5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Last weekend, I finally got the chance to explore LA after having been swamped with work for the past two months. The city doesn’t hold a candle to the beautiful architecture of San Francisco, but it has its perks. Today, I’m enjoying one of the shops Monty and I found, as I wear the new tangerine suit I got when we went shopping. The tailored look of it brings me tons of compliments on social media. Even without the jacket on, the pants paired with a nice white tank top look good on me.
Feeling confident in both my look and my skills, I get lost in work. I look up to see that a couple hours have passed since I sat down at the sewing machine to make Dante’s suit jacket, and I need a break. Putting the garment down, I stand and throw my arms up. Tension rolls from my core out into my limbs as I stretch out the aches from being hunched over. I turn to Mira, who stands across the room from me sorting through samples.
“I’m going to make a tea, do you want anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and I leave the room. With each step I take, my body wakes up a little more. Fully back to normal by the time I walk through the door, my limbs feel loose.
That is until I come face to face with Errol. Suddenly it feels like I’ve been electrocuted and I’m going into rigor mortis. Standing with his back to me, he looks down at the coffee pot as dark liquid slowly drips into it. I’m not in the mood to deal with him, so I turn to leave.
“Hello Farrah,” he says, his gaze still focused on the coffee.
Having now been acknowledged, I decide to walk the rest of the way into the space.
“Hello.” I try and fail at sounding cordial. “How did you know it was me?”
He turns to face me, a half smile hanging off his face as he takes me in.
“No one makes as much noise as you do with those things on.” Gesturing to my feet, his problem with my heels has surfaced again.
I raise an eyebrow in annoyance while looking up at him.
“Why do you care so much about my shoes?” Opening the box of blueberry tea I brought with me, I grab a packet as I wait for him to answer.
“I just don’t get why you wear them.” He crosses his arms. “They are a painful man-made invention that women shouldn’t have to wear to be professional or sexy. As a feminist, I just believe—”
“Oh so you’re a feminist?” I ask, cutting him off.
He tilts his head down, long eyelashes fluttering onto his cheeks as he waits for me to continue.
“You know feminism is about a lot more than how we dress. Women should get to choose what they do or wear and be accepted for whatever that is.”
“Actually feminism is about—”
A laugh barks out of me, as I turn the kettle on.
“What?” He leans against the counter, his eyes boring into mine.
“You were just about to mansplain to me what feminism is.” I chuckle again, in awe of his audacity. With the tea bag in the mug and the water boiling, I turn sideways so that I can face him fully as he does the same.
“No, I wasn’t.” His mouth twists together as he unfolds his arms and clasps his hands in front of him.
“Oh yes, you were.”
His eyes roll to the side searching for an answer. Putting them back in a place to look at me, he seems to have found it.
“Okay, maybe I was.”
Taken aback by him admitting he is wrong, I turn to stare at the door to see if ice is creeping up it from Hell freezing over. Finding the same bland wood grain, I have to assume his brain is malfunctioning, making him nice.
When he starts talking, that assumption goes right out the window.
“Either way, they make an obnoxious amount of noise as well, which was great at first. They worked as a warning bell for your presence, but now no one can stand it.”
My upper lip curls back with the scrunch of my nose and I turn to look into his eyes of pure darkness.
“Speaking for the whole crew? Is that something you think you get to do because you are the director, or because you’re their collective boyfriend?”
His head snaps up like I hit him. My mouth pulls into a wide grin as I turn, just as the kettle pops signaling it’s done. Pouring the hot water into the cup, I add one scoop of sugar and a splash of cream, and then turn to leave.
“Once again, I don’t date the crew, but I see you got jokes. You think you are funny, huh?”
Looking back over my shoulder at him, I let all my teeth show in a smile that I hope is both threatening and breathtaking.
“I am funny, beautiful, smart and talented. I know that is hard with you to contend with since you only happen to be one.”
Slamming the mug down on to the counter, he raises his eyebrows while fighting with his mouth to stay in a scowl. A hint of amusement dances in his eyes, like my words are a symphony of humor.
“And which one am I?” he asks.
I lift one shoulder as I continue my journey to the door.
“I’ll let you have one of your groupies tell you. I’m sure each one has a different opinion, so to them you may be all those things.” I open the door, ready to let whatever he says next hit the back of it. As I let go and step into the hallway, he grabs hold of it, following me.
