Find Me I'm Yours (6 page)

“I'm just sayin'… you could end up on
48 Hours
, with your tragic story of being led on a wild goose chase straight to the door of a whack job sadist rapist killer.”

“Well, then, a totally gorgeous, brilliant, creative sadist rapist killer. I'll take my chances.” I grabbed my camera, went to my corner of our cubicle, and fished out my earbuds. I plugged the cord in and put them on so the tape would be for my ears only. I watched it over and over, looking for clues.

On the first and second viewing, I noticed his eyes. Deep blue. Deep. And blue. His adorable crooked nose. Crap, he was way handsome. Like totally
out of my league
hot. On the third play, I noticed the dog with him. And the dog had a very distinct spotted tongue. If that was his dog, it sealed the deal. The five of us would live happily ever after, Boo and Toupee frolicking in our large yard with their polka-dot-tongued step-sib. The fourth time I watched, I noticed my future husband's sexy smile. On the fifth, sixth, and seventh time, I still didn't spot any clues, but I did notice his perfect muscles—strong yet not overdone, and his stylin' wardrobe choices (come on,
muy importante
! What if he was wearing, like, Jesus sandals, or high-waisted pants? What if he sported a mameltoe?) On the eighth viewing, Coco unplugged my earbuds as she finally leaned over to watch. I knew full well if I kept playing the tape in front of her, she would ultimately break down. I wanted to tell her how damn predictable she was, but I was so relieved to have another set of eyes that I kept my mouth shut.

“Wait, pause it there,” Coco said. “Look at his feet.”

“Well, you can't really see them except for one cute blue sock.”

“No, by his left foot. Well, his right foot, on our left.”

“Looks like either a really round lemon or a tennis ball. So?”

“So, look at some other things there. The trash can with the plastic lining, the green bench…”

“Yeah, and there are dogs barking,” I added. “A DOG PARK! IT'S A FREAKIN' DOG PARK! Right?”

Coco and I shrieked like, I'm sure, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson never did when cracking a case. We were high-fiving when Malcolm burst in.

“What's going on in here?”

I had to act fast while Coco hid the camera.

“Coco was excited over the treat I brought in for you. Over there.” I gestured broadly to the Starbucks bag on my desk like an amateur magician misdirecting the audience while he's palming the dove he's about to change the playing card into. “Coco loves these, so she got a little carried away.”

I handed the impaled pink birthday cake waxy ball to Malcolm. He grabbed it and sniped, “Are you both done with the graphics for the Renegade Registry?”

“Not quite yet,” Coco answered.

“You're two days late.” He walked up way too close to Coco's face. “I was going to send you to Big Sur next week for a ‘Treehouse Wedding' story, but since you seem to disregard the importance of deadlines, I'm sending Maya instead.”

“WHOO HOO!” we heard from Maya's cubicle.

“Right,” Coco said. “Like I even believe you were ever gonna send me.”

“And what about me?” I asked Malcolm. “I suppose once again I wasn't even in the running? Just send me anywhere. Poughkeepsie. Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.”

“I'll send you both somewhere. A weekend on sunny South La Brea. You're coming in to work tomorrow.”

“Come on, Malcolm, that sucks!” Coco whined. “Aren't there labor laws that say you can't make us work on a Saturday?”

Malcolm turned around quickly to face me, as if he wanted to make sure that I wasn't going to jump him from behind, then he turned again and stomped out in his high heels.

“Fuck, he's a little fucker,” Coco hissed.

“Not news. Well, it ain't Big Sur but you could have a helluva trip helping me get to destination Mr. WTF.”

“Mr. WTF for reals,” Coco said, then sighed. “Fine. Just to make sure you don't get killed. And I'll help only on one condition.”

“Anything, name it.”

“You promise you won't get hooked on him until you find out if this is for real?”

“I promise.”

I couldn't
get
hooked on him. I already was.

 

As much as I wanted to see Jason and have him apologize profusely, profess his undying love for me, and beg me to come back to him, vowing to be faithful till he was 105, I also didn't want to waste any more time on MR. THOUGHT IT WAS HIM when I could be searching for MR. IT JUST MIGHT REALLY BE HIM. (OR MR. COULD KILL YOU AND YOU'LL BE DEAD—thanks, Coco.)

But before I could be fully present for my soul mate-to-be, I had to clear the slate and let go of Jason once and for all. So I got into the shower. With every drop of water pelting down on me, I tried to let my past swirl down the drain along with the layer of soot and exhaust that's hard to avoid when you ride a scooter in L.A.

Afterwards, I headed down the hall to my room wrapped in a towel and heard Boo and Toupee barking. “Uh… hellloooo?!” S.H.A.R.I. was sitting on my bed, looking at my new camera, which of course she thought was HER new camera.

“Oh, sorry. I just saw this and thought it was so cool!” she said perky manip-style. “Maybe we could take some movies of me to sell on my site in addition to the photos!!! I'll give you a cut of the profits.”

