Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  Actually, that’s only part of it. Experimenting is fine but feeling judged and embarrassed isn’t. What a horrible way to be with a man you live and share a bed with. Meanwhile, I confessed I’ve toyed with being a sex slave, after which Darla got pretty quiet.

  “Are you sure you are okay?” she finally asks.

  Why am I so quick to accept she is right? Maybe it wasn’t Carlos. It could have been his cousin. They look a bit alike. “Are you sure it was him?”

  Darla’s voice is laced with tenderness. “The picture was taken on your living room sofa. He’s shirtless and flaunting that fugly tribal tattoo, clear as day.”

  The truth jabs me. Her voice was respectful, but did she have to be so forthcoming?

  Yeah, she did. I’ve needed to dump this moocher for a while, but I foolishly keep thinking things will get better. Now I am just too done to get angry.

  No, that’s not even true. It is time to face pushing forty has me scared. I’m running out of time to have a family—if it is not too late already. I’ve also been working too damn hard to deal with a break up. God! Why am I wasting time at a job that keeps my dreams of having my own business at bay? I have really screwed the pooch.

  “Bailey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so—”

  “Truthful while sounding like your heart is bleeding for me? I’m going to call that creep out and tell him he has to go. There is no way he can deny this. Would you please send me a copy of that profile?”

  “It’s already in my email to forward to you. Just do me a favor and be careful, okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. I promise. Go back into Mulligan’s and have enough fun for both of us.”

  I toss the phone onto the coffee table and curl into a fetal position. Tonight I will probably cry so much that tomorrow my eyes will look like chestnut-colored dots surrounded by puffy, red mountains. This is why I have kept my cards to my chest, waiting for some kind of proof. When he gets home from allegedly watching the game tonight, Carlos has a hell of a surprise coming!

  This is vile.

  Like seriously, Carlos is vile. And now that I see reality, I’m so angry my insides are vibrating!

  Instead of gripping this printout of the profile for Barry Grey, I should be ripping Carlos a new one that extends up his spine so I can reach through his neck and tear out his larynx. Knowing him, he’s gonna have some crazy justification, and I’d rather he’d not be able to vocalize it.

  Even if his profile photo wasn’t taken in our living room, there is no denying the guy in it is Carlos. That flat head of tightly cropped curls, those chiseled cheekbones, the eyebrows that look like they were painted on with a Sharpie, and the terrible tattoo all sell him out.

  The sound of Carlos opening the front door floats down the hall. The glow from the nightstand lamp makes it appear I’ve fallen asleep while reading. It also gives me plenty of light to catch his expression when he sees the printout sitting on his pillow. I lie curled up with my eyes ever so slightly open, waiting to catch the expression on the cheating snake’s face.

  Carlos tiptoes down the hall and places his keys on the nightstand so gently I almost don’t hear them jingle. A moment later, he is washed, stripped to his boxers, and ready to turn in. When he reaches the foot of the bed, curiosity crosses his face. Once he is close enough to realize what is on his pillow, he chuckles.

  The rat bastard chuckles!

  He is so amused by proof of his infidelity, he snorts! I open my eyes because there is no way I could actually sleep through that racket. “Where did you find this?” he asks. Light sparkles in his dark eyes, but then his jovial demeanor drops, and he sounds pissed. “What were you doing on a dating site?”

  Nice try, buddy. You are not twisting this around to make me the villain. I’m ready for battle. “Darla found it. Care to explain why you have a profile? Don’t belittle me by claiming it’s from before we met. The account creation date was eight months ago. Incase you’ve lost track—”

  “I am well aware we have been together for sixteen months.” Now he looks embarrassed by his implication I was in the wrong. He sets the paper down so he can reach for my hands. Man, this guy knows how to play the game. “Baby, do you really think I actually use that service?”

