Sunshine & Whiskey

by R. L. Griffin

  My phone vibrates in my hand. Justin’s face pops up. “Hey, I was just about to call...”

  His words fire at me like water from a hydrant. I only hear bits and pieces. Then I hit speaker so Laura can hear too.

  “I mean it’s nuts here. The firm’s phones are ringing off the hook. I’ve been batting away people like it’s my job. I mean it is my job, but you know what I mean. The media is all over it because you’re mildly attractive.”

  Laura snorts and I look at the phone, repulsed.

  “So they’re making up nicknames and taking pictures of your sister, who is a hit by the way. Your mother is a hoot, I don’t even know what to say about her. We have trusts set up, the tax accounts are set up, and I’ve wired the money into your account. You need to figure out what you want to do.”

  “Did you just call me ‘mildly attractive?’” Okay, I’m sort of embarrassed that out of all he said I’m stuck on the mildly attractive thing, but what does that even mean.

  He’s silent. His mind is analyzing how to deal with my animosity.

  “I...I…”

  “Are you stuttering because you don’t think I’m pretty?”

  “Well, you know you aren’t my type,” he answers, retrieving his wit again. “I mean you know how the media is. An ugly fat guy winning the lottery is not one tenth as fun as a young redhead with pictures of her dancing in a tight white dress with really hot guys pawing at her.”

  I sigh. He’s right. It’s the same with everything. “Of course you call yourself hot. Has the media said anything about the hot man pawing at me is my lawyer?”

  “I was asked about that...I’m a professional bitch. I handled it. I told them I had a twin.”

  Laura and I cackle with delight at this news. Laura begins snorting.

  “Oh my, who’s snorting? If its Laura, I think she could get away with it.”

  Asshole.

  “Do you think I should get a credit card in a different name or something? Maybe start a corporation?”

  “Why don’t we just use my card?” Laura pipes up.

  “Hey Laura,” Justin calls.

  “Hey, Justin. Would that work? I mean I have some credit cards we could use, and then just pay them off as we go?”

  “Could I hire her as my personal assistant and pay her to make all the arrangements, pay off her card?”

  “Let me look into the corporation and hiring her thing, but I think it’d be safer for you to book all your rooms and travel through her card. It’s not that people could get your records, but it’s when staff see your name you’ll be all over social media. Use as much cash as you can, that way you don’t leave a trail.”

  “Okay.” I nod.

  “Lo, you got that. Get cash. Use your card.”

  “Got it boss.”

  “Do we need to hire bodyguards for my sister? I don’t like the pictures of her and my nephew on TV.”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “How?”

  “Because they are private citizens I’m looking into suing the media outlet that ran the photo of your nephew.”

  My belief in Justin’s ability to handle my needs is skyrocketing, but my inner calculator is starting to add all the hours it is taking and will take Justin to handle all of these matters. I’m a walking goldmine for a lawyer. I’ll probably make him partner. I involuntarily chuckle.

  “What are you laughing at?” he asks.

  “Nothing, Justin. You’re doing good. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now keep your fucking phone on, I mean I was sweating. I think I almost had a stroke, but then I remembered you were paying me by the hour.”

  “Dick.”

  “Huge.” He laughs as he hangs up.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  That’s not an Expression

  The next few days are a blur of drinks, live music, tours and food. Oh, the food in New Orleans is enough to make me gain fifty pounds. I mean pancakes with bacon for breakfast, fried oyster po’boys for lunch, and every sort of seafood you can imagine for dinner.

  It’s Friday night and we are getting ready to meet Laura’s friend from New York.

  “What do you think?” she asks as she exits the bathroom in a tight, strapless, sequin dress.

  “Oh Lawd, do you have bloomers under that?”

  “Only a thong.”

  “You’re such a whore.”

  Okay, we can call each other that because it is far from true. We can call each other that because we are best friends. Other people cannot call us whores. Nope. No one. We will cut someone if they call our best friend a whore.

  “I’m hoping to be a whore tonight.” She giggles. “I also see you are taking a page out of my girl’s book in Nashville with your red whore boots.”

