She'll Take It (17 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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Jason is the first to approach me on the break. I smile at him and to my shock he smiles back and gives me a hug. “We've missed you around here,” he says.
“Me too,” I say, stunned he's talking to me let alone touching me. Then Trent is by my side lifting me in another hug. “Hey there, handsome!” I shout. He blushes.
Tim slaps me on the ass and brings his beer breath next to my ear. “So which of these babes want a little Tim action tonight?” he says.
I laugh and scan the crowd. “That one,” I say, pointing to a woman in the corner sucking on her straw. “Definitely that one.” And then there is Ray.
He grabs my belt buckle from behind and pulls me in toward him, wrapping his strong arms around me. I'm the envy of every woman in the place and I love it. I turn and throw my arms around him—inhaling him. He's wearing a dark blue T-shirt that makes his eyes sparkle. He smells incredible. His face has a tiny bit of stubble, which drives me wild. I reach up and touch his face. “I forgot,” he says with a deep laugh. “Stubble drives you wild, doesn't it?”
“Mmm hmm,” I say, going in for a kiss. Pre-Ray I was anti-PDA. I thought couples who made out in public were disgusting. I dig my fingers into his curly dark hair and press myself against him. We kiss shamelessly, passionately. He pulls back first and grins.
“Missed me?” he asks boyishly.
“Maybe,” I say mysteriously.
“Want to come back to my place tonight?” he asks.
“Try and stop me,” I answer. Okay, okay, I know. Believe me I know. I'm supposed to play hard to get. I'm supposed to be happy and aloof. I'm supposed to jog with lipstick or some shit. I don't know. I don't care. You try kissing that man and then not going home with him. You try playing hard to get when you can't get enough.
Jason and Trent wedge between Ray and me just as I'm going in for another kiss. “Who's your friend?” Jason asks, pointing to Kim who is making a beeline for me.
“What, her?” I reply like I'm surprised.
Tim grins ear to ear. “She's hot,” he says.
“Yeah,” Jason says. “You practically shot your load on stage.”
I fume silently. Oh well. They could have her. As long as Ray was mine, they could all have her. “She's a lesbian,” I say and watch as Jason and Trent fall over themselves to get next to her. “And a librarian!” I shout after them.
Kim is trying to get my attention but I ignore her. There is no way she's getting me to leave so she might as well stop gesturing like that. I shamelessly throw myself back in Ray's arms. I step back to gaze lovingly into his eyes. But instead of gazing lovingly back at me, he's looking over my shoulder. I feel a chill run down my spine.
“Happy birthday Ray,” a voice from behind me sings. Ding dong the witch isn't really dead. Turns out she's just been biding her time, waiting for the sequel.
Chapter 17
S
he's holding a glittering silver package adorned with a red bow. Ray has to take his hands off me in order to accept it. “Trina,” I say, turning to face her. “Ray's birthday is in July.”
“No, it's not. It's today. Isn't it, baby?” Baby? Baby? Did she just call my man baby?
“I wish you wouldn't do this,” Ray says to her. Well that's a little more like it.
“Ray,” I say, “your birthday is in July, right?”
I know he told me it was in July because I'm a big birthday person. I already had a half dozen ideas in mind for it. He said he wasn't happy about turning 35 so I was going to do something crazy like take him on a hot air balloon ride or fly us to Paris. Okay, maybe not Paris, but the point is I was thinking big.
“Okay, it's today,” Ray admits.
“Ray,” I say. “I wish you would have told me,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.”
“Aren't you going to open your gift?” Trina flirts.
“Later, okay?” Ray answers. “I have to get back on stage.”
Kim comes to my side. “I tried to warn you,” she whispers.
“Kimberly,” Trina says. “It's so good to see you. I was just going to tell Melanie not to feel so bad. Only Ray's closest friends know when his real birthday is.”
