Packaged

by S. E. Hall

  I should be graceful and stern, but the anger brewing at the whole situation is too overwhelming to allow for that. So I do the only rational thing I can think of- I shoot him a text that explains exactly how I feel.

  Me: Fuck u!!!!!!

  That should do it. I haul the blankets over my head and close my eyes not waiting for his reply.

  When my alarm blares the following morning, I hit the button on my phone to turn it off, drag myself to the edge of the bed, and check the time. It’s then that I spot a new text, from him.

  I debate opening it at first, unsure what he could possibly have to say to me.

  Now in the light of a new day, I wonder whether deep down I want this thing we have to continue or not. I can’t deny that he’s the first and only man to make me feel alive, beautiful and desired.

  That’s worth a lot. But our so-called “relationship” is far from traditional, and after yesterday, I can’t imagine it ever would be. Whatever was there is gone, so there’s no risk hearing out his final words, thus I open the message.

  Elliott: We all have regrets

  “Regrets?” I repeat aloud in a defeated laugh. There’s not an ounce of amusement in it, only daggers that strike deep.

  The man has not a sensitive bone in his body. What an asshole! So he regretted the garage incident, or the entire last few weeks? Either way it was an insult that I needed to hear- a reminder that I mean nothing to him.

  I too have plenty of regrets where he’s concerned, but I don’t go around rubbing his nose in them. I’m tempted to copy and paste my previous ‘fuck you’ text as my reply but decide on the high road, calling into work and vegging out in front of the TV.

  Screw him and the rest of mankind.

  When the sun wakes me, evilly sneaking through the blinds Friday morning, I rouse with surprising energy. Not only do I want to go to work, honestly bored out of my mind, but Ashley will kill me if she thinks I’m building up to miss her party tonight.

  I dress in a power suit, bold, dark navy jacket and skirt, with a silk cami underneath and my tallest heels. With my hair pinned in a French twist, thankful I showered the previous night, I dab on light makeup before striding confidently out the door.

  End of the week=start of Bold Amelia.

  After a grueling day of catch-up, I’m rubbing my temples with one hand as I turn off my office lights with the other.

  “Eight o’clock, Sawmill, hooker wear!” Ashely calls out.

  Thank God for that reminder, I’d nearly forgotten since she last said it twenty minutes ago.

  “I’ll be there.” I smile. “See you tonight.”

  And see me she will. I haven’t waivered a bit on my ultimate plan—play the fashion demand to the hilt. With that guise, I figure I’ll redirect my mind and my body.

  I make a pit stop on my way home, trying to search out in my head how I even know of this store and praying they’re still open at the same time. Obviously I’ve never been inside short on invites to promiscuous events...thus, my need to stop now.

  “Welcome to Seductions,” a scantily clad saleswoman greets me as I enter. “Can I help you find something?”

  Your outfit will work, I smile to myself. “Yes, um…” I pause, no clue how to be PC about my needs.

  “What’s the occasion?” she helps me out.

  “Bachelorette party. We’ve been ordered to dress, uh, provocatively.”

  She laughs knowingly, tossing her long raven hair over her shoulder. “So, like sluts? Ah, how those brides love to torture. Let’s see what we can do! Do you want to win or lose the costume contest?” Her eyes narrow deviously.

  With one bold scan of the room, my lips curl up. “Win.”

  The clerk is across the room a second later, pulling one naughty dress after another from the rack before returning to lead me to the dressing room.

  By the time I exit, waving and thanking her almost an hour later, I know the trophy’s in the bag.

  I enter the Sawmill at eight o’clock on the dot, feeling shamelessly deviant and determined. Ashley spots me immediately, her brows shooting high, curiosity gleaming bright.

  For I, mild mannered Amelia Hill, have paired five-inch black patent pumps with my sleek black vinyl trench.

  Either I’m about to rob the joint, as ones with questioning stares may be wondering, or my outfit needed coverage until I was actually inside, surrounded by other women in similar attire. I may have also taken a picture of it before I left…just in case I get to feeling a bit mischievous. Probably going to be the only time in my life I’ll pull something like this off in public.