Oh My effing G!!! I was tempted to run back and take another shower. Like I would EVER shoot seminude movies of the Racktress???? I grabbed the camera out of her hands, and couldn't help my harsh tone. “Would you please stay out of my room and away from my stuff?”

“Wow. Sorry. Someone must be PMSing.”

I love that when a female expresses herself in an emphatic manner, it's always attributed to her menstrual cycle. I shooed the Quacktress out of my room, and then took the tape of Mr. WTF out of the camera. From now on, wherever I was going, he was going with me.

Once I got dressed, which only took one and a half minutes after fifteen minutes of outfit deliberation, I FaceTimed Cooper. Of course he didn't answer. I left a message: “Yo, Bro, you better tell me what's going on. Do I have to resort to threats? If so, then you call me back by end of day tomorrow or I'll tell Narcie you're in trouble. Laytah.”

I hated to go there, but I'm very protective of my brother since our dad left right after he was born, Mom was busy working and dating, and I pretty much raised Cooper myself until I left for L.A.

Fuck. He's doomed.

 

Scores of paper lanterns dangled from the ceiling like stars in a crowded Chinese galaxy. Red velvet wallpaper flocked with black Ming or Tang Dynasty-ish horse and carriages covered the room. Jason was already at a table in a dark corner when I arrived at the Good Luck Bar, one of our favorite neighborhood hangs.

He looked especially cute, like maybe he even washed his hair for our ten-minute date. Even though it was a Friday night, it was still pretty quiet as the crowds don't start coming till after 10:30. I couldn't risk getting too close to Jason, as I knew his smell would send me reeling. I looked at my shero nails for backup, stopped a few feet from the table, and said hi.

Jason stood up and hugged me. For the first time in over a month. It felt so damn good. It felt like home. But I forced myself to step back and sit down.

“I ordered your drink,” Jason said, pushing The Scholar (white rum, fresh mint, and fresh lime juice blended) toward me. Was he reeling me in with familiarity? Or trying to get me drunk, just like he said my neighbor Amanda did to him that fucking dreadful night when our world blew up?

“You should have ordered me The Fist of Fury.”

“Very funny,” he laughed. “How are Boo and Toupee? I really miss them.” Pause for dramatic effect. “And you, of course.”

Don't let him get to you. Don't do it.
“Look, you've got eight minutes left,” I said in a tone that wasn't mine but borrowed from
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll spend all eight minutes repeating it till you get it. I fucked up, I know it. I didn't mean to…”

“How can you not mean to sleep with my next-door neighbor?”

“Amanda was waitressing at AKBAR that night, and she kept bringing me more free drinks. I was so shitfaced, she drove me home. Well, to her home, which I didn't even realize till I woke up the next morning. I know it's no excuse.”

I just shook my head. How many guys use the “I was drunk off my ass” justification?

“Look, if me saying sorry isn't enough, how's this?” He pulled out his iPad. “I started this site to show you how serious I am.”

Jason is a video game developer, so he could start a site blindfolded. He typed in a URL and continued, “It's a place where people can post how they fucked up, and apologize publicly, asking for forgiveness.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, then other people can vote on whether the apology should be accepted by clicking on either HELL YEAH or FCK NO.” He paused, then added, “A lot of people think you should accept my apology…”

He showed me the site.

www.IFckedUp.com

Wow. I was fcking speechless. Jason had never done anything this cool before. And wouldn't ya know, damn sap that I am, I started crying.

He took my hand. I let him. He scooted over his ottoman. I didn't move away. And then he kissed me. His lips tasted sweet like peaches. It was that kiss that always got me going. That always made me melt…. Until I pictured that tongue rammed down Amanda's throat, and other places.

“I'm sorry, I wish I could. I gotta go.” I grabbed a cocktail napkin and dried my eyes. I forced myself to remember that I had more important things to focus on, like finding my future husband in just two weeks. If this stranger had gone to all this trouble to find his soul mate, no way was he gonna fuck around on her. ON ME.

“Bye, Jason.”

He just stood there looking as sad as I felt. I turned and left before I could change my mind.

When I returned home, I pulled Jason's shirt from under my pillow, walked it down four floors, and then out to the back alley, where I threw it in the large black trash can. If I was really giving him up, I had to go cold turkey. I passed some newly painted street art on the apartment next door that pretty much summed up how I felt.

I returned upstairs and put all my focus back on the hunt, spending almost three hours holed up in my room scouring the web, looking for info and pics of dog parks in L.A. I tried to match any visuals to the tape. And wouldn't you know after finding the most obscure sites, with names like Haute Dogs, I finally stumbled upon one with a name so freaking obvious, it never even occurred to me to look for it. Dog Parks L.A.

And there it was. In all its glory. BAM. JACKPOT.

Go check out this site and see if you can find what I found.

www.DogParksLA.com

So, did ya see it? For those nonsleuthy types, here's a direct link: