There is a pounding sound around me. Why is someone knocking at my door? I don’t ever have visitors. I groan. Why won’t it stop? If I lie here quietly, they will go away. Besides, my eyelids are too heavy to open. I need to go back to sleep, and whoever is at my door can come back later.
Suddenly, this doesn’t feel right. I pat the bed around me and crack one eye open. The light from the window shines brightly, too brightly, and then mind slowly starts to catch up.
The pounding isn’t my door. No, everything around me is quiet, possibly too quiet. The pounding is the second hangover of my life barreling down on me.
I reach up and lay my arm over my eyes. What a mess.
I had sex in a closet with a stranger. I left him standing there with no intention of looking back. What I gained from it was empowerment. Now, I feel like I took it from the one guy who has truly ever been nice to me. He must think I am a slut. I wonder if he thinks I knew it was him. I wonder if he thinks I’m using him. He gave me a job that paid me just enough tips to keep my water turned on and then he fixed my car. What did I do? Nothing.
My car.
Oh my, he fixed my car. He made it better than it has ever been since I bought it from my mom when I was seventeen. Clean, the car was so clean … until I puked in it.
Embarrassment washes over me. I am a complete mess. My life is a complete mess. My car is a hot mess.
Before I can think about it further, the sound of padding paws grabs my attention. I look over the edge of the bed to find a Pit Bull looking at me.
Leaning over, I pet the dog as it sits beside me, resting its head on the bed with the little nub of its tail thumping against the floor as it soaks up my attention.
Could I hide in here all day with his dog? No. Eventually, I am going to have to face Hendrix. What am I going to say, though? What can I possibly say?
“Floyd, get down here, bitch,” Hendrix calls out, and the dog’s ears come up before it takes off to find its master.
So much for the hope I could sneak out while Hendrix still slept.
The throbbing in my head does not dissipate as I try to figure out what to do next. Why did I drink so much last night?
Mortification, that’s why.
The minute Jagger flung my panties onto the bar, I would have done anything to hide from reality.
Sitting up, I groan before glancing around me and finding the clock. Then, I proceed to freak out.
Ten a.m!
Ten in the morning.
Two hours past eight a.m. Two hours past my scheduled arrival at the hospital. Two hours late for my job. Two hours late for my career. No call, no show. I am thoroughly screwed. Not only will I possibly lose my regular job, but I am pretty sure, after knowing I am the girl from the closet, Hendrix will fire me, too.
Jobless means soon to be homeless.
My feet hit the cool, wood floor, and I immediately search for my phone, my clothes, my-brain, and they’re just not here. None of those things are here. My heart pounds, keeping nearly the same rhythm as my head. I am sick, literally sick, to my stomach.
I run to what I assume is the bathroom and make it just in the nick of time. I am instantly hunched over the toilet, throwing up again, though only once, thank God.
I decide to take a quick shower. I feel awful, and I’m already late for work and probably completely screwed. If there is any hope at all that I can keep my job at the hospital, I have to walk in without smelling like, like…
I throw up again, and with it, comes tears.
I flush the toilet and strip off my clothes. I am a wreck, a freaking wreck. I just need to get out of here, rewind the past twenty four hours, and move on.
Move on? Fat chance. I am literally trapped in a bathroom, physically and emotionally, by fear. This is crazy, and I can’t believe I allowed myself to put my guard down. I thought that night would make me a stronger person. I thought that night would help me move forward from the events of my past. Oh God, I can’t afford to put my guard down again.
After I shower, I brush my teeth with my finger, and then walk back into the bedroom where I grab a pair of sweat pants out of a clothes basket and a T-shirt, sniffing them to make sure they’re clean.
I look in the mirror, roll my head and shoulders, and reach back to rub my inspirational panties, but there are none. As a result, I dig deep into my emotional bag of tricks and grab for strength. The panties have been working for years now, but in times like this—panty-less and needing strength—I grab onto whatever dusty bit of strength I can.
The Queen B. Yes, Beyonce. My song of choice, “Run the World.”
Who runs this mother? I run this mother. I am strong. I can face this. I have faced worse. I run my world. I run my world. I run this mother.
With Queen B’s words playing in my head, I walk out of the room with all the fake confidence I can muster up. I walk down the stairs, ready to face him—Broody Caldwell, the man I allowed to bang me in the closet, the one who gave me the best sex of my life then gave me a job when I was about to get my water cut off, the guy who fixed up my car and helped me more than any other person ever had—and demand … Oh, pickles, could I demand anything of him? Nope. No, I couldn’t. Regardless, the inner Queen B is here, and I know she can take this on.
I get to the bottom of the stairs and the dog comes to my side. Broody Caldwell is in the kitchen, no shirt, sweat glistening on his tattooed skin, and ‘Caldwell’ is literally staring me in the face with the tattoo on his back. “Call me Caldwell,” runs through my head as I watch his head bop slightly to whatever music he has playing in his ear buds. He is grabbing peanut butter out of his cupboard, clearly enjoying his moment. Truth be told, I am enjoying the view.
I have never loved tattoos, but dear God, his are beautiful.
He pushes the bread down in his toaster, and then his fingers strum on the counter to the beat playing in his ears. I take a step closer, trying to figure out what song it is, but then the dog barks, causing him to turn quickly.
His phone crashes to the ground, pulling his ear buds free, which allows the song to blast through the apartment.
“Sorry to interrupt.” I am being strong here, because I am running this mother, I remind myself before continuing, “I would like to discuss a few things with you; however, I am late for work.”
He crosses his arms, his biceps flexing and distracting me a bit. I watch as his eyes look me up and down.
“Mr. Caldwell, I—”
“Hendrix,” he corrects me, his voice steady.
“In order to keep this professional..,” I continue, reaching behind me to give my behind a rub. He looks at me like he is trying to figure me out as I remember I have no inspiration at the moment, but the Queen B has given me permission to run this mother, so I am quickly back and focused. “I may be in jeopardy of losing my job at the hospital, so I ask that you please not hold it against me that I let myself act outlandishly by allowing you to make love to me in a closet.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks confused.
My face immediately burns, and Queen B, well, she runs away to hide. I clear my throat, trying to continue leading this conversation in the direction I need it to go—panty-less and alone.
“It was—”
“Look, Livi, we fucked in a closet. We’re two adults.” I can tell he is fighting not to smirk. “Consent was fucking given and received with a standing ovation, a couple, if memory serves me right.”
“No need to be crude,” I say, maintaining eye contact.
“Nothing crude about fucking, and I can assure you that’s what it was. There was no love making going on in that closet.”
“I’d like to move past it.”
He studies me for a moment. “I’m not sure—”
“I won’t take no for an answer.” When I see my keys on the counter, Queen B inside me lines up directly to them. Drive, focus, resolve. I have to get finished with him and get out of here. “I have to get to work, but I’ll see you tonight.”
“Your girl called. She covered for you and got you the day off, so why don’t you slow down and chill? Eat some breakfast, and we can discuss—”
“When I have paid you back for fixing the car, I will be done at the bar.”
His eyes narrow a bit. “Eat, talk, and listen, but don’t make demands. I don’t like that shit.”
