This was not supposed to happen.
I open one eye. My room, I can tell. This is good. I recognize the dirty light fixture and the open door of my messy closet. Pulling the comforter up around my neck, I recognize its softness, its smell. It needs to be washed, but it’s definitely mine. All of this is familiar. There’s just one problem.
I’m not alone, and I’m naked.
I guess that’s two problems.
How the fuck did this happen?
I hear him breathing next to me. Silently, I push myself up to see the clock. 5:37. My alarm’s set to go off in fifty-three minutes.
Jeremiah definitely isn’t the nice Christian boy Olga likes to think he is, that’s for sure. He also wasn’t much of a gentleman, I think, pushing myself up to lean against the bed frame. My head’s pounding. Visions of Jack Daniels come to mind. At least he bought the drinks.
Except for the coffee, he made me buy that. Ugh. That’s all it was supposed to be, coffee.
It was his voice that made me put on the dress before going to the coffee shop. It was a rich, full, dark voice, the kind where you can feel the vibrations in your head moments after you hang up the phone. It was smooth like caramel; mellow, and tempting.
I’ve always had a thing for voices. Eric used to read to me from his history and philosophy texts before he’d dropped out of school. I didn’t even listen to his words, I would just let his voice wash over me; lull my head into a complacent sleep.
Jeremiah mesmerized me over the phone. Upon hanging up, I was only filled with a trace amount of dread. I warned myself on the drive home, through my shower, the shaving of all necessary parts, the hair styling, the make-up, and the choosing of the dress, that this was just coffee. Under no circumstances was I to get interested.
And as soon as he walked up, I wasn’t.
It was that voice. I looked up. He was tall, really tall. There was some blonde hair flopped on top of his head. Designer sunglasses. Striped polo. Cargo shorts. Flops. Pretty. Offhand, I’d have guessed frat boy.
That being the case, I fought my initial reaction to frat boys, which is something along the lines, of “shit girl, run for your life.” Instead, I smiled and stood up. “Jeremiah?”
He laughed, kind of a one-syllable guffaw. “Jeremy, actually. I dunno why Aunt Olga can’t understand that shit. Weird broad, isn’t she?” Guffaw.
He made me pay, then as soon as his drink was up, he grabbed it and left to sit in some armchairs. I had waited awkwardly, arms crossed, shifting my weight from foot to foot, until my latte was done. I could feel him examining me from the chair.
I heard a lot of that stupid guffaw once I sat down. He didn’t talk much at first. Then I asked him about California. That made him start.
“I’m from LA. Grew up in some shit town you’ve never heard of, but I moved to LA as soon as I turned 18. You ever been?”
“Once. It’s cool,” I answered. I purposely neglected to mention that it was the worst week of my life, and that everyone I met seemed to be missing a soul.
After that I couldn’t get him to shut up. He used to model. Now he’s in school to study political science and law. He’s up here to check out some law schools up in Seattle and down in Portland. Man, how can you not want to go to law school? He’s going to make shit tons of money, man. Then run the fucking world. Guffaw.
If the coffee hadn’t been so good, or his voice weren’t so perfect, I’d have ducked out much earlier. Encouraged by my nods, my occasional, “oh, really?” and “I see,” responses, and my really-good-at-faking-it interested look and eye contact, he continued on and on, talking about politics and other stupid shit while I tuned it out so that his voice become nothing but sound, penetrating and soothing like a really good massage.
By the time we were finished with our coffee, I was relaxed and apparently vulnerable. He’d suggested drinks at a bar across the street, and I mumbled “yes.”
That’s when I started on the whiskey. He bought me one after the other. He was dancing with me. He was telling me I was the prettiest girl he’d seen in Washington. Then he was kissing me, lifting me up onto the pool table, pushing himself in between my legs as he squeezed my ass and frantically jammed his tongue down my throat.
God, he was a terrible kisser. The sex was just as bad. He’d fucked me frantically, as if there was some race he was losing. He didn’t ask me what I liked, in fact he barely let me speak. It went on too long, for what it was. He was turning me over, slapping my ass, telling me how fucking hot I was.
When it was over, he helped himself to my bathroom. I grabbed my panties, pulling them on clumsily, drunkenly. I heard him flush, so I turned to my side, pretending to fall asleep. He slid back into bed, put his arm around me and pulled me close.
“That was fucking amazing.” He kissed my neck, and I felt like a fat fucking cliché when that stupid tear made its way out and rolled down my cheek.
Now just thirty-two minutes until my alarm goes off. I slip out of bed, grab a towel off the floor, and start my shower. It’s even more cliché to cry in the shower, but what can you do?
Stupid move, girl. Stupid fucking move.