Chapter 4
4
“Y ou’ll have to make it two,” I said to the man. “My friend will be right back.”
The man looked over the crowd with a dubious glance. He was handsome in a conventional sort of way: fit body, clear eyes, nice smile. His pleasant face was framed by sandy hair that was thinning slightly and clipped into a neat, preppy style. I estimated him to be in his mid-forties, early fifties. He wore nondescript but clearly expensive back slacks, a charcoal grey button-down polo, and pebbled leather loafers. Simple but elegant. He was a welcome contrast to the other older men in the bar who were clearly in the throes of an existential crisis, deluding themselves into believing that they could hit on women half their age and run with college kids if they dressed and behaved like teenagers.
Still, a few things were off about the guy.
His ghostly flesh was blanched to such a degree that it glowed despite the dim lighting of the bar. I fought the urge to reach out and caress his cheek, feel its texture. I wondered what skin cream he used—no doubt it was out of my price range. Then there was his watch, which I’d previously seen featured in a high-fashion magazine. By a well-known luxury label, its price tag was in the six-figures, which I remembered because I’d questioned what kind of person would buy something so extravagant. Now I knew. There was also his choice of currency, a couple crumpled hundred-dollar bills, which seemed excessive given the bar’s cheap alcohol menu that contained very little drinks over seven dollars. If he was hoping for a glass of Dom, he was going to be disappointed.
“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He laughed. “I could ask the same of you.”
“Touché.”
“Olivia. That’s pretty. You don’t hear that too often these days. Parents now want to give their children ridiculous names like Elevator or Pomegranate ,” he said with a sniff. “In a hundred years, we’ll be hard-pressed to meet an Elenore or Hugh. It’s a shame.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Your friend screamed it while you were onstage, did she not?”
I was going to kill Liz. “She did, sir, yes indeed,” I said, attempting to impersonate his posh intonation. (British? South African? Australian? It was hard to tell over the noise of the crowd.) Why I’d done that, I didn’t know; I’d sounded like a hillbilly with a speech impediment. I was never very good at faking accents.
Still, he smiled, his teeth as dazzlingly white as his skin. “Funny girl. A sense of humor is a valuable thing to possess.”
“So is a thousand bucks. Trust me when I say it’s the only reason I’m here,” I said, for some reason feeling compelled to explain myself to this fancy stranger, as if his opinion had any bearing on my life.
He winked. “Ah, now I get it. It’s all about the money, honey.”
Pursing my lips, I eyed his wrist, hoping that he wasn’t going to disappoint me by being one of those rich assholes who asserted money isn’t everything while wearing a time piece worth over three-hundred grand. Easy for him to say. I had no doubt that he also had a similarly flashy car and house to match.
“Hey, it is when you’re drowning in debt,” I replied, having no idea why I was filling this man in on my personal affairs. Sometimes, I was too chatty for my own good. I seriously hoped that after spending so much time on my own I wasn’t turning into a petless variation of a crazy cat lady. I needed to start getting out more, because I was already walking a perilous line between friendly oddball and weirdo who tells strangers about her bowel movements while in line at Starbucks.
“Let me guess,” he said, tapping his forehead. “You went wild one day and bought more shoes than you have room for in your closet, and now you have tons of credit card debt.”
I snorted, mildly annoyed that he’d immediately gone to shopping, because that’s all us silly girls do, right? Then again, I had just exposed my breasts to strangers for money, so I could hardly blame him for doubting my ability to make prudent life choices. “Nope. Student loan. I owe over a hundred grand.”
His eyes bugged. “That’s madness! Is that what university costs these days?”
“It is when you went to Dewhurst,” I said, feeling rather smug. Too many shoes, my ass.
“Wow, Dewhurst. You must be smart.” He paused for a moment and then added, “You seemed too clever to be in a wet t-shirt contest.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He flashed me his palms. “I didn’t mean to insult. This place, though, it’s so . . . uncouth. ” He made a revolted face, as if somebody near him had just passed wind. Likely with this crowd.
“Hey, you’re here,” I snapped, defensive, though I agreed with him.
“I have my reasons for being here. And we both know that you don’t belong any more than I do. You’re a pretty girl and you’re smart. There are better ways for you to make money.”
“Meaning?”
He pulled a business card from his front pocket and handed it to me. Smooth as satin but stiff as cardboard, it was as creamy and white as the man’s flesh. The text of the business name was bold, sleek, and jet-black: DIGNITARY. I rubbed my finger over the man’s name, struck by the omission of his title. “What kind business is this, Mr. Graves?”
