by Jade Sinner
I sigh. That’s not who I am.
Erika Ellis—news at five-thirty and six on channel fifty-three—that’s me. Milwaukee’s sweetheart. I can tell you about a school bus crash with the same smile upon my face as the one I wear when discussing the Future Farmers of America annual fund drive. I have a degree in broadcasting, but I sit behind the glass desk with my legs poised in heels too high to walk in, because the shoes make my calves appear sexier. That’s what the people who crunch the numbers say. Our ratings drop every time my heel length goes below four inches.
They’ve worked my skirt length to the centimeter—above my knees, but not showing too much thigh. It’s the female demographic over the age of forty that gets upset if the skirt is too short or accidently rides up. That’s what the number people tell me. In my opinion, it’s the tired moms who can’t keep their husbands happy and are jealous of my body. Keeping it in shape is part of my job.
Know the material. Stay current. Pronounce every name, even foreign dignitaries’, correctly and above all, stay in perfect ‘for TV’ shape. I’m glad there’s no pressure.
Keeping the balancing act going with each ball precisely in the air is an exhausting art and one I’m ready to set aside for a few days. Thankfully it’s Friday, and I’m not due back in front of the cameras until Monday. That doesn’t mean I can totally walk away. I have preparation for next week and the never-ending workouts. But for a few days, I can take off the plastic smile and relax.
It’s something my husband is always trying to get me to do. You’d think he’d understand the pressure it takes to be me, but he never has. Even this morning he was harping on and on. I didn’t have time or the energy to listen. We probably need some time to talk about each other’s desires. As if either of us has time for that. Nevertheless, that’s what our marriage counselor says we need to do. She encourages us to be honest with one another.
I never intended to be dishonest. What I’m starting to understand, after nearly five years of marriage, is that honesty isn’t only about telling the truth, but also about not withholding the truth.
“Ms. Ellis,” Jackie says, “I just got the call—Tamara is ill.”
Shit! Our talk will need to wait.
My shoulders straighten. I don’t want to stay and do the eleven o’clock news. I want to go home—not to talk, but to wash off the makeup and curl up with my Kindle. However, I know that isn’t the answer that will advance my career, that won’t get me out of Milwaukee and into a bigger market. Instead of saying what I want to say, I broaden my plastic smile. “She is? I’m sorry to hear that. Does Lonnie need me to stay?”
“Yes. He does. We all do.”
“Not a problem,” I say, as I notice the cameraman from earlier. His scowl has morphed into something deeper, something closer to anger. Lighten up, buddy. It isn’t like he has to stay, just because I am. The eleven o’clock set has its own crew. His night is free. I’m the one tied up.
Dead on my feet. That’s how I feel as the stage crew untangles me from my wires for the third time today. My feet ache from the shoes I have only sat in. My legs cramp from the way they are perched on the bar beneath my chair, crossed daintily at the ankle.
“Erika,” the eleven o’clock co-anchor, Shawn, calls as he is also freed from his microphone and other apparatus. “Thanks for filling in. I’ll buy you a drink.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, Shawn. I’m beat. I need to get home.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Come on, there’s a group of us. It’s Friday. We all need to unwind.”
I roll my neck to relieve a few kinks. “Rain check?”
“Well, at least let me or one of the stagehands walk you to your car. The garage is no place for you to be alone at this time of night.”
“I’m good. I parked close.” I look down at my shoes as I contemplate going back to my dressing room to change. “Quick change and I’ll be out of here. I hope Tamara is feeling better by Monday.”
In no time at all, I have my shoes stowed away with various other pairs that stay at the news studio and have my Chuck Taylors laced up. I have jeans and a top to change into, but I don’t want to take the time. As I reach for my purse, secured in the cabinet near my desk, I see the note:
Don’t leave without the red heels.
I swallow as my pulse quickens. Slowly I look around the room. No one is supposed to come in here, not without me. Who left the note?
I shake off the feeling the note gives me, chalk it up to sleepiness, and crumple it into a ball. I reach for my purse and head out.
A short elevator ride and I’m in the parking garage.
Where’s my car?
Cumming soon, check Amazon
TEN YEARS AGO
"You're such an ass," Jess blurts out. Her tone sounds angry, but her volume is still low.
I shrug with a smirk as I heave my backpack higher on my shoulder. As we step through the front doors of our high school, the onslaught of the warm Missouri sun causes me to squint my eyes. For a few steps I think about how to answer her, what to say. If she were a guy I'd have the perfect response. I'd say that I wasn't the ass, but Maura Sharpe had a fine ass and I'd fucked that too.
But Jess isn't a guy, and even though she's my best friend, I'm confident she doesn't want that much detail. I can see her in my imagination scrunching her cute little nose and after hitting me halfheartedly saying, 'Gross, TMI!'
Trying to avoid her manhandling—something I wouldn't take from anyone else—I start to reply when she purposely bumps her shoulder against mine, her tiny frame filled with enough hostility to almost bounce me from the sidewalk. I grin. So much for my attempt to avoid her physical aggression.
Catching my balance as car after car peels past, determined to leave the parking lot before the line begins to form at the stoplight, I stare down at her and with a gleam in my eyes, ask, "Are you trying kill me?"
