Fighting for Arielle (3 page)

“That obvious, huh?”
 Elkins smiles.

“Little bit,” she says as she wrinkles her nose, shrugs her shoulders, and puts her thumb and index finger close together, gesturing a small amount.
 

She turns her attention to me.
 “How about you?  Is there something that people call you, or shall you remain nameless?”

I take a moment to languish
in her facial features and get lost in the sparkle of what I think are green eyes.  

Before I can respond, Elkins opens his mouth again.
 “His name is Ashby.”  Placing his hand to the side of his mouth as if he’s telling her a secret, he says in a loud whisper, “He’s the quiet one of the group.  He doesn’t get out much.”

“Really?” she asks, mocking surprise.
 “Is that true?  Are you just a stick in the mud, or are you the quiet, sensitive, brooding type?”

Bursting into laughter
, all of the guys agree with Elkins when he exclaims, “Totally the first one!”

Her smile lowers, but more into a look of intrigue.
 “Hmmm...  He can’t be too much of a wet blanket as he did come to a burlesque show AND he is currently in possession of a sexy woman’s very expensive bra that she willingly gave to him.”  

She looks over at the other guys with amusement in her voice, “I’ve got to go mingle, guys.
 You gentlemen have a lovely evening.”  

As she walks away, I say loudly, “Are you going to let me give it to you?”
 

She halts and slowly turns back toward me with an eyebrow arched.

“Say again?”

“Are you going to let me give it to you?”
 I say, a little slower and with more command.

This time, the corner of her mouth curls up slyly
, and I know she heard me.

“So...
  Point one for the quiet guy as he helps prove my theory.”  

She saunters back over to me.

“What theory is that?” I inquire.

“That you’re not a stick in the mud at all.
 Quite the contrary, in fact.  I bet you keep to yourself because you’re keeping up appearances and trying to hide who you really are,” she states as though it is fact.

“And who might that be?”

She squares her shoulders to mine, and I realize that even in her insanely tall heels, she’s still several inches shorter than me.  But, I can’t help my smile as she confidently lifts her shoulders and looks me in the eyes.  

“I don’t know...you tell me.
 Perhaps you really play the ukulele in the tulips on the weekends.  Or maybe you read joke books in your spare time.  Or you could be a beast in the sack.  I don’t know what it is, but we all have different masks we wear and personas we take on.  We all have sides of us that we don’t want anyone else to know because if they did, they might think us weak or easily manipulated or even too vulnerable.  But, whatever it is that we are trying to keep hidden can easily be brought out by the right person, be it good or bad.”

I don’t know if I agree with what she just said, but I do know that I want to keep talking to her.
 For some reason, I feel at ease and comfortable with her.  She’s clearly intelligent, and the hotness factor is a given, but she also dances burlesque for a living, so I can’t be the first chump she’s encountered.  

“Marta...
  Isn’t that Spanish for
mistress
?” I ask her, stepping closer and taking a deep inhale of her aroma.  I don’t think I could ever get enough of it.

She leans into me
more cautiously.  “Ah...  An astute observation for a guy who doesn’t get out much.  
Habla Espanol
?”

“
Si.  Y tu
?”

“
Muy poco
,” she giggles.  “I tend to butcher foreign languages.  Have you heard this crazy southernness coming out of my mouth?”

             
Her speech is much less cautious and more relaxed now, allowing me to hear even more of her accent, which just makes her even more appealing.  

“So, are you going to give it to me, or what?”

“Huh?” I ask in confusion.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
 

I don’t know how she stands in those things.
 

“My bra?
 I mean, I’d just let you keep it if it wasn’t so darn expensive to replace.  Plus, I’m going to need it for tomorrow night’s show.”  

“Oh...uh…” I look around and spot it on the table, still attached to my hat.
 

I reach for it and feel our hands brush against each other.
 What I feel in that split second of contact is something that makes no sense to me.  A warm feeling charges through my fingertips and straight to my heart, and I believe I experience the sensation of my heart literally skipping a beat.  Logically, none of this makes sense.  Perhaps, it was just static electricity, but as I study her face, I can see she must have had a similar experience.  

She quickly pulls her hand away and laughs nervously.
 “I tell you...guys are so lucky that they don’t have to wear these things.  Ugh...  I hate them.  I mean, who enjoys constricting any body parts with metal wire and some fabric?  Worst idea ever.  If it were up to me, no one would ever wear them, and women would just have to let the chips fall where they may.”

I can tell she’s nervously rambling because her speech is more rapid, but she seems to be amused by somet
hing she said because her chest begins rising and falling in silent laughter.

