Chapter Eight
Chase hadn’t been sure the editor of the UNC paper would accept his article. He hadn’t written about campus life as requested, but Chase believed the piece he’d come up with would be of interest to the student body.
The editor read it in front of Chase, without so much as an eyebrow lift to indicate his approval or disapproval. When he’d finished, the editor set his copy on his desk and said, “It will run in the next issue which comes out Thursday. We rotate our editorial writers so your next piece will be due two weeks from now.”
Chase breathed a sigh of relief. Getting a job on the paper had been his original goal of writing an article, but now it was his chance to get Kira’s attention. If the editor had decided not to print it, it would be back to the drawing board.
With the first part of the plan in place, Chase now just had to sit back and wait.
***
Sure as the editor had said, Chase’s piece appeared in the next issue. But Thursday had come and gone with no word from Kira. Friday brought no word from her either. By Saturday, Chase was beginning to lose hope. He’d thought for sure he’d have heard from her by now, if he was going to at all.
Claiming too much homework, Chase stayed behind when the rest of the guys went to play Frisbee Golf on Saturday afternoon. Truth was, he knew if Kira was going to reach out to him, it would be at the house, and he didn’t want to miss her. How pathetic was he to keep wishing for her forgiveness?
Pretty damn pathetic. But it didn’t change anything.
Deciding fresh air would be beneficial to his mood, he sat on the front porch trying to work on a paper for his Disabilities in Learning class. But his mind was too wrapped up in Kira to get anything done. Maybe she hadn’t seen his piece. Maybe she had seen it and it hadn’t made a difference. Maybe she hadn’t been that interested in him in the first place. But that couldn’t be the case—he’d
felt
the connection between them.
Hadn’t he?
Each time a car pulled into the busy gravel lot next door, his ears perked up. Each time he was rewarded with disappointment. Kira wasn’t coming. Better give up the dream and face the reality.
But then, after nearly two hours of unproductivity, the sound of a familiar engine pulled him from his moping. The guys had walked to their destination. Could it be…her? He listened to a single door slam shut and held his breath while he waited for the driver to appear.
And then there she was—standing at the end of the front walk, a copy of the newspaper clutched in her hand.
Fuck, had he fallen asleep? Because she looked just like a dream.
But, no. She wasn’t a dream. She was real. And that was better than any dream he could imagine.
Chase didn’t know what to say, and his breath hadn’t really returned anyway so speaking was pretty much out of the question. Besides, he’d had the last words when he wrote that article. It was Kira’s turn to speak.
She was quiet, though, as she walked up to where he sat on the steps. She turned the paper to face him, the picture he’d snapped on his phone at the wishing tree prominent on the page. “You wrote this?” she asked.
Well, obviously. It said
by Chase Matthews
right under the headline:
Greeley’s Shoe Tree
.
Chase nodded.
Kira turned the paper back to face her and began reading out loud.
“In a hard-to-find location on the back roads of Greeley exists one of the town’s little known highlights—a shoe tree where sneakers are recycled for wishes.”
Skipping past a few paragraphs Kira continued,
“While at first, the idea of wishing on shoes seemed odd to this reporter, further reflection thinks the tradition is actually apropos. The wishes we hold in our heart come out of our day-to-day routines. What other objects are more closely tied to our daily lives than the shoes that we walk in? They carry us where ever we go. Why shouldn’t they be the items that we’d expect to carry us to our dreams, as well?”
Kira paused, glancing over at Chase.
Did she think she didn’t have his attention? She did.
She skipped to the end of the piece.
“Even if you don’t have a pair of shoes to dispose of, I believe the tree has power simply by being in its presence. The wish I made standing at the shoe tree came true in the most beautifully fulfilling way. Most writers would take this time to caution the readers about being careful about what they wish for. My caution, however, is different: be careful what we do with our wishes when they do come true. The shoes on the tree may carry us to the place we dream of, but our own feet can carry us back away. From personal experience, I can attest that any wish can be canceled as easily as it is made, usually because our ego gets in the way. I’m hoping that even canceled wishes can be made again.”
It was as close to an apology as Chase could have written in an article meant for the entire student body. Of course, it had really only been meant for Kira.
She folded the paper and set it on the step beside her. Still not looking at Chase she said, “I should be mad that you’ve disclosed my favorite secret spot.”
