Suzy
It takes me twenty minutes to decide what shoes to wear.
Sexy or cute?
Heels or flats?
Ones with straps or the ones that strangle my toes?
Screw it. Carlson went through the trouble of returning the strappy heels to me. The least I can do is wear them for him. What’s a little pain when they make my legs look fabulous? Too bad my roommate went back to Florida for the holidays. A second opinion would be really helpful.
At a few minutes before six, I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in my tiny bedroom surveying my reflection with a critical eye. I’m meticulously done, my face carefully made-up. I usually only wear dresses on special occasions. A dinner date with Carlson? That calls for the little black dress - glamming Audrey Hepburn - something I picked up a couple of years ago in the clearance rack. My dark hair is pulled back in a low, smooth ponytail to accentuate the perfect square neckline. Since the two satin straps expose my entire arms and shoulders, I’ll have to remember to grab my coat.
When I open my door to Carlson, I want him to be stunned speechless at the vision before him. Once he sees what’s underneath the simple yet stylish dress, he might very well lose his mind. All he’ll be able to manage is a growl at the very tiny lacey pink bra and panties before he pounces on me, making him forget all about the unfortunate mistletoe underwear.
Just as I give myself a final onceover my phone rings with the special tone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Darling, what’s this your sister is telling me about you and this… this Carlson character? This is the same man you were with the other night, right?” The familiar hum sounds, a precursor to one of her ridiculous visions. “Tall. Fair hair. Solid build. Tattoos.” She announced that last part like it was a contagious disease.
Okay, maybe her visions aren’t always ridiculous. Either that or Kaia blabbed. “Well, I don’t know what Kaia is telling you, but I am sort of, kind of, seeing Carlson.”
“What do you mean by seeing?”
Self-consciously, I jerk a shoulder even though she can’t see me. “Casually dating, if you insist on labeling it.” At least, I hope we’re dating and the dinner invitation wasn’t just his idea of foreplay. “Nothing serious. We’ve been acquaintances for a while, so this is new territory.”
“But you want to be more than acquaintances. You want to be much more.”
She’s not assuming or speculating. “That’s usually what dating is, Mom,” I tell her sardonically, peeved at Kaia for running to our mother so quickly. I can kill her for this. “We’re getting to know each other. See where it goes.”
“You’re already sleeping with him.”
I curse in my head. “I asked you not to invade my privacy. Whatever is going on between me and Carlson, we want to keep it between us.”
“I didn’t have to rely on my visions. I’m not a voyeur,” she huffs indignantly. “Kaia told me. Believe me, seeing my daughter in a compromising situation is not a fun time.”
And here I was going to frame it for her as a present. “Carlson is a great guy,” I insist. “He’s easygoing, caring, and kind. You’d like him.”
She scoffs. “I doubt that. No man is good enough for my daughter.”
Figures. There’s no reasoning with her when she’s like this. “I can’t talk right now. Carlson will be here any minute. We’re having dinner together, so Bats, mother, as of right now and in place indefinitely.”
Using the safe word is the only way for me to ensure she doesn’t take it upon herself to remotely invade my night with Carlson.
“Give me some credit, darling, I’m just concerned about you,” she sulks. “You want to have a little fun with him? Fine, but watch out for this man. He’s not being completely truthful about himself. I don’t know what it is yet. There’s a veil over him, so keep your guard up. And don’t get serious with him. I don’t want to see you hurt. I shouldn’t have to remind you about your deadbeat father... or was that Joyce’s father? You want to talk about not being truthful? That no good son of a bitch took the cake, God rest his soul. If I had—”
Here we go. “Mom,” I try to jump in before she really goes on a heated tangent.
“—a dime for every lie that came out of his despicable mouth, I’d be retired by now. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was real easy on the eyes, I’d give him that. But at the end of the day, all you end up with is a pretty face and an ear full of shit. Who in the worl—"
Reaching out, I rap my knuckles determinedly against the nearest wall. “Oh, that’s the door. I better get going.” I don’t give her a chance to respond. “Thanks for calling. Talk to you later. Love you! Bye.”
A long lungful flurries out of me. I wonder if Kaia spilled about Carlson in an attempt to save herself from our mother’s pointless ranting by sending her my way. If so, I can’t say I blame her for ratting me out.
I dart a glimpse at my phone. Six-twenty.
Carlson is late.
The man is so strict with himself, he’s always prompt.
Maybe he’s stuck in traffic, I decide as I make my way to the couch. I need to stay off my feet in these insufferable heels as much as possible.
Being absurdly responsible, I would think Carlson would have called to let me know.
Ten minutes later, I’m wondering if I misheard him. He did say he’d pick me up at six, didn’t he? Carlson isn’t one to forget. I must have misheard. The utter thrill and cuddly pleasure of finally being with the one man I’ve been distraughtly craving must have short-circuited my hearing.