“I have seen you wear a lot of things over these last few weeks, but I have to say jealousy really fits you well.” He falls in step with me, steaming mug of black coffee in his hands. I try not to trip, his words hitting me from behind, knocking me a little.
“I’m not jealous.” I turn to the left back towards the work room. I sneak a quick glance at him and see the smirk is back as he veers in the same direction, easily keeping up.
“It would explain why you care so much about who I sleep with. I mean, you have already admitted that you think I’m good looking.”
Scoffing at his words, I can tell it becomes less believable by the third time I do it, so I pick up the pace, deciding to ignore him instead.
“It’s fine Farrah, I don’t blame you. I just think you should admit it so we can move past it.”
Stopping short outside the door that leads to the wardrobe room, I pivot on my heels and glare at him.
“You are delusional if you think I want to sleep with you.”
“I know you do, it’s fine. So let’s just get this out of the way. Even if I did get involved with people I work with, I only sleep with individuals who are good at their job. People who can handle being with me and not getting distracted. I don’t think you are up for the task. You barely get your work done correctly now without all of this,”—he waves a hand down his body,— “getting in the way.”
“I’m good at my job. You are decent looking at best, and if we were to sleep together, I wouldn’t be the one unable to keep it together after.” I gesture my hands up and down my body, outlining my goods. “All of this is more than you can handle.”
Assuming he has never been with a woman over a size ten, I know he wouldn’t be able to keep up with everything my big body has to offer.
Eyeing me up and down, he actually takes me in before he responds. His eyes cloud over with an expression I can’t quite read. “We will never know who wouldn’t be able to deal, because this is never happening.” He points with two fingers back and forth between us.
I nod, actually on the same page as him about this. “You don’t have to tell me something I already know.”
He nods while taking a step back.
“Good, we can agree on something,” he says, looking down at his watch. Seeing the time, he straightens up again and looks back over his shoulder. “Tell Mira I’ll see her in an hour.”
With that, he takes off, freeing me to return to my day. Stuck replaying the conversation over and over, the rest goes by pretty fast.
As I enter my house, I’m met with the mess of a video game session as Monty lounges on the couch, PlayStation controller in hand, surrounded by snacks. Looking the exact same as how I left her this morning, I summarize that she has yet to do anything, including sleep.
I step over discarded wrappers and dislodged couch cushions,
“So,” I say as I push her pile of Twinkies to the side to plop down on a cleared spot, “Errol and me had another run in today, and he had the nerve to accuse me of wanting to sleep with him.” Laughing at the audacity of his accusation, I wait for Monty to see the absurdity and join in. When I’m met with silence, I look over at her.
“Do you?” She doesn’t even glance at me, her eyes still focusing on her game.
“No,” I immediately protest, the high pitched squeal of my voice ringing a little false.
“He is super hot. I would get it.”
Today he was wearing a tight black shirt that showed off all the muscles that lined his arms. On anyone else that might have been seen as attractive. I mean, I did think he was good looking when we first met. But that was before he opened his mouth and showed me his true jerk colors. Can I imagine that mouth doing naughty things to me?
“No, I don’t want to sleep with him,” I lie. If I admit I do out loud, then I have to face that.
“You know love and hate is a thin line to walk,” Monty says just as her character dies in the game. Putting the controller down, she rubs the palms of her hands against her eyes, then closes them in rest. Turning in my seat to face her, I wait for her to look at me.
“I don’t hate him, so I’m not walking that line. I just dislike him thoroughly.”
“I have never seen you dislike someone this much before. At most, you tend to just be indifferent to people.” She turns off the TV and gets up to stretch.
“I have never had someone get under my skin like this.”
Stopping for a moment, she turns to me, tilting her head.
“You should really look into why that is. It could mean something.”
“All it means is that he is the most insufferable person I have ever met,” I huff.
She laughs as she puts the livingroom back together.
“I’ve been up for more than thirty-six hours, it’s time to go to bed. But you should really think on why this random man gets you so fired up.”
Giving her a hug, I send her off to sleep while I do exactly what she said.
Beyond being cocky and argumentative, why did he piss me off so much? No one in my life has ever challenged me like this. It’s like from the moment we met, he’s done the opposite of giving me the benefit of the doubt. I have to constantly prove myself to him. I don’t like it. But is that enough to push me to be at war with him? I continue to think on it, sinking into the couch with the cookies she left behind. I don’t know why Errol Davis is the bane of my existence, but I’m determined to figure it out.