  Yes, we’ve already started drinking.

  I have a lace skirt on, if you can call it that. It is so short it could just be a belt. It’s getting a little snug too. Tugging down the sides, I look at my abnormally tan legs. Yes, redheads sometimes can tan. It’s not often, but Laura and I lounged by the pool for eight hours yesterday.

  “I need to start running. I took like two weeks off and my skirt is already tight.”

  “It’s the no exercise, the eating a ton of shit and not to mention the alcohol.” She pats her non-existent belly.

  “Do you see my cellulite?” I ask turning around so she can see the back of my thighs.

  “No, I just see tan. Tan fat looks way better than white fat,” Laura recites.

  “Are you calling me fat, whore?”

  She throws her hands in the air in defeat. “No way.”

  “Whatever.” I blow her off. I do need to start working out again though, my ass is falling down my legs.

  “Let’s go, I told Ben we’d meet them in thirty minutes.” She pulls her phone off the charger and grabs her purse. “So you’re going to whore it up too? You probably need to fuck it off.”

  “Fuck it off?”

  “You know like shake it off.”

  I follow her out of our room and down the hall. “No, that’s not an expression.”

  “Sure it is,” she rebuts.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Anyway, with your red whore boots with that skirt your intentions are pretty clear my friend. You’re going to fuck it off.”

  “Whatever, that’s not a thing.” Now, you’re thinking what am I doing? Right? I am sort of reeling from everything that’s happened. I’ve never had a one night stand. I thought I’d try it out or at least be open to it if there is a guy that is a good candidate.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Pho Tau Bay?”

  “I’m down for whatever.”

  “That’s what he said,” she comments matter of factly. “Ben said he wanted to get us out of the French Quarter bubble. We’ll grab dinner and then go to a dive bar.”

  “Sounds good. We sort of need a cover story of why we quit our jobs and are just driving cross country that won’t make people think we’re crazy.”

  “We do,” she squeals.

  “Are we overdressed?”

  “Underdressed maybe,” she concedes. “We don’t have time to change though.

  Also, I got us a car because I didn’t want to have to deal with a cab.”

  “Okay.” I take the last sip of my drink and follow her outside into the night so humid I feel like I’m swimming.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It Doesn’t Work Like That

  We ate dinner with Ben, and two of his professor friends. Then the three of us got a cab over to a total dive bar with some of the best live music we’d heard so far on the trip, dirty jazz as Ben calls it.

  We’re drinking Hurricanes, because you have to, and Laura is yelling cat calls at the bass player. I haven’t met anyone I’d be willing to hook up with for the night, so I give up my red whore boot dreams and settle in for the night at the table listening to the music and losing myself in the fruity concoction that will probably make me
vomit later.

  The bass player comes over to our table and is standing in between Laura’s legs and it’s almost indecent to watch them. He keeps touching her and leaning in to whisper in her ear. She’s laughing and running her hands down her neck and on his tattooed covered arms. He’s lanky and tall but has a certain sex appeal.

  When he walks back to the stage to finish their set, she’s flushed and giggling. I lean into her ear. “You’re gross,” I yell.

  “Learn from the master.” Her eyes never leave his from that moment until he comes back to the table and announces they’re leaving.

  I don’t like this.

  “Adam, tell her it’s okay, you’re not going to kill me,” Laura slurs.

  “I promise I won’t kill her.” Adam smiles at me, it looks genuine, but I’ve had eighty-seven drinks.

  “Oh, Adam, thanks so much, makes me feel much better…really.” I’m glaring at him.

  “Megan, Adam is a good guy. I’ve known him since middle school. He’s not that smart, but he’s a good guy.”

  Laura and Adam’s eyes snap to Ben and I stifle a giggle. “Okay, not so smart Adam. If you kill my friend I will kill you. I have the funds to do it.” I pull out my phone and take a picture of him. “Now I have a picture of you too.” What do you want, I’m drunk too.

  “I’m going to hit the head Laura, then we can go.” Adam walks away and Laura’s eyes follow him.