I stare at my phone and tap my fingers against the cushioned arm, willing it to do something besides taunting me with its vacant screen.
God, what if something happened to him?
But no, I refuse to think that way.
Biting back trepidation, I send him a short text.
Almost here?
Another ten minutes and still nothing from Carlson.
At exactly seven-fifteen I shove off the couch, snatch up my coat and purse, and slam out of my apartment.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around waiting for that fucking flake.
The sharp clacks on pavement divert my focus from the pinpricks painfully jabbing my chest. The entire half mile radius surrounding my modest apartment is heavily dotted with off-campus housing. A slender woman waves at me from across the street and I automatically respond in kind, guessing her to be a fellow student. The obnoxious rattling of a muffler announces a beat-up clunker as it cruises down the street.
“Hey, sweetheart!” An animated male voice hoots like a strong gust from the open window. “Looking good.”
Got that right. I’m Suzette Sun, and I’m dressed to kill.
Tossing back my ponytail, I put a little more feminine oomph in my walk as I reach my own parked junker.
Within minutes I’m on my way to Carlson’s. My fingers tighten until the steering wheel bites into my palms, anger, worry, and hurt battling for dominance. If he’s okay, then for his sake, I hope he’s got on a Kevlar jockstrap.
~~~~~
Dim lighting highlights the edges of the white shutters obscuring the interior of the hushed house. No curiosity stirs a neighbor’s drapes as I switch off the car’s engine. I take a moment to study the stillness, the static shadows painting the night. The house is calmly exquisite yet humble in outward stature. I know from my visit last time that it’s a sizeable home, more than comfortably accommodating someone of Carlson’s impressive size. I might not be a homeowner, but even with my amateur knowledge of real estate values, I’m conscious this must have cost him a hefty sum.
Mr. Hawkes must be very generous with his personal staff.
Wintry air whispers over my skin as I climb out of the car. I shiver inside my thin coat, but I embrace it, allow it to gently caress my crushed spirit. I don’t try to subdue the pointed clicks of my heels or the purposeful strides of my half bare legs climbing the steps to the lovely veranda. A pale light brightens at my motion to illuminate my path.
Just as I’m about to lift my hand for the doorbell, my phone goes off from inside my coat pocket.
Carlson.
So he’s not dead after all.
Pettiness has me staring at the lit screen, watching the urgency of his name flashing. On the fourth ring, I swipe my finger over the cold surface.
“Hello, Carlson.” Stubborn pride masks my voice with calm, a levelness I’m far from feeling. He doesn’t have to know how much he’s thoughtlessly bruised me. “So nice of you to call.”
A hesitation. “Imsorry.” His words run together almost incoherently, but I can just make them out amidst the faint traffic noise on the phone. “Emergency.”
I wait, but he doesn’t offer any more than that.
An emergency? What, he got arrested for driving like a conscientious drivers ed teacher and is now using his one call to cancel on me?
“Suzette?” he presses tentatively.
Give him the benefit of the doubt, I tell myself. “Is everything okay?”
I get a familiar grunt.
A terrible thought occurs to me. “Was it Gemma?”
“Hawkes and Gemma are fine.”
Relief washes over me but is quickly replaced by wariness. “What was the emergency?” I persist. It’s clear he’s not going to volunteer the information without my openly spelling it out.
A lengthy, audible exhale. “I’m not at the liberty to discuss it.”
What? “What do you mean you’re not at the liberty to discuss it? Are you on the run from the authorities?” I throw out derisively.
“Negative,” he answers as though the rhetorical question wasn’t saturated with sarcasm.
“Carlson.” The chilly air has nothing on the heat fusing my flesh. Give me something to hold on to. Make it up. Lie to me. Whatever you need to do so I’m not convinced you so easily dismissed me without a care. “I waited for you for over an hour. I texted you. I don’t hear back from you until an hour and a half after you were supposed to pick me up. Am I supposed to be okay with your lack of explanation?”
I brace myself for an affronted male I don’t owe you an explanation.
It doesn’t come.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I can’t offer you more than that.”
“That’s it?” A humorless laugh chokes out of me. “I don’t ask for much, Carlson, but I think I deserve at least a courtesy call if you were going to flake on me.”
“I didn’t flake on you.”
“Funny, it sure looks that way from my perspective.”
“I’m almost to your apartment,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s early yet. Let’s make the most of the night.”
“I’m not home.” I refuse to tell him I’m just outside of his front door, that I was actually worried about him. “I left when you didn’t show.”
“Suzette.” A sigh. “Don’t be that way.”
Such a male thing to say. This time my laugh is painful. He thinks I’m playing at some silly female triviality.
This man who has the power to slaughter me with mere nonchalance.
“Goodnight, Carlson. Drive safe,” I say and coolly end the call.