Jess shakes her head. "Maura? Maura?" Each time she asks, echoing the name belonging to her friend and my latest fuck, her voice gets louder and the name more exaggerated.
I hit the unlock on my truck as Jess goes around to the passenger side.
Once we're both inside, I start the truck and immediately roll down the windows. Missouri weather has serious multiple-personality issues—freezing one day, sweltering the next. It’s like it has as much trouble as I do deciding what it wants.
Jess lifts her long blonde hair and directs the air conditioning vent in her direction.
"What do you want me to say?" I finally ask as I back out of the space, barely missing two girls walking with their heads together, too lost in their conversation to realize they're about to become road kill.
As my bumper moves in their direction, one of them turns toward me, but as soon as she recognizes my truck, her anger turns to a smile and her eyes search for mine in the side mirror.
"Hi Ashton," she calls with the telltale flick of her neck and a finger wave. "Call me."
I wave at the same time I see Jess's head shake in my peripheral vision. As I ease the truck into the line of traffic, I say a silent prayer that the girl won't try to come up to my open window.
Jess cranes her neck over her shoulder. "Isn't she a freshman?"
"Is she?"
"Jeeze, Ash. You really are a manwhore. You know that?"
I lift my brows. "No, Jess, I'm not a whore. Whores get paid. I willingly share my talents with those in need. I think that's called a humanitarian."
We finally make our way out of the parking lot and onto the side streets and with a little acceleration comes a nice breeze to cool the cab. Admittedly, it works better than my AC. But one day I won't be driving a beat-up old truck. One day, I'll have a car to go along with my body and personality.
"Maura's my friend," Jess says.
"Maura's a big girl. She knew what she was doing. Actually, she knew—"
Jess lifts her hand. "Stop. You know our deal. No details. I don't want to know about the little freshman or Maura."
"Well, let me just say that Maura is much more experienced."
"Noted. But you know she just broke up with Matt. The last thing she needs is you using her for a one-night stand."
I reach over and squeeze Jess's leg. "You know me. I don't use girls. They come to me."
"Because you're so freaking fantastic in the sack?"
My cheek rises, creating my signature cocky, lopsided grin. "That is the word on the street."
She sighs and lays her head against the seat. "Is that all you want?"
I look over at my best friend. There's something about Jess that makes her different than every other girl I've ever known. Maybe it's that we've known each other since we were kids. Maybe it's that we know everything about one another. Maybe it's that we swore never to lie to one other, and we haven't. I'm not sure of the reason, but for the first time since I was balls deep in Maura Sharpe, I feel a little bad about it.
Which is strange.
I never feel regret.
Euphoria, a fucking fantastic release as my dick explodes and some pussy squeezes it tight, yes, but never regret.
"Jess, what is it?"
She turns toward the open window, her hair blowing in the breeze and takes a minute before she answers. "I think it's that we're graduating in a few weeks. We're going off to college and we have friends getting married."
"We also have friends with kids on the way. Do you want that to be you?"
Jess looks at me for a minute and then turns back to the open window. "Someday."
"Someday, but not now. Not at eighteen."
After a sigh, she leans back against the seat. In the few seconds that passed, her fun smile, the one that has gotten us both in trouble more times than I can count is back. "Then Mr. Michaels, keep your cock in your pants."
"Don't worry. I have a lifetime supply of wraps. I'm well practiced at safe sex."
"It's just that Maura has been texting me all day. She's sure she's 'in love'. And by the way, 'you're the best.'" Her voice does this sing-song thing when she relays Maura's messages.
"Oh, I am the best, but love? No way." I shake my head. "I told her the same thing I tell them all: I'm not a commitment kind of guy."
"She mentioned that," Jess says. "She also asked me what your favorite color is. Your favorite food. Your favorite TV show...on and on. She's got it bad."
I bypass our neighborhood and keep driving. It's easier walking away from someone if there's no connection. I should have followed my gut and told Maura no. I should have realized that her friendship with Jess would be an issue. But I swear, Maura wouldn't take no for an answer, and well, my dick wasn't saying no.
"Where are we going?" Jess asks.
"How about coffee?"
She shakes her head. "No, I'm broke."
"I'll buy." I offer, but we both know I don’t have much money either.
"No. How about the lake? It's a beautiful afternoon."
I nod, taking in the bright blue sky.
A few minutes and a few dirt roads later, I park and turn off my truck. The lake isn't big and it's kind of hidden away. It's owned by some guy who doesn't even live close by. The old gate at the end of the lane that is supposed to keep people out has been permanently removed from its rusty hinges.
Now it's one of the places teenagers in our town go. It's not just teenagers. Dads bring their kids here to fish and families even come to swim. It's too early in the year to swim. The water would be freezing.
I lead as we walk the edge of the lake, up some high rocks. It's the perfect spot. From up here you can see down into the depths of the dark water and over to the lane. No one can sneak up on you here. You can see everything, like being on the top of the world.
"Truth or dare," I say.
Jess sways her shoulders back and forth as she contemplates my question. "Truth, you know I'd never lie to you."
"Are you still holding out?"
