Can't Touch This (23 page)

“Do you need a cab, ma’am?” the doorman asks.

I spin around, my hair flying in my face.  “Yeah.  That’d be great.”

He whistles for a taxi and I wait for a moment for the yellow car to pull forward.   I can’t see for the blurred ripple before my eyes.  I sweep the tears away as they plummet down my cheeks.  I crawl into the cab and it pulls out onto Mason Street.  The uncontrollable floodgate releases and I can’t breathe as childlike sobs rack me.

Rory betrayed me in the worst possible way.  I don’t care about the demo disk disaster anymore.  I only care that I became a pawn in his games.  The other woman.  Hell, the other, other woman.  And, I’d allowed it.

“Do you see a ring?”  I mock his lie in Atlantic City.

Jackass.  Phony.  Fraud.  Manipulator.

Boy, was I wrong.  Wrong!  The opposite of right.  That’ll teach me.  At least I was about to end things.

“Where to, lady?” the cabbie asks.

I sip a deep gulp of air and say, “Boston.”

O
kay, so the guy
doesn’t drive me to Boston, but he offers me a handful of Kleenex.  Then, he drops me off on a corner near a coffee show.  I need to reach out and touch someone.  I’d call Griz, though I think this requires a more feminine viewpoint.

William answers on the third ring and I dive right in.

“A deadbeat dad.  Hell, a dad, period.  And a husband.  With a live-in girlfriend and another kid.  A thief.  Definitely a liar.”

“Vanessa, calm down and tell me everything.”  William’s voice is soothing over the long distance.

When I finally exhaust the story, I take a deep breath.  “An imposter on top of everything else.  And now, a criminal.”

William clicks his tongue.  “Fine.  He’ll be convicted and serve jail time.”

“He owes it to his family to pay what’s due them.  I hope his girlfriend with the kid slaps him with a lawsuit, too,” I say.  What’s due to me, though?  I feel like I’ve earned some sort of compensation or restitution.  “Oh my God.  I’m going to hell for adultery.”

William chuckles.  “He’s the adulterer, Double Vee, not you.  Besides, you have to actually have sex to be an adulterer.”

“You’re splitting hairs.”

“You’re teetering on the edge,” he retorts.

“How could he have walked away from a marriage, a family, and a commitment?”  Apparently as easily as he’d walked away from me after he got what he wanted.

Prime directive:  DigitalDirections’ software.

“It’s a blessing in disguise, Vanessa.  If this hadn’t happened, you might’ve gotten more involved.  What if he kept lying… or worse got you pregnant?  Would you have wanted that?”

“No.  Certainly not.  I was breaking up with him, remember?”  I wipe my hand under my nose.  “He played me like a fine-tuned instrument.  I let him.  Ready, willing, and able.  And completely fucking naïve.”  William remains quiet, although I can hear his breathing.  “I was so enthralled by the attention and thinking I was mature enough to handle an adult relationship, I couldn’t see the forest for the fucking lying trees.  I was blind to the signs, deaf to the clues, and dumb toward the entire situation.”

“We all make mistakes, Vee.  Man has free will.  He just doesn’t know what to do with it.  Besides, you were calling it quits.”

“I was.  But on my terms, not like this.”

I don’t understand how I could I be so galactically stupid.  I graduated
Suma cum laude
.  I suppose my university will be wanting their degree back.

I finish up with William and realize I’ve walked back to the hotel.  I slip back in, freshen up in the ladies, and then rejoin my co-workers.  Kyle’s eyes connect with mine and I can read the alarm on his face.  Thank heavens he’s classy enough not to ask me what’s wrong.

I’ve got to get a grip on my emotions and get to work.

A warm grin spreads from the corner of Kyle’s mouth as he walks toward me.  “The booth was delivered across the bay to the Fairmont in San Jose by mistake.  It’ll be here in an hour.”

“Thanks for taking care of that, Kyle.  I had a personal matter to attend to.”

“You okay?”

“Umm, yeah.  Sure.  Just needed some air.”

He nods.  “I understand.  That’s what teamwork’s all about.”

Ironically, a calming sensation passes through me like a ghost of a breeze.  Something inside me wants to confess the whole dirty affair to Kyle; to come clean and ask his advice.  He’s my co-worker, not my confidante, advisor, or even a priest.

The booth finally arrives and we set up in time for the cocktail reception.  I try to get into the spirit of things, but that damned SalesWanker logo taunts me from across the room.  I stand anesthetized, rooted in place by shame and guilt.

