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I take a step close to her. “Don’t feel humiliated, babe…” I begin but she looks at me and I see her face contort.
“Stay the fuck away from me, you fucking creep!” she yells. “You lied to me! You had a million chances to tell me. You had to wait until I told you I loved you to spit it back at me. To laugh in my face. Well, Arsen Hawke, or King Henry, from now on, you’re just Client 5 to me, okay. Some fucking loser who has to pay per the minute to get off.”
She turns away and walks toward 5th Avenue. The sun’s going down and it’s reflecting off the condos and co-ops lining the street across the Park.
“Ashley…” I call out, wondering if I should keep going after her. But she answers the question for me.
“Stay the fuck away, Arsen, or I’m screaming rape,” she says. She pauses for a minute and I think she’s going to turn around. As long as I can keep her talking.
“By the way, just in case you were wondering,” she says, still with her back turned to me. “I quit. I’d rather starve than work for you one more day.”
I watch her walk to the sidewalk and I swear to you it feels like someone just shot a hole at the bottom of my heart. I’ve never ever felt like this before. But you want to know what the worst part it?
It’s the feeling that I get because I know I fucking deserve this. That all my shit has come back to fucking haunt me. That it made me a cocky, arrogant, and selfish asshole that didn't realize there was anything wrong with what I did. And it hurt the one person in the world I wanted to hold and fucking protect. The one person in the world I love.
I watch as Ashley crosses the street and jumps into a cab. I don’t know if I’m imagining her looking at me as the cab drives away. The windows to the cab are rolled up so it’s hard to tell, but within a few seconds the cab is gone and it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.
I walk to the sidewalk, where Ashley had passed by just a few moments ago. People walk by me, into the park, out of the park, going uptown, going downtown, all caught up in their lives. I see girls walking dogs, a hot dog vendor packing up for the evening, a kid crossing the street with a kite. Everyone going about their business, in their own little worlds, not realizing that mine has just been blown to hell.
New York fucking City. The loneliest big city in the world.
Serves me right.
59
Ashley
I bite into the honey almond croissant, wiping a few flaky pastry bits from my lips. I watch as Yasmine sips her medium roast coffee. She ordered a chocolate croissant, which is an indulgence for her, and instead of biting into it, she's eyeing it suspiciously. She's one of those women who refuses to eat anything with sugar and butter 99% of the time in fear her ass will start ballooning out, but come on, we're both having brunch at Balthazar—one of those places where it's as if you've been transported to Montmartre at the turn of the century, yet it's still 2016, and it's still SoHo. In other words, you don't skip the pastries at this place. Besides, Yasmine had the body of a Victoria's Secret Angel from a young age, and she still maintains it. One pastry isn't going to do her in.
"You're lucky you weren't at the club last night," she says. "Some guy tried to pick me up like a bowling ball right on the stage. I lost my shit—like, really lost it, Ash."
"What happened?" I ask, my eyes going wide. And then I do a double take. “And what were you even doing on stage? You’re a house mom!”
Yasmine laughs.
“Just because I’m 35 doesn’t mean that I can’t dance from time to time, baby,” she says with an arched eyebrow. “Besides it makes me feel sexy.”
Oh wow. Now this is just what I need to get my mind off of missing Arsen.
“Feel sexy, Yasmine?” I ask, and lean in. “Who is he? Don’t tell me it’s one of the bouncers again!”
Again, Yasmine laughs and takes a sip of her champagne.
“Hardly,” she says. “And I can’t tell you. Call it attorney-client confidentiality.”
“So, he’s a lawyer?” I ask. She just smiles at me and stays silent. After a moment, I move on. “So what happened to the guy who tried to pick you up literally?”
"I hit him. Repeatedly. And then the bouncers showed up and asked me what the hell was going on. I had to recount the whole thing to them, and they asked me if I hit him open palmed—like a slap—or close fisted. Do I look like I'd slap someone?"
I watch as she balls her fist in reenactment. She has a point. Despite her small size, she's got a hard exterior. Cross her or her dancers, and she’ll come after you with the power of a MAC truck.
"No, you're right. I could picture you close fisting that asshole."
"It's like letting a dog piss in the middle of your living room, you know? Sure, I could've let the bouncer take care of him, but then he'd never learn. He'd do it again to some other girl, in some other club, and the cycle would never end."
"I guess you've got a point."
"I swear I need to get out of that place. The money's good, except on Mondays. Can you believe I danced for a solid 45 minutes and only made $25 on Monday? If that were a Friday night, I'd have made $500. My family keeps asking me when I'm going to get a real job—they know what I do, but they pretend like they don't. It's always awkward."
