Garrett & Sunny: Sometimes Love is Funny

by Peter Butler

  I followed her gaze and with horror realized that I was standing there... stark naked, and the stirrer she was referring to, was - well... straight in front of her face.

  In my defense, from the time I had opened my eyes this morning until this very moment, I had been totally on edge and distracted; trying to solve problems with a brain that was barely functioning. And this had required all of my limited ability to concentrate.

  'Oh, God!... Oh, Crap!... I, I.. didn't realize... I had no idea! So sorry.' As I said all this I made a ridiculous attempt at regaining my decency by thrusting my left hand over the relevant bits and pieces. It was too little and too late, and I don't mean that in a smug, bragging way.

  She was enjoying my discomfort immensely, I could tell this by the huge grin on her face. She began to chuckle, which slowly grew into a laugh which then grew louder, to the point where her entire body started shaking uncontrollably.

  She knew she was losing it and in desperation held one of the cups out to me which I took in my one available hand. But this wasn't enough to stop the spillage from starting, so with a very wobbly hand she urgently thrust the other cup in my direction. Instinctively I grabbed at it with my other hand.

  Having to expose myself again only made her laughter even worse, which in turn caused a large splash of very hot coffee to land on my bare right foot during the handover.

  Now, one of my feet was as red as my face.

  She started rolling on the bed in fits of laughter, her hand thrust over her mouth was doing little to muffle the sound. I was left standing there in pain, trying not to hop, embarrassed, naked and completely devoid of any dignity. A low point in my life that I hope I never manage to best. But all of my discomfort was taking second place to the glimpse of pearly-white bare backside that I was given when her rolling around on the bed caused her dress to slide up to a dangerous level.

  Eventually she regained control of herself and rolled back to the sitting position, smoothing and pulling her dress down as she did.

  Damn!

  She flicked her hair back to reveal a beautiful, natural blush on her face.

  God, it was hard to think about anything other than her when she was in front of me.

  She looked at me with deep intensity, and then, thank God, she smiled. It was a genuine smile, full of warmth. I guess she was seeing the situation from my perspective for the first time.

  Wow! I love the smile she's giving me, it's just so... Well... just for me.

  She eased herself off the bed and went to where her panties lay on the floor. She came back to me, knelt, and gently wiped the remaining hot coffee from my foot with them.

  Maybe I'm reading too much into this, but this was probably the sexiest thing that any woman had ever done to me. I could only look down at the top of her head and think, I really don't want to blow it with this girl. Whoever she is - she's something special.

  She left the panties beside my foot and sat back on the bed. She smiled at me again and said, 'I'm sorry about your foot.' She held her hand out and I passed back her cup.

  Unlike her, I had no clothes lying around that I could put on. I considered her panties, but even brain-impaired as I was I realized that would be weird and dismissed the thought. I wondered where my clothes could be? As she was sitting on the bed linen I couldn't even use a sheet to wrap around myself. I thought of getting something out of the dresser, but it seemed a bit like shutting the barn door, after the horse had already bolted. I decided it was safest just to sit beside her.

  I did, and we drank our coffee in silence for a minute or two. I was starting to feel almost comfortable being naked in her presence and it certainly didn't seem to bother her.

  My impatience finally won out and I tentatively said, 'Last night was great.'

  I hoped she would agree and elaborate, but she just nodded and murmured. 'Mmm...'

  Eventually she said, 'It was lovely.' Then she qualified her opinion, 'Well, most of the night was.'

  We drank in silence again. This was like being involved in a high-stakes game of poker - for me, anyway. Show no emotion, don't let on that you've got nothing.

  'Are you feeling better now?' She finally asked when her coffee was finished.

  'It's just a foot, I got another one.' I said, in a very poor attempt at a mafia tough-guy voice.

  'No,' she chuckled, 'I meant after last night. Truf and I were very worried about you. The way you suddenly went all quiet and sleepy.'

  Now this was the first really valuable clue I'd been offered. Truf is my best friend and if he was there he would never have left me if he thought there was a danger or risk. So I can assume he also approved of her.

  I decided to subtly try and dig deeper. 'I don't remember much of it at all.'

  'Well, I can tell you that Truf was the one who carried you inside to the couch. If it was just me you'd be waking up in the garden or more likely, beside the road.' She laughed at the idea.

  So, I was on the couch, presumably still fully clothed. How did I get undressed and into bed? Nothing was coming back to me about what she had just described. Even more frustrating, no memories at all were being triggered.

  I tried again. 'What the hell was I drinking? My mind seems totally blank about all this.'

  'We were drinking all sorts of things, mainly spirits though. Lots of toasts to your grandfather, Ed.'

  At last a partial memory stirred inside my head; something concerning my grandfather was due to happen. I wonder what it was, and if it was happening today? I searched my few active brain-cells but nothing floated to the surface. Thankfully, I always write important things in my diary, so I'll check that later. Plus, Truf will be able to fill me in on last night. Things were looking up.

  I was about to ask more, when I noticed her looking at the clock on the wall.

