Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (2 page)

Quickly, she put two quarters into the meter. But then, she did something that made me perk up and pay attention. She put three more coins into the meter next to it, buying time for the car parked next to hers. A random, selfless act of kindness is pretty unheard of these days.

At that point, I became intrigued. People didn’t normally surprise me, especially in this day and age. Sure, the South is supposed to be filled with southern hospitality and kindness. But the truth is, when nobody is looking, southerners are just as selfish and rude as any Yankee on the other side of the Confederate lines.

Kathryn continued down the street, adding quarters to the parking meters until all of the change in her hand ran out. Stunned, I watched her walk every step of the way until she walked into a quaint little Italian restaurant on the corner. It was at that point that I decided I needed to at least talk to her. I wanted to meet a woman who put that much energy, selfless energy, into a random act of kindness. Who did that? My curiosity was piqued, but that was all that was interested—at the moment.

I casually walked over to her meter to see how much time she “bought” herself, wondering how long it would be until she would return. Seeing that I only had less than 30 minutes before she returned, I stopped in to a restaurant to gain sanctuary from the heat with an ice-cold drink. Plus, I promised the owner I’d fix the floorboards on their deck in the back—a task for me that would take less than 15 minutes.

In Charleston, 30 minutes wasn’t enough time for lunch downtown; Southerners like a long, leisurely lunch. Kathryn must have been just picking up food, so I knew I didn’t have too much time to screw around if I wanted to approach her.

I finished my drink, replaced a few rotted out two-by-fours, and was patiently waiting for Kathryn’s return. Finally, she emerged from the restaurant, carrying bags of takeaway food. I saw my chance and knew that it was now or never. As I began to approach her with my “I’ve got this smile,” an older, smarmy man pounced, offering to help her.

Shockingly, she shot him a look that clearly said, “Back off Buddy, I don’t need your help.” Wow, I’d dodged a bullet. My approach would’ve been regarded as offensive and chauvinistic. Kathryn Howell wasn’t a damsel in distress who needed a man to swoop in and save the day.

I trailed behind her, determining my next move, when her cell phone rang. I laughed when she said, “Dang it,” and put the bags of food down on the ground, next to her car. What adult woman says “dang it?” She took her phone out of her bra—her bra? And answered it.

“Kathryn Howell Seaside Literary Agency—”

Bingo! At least, I knew her name and where she worked. I had time. I didn’t need to accost her then. I could figure out my plan of action before I approached. Now remember, at this point, I was just intrigued, wanted to get to know her more. It’s this phone call that just came through on her phone that put me flying over the edge and dying to have her.

I listened, impressed, to her conversation. “Yes sir. Yes sir. I understand,” she said, nodding as she put the food into her car. “Of course, I follow. You want me to pick up a dozen roses and a necklace from the jeweler here and drop it off to a hotel prior to coming back to work.”

Kathryn rolled her eyes and leaned against her car. Then she floored the fuck out of me. “How about his? How about I pick up the roses and the necklace and drop it off at your house—to your wife—with a note that says, ‘I’m sorry I’m a cheating bastard; I’ll stop—”

The caller on the other end apparently cut her off, because she stopped abruptly and let him finish. Kathryn shook her head aggressively and said, “No, you listen. Fire me if ya want. I’ll have a new job tomorrow morning.”

Kathryn looked around, realizing for the first time that she was yelling. She lowered her voice an octave and continued “I’m one heck of a literary agent, and you know it. Your flailing agency needs me more than I need it … and I’m pretty darn close with Beckie Foster, our HR director.” With that, she hung up her phone, reached inside her car, and then put more quarters into her parking meter. Damn, this woman was good.

The people who I know, people I’ve known and admired my entire life, don’t do things like that, standing up for the underdog. They don’t speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves; they mostly just turn the other way, ignoring the pain and problems of others. They certainly don’t take it upon themselves to right the wrongs of the world; ultimately they just add to them. At least in my experience that’s just what people do.

I wondered where she was off to, now that the meter was full of change again. Then for the final time in that short time, she shocked me again. Kathryn Howell got into her car and drove off, leaving a full two hours on the meter for the next person who parked in that spot.

I needed to meet her. I had to meet her. I was going to meet her.

Granted, I said that I was swearing off women for the time being. I’ve actually been
womanless
for over a year now. And when I say
womanless
, I mean without any female companionship at any time, zero, zilch, nada. I mean nothing. Let’s get really real here, I haven’t even experienced any form of pleasure in over a year either—not even the manual kind. Before you even think to ask, I don’t have a problem; there isn’t an issue. I just know that right now, at this time in my life, a woman, a relationship would complicate my life even more. And let’s lay it all on the line, my life is a total cluster-fuck of chaotic shit right now.

But I cannot deny it; I’m going to fight the good fight to meet and woo one Kathryn Howell, literary agent, and quick-witted wonder, right into bed, her bed. And today’s the day. I’m currently standing outside of the Seaside Literary Agency awaiting our “chance” encounter.

Kathryn goes to lunch at approximately 1:10 p.m. every day, except for Friday, when she skips lunch and leaves work at 4:30 p.m. instead of 5:30 p.m. I’ve spent the good portion of the last month studying my new favorite subject: The Social Behaviors of Kathryn Denise Howell. I’m just eager to add “anatomy” to the lesson plan.

Kathryn exits the old, pale mint green building today at 1:15 p.m., later than normal. She looks cute in a bright orange tank top and tan skirt. Her hair is piled on her head in some knotted, bun thing. (If I had that much hair, I’d chop it off.) Kathryn is probably a little shorter than 5’5” and curvier than my type. She’s got really muscular legs, too muscular, I think.