“Call me Michael, please. It’s a business my partner and I have been running for many years. It has made a lot of young people like you very rich.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“Without revealing too much, it’s a very exclusive service we provide to wealthy clients who value their privacy. Members only.”
“Like an escort service ?” I spat, incredulous. “Do you think . . . Look, I’m not a hooker!”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t elaborate any further at this time, but I promise you it’s nothing like what you’re thinking. We’re not in the business of prostitution, nor will we ever be.”
“If not prostitution, then what? If you were in any way legitimate, you’d have no problem telling me what it is that you do,” I said, wondering if he might be mafia or the head of some nefarious cartel. I was hard up for money, but not so hard up that I’d work as a hitwomen or drug mule. I crammed the card into my purse, eager to get it out of my fingers, then wiped my hand down the front of my pants. “Or maybe you’re harvesting organs from unsuspecting women. Think I want to wake up in a bathtub full of ice?”
He chuckled over the last part. “How about you come by Dignitary tomorrow evening so we can have a chat? You’d like my business partner. She’s feisty, like you.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, turning my back on the guy as I made a move to find Liz. Screw the drinks. I was ready to go home.
“That’s too bad. You’d be out of debt in no time.”
That got my attention, but what was this Dignitary place? For all I knew, Michael could be a serial killer. Anyone with a few bucks could have fancy business cards printed up.
“You’d enjoy yourself while you were at it,” he called after me.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said without turning around.
“Call me if you change your mind. No pressure.”
“Don’t hold your breath!” I whipped my hair over my shoulder, feeling like a badass vamp in an old black and white movie. I almost added “Well, I never!” but I figured it would be overkill.
I hastened my pace, but the fortress of drunks reared violently against my efforts; it was like playing Red Rover in hell. After two solid minutes of struggling, I found a way out through a wormhole near an arguing couple, which I realize was the lamest dramatic exit in the history of all dramatic exits. To add insult to injury, my shoe was yanked halfway off my foot once I wiggled through, and I was tossed through the crowd like a beach ball.
I slammed into a guy holding a pint, causing beer to slop down the front of his jeans. And, boy, was he pissed.
Until he realized who I was.
“Hey! Captain Titty!” he slurred, slapping me hard on the back with his clammy paw. “I’m glad you won—you were my favorite!”
“Why don’t you stick your head up your ass and roll away,” I muttered, fixing my shoe.
“What?” He did not look amused.
Louder, I said, “Thank you, that was nice of you to say!”
I scurried off when Wet Jeans turned around to brag to his friends about hanging with Captain Titty. I found Liz a couple seconds later. She looked ready to commit homicide.
“Sorry, no drinks. The line was insane. I mean, who do you have to flash your tits at in this joint to get a drink? Oh, wait.” I slapped my forehead, making myself laugh as I pretended to remember the contest.
“The line took for-ever in the bathroom, too,” she said, patting her wet hands on her dress. “I don’t get what’s so complicated. You go into a stall, pull up your skirt, pull down your underwear, take a piss, wipe, pull up your underwear, pull down your skirt, flush—maybe even clean off the seat if you’re not a total hag—and then get the hell out of there. I almost had blood running down my legs, but do you think any of those bitches let me cut in line?”
“Probably n—”
“I could barely get in the door. There was like a hundred chicks crowding around the mirror, which made it impossible to get into a stall. One of them elbowed me in the ribs!” I could practically see steam coming out her ears.
“And here I thought I was having a bad time.”
“I thought I saw you talking to some guy by the bar. Did you get his number?” she asked hopefully. Liz was so preoccupied with my pathetic love life that she approached finding a man for me like it was her job. Honestly, I would have given her a salary if I’d had any money to pay her.
“He’s old enough to be my dad,” I said. “Also, he might be a serial killer.”
“Well, it looked like you were having fun talking to him,” she pouted. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I worry about you sometimes, Olivia.”
Not this again. Shwilly Pete’s was no place for us to have a pity party in my honor. “Don’t. Nobody has ever dropped dead of celibacy.”
“How long has it been?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How long?”
“Alright! Like a year.”
Her mouth dropped open. She blinked, then shouted, “YOU HAVEN’T HAD SEX IN A YEAR?”
