by Gina LaManna
Vadim whirled backwards. He didn’t look dead though, on account of he was flopping like an uncooperative fish and holding his shoulder.
“Get a move on, compadre!” Meg leaned over and pressed the gas pedal.
We lurched forward. I gingerly grabbed the steering wheel, not wanting to move in case glass on the seat got lodged in inappropriate girl places. Then I’d really be off men – and not by choice. I preferred it by choice. If necessary, I could always fall off the abstinence wagon.
Six bullets rang out in quick succession, but the closest it came to my head was shattering my rearview mirror. Which was still much closer than I liked.
“Add more glass to the pile,” Meg shouted out the window to our attacker. “Try us. We’re swimming in it already.”
“Okay, enough,” I said. I cranked the wheel and whipped us around the corner. As we turned, however, I noticed a distinct thunking noise on Meg’s side of the car.
“Uh oh, I think we have a flat,” I said. “On your side, can you see?”
“Are you calling me fat?” Meg asked. “Because I told you I’ve been trying to diet, and I just needed energy this morning with the donuts. ‘Cause if you are, I did my butt exercises–”
“You’re not fat,” I said. “I think he shot the tire out.”
“Oh, yeah. He did.” Meg nodded. “So where we going now? We def can’t make it to your side of town. I doubt we can even make it to my place, which is two miles away.”
I grumbled about needing to find more friends on this side of town.
“Girl, you need to find more friends, period. On any side of town.”
“Wait,” I said. “There is someone...”
“THERE’S A PSYCHO RUSSIAN after us. Can we please come in? I just need to use your phone, please.” I gave my best innocent face to Blake.
“Again?”
“Not again, I have company this time.” He scratched his head, his hair standing in all directions as if he’d had an excellent night in the sack. Which, knowing Blake, I’m sure he did. He was bare from the waist up, his chiseled abs drool-worthy, the tattoo up his side the stuff that women fantasized over. And he knew how to deliver on the promise of his appearance.
“I got services that may be of interest to you.” Meg leaned forward and winked, fluffing up her boobs under the massive green army jacket. She turned around slowly, flaunting her assets and looking like a homeless man with a few extra lumps where boobs and butts belonged.
Blake sighed. “No thanks, Meg, I’m still good. Always will be for your services.”
“Come on, touch it just once.” Meg gave her rear end a shake.
“She’ll stop asking you to touch her ass if you let us in,” I pleaded.
“She promise?” Blake eyed Meg.
“Fine,” Meg grunted. “You’ve no idea what your skinny ass is missing.”
After being herded into the kitchen, Blake abandoned us and retreated to his room with a warning not to touch anything.
Meg and I sat on the spindly, mismatched kitchen chairs in a cozy little kitchen. The walls were yellow from a previous owner, which I’d found out back in the day when we were an item. Though he definitely kept up the appearance of a bachelor pad, he couldn’t mask the coziness of the little Uptown house. It was just the right size for a dog and a couple in love.
“Do you miss him?” Meg asked. She stood up and selected a jug of orange juice from the fridge. She popped the lid off and took a long, deep swig.
“Don’t do that,” I said. “That’s disgusting. It’s not your house.”
She shrugged and set it back.
“I’m going to go ask to use his phone.” I stood and moved towards the door, but Meg dashed in front of the doorway before I could get past. I’d never seen her move so fast; she resembled the marshmallow blob from Ghostbusters, if he’d been dressed in a camo coat.
Breathing fast, her face pink, she gasped, “Bad idea.”
“Why?” I asked. “I know his apartment. I’ll just be a second.”
When Meg didn’t move, I poked her in the stomach. “Excuse me.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but I heard the reason for her hesitation – low moans and muttered phrases came from down the hall behind the one closed door.
“Right,” I said. “I think I’ll wait. Mimosas?”
“HE’S A FRIGGIN’ BEAST,” Meg said, forty-five minutes later. The low moans had progressed into female cries of pure ecstasy and a few male grunts of what I guessed was pleasure.
