Translucent (3 page)

Forcing myself to move, I roll off the leather surface and land with a thud on the floor. Slowly, I pull my legs underneath me and stand to my full height. I should be celebrating the first day of my new job, reveling in my reintroduction to the world of normalcy, but it’s just so fucking hard. Shuffling my feet to the bathroom, I hope a shower will improve my spirits. In less than a minute, I strip off my blouse and skirt, leaving them in a messy pile in the middle of the floor as I gape at myself once again in the mirror. It’s not that I’m overly vain—if there’s one thing I no longer possess, it is pride—I simply can’t stop staring at how different I look.

The shocking change to my hair color reminds me of the time I added hot pink streaks to my dark mane without telling my mom. It was the day of my seventeenth birthday, and by her reaction, someone would’ve thought I got a tattoo on my face or something. Once I explained it would wash out in about a week, she calmed down…somewhat. In hindsight, I wish she would’ve grounded me or dished out some other absurd punishment that would’ve kept me from going out with my friends that night. Maybe then, I never would’ve met
him.

Much to my surprise, my two girlfriends and I had no issues whatsoever getting inside Sound-Bar nightclub. The bouncer barely glanced at the ID I’d spent so long searching for, making sure I found someone’s face and hair color that resembled my own. He ushered us into the already overly-crowded room, along with the numerous other females dressed in micro-mini dresses waiting outside in the frigid temperatures on Ontario St. Once inside, it took a minute for my senses to adjust to the encompassing darkness and the booming music reverberating throughout the room. Ashley—the only one of us three who had been there before—grabbed mine and Josie’s hands, pulling us away from the entrance and towards the bar.

“Come on, Briles,” she scolded once we pushed through the first hoard of bodies and had a little bit of breathing room. “Don’t act like a complete newb! Now, let’s get a couple of shots so you can both relax a bit.”

A couple of shots soon turned into four or five, and before I knew it, we were making our way down to the enormous dance floor to shake our asses with the best of them. We quickly found our groove with a couple of warm-up songs, and I soon forgot about the masses of people surrounding us. It was just me and my two best friends dancing like we’d done hundreds of times in our bedrooms, dreaming about the day we’d actually get to go clubbing.

Before long, we’d shimmied our way from the far right side of the dance floor to dead center, and when one of our favorite Usher songs began to resonate through the massive speakers, our bodies responded to the infectious beat without thought. Rolling and dipping against one another in perfect rhythm, we were each pieces to a puzzle, fitting together flawlessly. At some point, Ashley broke apart from us to dance with some hottie who had come up behind her, but Josie and I continued on, steadily pushing the line between sensual and dirty. By the end of the song, erotic electricity buzzed through me from head to toe, and when a large, masculine hand wrapped around me from behind, splaying across my toned belly, I didn’t think twice.

A half an hour later, I was a guest up in the VIP section, sitting snugly next to the dark haired, brown-eyed guy with the beautiful olive skin who’d ushered me off the dance floor and offered a bottle of water to cool me down. We spent the next several hours talking and making out on the plush couches; the entire time, I assumed it was a one-time thing and I’d never see him again after that night. According to my friends, that’s how these things worked. We exchanged no other personal information other than our first names, and that night, as I fell asleep in-between my two girlfriends in Ashley’s bed, I giggled about what a good kisser Ish—short for Ismael—was, and how he and his friends reminded me of the Italian mafia. Little did I know how dead-on I was.

The coppery taste of blood pulls me from the flashback; I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek so hard I’ve gnawed through the flesh. Sighing with frustration, I step closer to the bathroom mirror to take a better look at the wound. Thankfully, it’s not bad; I’ll just need to rinse with warm salty water after my shower. It isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last time I’ve injured myself when the horrific memories dominate my thoughts. My therapist thinks it’s my way of punishing myself for what I was a part of; I think I associate pain with him on every level. Either way, I still haven’t learned to control my actions during these periods, and I can only hope to keep the damage minimal and for it to only occur when I’m alone.

Pushing off the counter, I walk over to the shower and turn the hot water on full-blast. My bra and panties join the other clothes on the floor, and I hastily step into the glass stall, allowing the scalding water to rain down on my pasty skin. For the few brief moments I’m actually scrubbing my body, I feel clean, but it doesn’t take long once I exit the sanctuary of the shower for the gritty, sullied feeling to return.
Maybe someday.

After putting on my pajamas, I warm up a chicken and broccoli Alfredo dish from the freezer and shovel it into my mouth, grateful to keep it all down. All food tastes pretty similar to me; the textures are different, but I rarely find something my brain discerns as
good.
I eat to survive, typically forcing down pre-made frozen meals; I’m unable to recall the last time I actually cooked. At least eighteen months ago. Tonight is no different. One of my sleeping pills slides easily down my throat with a large glass of ice water, which has become my nightly dessert and favorite part of my meal. Throwing away my trash and loading my dishes into the dishwasher, I inspect the apartment one last time to make sure all locks are turned and the alarm is set before I get into bed. As I slip off into the land of slumber, I pray for protection and a dreamless sleep.