“Will you excuse us for a minute?” Kim says. She drags me away before I have time to claw Trina's eyes out. She pulls me into a corner. “Melanie,” she says. “Do you trust me?”
I glance at her before answering. “Yes?” I ask.
“Good. Listen to me. We have to leave right now. Do you understand me? Right now.”
“But it's his birthday,” I argue.
“Even better,” Kim says. “You have to play this cool.”
“But I already told him I'd go home with him.” Kim clocks me on top of the head. “Ow.”
“Trust me. Let's go.”
“I should at least say good-bye—” But Kim is pulling me out the door, leaving Trina all alone with her prey. I argue with Kim in the cab all the way back, but she insists that Ray is going to be so obsessed with where I went that he wasn't going to pay any attention to Trina. I highly doubted it, but I had to admit that Kim was much better at playing these kinds of games. Still, I was bummed. I didn't even get a chance to try out my belly map let alone see Ray in his birthday suit. If Kim was wrong about this I was going to have to kill her.
She gets to live. Kim gets to live! Ray called me the very next day and
made a date
with me for next Saturday. Before you say “big whoop” let me give you the date. February 14th. That's right. Ray and I have a date on Valentine's Day. The thought keeps me sailing through Monday. Greg Parks was going to be out for the week, and Margaret was going around whispering that it was because he got the commentator position. “They're going through test runs as we speak,” she says. “You know, just to get him comfortable in front of the camera.”
“His girlfriend must be thrilled,” I say casually.
“His girlfriend?” Margaret says.
“Doesn't he have one?” I ask with a crack in my voice.
“Oh, he dates” she says. “A handsome man like that. But there hasn't been anyone serious since he broke up with—oh, what was her name? The Miller Lite girl.”
“The Miller Lite girl?” I squeak.
“Yes,” Margaret says. “You know the one who was plastered all over Times Square in her little white bikini. But they broke up about six months ago. Why do you ask? You don't have a little crush on him do you?”
“No,” I say defensively. “I have an incredible boyfriend. He's in a band.”
Margaret gives me a look, and I slink off to the file room. But I find myself thinking about Greg at odd times of the day, and I'm seized by this unreasonable urge to break into his apartment and check his fridge for Miller Lites. Not that I begrudged him a girlfriend. He should be dating someone. Everyone should be as happy as I am with Ray.
CONTRACT WITH SELF
I, Melanie Zeitgar, being of sound mind and body (minus five and a half pounds), do solemnly swear:
1.
I will never steal from a mom and pop store.
2.
I will never steal items worth over $100.
3.
I will never steal from the same place twice.
*No Exceptions!
Contracts are guidelines. Everyone knows rules are meant to be broken. And I have good reasons for breaking mine. First of all, next Saturday is Valentine's Day. Second of all, since I missed Ray's birthday, he deserves something really nice. He deserves something he really wants. He deserves the watch on page four of the catalog underneath my pillow. He saw it in the window of a jewelry store we passed by on our second date and stopped to admire it. He's going to be gobsmacked that I remembered.
The small store is just around the corner from Grand Central Station. I've been passing by it quite frequently the past week and I've just happened to notice that on most days there is only one woman manning the store. It would probably be easy to slip in and out of there with the plan I've come up with. But the watch is worth way more than the hundred dollar limit I've set for myself. Try eighteen-hundred dollars. Which explains why I've spent all morning shaking and pacing and bargaining with the Saints. I am a woman who follows the rules, and so far my rules have kept me safe.
I'll just go to the jewelry store have a little look. That's all. I'll just look and that will be that. Maybe I'll put it on layaway. I could give it to him in July—as a joke. Not that the watch would be a joke, but the fact that from now on we will celebrate his birthday in July. It will become one of our favorite in-jokes. And this watch will mark the occasion.
It sits in the center of a glass case reflecting silver rays of light like a metallic starfish.