“Yep,” I said, swigging orange juice from the bottle. I’d long since stopped mixing it together in the coffee mug I’d nicked from above the sink. Ironically it was one I’d given him for his 28th birthday. It read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLD FART. FOR SOMEONE WHO NEVER RUNS OUT OF GAS.
I poured the champagne straight into my mouth. What was the difference if it mixed in the mug or my stomach? It all ended up in the same place. We’d made it through a bottle and a half of Andre and were still going strong. I was more than a bit tipsy, and as I stood to search for a little vodka to concoct some screwdrivers, I accidentally crashed the mug to the floor and it shattered into tiny pieces.
I sank to my knees and started to cry. “Meg. I’m an old fart. And nobody wants me. And I have a shitty job, which isn’t even legal. I failed as a stripper. What do I tell my dates now? I sometimes think I should’ve taught kindergarten.”
Meg kicked the shattered glass under the stove. “Get up. Stop being a wuss. I ain’t got no use for weak friends. Plus, why’d you give him that cup? It’s not sexy.”
“He still has it, doesn’t he?” I sobbed. “Well, not anymore I guess. Because it’s broken.”
My wails were loud, but not as loud as the shriek from down the hall.
“Did she say steak?” Meg asked. “I’d like some steak. Some taters, too.”
I sniffled. “Bl-la-lake.”
Meg tipped my head back violently and dumped some champagne down my throat.
I spluttered a bit and tried to speak. “Whah-aht?”
“Bubbles are supposed to make you happier. Plus, you want your man to see you with runny eyes and a puffy nose? Come on now, you’re bleeding again.” Meg hauled me to my feet and wrapped a towel around my arm which I’d sliced on the shattered mug.
I gave a few hard sniffs and pulled the pieces of myself together.
“Okay,” I said. “I got this.”
“Go to the bathroom. Clean your snot up and hide your blood. Use this.” She handed me a bottle of superglue and a hairbrush with enough hair entangled in it to make a wig.
“Thanks. You’re the best.” I took her offerings and headed down the hall.
“Don’t I know it.” She slapped my buns on the way out. “Do a few clenches while you’re in there. Perk that ass up.”
I emerged from the bathroom semi-respectable looking and without having to use any of Meg’s gifts.
Some girl was sitting at the kitchen table. But before I could join her and find Meg, Blake’s voice hissed from his room. “Lace.”
I turned abruptly and made my way inside the room I remembered so well. An incredibly comfortable bed that invited company for days and was difficult to leave, a computer in the corner hooked up to speakers and sexy play lists at the touch of a key, a poster of his favorite soccer team, and a large bean bag chair which had also seen its share of action.
It was cozy and cuddly, and I felt an overwhelming rush of sadness and longing as I stepped into the room. I was reminded of everything I was missing due to my choices to remain with the Family.
“Hi,” I said quietly. I bit back tears and forced myself to look into his eyes.
“Hey,” Blake said. He must’ve been able to tell I wasn’t feeling like my normal self; his frustrated gaze softened and he took a step forward.
I looked away; his scent was too much. He still used the same deodorant, minty and subtle, and I was reminded of movie nights spent wrapped in his arms and pillowcases that smelled o
f Blake.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. “You seem a little... down.”
“Yeah,” I said, all too chipper. “I’m fine. I’m really sorry I’ve come barging in here while you’ve had, uh, company. I’m just working on this side of town, and I tend to have more accidents than most people. And then I need a phone, and you’re the only person that I feel okay asking when I look like this.”
I gestured toward my bloodied hand and arm, the sprinkles coating my tight yoga pants, and flimsy white tee shirt.
“Babe.” Blake stepped closer, the tattoo on his ribs in reach, the scent of his deodorant causing me to feel drunker than I was. “You look hot.”
My lady bits got warm as a shirtless Blake stepped right up to me. His arms encircled my waist and the feel of his skin on mine was pure heaven. His breath tickled my neck, goose bumps popped up on my legs, and I felt on the verge of hyperventilation. When he leaned forward and licked a row of sprinkles from the side of my neck I nearly passed out. I moaned and fell limply into his arms.