  My smile betrays hidden thrills as I make my way across the bar to where her extravaganza is held in the back party room.

  Ashley laughs, motioning a pointed finger up and down the front of me, when I’m within earshot. “Whatcha got going on under there, Jesse James?”

  Based on her low-cut, thigh-brushing dress (one that looks reserved compared to what I’m hiding), I decide I need to see what everyone else has on, and a shot—or two—before my big reveal.

  “Patience.” I smirk, stepping around her to catch the waitress helping the other ladies. “Can I get a Purple Hooter, please? Double.”

  “Amelia! Hey, girl!” Mabry jumps up and hugs me, clearly already buzzing and dressed perfectly for me to shed this sweltering coat.

  Feeling the heat of a blush inching up my neck and cheeks, I work off my jacket and hang it over the back of a chair. Hurry up with my shot, lady!

  “Hot damn, mama!” Ashley whoops, smiling amidst her shock at my skintight black leather corset and matching skirt, the material cut in shreds. I look like Athena the Domme Warrior Princess, my long brown hair in a single braid down my back, eye makeup black and heavy, with blood red lipstick to top off the look.

  “Here we go.” The waitress returns and I snag the purple shot off her tray and down it, biting back the burn while ordering another one.

  Thank God.

  “Amelia, you know my friend and future sister-in-law, Addison.” The pretty brunette smiles and waves from her seat as Ashley reacquaints us. “And that’s Shayleigh.” She points. “Rachelle and Morgan. You know the clan from work. Ladies, this is my admin assistant and friend, Amelia Hill.”

  I grin, returning a small wave to all, double shot now a noticeable trail of warmth working through my body. “Nice to meet you all.”

  As everyone mingles, I slip out my phone and accidentally text the picture to, oh I dunno, say Elliott… I knew the second I snapped it I would, but that shot and the warm welcome from the girls sealed the deal.

  No need to hide what he’s missing out on. His loss.

  Introductory chit chat soon dies and Ashley commands us all to take the next round of shots and shake our asses. Loosened by the alcohol and dressed for fun, the group of us women are quite the showstoppers—hair swirling, arms and hips swinging every which way. We control the dance floor.

  Men drift in and out of our swarm, gyrating with us, some handsier than others, all paling in comparison to him. When I finally take a breather, it’s on the lap of a very friendly blond frat boy named—

  “What’s your name again?” I giggle and slur, holding up my phone and snapping our picture before he can protest.

  “Whatever you want it to be, Sugar.” He winks at me, his hand inching further up my thigh.

  I’m highly intoxicated and even more so motivated to name my new friend, ‘Mr. at least for tonight’.

  The photo I’d sent was only the tip of the iceberg of what my wicked little phone shot Elliott’s way. More than one too many bratty texts.

  Okay, a few too many. I blame the booze.

  Me: You’ll never experience these again! That one was accompanied with a boob shot.

  Me: Oh look, more men SEXIER than u! Much!!!!

  Me: This guy even smells better stinky!!!!

  I don’t get a single reply, which only stokes my defiance. I hit send again on the picture.

  A compl
etely sloshed Ashley screams across the table. “Hey, did we ever get your name, hottie?”

  “Pretty sure it’s ‘you don’t fucking care.’” A primal masculine growl snares all our attention.

  Ashley spins in her chair as I look up to her scowling fiancé, Dylan, currently shooting lap guy dead with the daggers in his dark eyes.

  “Babe!” Ashley’s up, arms around his neck in a flash. “Are you trying to crash my party, Mr. Possessive? Addison, tell your brother…” She looks for her backup, currently attached to the mouth of her own man, Dylan’s friend, whose name also evades me. “Brady, I need her.” Ashley tugs Brady’s—that’s it—arm, pulling him off her girl.

  The whole scene amuses me, but I’m curious why Mabry’s drunk ass hasn’t jumped sexy FedEx, err, Shaw—his name I remember—yet, as he’s also here with the guys. And why’s he glowering at me?

  “Aren’t you my vag doctor?” Drunken Tiffany from work giggles, pointing at Brady.

  “Was,” he answers with conviction, but a grin.