Shit! He hadn’t thought of that. Plus, he hadn’t written exactly how to get there—he didn’t know himself. “God, Kira, I’m sorry—“
She cut him off, “But I’m not.” She swallowed. “It was a good article. Thank you for writing it.”
It didn’t seem like a fitting time to say,
“You’re welcome,”
when there were other things he needed to say. “Kira, I was an ass. A big ass. I shouldn’t have ever considered outing you, and I understand how that could make me someone that wouldn’t ever deserve your time and attention.”
She shook her head. “Whatever. Like I’m all that special.”
“You
are
a princess.”
She smiled. It was encouraging that he could joke with her.
“You are that special,” he continued. “And I regret that I even considered exploiting that.”
“I may have overreacted.” She put her hand on the step between them.
Hoping that was a message, Chase placed his hand over hers. “No. You gave me what I deserved.” She didn’t pull away—in fact, she turned her palm up to clasp his properly.
She pivoted to meet his eyes—God, those beautiful brown eyes were entrancing. Especially when they were empty of the anger and hurt that had filled them the last time he’d seen them. He wasn’t sure what emotion he saw in them this time, but whatever it was, it made him feel warm all over.
“I think you deserve a whole lot more.”
He tried to hide his disappointment. He’d suffered greatly the whole week wondering if he’d ever get a chance to be with Kira again. But he’d go through more, if he had to. She was worth it. “Any punishment you think I should have, bring it on. I’ll endure it. Just don’t say I can’t see you again.”
She laughed. “You don’t want to know what kind of punishments I can come up with. Let’s see…” She tapped her lip with her finger as she appeared to think of cruel and unusual methods of torture.
For some reason, Chase wasn’t worried.
After a second, Kira shook her head. “Actually, that’s not what I meant. I meant, you deserve a lot more good things.”
He could think of a few good things that he’d like to have, but that he wasn’t necessarily worthy of. “I don’t deserve you. But that won’t stop me from wishing for you over and over.”
“Stop wishing. I’m here.” She squeezed his hand.
How could such a simple gesture be felt all the way down in his balls? The electricity between them was high voltage.
She turned her body toward Chase so their knees were touching. Maybe she was as eager for more contact as he was. “I saved myself, for you, remember? I’m yours for the taking.”
His for the taking?
He liked the sound of that. From the twitch in his pants, his dick had ideas exactly where he could be taking her. And more specifically, when he should be taking her there.
With all the physical response going on with his body, he hadn’t said anything out loud. His silence seemed to concern Kira. She lowered her eyes and said, “If you want me, that is.”
“Yeah, I want you.” Right then he wanted her pretty damn bad. But this conversation was about building a relationship based on more than sex. At least, he hoped it was. Not for the first time since he met Kira, Chase wondered if he’d lost his balls.
Well, if he had, might as well go all in. “I told the whole campus that I believe in a wishing tree. Would I have done that if I wasn’t totally in to you?”
Kira nodded to the paper between them. “Are you saying you don’t really believe this?”
“Oh, no. I believe. I’ll never be able to find that place again even if my life depended on it, so I spent all week wishing on this dang photo of that tree instead.” He leaned his head in closer to hers. “And it worked. Because here you are.”
He let his lips brush hers softly before moving in for a deeper kiss. He didn’t want her to think he was only interested in her physically. It was a kiss that showed affection, not lust. His tongue remained shallow as it slipped into her mouth. His hands stayed wrapped around her waist, even though they longed to wander. It took great restraint not to take it further, but he stayed strong.
When he pulled away, her eyes were big and her lips pink.
He ran his thumb across her cheek in a sweet caress. “Thank you for giving me another chance.”
Kira twisted her lip in that ultra sexy way of hers—man, she was killing him. “Um, so does this mean I’m going to get laid now?”
Maybe he’d have to work on the relationship rather than physical later. Because there was no way he was turning down sex. He was a guy, after all.
I Don't
by Tamara Mataya
Table of Contents
Chapter One
They say there are five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I think they forgot one.
Revenge.
Denial made me watch the video three times, more bile rising in my throat with each viewing. I’m still angry, but I stopped trying to bargain with a higher power about how if it’s not
my
Bobby in the video with another woman, then I’ll never swear again, etc. Fuck that. It’s him in the video with his prick in Courtney’s mouth.
The thing about evidence is that you have to consider the source. Unfortunately, the evidence came from my rat-bastard cheating fiancé himself—though he doesn’t know he’s well and truly busted.
