The only thing I knew, looking in the mirror that day and all the days since, was that I knew I didn’t want to be me.
So I was trying a new me on for size.
In all this examining, I knew I’d been doing this unconsciously for awhile, drifting through life just as Martha said, with my head in the sand but along the way I was apathetically trying on new me’s. But I wasn’t paying a lick of attention so, unlike other women, sometime in my late twenties or my thirties; I did not find the me that fit.
I liked decorating cakes. I got off on the fact people thought they were beautiful and loved to eat them. I was really proud of my bakery, how it looked, how inviting it was inside and the fact I could do something I loved and make a decent living with it.
But that was as far as I’d gotten.
I got derailed along the way and during my three months of mirror examinations of my face, my hair, my body and my soul, I knew it was when I met Damian.
He wasn’t hard on the eyes but he wasn’t hot either.
What he was was charismatic.
He could so totally be the leader of a cult of fanatics who were disenfranchised and needed to latch onto someone strong and compelling so they could let go of the struggle of daily decisions and their consequences both good and bad and allow someone to show them their path.
I knew this because it happened to me.
He was a stock broker then, youngish but already successful, going places, driven. He sucked me in with his charisma and big personality and nice car and great clothes and large lifestyle. But it was me who kept my head buried in the sand and didn’t notice he had a very short fuse, an explosive temper and his drive was unhealthy. He had to have the nicest car, house, clothes and he needed to prove his manhood in a variety of ways – with me, f**king other women and besting other men.
Even though, early, this started to crawl through my skin, gather in my belly and tighten up, curling in on itself and sitting there, poisoning me all the while, I kept my head buried and ignored it until it got to the point he was backhanding me to end an argument and then he raped me one night when I told him I was not in the mood, we argued about it, this argument escalated beyond reason, he suddenly and terrifyingly lost his mind and took what he wanted anyway.
So that happened.
And that was then.
This was now.
Was I right back where I started? Starting something, eyes closed, head buried, hope springing eternal with a magnetic, moody, driven man who was going to suck me into his captivating but dysfunctional vortex with him not giving a damn how banged up I got swirling around in his personal cyclone?
On this thought, I heard the knock on the front door.
Perfect timing.
I gave myself one last, long look in the mirror. Then, stupidly hopeful or intuitively right, either way, feeling cautious, unsure and hesitant, my feet took me to the front door.
I got up on my toes and looked out the little, square window to see Brock standing there, head turned, eyes aimed to the street. Then I opened the door and saw what his eyes were aimed at.
Martha and Elvira were standing beside Martha’s car and even in the light cast only by a Denver streetlamp, I could see Martha was glaring daggers at Brock and Elvira was summing him up and I knew with them being there that their timing was planned.
Well, on the bright side, it was good to know my friend got a ride.
“Hey,” I whispered and his head turned to me.
His mouth was twitching before he noted, “I take it you filled in your posse.”
“Uh…” I mumbled, his lip twitch became a grin; he planted a hand in my belly and shoved me inside as he entered.
“Hey guys!” I called in order not to be rude.
“Be smart!” Martha shouted back, clearly not feeling the need not to be rude for her words could only have one meaning and then Brock firmly shut the door.
Well, I guess that conversation was over.
I looked up at him. He was still grinning.
Damn.
“You get beer?” he asked and I nodded.
He left me at the door and walked through my living room to the kitchen in the back.
I went to the window and saw that Martha and Elvira were conferring. The good news was, if there was a way to buy explosives and fuses on the internet, they had not had time to send in their order and receive it. The other good news was, unless you had contacts in the criminal underworld or with mercenaries or the like, such items were not available on the open market. I knew Martha had no such contacts. Elvira was a wildcard. The bad news was, for Martha to have so much drama in her life that meant she was a creative person and I figured Elvira was too. And I didn’t think this was good.
“Babe, you want one?” I heard Brock call and I called back, “No,” as I kept watching the terrible twosome plotting outside.
Apparently I did this long enough for Brock to pop the cap on a cold one and return to me for suddenly my blinds were snapped shut.
I blinked at the closed blinds. Then I turned to him just in time to watch him lean into me.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me to the sofa.
Then he sat.
Then he did what he used to do. That was, tug me down so I was sitting astride him.
Brock liked to talk like this and I couldn’t say I hated it. In fact, I liked it. There was an intimacy to it that was nice, a connection that felt good and, I had to admit, it was comfy.
And as I said, he was touchy. I always thought it was a little weird, but in a good way, that this tough, rough, wild man liked closeness so much and so often. I thought it said a lot about him and all of it was good.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
He took a drag off his beer, his silver eyes not leaving my face.
When he dropped his hand, both came to rest on my thighs but the one not holding a beer was open, moving slowly and soothingly up to my hip and down my thigh and back again (something else he used to do, something else I used to like and now something I still liked) and he remarked, “I see my sweet Tess has spent some time gettin’ her head filled with shit.”
Hmm. I didn’t know if he was right or wrong about that.
“Brock,” I whispered but said no more.
This obviously was okay for Brock was in the mood to talk.
“Lot about women I do not get. The biggest is that they listen to each other’s shit. No one knows what goes down between a woman and her man except that woman. Only thing they know is what went down with their own men. This colors what spews outta their mouths when they’re yammerin’ about their friends’ men even when what they’re sayin’ has got f**k all to do with the situation at hand.”