5. CHAPTER FOUR #3
Then, just as the last group was finishing up, a heavy knock landed on the steel entry door.
Arrow looked around at the party as if she was uneasy and walked over to answer it – in pole heels and her underwear – while 27 pairs of concerned eyes followed her, mumbling to each other, as if they were about to be caught doing something wrong.
Alas, in walked a stone-cold fox of a man – all angles and lines and muscles under his tight t-shirt, dressed in a pair of waders and carrying a tackle box, evidently unfazed by Arrow’s lack of proper clothing.
“Excuse me,” his voice boomed. “I’m with the Cape Cod Shellfish Association.
” He paused for dramatic effect. “We heard there were some clams here that needed shucking.”
“Yeah, there are!” Arrow exclaimed. “Right, ladies?” She proceeded to grab him by the bulging forearm and pull him into the space.
The tackle box dropped along with the beat, this time belonging to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails.
All of a sudden, the man’s hips began to gyrate and I realized that this was not, in fact, a poor, wayward fisherman.
He was followed in by a giant bodyguard-type-gentleman, dressed in a black t-shirt, black jeans, and a black hat, undoubtedly in attendance to protect the talent.
Which was a good thing, too, because holy estrogen.
You would think these women had never seen a man before.
Arrow cried out for the bride and sat her in a chair and before I knew what was happening, the man’s waders were gone and his bulge was on full display, covered only by a triangle of shiny, camo fabric.
He ground his hips into an overwhelmingly eager soon-to-be-espoused partygoer under a sudden thunderstorm of dollar bills.
Meanwhile, I attempted to protect my strip-club-virgin eyes from the dry humping that ensued.
The entertainer dipped the chair back and held the bride in place with one arm while situating his admittedly-plentiful junk directly over her face.
She was wildly mesmerized.
Variations of this continued on for approximately 30 more minutes.
I delivered two more trays of the lighter shots during this time and marveled at this man’s dance moves.
The stripper got up on chairs, interacted with almost every person in the room, and nearly impregnated the bride while Indigo and Cherry morphed into pole-swinging backup dancers.
He was beautiful – a perfect combination of strong muscles and lean meat and good man smells, and then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone, leaving me to wonder if it was all just a fever dream.
Somehow, tacos arrived exactly then. (Of all the things!) A catering van from Papi Chulo’s in Harwich delivered trays upon trays of premium Mexican cuisine, and, evidently, 27 suppressed orgasms became infinitely hangry.
Corn tortillas went a-flying as inflated dopamine levels demanded to be satiated with ground beef, cheese and endless guacamole.
Papi Chulo’s also brought a bucket of margaritas.
Thank God; these ladies were so thirsty, they bordered on dehydrated.
I would have recommended they put some electrolytes in their margaritas, but it was not my place to offer suggestions.
After inhaling their Latin snack (the food, not the stripper), the party came to a very natural close.
Arrow reminded everyone to grab their personal belongings and we all waved at the bus as it exited the parking lot, as if it were a summer camp cheese wagon driving a group of children off to their first sleepaway adventure – instead of a liquor-stocked trollop-tour headed to an after-party drag show in nearby P-Town.
Saffron put on some Camila Cabello and we wiped down the poles with rubbing alcohol, disinfected the surfaces, cleaned the bathroom and swept the floor.
When it was time to go, Arrow handed each of us a fat envelope. I counted the bills in my Fiesta.
$620.
In one night.
It would have taken me a week to make that much in tips at the pub.
Once I got home, I had a tough time coming down from the adrenaline rush.
So many of my cherries were popped last night: I’d never watched a striptease, never seen anyone pole dance, never been a shot girl.
So I did what anyone would do: I devoured a box of taco leftovers like a savage trash raccoon in front of my TV, inhaling the latter part of an SNL repeat as an accompaniment.
I followed the hefty meal with a single lime-flavored High Noon and two melatonin gummies, hoping I would get some good, well-deserved shuteye.
And I did, with Zoloft curled up at my feet.
In fact, I was so overwhelmed with sudden exhaustion that I allowed myself to fall asleep in my fishnets and tank top, hair up in a messy bun, face unwashed, looking like a commercial for a hangover remedy.
The next thing I know, there’s sunlight beaming in through my slider. And banging. I roll over in bed, groaning. I check the time on my phone: 8:45.
Seriously?
It’s coming from Luis’ apartment – which is odd, because Luis is in the DR for the summer. Could be the management company, checking on the status of our constant leaks. But it didn’t rain last night – so why would they be banging like this?
I try to suffocate the noise with my pillow, but to no avail. A whirring sound starts.
Ugh. What the hell?
I peel myself up. This shall not stand. Is it too much to ask for a little common courtesy?
I grab my bathrobe and put it on over my ludicrous getup.
Glancing in the mirror, I cringe. But I don’t care what the Tidewater Management Company thinks of me.
And Mr. Smoot, our building handyman, has seen me look way worse.
I pad over to Luis’s in stocking feet, willing the grating sound to stop. I’m not hungover, but I sure am tired, and this is a most unwelcome alarm.
I knock on the door.
No answer. Of course. Old Smoot probably can’t hear me.
