by B. N. Toler
“Yes,” she hissed. “Sky High mail. Not my mail!”
As I entered the office, they both turned their heads to look at me. “Morning, all,” I gushed cheerily. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
They both stared at me, seemingly wishing they could kill me with their eyes.
“Why yes, Paul,” I answered myself, imitating Clara in a feminine voice. “It is a lovely day.”
“Hey, Paul.” I moved on to imitating Marcus. “How are you?”
“I’m good, man,” I answered myself. “Thanks for asking.”
I got nothing. Neither of them even cracked a smile. Letting out a long sigh, I pulled one of the folding chairs from the wall and flopped down on it. “What is it this time?”
“I accidentally opened Clara’s mail and she’s lost her shit about it.”
“It had my name on it! He had no right to open it.”
“Okay,” I replied, unsure of how to fix this. Clara looked so mad, she might cry. “I’m sure it was just an accident. It probably got mixed in with the other mail.”
“He had to sign for it, Paul,” she sneered.
I closed my eyes. Fucking Marcus. I knew Clara could be a giant pain in the ass, but he was hell-bent on making our work environment miserable by being a dick to her every chance he got.
Clara yanked an envelope off her desk and chucked it at me, hitting me in the chest. “Might as well read it, Paul. Marcus pinned it to the front board so everyone else has.”
I cut him an exhausted look that said, really? Opening the envelope, I pulled out the thin stack of papers and read the top of the first page.
Separation Decree.
I couldn’t look at him after that. He was in the wrong. There was no way for me to defend him this time. Playing jokes on her was one thing, but this was her personal business.
His mouth turned into a frown as he shrugged. “I wanted to make sure she found it and that it didn’t get lost.”
Letting out a long grunt, I sat forward and tossed the envelope back on the desk. This was kids’ shit.
“And all this because we took February away,” she whined dramatically. And she was right. Every December through February, we closed down. The weather was too cold and sales dropped dramatically with the holidays. But Clara did some research and found that other skydiving businesses were opening back up February 1st each year. It didn’t take her much to convince me when she showed me the numbers. But Marcus wasn’t as open to it as I was.
“That was a month off that I look forward to every year.” His face was getting red.
“And you are welcome to still take it off. You just won’t get paid for it,” she told him calmly.
“I count on that money,” he argued. “You didn’t even talk to us about it,” Marcus yelled.
Clara grinned at him with disbelief and disdain. “Why would I talk to you about it?”
“Because I work here.”
“Yes, that’s right. You work here, for me. And for Paul. We make the decisions. Not you.”
She couldn’t have known the effect her words would have on Marcus. She didn’t know the history. She didn’t know that though Marcus never told me, I knew deep down he’d been deeply hurt when Dennis didn’t leave him part of the business. After all, he was Dennis’s adopted son. Marcus took it as being slighted, and wondered if maybe Dennis hadn’t felt the same. But all the same, Clara’s words might as well have been like a whip to the face.
“This was my father’s business,” Marcus scoffed.
Clara blinked a few times as she absorbed that information. She never knew. “And I’m sorry if I don’t agree to his whore coming in here and trying to take over the place.”
Clara’s eyes practically bulged out of her head as I propped my head in my hand. I needed to intervene. I should have intervened. Marcus had gone off the deep end. But I didn’t at that moment, because he was digging into her about how she was affiliated with Dennis. And I wanted to know just as badly as he did why he’d left her half of his business. She looked at me, and I knew she was waiting for me to speak up, to reprimand Marcus, but I didn’t. Clara dropped her head as if seeking a moment to calm herself.
“Sorry to disappoint you. I wasn’t his whore.”
“Then the daughter from his whore?” Marcus fished. Dude! He wasn’t giving up.
“From what I understand, he was single. Why would he have a whore or a mistress? You’re a fucking idiot.” She said the insult slowly, her voice certain. “And no. I’m not his daughter.”
“Then who are you?” he shouted. “Why did he leave you half of a business he spent most of his life building?”
We both watched her as she struggled to answer . . . or not to answer. Shaking her head, she picked up the envelope and shoved it in her purse. “Of all fucking days, it had to be today.” I scowled. What did that mean?
She rounded the desk, and bent down so her intense line of sight met Marcus.’ In a calm but certain voice, she growled, “If you ever call me a whore or the daughter of a whore or anything affiliated with the word whore, ever again, I will fire you.” Looking at me just as angrily, she snapped, “You deal with this. We made that decision about February together. You own half of his anger.” Then she walked out, slamming the office door behind her.
“You really know how to make the work environment pleasant,” I chirped. “Thanks.”
“You really gave the okay for the February jumps?” he asked, ignoring me.
I shrugged unapologetically before trying to explain. “Even if we can only get one hundred jumps and sell the pictures and videos, we would at least cover your salary plus Clara’s and mine. Otherwise, we’re tossing money out the window. I know it’s your month off, and I know you can’t stand her, but sometimes, sometimes,” I reiterated, “she does have a valid point and good ideas.”
Marcus furrowed his brows. “Is that Paul the business owner talking, or Paul the guy that wants to fuck her talking?”
