Provocative Professions Collection (26 page)

They say a mother's adrenaline will kick in, enabling them to lift a car off their child if need be. Well, all 5'3", 120 pounds of me just moved 6 feet of metal shelving as though it was weightless. Supplies, a mop bucket, and God knows what else gets tossed on the pile for good measure.

Chest heaving in exhaustion, I scramble my phone out of my restrictive, more so than ever, corset and dial Mabry.

"Hello?" she shouts over the party music.

Oh, thank Christ, she's here.

"Mabry, I'm in the closet, come get me," I pant in a whisper, crouched in the back corner.

"Amelia? Is that you?" she yells louder. "I can't hear you. Are you whispering?"

Well yeah
. But probably not an option if I want her to hear me, so I speak up. Even if he's outside the door listening, there's no way he's getting in!

"Mabry, I'm in the closet across from the bathroom. I need you to come get me!"

"Are you locked in?" she shouts, and I hear her start to panic. "Oh my God! I'm coming!" The music fades by the second as she heads my way, my entire body jolting upright at the knock on the door, jarring the last shred of fortitude I have left.

"I'm here, the door's not locked but I can't—" she huffs, trying to force her way past my barricade. "I can't get in, there's—"

I hang up, stand on jittery legs, and call out, "Just a minute!" I start
un
doing my handiwork with noisy crashes, not quite as effortless now that I'm calming down, my friend right outside.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she yells, pounding on the door. "And why are you shut in the utility closet, Amelia? Do you want me to go get help? I just saw a guy standing out here, let me go see where he went."

"No!" I scream out, then bite down on my lip as the overwhelming panic nearly short circuits my body. I need a calm, logical state of mind to kick in, but how is that even a remote possibility when
he's
still lingering around out there?

"I'm getting help, Amelia. You're freaking me out."

"Stop and be quiet! The whole party doesn't need to know! Just give me a minute." I grunt, using all my weight, the actual powerlessness of it blazingly evident, to push the shelf over enough to try and open the door a crack.

"It's okay. That guy came back to help," she says coolly from the other side of the wooden barrier.

I recoil, eyes darting around for a weapon.
Shit.
I grab a mop and attempt to snap it over my knee, you know the way the heroines do in movies? Turns out, not so easy.

Prop mops for sure.

I toss it down as I watch the door rumble, about to be forced open.

I end up hunkered to the side with a metal bucket in my hands, ready to knock Degenerate of the Opera
out
the second his head pops
in
. But the head that appears belongs to a weary-eyed Mabry.

"Get in here." I snatch her arm and drag her inside with me. My attempt to slam the door is thwarted when a large hand shoots out, holding it open a few inches.

"Everything okay in there?"

Definitely not the Phantom's voice, but still a mystery man I'm not quite ready to trust. This could be a covert tag team effort they're working, after all.

"Who is that?" I whisper to Mabry, bucket still gripped tight in my clammy hands.

"Ashley's man. I think his name's Dylan, why?" Her eyes bulge, mouth forming a perfect O. "Oh my God! Did he hurt you?" Her voice squeaks.

I drop the bucket with a loud clang on the floor and fall back against the wall. My brow is covered in sweat, as is the rest of my body, and slowly I shake my exhausted head. "All good, Dylan. Thank you," I reply, breathless.

Mabry's brows pinch in confusion. "The punch isn't that spiked, Amelia. Why the blockade refuge?" she mocks, laughing.

I shrink her with narrowed eyes. "It's
not
a funny story, trust me."

I spring off the wall before she can ask more questions, realizing Dylan can get me safely to my car. I peek out the door, only to find he's retreated back to the party, no doubt, laughing about the whole strange fiasco.

I sigh in defeat, closing the door, and turn back to Mabry, who is standing with her hands on her hips, perfectly representing her Tinker Bell costume when she taps her foot waiting impatiently for an explanation.

