As Gavin drove me home in the Bentley, I tried to tell myself the memory of Wes was enough.
Back at home, I spent three hours on Google Maps trying to retrace my steps using street view, but I couldn’t find the entrance to Wes’ mansion. I couldn’t find its circular driveway with its huge fountain on satellite view either. Nothing turned up. It was almost as if there never had been a mansion. It had disappeared from my life as surely as Wes had.
When I got ready for bed, the ring was really hurting my finger and I did have to soap it off. I couldn’t leave it on. I didn’t want my finger falling off. I also had to soap off the green ring it had left around the base of my pinky. Like I thought, nothing but junk.
But I clutched it in my hand like it was priceless as I cried myself to sleep.
While I slept, I dreamt that I was in fact married to Wes and we lived in his grandmother’s mansion, which was now completely restored, looking like the day it was first built. All the rooms were bright and clean and filled with light, all the colors rich and vibrant. Throughout the house, the laughter of friends and family and children echoed through the hallways. The house had transformed into the most beautiful dream home anyone could ever want.
Too bad everyone knew fantasies like that never came true.
Chapter 9
“Aaaaahhhhhhh!!!!”
I screamed myself awake the next morning, lying on a bed of broken glass, writhing in excruciating pain. Ice picks stabbed every inch of my body. Pain, pain, pain. My skin burned. My bones ached. A dozen jackhammers slammed into my skull. My teeth hurt. My gums were sore. My fingernails and toenails pulsed with pain. My scalp itched. Even my hair hurt. Every part of my body was self destructing.
Was I dying?
I didn’t know, but I couldn’t move a muscle without more pain.
My agony was so intense, I passed out within minutes.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
The next time I woke, I had just enough energy to crawl to the bathroom and pee. Halfway there, I thought I wasn’t going to make it. The feeling of my knees and elbows and stomach scraping across my apartment carpet was almost too much to tolerate, like crawling across razor blades. But the need to pee was ten times worse. Crawling onto the toilet was possibly the hardest thing I’d ever done, but I did it.
Worse, peeing burned. Literally burned.
Imagine someone sticking a hot poker up your—
You get the idea.
What was happening to me?
When I finished, I whimpered as I crawled back to bed and passed out.
Horrifying nightmares tormented me while I slept. My body was being invaded by some unstoppable flesh eating bacteria that was killing me. Or twelve kinds of cancer all at once. Or parasitic worms eating me alive from the inside out. Whatever it was, there was no known cure. Doctors and soldiers wearing orange Haz/Mat suits hovered over me, operating on my body while I was wide awake and screaming in pain.
They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me.
But I knew my death was only hours away.
I wanted to wake up from this nightmare, but I couldn’t.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
I gasped awake into darkness.
The first thing I noticed was that my pain had subsided.
Not completely. My bones still ached, especially the ones in my face. But my skin wasn’t burning and my scalp didn’t itch. Thank goodness for that much.
But I still felt awful.
My throat was paper dry.
I didn’t have to pee but I needed water, so I crawled out of bed. The carpet no longer felt like razorblades on my skin. Just sandpaper. That I could tolerate for a few minutes. When I slid onto the faux parquet wood floor in the kitchenette, I had to slide across on my belly because it hurt my knees and elbows too much to put any weight on them.
I managed to prop myself up in front of the sink and fill a glass with tap water.
I guzzled it down.
Dirty LA tap water had never tasted so incredibly good.
I drank two more glasses before crawling back to bed.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
It was light out when I woke again.
My bladder was ready to explode.
I stumbled into my bathroom just in time.
After, I drank more water before falling back into bed.
That’s when I realized I heard a rhythmic banging against my bedroom wall. The one that I shared with my new neighbor Blaze, the gorgeous jerk who’d dismissed me the day he’d gouged up my door.
Bang, bang, bang.
Shrill feminine moans drifted through the wall.
Grunting masculine ones followed.
He was having sex and it sounded like he was going to break the bed.
No surprise with a guy like him.
I hoped he broke the floor too, and his bed fell through the ceiling. I just hoped nobody was home downstairs when it happened. I tried to picture Petrak’s face when he saw the mess. The bill would be in the thousands and Blaze would have to pay for it. Serves him right. With any luck, Petrak would evict him and I’d never have to see his too handsome face again.
“Uh! Uh! Uh!”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He sure gave new meaning to the term banging.
I tried not to picture Blaze’s head hanging over me, his unruly hair swaying with each thrust, his blue eyes on fire as he stared into mine and filled me to the hilt.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I sneered at the image of whatever bimbo he was boning. I tried to shout, “Stop it!” But my words came out in a thin whispery croak.
If I wasn’t still half-dead from whatever disease I had, I would’ve kicked the wall repeatedly until they stopped.
But I was too tired to do anything.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A scowl stretched painfully across my face as I drifted off to sleep.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
The ringing of my phone woke me.