But I found the video on his phone of him getting a blowjob. From my cousin Courtney. Who is one of my bridesmaids for our wedding. In one week. I know the video is less than two weeks old, because Courtney bought the shirt she’s wearing in the vid ten days ago when we went shopping.
Denial, anger, bargaining. Depression? Maybe I skipped that step. I’ve accepted that I’m engaged to a cheating, lying asshole, and my cousin is a skeezy slutbag. Now it’s the last step, and I’m supposed to be all serene and move on with my life. On to bigger and better things, having learned a valuable lesson about trusting the wrong person, and more importantly—being true to myself. Praise the Lord and park the Prius!
More salient to my interests, however, is revenge.
I’m just not sure how to go about it. By nature, I’m too forgiving; I’d rather let things go and be happy than hold onto the hurt. Not this time. He’s not getting away with this. I email the video to myself so I have a copy, and double check it’s there before turning my phone off. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it, and it’s the only proof I have. More importantly, if I ever break down and start feeling regret over breaking up with him, or he tries to get me back, I have a visual reminder of his fuckery to keep me strong.
Bobby’s prized possessions flicker through my mind, my eyes taking inventory of our apartment as I stomp from room to room, realizing how little of myself is in our apartment. Two birds with one stone: I could use his Wii to smash his precious 3-D television—and what a dick move that had been even buying that thing in the first place. He knew how nauseated I get at 3-D movies. To watch shows, I have to wear three goddamned pairs of glasses—mine, the pair that go with the television, and the pair I bought online that turn 3-D back into 2-D.
I could cut the crotches out of all his expensive suits and turn all his jeans into cut-offs. No, that would just give
her
better access. Ugh.
The three-thousand-dollar latte machine could find itself mangled with one of his equally expensive golf clubs. He threw away the manual to that stupid machine, and never taught me how to use it. I pressed the wrong button one time, and it began spewing steamed milk everywhere, narrowly missing my eyes. ‘You’ll figure it out,’ he’d said.
Charming. Funny how it takes seeing your beloved cheat on you with your cousin to put into stark clarity all the shitty things about them at once. He’s selfish, and doesn’t care about inconveniencing me. Look at what I’m doing. I only came over—during my lunch break—to grab his cell that he’d left behind and take it to him. Like I’m his PA. He owns his own company—he wouldn’t get fired for taking twenty minutes out of his day to grab it.
But he’s perfectly fine with hauling me from my life to play fetch for him. Tears burn my eyes and I can’t stop them from falling. Since I quit my job at the gallery, at Bobby’s insistence, to work from my studio apartment, I’ve basically been at his beck and call. I’ve had the odd twinge of doubt that he didn’t value my work as an artist, but I’d stamp that down—he believed in my work and supported me so much he convinced me to quit my job and work on my art full time—while he paid the bills.
And the things he asked of me weren’t too horribly taxing, at the end of the day. He’s not an artist. He doesn’t understand that the muse doesn’t show up between nine and five, and that if I step away from the canvas when I have an idea, that inspiration might slip away and never come back. And it was because of his generosity that I had the studio apartment—instead of giving it up when I moved into his place, he kept paying the lease so I’d have a place to...
Oh God. My studio. Though it’s the last thing I want to do, I replay the video one more time.
I hear him before an image comes up—he’s tipping the camera too far down to see what’s happening, and the screen is black. A sigh, and a moan.
I know those noises. I’ve made him make those sounds for the past year.
“Yeah, Courty. Just like that. Fuck.”
Her overly tanned face appears in the frame, mouth full of Bobby. God, I hate her fucking eyebrows. Over plucked, and yet still too thick, like two obese sperm have taken residence above her eyes.
Worst. Cousin. Ever.
Annoyingly, until about five minutes ago when I saw the video, she was my favourite cousin. ‘Mine too!’ Bobby would say. Slimy fuck-shovel.
Keeping my eyes on the screen, but not focusing on anything, is difficult. Courtney’s really going to town on my fiancé’s dick. Bobby’s loving it.
“I’m going to come all over your face. Just like last week.”
Yeah, that’s one for the highlight reel. My blood boils. How long have they been screwing behind my back, and smiling to my face? I grit my teeth and focus on the bottom left corner of the screen.
More gasping, and her hateful little face looking smug as he comes. On her face as promised.
