by Fanny Merkin
“I thought you’d never ask,” Kathleen says, slurring. We leave our duplex and our new landlord behind. What an insufferable, rich, handsome man!
Kathleen and I are pounding back Jägerbombs at Eclipse, our favorite watering hole near campus. Eclipse is loud, and the music drowns out my internal monologue so that I don’t have to listen to how attractive and desirable Earl Grey is. Kathleen called Jin as we left home, and he met us at the club in his tight-fitting My Little Pony shirt, the one that shows off his muscular pecs.
“Have we told you we’re moving to Seattle?” I say to Jin.
“Dios mío,” he says. “No, this is the first I’ve heard . . .”
“Well, we’re doing it,” I say. “In two weeks, after graduation. Or sooner, since classes are canceled. We just decided to do it on the way here.”
Jin shakes his head. “Have fun,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s happy for us or jealous. Probably jealous, because Seattle is totally much cooler than Portland because it has buildings made of glass and steel instead of grass and mud. Plus it’s the birthplace of grunge, so Kathleen is excited to finally see a Nirvana show in their hometown.
“Another Jägerbomb?” Jin says, heading to the bar.
“Are you trying to get me wasted?” I say.
“Well, if you’re moving away, this might be my last chance to get you smashed and sweep you off your feet,” he says. Oh my, Jin’s so funny!
“Where’s Kathleen?” Jin turns around and scans the packed bar. There she is—she’s on Jin’s back!
“Heeyyyyy,” she slurs.
“Okay, you get off him and I’ll get us another round of Jägerbombs,” I say.
“I’ll get him off,” Kathleen purrs into Jin’s ear. He grins and waves me off.
I stumble toward the bar. How many drinks have I had? Too many, I reckon. I don’t usually get drunk, but then again I don’t usually have a billionaire CEO showing up in my bedroom with an expensive gift. I don’t care how good looking he is—Anna Steal is not someone who can be bought with money. Or bought with things money can buy. When I get to the bar, my inner guidette does a backflip: the bartender is Earl Grey!
“You’re drunk, Anna,” he says to me, shaking a martini.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say.
“You’re exceptionally beautiful,” he says.
I blush. “Let me guess: You bought this bar, too?”
He shakes his head. “Oh, Anna,” he says, reaching into my soul with his gray eyes and goosing my inner guidette. “For your information, I don’t own this bar. I’m a part-time bartender. It’s one of my many hobbies. I fell in love with bartending after watching the movie Cocktail.”
“Never seen it.”
“Tom Cruise? Cocktail?”
I shake my head. “I don’t even know who that is. Sorry.”
He laughs his wicked laugh and passes the finished martini to the girl on my left. He takes her money. “You are hilarious, Anna,” he says. “Your sense of humor knows no bounds.”
“If you really do this part time, why haven’t I seen you here before?”
“I normally tend bar at a little club in Seattle, but I’m filling in for a friend here who’s sick. Something you have a little experience with.” He smirks.
“Whatever,” I say. “Give me three Jägerbombs.”
“I’m sorry, Anna. I’m taking you home. You’re drunk.”
“Kathleen or Jin will drive me home,” I say.
“They’re just as drunk as you are,” he says. “I can’t take that chance. You’re too important to me.”
“But you’ll let them drive off, drunk?”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “I’m not worried about them or about anyone else on the road. The only person I’m worried about in this world is you, Anna.”
The things he says! He makes me feel like I’m the only girl in the world. I’ve never felt this special.
“We’re leaving now,” he says. I hope he’s not going to take me on another helicopter ride like earlier in the day, because this time I would, without a doubt, hurl.
“I have to go tell Kathleen and Jin I’m leaving, at least,” I say.
Earl leaps over the bar and grips my arm. “Forget them.”
“What, are you going to pay them off?”
“When you look at me, you must see a big pile of money,” he says. “Is that it?”
When I look at Earl Grey, I don’t see a pile of money. I see a pile of SEXY MF. The room begins spinning . . .
Earl throws me over his shoulder and carries me toward the exit.
