by Xavier Neal
“I still need to run a couple more comparison tests on the three potential matches you arranged for Hilary, but I will have them ready for you to present to her Friday morning as scheduled.”
“Thank you.”
Harlow gives me a curt nod and exits my office.
Maybe I don’t need a promotion. My attitude shifted from professional to belittling at the simple possibility of moving up.
My eyes drop down to the photo of an attractive man with a head and beard full of salt and pepper hair. He’s definitely older, but distinguished. The featured photo is of him in a simple suit showcasing a well maintained physique. Slightly impressed, I hum to myself, and continue to peruse the file I didn’t have the pressure of assembling. I spend almost an hour reading various analyses regarding his behavior along with his basics, such as where he was born and where he’s currently living.
The location information has me snatching up my office phone and dialing Stacey.
“This is Stacey.”
“Hey, it’s Carly. Quick question. The Augustine meeting. Is that here in Highland?”
“One sec.” Her fingers hit the keys with haste. “Nope. Texas. Dalvegan. Brunch at the Red Roof Tower. Eleven a.m. I’m going to send you your itinerary I just-”
“When’s my flight?”
“Thursday morning. Private. Same day turn around.”
“Can I get that changed?”
“I’ll see what I can do and what your schedule permits. What exactly do you want changed?”
“Any chance I could fly in tomorrow night instead? Come back Friday?”
There’s some typing followed by a puzzled humming. “You’ve got cocktails with JM tomorrow afternoon, but,” there’s more clicking, “I can get you on an early evening flight. Wait,” additional clicking, “Noooo. Not early evening. Just regular evening. They’ve got an opening for seven.”
Excitement starts to brew.
“But you can’t stay Thursday night. There aren’t any available flights for Friday morning that would get you back in time to meet with HS.”
“Okay,” I instantly agree. “Make that happen for me, please.”
“On it.”
The call ends and I have to dig my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from squealing.
It’s been six weeks since Dusty and I were physically in the same room. Everyone from vacation kept insisting what we had would fizzle. Thankfully, it hasn’t, but keeping it from self-destructing is more strenuous than we imagined. We’ve developed routines to keep us connected, like us talking during his drive back home to the country or timing his lunch breaks around mine for the day. We do other little things like share cups of coffee over video chats, which usually requires him to get up an hour earlier than normal, and we also send each other thoughtful gifts, like the catfish pen lying next to my keyboard. Our sex life, if we can call it that, is a different ball game all together. I enjoy watching him stroke himself for me. It makes me ridiculously wet, but he hates watching me do the same because he wants to feel my orgasm, just the sight of it is not enough. Going into this we knew distance would be difficult, not impossible. I also knew out of the two of us, I would probably be able to squeeze in a visit before him. Not only because I can afford it, but because my schedule is unpredictable, and often has occurrences like this one, where I can squeeze in personal alongside professional. And I’m always scouting for an opportunity to get close enough to call it. Two weeks ago we were looking at a man in Oklahoma. Thought for sure that would be my chance to pop down a state and see him. Unfortunately, that man was a lot like the client I rejected today. Appeared decent on paper, but not so much everywhere else. Part of me wanted to be the one to tell him his hatred of homosexuals actually stems from his own stifled desires which could be shown clearly in certain photos by the body language he was unconsciously displaying.
I spend the remainder of my afternoon familiarizing myself with the potential client and reviewing the weekly schedule Stacey updated. Like usual, I get so wrapped up in working I don’t even realize what time it is until my phone begins vibrating across my desk. The sight of Dusty’s face kicks up the corner of my lip and the butterflies that lie dormant in the pit of stomach.
Just his picture makes me as giddy as I was when we first met. Contrary to everyone’s beliefs, including matchmaker me, that hasn’t faded either.
“Hello,” I sweetly say into the phone.
“How’s my baby?” he questions warmly. “Headed home?”
“Not quite.” My elbow lands on top of the paperwork and my face plops into my open palm. “I was given a new file to look over.” The decision to tell him about my visit lingers right on the tip of my tongue. “I’ll probably stay for another hour then meet Cordie for a drink.”
Dusty sighs, “Again?”
“What do you mean again?”
“Didn’t you jus’ go out with Cordie on Friday? To some art thing for some man named Trezelle or Jermaine?”
“Treme.”
“Right. And you spent a shit ton of money buyin’ somethin’ for your library-”
“Kitchen nook.”
“And then, didn’t you and Cordie go out Saturday night? Dancin’ at some underground club? Didn’t you get too tipsy to even call me when you got home at three in the mornin’?”
My lips press firmly together in hopes of preventing an argument.
This drives me crazy. He doesn’t handle girl’s night out well. Ever. It’s jealousy at its ugliest. He hates knowing other men in the world are looking at me in the way only he should and coming onto me. He hates being states away and not able to run interference though blowing my phone up all night has a similar effect. He texts from the moment I step foot outside my apartment or office until I’m safely home. Oh, and when I put my phone on silent? He flips out, convinced I’m either looking for his replacement or dead in an ally. It’s ridiculous! It’s annoying. And it’s one of those problems that distance only makes more difficult.