She smiles with her eyes gazing down. "Do you mean have I put out yet?"
"I mean, has Todd gotten in your pants yet?"
"Those are two different questions. Pick one."
My chest aches a little at the thought of that dick with his hands down Jess's shorts. But I remind myself that she's my friend. I have no right to expect her to stay a virgin when I'm fucking every other girl out there. "First one."
"I am, but I don't think it can last much longer."
I stand taller. "Jess, if that ass is pressuring you..."
"That’s not what I mean. I mean, I think I want to. I just don't know if he's the forever kind of guy."
"Your turn," I say as I peer down. The water is easily twenty feet below us. In the summer there were many times we'd jumped from here into the cool spring-fed lake below.
"OK. Truth or dare?"
I look up at her sparkling green eyes and realize that she's seeing the same thing—the water. I can practically see her think about jumping or making me jump. It's not that I don't want to. If it were summer and twenty degrees warmer, I wouldn't hesitate, but well, my better sense says, "Truth."
"Do you think you'll ever be a forever kind of guy?"
Shit! That wasn't what I expected.
I sigh as I lower myself to the warm rock and stretch out my legs. "I really don't see it. I don't see me being committed to anyone but myself. That makes me sound like an ass, and I probably am, but forever is a really long time."
Jess nods as she sits beside me. "What if I never find that forever guy?"
I reach out and squeeze her hand. "You will, but if you don't, you'll always have me."
"Always?"
"Always."
PRESENT
"No, no..." Jess's words trail away as she shakes her head.
The whiskey burns as I take a long sip. It doesn't dull her pain, but it helps calm my rage at her no-good asshole ex. Even half-wasted, she's adorable. I love the way her long, wavy hair becomes curly in the summer's heat. She hates it. She always has, but I can't stop myself from reaching out and tweaking a long blonde curl, just to watch it bounce.
"Stop it!" she says, pulling away and laying her head against my sofa.
Her eyes half close and the glass of wine in her hand tips one way and then the other.
"Jess, let me take that," I offer as I reach for the wine.
Her grip on the long stem tightens.
"No. I'm going to drink this wine. I'm going to drink all"—her arms fly open wide as I capture the glass once more. This time I grab it as the liquid sloshes and just before my light brown leather sofa has a nice red stain—"the wine you have." Her plump lips purse and change to a pout when she realizes the glass is gone. "Fine, take the glass, only because I know you're going to refill it for me. Aren't you, Ash? You wouldn't let me stay sober, not after..."
Her words trail away and a tear falls from the corner of one of her green eyes.
"He's not worth it." It's the same thing I've told her fifty times since she got to my apartment. "He's not worth the wine or the headache you're going to have in the morning. He's a slime. A douche. An asshole. And coming from one asshole, I know assholes. I never did know what you saw in him anyway."
Her arms cross over her tits, not in anger, but in the way she does to protect herself, shield herself from everyone else.
Placing my whiskey and her wine on the end table, I tug on one of her hands and shine my cockiest grin. "Besides, wouldn't you rather be here with me than with him?"
I've grabbed her left hand. I hadn't meant to. It was just the closest. We both look down at her empty ring finger. Just a few hours ago it had been wearing a diamond engagement ring.
Jess pulls her hand back and her words slur. "We were fucking supposed to be married!"
No longer sad, she springs up from the couch. In only a moment, she changes from jilted fiancée to the Jess I've known most of my life, the one who threatened to kick my ass when we first met at five years old, the one who wouldn't let some asshole walk all over her, and the one who's b
een my best friend for the last twenty-three years. Finally pulling herself out of her wine-induced funk, she staggers as she says, "In three weeks!" She holds up three fingers, narrows her eyes as she concentrates on them and then repeats, "Three!
"Holy shit," she continues, "do know how much money my parents are spending on this wedding? Have spent? As in, can't get it back? Fuck! My mom. Oh my God, my mom is going to have a coronary. And my dad, holy fuck, Ash, he may never recover."
I stand ready to catch her if she wobbles again.
With her green eyes glistening, Jess stares up at me, silently demanding an answer.
"I don't know how much they've spent. But I do know they hated his guts."
"No they didn't," she answers defensively. "They loved him. Everybody"—she elongates the word—"loves Jack. Jack and Jess. Jess and Jack. The perfect fucking couple."
"Jack, the asshole who fucked some other woman in your bed." I shake my head. "Your dad would have voted him off the island a long time ago."
Her dad has this obsession with reality TV. That and zombies. If there were a reality zombie show, he'd be set for life, or the apocalypse. And then, after years of watching Survivor and The Walking Dead, I'd definitely want him on my team. I already have him programmed in my phone, for phone-a-friend, just in case. According to her dad, Paul, you should always be prepared.
Jess takes a deep breath. "No, he wouldn't. Dad was thrilled that I was marrying Jack. And well, no one knows about that other woman thing—no one but you and of course Jack and her." She nods her head. "Yep, that's everyone. Hell, they were so into it, I doubt they even know I was there."
I run my hands over her arms, up and down. "You should have grabbed a lamp and cocked them both upside the head."
A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "That's why I love you. Violence is always your first thought."