"Just listen." I grab her shoulder, making sure I have her full, serious attention. "We're walking out of here and
straight
to your car. Come back if you want, but I need a ride home
now
. Okay?"

She must see it, my conviction, because all traces of aggravation and humor transform into earnest understanding as she nods. "Yeah, okay. Let's go."

I should've called a cab. By the time I close and tri-lock my apartment door, I'm psychologically certifiable. Tripping over my own feet, crashing into things left and right, chasing every shadow in the place.

So he's not the louse from the bookstore, didn't kill or hurt me when he had the perfect opportunity (secluded closet, party drowning out my screams), though now there's the more worrisome concern. Being cocooned in his impressive arms, held protectively against his colossal body, felt like shelter.

Disheartened, I slump down on my couch, throbbing head dropped in my hands. I just got finger fucked by my sometimes sadist fan, sometimes intelligibly poetic stalker!!!

And I loved it. In the moment, at least.

Worse than the humiliating burst of panic, was the ride home with Mabry, which sent me straight over the edge. The person who gave her crazy never looks at the road, hands used to "talk" rather than, say, hold the wheel a license should be fired. What'd she used those hands to ramble on about? The two "mind blowing, we truly connected" rounds she'd gone with FedEx, or uh, Shaw, in her office during the party.

I wasn't compelled to mention the two mind explosions of my own. One being the drought-ending, non-self-induced, psyche-bending orgasm, and two, who gave it to me. Rather, I focused on Mabry's favorite target—herself. Apparently she and FedEx are "good" again, the fight and awkward "aftermath" I'd witnessed in my office long forgotten. Why is it that Mabry's affairs are always sexy
and
normal? Surely, between Ms. Flighty and myself, she's the one sending out "I want freaky, possibly dangerous flings?" In fact, Mabry's likely to ask for that verbatim, out loud! Yet she got deliciously adorable FedEx and I got the Phantom.

Oh well, at least one of us left the party with a happy ending.

I peel off my costume, take a scalding shower that does little to wash away my doubts, questions, and confusion, then crawl into bed. My pile of books on the nightstand calls to me as they always do, so I reach over blindly, any one I grab fine, and gasp when I look what fate chose.
Justine
. Figures, after tonight's revelations, this would be the one I come up with. The back sleeve's elusive as to what I'll find between the covers, so I curiously dive in.

After thirty or so minutes of reading, skipping ahead, then bravely skimming some more, my earlier freakout begins to resurface. What I've gathered thus far, is that this book is appalling. I'm mortified and absolutely grossed out.

The Marquis de Sade is
not
for me and feeling particularly dirty, I march to my balcony, slide open the door, and fling it as hard as I can, aiming for the giant trash receptacle nestled just to the side of the building. I watch as it misses the mark and hits the ground a few feet over.

Close enough.

Perhaps the trash man has a tolerance for perverse reading material.

When I'm climbing back into bed a few minutes later and my phone dings, I actually cackle. I know who it is even before looking, and much like I've come to expect, his timing is hauntingly ironic.

Unknown: I can still taste you on my fingers.

Me: Message me again and I'm calling the police. What kind of freak gets a new number to harass someone who BLOCKED THEM!?

100: (Totally deserved screen name if you ask me.) If anything you're not, Amelia, it's fake. You enjoyed tonight, as did I. Why the sudden anger?

Me: U want a list? How about we start with how I just read some of your little friend the Marquis's work. SICK!

100: You read him? Which one?

Me: Justine. You're both psychotic! Now LEAVE ME ALONE. I'm blocking u, AGAIN, until I can get my number changed. If u contact me on that one, I'm serious, I WILL CALL THE POLICE!

100: DO NOT BLOCK ME AMELIA!

Me: Why the hell not? WHAT DO U WANT FROM ME?

100: Exactly what you wanted tonight, and so much more. Amelia, I've never read Justine, or any of his books, all the way through. I'm not a "fan" or "little friend" of his. He's but one subject I studied in theory. The quote I borrowed from him, on its own, is accurate and poignant. Until just now, did you not agree?

