3. Against All Odds
CHAPTER 3
Against All Odds
DUSTY
“O h my god, are you okay?”
Looking down at the man on the floor, my chest squeezes. I know this man. I know his hair, his cheekbones, the smile that seems to linger on his face even after hitting his head on a dryer door.
“Joel?”
I fall to my knees and crouch next to him, my hand flitting over his head to see if he’s injured. My hair falls forward, and he reaches out to grasp a strand of it between his fingers. He shakes his head and rubs at the back of his scalp before squinting at me again.
“Cherry? What’s a place like you, doing in a girl like this?” he mumbles.
He looks almost exactly the same. His hair might be a bit longer—is that paint? —but he’s still every bit the non-conformist he was two years ago, with his tattoos, metal rings and anarchist clothing choices—and still so, so handsome.
I wrap my fingers around his arm and pull him into a sitting position. His face is close to mine now, and those feelings I’ve buried for two years suddenly come rushing back to the surface.
“What—what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Well, I was planning on doing laundry, but apparently I went back in time.”
My smile spreads before I can even try to stop it. “You really went down hard. Are you okay?”
He nods, but as he does he grasps at his temple and flinches.
“Maybe I should call an ambulance and have you checked out.”
“No! No, it’s fine,” he says. “I just—” He blinks up at me and my legs turn to jelly as I gaze into his beautiful amber eyes. Heat rushes into my cheeks, and I look away. “I can’t believe you’re here.” It comes out too soft, too reverent, too . . . lovestruck. Not again, Dusty. Be cool. “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought— What about Vegas?”
I shrug. “I left about a year ago. Vegas wasn’t dealing me the best hands anymore.”
He lets me help him up and we notice everyone watching. “Guess I’m finally interesting enough for them,” he remarks. “Not every day they get to see an idiot smash his head off a dryer.”
I step back to put some distance between us. The way he still makes me feel is simply too intense. “In all fairness,” I say, “they’re a hard bunch to crack.”
He looks past me to where I’m sure the crowd is hanging on his every word. “They’re fans of yours, though.”
“I’ve managed to wear them down.”
I walk over to where I abandoned my empty basket and carry it over to my favorite dryer.
“You come here often, then?” he asks, following along behind me.
“No more often than necessary.”
“Right.”
He rubs the back of his neck under his straight black hair and I take in the four sodden bags of laundry by the door. “You new to the area?”
“Huh?”
I jut my chin at the bags. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“Oh!” he says, as if remembering why he’s here at all. “Oh, no, I . . . my washing machine at home is busted.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Is it? I mean, if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been lucky enough to run into you.”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, annoyed by the thrill his words spark in my heart. “I don’t really believe in luck.”
“What about fate? I mean, this is kind of unreal. I even had a dream about you last night.”
I raise my eyebrows. My lips part, at a loss for words. As though he realizes what he said too late, his cheeks darken. He massages his temple again, looking lost.
“Did I say that out loud?” he whispers to himself.
Fighting against the flutters that have erupted in my stomach, I look up at him. “Are you okay? Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m okay. Look . . .” He turns and heads toward his bags of laundry, dragging them back across the room. “Motor skills are still functioning. That’s good, right?”
I smile gently and nod as he opens the lids across from my machine and dumps what looks like every piece of clothing he owns inside. While I pull my clean clothes from the dryer, he meticulously fills the coin slots with his quarters, then stops. For a long moment, I watch as he stares at the machines, his eyes bouncing between them all.
“Fuck,” he says quietly.
I lean forward over my basket. “Problem?”
He looks up, his cheeks flushing. “Yeah, I ah . . . forgot to bring detergent.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t suppose that old reptile over there will sell me some, do you?” he asks, tilting his head Doris’s way.
I press my lips together to smother a smile. Reptile is definitely the right descriptor. “No, definitely not.”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “Great.”
Don’t offer, Dusty. Don’t do it. He’ll think you’re flirting. “You can borrow some of mine.” Damn it.
“Really?”
I shrug and close the door on the now empty dryer, bringing my full basket of warm clothes over to the folding table. “Of course.” I grab a cart and, after looking around and making sure no one is watching other than Joel, push back a loose piece of paneling to grab my stashed detergent box.
“Smart,” he says, grinning as I start to scoop the detergent into his open machines, acutely aware that his eyes never leave my skin.
I shrug. “I have my moments.”
“I really appreciate this.”
Flipping the lids down, I smile at him. “Everything in there?” I ask.
