10. CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER NINE
brADY
I could not sleep last night.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I was definitely tired, but I kept tossing and turning, thinking about those damn fishnets.
I had a filthy dream about Gretchen. We were in my kitchen, only it was pitch black, except for a lamp in the corner that glowed fuchsia.
She was up on the counter, but instead of sweatpants, she was wearing her mermaid-inspired bottoms with her loose t-shirt, and she begged me to rip off her clothes.
I couldn’t picture her naked body, but I could feel its curves and her baby soft skin as if it was really happening.
Dream Gretchen wrapped her legs around me and buried her face into my neck, leaning up to lick and bite my earlobe.
She closed the gap between our bodies by grabbing my ass cheeks and thrusting me into her, and just as kernels of popcorn rained down around us, I woke up to discover that I was, quite actively, stroking myself.
I checked the clock on my phone. 3:00 in the morning.
There was no way I would be able to fall back to sleep with a boner the size of Idaho under my covers, so I grabbed a hand towel out of my laundry basket and milked the popsicle in an attempt to clear my head (no pun intended).
My God, I thought. This hasn’t happened to me since high school.
I was fairly sure I’d be able to nod off after that, but my mind kept replaying the more innocent parts of our time together: the conversation in the kitchen, how embarrassed she looked recounting the mishap that got her fired, the way she gently blew on the first bite of popcorn so she wouldn’t burn her mouth.
I wondered how I might find a way to see her again that seemed natural, not forced or contrived. Then, I wondered if any of the bizarre events that twisted our worlds together were lodged in Gretchen’s mind, keeping her awake.
Chemistry’s a weird thing.
Lying there, I remembered my last serious girlfriend, Miranda.
We met the summer before my senior year of college.
I was covering a shift for Big Mike (after he had one too many the night before) parking cars at the Sidewinder, a hot spot in Wellingham known for its shorefront party vibe.
Miranda rolled up in a Jeep with no doors, wearing a triangle bikini top, unbuttoned denim shorts, and a pair of Ray Bans.
She was with three of her girlfriends, a rowdy group with the radio blasting the Zac Brown Band into the otherwise fairly quiet airspace.
It was just shy of noon, and I could feel my already sunburned shoulders taking a beating.
She left me to valet her car, giving me a flirty once-over before hopping out, barefoot.
The Sidewinder is conducive to the dress code Miranda and her friends donned that day: it’s all fish tacos and live music and people laying out in the sand or playing beach volleyball.
But anyone with half a brain knows it’s a mistake to walk around barefoot in the gravel parking lot of a bar.
So, not three minutes after she and her girl-crew exited the vehicle, I returned to my station to find her doubled over, bloody and crying. Surprisingly, her friends were nowhere to be found.
“Shit! You okay?” I asked.
She looked up at me from under her tear-streaked sunglasses. “I stepped on a piece of broken glass,” she hiccupped.
“Hang on – I think there’s a first aid kit in the booth.” I ran to the key booth and found the kit tucked away in the corner. I pulled out a small stack of alcohol pads, the biggest Band-Aids I could find, and a roll of gauze.
Back at her side, I crouched down beside her, uncapped my Poland Spring bottle and carefully poured water over the wound. “Where did your friends go?” I asked.
“They went inside to find help,” she sighed. “But they had mimosas at brunch, so it’s no surprise that they’re taking so long.”
“Jeez,” I said, examining her foot. “Well, the good news is I don’t think you’ll need stitches.
” I ripped off a piece of gauze and pressed it against the cut.
Then, I tore open an alcohol swab and said, “This is probably going to sting. You can squeeze my arm if you need to.” I cradled her foot in my hand and swiped at the cut, lighting up her sensitive nerve endings.
I blew on it, like one might blow on a child’s scraped knee, and she dug her fingers into my bicep, sucking in her breath.
I fanned the cut with my hand, inspecting it to make sure it was clean.
I placed the Band-Aid over it and wrapped the pad of her foot up in gauze.
“This is going to mess up your beach day, you know.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “I know.”
I introduced myself. “By the way, I’m Brady,” I said.
“Miranda,” she replied. “Thank you for helping me.”
