Page 19 of Miss Behaved
It doesn’t help knowing she’s directly across the hall. Two steps—three tops—and I’d be at her door. I tried to play it casual at that realization, seem unfazed. But knowing she’sthis closefeels like a boa constrictor slowly tightening around my throat.
Fuck, what is this woman doing to me?
Her door closes, and I know she’s leaving for the next session, one I should probably go to myself. But I can’t bring myself to put my hand on that knob. I need some space. Opening my laptop, I decide to get some work in. I jot down some notes for my next project, answer emails, and dodge my publisher. By late afternoon, I’m exhausted from simply thinking, so I head out to my balcony, where I’m met with dry Arizona heat.
I’m not sure what’s more suffocating: the four walls of my room or the empty desert. I fall on my bed and close my eyes instead.
Before coming here, everything in my head was neatly packed away. My thoughts were like storage lockers in perfect rows. One for my dad, one for my mom, one for my writing. And at the center was one labeled “Monica Lopez” with warning tape wrapped around it. The singular wall between the boy I was and the man I’d become. I knew one peek could send my carefully crafted facade into chaos.
Up until today, I’d been perfectly content with the man I became after I left Anacortes. Successful, rich. A man who went and proved his father wrong. Someone who didn’t worry what people thought, someone who didn’t answer to anyone.
The storage locker in my brain with Monica’s name on it was locked tight, and I knew that even if I hurt her, I’d still made the right decision.
That was until one glance of her gold-flecked brown eyes cracked my carefully built fortress.
A knock on my door sends a shock wave up my spine, and I realize I must have fallen asleep thinking about Monica. Jumping up, I rush for the door, but when I swing it open, it’s not Monica standing there like I’d hoped. It’s an older woman with fire-engine red hair and a puckered expression.
“Sorry,” she says, glancing over my shoulder into my room. Her bright red lips split into a smile, and I spot a smudge on her teeth. “This doesn’t seem to be where I was supposed to meet Agnes.”
“Next door.” I tick my head to the left.
“Nadine,” Agnes calls out as she pops out of her room. She’s in a robe with curlers in her hair, but her makeup is already fully painted on. “I told you room 703, not 702. Sorry, Carson, honey.”
But instead of pulling Nadine into her room, Agnes pushes past me into mine with Nadine hot on her heels.
“Come in?” I say, not sure how else to handle it. For two of the smallest women I’ve ever seen, they move in a way that makes it feel like they take up lots of space.
“Oh, dear, you aren’t wearing that to dinner, are you?” Agnes looks me up and down and then starts rummaging through my closet.
I look over at Nadine, who gives me a pinched expression and shrugs.
“It’s just dinner,” I tell her, without mentioning that I’m not sure I’m even going.
Agnes gives Nadine a sideways look, and they both start going through my things.
I thought I looked nice, or at least presentable. I’m wearing dark jeans with a black T-shirt that shows off my broad shoulders. It’s the same shirt that gets me appreciative looks from most women, but these two scan me head to toe like my mother. Disappointed and unimpressed.
“How is this possible?” Agnes huffs. “Not one suit jacket.”
I shake my head. “Hate to break it to you ladies, but that’s not my vibe.”
“His vibe,” Nadine repeats, and when she laughs Agnes joins her.
I’m torn between offended and irritated. I’m not sure what I did to warrant the fashion police, but Agnes and Nadine don’t seem to care or notice. They continue flipping through hangers and mumbling at each other.
“Fine then, here.” Agnes tosses a crisp white button-down onto the bed. “At least a shirt with a collar. It’s dinner, after all.”
What century did these women fall out of?
“Now let’s dig into the mini bar while we wait for my curls to set.” Agnes crosses my room and grabs a couple tiny bottles of vodka from the fridge. She hands one to Nadine before they plant themselves at the table in the corner.
“Carson, honey, sit.” Agnes points to the chair beside her, and it doesn’t feel like a choice, so I grab one of the whiskeys and take a seat.
Nadine turns to Agnes. “Did you solve thatissueyou were working out earlier?” she asks, clearly trying to talk around something.
“Don’t hold back for the boy; he can handle it,” Agnes says, taking a sip. “And yes, I think I’ll go with spanking.”
I cough and almost spit out my whiskey, which seems to amuse Agnes.