Rays
, I think. For Ray. I'm simple like that sometimes. I press up against the counter, tilt my head down, and allow my long black hair to fall all around me on the glass. I twirl a strand of it around my index finger and wiggle my bright blue fingernails. “I'd like to see this,” I say, tapping on the space directly above the watch. The sales woman behind the counter throws me a tight smile and holds up her index finger. She is in the middle of a phone call. Perfect. I clear my throat and tap again. Click, click, click, click, click. I predict it will only take a few seconds to annoy her, but she doesn't even look up.
“I'm in a hurry,” I say finally in a haughty voice.
“I'll be right with you,” she answers through clenched teeth.
“Could you just—” I point to the watch and then to the phone. “At the same time?” She sighs and purses her lips. “Could you hold a moment please?” she says into the phone. She sets the phone down and approaches with a set of keys. “Which one?” she says in a belittling tone.
“The Omega Seamaster. In the center.”
Another sigh, a tiny click, and the lock is sprung. She sets the box in front of me and glares. “Anything else?” she threatens.
“No,” I say pleasantly, “I need to find his wrist measurements. It's in here somewhere.”
I started digging through my large purse, hoping she'll go back to her phone call. It takes her a moment—she's studying my fingernails. She is a small woman with frosted hair perfectly bobbed around her pointy face. Her own nails are smooth with a clear polish. She wouldn't be caught dead with blue fingernails. She is probably in her late fifties, but she obviously still works at it and she could easily pass for her early forties. Unfortunately for her, she has a long sharp nose, like a bird's beak. I flash my wrist so that she gets a good look at my tattoo, a bright red butterfly. She takes her time getting back to the phone, keeping her eye on me all the while. I stare back into her eyes and beam my pearly whites at her until she looks away. New Yorkers hate it when you smile at them in public.
I pick up my watch and hold it in my hands. It is beautiful. The silver is a glorious mixture of soft and heavy, like a metallic down comforter. Its face is middle-of-the-ocean blue. I want to shrink myself, dive in, and swim away. This is the watch Pierce Brosnan wore in one of the Bond movies, and even though I always thought Connery was a much better Bond, I certainly wouldn't kick Brosnan out of bed. And if this watch was good enough for him, it was good enough for Ray. Not that any of this would matter to Ray; he would love the watch for other reasons, like the fact that I gave it to him.
The phone call is going to end soon. It's now or never. I glance at the security camera in the corner, stare at the little red light, and dare it to see the real me through my disguise. I take the replacement box out of my purse and quickly switch it with the Omega. I freeze. I thought I had memorized the color of the box perfectly, but I was about a half a shade off. They were both gray, but the original box was December-morning-chance-of-snow, and the replacement was January-afternoon-rain-is-on-the-way. How could I have been so stupid? I curse the
Saint of Crayons
for coming up with so many shades.
Get out,
I plead with myself.
Go, go, go.
But I don't budge. I stare at the boxes until they blur into one. I hate sloppy work.
“I have to go,” I hear her say. The mixture of curiosity and concern in her voice jerks me back to reality. She is starting to sense that something is amiss. She can probably smell trouble with that long nose of hers.
Follow the nose, it always knows!
Why, why, why do childhood commercials hit me in moments of crisis? Move Melanie, move! I snap the replacement box shut as she comes toward me. “What time do you open tomorrow?” I ask as I back toward the door.
“Ten A.M.” she says, eyeing the box.
“Right. Thanks then. I'll be back.”
I'd always wanted to say that. I could hear her report to the police. “Raven hair, bright blue fingernails, a butterfly tattoo—and she said something. What was it? Oh, that's right—‘I'll be back.'” The cops would shift; look at each other in concern. One would raise his hand to his hat before leaning forward to ask, “She said—
I'll be back
?” Yes. Just like Arnold. A shadow of a smile escapes my lips as I hit the door, but it evaporates when the alarm sounds, loud and long, wailing after me like wolves baying at the moon.

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