My headache had faded to a manageable dull thud, but the sound of the phone was killing me. If I could reach it, I would throw it out my bedroom window.
Finally, it stopped ringing.
I slowly realized I was baking in my bed from the heat. The sheets were soaked. I kicked my covers off, welcoming the cool air. It took only a few minutes to realize my apartment was still an oven.
My eyes half shut, I stood up and slid open my bedroom window. I almost punched a hole in the glass because the frame was lower than I remembered. I didn’t spend any time thinking about it. I pressed my face against the screen and felt a slight breeze. Not good enough. I turned on the fan in front of the window and cool air blew across my sweaty face.
Relief.
Partially.
I really needed to pee again. I stumbled out of my bedroom, making a beeline toward my bathroom. On my way there, I heard Blaze’s front door slam shut. It startled me so much I spun around and saw a woman strutting past my living room window. Probably the one I’d heard him banging. It was hard to see details because of my sheer curtains, but I could see enough. She was tall, impossibly thin. Everything she wore was tight. Her boobs floated on her chest like they were filled with helium. Yeah, those are real. The huge pile of platinum blonde hair spilling down her back looked like fake extensions she’d bought at the Barbie factory.
She spun and headed back to Blaze’s door and pounded on it, screaming, “Is Brenna one of your clients? Or do you fuck her for free?”
Clients? Free?
Was Blaze a male prostitute?
He was certainly attractive enough.
Whatever he was, he was a prince among men. Ha ha ha.
The blonde screamed again, “Answer me, asshole! Who is Brenna?!”
I waited for the sound of Blaze’s front door ripping open, followed by the sound of him groveling. As bimbos went, this one appeared to be at the higher end of the scale. I imagined the men who liked plastic women would want to hold on to this one.
But Blaze never opened his door. The least you would expect from a muscular manwhore like Blaze was that he would be man enough to take a tongue lashing from the women he kicked to the curb the morning after banging them. Apparently not.
Oh well. Not my drama.
She pounded several more times. “Oooh!!! You are a worthless piece of shit! I hope Brenna gives you AIDS and your dick falls off!” A second later, she breezed past my window, her heels pistoling off the balcony walkway. Wow, she was really angry. I couldn’t imagine why.
Sarcasm.
I waited patiently, hoping Blaze would finally come out of hiding and go chasing after her. I liked the idea of hearing him beg. I was in the mood for a good laugh at his expense.
Plastic Blonde’s clicking heels faded into silence.
No sign of Blaze either.
That was a surprise. I was sure he’d grovel.
I smirked to myself, What an ass brain.
After I peed, I dug my phone out from behind my nightstand. I must’ve knocked it off the charger last night. I looked at the screen.
42 missed calls.
9 voicemail messages.
Tons of texts.
What the hell?
How long had I been asleep?
I looked at the date on my phone.
Friday.
It was Friday?
The entire world turned upside down.
The last thing I remembered was… I drew a blank. My memory was foggy. What had happened last?
Wes.
I had been at his house on Sunday.
Sunday.
I counted the days off on my fingers.
Five.
Five days.
Had I just slept five days?
No. That was impossible. I shook my head and looked at my phone again. Friday. Was I losing my mind? How could I have slept five days straight?
I hadn’t been that sick, had I?
Or had Wes drugged me? Or poisoned me?
Had that water bottle he’d given me been laced with something? No, that was crazy. I’d taken it from the pack myself. He’d said it was from Costco. He couldn’t have drugged each one. That was just ridiculous. What about Gavin, his driver? Had he drugged me? No, Gavin had dropped me off outside my apartment building and had driven off before I’d walked through the front gate. He had no idea which apartment I lived in. It wasn’t like my name was on the door. And I knew Petrak wouldn’t have told Gavin if he’d come back later and asked. But Gavin did have that MI5 look. Had he spied on me and drugged me in my sleep with a poison blow dart? No, that was crazy.
So what had happened?
I scrolled through my list of missed calls.
Chelsea.
Work. Oh shit.
George Sweet.
My parents.
Work again.
And again.
And again.
I was supposed to work Monday night. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday.
Had I just missed the last four days of work without checking in? If I had, I was probably out of a job!
Panic seized me as I listened through my messages.
Chelsea checking in.
George on Monday afternoon apologizing for not hanging out and asking if I wanted to hang out later in the week.
Maria from work asking where I was on Monday. Fricking Monday.
Maria again on Tuesday.
Doug Wallace, the general manager from work and my direct boss asking if I was okay and to please call.
Chelsea on Wednesday wondering why I hadn’t called her back.
Doug again on Wednesday telling me that Rick Martinez from the Venice store was now covering my shifts but he really needed me to call and let him know what was going on.
On Thursday, Stacy Lewis, the head of HR at the 95 Cent Store corporate offices, warning me that if I didn’t call or show up in the next day or two, they would assume I’d quit permanently and replace me.
Shit!
Stacy again today, about two hours ago, informing me that I had been terminated and I could pick up my final check from the store at my convenience.
