Can't Go Without Page 5

  “No hard feelings. You’ve got plans. No big deal,” I say winking at her, checking my phone for the time.

  “I wish we could’ve played a little longer… ya know… so I could’ve had some fun, too,” Hope whines, puffing out her bottom lip.

  “Tell ya what? If you’re ever in New Hampshire again on a layover, give me a call,” I say, handing her my card. “Just don’t wear the ring next time.”

  “If you don’t like the ring, then why’d you wear it on your pinkie when I went down on you?” Hope asks as she stands and adjusts her skirt.

  “Are you sure you want the answer to that question, Honey?” I ask, sizing her up.

  “Completely sure,” she says, sitting down next to me.

  Standing up, creating some distance, and grabbing my bag, I say, “Well, I saw firsthand how easy it was to get you to cheat on your fiancé.” Hope’s face blanches. “I wanted to see if you’d stoop low enough to take the ring off and let some asshole wear it while you sucked his dick. Turns out, you’re even more of a whore than I originally pegged you for.”

  “Well fuck you!” she hisses, “What the Hell does that make you then?”

  “What does it make me? What does it make me?” I ask, starting to walk away. “It makes me Tristan-whore-fucking-O’Donnell.”

  I know; I’m a damn asshole. I’m for sure going to burn in Hell. Sometimes, I’m such a fucker that I even think to myself, “Stop being such a fucking dick, man.” But it never stops me. What’s the point? I propositioned Hope, knowing full well that she had a giant rock on her finger. I would’ve high-fived her and offered to pay for her wedding cake if she would’ve looked me in the eye and said, “Listen dickwad, I’m engaged so back the Hell off.” But they never do. Never. Instead, they come on stronger and more desperately.

  Just once, just frigging once, I want someone, anyone, to play hard to get—even if she’s just playing. Hell, part of the game is the chase, the competition. But I wouldn’t know. It’s never hard. It’s never a chase. Chicks are just waiting, begging to be preyed upon. Is it my fault that women make it so easy? You can’t blame me for never going thirsty if the cows are drowning me in their free-flowing milk.

  I used to think that one day I would settle down, maybe get married, and have a few kids of my own. That “one-day” turned into “a-cold-damn-day-in-Hell.” There is no way, no freaking way, I would ever subject myself to such torture. First of all, marriage is a joke, man. Why would anyone sign up for a lifetime of banging the same broad, day in and day out, when all she does is keep getting fatter and more demanding? Makes no sense. Then, the whole kids scenario is just beyond comprehension. Parents do not like their kids; kids do not like their parents. Why continue the cycle?

  Have you ever seen a dad who looked truly happy? A happy dad does not exist—unless of course he travels six days a week and has some young, hot bimbo on the side who swallows his jizz any time he wants. Have you ever been to an amusement park and really noticed the families around you? The dad looks like he’d trade places with a suicide bomber if he could just get the fuck off the teacups and go have a beer and watch the game in silence.

  The mom? Forget about it. She just wants her kids to shut the fuck up, so she can drown herself in Merlot, while soaking in a bubble bath, eating Godiva chocolates and reading the latest smut book that promises toe-curling orgasms if read with just the right amount of fervor and fantasy. Oh yeah, sign me up for a death-do-us-part, money-sucking contract like that. Then after you sign me up, have me straight-jacketed and lobotomized. No damn way.

  Marriage is the end. It’s the end of your identity, the end of your happiness, and the end of your freedom. I just don’t get it. Never will. To each his own, I guess. When all my friends are paying alimony and child support, while gouging out their eyes at band concerts and little league games, I’ll be laughing my ass off all the way to the bank—or maybe even to the Bahamas.

  After I stopped in at the office and fought like Hell with my dad again over Leah, my job, and my future, I decided to just say, “fuck it all” and split. I’m off to spend ten drunken, fun-filled, slut-filled days in the Bahamas. What could be a better remedy for the shithole that has become my life? I couldn’t think of anything more soothing and medicinal than that. Hey, it worked for Adrian. He spent a year on the beach—in a tent—rejuvenating and reinventing himself. Maybe the ocean air, white sands, rum-runners, and cocktail waitress will turn me into a better man too.

