13. Carlisle
13
Carlisle
W hen stressed, I prefer to eat carbs, lots of them. So, after my humiliating day at work, I came home and kept myself busy by preparing homemade lasagna and garlic bread.
Honestly, the incident at work was more than humiliating. It was violating and terrifying, but I don’t want to think about it. I want to put it out of my mind and pretend it didn’t happen.
Unfortunately, it’s all I can think about. The scene just keeps replaying on an unending loop.
The office was quiet since most of the other employees were already gone for the day. Mr. King called me into his office. As I entered, he surprised me by standing just inside the doorway. As soon as I crossed the threshold of his office, he shut the door behind me. The snicking of the door sounded eerie and ominous in the otherwise silent building.
Instantly, I felt uneasy and the hair on the back of neck stood up. Looking for an excuse to leave, I stammered, “I forgot my notepad. Let me go grab it.”
“No need,” Mr. King replied, standing in front of the door, blocking me from leaving. “This conversation will be better if it isn’t documented.”
“Is dinner ready? It smells delicious, Carlisle,” Harper smiles as she flounces into the small kitchen and pours herself a glass of wine. Noticing how little wine is left in the bottle, she quirks an eyebrow in my direction. “Rough day?”
“Something like that.”
Dishing up a plate of food, I hand it to her, hoping to distract her enough that she’ll forget to question me further. Instead of having dinner on our couch like we usually do, Harper insists that we eat at our small dining table tonight. Tomato sauce and our light-colored couch won’t mix well, according to her. But without the television to fill the silence, we have to make conversation.
Which I really don’t feel like doing right now. There’s a lot on my mind, but none of it is anything that I want to say aloud.
Anxious, I stood frozen until Mr. King yanked me against him, catching me off-guard. His fingers bit into my arms as he tried to kiss me. Though stunned by his brazenness, I managed to turn my head at the last second, his lips landing off-target on my jawbone.
When he tried to kiss me a second time, I stumbled away, turning my back to him.
Harper scoops up a big bite and pushes her fork into her mouth. She chews and swallows before forcing some conversation. “How was work today?”
I sprinkle a little more parmesan on my lasagna and push it around on my plate, stalling.
Should I lie by omission and not tell Harper about what happened?
Change the topic?
Tell the truth?
Meanwhile, the scene keeps replaying in my mind .
“Carlisle, I took a chance when I hired you, a fresh college grad without any relevant work experience. This week, I’ve received a few inquiries from well-qualified candidates wondering if we had any open positions.” His voice took on a menacing quality, and without saying it explicitly, I understood his implied threat.
With my back to him, Mr. King snaked his arm around my waist, pulling my body flush against his. I felt his erection poking into my lower back as one of his meaty hands roved over my body, stopping to fondle my breast.
Deciding my best chance at escape was to play nice, I mumbled, “Of course, you’re right, Mr. King. Thank you for giving me the job.”
“Good girl, Carlisle.” His words sent a disgusted shudder through me, but my capitulation pacified him.
“Earth to Carlisle. I asked how your day was?” With her head tilted, Harper sizes me up with a concerned look on her face.
“Same old, same old. Mr. King offered me a raise–”
“That’s great, Carlisle!” Harper interrupts, her face beaming. She knows how tight money is for me, but my next words wipe the smile from her face.
“—if I slob his knob,” I grimace. “Those weren’t his exact words, but that was the general gist of the… umm, interaction.”
I take a large swallow of my red wine. I can still feel his hands on me, so I take another even larger gulp.
His hands dropped from my body, and I hurriedly stepped away from him. He still blocked the door, so I sat down in one of the two chairs across from his desk, putting as much space between us as I could. I hoped that he would take his usual seat behind his desk, allowing me an opportunity to dash out the door before he could stop me.
Unfortunately, he positioned himself next to me in the remaining guest chair. He watched me through hooded eyes and reached out to caress my knee before pushing my skirt up and sliding his fingers higher up my leg.
“You’ve been playing hard to get, Carlisle.” He paused. “If it’s about money, then I’m sure I can arrange a raise. How much will it take?”