  'Oh, God! I have to go,' she said, as she reached over and gathered up her bra and panties from the floor. She took the coffee cup out of my hand and moved them both to the dresser. The bra and panties were casually tossed into the bag on top of all the pharmaceuticals, and the kitchen sink. Then, in one fluid move, she draped her giant red, cloning, carry-on size suitcase full of pharmaceuticals over her shoulder. On anyone else the bag would have looked too large, but she carried it with so much confidence that it seemed to be a part of her own body. I also noticed that the color of the bag complimented her dress superbly.

  I loved watching the way she did things. Everything about her was so poised and elegant, and at the same time so carefree and casual. Like most guys, I spend a lot of time looking at women and I can usually find things to love about most of them, but she was scoring points in ways that I had never even considered before. Her bag complimented her dress superbly...What the..!

  She came over and stood in front of me. I stood too, and for the first time that I could actually remember, we were close enough and in a position to do damage. I was about a foot taller than her and I looked down into her face.

  'Thanks for an... interesting night.' She offered as she gently cupped my face with her hands, then lightly kissed me on the lips.

  She pulled away after the kiss and looked into my eyes intently, but it was too late, my arms were already folding around her back. I kissed her this time, a little harder than she had kissed me, and she responded with equal vigor. I felt her arms fold around my back, locking me in just as tightly. Neither of us seemed all that anxious to end this.

  Finally, she released her arms and gently eased my shoulders away. She leaned her head back, 'Whoa!' She mumbled through heavy breathing. 'This is very different from last night.'

  She moved just out of my reach and then she backed away towards the door, her eyes never left mine. I matched her step for step, but she kept just out of reach.

  'I want to see you again... Soon.' I said.

  'Then call me,' she countered lightly, her eyebrows raised in a questioning manner. Then she turned and reached for the door handle.

  I was devastated and steadily
building up to a mini anxiety attack. I didn't have her number, her name or any real memory of our time together. But she obviously thought I did.

  I was about to blurt all of this out, but when I noticed the knowing look on her face my instincts kicked in and I held off. Her expression was challenging me. Or was it mocking me? She seemed to understand the turmoil that was going on in my mind.

  She said, 'I left my number.' Then she gave me a sly grin and slid out the door. She turned back for a moment and waved goodbye, the way women do, wiggling her fingers.

  My hand automatically waved back the same way as the door closed behind her.

  She could hardly have missed noticing Little Gary, was also waving, but in a much more manly way.

  ***

  Straight after the door had closed I pulled a pair of shorts out of my dresser and began my search for the number. It clearly was not in my bedroom, so I headed out.

  I surmised it would be written on a post-it note or a scrap of paper, and my office would be a logical first place to try.

  I entered the room that a large part of my normal day takes place in. It's a large area that was originally designed to be a lounge room, but I decided I could do my relaxing in one of the other smaller living rooms. There are three of us who work in this one office, so we have no secrets from each other. I call Sky and Sophie my right and left hands and my workday would struggle to get anywhere if they were not around to help organize me.

  My desk is the first thing you see when you enter; it sits in front of the rear wall and faces into the middle. It is larger than the two desks occupied by the girls. This isn't an ego thing on my part, my work requires the use of two large wide-screen monitors and they just wouldn't fit on a smaller desk. A huge bay-window sits behind my desk looking out to a leafy garden. I love looking out there because it's so peaceful and at the same time, vibrant. It is also the perfect distraction, which is why I sit with my back to it. This morning the curtains are tightly drawn.

  I know straight away she has been in here because my chair is slightly askew, as if someone had just spun around, got up and left. I never leave my chair like that. In direct contradiction to my work, the rest of my life is very informal, although I have to admit some people prefer the word 'slob' to describe me. Unkind! Casual, is the one I use. The harsh truth is that I'm quite anal about my work area - a tidy desk equals a tidy mind, is the theory. My work is complex and finely detailed and I need to be able to get information as quickly as possible, hence the six filing trays laid out on the return. I call it my Hekyll and Jyde personality, I know that spoonerism is a bit too cute, and not many of my friends seem to get my little attempt at humorously explaining one of my many charming idiosyncrasies. It's most probably me who is off-target with that one, as I try hard to not surround myself with fools.

  Sky, my right hand, mocks me endlessly about this little isolated neatness obsession and a quick look at her work area confirms why. Her desk is a disaster; papers are spread out all-over it, a calculator is half buried under an open book, both of which are casually placed on top of an open prospectus that she has been studying. And so it goes. There's even a computer buried there somewhere. I call Sky my right hand because her desk is to my right and I put up with her 'mess' because she is absolutely terrific at her job, which is to assist me with company research and analysis. Besides, she can find anything on her desk, blindfolded. I know this because I foolishly bet against her with real money, once.

  Sophie, my left hand, is my accountant and office manager and the rudder that keeps the Nixon Fund heading in the right direction. Consistent with that area of expertise Sophie has her desk as sterile as an operating theater. Her idiosyncrasy is a love of plants, with which she has surrounded her work area. The one thing on her desk that looks out of place is the machete that Sky and I bought her as a joke, just in-case she needed it to get to her chair. We're a small team, I'm the boss, but you'd never know it. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

  The only other noteworthy feature in the room is the bank of filing cabinets lined up side-by-side on either side of the door. Government regulations being the confused mess that they are, require us to keep a paper copy of just about everything we do.