  Walking to gate D16 to check in for my connection to Nassau, I’m relieved that I’m away from my father, away from New Hampshire, and away from all the bullshit that goes with it. The Bahamas is the perfect getaway—just like Charleston was for Ade. The second the thought leaves my head, I hear “We will now begin boarding Flight 397 to Charleston. All first class and elite passengers please begin boarding at gate D5.”

  Adrian.

  Charleston.

  Better man.

  Reinvent myself.

  I’m going to Charleston.

  I’m going to see my kid brother.

  “I’m really glad you came with me,” I admit, walking hand-in-hand with Samuel down King Street in Charleston. “I would’ve hated seeing all this historical artistry without you.”

  “I was a wanker. I shouldn’t have acted like that,” Samuel says laughing, pulling me against him. Neither of us is British, but damn do we love the word ‘wanker.’

  Samuel continues, “Fighting is stupid. It’s for low class couples. We’re better than that.”

  “We sure are,” I agree, as he holds the door open for me, allowing me to walk in ahead of him into the little boutique on King Street.

  After we checked into our hotel, Samuel and I marveled at all the items in the hospitality basket in our room. Adrian and Kathryn booked a block of rooms in a beautiful, turn of the 19th century hotel that had been updated and remodeled. It was stunning—even Samuel was impressed.

  Samuel called down to the front desk to find out where we should look for a dress. Rory Carlson, Adrian’s best friend, directed us to King Street, which is high-end shopping at his finest. Samuel’s in his element; I’m aghast at the prices on the tags we peruse.

  Battling over what I would wear or not wear to a wedding and a rehearsal dinner was childish. He’s right. We’re above that absurdity—or at least we should be. Who the Hell cares what I wear? I sure don’t. I was just on edge last night after fighting with Chet O’Donnell and seeing Tristan. I shouldn’t have blown everything out of proportion. The thing is, Samuel is way more into fashion and shit than I am. He’s usually right about what I should or shouldn’t wear. Things are better with him around. Usually.

  Handing me two dresses, Samuel directs me to the back dressing room. I’m not particularly fond of either dress he’s given me, but I don’t feel like fighting this one out again. I really like bright colors, vibrant hues, but Samuel thinks they make me look translucent—his words.

  I put the pale shimmery beige dress over my head and watch as it falls limply over my body. I look like I should hand out potatoes to all the wedding guests with a note that says, “Kathryn and Dre only have ‘eyes’ for each other.” Or better yet, a note that says, “They’re such an ‘a-peel-ing’ couple.” Yeah, I’m wearing a potato sack.

  Giggling, I walk out of the dressing room, and Samuel asks, “What’s got you all in fits of laughter?”

  “I was just thinking about how ridic—”

  “That dress is perfect. It hides your body completely.” Samuel says, walking in a circle around me.

  “Hide? What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

  “Come on Leah, you’ve got more curves than a road map,” he explains, grimacing at my body. “Don’t get me wrong, kid. You’re hot as hell, but with a body like that, everything you wear makes you look like a five-dollar hooker.” He unzips the back of my dress and kisses the back of my neck. “It’s better to keep you covered up. Now go try on the light gray one,” he commands, smacking my
ass.

  Obediently, I walk into the dressing room, feeling dejected. Typically, I don’t care all that much about how I look or what I’m wearing, mostly because I’m usually splattered in paint or caked with clay. Every now and then, especially when I’m on vacation, or out of town, I like a little primping, feeling a little saucy and sexed up. Being told that I look like a five-dollar hooker sure as fuck doesn’t boost the old ego.

  Normally, Samuel’s snide jibes roll right off my back, or I shoot them right back at him in horrid retaliation. I usually don’t take them lying down, but yesterday my entire mojo was off; my chutzpah was crumbled in a ball cowering under Chet O’Donnell’s desk and then it just shriveled up and disappeared entirely at the sight of Tristan O’Donnell. I was easy prey for Samuel last night, so I can’t really blame him for that hellacious argument that transpired.

  Whenever my gallery is featuring a new, up-and-coming artist, Samuel’s in charge of dressing me, dressing himself, and “dressing” the gallery. Once Samuel is done with us, we look like the ultimate power couple, climbing the ostentatious ladder of success, praying the pencil-thin heel of my overpriced Manolo doesn’t get caught on the rung of deception and lies.

