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***
When I get back to the apartment building, Seth the security guard is leering. I’d gotten out of the building when he was occupied with a group of people, but now he’s sitting here, smiling creepily and looking at my chest.
I’m in a tan sundress with my swimsuit underneath, wedges, shades and a big hat on, carrying a straw beach bag.
“Carl-eeee. What’s shakin’?” He greets like we’ve been buds for years.
“Nothing’ at all. Seth. Hey.” I wave and move to the elevator. Old Carly would’ve been stuck in conversation with him for as long as he tried to engage me. New Carly has no time for Seth.
“How do you like San Diego so far?” he calls out while I’m pushing the elevator button.
“It’s fabulous,” I say, barely glancing over my shoulder.
“I could show you around,” he offers. “Know lots of great places to eat. Sightseeing.”
The elevator dings to announce its arrival.
“That’s all right, I’m good. But thanks.” I disappear into the elevator.
“See ya!” I hear him say as I hit the button to shut the doors.
Old Carly would’ve felt bad about sluffing him off. I won’t feel bad about that. He’s not potential friend material. He wants to get into my pants. Nobody is getting into my pants in the near future.
***
I exit the elevator and my temporary roommate is heading in my direction, walking down the champagne carpeted and textured tan-walled hall. In clothes. Weird to see him in clothes.
He’s in a pair of dark button-fly jeans and a button down white shirt with weathered-looking motorcycle boots on. Damn it, why is he so hot? He’s almost as hot in clothes as he is out of them. Maybe hotter, because everything hangs on his body like it was tailor-made, and yet I have seen what’s under most of them. He has shades and keys in his hand and he eyes me.
“You!” I hiss.
He rears back with a ‘What the fuck’ expression and he’s looking at me like he’s never met me in his life.
“You ate my food and after I cleaned up your massive nasty---” I stab at his chest with my pointy finger, “mess, you go and make another mess!”
He screws his mouth up like he can’t believe I have the nerve to address him. He flicks his shades, unfolding them, then puts them on like he has no time for me, some random hysterical person who has no right to speak to him and continues walking. Continues walking!
“Hey!” I demand, calling down the hall as he keeps going for the elevator.
The elevator must still be there, because that jerk steps out of my field of vision as soon as he gets to the doors.
“Hey!” I call out again, uselessly.
I growl and head into the apartment.
6
AIDEN
It’s five o’clock Sunday afternoon, and I’m pulling into my parents’ driveway on my motorcycle. My mother is standing in the doorway, eyeing me disapprovingly.
I rode in this way so that I could earn the disapproving look. I accomplish my chosen missions every day of the week. At work. At play. In hell, too. This? This is hell. Also known as my childhood home.
I get off, drop the helmet on the seat, put my shades on, and walk toward her, shades camouflaging my disdain for the woman who gave birth to me. She stops me and toys with my collar to straighten it with her perfectly manicured fingers. She does up the second-to-top button.
I don’t even like her hands on me.
“Thank you for not being late,” she says, voice chilly, throat, fingers, and wrists dripping with gemstones, smelling like Chanel and like she’s already had several martinis.
