5. Eric
Eric
Rebecca is growing more intoxicated by the minute.
“You know what’s dumb?” she slurs, saying the words to nobody in particular. “Why does everyone think once a woman turns thirty, her life is over? Why is that?”
“I don’t know,” I say quietly.
My driver glances curiously back at me in the rearview mirror. I shake my head, pressing a button nearby to raise the partition between the back seat and the front.
“Nobody says stuff like that about guys,” Rebecca continues, her words running together. “Guys play the field and focus on their career and nobody cares! But if you’re a woman you’re supposed to get married. Have babies. Wear aprens-n-hills.”
“Wear what? ” I repeat.
“Aprons…and…heels,” she repeats, pronouncing each word carefully. “Aprons. And. Heels.”
It’s alarming how intoxicated she is right now. I can’t stop thinking about what would have happened to her if I hadn’t come upstairs when I did.
That fucker Larry Welch was going to take advantage of her. I ball my fists by my sides.
If Rebecca hadn’t been waiting for me upstairs, Welch would have gotten a much worse punishment at my hands.
As it is, he might need a few stitches for the busted lip that I gave him in the parking garage.
Maybe an ice pack for the deep purple bruise around his eye that he’ll be sporting tomorrow morning.
When he finally stopped crying like a little bitch, Welch said he’d be pressing charges against me for assault. What a fucking joke. I’d like to see him try. My lawyers would bury him—that is, if I didn’t do it myself first.
I’d bury him. And I’d enjoy doing it.
If I see him anywhere near Rebecca ever again, he’s a dead man. That’s what I told him as my security team dragged him away.
“Aprons and heels,” I repeat. “Heels, like high heeled shoes?”
The car makes a sharp right turn and she loses her balance, tumbling into my lap.
I flinch at the unexpected touch. Generally, I’m not a fan of physical contact. Handshakes are fine. Hugs from family members are tolerable.
Sex? Sex is fine…as long as I’m in control.
Glossy black hair spills across my lap. The smell of it hits my nostrils, vanilla and spice. Like a chai latte, like apple pie, like…home.
Home .
That’s the kind of smell that it is. I can’t even place it, exactly. It’s the kind of elusive scent that calls back to vague memories from childhood, happier times, cozy autumn days and the crisp pages of a newly borrowed library book. It’s the smell of hope and comfort.
“Sorry,” Rebecca mumbles, putting a hand on my thigh to push away from me.
She starts to sit back up and retreat to her side of the back seat. I don’t know what the hell comes over me, but I put an arm around her, holding her against my chest. I bring my other hand to her chin, tipping her face up at mine.
Her eyes look unfocused and lost, and her cheeks are flushed.
“You did a foolish thing tonight,” I say to her. “Mixing your medication with alcohol.”
“It was an accident.”
“I know,” I say. “But you could have been hurt. I don’t like that.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “It won’t. I won’t allow it.”
She looks confused, like she doesn’t quite know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I’m saying either. Even though I didn’t have a drop to drink tonight and never do, I feel a little intoxicated myself. Intoxicated by what? By her? Why?
“Why did you even talk to a man like that?” I ask her.
“A man like who?”
“Larry Welch,” I say.
She frowns.
“I don’t know,” she says. “We were just…talking. He was nice. I gave him my phone number and we were planning to go out next weekend. It’s not like I knew that he would follow me upstairs. I had no idea that he’d turn out to be such a creep.”
“But why did you give him your number?” I press. “Why did you agree to go out with him next weekend?”
She looks completely confused now.
“I don’t understand,” she says. “What do you mean? Are you asking why I…why I date?”
I think about this and realize that I don’t really know what the hell I’m asking.
Ordinarily I’m so careful with words, calculating what I say before I say it. But tonight it’s like my mind is just as scrambled as hers.
“Forget it,” I say, shaking my head.
She’s already forgotten, though. Slurring her words with the memory of a goldfish, she’s a hazard to her own safety tonight. Now she’s singing softly to herself, fiddling with the hem of her dress, as if she doesn’t realize I’m still here.
By the time we make it to my house a few minutes later, she’s passed out, completely limp in my arms.
Knowing that what I’m doing violates all kinds of employee guidelines and crosses a line that can’t be uncrossed, I carry her upstairs, passing several guest rooms and heading to the master bedroom instead.
I know I won’t be able to sleep tonight, anyway. I need to know that she’s safe.
For some damn reason, I need to see to her safety personally , watching over her tonight instead of calling someone to help.
Sacrificing my sleep to care for her. It makes no sense. But that’s exactly what I do.