I nodded. “You here on vacation?” I took my folding chair out of the booth with one hand and helped her up with the other. She sat down in the chair and squinted up at me from behind her sunglasses.
“My family has a house in Truro.”
“Nice,” I said.
“What about you?”
“I live here year round. But not out this way. I’m actually just here covering for a friend of mine today. I’m from Sandwich.”
“Cool. Are you in college?”
“Mm hmm,” I nodded. “I go to BU. You?”
“Wait. BU as in Boston University?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“For real? Me too,” she smiled.
“Really? Small world. What are you studying?”
“Political science. I’m thinking about becoming a lawyer.”
“I’m an econ major,” I replied.
The conversation continued for the rest of the afternoon, interrupted by my running off to park and retrieve cars, to grab her a turkey avocado wrap and several glasses of water, and by her drunk friends coming out “to check on her” about 20 minutes into our conversation.
Miranda assured them she was fine but probably shouldn’t go barefoot into the sand, and they were more than happy to ditch her in pursuit of a group of jacked up guys carrying a volleyball.
At the time, I thought we had chemistry.
I mean, the whole damsel-in-distress meet-cute was kind of sweet, and she laughed at my jokes and gave me her number when her friends decided it was time to go.
We saw each other several more times that summer and by the fall we were officially a couple.
In retrospect, our time together was predictable.
The beginning was fun; we went on dates where I spent more than I could afford in an attempt to impress her.
The middle was less exciting and more mundane.
Miranda complained that I studied too much, that I forgot our six-month anniversary (I didn't realize that was even a milestone), and that I wasn't paying as much attention to her as I had during our summer on the Cape.
By the spring of that academic year, as the calendar was barreling toward Graduation Day, we'd begun having those "what will become of our relationship after college ends?
" talks. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting us to last, given her dreams of going to law school in New York and my plans to find work in Boston.
But that wasn’t why we broke up.
In an effort to make me jealous, Miranda took up the habit of flirting with other guys.
For example, we'd be at a frat party and she'd go off and dance with someone else.
When I questioned the behavior, she'd claim he was "a friend from back home" or "some guy she used to hook up with.
" Not exactly the kind of warm-and-fuzzy behavior that made me think she'd be good in a long-distance situation.
So I began to create a little space between us. Then, about a week before graduation, she didn't return my calls or texts for over 24 hours. I figured this was another attempt to make me jealous or upset. Until I stumbled upon the Boston Globe on a routine coffee run to Dunkin'.
That was how I discovered the torrid side-relationship Miranda was having with a partner at the law firm where she was interning.
It was right there on the front page: Attorney's Affair with Student Ends in Arson , it read. Miranda was accused of trying to “Lewinsky” her way to the top, and when a series of lewd photographs was discovered by the furious fourth wife of Stacks “tha hustla” Phillips – as in Phillips and Burns, injury attorneys, 1-800-GWAP-SHOP, Miranda’s sorority house was mysteriously set on fire, and she disappeared virtually overnight.
Rumor had it she left in the custody of Massachusetts’ witness protection program, but I eventually heard through the grapevine that her wealthy parents decided to give her the “Fresh Prince of Bel Aire” treatment; namely, they sent her across the country to live with her (equally rich) family out in California.
Her phone number was cut off, and I didn’t care to pursue it any further after that.
So, yeah. My relationship record is about as stable as my current employment situation.
With Gretchen, though, I feel like there’s a world of possibility out there.
She seems adorably innocent for someone working at a pole studio, which makes her even sexier, and if I could just find a way to see her again , I decided while tossing and turning in the wee hours of the morning, I’d – hm.
I’m not really sure what I’d do. I’d like to think that I would grow a pair and ask her out, but I’ve been remarkably single for several years, and I don't feel like my swag game is particularly on point at the moment.
In fact, I'd be willing to bet that any street cred I might have had at the Diamond Excelsior went out the window once she saw me run into a parking lot wearing nothing but a Zorro thong.
Which is why, when I get the call from Steve the Skeeve, I decide it’s fate.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Yeah. Brady. It’s Steve. Just checking in. How’d you make out last night?”
“Um. Pretty good, I think. I wasn’t sure how to end the night, so I might have messed that part up a little bit, but overall I think it went well.”