Near the end of the reception, I signal to Kyle.  He looks pretty damn sharp in his gray fitted knit shirt and black dress pants.  His dimple is quite prominent tonight, but I try not to let it distract me.  After all, he’s just a guy like the rest of them.  Look at him flirting with female customers.  He probably has a girlfriend back in Boston, too.  All men are scum.

He turns away from the slender redhead and meets my stare.  He excuses himself and saunters over to me with a glass of wine.

“Thought you might like this.”

I eyeball this spokesman for the male race and wonder if he’s too good to be true.  I’m in no frame of mind to try and figure it out.  “Thanks.   I’ve got a splitting headache.  I think I’m going to go lie down.”

“Get some rest.  We can cover things here.  Tomorrow’s a long day.”  As I turn to leave, I can feel Kyle’s eyes on me.  I appreciate that someone actually gives a damn.

Around eight p.m., sick of the melodrama, and, quite frankly, sick of myself, I decide to buck up, get dressed, and go out for some food.  William’s a dorky Hard Rock Café fan, so I decide to go have dinner there and buy him a souvenir.

I step into the elevator dressed all in black, to match my mood.  At the next floor down, a man gets on and looks me over.

“What?” I snap.

“You’re from the East Coast, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Yeah.  How’d you know?”

“Your outfit.  Don’t get a lot of that where I’m from.”

“And where would that be?  East Bumfuck, Egypt?”

Thank goodness the elevator door opens immediately and I bolt from the man’s sight, not able to meet his horrified gaze.  I’ve gone from crushed to depressed and now I’m bordering on livid.  Angry at the situation.  Angry at Rory.  But most of all, royally pissed off at Vanessa Virtue.

Someone’s going to get it.

I take the cable car down California to the Hard Rock on Van Ness Avenue.  The hostess seems appalled that I’m alone and escorts me to a table in the back.  The waitress can’t get me out of there fast enough, nearly shoving my food at me.  Fine.  I can take a hint.

I head to the T-shirt counter and pick out a Hard Rock logo shirt for William.  The checker rings up the order and takes my credit card.  Before running it through, he asks, “Would you like to crank it up for the kids?”

“Would I like to what?”

He picks up a canister sitting next to the cash register.  “Crank it up... for the kids.  We’re raising money for area kids from single parent homes.  Would you like to crank it up?”

Goddamn brainless marketing people coming up with stupid-ass phrases like “crank it up for the kids.”

“No, Tim,” I say, peering at his nametag.  “I don’t believe I would, but thanks anyway.”

“Come on, everyone wants to help out the kids,” he presses.

“I’m all set.  Thanks.” 

But he won’t take no for an answer.  “Does that mean you’ll crank it up for the kids?”

That’s the last drop.  “No, Tim.  It doesn’t mean that.”  I can’t take anymore.  My biorhythm chart was a hundred percent right.  Communication
is
a dangerous thing.  “You see, Tim, I believe it’s the parents’ duty to crank it up—whatever the hell that means—for their kids.  People shouldn’t have children if they’re going to walk out on them.  They shouldn’t run away and avoid paying child support.  Then they shouldn’t pursue other people, knowing damn well they’re not available.  That they’re big, fat,
fucking
liars.  Then, you hit me up for money, asking me to pay for other people’s mistakes.  I’m not going to do it, Tim.  So, no, I won’t CRANK IT UP FOR THE KIDS!”

Dozens of eyes sear through my back and I want to disappear.  Tim stares at me in disbelief and his mouth hangs open for a second before he says, “that’ll be $29.90.”

Feeling guilty after he hands my credit card back, I stuff a ten dollar bill into the charity canister and flee the Hard Rock through a veil of shame.

I wish someone would crank it up for me.

*****

I
 go through the
motions of existing the rest of the tradeshow, putting on a strong front and trying to be a professional.  No use losing my job because of my bad attitude toward everything.

It pains me to think about the whispers, secret touches, and hot kisses Rory and I shared.  It’s all so cheap and dirty now.  I know in my heart of hearts that he swiped my demo disk.  No doubt about it.  I don’t have to be a CSI detective to figure that out.  I simply have to accept the reality in my own head.  My own heart.

Looking back now, it explains the computer being on in New Jersey and my room seeming like a disaster area (more so than usual) in Miami.  I was too blinded by lust to realize what was going on around me.

I hate Rory Ellery.

No, I hate Rodney Ellmore.

And I hate myself.

What a manipulative genius.  I wonder if there are other places where he pulled off a con job like this.  At least he was caught.  Nabbed.  I hope he fries for what he’s done to that poor woman and her son.  Rory, no
Rodney
is no good to women everywhere.

