Dressing quickly in a pair of jeans, a form fitting turtleneck sweater and a pair of boots, I walked out to Fran still assaulting me with statistics of the nine rings of hell that you allow your body to go through when drinking coffee.
I practically shoved him out of my door; desperate for the coffee he was trying to forbid me from.
We hopped into his brand spanking new hybrid car and drove for a good forty-five minutes with Fran discussing with himself the benefits of driving a fully hybrid electric car. I wished I owned a pair of earplugs. Maybe I could find some at the festival.
“…Some people argue that it seems like an odd dichotomy that a hybrid car that has two energy sources could be better for our environment as opposed to a traditional car that has just one. Now the facts about the hybrid are…”
“STOP! Stop the car!” I yelped gleefully, making Fran swerve into the shoulder of the road. “A STARBUCKS!” I pointed happily, bouncing in his tiny electrical shit box of a car.
Driving into the parking lot, he pulled into the first empty space he saw and placed his hand over his heart. “You almost gave me a heart attack,” he chuckled. “I really thought something was wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” I winked at him. “I haven’t had enough caffeine yet.” Opening the car door, I smiled at him, “Would you like a cup?”
“No, thank you.” He touched his hand to mine, “Didn’t you understand what I said before about drinking too much coffee.”
I stared at him, confused. “Yes, I did.” I blinked my eyes rapidly, trying not to burst out laughing. “I guess I’m just too far gone into my addiction. There’s just no saving me.”
I came back into the car with three coffees, putting my lips to each one in turn, and slurping them loudly. Fran slowly dragged his eyes from me back to his windshield and continued his drive to the street festival he promised to take me to.
Fran was correct about one thing; the street fair was lovely. Antique shops, small novelty stores and a few bed and breakfasts lined the small cobblestoned main street of the quaint nameless town. Old, yet well-maintained Victorian homes littered the twisting back roads and when you drove by, the inhabitants offered you a big wave and a friendly smile. Covered bridges crossed over flowing streams and tents were set up for blocks along the main road of the town, and people milled around laughing and drinking coffee, warm cider, or hot chocolate.
The two of us roamed around the booths. Every once in a while, Fran’s hand made it to the small of my back or his lips found my temple. Every ten minutes, Fran would stop and take a picture with his phone and post it on instagram and twitter like an obsessed teenager. I cut him off after he posed me in front of a booth that sold organic clothing and tweeted a picture of me to his 459 followers that said, “Organic socks rock!”
We found a small intimate restaurant and we were just sitting down to grab a drink at the bar before an early dinner or late lunch, whatever you wanted to call it, when in walked Morgan and an extremely distinguished looking older gentleman. Fran waved them over and offered to share a drink with them, while we waited for our tables since the place was packed. Her faced blanched as the gentlemen she was with agreed, and I looked at her curiously.
He pulled out a chair at the bar for her and she offered a tight smile to us, and a curt serious nod. “This is my husband, Jeremy.” She looked at him with flushed cheeks and continued with her introductions, “Jeremy, dear, this is Francis and Lainey. I met them at a small dinner party I was invited to last night, while you were still away on your business trip.”
Well now, wasn’t that just a dick-slap right there?
Morgan gave a brilliantly flirtatious grin at Fran and batted her lashes at him, “Francis, darling, would you mind if I stole your treasure here to accompany me to the restroom?”
Really? Really now? She just asked a man for permission to have me accompany her to the bathroom? Oh, this ought to be awesome.
Fran just waved us away, as he dove into an intense conversation with a seemingly already intoxicated Jeremy about the degradation of our ozone layer and how without its protection, we would all fry up like little eggs on a hot stove. Then he proceeded to list off all the Organohalogen compounds that we use daily, and which ones were the worst global environmental pollutants for our beloved layer of ozone.
Yes, I think I rather stay in the bathroom with Morgan, instead of listening to his next debate with himself. Masterdebation. He should go tweet that.
Once inside the bathroom, she slumped against the wall and covered her face, “Please. Please don’t say anything to Jeremy. I know how bad I look, but he’s never home, always away on business, and God, I mean have you seen Kade Grayson? He’s a perfect specimen of a man.”