  His eyes come dead into mine, and he’s already doing a bang-up job of pretending he is not lying. “First,” he says. “I have never begged for a date.” I get a smile asking me to play along, yet my expression remains so stern it practically smacks the smug look off of his face. “Seriously, Bailey, if I were out to hook up, don’t you think I’d use something meant for that purpose? Besides, do you even know what I did at my last job? Quality Assurance for an Internet securities company. I had to get into the client’s end program and test how everything worked, starting with inputting data from the user interface. I lost my job just after that account was created. While I was cleaning out my desk, worried over how I could keep treating you in the nice way I’ve always loved, the last thing on my mind was closing my test accounts. I gave years to that place, and they tossed a bunch of us out like rotten fish.”

  This is why I held off before getting more information. Carlos loved his job. There is no doubt being laid off, after years of pouring his heart into eleven-hour days for a less-than-stellar salary, damaged his spirit. He may have slacked on looking for work since, but at the time the layoff happened, he was dedicated.

  Hold on …

  How often did I call his desk, only to have his phone go unanswered? Was he in meetings, or was he off playing around? Come to think of it, how many times did he tell me he forgot about meetings he set up because his memory stinks? Where was he instead of at his desk?

  Were nights of drinks with coworkers on the level? Who exactly were his coworkers, and how well endowed were they? I never questioned anything before Carlos hit his fourth month of unemployment and clearly had no interest in looking for work. Now I don’t know what to think.

  “Honey,” his grip tightens, and his eyes plead into mine. God, he looks so earnest. “I know I haven’t been the same since the layoff, but I haven’t met an employer I trust with my time enough to take the salary offered. Look, I promise I will close that account tomorrow. I’d do it now, but I don’t remember the password and will have to make some calls.”

  The tender cup of his hand on my cheek and his bedroom eyes may be tough to fight, but the bull behind his comment makes them fail to pull me under.

  “Hey, I can prove it’s not a real account. You know I gave up my credit cards when unemployment ran out. I was afraid of running into debt and collapsing my credit, so you put me on your card, remember?”

  Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. I’ve become well aware of my stupidity. How did doing that ever make sense? Was he that convincing, or did we really see good reason? This man’s Romeo qualities have always messed with my head.

  “How would I even pay for an account?” he asks. “You handle all the finances, so you would see the charges.”

  Damn. He’s right. Maybe all of this is on the up and up.

  A force seems to grab my hips and metaphorically smack me to the ground, putting me in check and telling me not to fall for his crap. My gut screams I am still oblivious to more than I see.

  Carlos slides into bed and wraps his arms around me. He smells faintly of beer. Booting him would be easy if he smelt like another woman, but no, he smells like a faithful man who watched a game with the guys should.

  I’m ready to call it a night and think about all of this another time; however, Carlos shows he has a different idea by drawing up my chin and bringing his lips to mine.

  A snake slithers up my spine. He goes in for another kiss, and I’m fast to give him the excuse of it being two in the morning and having been up twenty-three hours before rolling away and spending the next hour fuming before going to work. The full picture is slowly coming into view. I will not go out of this being any more screwed than I already am.

  #

  Darla�
�s ringtone chimes through my trailer just as I’m about to lay a brush on Katherine’s lips. Even though I’ve been awaiting her call, jitters send my hand jerking, nearly nailing Katherine in the nose. I’m far too behind schedule to answer, yet I do anyway. My nerves won’t calm until this part of my life is settled. “Hey, what did you find out?”

  “He closed the account, as promised. Just to make sure he isn’t being an even sneakier bastard than expected, I’ve set all of my accounts to notify me whenever a guy fitting Carlos’s description registers. My inbox is already exploding.” Darla’s sigh shows her disappointment in giving me one less excuse to dump Carlos. Hearing it sucks, but I told her long ago to stop rose-tinting her feelings when it comes to how I let him get away with things. I am about to thank her when Darla reminds me, “You know, there is nothing wrong with just dumping the guy. He’s not worth the stress.”

  “He’s not worth a lot of things. Carlos has sucked me so dry financially, nowadays I rarely treat myself to adding cheese on a sandwich.”

  “Do you still have the money GranGran gave you in case you need it?”