I have to stop dwelling on him and get away from the games my mind is playing.  I can’t, tough.  Reminiscences splash over me like dirty bathwater.  Emblazoned in my memory bank.  Seared on my heart.  Rory.  The disk.  His promises and kisses.  His wife.  His kid.  His lies.  His exploitation.

I focus on the tradeshow, shining my best smile for all to see.  Admit it, it’s my fault that everyone at DigitalDirection now has to bust their asses daily because of our competition getting our software code.  They got it from
my
disk.  I gnaw on my tongue to stop from screaming my guilt out to everyone.

“We’ve generated a hell of a lot of leads,” Kyle says at the end of the show.  “Jiles will be pleased.”

Well, at least I’m helping the company now.  “Just doing my job,” I say flatly, trying to ignore the curving smile he flashes at me.

“We should take in the sights.  Go out dancing.”  Kyle moves along with music that’s apparently playing in his head.  The guy is always upbeat and positive.  He must be on a heavy dose of Zoloft.  I wonder if he’ll share.

Visions of my last trip to San Francisco gel in my mind and suddenly nausea coils around me like a dank cloak.  “I think I’ll stay in tonight.”

“Come on.  There’s a club on Folsom called Holy Cow.  Great bands.  It’ll be a blast.”  Kyle’s jazzed about being here and the success of the show.  I’d only be a party pooper.

“I won’t be any fun.  Take Reagan and Ted.  I’m going to take a hot bath and go to bed.”

Kyle pulls his hand through his hair.  “Nothing I can do to change your mind?”

My stomach echoes a hollow kerplunk and I smile weakly.  Maybe not all guys are first class assholes.  “I’m afraid not.  You’re nice, though.  Some gal in Boston is pretty lucky.”

I rub his arm for emphasis and turn for the door when I hear him mutter, “She would be if she paid attention.”

*****

I
 wake up at
o’dark thirty the next morning with someone pounding down my hotel door.  “What is this?  A raid?”  I have a bit of a headache because I’d ordered a bottle of wine from room service and promptly polished it off, along with some cherry cheesecake.

Reagan parades in, screwing her nose up at my ratty American University T-shirt.  “Come on.  It’s a gorgeous Saturday and I insist on fresh air and exercise.”

She’s done the Boston Marathon twice and is the type of person who thinks rock climbing in Thailand is a relaxing vacation.  Not me.  Give me the Caribbean and a frozen fruity girl drink any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

“Fresh air is overrated,” I say.

“Come on.  Kyle’s down in the restaurant waiting for us.”

“What about Ted?”  If I have to go, he does too.

Reagan digs my jeans out of the suitcase and tosses them at me.  “He got this inner ear infection thing and changed his flight.  He’s already gone.”

We’re taking the red-eye home.  Jiles always says it saves money.  I’d prefer to go home with Ted rather than go traipsing through town.  The city I long loved has a stank that smells of Rory’s deceit.  Damn him for ruining yet another thing for me.

Once downstairs, Kyle hands me a coffee, just the way I like it, hot, lots of cream, and two pink packets.  “Thanks,” I say.

Reagan drags us to Fisherman’s Wharf where we rent bicycles.  Kyle seems flummoxed all of a sudden.  “I should be working.  I’ve got to get going on the customer service plan.”

“There’s no use arguing with her,” I say, tugging at my knit top that keeps riding up.  “She’s not our top salesperson for lack of persuasive skills.”

Kyle laughs and glances at the map she handed him.  “Guess I can work on the plane tonight.”

The curling chill in the air seems to be a hindrance for a bite ride through the city.  However, that doesn’t stop Reagan’s enthusiasm.  When she plops an electric-pink helmet on my head, I balk.

“Why do I have to wear this?  I’m not riding in the Tour de France,” I smart off.

“You should never ride a bike without a helmet,” she says, zipping up her fleece jacket.

“That’s crap,” I say.  “I rode a bicycle my entire childhood without wearing one.  I never crashed my head like these kids today.”

Reagan’s mouth drops open and Kyle laughs heartily.

“I’m serious,” I continue.  “It’s whacked out, over-protective parents who’ve caused this helmet phenomenon.  Kids are so molly-coddled they can’t even enjoy riding a bike.”  I flatten my mouth and put my hands on my hips.  “Anyway, it’ll make my hair go flat.”  Why do I care what my hair looks like?  It’s not like I have a date.  No, he’s in jail.  I swallow hard, feeling Rory’s deception blaze through me like nasty heartburn.  Treacherous shit head.