With a calming sigh
, she tells me, “You know, what?  Just keep it.  Consider it your consolation prize, because I am pretty sure you’re going to deserve one after tonight.”  She gestures over to the group of men who are buying rounds of shots at the bar, hitting on women, and dancing poorly.  

God they’re obnoxious.
 And I’m with them.  I guess I have to babysit them the rest of the night.

“Are you sure?” I inquire, “I think it’s just hooked and I can wiggle it-”

“Positive.”  She smiles her beautiful, full smile saying, “I better get going before someone thinks I fell into the toilet or something crazy.  Thanks again for coming to the show.  It was really awesome to meet you.  Good luck with all that.”  She waves her hands toward the shit show that I’m about to have to go wrangle in.

“Mick,” I spit out.

“Pardon?”

“I go
by Mick.”

“I see…”
 She eyes me knowingly.  “Already showing your true colors, eh?  It was absolutely smashing to chat with you, Mick.  Maybe I’ll see you at another show.”

With that, she wanders away into a large crowd of people who I hadn’t really noticed until now.
 And my world suddenly and inexplicably feels a little bit darker.

Arielle

I
pull into the driveway of my apartment and take in my surroundings as I do every night.  I think I tend to take longer than necessary to go inside because it’s as if I’m taking in my last few seconds of freedom.  Muffled music from someone’s party plays in the background as cars whiz by on the street.  Dogs bark, telling others the news of the day or that there’s another dog barking. I don’t know, but I like to think they’re communicating the secrets of the universe.  

Brody must be out since his car is not here.
 Exiting the car, I breathe into my lungs the crisp night air, appreciating its smells and tastes.  I always find taking in deep, full breaths refreshing, and it helps me to appreciate the environment around me.  Aside from a hint of car exhaust, I mostly smell the ocean, plumerias in bloom, smoke from a charcoal grill, and a smell that only palm trees swaying in the island winds can create.  

I lean against my car door and look up to the night sky.
 It is unusually dark in the housing complex, giving me the ability to see stars as far as my eyes can see.  I wonder if there is someone else as broken and feeling as worthless as me looking down, or up, on me in the same manner, bracing themselves for entering their own version of self-inflicted pain and misery as I currently am.

I ask myself how someone who reportedly has the world at her fingertips always seems to never quite grasp it.
 Although, I’ve always wondered why it is only at my fingertips.  Why couldn’t it at least be in a place where I would have a chance of gripping it?  Whatever cosmos run this world should know that I’ve never been good at catching or even holding things, much less spherical objects just outside of my reach.

I grab my costumes and fans out of the rear of my SUV, moving without haste.
  When I enter my apartment, I am greeted by my large Sulcata Tortoise, Señor Swankypants.  I hear his feet on the tile before I can see him, but with him being almost 100 pounds, he’s hard to miss.  

“Hey Swanks,” I greet him warmly.
 He lifts his head and looks at me, allowing me to pet him.  “Did anyone try to cause any trouble while you were on watch?”  

I don’t wait for a response as I know one will never come.
 “I had a good show tonight.  People seem to really like my style, and I’m really enjoying being a featured soloist,” I say aloud to the dark and empty house.  

Flipping on the light to the living room, I grab a remote, point it at the stereo and turn it on.
 

“What shall we listen to tonight, mister?”
 

Swanks walks over to his plastic kiddie pool full of sand and settles in.
 

“How about some
Spamalot
?  I think I’m in the mood for something funny and some Sara Ramirez,” I say cheerfully to no one in particular.

I start up my iPod and hear words
, or at least how I choose to hear the lyrics, beautifully sung in the background.

If you trust in your soul

Keep your eyes on the goal

Counting my costume pieces in my bedroom, I am missing one.
 I am reminded that I gave that guy my bra.  Poor thing…  He seemed a little frazzled trying to get it back to me.  It was really as a favor to me because I was rambling and beginning to lose my poise, so in order to get myself to shut up, I had to exit, stage left.   Although, if I were to choose to leave my bra with someone, I couldn’t have picked a hotter guy.  Even with a baseball cap on, I could see he had a gorgeous face with strong, yet kind features, and his black t-shirt hugged his biceps just enough for me to know that if he were selling tickets to that gun show, I would be first in line.  

I roll my eyes at myself.
 Even I think I’m too much of a dork sometimes.  

As I hang my costumes, I am baffled by what happened when our hands met.
 At first, I thought maybe I wore tights with my Uggs again and shocked myself like I do every time I touch a car door in that same getup, but this wasn’t the case at all.  It seemed electric for certain, but it wasn’t painful by any means.  In fact, when our hands made contact, it was exhilarating.  There was a rush of excitement tingling all throughout my body, which culminated in long-lasting butterflies in my stomach.  It was an experience, a charge, an awakening, like no other.  Just thinking about it makes my fingers tingle and my stomach rumble.  Of course, not eating all day could also be the cause of that, but this is very different from my usual hunger pains.  I try to make the moment last longer by replaying it over and over in my head.  I felt like something was missing almost immediately after I moved my hand away from his, but it was beginning to get a little awkward, so I knew I had to pull it away quickly.  