  “I’ll be back.” Ben gets up and follows the same path before the crowd swallows him.

  “So I’m leaving with Adam. I’ll see you in the morning,” Laura slurs slightly as she whisper yells in my ear. She sort of spits in my ear too, which is disgusting.

  “I know, you just told me that.” I try to get my wits about me. “Do you think that’s smart, you don’t know that guy?” I wipe my ear off with my hand.

  “Well, that’s how a one night stand works, Megan.” Laura finally turns her head to face me.

  “I’m aware, but I just want you to be safe.”

  “I know you don’t know how all of this works since you haven’t had to fuck random people, but I have. I’m fine.” She leans away from me. “Ben even said this guy is okay.”

  “Ben hasn’t fucked him,” I retort.

  “No judging asshole,” she counters. “Just because you can’t do it, don’t judge my doing it.”

  Is it wrong I want to start singing, “Doin’ It” by L.L. Cool J.? “I’m not judging, I’m going to fuck your friend tonight.” I decide Ben seems nice enough. I’m going to do it. I can do it. Did I tell you I was drunk? She snorts at me. Then she starts crying.

  “What? I am.”

  “You aren’t.”

  “I am. He’s hot,” I say, trying to convince myself a bit. “I like his beard and his hair.”

  “He’s boring.”

  “Maybe he has a big cock.”

  More snorting. Then she waves me off and leaves with Adam when he strolls up to the table with his bass case. I’m staring after her, offended. Why am I offended? One, that she’s leaving when I’m worried. Two, she said I couldn’t have a one night stand. I haven’t had one before, but I could. I can. I will.

  The few steps from the bar back to the table where Ben is waiting solidifies it for me. I will drink three more huge drinks and allow this guy to take me home. What will it hurt?

  So now I’m in a cab on the way to Ben’s house. It turns out it’s not really a house, but an apartment he rents in the back of a enormous plantation home in the Garden District. It’s beautiful in this area, and I mentally note to come back during the day before we leave. When are we leaving? I don’t know what day it is…

  Ben throws some money at the driver and grabs my hand, pulling me out of the backseat and out of my own head. I stumble trying to keep up, I’m drunk, trying to pull my skirt down and in brand new whore boots, so I wish he would slow down. We get to the door and he pushes me up against it and rubs my face, rubs it like he’s trying to get something off of it. Okay, this may not end well. I do like his beard though…

  He pushes me inside as soon as he opens the door and I take in the room. It is sparsely decorated and has a stale smell. I’m standing there awkwardly when he leans in to kiss me without any notice and our teeth crash together, hard. My head starts hurting even in my drunken haze and I’m thinking this was a bad idea, but now I’m here and how do you get out of here. My mind isn’t working as fast as it usually does, and I can’t think.

  “I can’t wait to spank that ass,” he moans and moves to kiss my neck. Then he puts both hands under my skirt and squeezes my ass so hard it hurts and is sort of embarrassing. I believe it may leave a mark.

  I hope he doesn’t think he’s really “spanking my ass.” I don’t know him like that.

  “Oh, baby,” he says as he is palming my boobs in a way that reminds me of when I was in eighth grade and allowed Grayson to feel me up on my parents’ couch. I mean, what is happening?

  All of a sudden I’m up against the wall and he’s licking my face. Yes, licking my face. I’m so turned off right now I don’t know what to do. He turns me around and moves me to the couch. This entire five minutes of my life is so unreal I’m frozen and I’m just letting him lead me around.

  “I bet your pussy is tight,” he says as he turns me away from him and nudges me to put my hands on the couch. He really said that, about my “pussy.” Men, if there are any men reading this. There are particular women who like this sort of talk. It’s not me. Before you call someone’s vagina a “pussy” please have some sort of conversation that will give you the go ahead. Without that conversation you’re done.

  I am just about to turn around and tell him it was nice to meet him, but then his finger clumsily runs up and down under my underwear. This takes me by surprise and gives him two seconds to open a condom.