“I take it back. That is not great. That is the opposite of great!” Harper pulls her napkin from her lap and throws it on the table in a fit of anger. Her eyes bore into mine as she presses, “What do you mean interaction ? Tell me exactly what happened this time. Did you write it all down?” Her voice, and her anger, are ratcheting up to a disturbing level. At this rate, our neighbors will also know how shitty my boss is.
“Yeah, I did.”
Not that anyone will be able to read my notes though. My hand was shaking so badly that my writing is nearly illegible.
Harper nods at me once, trying to calm herself down for my sake. “Okay, so what happened?”
He licked his lips as his fingers inched their way up my thigh. I shifted in my seat, hoping to dislodge his hand from my leg, but it didn’t work. So, I crossed my legs and squeezed my thighs together as tightly as I could to impede his hand’s ascent.
Attempting to keep my fear and revulsion at bay, I wrestled my face into a neutral expression. I didn’t know how he’d react if he realized that I wasn’t open to his idea. Would he force himself on me? He already kissed me and touched me against my will. I didn’t want to find out what else he was capable of.
Smoothing down my skirt with shaking hands, I told him, “I’ll think about it and let you know my number tomorrow.”
While Mr. King’s inappropriate behavior towards me at work has always made me uncomfortable, I usually manage to ignore, rationalize, or dismiss it. It’s irritated and annoyed me, but I’ve made all kinds of excuses to downplay the seriousness of his harassment because I feel trapped until I can find another job.
I'm too sensitive.
I imagined that his eyes lingered on my cleavage a second too long.
It was inadvertent when his hand brushed some part of my body.
It’s no big deal that he rubs my shoulders when he comes up behind me at my desk.
I read too far into his off-color comments and lewd suggestions.
But after today, I can’t do that anymore. Because there is no excuse for kissing me, touching me, and propositioning me like he did.
“I knew you were a smart girl, Carlisle. Let’s plan on a private lunch meeting at my desk tomorrow to finalize our arrangement.”
I stood and this time he didn’t stop me from leaving. Trembling, I walked briskly to the door. As soon as I shut it behind me, I ran. Haphazardly grabbing my things from my desk, I ran out of the building, and I didn’t stop running until I reached the bus stop.
With only tenuous control over my emotions, I haltingly tell Harper about what transpired. Then I wait for the explosion. It only takes two seconds for her temper to detonate.
“What the hell, Carlisle? Seriously, how much longer are you going to work there? No, fuck that! You cannot continue working there! He’s been harassing you for months and now he’s crossed the line into sexual battery.”
I sit mute. I’ve done nothing wrong—I know that—but it feels like Harper’s angry with me.
Or maybe it’s that I’m angry with myself.
All evening I’ve been going over what I could have done differently. Did I somehow lead him to believe I was interested? Was I too friendly? Did I dress inappropriately? Should I have worn less make-up? Could I have been better at avoiding him in the office? Is this somehow all my fault?
“Maybe you can get a job waitressing at night so you can volunteer during the day to get more business experience or something. Anything would be better than where you’re working now! You can’t go back there. If you do, he could really hurt you, Carlisle. More than he did today.”
“I know,” I admit quietly.
I was only trapped in Mr. King’s office for a few minutes at most, but it felt like an eternity. What he did to me was awful, but he could have done so much worse. I can’t even bring myself to contemplate what he has planned for me tomorrow during our lunch meeting .
The acid in my stomach churns from anxiety and I push away from the table. I won’t be able to eat anything else tonight. I move to sit in the chair in the living room. Harper follows me. Sullenly, I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them.
“Maybe you could ask your dad for some money to tide you over?” Harper says tentatively, knowing how much I’ll hate her suggestion. “Just until you get a new job. I’m sure he’d understand if you told him what happened.”
“No way! I am not asking him for anything. He didn’t even invite me to holiday dinner. Do you really think he’ll give me money?” My response is emphatic and instantaneous.
“If you want, I can ask my parents for money. I don’t have to tell them it’s for you.”
