biggest one of all that was commented on, and puzzled most people.

  “What’s wrong, dear, are you not be able to have children?” Then when they received my answer, “I just don’t want to have children. If a woman doesn’t want to have children, they really shouldn’t have them. Don’t you think?” Answers I heard:

  “That’s abnormal.”

  “Women are meant to have babies.”

  “That is a very selfish attitude.”

  Or the real slapper on two levels: “You just say that now because you haven’t found a man to marry you.” Really people?!

  Funny, when a man stated that he didn’t want children no one really batted an eyelash or gave two nickels about it. They didn’t condemn them. Women, of course, have said behind their back, “I could change his mind.” Some, unfortunately, have taken the extra step and forced it by becoming pregnant. That was a whole other subject I didn’t approve of, either.

  No. All of that was wrong. The truth was, I just didn’t have any desire to bring a child into my life. I planned to work hard, travel, and enjoy my freedom. Call me selfish, if you want… if you must.

  Men were secondary and for entertainment purposes. I tried the dating realm here and there. But where did you meet them? The work place was off limits. Outside work functions, possibly. Bars were not my thing. Gyms produced a few interesting exercise regimens.

  Once, I went the friends-with-benefits route. I went to a reunion function. The old crush looked good. He had just moved back into the area. He was pretty fun in school. Why not have some fun? Turned out, he was a liar—a married one. The wife was not thrilled about our arrangement, questioning me: “How did you not know? You’ve known him for years.” Guess I didn’t pay attention to his personal status in life, blatantly posted in the reunion booklet with a photo of his wife and kids. My suggestion to her was that she should attend future functions with him.

  That disaster sent me or, I should say, Tomasina talked me into signing up with an online dating site. We used fictitious names and a gift credit card to cover the full price for six months. We posted up faux pictures that were similar to our looks, but, nonetheless, not us. We gave out our true photos once we established contact with potential dates. The reason for partial dishonesty was anonymity; we didn’t want co-worker
s to stumble across our accounts.

  Anyhow, we each went on a few dates. Neither of us found any dynamic studs in the bedroom. I didn’t partake in extracurricular activities with all of them, but there were a couple. Not thrilled with the whole experience, we cancelled our memberships early. But I’ll be honest. I put it right out there, on the line, that I was looking for temporary pleasure. I heard the screaming; slut. But hey, I thought it was better to be upfront. Better than shaking my goodies in a bar to take home an even more random guy.

  Women have needs beyond their BOBs. And I have to say that I have found that travel sex has, by far, proven to be the best. Distant lands. No one knows you. You can let your hair down, have a good time, and then say your goodbyes. No mess. No fuss. No complications. Straight up fun.

  That was what I was looking for on my retreats. Unfortunately, other less than desirables were searching for the same. So far, day one—strike one! I still had three more days. And, at least the tropical location, food, and drink were fabulous. I had yet to experience the massages, facials, and yoga. Bring on the pampering!

  Chapter Six

  Dash

  Darkness was fading, like the miniature light-torches that lit the pathway to the beach, as I made my way to teach an advanced sunrise yoga class. Quiet. Calm. Most of the resort residents slumbered on. Only the early risers were visible along with the hotel staff working behind the scenes to make the inhabitants stay enjoyable. A hint of sweet pastry and hickory bacon seasoned the air.

  Toes in the cool sand. I could taste the salty ocean breeze on my lips. The wind blew gently, causing the hair on my neck to take notice. The hissing sound of the waves meeting the shore, like a low pleasant static and the distant crashing on the cliffs, was all I heard. Dedicated yoga participants were waiting, silhouetted as the sun began to rise from the sea. More present by the minute, its warmth kissed my skin. The world was beginning to come alive. Birds were singing, silencing the crickets’ nighttime chirping.