I slam the door in his face.
Then, pressing my back to it, I sink to the floor and cry.
I need a woman tonight, and not a man.
Not after what just happened.
Unfortunately, the only one I can call is…Marla.
After I tell her what happened (editing a few details, of course), she moves into “mom” mode.
“Give me the address. I’ll be right over,” she says, and the urgency in her voice tells me she means business. Right now, she believes what Ford believes – that I’m housesitting for a couple who’s spending the summer in Europe.
“No!” Good God, man. The less people I have coming over here, the better. At least, as long as my nosey neighbor is on the loose.
“Becky…”
I cut over her, desperate to keep her away. “What I mean is, I don’t want to stay here. Tonight. At all. And…I don’t want to be alone.”
And it’s the truth. I’m jittery and twitchy from Randall’s visit, like his hands are still on me, all over me, like he’s gone but not really gone.
What I need is a distraction. Noise and chaos and flashing lights.
Marla doesn’t miss a beat. “Then come here. You can sleep on the couch in Hollis’s office.”
I picture spending an entire night in Hollis’s family home, under the same roof as his wife and daughter, and my stomach turns even more.
“No,” I say, thinking of Ford. “I have a place to stay. I just want some” – I cringe, because I hate this phrase, even though it’s exactly what I need right now – “girl time.”
And then I tell her exactly what I mean by that.
• • •
“I’m worried.”
I throw back my shot of tequila and groan. “Stop. Seriously.” Nudging the second one Marla’s way, I urge her to drink it. “Drink that. It’ll help.”
Marla accepts the drink and brings it to her lips, taking a tiny sip.
I roll my eyes. “For fuck sake, down it!”
Marla squeezes her eyes shut, tilts her head back, and pours the liquor down her throat. She swallows, gags, and for a minute I think the shot and the appetizers we just ate might come back up. But then she nods, makes a face, and sucks in some air. “Oh, my God. That was awful.”
“The more you take, the easier it gets.”
Marla just stares at me while I signal Don the bartender. Holding up two fingers, I flash a red-carpet smile. So far, we’ve been at our neighborhood dive bar for a little less than an hour, and Marla has already called Ford twice to check up on the kid.
It’s…insane.
“I don’t know…I think one is enough for me.” She fingers the stem of her wine glass. “I’ve got to be alert if Belle needs anything. With Hollis out of town and all.”
I huff. “Trust me, she’s fine. Ford is a great guy with a good heart who is entirely capable of watching a kid for a few hours.” Don delivers the shots and I slide one her way. “Besides, she’ll probably sleep for most of the time.”
Marla remains unconvinced. “Belle sort of keeps her own schedule. She’s not a big fan of sleeping. Especially when she’s in a new environment. What if she’s too much for your boyfriend to handle?”
I take my shot and feel the heat burn its way down my throat, warming my entire body like a liquid hug. It also sands away some of the remaining doubt I have about mixing these two parts of my life together – Ford and Marla. But I needed this. Needed it.
And Marla the Lump seems hellbent on ruining it.
“Has anyone told you that you worry too much?”
“Well,” she says, considering the shot in front of her. “I’m a mom. It’s my job.”
I swivel on my barstool and face her. Crossing one leg over the other, I lean back and rest my elbow on the bar. “No, Marla. It’s not. Your job is to care, not to worry all the damn time. To love unconditionally, to provide and to support. To be there for her when others aren’t. And to remind her of the wonderful little human that she is.” My rambling spiel has me thinking of my own mother, of the fact that she never did any of these things, never once worried over me or showed concern for my well-being.
And my father? Well, maybe if I had been such a wonderful little human, he’d have stuck around.
Sighing, I acquiesce. “Okay, maybe it’s fine to worry, like, once in a while. But you? Man, you fret over that kid constantly.”
Okay, so maybe I’m being too direct. After all, we’ve only known each other for a short time, and it’s probably not my place to be telling her how to “mom”. But for Christ’s sake, the woman displays no backbone whatsoever when it comes to that kid.
Marla’s lower lip starts to tremble.
Shit. Now I’ve gone and made her cry.
I suck at this girls’ night thing.
Then again, I’ve never really had one, so how am I supposed to know how to behave?
An apology is perched on the tip of my tongue when Marla beats me to the punch.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, and I look at her in shock, because I’m not quite sure why she’s the one apologizing.
“Mar—”
But she holds up a hand, stopping me. “Nope. This night is about you, Becky. You. I mean, shit. After what you’ve been through, the last thing you need is listening to me worry about Belle.”
A, she’s right. Two, she’s being a total wet rag. And III, she doesn’t even know the half of what I went through with Randall. There was no way I could tell her the whole story: that I’m actually married with a boyfriend on the side and this creep was trying to blackmail me into having sex with him. Admitting that sort of dirt would lessen me in her eyes, lose the trust I’ve been working so hard to build. So I simply told her that the guy who lives next door to the house I’m sitting made a dirty pass at me, and that it left me uncomfortable enough to need a night away from the place.
Marla was horrified, of course. Absolutely stunned and disgusted that someone could behave in such a manner. Because in Marla’s world, in the precious little bubble she’s lucky enough to inhabit, bad stuff like that doesn’t happen. Not to people she knows, anyway. And certainly not to her.
She’d probably have a coronary if I told her the real story. If I admitted to letting the bastard touch me in the most intimate of ways just so I could gain his trust and get my eyes on that video again.
Even now, knowing that I’m in the clear and there’s nothing else he can do to me, it’s hard to revel in my victory. Because I can still feel him, like a stain on my skin. Feel his fat fingers needing, groping, exploring.
Without thinking, I take Marla’s shot and down it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. The second (or third?) shot is working its magic, hotter than hot and chasin’ those blues away. I focus on Marla again, remind myself of the reason I befriended her in the first place and, using my words as a chisel, concentrate on widening her cracks. “You just need to step out of your mom bubble for a night. One fucking night. The ki – Belle – is always with you. And that’s all fine and dandy for her, but what about you? Do you even have a life outside of her? Outside of…your husband?”