I try the knob. It turns. I lean my head in and scan the area, trying to locate the source of the noise.
“Hello?” I call out, stepping into the apartment.
Like a fucking jack-in-the-box, a man pops up off the floor, revealing himself over the tiny island separating the kitchen from the rest of the living space. He’s holding – ohmygod is that a gun ?
I startle, and my hand lands on my chest reflexively. “Shit!” I seethe.
“Um, can I help you?” he asks in a tone that balances aggravation with politeness, a surprising combination for an obvious felon wielding a mortal weapon .
I clutch a fistful of my bathrobe against my heart, catching my breath in a fashion that is, to be fair, a smidge dramatic for this hour of the day. It’s not a gun. It’s a drill. Or, like, a screw gun. Some kind of power tool. I exhale.
“What are you doing?” the annoyed dude asks.
It takes a second to realize that I'm familiar with the exact cadence and tone of that voice. I remember it like a heart palpitation, or like one of those unwelcome songs that gets stuck in your head. As the recognition floods my body like the panties of last night’s bride when the stripper raw-dogged her romper, I become acutely aware of how I must look in this moment.
I try to respond, but there’s a morning frog stuck in my larynx. “I –” I croak. I clear my throat, the hearty cough of an 80 year-old pack-a-day smoker. “I live here.” I point in the general direction of my apartment. “Well, there. ”
He – Brady – the Brady Hawthorne who made a complete fool of me at my previous place of employ – scrunches up his nose, his expression shifting as his brain tries to place me.
He looks different, dressed in mesh shorts and a t-shirt, a far cry from the funeral-director getup he had on when he had my sorry ass fired.
I elect not to notice the fact that his biceps are large enough to strain the sleeves of his T-shirt.
He looks normal. As in, not a complete stuffy country club asshole.
Good, even. With that drill in his hand, flexing his forearm.
Ew. Stop that, I tell my brain. “What are you doing here?” I ask .
“I’m subletting,” he explains, eyeballing me.
The confusion that dances across his face lasts only a moment.
In the end, I know it’s my hair that gives me away.
Nobody pulls off the Ronald McDonald color quite like I do.
“Shit,” he mumbles, which is how I know he’s figured out who I am.
Still, he puffs himself up like he’s got a leg to stand on, trying to regroup. “Why are you inside my rental?”
“I thought you were the management company,” I squirm sheepishly.
“Even if I was, do you make it a habit of barging into other people’s condos?”
“Luis is away,” I point out.
“So, does that make it okay?”
“Oh my God!” I exclaim. “You’re the one making all this noise first thing in the morning!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m building myself a bed. And it’s, like, 9 o’clock.”
“It’s 8:50, actually, and it’s Saturday. Were you raised in some sort of barn ?”
This makes him laugh, a brusque puff of air cut off by his own incredulous expression. “Pray tell, what is the correct time for one to partake in such activities?”
Smug bastard. “How about never?” I retort, fully aware that this is the reasoning of a toddler.
Brady huffs. “Listen, I really am sorry to have bothered you. It’s obvious that you’re coming off some sort of night .” He gestures at my bathrobe and fishnets. “I’ll give it an hour, so you can nurse your hangover, or whatever it is you need to be doing right now.”
My blood boils. “I’m not hung over,” I fume .
“Tell that to your outfit,” he mutters with a smirk.
“Ugh!” I grunt. “It’s the weekend!” I proclaim. “And this is communal living. Don’t you know that you’re supposed to respect your neighbors?”
He tilts his head at me, his eyes bearing a curiosity that closely resembles a puppy dog, but way hotter, and in mesh shorts that may or may not give me a mild understanding of the size of his chowder cannon.
“Gretchen, right? I’m sorry – are you supposed to ‘respect’ your neighbors by availing yourself of their entryways without even so much as a knock?
Is that the kind of building etiquette that I’ve defied by merely trying to assemble a simple piece of furniture? ”
I want to stab him with a pair of needle-nose pliers.
He crosses his arms with indignation, still holding the power tool, forcing all sorts of muscles to tighten.
It’s a standoff. I can’t come up with a clever retort fast enough, so I put my hands on my hips and sneer at him.
He continues to mansplain his existence to me.
“I’m sure you understand. I need to get this bed built so I have somewhere to sleep tonight.
Such is the quandary we find ourselves in.
Hence, the hour I’m willing to give you. That is called compromise.”
I am mute, incapable of a response.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.
I shake my head. “You’re a dick, Brady.” I turn and head back out into the hallway.
His laugh follows me. “Aren’t neighbors supposed to bring you cookies or something?” he yells toward the still-open front door.
I slam mine behind me .
“Have the best day!” I hear him call out from his side of the wall. “Thank you for stopping by!”
“Fuck,” I whisper, opening the pantry and grabbing the shareable-size bag of M&Ms I keep in there for emergencies. I pour out a handful of rainbow deliciousness, and pop the candy bits all into my mouth at once, letting the chocolate melt into my tongue.
What kind of cosmic karmageddon is this? I wonder. Of all the people in the world, why is Brady Hawthorne living next door to me?
Also, why does he have to look like that?