I keep my eyes on the video instead of turning away to vomit.
There.
A flash of familiar fabric takes me from ‘I’ll cut a bitch’ to ‘nuclear meltdown, let the bodies hit the floor.’
I fucking designed and printed that fabric. She’s blowing him on the couch in my studio. My old apartment. How many other times, how many other women has he brought back to my sacred space to screw while I’ve been out and about running his errands?
And I always excused his not respecting my time because of that fact. As if his paying for it meant my time was no longer mine, and I was a slave to his every whim. Like I was a prostitute and he’d bought me for the foreseeable future. But in a nice way because there was a ring involved, and he loved me, and I loved him.
We are polar opposites. He’s the big shot entrepreneur in the financial sector, and I’m the little bohemian artist. But opposites attract, and my lights complemented his darks, and he was the ground to my sky, reminding me to come back to earth when an art piece would swallow me whole for days at a time and I’d forget to eat. I got him to loosen up, he made me smarten up. What a perfect pair. What a crock.
Bobby put the hyphen in anal-retentive. The thing about the wedding is I hadn’t even wanted the three-ring circus my looming nuptials have become. Bobby had been the one insisting we ‘do it right,’ though our opinions of what constitutes ‘doing it right’ are vastly different. So much so that he’d become a ranting, red-faced groomzilla on more than one occasion, and I finally just gave up control and handed him the reins. I’d thought, ‘If it means that much to him, he can do exactly as he likes, have the wedding of his dreams, and I’ll show up and love it.’
Because in the end, what mattered was the love, and the fact that we’d be husband and wife. Two lives merging together in a sacred union, swearing to love each other forever, making a new life together, forsaking all others and their cheating whore mouths.
He never let me hang any of my pieces in the living room. Said my art was too bold and expressive when all he wanted to do when he got home was relax, and not be challenged at the sight of a painting screaming at him from the couch. He’d moved the small acrylic I’d hung in the bedroom into the bathroom. I had to explain why water and unprotected acrylics don’t mix, and he’d pointed out that I should have protected it before moving it from the studio.
At the time I’d agreed, but it had annoyed me even then. I’d made it for the bedroom, not the dampness of our bathroom, with his forty-minute long showers.
Maybe I should paint a huge image from the video directly onto the living room wall for him to see when he gets home. See how relaxing that would be for him.
The sharp buzz of my phone vibrating in my hand makes me jump. The number on the call I.D. is Bobby’s office. After a moment, it dings. New voicemail.
“Hazy, it’s me. Just wondering where you are. I really need that phone. You’re probably caught in traffic. If you get this in time, maybe stop at that little Thai place and pick us up some lunch. I’m starving and you love that place. I don’t have a client until one-thirty, and I’d like to go over the seating arrangements again. I know you want your friend Carrie to come, but I don’t think it’s possible. Odd numbers. Anyways, see you soon.”
The seating arrangements? Like Courtney sitting on his dick? Ugh. I hate how instead of saying he wants Thai, he makes it sound like I love it and should get some for us. I’ve always hated it when he calls me Hazy. ‘My little unclear detail.’ Great pet name. And Carrie’s been my best friend since we were seven, though she moved away six years ago, and we’ve only had the internet since, there’s no damned way she won’t be at my wedding.
Except that doesn’t matter now. There won’t be a wedding. My heart’s a brittle piece of crystal that’s been shattered, but hasn’t crumbled into pieces yet. Anger is the only thing holding it together. Bobby deserves to pay for this. Courtney too.
Would it hurt him worse if he came back and I was just gone? I could pack some things, tell a couple
trusted
friends, and disappear from his life. He wouldn’t get an ending, and that would drive his rigidity nuts. But I don’t think that would be enough for me. I want, no, I
need
him to know that I know. I need to scream in his face to get this lava pool of scalding hurt and bitterness out of my chest so it doesn’t dissolve me from the inside out.
The thing about revenge is that I’ve never actively set out to hurt anyone before. The nearest I’ve come is what I’ve seen on television and the movies. They make it look so easy. The saying that warns the person seeking revenge to ‘dig two graves’ comes to mind. It’s a metaphor, and I’m not going to kill anyone. I just want them to suffer like I am. Two graves?
Perfect.
One for him, and one for her.
Taking his bag from the bottom of the closet, I smile and begin packing some things.