“Why can’t you jus’ go home?” He continues to complain. “Do you have any idea how much money you keep throwin’ away drinkin’ like that? Eatin’ at those places and parties?”
Money is honestly one thing I never worry about. It’s also one thing I’ve learned he constantly frets over. His earnings have a way of consistently being pumped back into his family. Whether he’s helping his parents because their bills are higher than expected, or he’s treating his adorable nieces to a ‘date’ at the movies, his money rarely goes to him. We’re also at opposite ends of the spectrum there. My money goes to me. I earned it. I spend it on what I want whether it’s expensive paintings or designer attire. My parents bring in plenty of their own cash and my brother, Art….Well, when being a part time musician doesn’t pay out, he makes a withdrawal from the bank of boyfriend. I’d probably toss him a bit of cash if he asked, but he doesn’t. Too much pride. Again, something to thank our parents for.
Dusty huffs even louder, “And why you gotta go all around town danglin’ yourself?”
His follow up question gets the better of me. “Excuse me? Dangling myself?”
“What do you call it when you put on those stupid high heels and no bra?”
The stab at my wardrobe boils my blood.
“You keep buyin’ new shoes and those damn see through dresses, throwin’ away even more money like it grows on trees. You know, where I’m from women pay a lot of money to look that easy.”
My mouth bobs up and down in bewilderment. “Are you telling me I dress trashy?”
“I’m tellin’ you in the past six weeks, half that city has had a better view of your tits than I have.”
There’s no hesitation in ending the call.
I slide the device across my desk and shake my head.
No. Fuck him. I’m not going to sit around and be guilted into going home or insulted in ways I damn sure don’t deserve.
My phone starts vibrating again with his picture. The butterflies swarm again, yet die
when I swallow my animosity.
Instead of dealing with his unnecessary outburst, I busy myself with putting everything away. Once the files are secure and my computer is shut down, I grab my purse, lock my office, and head out for our favorite bar, Night Heat.
As soon as I enter I spot Cordie giggling at the bar with a man in a designer suit.
This is her favorite pick up place for day to day conquests. It’s always brimming with men who have deep pockets and deeper issues. Most are looking for women like Cordie. Women that don’t mind being used for the night. Women who aren’t searching for diamond rings or whispered promises of a future. Night Heat is where people come to connect in an old-fashioned way, in a very over the top modern setting. However, unlike my flirtatious, redheaded friend, I’ve never come for the men. I’ve always come for the amazing drink prices that stretch ‘til nine and the amazing fried goat cheese balls. Any man I took home to scratch an itch my vibrator could no longer scratch was merely coincidental.
My phone vibrates once in my grasp.
Surprised to see a message from my big brother, I swipe the screen to retrieve it.
Art: Dennis drama. Again. Crashing in your guestroom.
Hmm. So my boyfriend isn’t the only man on the planet currently being a dick. Maybe it’s just that time of the month for men?
I start to type back when a hand unexpectedly blocks the screen.
My eyes lift to see a light-haired male sporting an overly confident smirk and salmon-colored dress shirt. “Hey there, beautiful.”
The desire to gag is amplified.
His bold wardrobe choice paired with the smile he’s showcasing are a recipe for disaster. Once you take into account his designer shoes, his blindingly bright watch, and the amount of product in his hair, the assumptions only get worse. This is a man who makes commands, not requests. This is also a man who believes his power can and will get him anything or anyone. He’s not going to handle rejection well, and if the faint bruises on his knuckles are an indication on how he deals with his cocaine highs, which I’m assessing he has from the slightly twitchy nature and crust of dried blood on the inside of his left nostril, it’s probably going to be in my best interest to defuse this situation as quickly as possible.
“Hello,” I politely state after I’ve slid my phone into my purse. Without hesitation, I make a movement to continue my walk towards the bar. “Excuse me.”
“Now wait a minute,” he demands, blocking my path. “Why are you in such a rush?”
“Because I’m not interested and the longer we draw this out, the more humiliated you’re going to be in front of your group of friends, who are sitting to the left drinking whiskey and coke.”
He appears to be impressed by my immediate observation. “One drink. Give me a chance to change your mind.”
There’s no room for debate in my response, “No, thank you.”
Laughter from his group reaches our ears, and the grip he has on his glass noticeably tightens.
Alarm bells I’ve become more than acquainted with begin to chime.
One of the benefits of being able to dissect someone’s body language is knowing when your own life is going to be threatened. It gives you a proper, albeit short, window of opportunity to prepare for a defense or in other cases take the offense.
My voice sinks to a very low tone, “I suggest you think twice about the aggressive way you’re planning to proceed.”
He grunts, “No one tells me what the hell to do. I tell them.”
I bet he does….First with his words then with his fists.
“Now get your ass over to our table and let me buy you a drink.”
“No.”
The man snarls and makes an attempt to grab my hand. In one fluid motion, I get his pinned behind his back and a fist full of his hair. Grumbles and groans of distress linger behind his gritted teeth.