I giggled next to her. “Yeah, a perfect sociopath. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything and I’m no one to judge.” I opened my purse, took out my lip-gloss, and dabbed a bit on my lips. “How long have you been married?”
“I’ve been imprisoned for fourteen years,” she laughed. “Married me right out of high school and promised me the world. He’s got loads of money and I live in the lap of luxury, but it’s a lonely world.” She lathered her own lips with a bright fire engine red lipstick, which I would never have the courage to wear. “So how about you and Francis?”
“We’ve only been on a few dates. I’m not looking for anything serious, and he’s way too serious,” I answered.
“Kade seemed really taken by you last night. His eyes were on you all night. He hardly ate his food.”
“Grayson is an ass,” I stated.
“He’s so damaged and dark. Intense. I think I like the danger of it,” she said softly.
“Oh, I can definitely see him as one of those dangerous bad ass types,” I laughed.
She gave me a measured stare and giggled, “Don’t knock the alpha male types, they’re delicious.”
“Oh sure,” I laughed. “There is nothing wrong with bad boys, unless you have self-esteem and confidence. Then you’re fucked, and you’re smart enough to know you’re fucked. I know, because I’ve fallen down that dark hole before.”
“Yeah, but, I’ve always loved those dangerous damaged men. I wonder why, you know?”
“Daddy issues?” I laughed at my reflection in the mirror, “Mine was mommy issues, really.” I glanced over at Morgan who was sniffing and staring down at her hands. I nudged her and smiled. “I think the truth is that we are in love with the fantasy of being that one person who could inspire, arouse, or affect someone who is so untouchable to the rest of the world. It makes us feel special; like we’re the diamond in the rough, the one in a million, the one that everyone else couldn’t be, and do what everyone else couldn’t do. Imagine being that significant to someone? To never have to doubt that he loves you, or needs you, or more importantly, wants you more than any other.”
“I totally agree with you,” a strange small voice said from behind me.
“Yeah, me too. I’d give a limb to feel like that,” said another voice.
Lifting my eyes to the mirror, I noticed the group of women behind me, nodding their heads in agreement. I smiled at all of them; we were all striving for that same desire, weren’t we?
“The question is,” a tall, older brunette began, “is that a reality? Does love like that, desire and passions like that exist?”
Morgan shook her head next to me, “I don’t think so. If it does, I’ve never felt it.”
Some of the women agreed, some didn’t. I just shrugged and sighed, “For me, I’ve learned the hard way that I can’t ever expect a man to make me feel that way. I have to make myself feel that way. I want to be the one person who could inspire, arouse, and affect me. Because, let’s be honest, no one is going to be with me longer than me.”
The way those women reacted to what I said, I thought I was going to be carried out of that bathroom on their shoulders with them chanting my name. I had never been more proud of my ovaries and uterus for all of womankind.
r /> Morgan and I walked back to our table laughing with our arms hooked like teenage best friends. Fran was still on his soapbox, while a slanted Jeremy hovered over a dark amber drink, smiling at the table, and nodding his head. Fran stopped mid-rant and smiled at me, “There you are. I ordered a red wine for you. I hope that’s okay.”
Smiling at him, I nodded and sat in the seat next to him. The four of us ordered dinner together and our dinner discussions went from one extreme to another, never touching on anything personal. Throughout the dinner, I couldn’t help but feel as if I was separated off from the three of them, even though we all shared in the conversations. They seemed so far removed from my life and my experiences that I felt as if I were from another universe. Of course, my mind wandered to Kade and that kiss. What made it so earthshattering? Was it my attraction to him? Was it because he was mean and degrading, and I wanted to prove to him what and who I really was? I always did have a big issue with people who underestimated me. I loved to prove them wrong. Then I wondered what was it that made Kade so damaged. Was he just as damaged as me?