He nods, and we both start pushing the coins in to start the machines.
Over the noisy gurgling, I hear him exhale. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“I guess now I have to wait.”
He glances at my basket of laundry and his smile dampens. He’s just put it together that I’m done with my laundry and won’t be here to keep him company.
“Do you want some help folding?” he asks.
“Oh, no, I think I’m okay.”
He leans over and splays both palms on the table. “You sure? I’ve got time to kill and I happen to be an excellent folder.”
I shouldn’t let this continue. I should head straight upstairs and never look back. But that damn smile. Maybe a stronger woman would say no. Say that she can fold her own damn laundry. But what could it possibly hurt to hang around him for a few more minutes?
“Well, okay. But if you’re not as good a folder as you say you are?—”
“Then I’m gone,” he says, holding up his hands.
He moves to stand beside me and grabs one of my bedsheets. I watch in amazement as he effortlessly folds a perfect square with my flat sheet. When he places it on the table, he cocks an eyebrow at me.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” I muse, impressed. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
He grabs the fitted sheet and starts doing some elaborate origami with it while I grab a pair of jeans. “Military school.”
“You’re in the military?”
He scoffs. “Oh, fuck no. But I was a little shit in high school and my parents didn’t know what to do with me anymore. So they shipped me off to this radical Christian military school to learn my place.”
I pause, my jaw dropping. “That sounds awful.”
“It was. But it wasn’t my parents’ fault,” he adds. “They didn’t realize what the place was really like. I don’t think most parents did. They’ve apologized to me for years.”
I frown, wondering what an apology from a parent must feel like. “And you forgave them?”
He turns to me. “Of course. I was out of control—they loved me and didn’t want me to end up in jail someday. I don’t blame them for sending me there.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, before picking up a shirt from the pile.
“Don’t be,” he says with that winning grin. “It was hell, but I did learn a few tricks. And it helped me appreciate just how good I had it at home. But if you ask my parents,” he says, lowering his voice, “I’m still a little shit.”
I laugh and he places another crisp square down with my fitted sheet.
“I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever managed to make those sheets look like anything but a lumpy potato.”
“I can teach you if you want,” he offers.
When I look over, we lock eyes for a moment. Why does this feel like a date? It’s not. And it can’t be. A guy like him doesn’t want a girl like me for anything other than what’s between my legs, even if he really was dreaming about me. “Maybe I like lumpy potatoes.”
He nods. “Well, the offer stands.”
A few minutes pass in silence. His precisely folded pile growing next to my rumpled, lopsided one until there’s nothing left. I take the two piles and place them in the basket, holding it under one arm on my hip. “Thanks for the help,” I say.
“Any time.”
We stand a little awkwardly by the machines as they spin and whirl. His fingers tap compulsively against the metal and I’m starting to wonder if I should just turn and go.
“So what do you do now? For work, I mean,” he adds. “Unless, wait—are you still dancing?”
I lean back on the washer behind me. “Oh, no. Had to hang up my dancing shoes after I broke my ankle one night at the club. I work at a call center now.”
He nods. “That’s cool. Not the ankle, of course. I’m sure that was rough. So, a call center, huh? Like customer support?”
Not quite. People can be so judgmental of what I do for work and chances are he’d be the same way. It’s not that much different than stripping. But . . . it’s different enough. “Sort of.”
“Is that why you moved here?”
“Yeah. I started at a call center in Vegas, but the manager . . . Let’s just say he wasn’t the best. So a few girls told me there was another one here in San Francisco, and . . . the rest is history.”
“That’s amazing.”
I raise my eyebrows. “It is?”
His cheeks color and he looks away. “I just mean, I never thought I would see you again. I mean I hoped—” He glances up at me and this time he doesn’t blush as much. Does he want me to know just how much he’s thought of me since that night? “And now, here you are, doing laundry of all things.”
No, don’t do that. Don’t let yourself hope. God, how I wish I could tell him everything about me, but I don’t want to scare him away. He’ll just leave like everyone else.
“Right. Well, I’m done, so I better get going.”
“Oh.”
I take another few steps back and watch his smile slip away. “It was really nice to see you again.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Then, with all the strength I have, I turn and head for the door. I feel claustrophobic. I need to get outside into the air. His presence is overwhelming, reminiscent of that night two years ago. The door is ahead of me. I can almost breathe.