  Thank God I haven’t gotten in that deep. I don’t have a penny to spare, but I do have emergency funds. My great grandmother pounded the importance of that into my head enough times for me to listen. “Yeah, at least I haven’t been that stupid. Thanks for the info. I’ll call you later.”

  Katherine’s touch to my arm warms me with compassion, yet it does little to ease my frustration. “You okay?” she asks.

  “My problems sound like a screenplay for a TV movie on a fifth-rate network.”

  “He closed the profile?”

  “Yeah, and Darla is on the lookout for others.” My hand scrapes through my hair, wanting to yank it out. “God, Katherine, Carlos is such a slick liar. Cheating or not, I’m out. I need to figure out how to do it without getting further screwed.” How ridiculously my hands flail reflects my frustration. “Oh, I can’t take this anymore! Talk to me about something else—anything else—like that new movie. Did they figure out when you will leave this place and head off to the real Hollywood?”

  The warmth of her smile conveys she wishes she could erase my problems. I feel the same way about hers. “No, but soon—at least that is what I keep telling myself. We’ve finished the test fittings and makeup design, so I am pretty much ready to rock. I am sick of my schedule getting twisted around. First it happened because of Jason doing a side project. Now they have to flip everything on its head for me. At least the producers are supportive, to an extent. They want me to get more exposure, but they also don’t want me to do so well that I strike gold and bail.”

  Poor Katherine. Dating your co-star can’t be easy, but Jason’s schedule is hell for her. His appetite for success is probably making her as batty as Carlos’s mooching is making me. She’s as driven to get off of this horrible show and make the A list as he is; however, his career ambitions feel like relationship suicide to someone like Katherine who dreams of a happily ever after to complement her career, not to follow it. Also, Jason’s numerous side projects not only mess up weekends for everyone who works with him, he’s hardly home anymore.

  I used to have dreams too. I wanted to open a school that also served as a training ground for young makeup artists. How did Katherine and I let ourselves get so derailed? At least Jason is keeping up the fight for what matters to him. My words are aimed at how I am getting the sneaking suspicion he is looking to bail on this hackneyed spectacle someone calls a TV Drama. “Yeah, throwing off the balance by losing a key player would probably kill the show.”

  I take a good, long look at the lipstick I’m about to use. The color seems right but … I flip it over and check the name. It’s the same one I always use given the night scene we are about to shoot, yet it seems wrong. Did Elsie mess with it?

  A good look under the lights proves what I knew all along. It is the right color; I’m the one who is off.

  My problems with Carlos—his cheating and lying, and my inability to kick him out due to his being on the lease—are the tip of the iceberg. If he were physically abusing me, I’d slip out and leave my stuff behind, but there is no way I am letting him sell my things under these conditions. I need a solid plan that gets me away from him, both without becoming further screwed and while putting my life back on track.

  Devil May Care

  DALE

  Six hours. That’s how long it has been since Kyle Jacobson, CTO of Bascom Investments, strongly implied that after weeks of my attention, tonight he would agree to sign on the dotted line “over drinks and entertainment at our favorite establishment, of course.” For the love of God, this man needs to sign the damn contract. Because of him, I only got a scant two days at home. Then I spent yesterday again tweaking his proposal. I need to get my butt to Toronto and fix that Racer Enterprises deal some vacationing loser dropped the ball on before our competitor swoops in.

  Vacations can be career suicide. I hope the guy enjoys Rome and Athens enough to stay, because it is looking like he won’t have a job to come back to.

  To everyone else in the meeting, Kyle’s comment seemed buddy-buddy, but knowing the true message made even my skin threaten to sprout legs and crawl off. Now that we are in the back of a Town Car, en route to our destination, and I have given every subtle innuendo imaginable to confirm tonight he will get everything he wants, it is only fair I know my end will come through. “Did the advisory committee get a chance to review the contract revisions?” I ask.