He guided me over to the bed, where I collapsed face down. After a minute of him lightly rubbing my back, I sat up.
Adjusting my clothes, which had kind of slid sideways, I looked over at the bed and grimaced. “Sorry about that. My arm.” There were blood splotches on the bed from where my wound hadn’t quite healed.
“No worries, it was time to throw them out anyway.” Blake winked.
“You’re gross,” I said. “Hope you don’t have to explain that to her.”
“Who?” I looked up at him, agog.
“Oh, Tami,” he looked sheepish. “Nah, she’s nobody important. We met last night at the bar.”
“Whatever.” I slid out the door and back into the bathroom so Blake could go join P.B. in the kitchen and I could slip out a few moments later.
But as soon as I reached the bathroom, I couldn’t stop the grin bursting from my face.
Lacey – 1, P.B. – 0.
I emerged from the bathroom a minute later, clothing in place, arm only slightly bloody.
With a small glimmer of satisfaction, I noted that the girl at the kitchen table was a different Perky Boobs than the one from sexy baby night. This one had brown hair and orange skin, kind of how you might imagine a baboon, except with a lot more makeup and a hefty amount of cleavage. If Blake didn’t want to be with me, at least he couldn’t make up his mind. Maybe I’d driven him so crazy with my great lover-ing skills that he needed a million women to stay satisfied these days.
At least, that’s what I’d tell myself.
“Hi, I’m Tami,” the girl said. As she leaned forward to shake my hand, her boobs sashayed back and forth. “You must be one of his patients.”
Blake’s eyes cut towards the ceiling.
“Patient?” Meg asked. “She ain’t no patient, she’s—”
“Of course. Which patient are you talking about? Blake’s so accomplished and works in so many fields, I just want to make sure I’m not confused.” I winked at Meg, to show her it was okay. Perky Boobs missed it, as she was too busy adjusting said sacks to sit higher in her bra.
With a buttery smile, Tami ran her leg way, way high up the inside of Blake’s calf and I looked away. “Oh, I know. He’s good at soooo many things.”
“Uh, patients,” I cut in.
With a Barbie-like smile, she turned in my direction. “Oh, right. Terminal illness. What do you have?”
“He ain’t a doctor!” Meg cried out. “He’s—”
“Exactly,” I cut in. “He is not just any doctor. He’s like a super doctor. And Meg’s right. I’m not the patient here. She is.”
Meg narrowed her eyes at me, but thankfully she’d caught on. Blake’s chest moved in quick, shallow bursts, probably wondering if he was going to get a round two with P.B.
“Yeah, she’s uh, suffering from butt-clenchi-titus,” I said. “It’s really terrible.” Meg rolled her eyes.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is that like cancer of your brain?” P.B. asked.
“Yeah. Totally ruins thought processes. Do you have it yourself?” Meg retorted.
“Rudeness is a side effect,” I clarified. “Ignore her. Anyways, we should get going. Blake, could I borrow your phone?”
“Don’t you have one?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s dead,” I said. “So’s hers.”
“Yeah, I’m about to be dead soon, too,” Meg added.
Tami frowned. “Let the poor girls use your phone, babe.”
He stood and handed it over grudgingly.
Tami smiled at us. “Blake has girls turning up left and right. Poor guy never can get a moment’s rest, his patients just become so attached to him. I tell him not to give out his home address...but he’s just too thoughtful.”
She dove in for a full-fledged French kiss.
“Thanks,” I said as Meg reached over and gave Blake’s ass a nice, firm squeeze.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s that darn rudeness side effect again. I just can’t control myself.”
“Oh, it’s okay, honey. Isn’t it nice?” Tami winked at Meg.
“Bit skinny like a half-eaten chicken bone. But I could be okay with it,” Meg shrugged.
Blake looked mortified.
I handed the phone back. “Clay will be here soon. Thanks.”
Chapter 20
CLAY WAS AWKWARDLY silent as Meg got in the car. She asked to be dropped off at the bar, but I volunteered to take her home first so she could shower and change before she went to open. She insisted she “wanted to go smelling like adventure.” If adventure smelled like Meg, then I never wanted the scent stuck anywhere on me. It was a mix of sweaty gym socks and last week’s steak leftovers after they got smushed with soggy curly fries.