“Try to touch me again and your dignity won’t be the only thing no longer intact.”
“Problem?” a familiar voice questions.
I abandon my hold and turn to face Earl, one of the security guards. “No. I think we’re good. It was just a miscommunication. Right?”
The pink shirt man adjusts his collar. “Right.”
Earl folds his enormous dark-skinned arms across his chest. “You sure, Carly?”
My eyes steal one more glimpse of the jerk whose cheeks are now burning burgundy. With a pleased smile, I turn my attention back to the man I was smart enough to befriend years ago when we first start coming here. “Positive. Thanks anyway.”
He waits for me to dismiss myself before moving away from the situation.
To no surprise, Cordie’s flirting wasn’t affected by the small commotion I made near the entrance.
She paws at the man’s chest. “Oh, stop….You don’t really know Shemar Morris.”
“I do,” the man insists with a predatory grin. “Well, I’ve met him a couple times. He likes to grab beers from The Silver Tap Pub.”
Cordie grins at the information drop. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Huge fan of some foreign beer that only they carry in the city. He gets bottles imported for his bar at home, but when he wants it on draft, that’s where he goes.”
“Hmm….Good to know.”
Always on the hunt for the next big blog moment. Her followers love her day-to-day stuff, but live for when she runs into someone famous. This is the other reason she loves it here. People like him offer up useful tips.
“You can go now.” She shoos him away with a wave of her hand. “My bestie is here, and I’m done with you.”
His jaw cracks in surprise.
“You’re not my type,” Cordie insists at the same time she lifts her finger to grab the bartender. “I am so not into the ginger on ginger action. Buh-bye.”
The man snorts his annoyance, stands, and walks past me mumbling expletives.
She pulls her hair to the side of her face. “Hey!”
From her volume it’s safe to gather she’s at least three drinks in. “Hey.”
Ruben, the bartender, gives me a sexy smirk. “Evening, Carly.”
“Hey.”
“You want the usual?”
“Can you actually make it a double?”
He quickly nods. “Cheese balls?”
“Always.”
Ruben winks and reaches for a martini glass.
Cordie doesn’t miss the adjustment to my order. “Double? Rough day at the office?”
“More like rough evening with the boyfriend.”
“Again?” She gags. “Didn’t you two just fight like…what? Yesterday?”
“Saturday.” All of sudden, I recall the tantrum he threw the following morning as well. “And Sunday morning.”
“That’s practically yesterday.”
Rather than retort, I watch Ruben make my drink.
She’s really no better than Dustin. He’s overly concerned I go out too much, and she’s pissy because we “go out less”. The truth is we don’t, I just happen to call it a night earlier now. It’s my way of compromising. I love when we hang out here or go dancing for a couple hours, but my mornings start early and having to call my boyfriend at 2 a.m. on the weekend makes me feel like an asshole. But staying home sulking isn’t for me either. Time out with my friends is healthy! He has time out with his brother and, occasionally, Shawn from work. I don’t flip out. I don’t even bat an extra eyelash. Maybe he doesn’t trust me?
The moment the drink lands in front of me I sigh, “Thank you.”
“Hope it lifts your spirits, especially since I’m only charging you for a regular.”
“You’re a saint.”
Ruben chuckles, “Who needs a big tip.”
“I’ll be your tip,” Cordie coos at him.
He gives her a small smile, shakes his head, and strolls off to where he’s being summoned.
My glass barely reaches my lips before Cordie’s snapping, “What the hell is Cowboy Clingy’s problem now?”
I have a sip rather than answer.
Venting to Cordie about my relationship problems is a last resort. Audrey is more understanding, though ever since we’ve been back from vacation she’s fallen into a semi depressive state. I try to avoid troubling her or even bringing him up. As far as my other couple of friends, they’re all happily married with kids, which is not quite the level I’m at yet. If Dustin keeps this up we won’t make it to having kids….
Feeling my phone vibrate in my purse again has me chugging the drink down a little faster.
“Ooooo,” Cordie taunts. “Must be bad if you’re taking it back like that. What’d he do!?”
With my glass half empty, I finally place it down, to double check it is him who is bothering me and not my brother needing something in addition to a bed for the night.
The sight of nine unopened texts and four missed calls tempts me to reply.
Dusty: Please answer.
Dusty: I was out of line
Damn right he was out of line!
Dusty: Baby I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.
Dusty: I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.
Dusty: Please answer.
Dusty: This is killin me.
Dusty: I’m REALLY sorry Carly. Bad day.
Dusty: Miss you baby.
Dusty: Afraid you don’t miss me too
I let my shoulders drop.
Doesn’t excuse his behavior, but it damn sure explains it.
“Oh no,” Cordie grouses. “Don’t forgive him that easy.”
Fear over the idea she can see my messages causes me to turn off the screen and place it back in my purse.
“At least make him sweat a little. Whatever he did was harsh enough to warrant you ordering a double.” She lifts her own martini to her lips. “What I really wanna know is how long you two think this shit is gonna keep going?”
“Not this again,” I sigh, lifting my eyes up to the sky. “Definitely not today.”