Lately, when I’ve been looking at them, I’ve thought about how she could probably snap my head off if she gets too excited when I go down on her. (I plan to chance it anyway.) Her stems are nice though, shapely, strong, and look really smooth. I want to touch them—tonight.

My plan is to casually ask her for directions to Battery Park, seem perplexed, and then use my Dre Donley charm to convince her to show me the way there, while making it seem like her plan all along. We’ll go to the park, talk, laugh, and then I’ll persuade her to meet up with me tonight. Finally, I’ll nail her and get her out of my system, so I can focus back on the shit storm that has now become my life. It’s probably not the greatest plan or well-devised plan, but it’ll work. Bedding a girl isn’t all that tough. Women are usually pretty easy—even when they’re trying not to be. Kathryn Howell looks like she needs it too, so it’s a win-win. I’m doing her a favor and vice versa.

Kathryn is quick to her car, so I have to pick up speed to catch up to her. As soon as I approach her car, she closes the door and turns the key in the ignition. It doesn’t start. She tries again. The engine won’t roll over; her battery is dead. Perfect. Here’s my shot; I can ditch the lame “lost tourist” routine.

I walk over to her car and give her my best line. Wait for it, and go: “Car won’t start?” just as she opens the door. (Brilliant, wasn’t it?)

“Yeah it will; it’s just a fun game I like to play, pretend the car doesn’t start and trick strangers on the street,” she says sarcastically, and starts rummaging through her purse. “It’s really fun. You should try it sometime.”

“As much as I’d like to play games with you, Sugar, I’d rather help you out,” I say as I take her phone from her and disconnect the call she was making. Clinched it. Kathryn’s blue eyes are staring up at me in awe. I’ve seen this look a hundred, no scratch that, a thousand times, right before a chick agrees to go home with me.

“Oh wow, hot stranger, should I take my panties off now or would you like to do it for me?” she asks, rolling her eyes, and grabbing her phone back as she gets out of her car. “I have a freaking dead battery. I need jumper cables and a jump—not that kind—and I’ll be good to go.”

Kathryn turns her back on me, and dials the call again. I stand there speechlessly, contemplating my next move. Kathryn taps her nails on the hood of her Bug. Her nails aren’t painted or manicured, bitten down to the nubs. How could this girl have entranced me so? Then she says, “Hey there, it’s Kathryn. I’m not gonna be able to make it today; my car won’t start.”

Waiting a few seconds, Kathryn then responds, “No. No, I’m fine. Just tell Jose to write another 1000 words this week, and we’ll work on all of it next week,” she turns around and frowns when she sees that I’m still standing next to her. Then she says, “No, I’m sure. You’re too sweet. Thank you,” and ends the call. Kathryn puts her phone back in her purse and starts walking back to her office.

“Wait a minute,” I say, before I even realize I’m stopping her. “Aren’t you going to get your car jumped?”

Kathryn turns around and looks at me, almost like it was the first time she actually saw me. She walks in closer, definitely crossing over into my personal space. “Why do you care?” she asks, eyeing my suspiciously.

Kathryn’s got me, because I really have no idea. Why do I care? What is it about her that has me so drawn to her? This was not going so well. I was definitely not on my game. Maybe that’s the problem, I never saw her as a challenge, but this is the hardest I’ve ever had to work. And I mean ever.

Stammering, I say, “I thought I could help you find someone with cables and jump your car for you.”

“Well, that is awfully nice of you, kind sir,” she says in the most fake Southern accent I’ve ever heard. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about jumping a little ole car.”

Shaking her head and frowning, Kathryn adds, “I mean how could a woman even attempt to put the color-coordinated jumper cables on the positive to negative chargers all by her silly old self?” Kathryn flutters her eyelashes and then fans herself, dramatically. Holy shit. She doesn’t want me. She’s not at all charmed by me.

Game on. “Positive on positive. If you put the positive on the negative,” I say, walking in closer, our bodies nearly touching, “sparks will fly.” I hear her gasp. Nice, there it is. I got her.

“Oh will they?” she asks, countering me. “From my experience, something that heats up that quickly … fizzles out … like that,” and she snaps her fingers in my face. Shit, this girl is good. Kathryn may need laid way more than I do. She is one big ball of pent up sexual frustration. I love it.

Right before she enters her office, she turns and says, “Hey Casanova, you wanna help me? Be here at 5:30 p.m. tonight with jumper cables, so I can jump my car … by myself … and go home on time … by myself.”

It’s 5:31 p.m., and Kathryn Howell hasn’t left work yet. How do I know? I’m sitting on the hood of her car, waiting for her. See, I’ve got a few connections in Charleston, and the main receptionist at the Seaside Literary Agency was putty in my hands when I told her that she had beautiful hair, as I twirled it around my fingers. She willingly and eagerly retrieved Kathryn’s keys from her purse when Kathryn was in a meeting with her boss. I cannot wrap my brain around the fact that women can fall all over you, even when they know you’re interested in someone else. It’s beyond me.

As for the car, all I had to do was check under the hood for what kind of battery she needed, swing by an automotive store, get a battery, and replace it. I returned the keys to the secretary. (I also gave that dim-witted receptionist a sweetgrass-woven rose. Never make enemies when unnecessary.) Now I’m awaiting Kathryn’s arrival—and appreciation. And I am really ready for her appreciation.