  “Was?” Addison gives Tiffany a critical once over, then looks back to him.

  “Was,” he reconfirms, dipping the only woman he obviously sees and kisses the shit out of her.

  My pussy clenches in jealousy as no-name adjusts underneath me, causing me to glance over my shoulder at him.

  Damn, he’s cute. “Seriously, what the hell is your name?”

  “Guess,” he teases me.

  He’s got a sweet southern accent, almost adorable and light, with a refreshing air of carefree happiness about him. For some inconceivable reason, it only makes my craving for dark, brooding, and mysterious intensify.

  If you guess right, you may win a prize blares in my head on repeat as I ignore answering the flirt under me and return to my phone.

  Me: U busy or just being as ass? Don’t care. Guy in pic, he has time for me. Headed home with him RIGHT now.

  “Who you texting? You’re with me tonight.” The blond charmer pokes me in the side, his other hand sliding up my leg.

  Since my focus is still solely on my silent phone, I feel nothing but defeat. “Actually, I think I’m just gonna take off.” I move to stand, over it all, as his grip bears down.

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “Let go,” I seethe, murderously angry all at once, his attempt at domination the ultimate turn off.

  “Problem?” Dylan appears beside us, his hands fisting in and out at his sides.

  “Nope,” I quip, now released and able to stand. “He was just leaving, weren’t you?” I turn and warn him to get the hell out of here with bulged out eyes.

  “Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, then rises, frustration obvious as storms away.

  “See, all better.” I smile at Dylan, who’s peering at FedEx, exchanging a look as their eyes follow Frat Boy out of the back room. “It’s all good, really. Where’d your women go, anyway?” I glance about, spotting them not twenty feet away.

  Ashley is returning to Dylan while Mabry remains huddled in the group. Strange. Maybe she doesn’t know he’s here.

  I’m still just drunk enough to call out like an uncivilized hussy. “Mabry, girl! FedEx is here! Come jump your man or I will!”

  Shitballs. Said that out loud—think he heard me. Yeah…time for me to go. I dare a peek up at him with an apologetic smile, only to find him quirking one confused brow at me.

  “What’s my name?” he asks, eyes holding mine in his cool, arrogant captivity.

  Each hair on the back of my neck stands up, a current of electricity zapping through me. I know that voice. No, I’m just wasted…but my hard nipples and instantly wet pussy say otherwise. Never breaking his gaze, I pull out my phone, waiting for his flinch that never comes.

  Me: Your fucking name is Shaw Elliott Bryant.

  Send.

  We’re in a stare off again when a ping sounds from his pocket, my heart splintering in my chest as he casually retrieves it. I watch, eyes watering, while he reads his message, a beautiful smirk gliding over his unbearably handsome face.

  It’s him.

  FedEx, Shaw, Elliott, Phantom, Not Stalker is…fucking my friend Mabry.

  Who still hasn’t walked over here.

  Well, this will get her attention.

  With a dead calmness, I move to get my coat, slipping into it and cinching it tightly at the waist. Smirking, the tears still miraculously at bay, I saunter over to stand directly in front of him and crook my finger for him to bend down.

  The instant he does so, I raise my arm and summon the strength of a million angry women march—and smack the fucking shit out of him.

  My hand hits the door as I storm out moments later, and the first tear falls.

  “Amelia, wait!”

  I quicken my pace, brushing aside the cascading tears as he chases after me.

  “Stop, Goddammit!” he snarls, grabbing my elbow and spinning me to him like I’m his puppet.

  Wasn’t I, though?

  “What?” I spit, venom pulsing in every vein. “What medication is it you’ve obviously quit taking? My God, enough! Let’s not cause another scene.”

  His hard expression deepens. “Why are you so angry? Disappointed I’m not a doctor?” he sneers, the shadow to his eyes unfamiliar.

  “What does that even mean?!” I wail, confused. “Is that like, some sort of dig about my one date with Max?”

  “Ha.” He barks out a coarse laugh. “Hardly. If Missionary Max did it for you, I’d never have gotten this far. I meant, are you upset I’m just the FedEx guy?”