“Wait,” I hear him call from behind me, but I’m outside and can finally take a breath in. I hear the bell go off and Doris yelling out in her raspy voice not to leave laundry unattended. “Yeah, yeah, I’m not going anywhere,” he assures her before the door closes once more.
I turn to face him, keeping my basket between us for some distance.
“That’s it?” he asks.
“What’s it?”
“‘It was really nice to see you again’? That’s all?”
I open my mouth but close it again when it’s clear everyone inside the laundromat is watching us. “I mean . . . yeah? Isn’t it?”
“What if I didn’t want that to be all there is?” he asks, taking a step toward me.
My heart races but I shake my head. “Joel, you . . . you don’t even know me. I’m just that stripper from Vegas you paid to hang out with one night. We can’t just be friends.”
“Who said anything about being just friends?”
My eyes close and I let out a long breath. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? You got a boyfriend?”
“No, but I?—”
“You’re not attracted to me, then?” he asks with a knowing smirk.
I bite my lip. Damn him . “It’s not that. I just—I don’t really have the time to date anyone right now.”
“Surely you must have some days off from the dreaded call center,” he teases. “Let me take you out on a date.”
Stomach flipping, I tilt my head. “A date?”
“Yeah,” he continues. “Preferably one where I don’t get a concussion.”
Yes. Yes. It would be so easy to say yes, but how do I know he’ll be different from the others? Why can’t I just make up my fucking mind? “That’s very sweet of you, but I can’t.”
I turn again to leave but he calls after me. “Come on, I have to see you again.”
I point up at the sign. “Maybe if you ever need to do laundry again we’ll run into each other.”
“At least tell me your name,” he begs. “I know it’s not really Cherry.”
“I guess you’ll just have to wonder.”
He smiles and pushes his hand through his hair. “Wait. I don’t have any dryer sheets.”
With a laugh and a shake of my head, I reach into my basket and pull out a box of Snuggle fabric softener.
He takes it, his hand lingering on mine for what feels like an eternity. “Thanks. I’ll just have to call you Snuggle for now, I guess,” he says.
I cross my arms and scoff, but he just flashes that mild-melting grin again.
“You know, because you’re soft and smell great.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Wow, that was something,” I say, backing away.
“Come on, not even after that line?”
I turn, my cheeks hot and my heart galloping in my chest. “See you around, Joel.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” he calls, and I peek over my shoulder at his electric smile and twinkling eyes one last time before I turn the corner and flatten myself against the brick wall, out of sight.
* * *
It took ten whole minutes for me to conjure up enough courage to peel myself off the bricks and sneak back down the alley next to the laundromat. I couldn’t very well let Joel know where I live. Not that I think he’s a stalker, but because if he found himself on my doorstep, I don’t think I’d have the strength not to pull him inside and let him lay that gorgeous body on top of me. I collapse against the door, drop my basket of clean clothes onto my messy bed, and duck into the kitchen, opening up a can of tuna for Stella.
“Hi, pretty girl,” I say as she rubs herself between my legs and purrs. She’s really come out of her shell since I rescued her from the alley a few months back. “You’ll never guess who I ran into today.”
She meows as I plate her tuna and put it on the floor by my feet, and I take it as a sign that she wants me to elaborate. I settle down on the kitchen floor next to her, bending my legs and folding my arms around them.
“Remember how I told you about that man? The one from Vegas?”
She sniffs then starts nibbling on the tuna.
“No? Maybe you don’t remember. Well, he was downstairs today. Can you believe it?”
Another mournful meow.
“ No , it wasn’t a dream this time. And . . .” I pause for dramatic effect. “He wanted to take me out on a date.”
She stops chewing and looks up at me with what I would classify as a surprised face.
“I said no, of course,” I add, dropping my forehead to my knees.
She meows again and paws at me, ignoring her food.
“How could I say yes?” I say, scratching her ears. “You know they never stay long.”
There’s a gentle purr and she rubs her nose into my palm. I sigh. “I don’t mean you. You’ve stuck around. But then again, I’m the one who feeds you.”
She returns to her food and I wave my hand at her. “Since when are you a romantic anyway? Huh?”
I stand, brush off my behind, then make a beeline for my fresh laundry. I grab an old Sonny and Cher shirt, my comfiest pair of jeans, and some clean underwear. Ducking into the bathroom, I pile my hair up into a blue velvet scrunchie and shower, dress, then pinch a few slices of bologna from the fridge before I’m pulling on my shoes at the door.
