Beautiful Losers - Part Eighteen

At ten o'clock, while I was sitting on the floor of the warehouse scrubbing lipstick off microphone grilles - coming to the conclusion that pearlescent pink is a colour that only trailer-trash, tone-deaf whores would wear - a package arrived for me by bike courier. It wasn't the expected box of Neutrik cable connectors I'd ordered the week before, because it came with a folded up note on top that read:

Shira:

Why aren't you wearing my jeans?
Jean

Why aren't you wearing me?
Sebastian

I thought about opening it; I gave it a little shake, but nothing rattled around inside. Did I really want to get into this right now? I wondered. More gut-wrenching, soul-shredding, unfathomable drama? No. What I really wanted to do was get the goddamned lipstick off those microphone grilles. I put the package down by my feet and went back to work.

I'll admit that my eye strayed to the package once or twice. And after two of the roadies walked by, I ripped the card off the top and stuffed it into my pocket, just in case they decided to read it. It wasn't until the box started ringing that I realized there was no ignoring it. Wiping my hands on a towel, I took a box-cutter and opened it up. It was one of those thin, sleek back models with a slide down panel. By the time I got to it, it had stopped ringing.

I may have been the only person in the world who didn't have or want a mobile phone. And believe me, people thought I was a freak for not owning one. But I just didn't like the idea that people could get you whenever they wanted. It was like being trapped, at someone's beck and call - literally. I hated the way people walked down the street talking into them just to make sure you knew how incredibly popular they were.

Nonetheless, it was sort of pretty. Nicely designed and it fit comfortably in the palm of my hand, with enough weight to let you know you were really holding something. It must have cost a fortune. Tentatively, I thumbed the sliding panel up - which activated the screen. This was a mistake: in place of the usual bland picture of an abstract texture for the background was a back lit close-up of Jean's lips around Sebastian's penis. Yes, it could have been other people's body-parts, but it wasn't - I could just tell. A sudden fit of paranoia made me glance around to make sure no one had seen it. I quickly slid the panel shut. Halfway to putting the phone back in the box, it rang again. Out of the packaging the ring was much louder.

One of the roadies walked by staring at me. "Aren't you going to get that?"

I smiled and shook my head, desperately trying to find the switch to turn to damn thing off without activating the obscene screen. Finally, in abject frustration, I answered it.

"Yes! What?" I shouted, walking out into the loading dock.

"Well, you didn't like it when I phoned you on your office number."

"Sebastian," I sighed, shaking my head at the air.

"Don't you like your prezzie?"

Why was it that all the men in my life could make me feel like an ungrateful bitch? "It's very nice," I said, trying to sound conciliatory.

"Like the picture?"

"Um... very funny."

He laughed and his voice switched into deep, breathy seduction mode: "Don't you wish they were your lips? Wrapped around my hard, throbbing cock? Can't you just taste me? Oh, fuck - I want to feel your hot mouth around me!" In the background, at what I guessed was some distance away, I could hear Jean making really loud, porny orgasmic squeals.

"Shut up. And tell him to shut up too. The both of you! I'm at work. I'm tired and I'm confused."

"What are you confused about, Shirakins?" The voice had changed again, now it was like oil sliding over rocks. It slithered into my ear.

"I can't talk about it right now," I whispered, moving out of the way as four guys wheeled a case of effects racks out to one of the waiting trucks. A frigid wind blew through the loading bay, and I shivered and headed inside. "I'm at work."

"You said that before. Don't be boring, darling. What's confusing you?"

Oh, I hated that voice. It was cruel and slithery and sexy. "You. Jean. The two of you!"

"What's to be confused about? We both love you. We both want to make you come until you scream."

I was madly rushing up the stairs towards my office, feeling my nipples shrivel into painful beestings, when I barreled into my boss, Michael, on his way down.

"Shira? Are you okay?" Michael asked, looking at me oddly. "You're all flushed. Are you sick?"

He reached out and felt my forehead with the back of his hand. "You're hot. Feverish. I think you've got something."

"He's right. You ARE hot," snickered Sebastian.

It was only then I realized I still had the phone clamped to my face. The problem was, if I took it away from my ear, my boss would see the screen. "I'm fine," I squeaked.

"You don't look fine to me." Michael peered over his glasses at me with a concerned expression. "Maybe you should go home. Isn't your gig on Thursday? You don't want to be sick for that. We're all coming to see you play, you know. Even Hippie Dave." He laughed.

"You look pretty fine to me, Shirakins. Especially riding me. But he's right. You ARE sick. Come home."

I took my chances with the screen and whipped the phone down, pressing it against my thigh. "Really, Michael. I'm fine. Just sweaty, you know. From cleaning those mics."

He gave me a look of grave doubt. "I can't remember when you had your last sick day. Have you ever even taken one? Go home, honey. We don't need you today."

Having gained a little bit of sanity back, I bit my lip. "Do I still get paid?"

Michael laughed. "Of course you do. Get out of here!" he said over his shoulder, continuing on down the stairs.

It wasn't until I reached my battered old desk, and was thinking that a day off might not be so bad - I had laundry to do - that I noticed a squeaky sound rising from my leg. I raised the phone to my ear.

"What the fuck? You almost got me fired!"