“Kathleeeeeeen!” I scream.
We stop moving. I look over my shoulder and see why Earl’s stopped: Jin. We’re in the middle of the dance floor, and dancers begin to clear out around us.
“Put the girl down,” Jin says.
“She’s drunk, and I’m taking her home,” Earl says.
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Who’s going to stop me? You? A twenty-one-year-old brony?”
Jin nods. “That’s right, old man.”
Earl lowers me to the ground. I try to tell them to stop fighting over me, that I’m so drunk I’ll gladly blow them both in the bathroom. Unfortunately, I can’t find my voice. Where did I put it? I don’t have time to look for it, because the bro-down of the century is about to begin—over mousy little Anna Steal!
“So how are we going to settle this? Guitar Hero?” Earl says, rolling his sleeves up. The dance floor has cleared off completely and the DJ stops the music.
“Are you serious? What is this, 2008?” Jin says. “You’ve been watching too much Gossip Girl.”
“Maybe so,” Earl scoffs. “Then what did you have in mind? We sixty-nine each other on the dance floor and whoever makes the other come first wins?”
Jin shakes his head. “You’re real funny—for a rich prick.”
“Why don’t you call me that to my face?”
“I just did,” Jin says.
“Right,” Earl says.
“Enough fun and games,” Jin says, stepping to within a foot of Earl Grey. “We settle this the only way two men who happen to be in the middle of a dance floor can—”
“With a dance-off,” Earl says, interrupting him.
“Actually, I was thinking we could have a fistfight.”
“That works too,” Earl says. Kathleen stumbles over to me and puts her arm around my shoulders. She’s clearly blotto and in no position to intervene either.
Jin balls his hands into fists and stands toe to toe with Earl Grey. Their faces are so close they could kiss. This could get interesting . . .
Earl reaches into his pocket and fishes a Benjamin out of his wallet. “One hundred dollars,” he says, dangling it in front of Jin’s face.
“What’s that for?” Jin asks.
“One hundred dollars for you to hit yourself,” Earl says.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
Earl opens his wallet again. He stashes the hundred and pulls out a thousand-dollar bill. “One thousand dollars if you will hit yourself for me.”
“You think you can buy me? Never,” Jin says, slapping the bill out of Earl’s hand. The onlookers “oooh” as the bill flutters to the floor.
Earl, unperturbed, reaches back into his wallet and pulls out a bill emblazoned with a portrait of Mitt Romney. “A million dollars,” he says, holding it between his face and Jin’s. “A million dollars for you to punch yourself . . . in the balls.”
Gulp.
Jin lowers his head. There’s no way he can turn this down. Fighting over a girl is one thing, but a million dollars is another. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t be stupid, Jin,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice returning for a split second.
“Fine,” Jin mutters.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you,” Earl says, grinning. Of course he’s lying, because everyone at Eclipse heard Jin. It’s so quiet you could hear a peen go soft.
&nb
sp; “I said, 'Fine.’ I’ll do it.” Jin snaps the million-dollar bill out of Earl’s raised hand and stuffs it into his jeans pocket.
“Make it worth my money,” Earl says, backing up to give Jin space.
Jin raises his right hand and pulls his fingers in tight. He closes his eyes and whispers a prayer under his breath.
I can’t watch him publicly debase himself in such a crude manner. I close my eyes. Kathleen hugs me tight. I can hear the men in the room draw their breath in and hold it. Then, there’s a soft thump like a baby bunny in a sack being hit with a mallet . . . and it’s over.
The DJ begins playing some music low in the background as the crowd dissipates. I open my eyes. Some students have gathered around a woman who fainted while watching Jin hit himself in the balls. Jin is lying in the fetal position in the middle of the dance floor, his hands cupped around his groin. He’s alone. If I weren’t so drunk, I would rush over to him and console him. But I would probably throw up on him, and that hardly seems appropriate.
Earl extends a hand to me. “Shall we?”