  The Nixon Fund is a private hedge fund and we currently have nineteen high wealth investors who use our services. We deal in stocks and bonds and trade all over the world. Hedge funds make informed, but often, quite risky investments. My fund is comparatively very small, but it is growing nicely. I am trying to shift our emphasis into actually controlling, or, even better, completely owning the small to medium size companies we invest in. This has become necessary because the American banks and investment firms, are in the process of destroying the concept of individual investors being able to trade shares on any global market. The whole system has become gamed over the past few years and no individual, or average size business, can compete with banks and their friends who can, literally, create billions with the push of a button and use it in the market against the rest of us.

  Trading shares and bonds is my job but computers are my passion. I studied computer science at university and wrote nearly all the programs I use in my work. This gives me an edge over most of the other hedge-funds. If they are small, like mine, they usually buy programs off-the-shelf, or if they are large they have a department full of computer geeks to do that work.

  In my case I'm the analysis guy and I'm the geek, this saves a lot of time.

  These days it has become fashionable for hedge funds to employ "Quants" as specialist analysts. They are usually highly skilled computer scientists, mathematicians or "quantum" physicists who are smart enough to work out that a career in the finance industry pays much better than designing rockets or teaching at universities.

  I'm not a quant, in fact I'm not even qualified. Almost all my family were jointly surprised and pissed-off when I never bothered to turn up for my final university exams. The only one who got it was my grandfather, Ed. He had been there and done that and understood me enough to accept that if I was to have my own business it would be something I would need to commit to until I was successful. Having a career to fall back to would make giving up all that easier.

  Besides, all I needed from the course was the knowledge and I had that. Proving it would come if I succeeded, not with answering some questions for the academics. Ironically, some of the people who did answer those questions and went on to graduate are driving cabs for a living today. The other reason that I didn't want a "Certificate" was the overwhelming need to conform at that level of education. It was almost like a cloning process where everyone leaves with the same knowledge that they then try and sell to a prospective employer. I was much happier working on my own projects. I call myself a Lone Wolf.

  Quite frankly, at the time it was just arrogance. I knew I could do this. To be more accurate; by the time I was due to take my exams I had accumulated a share portfolio worth around a million from my part-time trading of the share market. I was young and a smart-ass. Hard to imagine, I know.

  End of story.

  Well, maybe not. In 2008 when the bottom fell out of the market, a sizable chunk of my bank balance went with it. Over the next year and a half I managed to make it all back and my plan to start my own hedge fund was once again back on track. It also helped greatly to have a grandfather who was a retired legend in the Investment Banking industry in the City, and the source of most of my real knowledge.

  I looked everywhere on my desk, but I couldn't see a note. I noticed my phone-charger was empty. That was unusual.

  Maybe not, given that last night still didn't even qualify as a blur.

  The disappearance of my phone happened in that mysterious blank stage of last night. I didn't notice it in the bedroom, so maybe it is on the couch. I usually take it everywhere with me, so I almost certainly took it last night. Normally, the last thing I would do before going to bed is charge it. Hence, my surprise.

  But then I don't even know where my pants
are, so maybe surprised is too harsh.

  I check the filing trays for a note. I check all of the desks, Sky's takes longer than it should. Nothing. But I do notice some of the papers in the trays on my desk seem to have been disturbed. I suspect my overnight guest has been snooping through my work.

  My mind starts to wonder if maybe that was the reason she came here. Maybe she drugged me so she could have plenty of time to get some information she wanted.

  Maybe not. After-all she had nothing with her when she came back to the bedroom, apart from the coffees. Perhaps she had a camera or a flash drive to record what she wanted, and she left it outside and collected when she left the bedroom. She did make a point of closing the door. I made a mental note to check if she had tried to access the computers.

  No shit, Sherlock! Are these thoughts really coming out of my mind? From the very same idiot who just raided her bag, or at least attempted to. What the hell am I thinking? She probably just wanted to find out a little about me. I doubt I was very talkative by the time we got back here. I would probably have done the same in her place. I decided to drop that whole line of thinking. I had a note to find. And now a phone as well.

  I move on and scour the lounge but without any success, but I do find my shoes, shirt and jacket from last night. I seem to have carelessly scattered them all around the couch. But no pants. Not my normal behavior. On impulse I go back to my bedroom and open my closet. My pants are there, hanging neatly from a coat-hanger. My underpants are on the floor beneath them.

  I try and picture myself undressing and throwing my clothes all over the place, while a girl I just met stands there watching the bizarre spectacle. The other thought I have is far more appealing. I imagine she is the one ripping the clothes off me and throwing them on the floor. But why did I bother to hang my pants? Weird. A third alternative involves Truf, but this doesn’t even get to the partially formed stage before I dismiss it. I decide it's definitely the second scenario.