Rocked by Him (8 page)

"Jen
n?" Drake said, "Everything okay in there?"

"Uh, yeah.
Just give me one second!"

A mirror.
I needed a mirror!

I searched around for anything that could give me some sort of reflection.
One good enough to do some triage on my makeup. I couldn't rush out past him to get to the bathroom; he'd stop me for sure.

As I did, some part of me knew how ridiculous this was. I kept telling myself how little I desired being with someone again.
Especially some bad boy player who'd, for some reason, chosen me as his next target.

But if that were true, why had I pulled the broad, flat stainless steel spatula from the drawer and examined my face in its admittedly imperfect reflection?

"Should I come in?" Drake said. I could hear the crooked smile in his voice. He thought he was so damn hot, that he knew just how to handle me.

I shoved loose strands of hair behind m
y ears, dabbed and rubbed at the thankfully minor smudging around my eyes. Thank God I hadn't cried! There'd be no way to recover all that running makeup.

"Just a second!"
I said, maneuvering the spatula for a close-up of my left eye.

"What are you doing?"

I flinched, then hid the spatula behind my back as I spun to face him.

"Nothing?"

"Is that an answer, or a question?"

"An answer," I said, trying to come up with some excuse.

He looked good. He wore the same stuff as earlier. That jacket suited him really well. Did he have it tailored? Was it custom? God, what was wrong with me?

"What's in the bag?" I said, trying to deflect attention from myself.

He opened it with his spare hand and started unloading the contents onto my countertop. It was alcohol.
A bottle of vodka, then white rum, then a dark bottle of Jack. Next, he produced two bottles of wine, one white, one red. Finally, he pulled out two beers. One was a Bud, the other a Bud Light.

It was his turn to look a little bashful, scratching at the back of his head.

"I... don't really know your taste in booze..."

"I don't drink," I said.

It took a second for it to sink in. He swallowed heavily even as his eyes widened.

"Oh man, I'm sorry, it just sounded like you needed a drink," he said. He picked up the vodka, ready to put it back in the bag.

I couldn't resist any longer.

"I'm kidding! Really, I do drink. I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist!" I said, laughing, holding up my hands in mock surrender.

He gave me a tight-lipped smile in return. His eyes fixed on one of my hands.

"Do you have a license for that?"

"What?" I said.

I looked up to see the spatula clenched in my fist like a knife. It was my turn for an eye-widening moment as I threw it in the sink. It clattered way louder than I would have thought. I winced, thinking I'd blown it completely.

But Drake didn't appear to care, choosing instead to grab the brown bottle of Bud. He twisted the cap off. His lips tightened for a moment as he squeezed the cap in his palm, then he dumped the folded bit of metal on my counter.

The beer smelled good, and I found my mouth watering as he raised the bottle to his lips.

"Did you want this?" he said, holding it out to me. Some foam began climbing up through the neck.

"Hmm?
No, sorry. I just like the smell, actually. Never was a beer girl."

I went up on my tiptoes and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. The red wine had a screw-on cap rather than a cork, a sure sign of cheapness (though I imagine he didn't intend on that; I bet he wasn't a wine man) and I smiled as I twisted it open.

We spent the next few minutes leaning against my counter, sipping from our respective drinks. The wine tasted smooth and warm, and despite the screw-on cap actually wasn't half bad.

The warm ball it created in my stomach instantly relieved some of the tension I felt. If I drank the whole bottle, would it go away even more? Eying the bottle of white wine, I considered it.

"I know that look," Drake said. He drained the rest of his beer in one long pull, his stubble-spotted Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and then set the bottle down on the counter a little too heavily.

I had to admit, beer actually sounded pretty good right then. Drake, at least, seemed to get refreshed by it. I took another sip of my wine
, watching him look at the Bud Light.

"What look?" I said, glancing around, trying to pretend I wasn't staring at the wine like a heroin addict watching their next fix. My eyes fell on the phone, and my heart jumped. I soothed it with another swallow of wine.

"The one people get when they know their only way out of whatever shit they're in is waiting for them at the bottom of a bottle," he replied.

He rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks, making a scratching sound. Had he slept last night? I figured he'd probably been in bed, but I didn't think he did a whole lot of sleeping in it.

Before I could catch myself, I wondered what it was like, being one of the girls he took up to that apartment of his. He did have a nice body, and if he played an instrument, I bet he was good with his hands...

My mouth went dry, so I wet it with some more wine even as the heat within intensified. I put it down to the alcohol.

His eyes unfocused for a moment, and I wondered what he was remembering. The tone of his voice told me that he spoke from experience. Could it be that the life of a promiscuous rock-and-roller wasn't everything he'd been expecting?

Again, I found myself giving Drake far more credit than I'd originally approved him for. However, I didn't want to give him everything. He didn't need to know that he was right on the spot.

"Maybe I'm just an alcoholic," I said, swirling the wine around in my glass.

Drake dismissed that idea with a snort. Then he caught my eyes with his, and I couldn't look away. There was a depth to his eyes. How many girls had he already drowned with them?

"No, you're not. I bet you're lucky if you go through a bottle of wine a month. If that. Just let someone with some experience in the matter warn you now. This isn't the way to get through your issues... You... have a hair..."

He reached up and tucked a few stray strands of my hair back behind my ear. I don't know if it was accidental or not, but his fingertips brushed against my cheek as he withdrew them.

