CHAPTER 18
Jordan
A few months ago, I would have been standing in front of my bedroom mirror getting ready to go in search of a one-and-done guy. Today, I’m tossing every piece of clothing that I own onto my bed, searching for the perfect outfit for my date. A fucking date. A real life romantic date with Dimples. Well, as romantic as my brain will allow. Eric proposed some expensive restaurant, because of course he did. He’s all fancy and shit. I, however, am not. The idea of sitting face-to-face with Eric staring into his eyes over a candlelit dinner gives me indigestion. That is too much like a date date and I’m not there yet. Drinks, though, I can do. A nice cocktail bar or maybe a jazz bar. Somewhere with a relaxing atmosphere and dim lighting.
We both decided that going to Jacks wouldn’t qualify as a date, because every time we’re there we end up fucking somewhere on the premises, and today is not supposed to be about that. I mean, I’m open to it, but apparently that's bad date etiquette. Who knew? Not me, because I have little to no experience as far as these things go.
Shit, I’m so nervous that my palms are sweating. We’ve been out plenty of times, but they have been with the sole purpose of having a risky hookup—not so much about talking and getting to know each other. What the fuck do we even talk about? Surely shop talk is a no-no on dates. What if it's awkward because we have nothing to say to each other? Ugh, is it too late to cancel?
Moving from my bathroom to the living room, I continue my internal panic in a larger space more conducive to pacing. “Oh, vodka!” I clap my hands together like an excited kid. That's exactly what I need. Good ol’ liquid courage never fails.
I’m not normally a vodka kind of guy, but I’m pretty sure there is some leftover bottle rolling around the back of my freezer. Alcohol doesn’t go out of date, right? Shoving my arm elbow deep, I push past bags of frozen veg and containers of God knows what. “Come on, where the fuck are you?” I mutter through gritted teeth, before I feel cold glass under my fingertips. “Fucking finally.”
Pouring a generous measure of the ice-cold clear liquid into a mug, I knock it straight back, then pour another to sip over while I finish getting ready. There is a chance that pre-gaming with straight vodka before a date is a colossal mistake, but it's either this or turn up to the bar looking like a sweaty mess with a nervous tic.
Calmer now, I head back to my bedroom to go through the mountain of clothes piled on my bed in a wrinkled mess. I’m so agitated by my intrusive thoughts that I feel like throwing them all away. I set down my mug of vodka on my dresser, then stand with my hands on my hips, sighing loudly at my clothes. Why do I even own so many? I hate myself right now.
“Right, there has to be something dateworthy in this pile somewhere.” I pick up the first thing I see. It’s a black tank top with a sparkling CUTIE written on the front. “Yeah, not tonight. Probably not ever.” Tossing it to the side, I figure I can donate it later and move on.
By the time the mountain on my bed is more of a molehill, I have a huge pile of donations and still nothing to wear for this date. I should have just gone shopping this afternoon. It's too late now. I flop face-first onto the bed, groaning with frustration. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that has me lifting my head in hope. It’s the beautiful ivory blouse that my mom got me for Christmas last year. Soft silk with randomly-scattered pearl embellishments. It’s fucking perfect. The deep neckline shows off my décolleté, leaving just the right amount exposed to show off my favorite pearl necklace.
With a renewed burst of energy, I scour through the remaining items until I have my dark brown faux leather pants in hand. Celebrating with a mouthful of vodka—which sparks a slight coughing fit—I can now finally finish getting ready.
Twenty minutes and several curse words later, I have my blouse and pearls on with my leather pants currently stuck at my thighs. I have tugged and pulled and threatened these damn pants, but they will not fucking come up any further. I’m sweating again, with exertion this time, and of course the sweat is making the leather clamp even harder to my skin. I need another fucking shower. In fact, I just need to start this day all over again. My hair is a mess. My makeup is sliding off my face. I probably have sweat patches on my beautiful shirt, and more than likely I now stink.
“That’s it! I’m not going!” I announce loudly. I shuffle as best I can without full use of my knees back to the living room in search of my phone. This date was a terrible idea to begin with, and if all of this drama is not a bad omen, then I don't know what is. Even my goddamn clothes are trying to stop me from going.
Grabbing my phone off the coffee table, I let out a long and weary sigh. It’s like, thirty minutes until I’m supposed to meet Eric. Fuck it, I’m going to give it one more try. Maybe if I lay down on the couch with my legs high, they will magically fall into place by the power of positive thinking alone.
Throwing back the last of my cup-o-vodka, I assume the position and start wriggling my back on the couch cushion. I can practically hear the vodka swooshing in my stomach as I move, making me laugh then groan when I strain so hard pulling on the leather that my fucking ear pops. Flopping back, I take a few deep breaths any midwife would be proud of, then try again. This time I tug one leg after the other, digging my heels into the couch cushions and lifting my hips high into the air, figuring maybe this new angle will help.