“Are you mad?” I asked.
Clay hit a few buttons and a light mist erupted from the ceiling of his van.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “It’s not exactly hot in here.”
“I’m cooling down before I respond to your silly questions.”
“It was an accident.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve come as backup.” He chanced a glance in my direction.
I cowered in my seat; his face was cloudy at best. “Adrenaline, I guess. Forgot.”
“You didn’t forget. You knew what you were doing. I can’t help you if you act like an idiot.”
“I won’t do it again,” I said.
“Too late. I’m putting a tracking device in your brain.”
“Please don’t do that.” I ran a hand through my thin locks. “I’ve read stories about that and sometimes they have to shave off hair for the surgery and it never grows back. I need every strand of hair I can hang onto.”
Clay rolled his eyes to the ceiling of the van and his face coated in mist.
“Could you please turn that off? I’m starting to melt.” I held out my arms where a few leftover sprinkles were turning to a sludgy rainbow mush.
“Do I want to know?” he asked.
“Nope. And don’t tell Carlos his car is decapitated.”
“We’re going to the gym,” Clay said matter-of-factly.
“What? Now? Like this? Do you really think that’s the best option?” I really didn’t want to see Anthony in this state: half drunk, part bloody, totally colorful. “I think really what I could use would be some rest and relaxation. A little good old R and R.”
Clay shook his head no.
“Can I at least stop at home and change?”
“I brought you clothes.” His lips were pressed tightly together.
“Fine. If you can honestly tell me you think the gym is the safest place for me right now when I have more than one person trying to shoot me, then I’ll go.”
“Yep.”
“Look me in the eyes,” I demanded. The car swerved.
“Well, stop first, then,” I said.
He pulled over and stared straight into my irises. “I think the gym is exactly where you need to go.”
CLAY HAD THANKFULLY packed my bathing suit along with half my closet in a used Target baggie. Nice of him to give me options, but apparently he paid zero attention to girls’ clothing choices at the gym. While he checked in, I gave Marge a nod and scurried past, mumbling “bathroom emergency,” and she shooed me on.
For once, my emergency actually had nothing to do with intestinal issues and had everything to do with not looking forward to speaking with Anthony again so soon.
I quickly threw my stuff in a locker and slipped into my bikini – meant for sunbathing, not workouts – and ducked into the pool area. I was in the hot tub before anyone could say “Sprinkles.”
For the first time all day, my shoulders loosened as I slipped up to my neck in the bubbly water, still a tad lightheaded from the champagne. I let my head roll back and the thoughts of fear and anger and frustration seeped from my head to join the fingers of steam climbing from the surface of the water to the heavens.
“Doll.”
Anthony’s voice slipped into my brain like a dream. My thoughts morphed into a sexy montage of the trainer in his stretchy black shirt, the little emblem in the corner bulging every time he moved and his muscles flexed. Then he started to take off that stupid shirt and I could see his abs without that silly layer of fabric there. I wanted to touch it, to kiss the tattoo on his neck, to run a thumb over that mysterious scar on his left eye...
“Doll, you’re moaning.”
I opened my eyes. Anthony stood above me, looking down with a smirk on his face. With my head resting against the edge, my view of his face was obstructed by his bulging muscles and...well, other parts of interest.
I started, splashing water into my eyes and immediately clapping my hands to my face to clear my fuzzy vision. I could feel the mascara running down my cheeks and was positive I resembled a testy raccoon.
“What the heck are you doing?” I asked.
“You’re not allowed to sleep in the hot tub. It’s unsafe.”
“I can take care of myself,” I mumbled. I pulled myself up on the edge of the hot tub and put one foot on the slippery wet floor. As if someone had sloshed a bottle of champagne straight into my head, my legs went wobbly and my vision blurred. I yanked my other leg out of the water, but my first leg went skidding and I could feel myself sliding into a dangerous form of the splits...