After dinner, Fran, as promised, took me to the best bookstore I’d ever been to. Well Red was a bookstore/wine house, where you could buy books, sit and read them over a glass of wine; a little spin on the bookstore/coffee houses of the city. We sat there for two hours, sipping a glass of red wine and read. I left with a stack of new books, and he left with a smug, proud smile on his face. Nevertheless, I let him keep it there, since the bookstore was perfect and I guess I was thawing a little towards him.
Chapter 6
Kicking my foot through the pile of clothes on the floor, I watched them fly up until I spotted my pants and pulled them on. The rest of the material belonged to the naked woman sleeping on my bed, the one that still had my reddened handprints on her ass. I’d already let her sleep fifteen minutes past the time I would let anyone stay in this room (incidentally, that’s usually fifteen minutes), and that’s only because I left her to search my house for the strongest whiskey I had. A fifth of the bottle was gone already. Do you know how many shots are in a fifth of whiskey? About twenty-drunken-five shots, so I should have been out cold.
I kicked my foot against the bed, the mattress moved about half a foot off my box springs, and I took another swig. “It’s time to go, um…” I’d completely forgotten her name. “Hello, love?”
The body stirred quietly on the bed and the woman’s eyes peeked out from under the covering of my sheets. I scooped up the clothes that belonged to her and dropped them right in front of her face. “I’ve got work to do, so you have to shove off now.”
She sat up, and the sheets fell away revealing a pair of large breasts that I didn’t even bother to look at, let alone touch, thirty minutes ago. I tossed her purse onto the bed and leaned against the far wall where I’d already opened the door for her highly anticipated (only by me it seemed) departure. Resting my body against the frame of the door, I gestured my hands for her to move along and hurry.
The whites of her eyes became bigger, but I didn’t feel remorse. I felt completely nothing. All right, I lied. I felt like throwing her body out of the window, because she wasn’t moving fast enough.
The woman dressed quickly, trying to do so seductively, but I was too busy pretending to look at my phone and the empty inbox of messages I had, to watch her. I’d already had my fun with her, well just one certain part of her, and that’s all I needed. She was the one that propositioned me, at the grocery store, no less. I was just a willing dick. The only reason I said yes was because of her dark black hair that allowed me to pretend she was someone else. Sick, yes? Yeah, and that was why I was holding said bottle of whiskey to my lips. Open. Insert liquor. Forget. Repeat until you could look in the mirror again.
“Will you call me? Maybe we could go out some time,” she smiled, walking to my front door.
“Love, I don’t even remember your name, and I don’t plan on asking you for it again.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Yes, and you’re the whore who let me stick my dick in you and spank your ass,” I said, closing the door on her surprised expression. I would say I cared, but I hated lying.
Anything other than sex is off limits. Out of bounds. Most women (read as every fucking last one of them) have wanted something from me that I couldn’t give them. It was not the typical excuse of me wanting to fuck without strings either. I would give an organ away for one fucking normal day, where I could pretend to be right in the fucking head and whole enough to be in a healthy relationship with someone. I would love to find one person I could be comfortable to be myself with, but I was lost and I couldn’t. I didn’t cherish taking someone along with me through my hell, skipping along, clueless to my madness. Even Lainey, which was why I wanted her to hate me; she would anyway if she ever got the chance to know me. I was one sick fuck.
I took another swig of the whiskey and found myself in front of my writing desk staring at my two newest manuscripts, one titled Behind Green Doors and its sequel, Accepting Darkness. I had emailed them both to my editor a few days before. Eight hundred, twenty-three pages altogether. Two hundred, eighty-two thousand, six hundred fifty-nine words. Two weeks, three days, nine hours and change. That was all the same amount of pages, words, and time since I last saw Lainey dance around with a mop, cleaning her kitchen and knocked at the door to my soul almost punching my heart right out of my chest. I didn’t want to let her in. I wanted nothing to do with her, but the words that poured from my fingers across my keyboard stated otherwise. So I locked myself in my office and wrote straight through until the entire story was told. My way of trying to purge myself of the obsessive thoughts of Lainey that ran loops in my brain.
Personally, I hated the story. It flowed from the first page to the very last and shocked the hell out of you with a terrorizing mindfuck that I’d never seen written before. I loved it. I hated it. It was everything I was. My entire being was in those words. Everything I had ever felt was there for the entire world to read. Pure insanity, horror at its finest. Just plain me.
