With just two and a half units until I’m free of E-Z Storage forever—other than jail-breaking my own belongings, hopefully sooner rather than later—I spent the day sorting through boxes of old receipts from what seems like decades of tax returns for someone who owned a Laundromat somewhere in Queens.
It’s been tedious, but it’s allowed me to replay the events of last night several hundred times. I’m stuck in a loop where I congratulate myself on my restraint for not leaping back into that car, and mentally kicking my own ass for not leaping right the fuck back into that car.
I will say, envisioning what might have happened if we’d headed back to his hotel certainly makes the time pass faster.
Around five, CiCi appears to offer me some company while I wrap the unit up. She wisely doesn’t ask if I’ve found any incriminating information among these financial records.
I’d say lessons have been learned all around.
She listens intently as I run down the details of my night at the theater, and she’s uncharacteristically quiet the entire time.
“So...” she says eventually, staring off at nothing from the tailgate of Brutus. “He kissed you again?”
“My cheek,” I clarify, putting the lid back on a box and lugging it to the truck. “He kissed my cheek. And not in the way we’ve been doing the fake-girlfriend kissing on the cheek in public. It was...different. Sweeter. But then I kissed him. Like...a lot. And he definitely kissed me back.”
“If you two get married, I want to be your extra plus-one to every event. Can you ask him if he knows Chris Hemsworth?”
“Isn’t he married with kids and stuff?”
CiCi looks genuinely disappointed. “Fine. Whatever unmarried superhero hotties he may know, then.”
The topic reminds me of the little girl, and I relay that story in great detail.
“I swear, CiCi, when he asked her if he could hug her, I almost died watching it.”
CiCi blinks at me. “That is unfairly hot, if I’m being honest.”
“Right?” I agree, loading up another box. “I’m convinced I ruptured an ovary.”
“I think I did just hearing about it.”
“Okay, but I’m not hallucinating that this is totally weird, right?” I huddle on the floor in front of one of three remaining boxes and dive in. “Like, this has taken a really bizarre turn.”
CiCi shrugs, hopping off Brutus and joining me to sort through a box of her own. “I don’t know. It’s not completely absurd. Thin line between love and hate and fake British boyfriends and all that.” She pauses with a stack of papers in her hand. “Maybe he’s about to be a less fake British boyfriend.”
“Now, that’s completely absurd,” I say with a snort.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a message from Caspian.
Free for a late dinner after my show tonight?
I purse my lips together to keep from smiling, and I can’t for the life of me understand why I’m having to purse my lips together to keep from smiling...
I think I could swing that, I send back.
Meet me at the hotel around 9. I’ll do my best to be on time. You can head up to the room and spend as much quality alone time with Jasmine as you’d like, and I’ll meet you there? I do promise to knock before entering, lest I catch the two of you in a moment of passionate bliss.
I laugh out loud. CiCi eyes me suspiciously.
It’s a deal. I did promise Jasmine I’d be back for her, after all.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and try to carry on working, but CiCi will have none of it.
“That line is looking pretty damn thin, judging by that look on your face.”
“Shut up,” I say, fighting to wipe away the ridiculous smile.
CiCi looks at the time on her phone. “Do you realize he must have been about to walk onto the stage, and he stopped to send you that message?”
I ponder what she’s said and feel my face burning. “Shut up harder.”
“Okay, but if he knows the guy who plays Loki, I call dibs. Oh! Or Chris Evans. Please ask him to set me up with Chris Evans, who is clearly the superior Chris.”
I focus way more than is necessary on the papers I’m sorting, and we work in silence. Silence is a relative term, though, because I can practically hear all sorts of filthy scenarios running through CiCi’s mind, like she’s announcing them through a bullhorn.
I distract myself from her mildly smug grins by internally debating exactly how creepy of me it would be to take him up on his offer of a nap on Jasmine. My guess is that answer would be very, but when I remember the unicorn pillow, I’m tempted to risk it.
Unicorn pillows and couches from Narnia aside, is CiCi right? Is it possible the love/hate line, at least on my end, has gotten thinner?
I’ve been working really hard to avoid allowing thoughts like that to fully form, but based on my delighted reactions to his messages...and how when I read the words passionate bliss regarding the couch, I immediately started picturing passionate bliss with Cas...and since the image of him pulling on that shirt is serving now as my mental screen saver...and the fact that I was about two seconds from a carnal throw-down in the car last night...
I think I might have to face some facts, here.
I know Caspian and I agreed that our mutual hatred had come to an end, but at some point, I seem to have shifted over into...actually liking him.
It hits me that since I’m meeting Cas at the hotel, it’s entirely possible that if I play my cards right, maybe there’s a chance to pick up where we left off last night, but in the cozier confines of his room. And while I do long for a nap on Jasmine, I think this may be an even more preferable idea.
The scenario forms in my mind, and it suddenly feels like my chest is too big to fit inside my body.
It’s not an unwelcome feeling at all.
My head snaps up.
Holy shit.
I...I really like Caspian.
“You okay, cupcake?”
I whip around to look at CiCi. “What? Why?”
She looks appropriately confused. “You sort of jumped just now. And your cheeks are all red.”
I can feel my eyes bulging. “Uh, bad cold chill. It’s freezing back here.”
“Yeah, we need a portable space heater or something,” she says, evidently appeased.
