Hooked 2 (Hooked #2)(5)

My body burned with the memory of his body over mine, f*cking on that fabulous bed in the Four Seasons. Had it all been a lie? Had he cared for me at all?

And now, I was going on another date with him. I was going to see him again, become another notch on his belt. For some reason, I wasn’t sure that I cared. Maybe he could be a notch on my belt—just another memory from this raucous, beautiful time when I lived in Chicago and really pursued my dreams. (Before I had to assuredly rush back home, no money to my name, begging my mother for forgiveness.) I sighed into my pillow.



CHAPTER THREE

The next morning, I rolled out of bed early—ever ready to head back to the dance studio and teach little girls to twirl, teach old women to love their bodies again. But then, as I ever did, I remembered the situation once more. I knew I had to go back to the studio and clear out my stuff. And so, around eleven in the morning, that’s what I did. I looked down the hallway of my apartment building, a bit worried that I would see Drew. But he was nowhere to be found. I was certain he was at whichever building he had so recently bought; I was certain he was planning his beautiful, new Femme Fatale bookstore. I imagined him hovering over a big sheet of building plans, pointing at this and that. Looking effortlessly masculine, strong. I shuddered.

I walked to my old work, pausing to look at all the old sights, noting the way every person looked as I passed. I felt like I was in a dream.

Finally, I arrived at the studio. My key fit into the lock perfectly, and I ducked in from the now-bitter wind. Shaking my body off, I noted the way the shadows held themselves so long across the wooden floor; I noted how different everything looked in the wake of non-usage. It seemed so bizarre. A layer of dust had begun its descent over one of the mirrors. I wiped it away with my fingers, trying to remember a time when I had felt so desolate, so sad.

I gathered my things in a small cardboard box. My photographs, my many papers. I threw all the bank statements away, knowing they didn’t matter anymore. I hadn’t been able to pay for this beautiful space, and now I was paying for it in emotion, in sadness. Melanie had already come and taken her things away. I tried to imagine her there, Jackson bobbing in his little travel crib. Her life was so different than mine; she could move on to other things, when I had nothing.

I locked up the building about forty-five minutes later, after saying a short, sweet goodbye to the empty space. “All the good I could have done here,” I murmured, my head shaking back and forth. “Gone.”

I stopped to grab something to eat at the corner deli, where I had initially met Drew. The acned boy recognized me, but we said nothing to each other. I wanted to duck in and duck out without consequence. I grabbed a roast beef sandwich, heaping with far too much mayonnaise, and nibbled on it on my long walk home. The spiced meat was so savory in my mouth, and I rolled my head back, finally eating something that gave me power, that gave me life, beyond the realms of macaroni and cheese and wine.


I remembered Drew was going to arrive outside my apartment at three in the afternoon. When I got back to my place, I began preparing for our strange, Saturday afternoon date. “Wear something tight,” he had said, and I was prepared to follow his directions. After all, I was just a notch in his belt. But the past few weeks with him had been eternally exciting, rooted in something beyond my normal comprehension of life. He knew how to live and live well. And, until he moved onto the next notch in his belt, I could fit this bill.

I grabbed one of my leotards and brought it up over my body. It was black, tight. I wore it over black leggings. I looked streamlined, like an eel. I looked at my body in the mirror, the way the breasts rose high, the way my butt looked so tight, so sleek. My cat, positioned on the kitchen table, seemed to roll his eyes.

I was prepared for the date all too early—around two. I stared at the balcony, at the life below my apartment, on the street, as I prepared for his arrival. My cat rubbed up against my leg as I waited. “At least I’ll probably get laid tonight,” I told Boomer then, rolling my fingers up around his ear.

At three o clock, I heard it; his footsteps coming down the hall. My heartbeat quickened in my chest. Could I really do this? Could I go on a date with this clearly evil man, this man who was content to talk about “f*cking” me with his curly-headed friend, Marty? I roughed my fingers around my hair, trying to look sleek, sexy. Why did I care so much?

Finally, I heard his knuckles against the door. “BAM BAM BAM.” Three times. Boomer hopped down from the table in preparation, as if he had been caught. I walked toward the door languidly, hoping to take a bit of extra time. I pulled open the door, my eyes soft, my body supple.

“Oh. Hello,” I said, as if I was surprised.

Drew stood outside, dressed in all black. His tight turtleneck tucked up around his sleek neck, and his pants were tight, honing in on his slim waist, his muscled stomach. I eyed his body without embarrassment. It was like I was playing a different version of myself.

“You ready to go?” I asked him. My voice was nearly raspy, like an old-fashioned movie starlet.

Drew nodded. He grinned at me with such confidence. His eyes glinted. He placed his arm in front of me, ready for me to take. And I did. “I’ve been waiting for this moment all day,” he said. He was nearly laughing at me, I could tell; at the way I had yelled at him and his friend the day before. But I couldn’t care less.

I flipped my hair as I shut the door behind me. I didn’t want him to see my apartment; not yet. I didn’t want him to get any ammunition, to make fun of my lack of wealth in any way. “So. Where are we going?” I asked him.