R
OLLING
OVER
IN
MY
BED
to put a stop to the loud-ass alarm clock alerting me it’s time to get up, I hurl my hand towards the nightstand, but am startled when my forearm makes contact with another body lying next to me. My eyes fly open to investigate as my brain instantly begins to replay the events of the previous evening. As soon as I see strawberry-blonde ringlets draped across the pillow, I realize it’s just Emerson.
Thank fucking God.
I really need to watch how much I drink at these social gatherings before I end up with another
Polly
case on my hands. Or worse.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” she says in a husky voice, trying to sound sexy, but instead, coming off like a thirty-year smoker. Her hands waste no time finding my morning-wood, which she obviously thinks is a reaction to waking up next to her, not just a part of everyday life.

Brushing her roaming fingers away from my cock, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up straight. “Morning, Em, no time for that. I’ve got a meeting at nine; not to mention, you need to get to the office too. I need Easton to know what the fuck is going on with this new project he’s signed us up for.”

“It doesn’t look like
he
has gotten the schedule for the day,” she replies, looking straight at my erection. “I think he wants to play a little first. Who cares if we’re late? You’re the boss.”

“He
will be just fine after I take a piss, and
I
care,” I argue, padding across the room towards the bathroom. “Now get your ass up and get ready for work. Contrary to the way you and my brother act, it’s a
real
fucking business somebody has to run.”

She mumbles something about how she should’ve gone home with Easton, but I don’t give her the pleasure of a response. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with her mouthy ass, and then I remember that’s exactly why I do it—her mouth and her ass.

Rushing through my morning routine, I shave and shower in less than fifteen minutes, wanting to get to the office early to review some numbers before my first appointment. I brace myself for what’s waiting when I emerge from the bathroom, but thankfully, she’s gone. After dressing in a light blue dress shirt under a navy Gucci suit, I hurry down the stairs to the kitchen, taking two at a time. Waiting on the butcher-block island, my coffee is prepared exactly the way I take it – black - and in my favorite travel mug, thanks to Sarah, the best housekeeper known to man.

“Thank you, Sarah, and good morning,” I call out, not knowing exactly where she is. “I’ll be home for dinner tonight, and please change my sheets before then.”

“
Buenos días, Señor Decker, y siempre
,” she replies with her ever-present smile as she walks into the room from the laundry area. “I’ll have a good meal waiting for you, sir.”

I grab my wallet, phone, and keys, and throw them in my pockets before snagging the mug and a protein bar as I make my way out the backdoor. “
Adiós, mi amor
.” I flash her my most charming smile before I disappear outside.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, it’s obvious I won’t be making it home for dinner—at least not at a reasonable time. I’ve already had my secretary, Caroline, let Sarah know to put whatever she prepared in the refrigerator; I’ll eat it at some point tonight. However, for the next several hours, I’ll be analyzing reports and trends of video game software companies, the project Easton—my brother and alleged business partner—is supposed to be tackling. Despite his reassurance of having the report complete by next Monday, I’m not quite sure how he plans on accomplishing anything from the golf course, the horse track, or the high-limit poker tables at the Bicycle Club, which is where he spends the majority of his days…and nights, for that matter.

Grumbling to myself about how some things never change, I refocus my attention on the computer screen in hopes of figuring out the magical formula that will allow us to compete with the big names, like EA Sports and Zyndegy. From the first discussion of Decker Enterprises venturing out into the video game market, I was opposed to it, claiming it would be both a waste of time and money, yet here I sit knee-fucking-deep in this shit, while Easton is out playing.

“Mr. Decker,” Caroline buzzes through my phone, “Miss Lister is here to see you.”

Wanting so badly to tell her I’m too busy for her shit, I decide the message will best be heard straight from my mouth. Plus, I know my elderly secretary wouldn’t repeat the words I’m about to say, nor should she have to.

“Send her in.”

Moments later, the mahogany door to my office opens, and Emerson—wearing a tight, bright red dress with lipstick and heels to match—slinks her hour-glass frame inside. As she saunters silently towards my desk, I can’t decide if I want to slap or fuck the smug look off her face. She sits down in the leather chair facing me and grins wickedly.

“Can I help you with something, Em?” I ask perturbed, glancing up at her, and then back to the monitor.

Crossing and uncrossing her legs to give me a clear view of the pussy I was just buried in mere hours ago, she bites her lip in what I guess is supposed to be a seductive gesture. “I thought maybe you could use a little afternoon pick-me-up.” Again with the fucking hoarse voice—I’ve known this girl for nearly fifteen years, and she’s never sounded like this before. Maybe she’s taken up cigar smoking, or maybe…

“You aren’t fucking sick, are you? I can
not
afford to catch some shit-cold or flu right now,” I bark at her, already thinking I should call Dr. Johnson for a prescription. “Thanks to your boss, who never comes to the office anymore, I’ve got a fuck-ton of work to get done.”

“No, I’m not sick,” she squawks at me, back to her normal voice, “and he’s your damn brother! I can’t make him show up to work. I do what he tells me to do; that’s how the boss-employee thing works, Madden.”

Inhaling a deep breath to calm myself, I really don’t feel like dealing with her right now. “Look, I’m really stressed out with this new company Easton insisted we purchase, on top of everything else I’ve already got going.” I pause to exhale, figuring out how to tactfully get rid of her. “I’m sorry I jumped on you. I know you can’t control him—no one can—but I really need a little time here alone so I can get some work done.”