Kathleen scoops up the dropped thousand-dollar bill and whispers in my ear, “Don’t go, Anna,” but I shrug her off. Earl has fought for me, and I am his prize at the bottom of his Cracker Jacks tonight.
I feel myself hoisted into the air over Earl’s shoulder, and then my vision goes dark . . .
Chapter Seven
EVERYTHING IS QUIET. I slowly open my eyes and feel like I’m being born again, again. The room is large and spacious. I’m fully clothed and in the middle of a fantastically giant bed. The sheets are more comfortable than anything I have ever slept on—the thread count has to be at least two hundred. Maybe even three hundred.
I hear a knock at the door. “Hello?” I say weakly.
The door opens and it’s Earl Grey. Instead of his suit and signature smiley-face tie, he is wearing a shiny silver thong and a pair of bright pink Crocs. And nothing else. His hair is slicked back. Oh my, Mr. Grey . . .
“Good morning, Anna. How are you doing?”
“Better than last night,” I say, finding my voice.
He stands in the doorway and lets me ogle him in his silver willy warmer for a few seconds in silence. I can’t believe I made such a fool of myself last night at Eclipse.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“At the most expensive hotel in Portland. The Holiday Inn.”
“Oh.”
“I just took a dip in the pool,” he says. “Hence my lack of clothing. I hope you don’t mind.”
Don’t mind? I love it!
“I thought you were taking me back to my place,” I say.
“I was going to, but then your little brony decided to make a scene,” he says. “I couldn’t risk taking you back to your apartment, only to have Jin and Kathleen show up and start another fight.”
“Kathleen’s a total B, but she didn’t have anything to do with the fight,” I say defensively. “And Jin just gets territorial sometimes.”
“Jin is dangerous,” Earl says. “I tried my best to defuse him.”
“I’m sorry things got so out of hand. I’ve never seen him so . . . bloodthirsty.”
“Then all the more reason to stay away from him,” Earl says. “You think you know someone, and they go all psycho on you one day . . .”
“So what are your big, dark secrets, Mr. Grey?”
The smirk returns to his face. “I think you know, Anna.”
He sidestepped the question the first time we met and he uses expensive body wash, which could only mean . . . “You’re gay,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, I thought . . .”
“Try again, Anna. Say it. Say what’s in your heart. You know my dark secret . . .”
The weird shopping list with the duct tape and rope could only mean . . . “You’re a serial killer.”
“Try again,” he says, rolling his eyes.
Okay. One more time. You know this, Anna. He lives a life of luxury insulated by his wealth and privilege, and he has no regard for anyone else’s feelings except his own . . . “You’re a corporate executive!”
He throws his arms up comically. “While that’s true, that’s not a secret,” he says. “I’m a Dungeon Master, Anna.”
What? My inner guidette screeches to a halt on her hamster wheel. I have no clue what he’s talking about. “What exactly does a Dungeon Master do?”
“I’m into BDSM,” he says.
“Is that a workout thing, like Zumba?”
“No, Anna, it’s not anything like Zumba. BDSM is a live-action role-playing game: Bards, Dragons, Sorcery and Magick. I play with women in my dungeon and things can get . . . a little hot.”
“Is there no air conditioning in your dungeon?”
Earl sighs. “I mean 'hot’ as in sexual. BDSM role playing is very naughty—that’s probably why a good girl like you hasn’t heard of it.”
“Oh, S and M. Like that Rihanna song,” I say. “The one about whips and chains.”
“The what?”
“Nevermind,” I say. Earl is only six years older than me, but sometimes the gulf between our ages seems like something I can’t bridge. It’s like he’s a 104-year-old vampire in a twenty-seven-year-old’s body.
“So you’re into some kinky shit,” I say. “That’s your biggest secret?”
“You don’t know the depths of my perversion,” he says.
I’ve already seen him at what I figured was the depth of his shame, buying a Nickelback CD. Do I want to know how deep his perversions go? Does he want me to follow him down that rabbit hole, into the dark recesses of his kinky rich-guy mind? I’m just a simple virgin—oh no.