Sebastian stopped singing down the line at the top of his lungs and said: "You have the world's nicest boss, Shira. Don't lie. I heard the whole thing. Come on. Everyone knows Michael Fredrickson is an old queen! He's a sweetie."

Wow. That was news to me. I thought my gaydar was pretty good, but obviously I was wrong. "Look. I've got to go. Thanks for the phone."

I hung up without waiting for an answer. My nipples had stopped pinging like little beacons, and I didn't want to give him a chance to say anything filthy and get them started again. Sliding my fingertips along the top of the phone, I found the discreet little power button and switched it off.

Even after deciding to take advantage of Michael's offer, it still took me a while to get out of the shop. I rinsed off all the grilles and set them out to dry, dumped the dirty into the drain out back and rinsed the bucket. I signed in a bunch of equipment being returned by a particularly ferocious looking Rastafarian guy with razor blades in his dreadlocks. But thirty minutes later, I had my coat on and was out the door.

The walk to the bus stop did me good. The weather was cold, but the air was crisp and clean and felt good on my face. I sat down on the bench and waited for the next 38 to come along.

I had a life, I thought to myself. I had things I wanted to do. I cared about music - I wanted to be good at it. This gig was going to be important and that was where I should be focusing my energy. Hell, that's why I had been boyfriendless in the first place. They were time sinks. They wanted your attention when you could least afford to give them any. I was doing my best to put the whole thing with Jean and Sebastian into some perspective, convincing myself that whatever I felt at that moment was going to wane with time and distance. In fact, my presence was only making things confused for them. I mentally forgave Jean for using me like a hole for hire - it had been the act of someone who'd been traumatized and desperate to keep what he most desired - Sebastian. I was glad he had got to try sex with a girl, and I was glad it had been me. But Jean was not wired for women - not really - and it didn't matter how much I wished it otherwise. And Sebastian? Well...I didn't want to think about him. He was the man with the key to everybody's door, but most especially to Jean's. They'd work it out. Whatever lust/love thing I was feeling for him...I'd get over it.

A shiny black Mercedes slid up to the curb and stopped right in front of the bus stop. Couldn't the asshole see it was a no stopping zone? The tinted window descended with a hum to reveal Sebastian.

"I tried your office, but they said you'd left already."

I had just spent the last fifteen minutes purging the bastard from my soul. I was starting to think this was some sort of karmic punishment.

I folded my arms and stayed seated. "I didn't know you had a car."

"It's not mine. It's my parent's."

"Do you even have a license?"

"Of course. Get in, Shira."

"Why don't you ever drive it then?"

"Cabs are easier. You don't have to park them. Come on, get in."

It occurred to me that this whole interchange was very un-Sebastianish. He hadn't said a single dirty thing. "I'm going home to do laundry." I could see the bus, about eight blocks up. "My bus is coming."

"I'll give you a ride."

"I'd rather take the bus."

He reached back and the rear door popped open. "Get in."

I looked from the approaching bus to the car and back. "You need to move your car. It's in a bus zone.

He smirked at me. "I can't my door's open. If you get in and shut it, the bus will be fine."

"I'm not getting in your car," I said with determination, watching the number 38 stop at the lights a block away.

"Well, then you're certainly not getting the bus, because I'm not moving my car."

"The bus driver will honk his horn and scream at you."

"Fine. Let him. But he isn't going to let you get on the bus in the far lane. You're going to have to miss this one."

Nervously, I glanced down the street. The lights had changed and the bus was coming. As it neared the stop, it started honking.

"Sebastian, move your fucking car!" I yelled.

"Get in!"

I stood up and stomped over to the driver-side window. "Why are you doing this? You're fucking up my entire life!"

He grinned, but it didn't last. "By making you miss the bus?"

The bus driver had slowed to a crawl almost parallel with Sebastian's car and was leaning on his horn, making a deafening sound. "Move your car, asshole!" the driver yelled from his window.

Sebastian's face didn't register any of it. He stared at me with an unreadable expression on his face. "Please, Shira. Get in the car."

"Why? Why should I?" I demanded, feeling myself choke up again. Fuck. Not again, I thought.

"Because Jean told me what he said to you last night."

Pulling the bus away, still honking, the driver reached out the window and gave us the finger.

"I know he did. I saw the make-up sex, or whatever it was."

"I'm not talking about the thing with his teacher, Shira. The other stuff."

Looking up the street at the disappearing bus, I gnawed on my cheek, trying hard not to cry. I had hoped that was not something Jean would share with Sebastian. When I felt in control enough, I turned back to the car, gazing over the roof, unable to look Sebastian in the eye. "I don't need sex. I need to do my laundry."

"Yes, you've made that pretty clear."

"If I get in the car, will you promise to take me home to my place?"

"Shira. I promise. Now will you get the fuck into the car?"

I climbed into the back seat and pulled the door closed behind me. Closing my eyes, sinking back into the lush leather interior, I felt the car pull away.

"Where do you live?"

It stunned me that this man who I'd done such intimate things with didn't even know my address. "1165 Laurel."

My primary motivation for posting my work online is to maintain a relationship with my readers.
This means, if I don't get any feedback, I won't be nearly as motivated to make my writing public.
Please keep this in mind before you "read and leave"