Triple shit!
I needed my job!
I called corporate, my hands shaking as I punched in the number.
The machine answered, “You have reached the main offices of the 95 Cent Store Incorporated after our regular business hours. If you know your party’s extension, please dial it now. For a directory of—”
I punched Stacy’s name in and got her voicemail.
“Stacy! It’s Jane Johnson. I’ve been really sick. I had a really bad flu and I couldn’t get out of bed for five days. I’m so sorry I never called. I was literally unconscious. I don’t know what happened, but I slept all week.” I laughed once. “I know it sounds impossible, but that’s what happened. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”
I ended the call.
I was pretty sure she wouldn’t get the message until Monday. I didn’t have her personal number. So I called my store. Doug might still be there. I needed to explain. He knew me. He’d understand.
The phone rang and rang. Fridays were always busy. Doug could be on one of the registers helping out, or out on the floor helping stock the shelves. Nobody answered.
My body jittered from all the stress induced adrenalin.
I needed to do something.
I couldn’t lose my job. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to pay rent next month! Crap! Time to jump in the shower and get dressed and hurry down to my store and beg Doug for my job back.
When I ran into the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror, I nearly had a heart attack.
Chapter 10
I had just gone insane.
Or had a stroke.
Or maybe I was still asleep.
Whatever it was, there was no rational explanation for what I saw in the mirror.
Someone else.
Not pudgy little me with bad hair.
Some supermodel I didn’t recognize.
I blinked several times.
But I still saw the supermodel.
I was hallucinating.
I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed them until I saw stars. Then I opened them.
Still seeing a supermodel.
Long flowing blonde hair, a bit messy and bedish, but it was silky and shiny gold and looked good enough for a photo on a box of hair dye.
A finely shaped face with high cheekbones, trim nose, wide full mouth and lush lips. Her lashes were naturally thick. When she smiled, she had perfectly straight white teeth.
The supermodel was taller than my five foot nothing. If I had to guess, I’d say she was almost 5’9” with long and slender arms and legs and an hourglass figure.
Then it hit me. I was looking through a window at another person. It was the only thing that made sense.
So I stuck my head slowly out my bathroom door to see if the blonde supermodel was standing on the other side of the wall, looking at me through a window. Super Blonde matched my movements exactly and, surprise surprise, she wasn’t standing behind the wall in my hallway.
Nobody was.
Back in front of the mirror, I scratched my head for a moment and Super Blonde did too.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
Duh.
I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I was just imagining all this. The brain can be like that. Wishful thinking and that sort of thing. Probably left over hallucination from my crazy five day flu.
I walked into my bedroom and found my glasses on the nightstand where I always left them before bed. I put them on.
Whoa!
I couldn’t see!
My glasses really hurt my eyes.
I yanked them off and looked at them. Were these my glasses? They seemed like it. Was it an old pair? Maybe that was it. I put them on again. My entire bedroom squiggled and vibrated and had this magnified quality that made me nauseous. I took them off and searched through my desk for a different pair. Put tho
se on. Same thing. They hurt my eyes too. I went back in the bathroom with my glasses and put them on in front of the mirror. Same result. They hurt my eyes and blurred everything, so I set them on the counter.
Had someone given me LASIK while I was asleep?
I’d think about that later because one thing remained the same, whether I had my glasses on or off.
I was the blonde supermodel in the mirror.
It wasn’t my eyes. It had to be something else.
Then I figured it out.
Of course.
Someone, maybe Gavin, had replaced my bathroom mirror with some super high-tech 4K movie screen while I was asleep, and installed hidden cameras in my bathroom. The cameras were filming me so the actress playing Super Blonde could copy my movements, and her movements were being projected on my new 4K bathroom movie screen. She was being filmed at a secret sound stage on a set that looked exactly like my bathroom, which Gavin had taken pictures of. The actress even wore the same My Little Pony T-shirt I slept in, the one with Twilight Sparkle, the one I’d bought at the Bay Area Brony Spectacular convention with George. On me the shirt had always been a loose fit across my chest and a tight fit across my waist. On the supermodel, it was the opposite. Big boobs stretched it out and it hung loose around her trim waist.
Was this some cruel joke?
Had I been Punk’d by my enemies? Were they mocking me with an image of the woman I wished I looked like? The one every woman wished she looked like?
That was absurd.
I didn’t have any enemies, except maybe my new neighbor Blaze, but he struck me as too lazy and disinterested to bother. The only people I knew who had the resources to pull off such an elaborate prank were Gavin and Wes. But they wouldn’t do that. They were both so nice and they barely knew me anyway. Why would they bother?
I rested my palms on the counter top. It was lower than I was used to. I reached up to touch the mirror.
Super Blonde’s hand met the mirror at the exact same moment mine did. The glass was cool to the touch. It looked like a regular mirror to me.
If I Were Beautiful (If I Were... #1) Page 7