Well, shit. I was shocked. He’d never spoken to me like that, with such animosity. And because I was young and arrogant and insensitive, I replied, “That’s Paul, your fucking boss, talking.”
He nodded a few times, letting me know he got what I was saying—loud and clear—before he marched out the office, slamming it as well.
After my last jump, I closed up the office. Marcus and Clara never returned after their argument, and I busted ass all afternoon between greeting clients, handling payments, and diving. After I closed the office for the evening, I drove straight to the closest bar with every intention of getting hammered. The constant animosity between Clara and Marcus was starting to weigh on me. If I backed Clara, Marcus thought it was only because I wanted to have sex with her. If I backed Marcus, I’d piss Clara off and for some reason, I really didn’t want to piss her off. Not anymore, anyway. I just wanted some peace. What I needed was a few stiff drinks to help me forget. Finding some company for the night wouldn’t hurt either. At that time, I knew I was attracted to Clara. I knew I wanted her. But I didn’t want to want her. She wasn’t my type. At all. She was bossy and high-handed; always a know-it-all. I liked my women easy. And I didn’t mean in the sexual way . . . although, sometimes that’s all a man really wants when he’s young and single. I meant easy in the laid-back sense. Easy in the knew when to let shit go sense. Clara wasn’t easy. In any sense of the word. She was a ballbuster. Other than her being nothing like my ideal woman, there was also the matter of my freedom. It was of the utmost importance to me. Settling down was as foreign to me as another planet. I was working hard to stay put; to be satisfied by my dives, hoping it would douse the need I felt to go. To move. But I knew myself well. That need couldn’t be sated. Not permanently, anyway. And I’d learned early on, after breaking a few hearts, that you don’t make promises you can’t keep. So I started laying down the terms early on. I walked into any situation with one hundred percent honesty. I told them two things.
I don’t do happily ever after.
> I don’t do babies and white picket fences.
Clara wasn’t the kind of woman for that. Truth was, no woman was truly going to go for that. But they were stubborn. They all agreed to my terms, understanding where I stood. But they all believed, deep inside, that somehow they could change me; that their love would turn me into a different man. And when it ended, they hated me. But when I left, I didn’t feel bad because I’d told them the truth.
So, no. Clara was not my type.
I knew that.
But that didn’t change me wanting her.
And on that night, I needed a release. I needed something to be easy, or rather . . . someone. When I walked into the bar, it was already crowded. A huge group of loud men surrounded the pool table and dartboards. All the booths were full. And as luck would have it, right away I spotted just who that someone to give me my release would be. I slid on a barstool beside her and ordered a straight shot of bourbon. She was a brunette with brown eyes, and she wore too much makeup. It didn’t take long to figure her out. Her name was Mandy and she’d just broken up with her boyfriend.
Easy.
An hour later, her hand was rubbing my thigh. An hour after that, I was signaling the bartender for our check. “I’ll take the check, Rick,” I called.
“Rick,” one of the waitresses yelled as he was about to answer me. “She wants another. I told her she was cut off, but she asked for the manager.”
“I don’t have time to talk to her right now,” he griped as he poured a drink. “You take her a cup of coffee and tell her she’s done. We’ll call a cab for her. We’re too busy to babysit her and make sure that group of knuckleheads over there doesn’t keep messing with her.”
Mandy extended her neck and started looking around, scanning the room, trying to find who they were talking about. “Oh my God,” she gasped, with a little chuckle, squeezing my thigh. “She’s plastered. Check her out. She can barely walk.”
When I followed her line of sight, I had to do a double take.
Clara.
It was Clara.
What the fuck?
“Do you know her?” Mandy asked, taking in my expression. But I didn’t answer her. I was too busy watching Clara now.
She was on her way back to her table from the bathroom, swaying like a buoy in rough water. Her blonde hair was tied up in an updo, strands hanging low, her blue eyes hooded with drunkenness. She wore the same thing she’d been wearing earlier that day, a white tank top and jeans. The men surrounding the pool tables watched her, some of them jutting their chins her way for their friends to take notice of her, others elbowing one another. She was a fucking target. But she didn’t seem to notice. She wasn’t noticing much of anything. The song changed just before she reached her table and she stopped, staggering from the abrupt halt. Closing her eyes, she swayed to the beat for a moment, not caring how she looked or who was watching. A tall, burly guy from the group came over and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back, and forced her to shake her hips in rhythm with his as he danced. She weakly pushed down on his arm, trying to get away from him, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he pulled her closer and said something in her ear.
My barstool screeched against the wood flooring as I forcefully shoved it back, flipping it on its side. I didn’t bother to pick it up before I headed her way. I can’t tell you this massive feeling of jealousy had hit me and I marched over there to kick that guy’s ass. Maybe that’s how I felt. It’s definitely what I wanted to do. He certainly deserved it behaving that way with a woman that was clearly too drunk. But I was livid with her. Clara was a smart woman; always on top of things and in control. So what the hell was this? Alone in a bar completely smashed. She was too smart to do something so dumb.
“Hey, man,” I grumbled as I stormed up to them, my shoulders back, my chest out. “I’ll take her. She’s a friend.”