  My face transforms into a stoic mask. I can honestly say I’ve never seen someone more off the mark in my life. “That might actually be the only thing not wrong with you. I couldn’t care less what you do for a living. I also managed to see past your questionable sanity, possible stalker status, and lack of face or name!” Forget the stoic crap, I’m screaming now, jabbing him in the chest as my throat burns with my indignation. “I am, however, slightly concerned that you’re fucking Mabry, my best friend!”

  I’m not sure if he looks stunned or pissed, but the way he’s coming at me sends me moving. I stumble back, dazed but painfully sober, angry but hurting, and his hand immediately reaches out to steady me.

  I recoil away from his touch, disgusted. “Don’t touch me! Why, Ell—uh, Shaw? Whoever you are!” A fresh set of tears spring out. “Why be with both of us? You know we’re friends. Are you really that fucked up or do you just not give a shit?”

  He runs his hands through his hair, muttering under his breath.

  And then it hits me, a bolt of realization that shreds my insides so fast and harsh, I’m sniffing past huge, rolling tears just to breathe. “Your thesis,” I murmur, mostly to myself, testing it on my tongue. “Was I? You…you used me…as a subject?”

  When he doesn’t respond, my eyes roam up to meet his, unrepressed guilt shining bright.

  “Answer me!” My fist pounds the broad stone wall of his chest, but he just stands there. “Say something, you fucking coward!”

  “Amelia,” he chokes out, catching me as I crumble like the weak, naïve test dummy I am. Literally unable to stand, I allow the contact as he runs a hand up and down my back. “Please, don’t cry, baby. Let me explain.”

  I don’t want him to. Or maybe I do. Remaining silent, mouth shut tight lest I might vomit, I nod for him to continue. I deserve this much.

  “First of all, I have never slept with Mabry,” he says sternly. “Never. I have no idea why you think that, but it simply isn’t true. If it was, don’t you think she’d be out here by now, asking why you just slapped the man she’s sleeping with? And my thesis…” He inhales deeply, the release hot against my temple. “It did start that way, yes. But Amelia, baby—”

  I struggle out of his embrace and hold up a hand. “I am not your baby, and all I heard was yes. Goodbye, Shaw, or Elliott, or whatever the fuck your name is. Do not follow me.”

  A knock on my door wakes me way too early the next morning
. I swear to all that’s holy, if it’s him, only my death will save him from his own. Stomping down the hall, I yank open the door, itching for a murder, to find no one.

  Lucy brushes up against my leg, drawing my gaze down, which is how I spot the flowers and note.

  “Really?” I huff aloud.

  Mr. Deep and Insightful… You think cliché ole flowers at the ass crack of dawn is going to work? Fat chance. I bend down and retrieve the note, but only because I’m already up.

  Amelia, my Beauty,

  We’re far from done.

  –Yours, Shaw

  Oh, I beg to differ. I toss the note into the air and kick over the vase, slamming the door shut on it all.

  Later that afternoon, my cell rings. Unknown caller. I think we both know we’re past that, right?

  “Hello?” I answer hotly.

  “Amelia?”

  Not Shaw, nor my grandpa, because he’s dead, but a voice similar to his greets me.

  “Yes?” I reply with cautionary question.

  “It’s Walter, from the bookstore. How are you, my dear?”

  “Um, good?” My entire face is tense. He’s never called before.

  Walter chuckles in my ear, and now I’m sure it’s him, the jovial, kind-hearted sound easily recognizable once I’m calm. “I think you’ll be even better if you come on down to the store. There’s quite a surprise for you here, young lady.”

  My jaw grinds in rhythm with my racing thoughts, unable to speak.

  “You still there, Amelia?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Uh, what is it?” Please don’t say your weirdo son finally got that head in a box for me, please, please, please.

  “Well, if I told you, it wouldn’t quite be a surprise, now would it? But, I can hear ya worrying, so I’ll say this. It’s perfectly fine and I’ll be here waiting to see your big smile. Hurry up now.”

  I stare at the phone in my hand, contemplating long after I hang up. Walter is someone I trust. He’d never hurt me. Well, unless he was coerced, bound to a chair, and forced to recite with a gun to his head. In which case, I should save him.