I add to my mental To-Do List: f
igure out how to make fingers tingle and butterflies flutter erratically in stomach.

Just then, I hear the front door to the apartment open
, and I can hear Brody speaking to someone loudly as he enters. 

“Come on.
 I don’t care if she’s here; she won’t care.  No, I don’t have to run it by her.  It’s not like she has any other friends anyway.”

Immediately, I feel a heaviness loom over my shoulders and they sink toward the floor.
 I can tell Brody is drunk by his slurred speech and volume, and he’s inviting people over so he can drink even more.  

This
has become the story of my life: day after day, page after depressing page.  It’s not enough that he ignores me, unless he deems that it’s time to have sex, but he says some hurtful things to me about my looks, intelligence, and talents.  Being a dancer all of my life, I’m no stranger to others scrutinizing your looks and weight; I can handle brushing off the opinions of those who are not close to you.  But, there is no dagger twisted enough, even plunged deeply and directly into your heart, that can replicate the pain you feel when the person who vowed to love you unconditionally tells you that you aren’t good enough: tells you that you’re lucky they even stick around since no one else would ever want you.

“What are you doing?” Brody asks sharply as he comes into the bedroom, tearing me out of my thoughts.

Startled, I hastily reply, “Not much.  Just got home.  How was your day?”

“Shitty as always,” h
e says as his eyes blatantly stare at my chest.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I hug myself to try and hide my curves.
 

“Are you having people over tonight?”

“Yeah,” he huffs.  “What’s it to you?”

He takes a half step toward me as I try to make the same movement backward, keeping space between us.
 

“I was just curious.
 I thought I overheard you talking to someone about them coming ov-”

I jump back as I hear his fist make contact with the wall.
 

“You were listening to my conversation?”

Brody begins stalking toward me.

Trying to recover and lighten the mood, I spit out in one breath, “No, of course not.
 I was just walking toward you to see if you wanted me to go to the store to pick up anything and heard you were on the phone, so naturally I came back in here.  You usually have people over on the weekends, don’t you?  So, I just wanted to be prepared for when they get here.”

Brody halts and places his hands behind his head, as if he were lying down.
 “Oh.  Yeah, go to the store and pick up a twelve-pack of Miller Light.”

I feel a small degree of relief, but the heaviness on my shoulders remains and has moved to my chest.
 

“Of course.
” I try to sound chipper and keep down the sobs that are forming in my throat.

As he exi
ts the doorway to the bedroom, Brody says dryly, “Thanks, Ari.”  He looks back at me and points to my face.  “And by the way, you may as well wipe off that stupid-looking makeup.  It’s not doing you any favors.”

***

A
fter I return from the store, our apartment is flooded with people.  Dropping off the beer in the kitchen, Brody grabs my shoulder and pulls me close to him as if to hug me.  I try to keep some air between our bodies.  

“BEER!!!! 
Hey everybody, the beer wench is back!”  

I hear collective salutations and fist pumps.
 

I can never decide which version of Brody I like better: the angry, explosive Brody, or the loud, obnoxious one who likes to embarrass me in front of his friends.
 Regardless, I would much prefer not to have either.

“Now, give your lord a kiss,” he says, only half joking.
 

The thought of touc
hing him, especially kissing him, makes my stomach churn.  Any physical contact we make is a callous reminder of the mistakes and poor decisions I have made in my life and further drives home the fact that I feel isolated and alone.  I just want to be anywhere but here.  

As I lean in to give him a dry, distant, and stiff kiss, I hear cheers and excitement circulate through the oversized crowd for our small apartment.
 Some faces I’ve seen before.  Others are strange to me.  One thing is the same; I am miserable, just like every weekend and weekday.  

I nod warily to the party goers as I pass through the house to my bedroom.
 I hear the usual comments from others like, “Dude, she’s hot!” and “Man, how’d you score that?”  

The rebuttal
from Brody is always the same.  

“You wouldn’t think that if you had to put up with her bitchy ass day in and day out.
 Spend one week with her, and you’ll change your tune.”  

Some simply ignore him.
 Some say they don’t believe him.  Others say they would be willing to take the challenge, which makes me cringe the most.

Thoroughly embarrassed and completely stripped of even the slightest smidgen of self-respect, I saunter to my room where I lie in the darkness alone, just like every weekend.
 I turn on some Mumford and Sons in preparation to sob myself to sleep.  

Just like every weekend.