  Oh shit, I’m unprepared for a one night stand. My mind is screaming this is not happening. Then he slams into me and I’m miserable. I try to turn off my mind because I wanted to show Laura I could have a one night stand, but I’m pretty sure I cannot. This sex is the worst sex I’ve ever had. One night stands are not for me. I will never speak of this.

  “Oh yeah, baby. Take it.”

  Really. Take it?

  “Oh, shit you’re tight. I’m not going to last long.” He’s pumping in and out of me like it’s his job. I’m just letting him because I feel like it’d be too embarrassing for both of us to stop now. “Come for me baby,” he urges as he uses his fingers on me.

  This sends me into hysterics. I’m literally laughing in his face. Does this really work for people? His thrusts slow down as he must realize that maybe I’m not feeling it as much as he is. This guy seems nice enough, I’m not trying to be a bitch. “Not going to happen tonight, you go ahead,” I tell him.

  “Are you sure?” He’s poking his finger around down there like he’s blindly looking for something he believes he’ll find eventually. I just want him to finish and stop touching me. And then he does. “Oh shit, Megan. You’re so hot. Give me a minute and we’ll go again.”

  Nothing about that was hot. Not one single thing. Okay. Here’s a dilemma. Do I leave now? Do I simply walk out of this horrible, awkward exchange of bodily fluids? Or do I stay. I’m definitely not sleeping with him again. I mean I’m drunk, but I’m not comatose.

  As I’m contemplating all of this, he brings me another drink and I chug it.

  “I’m really tired. Can we take a quick nap?” I say this in my best sweet voice. I don’t do sweet well, but he seems to buy it and pulls me into the bedroom. This room is worse than the den. There are clothes everywhere. I trip on shoes.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think I’d have company tonight.”

  Or ever.

  I kick off my boots. I blame the red whore boots. It’s all their fault, not the seventeen drinks I had and bad decisions. He pulls my skirt off. My underwear is in the other room. The bed is a double. Are you fucking kidding me? What adult sleeps in a double bed
? I eye it wearily. He takes my shirt off. I know, why am I even allowing this to happen? I’m drunk, embarrassed, and really just out of my element.

  Sinking into the bed, I curl into the fetal position, immediately close my eyes and let sleep take over.

  There is a jack hammer going off and it wakes me up. I open my eyes and confusion overcomes me. I almost throw up. The taste in my mouth is so bad I cannot adequately describe it other than to say it feels like someone lit liquor on fire on my tongue. Oh, it’s not a jack hammer, it’s my headache. Holy mother of a hangover.

  Add that to the fact I had sex with this guy, nice as he may be, because I didn’t want to have that awkward conversation saying no once we got started. Have any of you ever done that? No? Just me?

  I tentatively open my eyes and see bright light filtering in through the blinds. A low whir of his breathing allows me to know Ben is still sleeping. I can’t see my clothes so I take a shirt from the floor. I creep out of the bedroom, grabbing my boots on the way. My purse is on the floor and I snatch it, pulling my phone out. It’s 10:00 a.m. already and I search wildly around for my skirt and underwear. I don’t see them and slip my feet in my boots. I put on the shirt and my stomach turns at the musty smell. I ease myself out of the door quietly and walk down the drive past the main home. I have no underwear on and the shirt I grabbed isn’t quite long enough, the hem skims my lower ass cheeks.

  I pull out my phone and call Laura. It goes to voicemail. “I fucking hate you and hate one night stands and my red whore boots,” I whisper into the phone.

  Looking to the left and right, I then snap my head back to the left. There is what looks like a parade making its way down the street toward where I’m standing. My feet move on their own accord, trying to get ahead of this mass of people. I really am trying to walk quickly, but I have to pull the shirt down every few steps.

  A few people walk past me. Everyone is wearing black. They’re staring at me. I’m mortified. I pull my hair to hang over my face. More people take over where I’m walking, then I see the hearse and cars following it. I’m in a fucking funeral procession after my first one night stand and I’m without pants. If it weren’t so depressing, I’d laugh.