  It’s laughable how easily Samuel and I fell into our roles and routines. I met him at my re-grand opening, and we’ve been together ever since. Jill and Shayla helped me organize a grand opening of my gallery. Both of those statements are completely fabricated, total lies. My gallery had already been open for six months and was tanking. I couldn’t pay people to come in and peruse my art or other local artists’ work. I’m serious too—couldn’t even bribe them with food or goods. I was forlorn, realizing that I’d never attain any success or financial achievement, nor would I regain back my dignity from the measures I resorted to in order to reach my goals.

  Shayla and Jill took over. They arranged another grand opening. Not to be too stereotypical, but Shay and Jill couldn’t really plan their way out of a paper bag, so they called in the big guns and four of their gay guy friends took over the planning and the creating of my second grand opening. Those guys were amazing. I didn’t even recognize my own gallery when they were done with it. It looked like Manhattan’s Eastside took pity on Greenwich Village and upscaled the shit out of my little New Hampshire wanna-be art gallery.

  Everyone decided that I needed live entertainment for the night. I argued that the art itself was the entertainment. Jill looked at me and said, “Not entertainment that has nails in it—unless you’re willing to have a live human being nailed to a cross.” With that, I succumbed and let them take over completely.

  Shayla “knew a friend, who knew a friend, who knew someone” that lined up Darius Rucker to come sing a few songs and sign some autographs. Word got around that “Hootie and the Blowfish” was reuniting and singing at some art gallery, and things took off. Darius wasn’t pleased when people started begging for “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” but he rolled with it and busted it out for everyone. The YouTube video went viral and so did my gallery—to an extent.

  Samuel Phillips, art critic and historian, sauntered in with a smug look of distaste and superiority. I introduced myself as the artist and gallery owner. Samuel looked me up and down, obviously not impressed with what he saw. I directed him to the exhibit, “American Dreamlessness,” which consisted of paintings, sculptures, and sketches that portrayed money and success as the almighty tickets to Hell and sin. But the main pieces, the items that people were the most enamored and captivated with were the “trash-to-treasures” creations.

  I’d scoured the poorest, most poverty-stricken parts of Keene, Salem, Hartford, and Dover, collecting rubbish from dumpsters, highway berms, and alleyways. I took them home, scrubbed them, polished them, broke them apart, and rebuilt them into gorgeous, jaw-dropping, inspired artwork, worthy of recognition and display, proving that something wonderful can come from nothing all that special.

  Upon sight, Samuel was speechless, appraising my work with his awestruck face and widening eyes. I amazed him with my talent and my talent alone. After scrutinizing each painting and sculpture, he turned to me and said, “So Leah, are you the live exhibit?”

  “Excuse me,” I asked—not following his line of questioning.

  “Are you the exquisite treasure that came from mere trash?” he questioned again, staring straight into my eyes.

  Oddly, I took no offense to his inquiry. None whatsoever. I simply nodded, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “Pretty much.”

  Samuel’s face lit up as he bent over in stomach-shaking laughter. “You,” he said, pointing at me, “are a trip. We’re gonna get along just fine… just fine.”

  And that’s it. Samuel and I have been together ever since. At first, it was a little more passionate than it is now. However, it’s never been sizzling. I’d have to admit that he’s never gazed at me with hooded eyes or a smoldering look of want and need. That shit’s for the books, the books that fly off the shelves in an attempt to reawaken the love lives of so many, but only result in reminding everyone what truly sucks about their own relationships. I enjoy being with Samuel. It’s easy. Comfortable. Fitting. Yes, our relationship is fitting, which sums up our relationship as well as the two dresses he just purchased for me. Fitting.

  “Uh… Dre?” Kathryn says, “It’s for you.”

  Kathryn Howell, soon-to-be Donley, I guess by the ring on her finger, is not that hot. I’ve seen the chicks that Adrian bagged in college, and this chick, this chick couldn’t hold their hair back when they puked their guts out after a night of boozing it up. I guess Adrian lost more than his need for money and prestige out on that beach in a frigging tent—like his fucking mind. To throw everything away for that chick? Beyond me.