Concern and worry are etched on Harper’s face, and I feel guilty bringing her into my problems. Harper has stood by me through so many huge hurdles in my life. She was there for me while my mom was sick and after she died and when my dad remarried and basically disowned me. I hate that I’m dragging her into my drama yet again.
“No, you’ve already done plenty for me. Thank you though.” I feel my eyes filling with unshed tears, and I send Harper a brief, watery smile. “I’ll figure something out.”
Harper moves towards me and sits on the arm of my chair, dragging me into a tight hug. I lean into her embrace and finally let my unshed tears fall. “I’m with you and we’ll figure something out together,” she murmurs, smoothing my hair with her hand.
Not long after our talk, I plead exhaustion and go into my bedroom. Lying in bed, I quietly cry long enough that I start to feel my eyelids swelling. Sniffling pitifully, I sit up and force myself to stem the waterworks.
What am I going to do? I can’t afford to quit without another job lined up, but there’s no way I can go back to Staples King tomorrow. I mull over Harper’s idea to get a waitressing job and volunteer for more business experience. Since Ben has lived in LA for a long time, I bet he might know of some restaurants or cafes that are hiring.
Thinking of Ben, I feel the first hint of a smile to cross my lips since everything happened this afternoon.
My phone rings and when I spy the name flashing across my screen, I slide right to answer it without hesitation. “I was just thinking about you.” But when I greet him, my voice sounds thick and scratchy from crying.
Hearing myself, I regret my impulsive decision to answer the phone. I should’ve waited until I had my emotions fully under control. We’re still in the getting-to-know-you phase, and I don’t want him to think I’m a dramatic, emotional mess of a woman.
“That’s what I like to hear. Tell me more.”
Since I’ve already answered his call, I figure the best option I have is to keep the conversation about him, limiting how much I talk. Which will be difficult given our history. “Shut it. How was your mysterious work trip?” I aim for a light-hearted, playful tone, but I’m not sure I manage to achieve it.
“So far, I’m hearing that we had a good response. My team is happy and so I am.”
"Your team? Are you on a professional sports team?" I guess. It would explain his frequent traveling and weird schedule.
Ben laughs. "No. I haven't played a sport seriously since high school. But let’s talk about you. Are you okay? You sound different. Are you coming down with a cold? Don’t be getting sick for our date, Carlisle.”
“No, I’m fine. Just tired and worn down,” I offer lamely. I sniff quietly and wipe my nose on the collar of the old t-shirt I’m wearing. Gulping in a few deep breaths, I try in vain to blink back the next wave of tears that are threatening to fall.
“Carlisle, are you sure you’re okay? You don’t sound like yourself. You can always talk to me.” His tone is so sweet and gentle and it’s my undoing.
As I open my mouth to allay his concerns, I crumble under the weight of my emotions and an audible sob slips out. Quickly followed by another one.
“Whoa, Carlisle. Are you okay? What happened? Where are you? Are you safe?”
Before I can manage a single response to any of his questions, Harper bursts into my room to check on me after hearing my sobs. “Carlisle! Oh, sweetie.” She gathers me into her arms and pulls me in tightly, as more tears roll down my cheeks in thick lines. “It’s okay, Carlisle. I got you, girl.”
Ben, hearing Harper speak to me, asks me to hand the phone to her. Which I do before flinging myself down on my bed. Harper hugs me again before leaving the room to speak to Ben .
After a few minutes, my crying slows, and I draw in a few shaky breaths.
I hate feeling this vulnerable.
I hate feeling like a victim.
I hate not having my life together.
Sitting up in bed, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall opposite me. Goodness gracious, I look like a crackhead fresh off a three-day bender. My hair is sticking up all over the place. My face is blotchy and red. My mascara has migrated under my swollen eyes making me resemble a crazed raccoon. And my t-shirt is covered in a mixture of snot, tears, and make-up.
It’s official—I look as bad as I feel.
Oddly enough, concentrating on my appearance calms me down. Gently, I wipe my eyes on the hem of my t-shirt and pat my puffy eyelids. Grabbing for a tissue from my bedside table, I blow my nose and toss the tissue into my wastebasket, which I miss.
Lebron James, I am not.