  His cocky chuckle waivers. Do I detect a smidgen of nerves regarding the indignity of tonight’s charade? “How many times do I have to tell you, Dale? I can’t make such decisions with a foggy head. After tonight, I am certain that will no longer be an issue. We are good like that, right?”

  Hopefully he doesn’t notice how fake my chuckle is. Then again, he likely doesn’t care. “We certainly are.” Yeah, just like I am with a dozen other big wigs seeking personal gain from what should be a basic business deal. But who am I to complain? Uncovering people’s darkest desires hits the jackpot every time. Scoring a ten percent commission on nine point six million means my retirement age is about to drop; not to mention finally get me out of this town. A few days here and there has equated to spending nearly half of the last three months in Saskatoon. How do the sales guys with families manage? They and their wives must want to avoid each other.

  Kyle double pats my arm. Something about his chuckle makes it creepy. “Don’t worry. That commission is as good as yours. You must be eager to spend it.” With a canary-eating grin, he eyes the downtown nightlife as we ride past. “Up until a few months ago, I would tell you to put a nice payment down on a place in The Hamptons, but the last time I …”

  Not again.

  Is it possible for your insides to groan? If so, people on the other side of the planet can hear mine.

  Kyle begins another diatribe about his summer home on the water, which was pricey enough to end world hunger. Yes, I know. His sewer backed up and cost a fortune to fix. Also, utilities are expensive because they rob you at every corner. For me, the best part about closing this deal won’t be the money; it will be escaping Kyle and his high-class problems.

  “There are some benefits though,” Kyle continues. “All year long I look forward to visiting the Willow Glenn Country Club in The Hamptons. I tell ya, you should—” He swings his head in my direction, and the natural appeal of my Lebanese features causes his intended words to stumble into different ones. “Hey, you know who I see there all the time? Alvin Drys of the Giants. You a Giants’ fan?”

  Is he aware George Clooney’s smoldering-hot wife was born in Beirut? I bet there would be no problem getting her into his precious country club. Also, if he didn’t focus so much on himself, Kyle would know damn well I am a Rams fan. I save myself from insipid conversation by tapping the wallet bulging in the front pocket of my pants. “For your friend tonight. A rather generous tip is included.” Kyle adjusts in his seat, and I fight off
a twinge of disgust. Simply stated, after Kyle gets all of the sin he wants tonight, he will sign on the dotted line tomorrow. Thus, I am akin to Satan. I should carry a red pen just to see if anyone catches the joke.

  Yeah, I’m so keen to help others be immoral even I think I’m sleazy.

  Nights at places like The For Play Club, the finest gentleman’s establishment in Saskatoon, usually consist of hiding my amusement while my client eyes the place—hands in his pockets, keys rattling as he bounces with a blend of excitement over what is to come, and if he is a newcomer, apprehension over what to expect. Sometimes I catch a spec of guilt, because the guise of a meeting to help make a sound business decision gives him the excuse to objectify someone—generally of the opposite sex. Newcomers tend to sit with their hands in their laps or hover in the shadows. Only those who have been to clubs too many times to know shame bother to venture to the buffet, let alone eat more than a few nibbles.

  Nelly’s “Hot In Here” blasts out the doors and onto the street. As Kyle and I approach, the look I get from the bouncer is practically sympathetic. John knows even though I have forked over enough money to cover his salary for a year, all it has gotten me is a few meals and disdain over the number of brain cells I have killed here. Since Kyle has yet to work up the courage to visit the back room with Mercedes—the smokin’ blonde with the double-D’s who has probably paid her way through college on all of my bills he’s been stuffing down her panties—I’ve dealt with the arrangements. My boss will have my head if I blow more money without sealing a deal. Worse, the costliest part can’t be expensed.

  I reach into my wallet for a twenty and covertly slip it over a couple of hundreds. A ray from an accent light hits my wallet and beams off of my good luck charm. That means it is time to suck up how sleazy I feel, because tonight should get me exactly what I want. When I move on to tip the manager and request the section covered by Sable, the best server anywhere, his smirk acknowledges the contempt in my voice.