  Adrian stops dead in his tracks when he sees me. “Tell them to fuck off. I’m not calling off the wedding for any amount of fucking money they offer,” he grits through his teeth as he slams the door.

  Sticking my foot in the door as it slams, I bellow in pain. “Holy fuck that hurts. Never fucking hurts in the damn movies,” I groan, hopping around on one foot on their front porch. “Jesus Christ, that fucking hurt.” I can feel the throb in my foot.

  The door opens slowly, and Kathryn peeks her head out. “Dre, come back here, you hurt his foot. Dre? Dre! I’m serious right now.” The door slams shut, and I can hear muffled arguing.

  Adrian walks out, face fuming. He looks a lot like my dad right now. I never noticed the uncanny resemblance until just now. “Take your shoe off,” he instructs.

  “Sure thing, Doc,” I say. I can’t help the grin that forms in the corners of my mouth as I sit down on their porch bench.

  “Don’t start Tristan. Don’t even fucking think about it,” Dre threatens. Kathryn appears at his side, handing him a bag of ice.

  “Hey Ade, you better check that bag, see if she’s got your balls on ice in there. I see she’s already wearing your pants,” I goad. Before I even finish the sentence, Adrian is twisting my foot, and I’m screaming like a bitch.

  “Fuck. Okay. Okay. Okay,” I beg, trying to pull my foot from his grip.

  “Your foot’s fine—just gonna be a little sore for a while. Keep it elevated and put some ice on it,” Adrian says, standing up, grabbing Kathryn’s hand. They start walking toward the door.

  “Aren’t ya gonna invite me in? Ask why I’m here?” I question, feeling, feeling, fuck, hurt. Damn it.

  “Nah T, I’m not,” Adrian says, closing the door behind him.

  Well fuck me silly. I knew Adrian and I had some bad blood between us, but I never thought he’d turn me away like the scum on the street. What the Hell? That’s bullshit. Well fuck him and his fugly-ass girlfriend or fiancé, whatever the fuck she is. He should seriously consider kicking her to the curb and taking back his dick in the process. Christ.

  Not knowing what else to do, I check into Rory’s hotel. God, what a shithole it is too. I’d heard all about this magnificent place when Rory’d come stay with us on breaks from college
. I had no idea it would be something out of the late 1800s. Looked like it hadn’t been remodeled since either. What is wrong with these people? Suddenly it’s cool to have nothing. Since when? Maybe it’s something in the South. Hell, they’re all still proud of the damn Civil War, and they lost. They lost! What is wrong with this picture? I need to get my shit together and back on a plane to the Bahamas—and forget this detour.

  Once I get to my room, I jump in the shower to scrub off the after effects of Hope and her cheating-ass mouth. I figure I’ll grab something to eat downtown, drink until my foot feels like normal, and pass out. Then, I’ll take the first flight out to Nassau—sparing no cost to get out of this ass-backwards place.

  I hear banging on the hotel room door just as I turn off the shower. Grabbing a towel, I wrap it around myself, and head for the door.

  “Open up T. Rory said you’re in there,” Adrian’s voice reverberates through the walls and door.

  “Tri-stand¸ please open the door,” Piper’s voice follows. My heart melts. I’ve missed my baby sister these past two years. I hated seeing her in that hospital two years ago, but it’s not fair that Ade got to keep her too.

  Not missing a beat, I throw the door open and scoop Pipe up into my arms as she squeals happily. Music to my fucking ears.

  “Foot’s better, huh?” Adrian says, walking past me. He looks around and plops down on the bed, not even caring about pulling the disgusting bedspread down first. Man, these people moved south and turned into animals. My mom would freak if she saw him now—for so many reasons. “I’m surprised you don’t have a couple girls in here by now,” Adrian quips.

  “Dre, you promised,” Piper warns.

  “They just left. I’m surprised you didn’t pass your fiancé on the way out,” I shoot back. “I see why you moved here. She’s a prize in the sack,” I goad.

  “You son-of-a—”

  Jumping up, Piper faces Adrian, whispers something out of my earshot. His face softens. “Fine,” he acquiesces, rolling his eyes.