A group of men standing a few feet away joined Liz in gaping at me like I’d sprouted a giant penis on my forehead. “I can change that,” one of them snickered, giving me a once-over. He was wearing stained jeans, a backwards baseball hat, and shirt that read: EAT MORE ASS.
“I’m good,” I snapped, shooting the rest of the group a filthy scowl before I turned back to Liz. “Next time, try to say it louder. People north of the Golden Gate didn’t hear you.”
“Point taken, but a year?” She could barely choke out the words. “You said it had been a while, but I didn’t think that long.”
“Actually, it’s probably more like fourteen months,” I admitted.
She whistled and shook her head pityingly, like I’d just informed her that I’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness.
“I’ve had other things on mind,” I said lamely. “Crippling debt isn’t exactly an aphrodisiac.”
“Wait, fourteen months—how is that even possible? You were still living with Nick for part of that time.”
Nick. I gnashed down on my teeth until my jaw hurt. Why did she have to go and bring him up? I hadn’t seen him since our breakup, yet the sting of betrayal was still as fresh as the day I’d caught him in bed with another woman—in our bed, balls-deep inside a sleazy blonde whose name he later confessed he didn’t even know. She was just some girl he’d picked up at a bar, he’d said, swearing over and over that she meant nothing. But if he’d been willing to throw away all we had over “nothing,” then what did that make me in his eyes? Less than nothing?
“Oh, he was having plenty of sex during that time. Just not with me,” I said bitterly, trying to shake the ugly memory from my head. I’d grieved enough and had wasted far too much of my energy being angry. Nick wasn’t worth getting upset over.
“Douchebag,” Liz said. “Regardless, you’ve really got to start putting yourself out there.”
Here we go , I thought. It was a lecture I’d heard before.
“I know you’ve been hurt, but not every guy is a cheating . . . I’m an idiot.” Liz threw her arm around my shoulder and rested her head against mine. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that prick up.”
I waved a hand. “I’m over it.”
Her look said that she didn’t believe me.
“I know you think I’m avoiding dating because I’m still hurt or whatever, but that’s not the case,” I said, being a little untruthful. I was in no hurry to open myself up again to potential heartbreak, though that wasn’t the full extent of it.
“So, then what is the case?”
I shrugged. “I want to be the kind of person that I would like to date, is all. I need to work on myself.”
“You’re insane. Any guy would be crazy to not want to date you.” Of course, she was obligated to say that as my best friend.
“Would he, though—be crazy? I wouldn’t exactly consider myself a catch at this juncture of my life. I’m flat broke. Not just broke but also in debt. Worse, the first ‘paycheck’ I’ve made in months was the result of me showing my tits to a bunch of strangers.”
“Yes, but you won the contest! That’s got to count for something.” She was really grasping at straws.
“It counts for another reason why a decent man wouldn’t want to date me. Can you imagine how a date would go? ‘Nice to meet you, hot doctor, or teacher, or graphic designer, or whatever. Thanks for the free dinner—you’re buying, right? Because I sure as hell can’t. Oh, what do I do? Mainly I sit around the house all day in my sweatpants, crying over the fact that I’m still unemployed. Sometimes I like to mix it up, though, by going onto Facebook so I can torture myself by seeing how much better my friends are doing than me: vacations, engagements, new houses.’ Sure, I’m the total package.”
“Blah-blah-blah,” she said. “You’re too damn hard on yourself. Guys don’t care about that stuff. Women do, that’s for sure. But guys, not really. If you’re pretty and nice, they’ll forgive just about anything.”
“Can we change the subject?” I hadn’t been with anyone in a while, so what? It wasn’t like I no longer felt the desire to love and be loved.
Anyone could have sex. However, not everyone could have intimacy. And that’s what I craved most. I missed having a man who knew that I found runny eggs repulsive; who was content spending all day on the sofa in pajamas, binge-watching Netflix while we exchanged foot rubs; who I could call any time I wanted—and as many times as I wanted—without having to play games or worry about appearing needy; who knew my secrets and could be counted on to keep them safe. Sweet, sweet, familiarity.
I lived in a city of millions, but somehow I was still alone. With each passing day, the possibility of finding a good man seemed further out of reach. Would I eventually give up? Only time would tell.
“Every time I come to one of these meat markets, I lose even more faith in humanity,” Liz said, interrupting my grim contemplations.
I hung my head. “Is it sad that I’d rather be at home curled up with a good book and a glass of wine?”
“I’m right there with you,” she commiserated.
“So, let’s get out of here. We can grab booze on the way home.”