The guy turned away from me, taking Clara with him. Then twisting his head over his shoulder, said, “She’s having a good time, man. She’s not ready to leave.”
“I think I need to go,” Clara uttered, her words slurred. “I’m not feeling well.”
“She wants to go, man,” I growled, pulling his shoulder hard. “Let her go.”
He released Clara, but only to spin her around so he could look her in the eyes. “You’re fine, babe. I’ll get you home tonight.”
“No. I don’t want to go home with you,” she laughed drunkenly. “You’re a terrible dancer.”
“Now you have your answer. Let her go,” I demanded, my teeth clenched. This guy was a total fuckwad. How many ways did she have to say she’s not interested? One should have been plenty.
He ignored me and pulled her toward him, but she stopped him, placing one hand on his shoulder as if to hold herself steady. “Just one more dance, sweet thing,” he purred, tugging at her.
“No!” I roared.
“She can decide,” he boomed back.
Clara tilted her head as she stared at him with a thoughtful expression. “One more dance. Then I have to go.”
Then she looked at me, her gaze glazed over, and gave me a little shrug. I was livid. She was telling me to fuck off. That she was going to stay and hang with the douche bag to spite me. And I wasn’t having any of that. I stepped toward them, fully intent on yanking her ass out of the bar if I had to.
And that’s when it happened.
She puked.
All over him.
Like projectile puked.
It was awesome.
And horrible.
It was the best and worst all at once.
Everyone in the bar lurched away, even the ones in the back farthest from us, the bar falling silent except for the music blasting in the background. A few people let out some groans of disgust, covering their mouths and gagging. The guy looked down at his body, covered neck to feet in vomit.
“What the fuck?” he shouted, his tone rich with disbelief.
“Shouldn’t have had that chili dog for lunch,” Clara noted as she grimaced at the sight of her own vomit. Somehow she’s managed to hose this guy down and not get a drop on herself.
Her gaze met mine again. Same glazed look. And she shrugged. She’d planned that. I’d thought she was telling me to fuck off. She was really saying, watch this. I wanted to laugh hysterically but I decided I better get her the hell out of there before she puked again.
“You bitch!” he shouted. He knocked her hand from his shoulder and she stumbled. I caught her and pulled her to the side, propping her so she could hold the top of the booth seat to steady herself so I could grab her purse.
“She told you she wasn’t feeling well, man,” I pointed out as I handed her a napkin from the table so she could wipe her mouth, while I collected her things. “You should have listened.”
The guy was beet red with fury, his eyes fixed on Clara like he wanted to hit her. Dropping her shit in the booth seat, I turned to him. “Let it go, man,” I warned him. “Go clean yourself up.”
His angered stare trained on me. “Get that bitch out of here,” he fired back.
“You’re a real classy guy,” I piped back as I returned to collecting Clara’s things. I shoved the large envelope containing her separation papers in her purse with another envelope I only took a second to observe before putting it in her bag. It had her name on it written in my uncle’s handwriting.
“Come on, Clara,” I murmured as I took her arm. She stumbled out beside me and just before we exited, I looked over to Mandy at the bar. She was already talking to some other guy. Her eyes met mine and she shrugged, raising her beer bottle in silent farewell.
I looked back down at Clara who had just rested her head on my shoulder as we walked.
Cock-blocker.
“We have five minutes until we meet with Clara,” Ashley points out. “We should probably stop here.”
After they remove my mic and I stand to go, Ashley asks, “Do you really think she made herself puke on that guy?”
I
laugh. “Knowing Clara, yes. She’s good at making assholes look and feel like assholes.”
Ashley nods a few times and gives me a small wave. “See you next week.”
“So we heard about the chili dog puke scene at the bar,” Ashley informs me once we’re all set up.
I scrunch my face in embarrassment. “He told you about that?”
She laughs. “Yes. Did you do it on purpose?”
“Knowing me, yes, but I was pretty smashed so I really don’t remember.”
“So Paul took you home that night. What happened?”
He had to stop twice on the way to my house so I could relieve myself of more vomit on the side of the road. It was awful. Made worse by the fact that each time we stopped Paul got out and stood with me, getting a front row seat to my humiliation. I was mortified. By the time he got me home, I had nothing left in my stomach. He followed me inside and into the kitchen where I poured myself a glass of water. I turned and leaned against the counter as I chugged it, noticing he was staring at me, arms crossed, eyes angry.
“Thanks for bringing me home,” I murmured. “I’m sure you have other things to do tonight, so you can go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he informed me. “I want some answers.”
Placing my glass on the counter, I asked, “Answers to what?”
“Why did you go in there and get smashed? Because of Marcus? Because if that’s the case, I thought you had tougher skin than to let him bring you down.”
I didn’t answer him right away. Instead, I busied myself getting two Ibuprofens and putting two slices of white bread in the toaster. I desperately needed something in my stomach.
“Was it Marcus?” he finally asked when I didn’t respond.
“No. He didn’t help though,” I mumbled.
“The separation papers?” he questioned.
Meeting his gaze, I decided to give him the truth. Well, most of it. “Twenty-five years ago today my parents were killed in a drunk driving accident.”
All the color drained from his face.