I’m about to start pumping my hips and fucking the bastard pants up my thighs when there’s a knock on my door. Quickly snapping my head side to side, I try to find my phone so I can check the time. Who the fuck is that? Maybe it's Pete. Oh, my god, he can help me. Yes, he can lube me up and slide these fuckers into place like a condom.
The knocking starts again, making my vodka-soaked brain startle. It throws off my balance, making me slide further off the couch than is safe right now. “Come in and help me, for fuck’s sake,” I yell in the direction of the door. A sharp and unexpected vibration on my back sends my body rolling to the floor just in time to hear a deep voice—that most certainly does not belong to my best friend—calling out to me.
“Hey, Jordan?” Eric’s in the hallway and I can hear his hurried footsteps coming my way.
I flatten my body to the rug and figure I can use the couch as a shield and just pretend I’m not home. He will look in, not see me, then leave. Fuck it, I’ll play dead for good measure.
“Where are you, babe?” He sounds closer now. I think he's outside the door.
Shit, I forgot I called for help. Better start holding my breath then. Dead it is. R.I.P me.
“Jordan, are you okay?”
I say nothing and listen to every step he takes. I just need him to leave so that I can call and tell him and lie through my teeth about this whole shitshow.
“Lashes, I can see your legs sticking out from behind the couch.”
Shit. I try to pull them out of view, but these fucking pants make it impossible. “I’m not here.” Fuck. I was supposed to stay silent.
“Jordan?”
I can hear him walking closer to the couch, but I can’t see him because my eyes are shut tight.
“Wha—” he starts, but evidently there are no words to describe this tragedy. “Okay, I’m going to pretend you’re not lying on the floor with your pants around your knees.”
I peek through my eyelid. With my sight slightly blurred, I spot him standing there with hands on his hips.
“Do you need another five to get ready?” Eric ventures.
I would snort if I wasn’t dead. But I am, so I act accordingly.
“Okay, Lashes, can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Can’t talk, dead.”
He has no problem with snorting. The fucker. I’m dead and he thinks it’s funny.
“Be sad!” I try to open my mouth as little as possible. “Mourn me.”
“Oh, no! Whatever will I do without your smart mouth in my life?”
I appreciate the attempt, but he could have added way more feeling.
“And all these plans I had for you tonight after our date, Lashes! Licking every inch of your body. Rimming you till you come on my satin sheets. All wasted, because you’re dead.”
“Would you fuck me afterwards?” I ask quizzically, still pretending to be a corpse.
“All… night… long.” He knows what his words do to me. And I’m so tempted to break my act, but I’m still lying half-naked on the floor. “But since you’re dead, someone else will have to do.”
I sit up immediately with a loud gasp, forcing myself to ignore how the room spins slightly. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, look. He lives. It’s a miracle.” Eric spreads his arms up to the ceiling like he's thanking the Lord.
“I was dead for five minutes! You should have mourned me at least for a month before moving on.” I shoot him my best Marilyn Monroe pout, and his smile changes into a sexy, dimpled smirk. “No, nope. You do not get to distract me with your stupid handsome face.” He sooo distracts me. “A month, Dimples, at least cry over me for a month.”
“Two weeks, tops.”
Is he really negotiating with me?
“Three.” I feel like I should stand my ground. I mean, we’re talking about my death here. It’s serious shit.
“Done.”
And that’s when I lose all pretense. Laying back with my legs in the air, my knees still trapped in the leather, I laugh hard and uncontrollably. I can feel Eric's eyes on me, his expression concerned, probably wondering what drugs I've taken.
“Oh, God. I think I needed that.” I wipe the tears from my eyes. All the tension and stress has left my body. I feel loose and relaxed.
“You needed to die?” Eric’s head is now tilted to the side in confusion. I must do something to fix his handsome face.
Mustering my trademark power-ballad caterwaul, I launch into that awful Bryan Adams dirge, drawing out every damn note till the bitter end. “ Yes, Dimples. I died for you. So now everything you do should be one hundred percent done for me , you bastard.”
I can tell by his expression how much he appreciates my dulcet tones. He’s in awe of me. I should have tried out for American Idol; I’d totally win.
“What the fuck is happening right now?” He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He loves me. I know he does.
I can smell it.
“You can smell what? Jordan, have you taken something? Should we go to the emergency room?”
Fuck. I must have said that out loud. I really need to stop doing shit like this.
“Nope, no need for that. You can turn that frown upside down, Mister. We are going on a date.” With great effort, I grip onto the couch and heave myself back to my feet, then waddle to the front door—pants be damned.