It was like he'd traced lines of fire in my flesh. My breathing sped up, and a chill ran up the small of my back. I still couldn't tear my eyes from his, couldn't really see anything but his face, so close to mine.

My glass started slipping through my suddenly numb fingers. I caught it before it could drop.

Then Drake started getting closer. He had one hand on the countertop, and I could hear the noise of the sleeve of his jacket slithering over it. His lips were only a few inches from mine, his eyes so huge and deep.

He's going to kiss me! I realized. A thousand thoughts shot through my mind; my lips are dry, I'm not wearing any makeup, I look like a wreck, that sort of thing.

Then I discovered that I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to press his lips to mine more than I wanted anything else at that moment.

My eyes began closing, and I tilted my head back a little. The anticipation was killing me, as evidenced by my heart trying to slam its way out of my chest.

Then I sensed him pull away from me. Before I could open my eyes, I heard the top twist off a bottle, and I smelled beer again.

He'd grabbed the bottle of Bud Light beside me. I took a step back as shock and
embarrassment coursed through my body in cool, prickle-inducing waves.

He wasn't trying to kiss me. He just wanted the other beer! My cheeks heated up, and I turned around before he could see me.

"Everything okay?" he said, "I thought it'd be okay to grab it, since you were so adamant about not being a beer girl."

"Yeah, of course!
Everything's fine! Take whatever you want. You bought it, I mean."

I didn't need to turn around to know that he again wore that half-cocked smile he did so well.

"Would you mind leaving? I want to be alone," I said, adding, "I'll be fine, really," when he didn't respond right away.

Drake rubbed at the back of his head, still smiling. I guess he didn't really know what to make of me, yet. Was that why he was showing so much interest? Was I just a puzzle he wanted to solve?

Did I want him to solve me? That seemed the more important question.

"Uh, yeah, sure, of course.
You can keep all the booze. It's yours now."

He drained the second bottle of beer like he did the first, and I found myself unable to look away from the bobbing of his Adam's apple until he finally put the empty bottle down beside the other.

I walked him to the door and held it open for him. He stepped out, then looked back over his shoulder at me.

"It's going to be okay, you know. You're going to be okay," he said.

This time I couldn't meet his eyes. I just gave him a tight-lipped smile and looked down, wanting him to hurry up and go.

He took the hint.

"I'll catch you later, maybe?" he said.

I nodded. He left, and I let the door close behind him. A couple seconds later, I threw the deadbolt into place, the sound of the steel shooting out loud and sharp.

Then I turned around and leaned against the door. How could he say something like that? Everything was not going to be okay! How could it possibly?

But at the same time, I realized that his saying that to me really helped. Much more than it should have.

***

The next day at work I felt a curious sense of calmness, almost as though I floated over everything.

I sat at my desk, going over a Power Point presentation on a new plastic knob designed to replace the brass and steel ones on garden hose faucets all around America.

But I couldn't really advance past the cover slide, which consisted of a stock photo I'd found on the internet of a garden faucet that I had tastefully turned black and white with a couple clicks in Photoshop.

Normally, I dreaded coming in. It was about a 50/50 chance whether or not Bud wanted me in his office. But the phone didn't ring.

So I had time to sit there, my elbows on my desk and my chin propped against my knuckles, and daydream. I even managed to tone out the conversations around me, as well as the tapping of keys and the whine of printers and copiers.

I had but to close my eyes and I could see Drake's face filling my vision. The bit of stubble he cultivated on his cheeks stood out clearly, and his sharp eyes pierced mine.

I rubbed the tips of my index fingers over the little nubs on the F and J keys on my keyboard and breathed out a long, contented sigh.

It felt like everything was going to work out just fine. The knot of anxiety that had been sitting tightly in the pit of my stomach since Jerry broke up with me began untangling, leaving my feeling light and loose.

Leaning back, a small smile on my lips, I saw my lack of progress on the presentation for Bud and just didn't care. My eyes traveled across the top of my grey desk, looking at the tin cup I used as a pencil holder, at the rack of files against the back "wall" of my cubicle.

Finally, they lit on the letter. It was where I'd left it, shoved into the corner. I grabbed it, sliding it back across the desk to me.

I read it again, thought for a moment, and nodded.

It took maybe a minute for me to grab my purse, open my wallet, and pull out the blank check I kept folded behind my Air Miles card just in case I needed one. I filled out my mom's name and that day's date. The tip of my ballpoint pen hovered over the amount line.

It was going to be a very expensive early retirement for my dad. He'd need lots of help. A live-in nurse or something like that would probably be the best bet. The more I could give, the better, basically.

So I wrote down a number. A big number that sent part of my mind into fits. But I knew I could afford it on my salary. It would make things a bit tight, with rent and everything.

It came down to the fact that it was the right thing to do. I fought back against my anxiety by reminding myself that mom and dad took care of me all those years growing up, even chipping in as much as they could with college. They'd taken care of me. It was my turn to take care of them.

So I signed my name, went and found an envelope, put it in and wrote my parents' address after sealing it.

Then I just leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and felt the gentle caress of the air conditioning from the vent in the ceiling on my skin.

I did manage to struggle through a few pages of the presentation, and neither Bud nor Lucinda bothered me the whole day. So my feeling of satisfaction and contentment lasted the entire subway ride home, almost falling asleep from the rocking of the car despite the pungent smells of the other occupants and the shrill noises of the wheels on the track.