“Did we make sandwiches together last night?” I mutter.
“What?”
“It’s just my timid way of asking if we did . . . it.”
“Are you asking if we had sex last night, Anna?” he says, letting the question hang in the air for a moment. “No.”
“Phew. I was worried because I’m . . .” Uh–oh. I’ve said too much. I can’t let Earl Grey know I’m a virgin! “My . . . armpits are a little sore. TMI. Sorry.”
“I don’t think one can ever have too much . . . information,” he says suggestively, though I don’t know exactly what he’s suggesting. He cocks his head to one side and uses his gray eyes to pinch my inner guidette’s love handles.
“Anyway, room service will be here shortly with breakfast,” he says. “If you want to brush your teeth or take a shower, I’ll let you have the restroom first.”
“Thanks,” I say, getting out of bed. Woah. My head starts spinning and it takes a moment to steady myself. Earl watches me, with more bemusement than concern. I stagger to the bathroom and shut the door.
I turn on the water in the shower and wait until it warms up before stripping and stepping in. The water pours over me, washing away my hangover. I wish Earl were in here with me. I need Earl Grey. I need his kisses, I need his long fingers, and I need his slicked-back hair . . .
Why didn’t he take advantage of me last night? All I’m getting from him are mixed signals. He buys me tea; he tells me to stay away from him. He practically kidnaps me from a nightclub; he doesn’t ravish me in his hotel suite. I slept next to him all night long, and he didn’t touch me. As I rub the cheap and inferior hotel body wash all over my body, I think of Earl Grey touching me . . .
There’s a knock at the door. “Breakfast,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, my daydream shattered.
Breakfast is spread out on dozens of trays across the table. Since Earl Grey is, well, Earl Grey, he’s ordered two of every item on the room service menu. There’s enough food here to feed us for a week. We’re both in hotel bathrobes, our naked bodies tantalizingly within arm’s reach of one another underneath our robes.
“Why did you buy me the Snooki book?” I say, crunching down on a strawberry-jelly-and-Nutella-smothered slice of toast.
“Because I can,” he says,
popping a hard-boiled egg into his mouth. “And because I felt bad for leaving you to walk back to Walmart by yourself.”
“I’m a big girl,” I say, sipping from a glass of hibiscus juice that I’ve just squeezed. “I can take care of myself.”
He chomps into a full head of Napa cabbage. “I’m sure you are. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying about you. The world is a bad place. You need to be careful.”
I twirl Spaghetti alla puttanesca on my fork. “Do I need to be careful around you?”
He looks at me solemnly, his gray eyes full of earnestness. “I already told you: I can be a cruel person,” he says, cracking a lobster tail, squirreling a piece of meat out of it, dipping it into fresh melted butter, and sucking it down.
“Then why keep after me?” I run my tongue up and down a stalk of cooked asparagus.
“No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try . . . I can’t keep myself away from you,” he says, peeling a long carrot and, not to be outdone by the suggestive asparagus show I just put on, fellates the carrot for three solid minutes.
Did you hear that, babe? my inner guidette says. Earl Grey, the hottest gorilla you’ve ever laid eyes on, can’t stay away from you. I look down into my egg drop soup, hoping to catch a reflection of what it is that Earl Grey is so taken with, but instead just see a mess of gross-looking bits of shredded egg. I push the bowl away.
“I’d like to drop my eggs in your soup,” he says, dipping a strawberry on the end of a long-stemmed fork into a fondue pot of melted chocolate.
I peer up at him, and he’s got that wickedly wicked look on his handsomely handsome face again. “Are you hitting on me, Mr. Grey?” I tease, lightly drizzling balsamic vinaigrette on my spinach salad.
He giggles. “I scream, you scream . . . we all scream for ice cream,” he says, licking a chocolate-and-vanilla-swirl ice cream cone.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, carving a turkey and removing the gizzard.
Earl unwraps a McRib, which isn’t even on the McDonald menu right now. He smothers the sandwich with barbecue sauce, and asks, “Have you ever worked in fast food?”