I let out a silent whoosh of relief when she turns back to her task and pledge to deal with this development of mine later—partly because it’s a lot to unpack, and I feel a little blindsided by it all, and partly thanks to my inability to experience a single emotion without it tap-dancing right across my face for the easy reading of others.
CiCi stands up and deposits her box in Brutus, pausing after to check her phone. “Ooh,” she says gleefully, leaning against the truck. “I know I should have learned my lesson and all, but I love when news alerts involve skeezy politicians being outed for quality sleaze.”
“Anyone good?” I ask, attempting to sound cool, as I’m having zero luck pushing the Cas-centric mental pictures away. I finish up the next-to-last box and walk over to join her.
“That senator from Jersey,” she specifies as she reads. “The one who keeps insisting rape wouldn’t happen if women would wear less makeup.”
“Ew,” I say, heaving the box in the bed, grateful for the distraction. “Good. I hope they got him on something really gross.”
CiCi keeps scrolling as I head for the last box, thinking that all too soon, I will be snuggled up on the world’s comfiest couch, trying very hard to not actually be caught snoring and drooling into unicorn fur when Caspian finally arrives, but making no promises.
And despite my best efforts, I can’t shake the other things I’m picturing doing on that couch.
I flush at my overly presumptuous thinking and dive into the final box before CiCi’s superhuman filth radar picks up on my deviant thoughts.
“Oh my fucking fuck,” she gasps, her hand going to her mouth.
“What?” I ask, dropping to the ground and popping the last lid off. Maybe her radar really is that strong. I blush harder and try to deflect, prepared to go into great detail about a very targeted blast of frigid air that would explain my rosy cheeks. “Grosser than normal?”
“Clara,” she says, and her voice is so panicked I look up and see her running over to me, phone outstretched. She clicks a video and kneels down beside me.
A newscaster appears beside a floating picture of the senator from Jersey, and the bubble beneath the woman speaking reads, “Senator Crum Caught in Prostitution Scandal.”
A strangled noise rips through me, and my hands jump to my chest. “No.”
“Evidence was brought to public attention today in a story first broken by the gossip website TMZ that shows detailed receipts of Senator Crum frequenting an escort service in the midnineties.”
The screen cuts to scanned copies of the Cranson receipts, and my heart stops beating for several seconds. I drag in a strangled breath as the woman continues. “The senator, who has campaigned for the last fifteen years on a strict morality platform, was found to have utilized the services of both male and female escorts, and according to the records submitted by an anonymous source, involved very specific requests. Peter Cargill is here with a more detailed analysis of what was found.”
“Oh my fucking FUCK,” CiCi repeats as Peter appears with printouts in his hands.
“Thank you, Betsy,” he says, diving right in. “Now, at first glance, these receipts don’t show much other than Senator Crum being a very loyal customer of Cranson Escorts, but when paired with what I can only describe as a sort of sexual menu, you’ll see his tastes were quite consistent.”
A picture of the menu pops up on the screen. One of the same menus CiCi and I giggled our way through reading what feels like a lifetime ago.
“Let’s just say,” Peter says with a laugh, “he didn’t often pay for just cuddling.”
I’m unspeakably grateful I’m already on the ground, as I’ve lost feeling in every part of my body, and I can’t even maintain a sitting position anymore. I drop forward onto the box and start rocking back and forth.
“No, no, no, no...”
“Okay, look,” CiCi says, muting her phone as Peter goes into greater detail dissecting the menu. “They’re only talking about this guy. If they knew about Caspian, they would have said so. They wouldn’t have just mentioned the senator. They would have called it some kind of giant scandal and listed everyone they knew about.”
I whip up, holding on to the box for support. “Did you sell it?”
“What? No!”
“Be honest with me, CiCi,” I snap. “Did you sell that stuff? You were on a quest looking for a family-values asshat to fry, and now here one is!”
She leans back on her heels and looks horrified. “How can you even ask me that? Of course I didn’t sell it! For starters, I never would have done anything like that without telling you or getting your okay, and for another, I wouldn’t even think about fucking around with something like that after what we did to Caspian. I’m not an idiot, Clara. Come on!”
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
She waves her arms around angrily. “Am I really fucking sure I didn’t forget I sold sex-worker records that could get you thrown in jail by Caspian? Yes, Clara! I’m really fucking sure!”
“Oh god,” I whimper. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m so sorry. I’m panicking. I know you wouldn’t have done it. Seriously, I’m sorry.”
“I’m panicking with you,” she says, calming her justified rage. “How? How could this possibly have gotten out? We took it all to the dump ourselves!”
“CiCi,” I gasp. “He’s going to see this. Caspian is going to see this, and he’s going to completely freak out.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she hisses, looking back at her phone as if it will hold the answer. “But he’s on stage right now, right? Are you meeting him tonight?”
I try to pull in air, but nothing is happening. I nod shakily. “I’m supposed to meet him at his hotel right after his show for dinner.”
“Maybe you’ll see him before he has a chance to read anything about this?” CiCi offers desperately. “If he comes straight from the theater, that’s totally possible! You could explain to him before he even knows it’s happening!”
“Do you really think so?” I ask, panting for absolutely any air at all.
“Yes?” She doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “But I know I don’t give a fuck what’s in this last box, and that you need to get over there now, so there’s no chance he’ll have a chance to kick back and turn on the TV before he sees you.”
Before I can agree, she pockets her phone and grabs me up from the floor with one hand, the remaining box with the other, and drags us both out of the unit.