I drag myself off my bed to grab the stupid tissue from the floor when Harper runs back into my room looking panicky.
“Good news, bad news, Carlisle. Which do you want first?”
“I’m not in the mood for games, Harper. Just tell me.” I grab another tissue and blow my nose again.
“The good news is that you don’t have to wait until next Sunday to meet Ben because—bad news—he’s coming over now. Right now!” Harper’s eyes are the size of saucers, and her mouth is stretched into a Joker-like smile. Grabbing my arm, she propels me toward the bathroom and pushes me into it. “Shower. Now. Wash your face. I’ll bring you clothes.” She leans into the tub and turns on the shower before she leaves me alone in our bathroom, stunned.
What exactly did she tell Ben ?
“Harper, what the hell?”
Springing to action, I strip off my ratty t-shirt and jump into the still cold shower. Taking advantage of the frigid water, I stick my face under the spray hoping it will alleviate the inflammation around my eyes. Furiously, I speedily scrub every square inch of my body with Harper's expensive body wash. I may look like shit, but I’ll smell nice.
As I'm toweling off, Harper returns with clothing in hand. “Here,” she says, thrusting them at me.
On her way out, she averts her eyes from mine. Erroneously, I assume she refuses to make eye contact with me because she is overwrought with guilt that whatever she said to Ben caused him to feel like he had to come over tonight to console me.
As I hold up the clothes she’s selected for me, I realize that is most definitely not the reason she wouldn’t look at me.
The outfit she picked out for me consists only of a pair of lacy thongs, a matching push-up bra, and one of Harper’s tight, body-hugging black minidresses.
On the same day that I was sexually accosted by my boss, she wants to dress me up like a slutty tart.
Oh, hell no.
“Harper, what the hell?” I screech. Again. I hurriedly wrap the towel around my body and open the bathroom door, not even taking the time to finish drying off before hunting Harper down so that I can give her a piece of my mind.
But as I exit the bathroom, I hear the front door open and Harper subsequently scream. The sound is blood-curdling, almost primal, and it spurs me into immediate action. I might have frozen with Mr. King earlier, but I’m not making that mistake again.
Legs pumping, my wet feet slide across the hallway tile, and I stumble once my feet hit the living room carpet, coming to a clumsy stop and nearly losing my towel in the process. Straightening, I manage to grip the towel before it unfurls from my body. I raise my other hand, ready to protect Harper from some unknown danger.
However, my brain short-circuits as I stare at the scene unfolding in front of me. Harper stands at our front door, hand on the doorknob, with her mouth agape and her face white as a sheet. My eyes swing from my lunatic roommate towards the perfect specimen of a man standing in front of her.
His eyes meet mine and the whole world stops. Am I hallucinating? This cannot be happening. I recognize him, but I can’t place how I know him.
Sputtering incoherently, Harper finally manages to shriek, “OMG, you’re Ben Sutton!” Stepping back from the door, she looks like she might collapse or pass out from shock. “Holy shit, Carlisle,” she stammers and turns toward me, noticing me standing behind her for the first time since she opened the door.
Holy shit is right .
Ben freaking Sutton, Hollywood's most eligible bachelor, is standing in my condo. His large, muscular six-foot-three frame looks out of place in our small living room. His chiseled jaw is clenched, and his piercing green-gray eyes stay locked on me. My mouth drops open as reality hits me.
The Ben that I've gotten to know over the phone is a famous movie star.
Harper looks at me again. “Holy shit, Carlisle,” Harper repeats, and I realize, with utter mortification, that I’m standing in a pool of dripping water looking like a drowned rat and wearing only a bath towel.
I want the ground to open and swallow me whole.
Then I hear the voice that I’ve gotten so familiar with over the past few weeks kindly suggest, “Baby, go get dressed and then we can talk, okay?”
Seemingly recovered from her shock, Harper adds with a smirk, “A little make-up and a hairbrush wouldn’t hurt either, Carlisle.”
That sounds like a good plan. Without saying a word to Ben, I spin and stride towards my bedroom with a speed I usually reserve only for Nordstrom’s semi-annual sale.