Stella has since abandoned her empty plate on the kitchen floor and is snoozing on the windowsill, under the hanging planter next to my bed. “Okay, pretty girl, try not to stay up too late. You know how cranky you get when you don’t get your twenty-two hours of sleep.”
She lifts her head to look at me, meows, then promptly falls back asleep.
“See you in the morning,” I say, and lock the door behind me.
* * *
The sun is setting as I walk toward the bus stop at the end of my block, its proximity a big part of the reason I snapped up an apartment in such a bad area. Well, besides the cheap rent. One thing’s for sure, my feet are a lot happier with my change in career. I don’t need to wear sky-high heels for hours on end, and with my bad ankle, not having to walk very far is a blessing.
One ten-minute bus ride and three whistles from strangers later, I push through the door of the unassuming building and head up the stairs. The sound of a dozen phones ringing and the quiet chatter of the other workers greet me the moment I step inside. A few people look my way when I come in, but it appears things are busy earlier than usual tonight, and I quickly spot Anita heading toward me, looking frantic.
“Cherry, great, you’re here early. Can you jump on? The lines have been lighting up for the past twenty minutes and we just don’t have the staff on yet.”
“Sure,” I say, stopping at the punch clock. “Let me just grab a glass of water and I’ll get?—”
“No time, I’ll grab you an entire jug of water. Just start taking calls, okay?” she rushes out the moment my time card is punched, ushering me over to my cubicle.
I groan internally but nod anyway, then sit down and pick up the phone, clicking on the first blinking red light I see. There’s a ding through the line, then an automated voice says, “Horny college girls are waiting to speak to you now. They’re excited to hear from you. So excited that we’re going to give you three free minutes on this call. Enter your credit card information now or at any time during this message.”
So this guy’s into college girls, then. Fairly simple request for a first call of the night. After all, working as a phone sex operator? These guys can get off on some weird shit. I hear numbers quickly being punched in on the line. Seems like this one is eager to get things started.
When I hear the ding again, that’s my cue. “Hi, this is Cherry, who do I have the pleasure of speaking with tonight?”
There’s a hint of static and the line connects. “Hello?”
I pitch my voice just a touch higher to sound younger. “Hey baby, what’s your name?”
A deep breath. “You can just call me Baby, I guess.”
His voice is deep. Rough, with a hint of raspiness that digs its way into your bones and grips you tight. This should be fun. Besides, I don’t need his real name. “Baby, I’m so glad you called.”
There’s muffled laughter through the line and I frown. This better not be a prank call from some horny teenager who stole his dad’s credit card.
“Baby?” I ask when he doesn’t reply.
“I . . . sorry,” he says, a smile evident in his tone. “I just—this is stupid, I shouldn’t have called.”
I roll my eyes. “Then why did you?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Baby, you called me.”
“But I didn’t have to,” he argues. “I could easily have gone out and taken whichever girl I wanted home with me. Given her the time of her life then sent her packing in the morning.”
Someone thinks highly of himself. I roll my finger through the phone cord. “Then why didn’t you?”
There’s a long stretch of silence. I double check that we’re still connected, and a thought occurs to me.
“Maybe you don’t want that,” I say slowly. “Maybe you want more but want the safety of the phone line between us.”
Another pause. “Maybe.”
“I need that too sometimes. Connection,” I say, “and not just a physical one. When was the last time you felt a connection with a woman?”
“A long time ago,” he admits, his voice softer. “And today . . . today is a hard day.”
Hmmm . . . okay, maybe it’s not an ego thing. “That can feel really lonely.”
Something rustles in the background. Maybe he’s in bed. “Yeah, it can be.”
“Baby?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
I pout my lips for extra effect. “I’m so lonely.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, I moved very far away to go to college and my boyfriend just broke up with me. I just don’t know what to do with myself.”
He sighs into the phone. “You poor thing. All alone and away from home.”
I smirk. Okay, now he’s got the hang of it, he just needed a little coaching. “Maybe we could be a little less lonely together?”
“That sounds nice. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”
I giggle. “You will?”
“Of course. A gorgeous girl like you needs someone to look after her. Tend to her.”
With a sigh, I lean back in my chair. “No one ever pays any attention to me, Baby. But you will, right?”
“Oh sweetheart, I’ll give you all my attention.”
I coil the phone cord around my finger absently. “Hmm, that sounds nice.”
“What were you doing when I called? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“No, I was just getting out of the shower.”
He sighs into the speaker. “Must be nice to feel so clean.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” I whisper.
“Of course.”
“It feels better getting dirty.”