Get the hell out of here
1137 Words
Get the hell out of here
Rule number 1. When strange, unknown men start approaching you in dark parking lots, you don’t stick around.
I have my keys out and I’m hustling toward my car when he calls out.
I don’t stop.
I have the car open and I’ve thrown my bag inside when he says, “Is that anyway to treat a client?”
He wraps one hand around the door before I can close it. How in the world did he cross the parking lot so fast? He must’ve been at least a hundred feet away and seemed to cross it in a few steps.
“I don’t know what kind of business you think I run, buddy, but I’m not your client.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, relinquishing the door. He’s frowning when I shut the door. “I thought you were the new hire at B & B. But if I am mistaken…”
He says my name like a question.
A random parking lot intruder wouldn’t know my name, where I work, and refer to himself as my client.
My heart falters. “Mr. Benedict?”
He smiles. “So you do know me.”
With much horror I realize that I just physically fled my new boss. Awesome first impression, and in a way, a perfect end to this perfect week.
I climb out of my car, leaving my bag in the passenger seat. “Mr. Benedict, I am so sorry.”
“It’s my mistake.” He takes a step back to accommodate the opening door. “It is my mistake for approaching you like this. You had every right to be cautious. You come from a large city, don’t you?”
He sounds more amused than offended.
“I do.” Don’t over apologize, I tell myself. I hate it when women do that. Instead I say, “What can I do for you?”
“I make it a point of meeting all new residents sooner or later,” he says with a smile. “But for those of whom I employ, it’s especially important.”
“Right,” I say, gathering my wits at last and managing a smile. I offer my hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
He takes it and turns it over, brushing a light kiss across the knuckles.
Old school or s****l harassment? Because of how I just acted, I’m going to let this slide.
“I came by to invite you to the club you’ll be promoting,” he says with a smile even more perfect than Laura’s. Seriously, where do these people go to the dentist? “You seem pressed for time tonight, but I can send a car along tomorrow evening to pick you up.”
“Oh that isn’t necessary,” I say, wrapping my hands around the car door like I’m using it as a shield against him.
“I insist,” he says. His gaze is dark and heavy.
When he takes just to staring, no words, the sense of danger creeps up the back of my neck.
“Mr. Benedict?” I say nervously, wondering if this is about to take some menacing turn. But that fear melts away almost instantly.
I find myself overrun with strange thoughts—like how handsome he is. And how great he smells. And how his eyes are so dark that they catch and hold all the light from the lot around us…giving them an unnatural glow, as if there were candles burning within…
The moment breaks, and he’s brushing another kiss across my knuckles. “I want to keep you, but I can wait until tomorrow night.”
He turns away suddenly, crossing the parking lot to a red Tesla Roadster parked beneath a streetlight. He climbs in and speeds off while I continue to stand there, face burning.
In my hand is a business card with his name printed in silver ink on black stock card. But I don’t remember him slipping this into my hand.
When I climb into my car and adjust the mirror, I feel a spasm in my neck. A sudden clenching and unclenching of the muscles beneath my jaw.
I gasp a little with the pain and turn the mirror so that I can see it.
There, about two inches beneath my jaw is wet. I touch my fingers to it again and find it warm and sticky. It’s a little red, but there’s no bruise or cut. Nothing mars the skin but this strange moisture.
Did a bird poop on me or something? But I don’t see anything on my shoulder or in my hair.
How strange, I think and turn on the car.
Why is that first moment when I get home so glorious? I kick off my shoes, feel my heels soften into the plush carpet and sigh. I toss the bag onto the sofa and say hello to the cat, Sushi. He meows, batting the edge of his food dish desperately. It’s mostly full, with a small quarter-sized part of the bowl showing at the bottom. Yet he’s crying like he’s going to perish of hunger at any moment. It’s hard to resist him though. With his soft gray fur, white-socked feet and big amber eyes—he knows I’m easy prey.
“All right, all right,” I say and add another half scoop to the bowl. He lets me pet him for a minute before batting my hand away. I’m surprised that I get away with that much petting, honestly.
Sushi has been on edge since we’ve arrived in Castle Cove. I’m sure it’s the new town, new apartment, and he’ll warm up to the place soon.
I call the pizza place listed on my fridge magnet The Castle Cove Slice and order a medium pizza with sausage and peppers. Stuffed crust. I do this while fishing the bottle opener out of the drawer and uncorking the chilled Moscato.
Okay, so no, while I have changed my zip code to escape my ex, I have not yet made adjustments to my diet or my drinking.
Baby steps.
Less than five minutes later, I’m in my pajamas, cold wine glass in hand, and only thirty minutes until my pizza arrives. My bag buzzes again.
I set my wine glass on a stone coaster long enough to sort through my junk and find the buzzing cell phone.
It’s Katie, my only friend in town – if I can call her that. We met at the new employee orientation, Monday. I’m in marketing, she’s in sales. But we were the only two people there, both new to town and therefore friends by circumstance as much as anything else.
I don’t know if she is my natural choice for a friend. But there is something about being new and friendless that bonds people. And we’re both from big East Coast cities—Baltimore and Boston—finding ourselves in the much smaller and quainter Castle Cove.
My phone buzzes again, impatiently.
I look at my pjs and the wine and the paperback on the corner of my coffee table. Do I ignore the call and proceed with my night as planned? Or do I take Katie’s call, knowing she probably wants to hang out?
Choice 4
Answer Katie’s phone call
Call her back later
- Writer