I finish reading, undecided, ignoring his last question. Another text pings through.

100: I used others as well, if you remember correctly, from equally innovative minds.

Me: Studied? What's that mean, why?

90%: I'm composing my thesis.

Me: On?

85%: "Human Sexuality: Mind vs. Body." Just as the Marquis shocked and appalled you, he did the same to a nation. He was the first, it's said, of his kind. Noteworthy in such a thesis, I'd say. Would you not agree on that as well?

Me: Maybe… Not sure how to feel if we're being honest here, (Not saying I believe you so easily btw) but at least you're not my original suspect, Reid, a class of hair-raising all his own.

80%: Reid from the bookstore? Absolutely nothing to be afraid of there, he's harmless. The garish talk and GI JOE façade is to compensate for being terrified of his own inadequate shadow. Is that who you meant was reading Jack the Ripper?

Me: Yes

80%: No reason for concern. If asked a single fact, which I'd have to research by the way, he'd stutter in ignorance. All a show.

Me: More theory?

80%: A few reasons. 1. If you're actually a psychopath and reading up on serial killers with plans to ever use what you've learned, why announce it? 2. In 11
^th
grade he pissed himself on dissect a sheep's heart day.

Me: Careful, Mr. Shadow, you just informed me you went to school around here.

80%: So I did. I assumed you'd focus more on the pissing himself @ 17 portion of the message.

Me: U know what they say about assuming…

75%: Ah yes, speaking of ass. Yours is divine. Protruding just enough. Firm. Pert.

Me: Well my ass is tired but I have to ask. How did u do that day in class?

80% Made the teacher proud as always. Blood has never been a problem for me.

One step forward two steps back. I shift under the blankets.

Me: Right, well I believe I'll go read a book I know and call it a night. Mr. Grey sounds like a perfect bedfellow. Hey, that's who u should put in your thesis—E.L. James! She awoke a nation without appalling it. I've read articles crediting her books for a whole new baby boom!

70%: I'll look into it. Sweet dreams

Chapter 12

Poor Lucy. I was so out of sorts last night that she went unacknowledged or fed, so she's particularly relentless in her waking me this morning by swatting at my face. Coincidentally, she gets me to stir at the exact same time a sharp, solitary knock on the front door startles me.

I tiptoe to the kitchen, quietly spooning Lucy's dry food her into the bowl a little at a time rather than just dumping it in one noisy clang. With my signature defense knife in hand, I creep stealthily up to the side of the front door, barely leaning in to peek out the peephole.

No one's there except Mr. Abbott from across the hall, bent over, his sixty-year-old ass in only loosey whiteys.
Thank you for that
.

Unappealing but safe, I open my door to grab the newspaper.

"Good morning, Amelia." He stands up now, facing me and scarring my retinas. "How've you been?"

"Fine, Mr. Abbott, and you?" I stare at the top of his doorframe, then the ceiling, anywhere but the full frontal.

"Oh, the sciatica's been acting up and Mother's had a cough, but enough about me. What'd you get there?" He smiles, pointing at my feet.

I follow it and realize on my welcome mat sits a beautiful bouquet of all white lilies, orchids, and baby's breath wrapped in twine. Underneath them, a note and what looks like a book encased in brown paper. I can't help but smile as I scoop up my bounty, pausing to smell the flowers, and step back inside, saying goodbye to Mr. Abbott.

First thing after pouring a glass of juice, I open the book,
Lady Chatterley's Lover,
with which I am vaguely familiar, then bravely unfold the classic white folded letter.

Amelia,

This book also heavily influenced my thesis, and is said to be a "significant event in the sexual revolution of its time." Lawrence's work is erotic, but every bit as romantic, calling into question the balance or imbalance of sensuality and seduction, the body versus the mind and political influence. This one I have read, cover to cover, and highlighted some of my favorite quotes in hopes you'll understand.