And, let’s up the insanity here for a minute…if I believed in it, if there was a possibility of it being actually able to happen, I would have said I might have fallen in love with my character. She consumed every thought I had. I felt the need to protect her from everything and everyone. I could feel her silken skin under my fingertips when I wrote about touching her, and I could smell the spiced apples of her soap when I wrote that she was near. And, the fucking way she tasted? It wasn’t waitress flavored, but completely Lainey, and my God, did I taste her in my book. Over and over again, like a goddamn addict I slid my tongue against the unique sweetness of her body, outside and in. It wasn’t just these physical things that I obsessed with, either. This character’s mind possessed me. Her words tore through my heart like bullets. I had written the perfect woman for me; the perfect lover, the perfect friend and companion, based on a fucking waitress that I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Do you want to hear something else that has twisted my dick right the fuck around? For the first time EVER, I wrote a happy ending. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? A happily-ever-fucking after that would leave a Disney princess with tears and slit wrists from the jealousy of it. For her. And me.
I clawed at my hair as my stomach rolled. I’m…I’m…fucking…insane. I always knew I’d snap completely one day. Never thought it would be over a woman I hardly knew.
And that kiss? The kiss in that little trailer of hers… Still burned my lips. Since that kiss, there was this unloosened feeling in my limbs, as if I could float away, as if gravity had just given up on me and I could hurtle into space at anytime.
I grabbed both manuscripts and stormed onto my back deck. It was freezing outside, matching the mess of my insides, frozen, alone, and empty. Ice had lined the stones beneath my feet, causing me to slip and fall right on my ass. The pain as I hit the ground was welcomed, and I laughed into the cold dark night, emitting a thick clo
ud of mist from my lips. My bottle of whiskey was unhurt, and truly, that was all that mattered.
Lying there on the wet ice for a moment, looking up at the stars, I wished I had cracked my head right open and died on the spot. By the time the maid would find me, a year would probably have passed and I’d be nothing more than a skeleton with an expensive pair of designer slacks on. I’d finally be free of the hold that Lainey had on my mind.
I crawled to the fire pit I kept on my patio and threw both my manuscripts in, and from the stone shelves under it, I pulled out the igniter and set them on fire.
I watched my books go up in flames and drank the rest of my whiskey, wishing my fucked up feelings would burn along with my words.
Lainey.
Lainey.
Lainey.
I could barely see straight as I staggered into my office. I had to shake this need, this desire to know her. I felt cursed. Possessed. Her face haunted me. Her laughter echoed in my brain. Her smile plagued my thoughts. But mostly it was her calmness that affected me. Soothed me. Mollified the rage.
Who was she really?
Where did she come from?
What happened that she ended up bloody beaten at my brother’s bar?
My obsession continued; I was spinning out of control. I googled her. I read everything I could find on Lainey Nevaeh, which was about a gram of information. Facebook, blogs, MySpace, that ancestry site, and various forums stated she was either a twelve-year-old girl from Bessemer, Alabama, or a stay-at-home mom from somewhere in Colorado. I gorged myself on information, anything I could find. I tried to put together the pieces of her life from the tiny bits I found, the rush of it made me high. However, after hours of searching, I was more intrigued with the fact that no trace of any Lainey Nevaeh that matched the mysterious waitress from the bar could be found. It was as if she wasn’t real. I mean, really, you could find almost anyone on Google nowadays. Try it. Google yourself and see what happens. You’ll probably find some sorry ass picture of that one time you fell asleep drunk at a friend’s party in college and they drew a mustache on your face, and then snapped a photo of you. That’s your legacy. Google is the largest database of people and pictures that can pinpoint your exact fucking location on earth, especially when everybody in the fucking world had turned on their geo coding on their phones and tablets. Don’t people know how dangerous it is for the world to see exactly where you are at the exact moments you’re there? It’s a great resource for criminals. With Lainey though, it was as if she had no past. Like Lainey Nevaeh never existed. She didn’t even have a social security number.