I take out an X-acto knife, my hand closing reverentially around the handle, which fits comfortably in my palm. The negligible weight is almost misleading, because this blade will do the job so perfectly, so brilliantly.
I have alcohol in a little bottle along with cotton balls. And I pull them closer so that they are at the edge of the dresser. Then I peel off my yoga pants and sit on the foot of the bed in my underwear, my legs spread wide.
I haven't cut since I moved to Los Angeles. Getting away from my mother was the best thing I ever did. And in celebration, I threw away all my blades even before I got here.
But that's not to say I haven't wanted to, which is why I bought this case a few months ago at a flea market when I was feeling lonely and a little lost.
I tell myself this is a one-time thing. I touch the blade to my inner thigh, then slowly and lightly drag it over my flesh, running parallel to the scars that already mar my legs. I bite my lip as I watch the beads of blood rise from this first, thin cut. The blade is so sharp there's not even any pain initially, and it's almost as if the blood rises from magic alone. As if the pressure that is building up inside me has been searching for release and has found it here, along a mystical line of blood.
It's not enough though. I don't just need to cut; I need to feel. And so I take the blade back, craving another stroke, deeper this time. Harder. I need the pain. I need the release.
I need to know that I am real--that this is real--and that I'm not trapped in some dream world where everything is--
My door bursts open. "I'm totally out of deodorant," Jamie says. "Do you have an-- Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Nicholas!"
I toss the blade onto the ground and whip the bedspread over me the instant she barges in. But it doesn't matter. She sees it all.
"What the hell?" Jamie's voice is soft, but fierce, and she kneels in front of me, her hands on my knees, her expression earnest as she looks into my eyes. "How long, Nikki? How long have you been doing this?"
I can barely see her, and I realize that I'm crying. "I haven't. I swear. But today--" I wipe my eyes violently.
"Because everything is off-kilter? Like you were just saying?"
I nod.
"Oh, man. Oh, Nik." She climbs up onto the bed beside me and pulls me close. "Don't do that. You scared the crap out of me. You don't need that. You're better now. You've been better. Just talk to me. Okay?" She pulls away and looks into my eyes and the fear I see there is enough to make me agree to anything. "Okay?"
I nod. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me today."
Her shoulders sag. "It's the holidays. Everyone goes nuts over the holidays."
I nod. Maybe she's right. Maybe that's it.
"Don't tell Ollie," I beg. I don't want him to worry that this is because of him.
"Cross my heart. But, damn, Nik, if you do it again--"
"I won't. I swear I won't. Take it. Just take it the hell away."
She does. Right then and there she drops to the floor to get the knife, then puts the case back together and holds on tight to it. That's how I know just how much I've freaked her out. And I really am sorry--so damn sorry--but that doesn't change the fact that I'd needed it.
"We really are going to be late if I don't go shower," I say as I stand up. "Deodorant's on the rack inside the closet," I add, then hurry out of the room. Because, honestly, I can't get out of there fast enough.
--
"It's a great opportunity if you can swing it," Lisa Reynolds says as she digs into her waffle. We've met at Du-par's in Studio City, just down the street from the office condo that she's suggesting I buy. "And we already know you like the place."
"I love it," I agree. I'd met Lisa over a year ago when I'd lost my job at C-Squared and decided to try and make my own web and app design business a reality. I'd answered an ad for office space, and met Lisa, a business consultant who was trying to sublet a property for a client. She's about as native as Angelenos get, having moved from China when her parents adopted her at the age of three. She's funny and energetic and even though I couldn't afford the space, she and I and Jamie became friends, and we've been doing regular Wednesday happy hours for months now.
"But you know I can't afford it," I remind her.
"I have a thought about that, too," she says. "I think we should pitch your web-based note taking app to Stark Applied Technology."
I gape at her. "Seriously?"
Lisa's fiance, Preston Rhodes, is the head of acquisition at the lucrative company, a division of Stark International, which is one of the most profitable corporate conglomerates in the world, headed by one of the wealthiest men in the world, Damien Stark.
I'm not a follower of high finance, but since I haven't lived in a cave my entire life, I know who Stark is--a man who made a fortune as a professional tennis player, then parlayed his winnings and his talent into business. He's exceptionally easy on the eyes and has a reputation as both a brilliant businessman and something of a bad boy, with the tabloids often doing Stark-watch, a pictorial account of whatever woman happens to be on his arm that particular week.
I'd actually considered applying for a job at Stark Applied Technology after I'd gotten laid off. But I'd talked myself out of it, deciding to give working for myself a try instead. I'm glad I did, too. I like the freedom and the challenge. And even though I'm not exactly raking in the big bucks, I'm doing well enough.
Not, however, well enough to buy an office condo.
"Do you really think Preston would go for it?"
"Why wouldn't he? It's brilliant. And it's the kind of thing the company could really use. Hell, you could license it to all of the Stark companies. That kind of a deal would give you enough income to get the condo."
"You think?"
Lisa slides a piece of paper toward me, and my eyes go wide. "You drew up a spec licensing agreement? And a P&L?"
"Which is mostly on the P-for-profit side," she says, "since you've already got the product and your overhead is fixed."
I glance at Jamie, who gives me a tiny, excited nod. "Okay, then," I say. "What have I got to lose?"
"Not a thing," Lisa says.
"And, actually, I didn't really tell you everything."
I was about to take another bite of my omelet, but now I lean back in the booth. "Oh?"
She clears her throat. "As your business advisor, I sometimes have to strike when the iron is hot, and with the condo on the market now I figured there was no time to waste, and so--well, I already pitched it to Preston."
"Lisa!"
"And he loves it."
"Seriously?" I'm not sure if I should be thrilled by the news or irritated that she went behind my back. Since I'm ultimately pragmatic--and since pragmatic small business owners do not scoff at possible licensing agreements with major international companies--I settle on thrilled. "He really likes it?"
"Yup. But it's the kind of license that has to get approval from the CEO. So it has to be approved by Damien Stark."
"Oh." My euphoria starts to wane.
"Don't worry," Lisa says. "It's an amazing product. And Preston actually had dinner with Mr. Stark last night and told him all about it. So you may even know before the new year."
Jamie picks up her orange juice and lifts it as if in a toast. "Well, merry freaking Christmas," she says. "This one may turn out to be spectacular."
It really might, I think as we head back to the condo. Then I think some more as I try to work on a commissioned app that's supposed to launch mid-January. And later, when I'm doing the dishes that Jamie habitually ignores, I actually fantasize about having my very own office space.
The possibility makes me giddy, but I also know that it could be a huge, massive disappointment. And I'm trying really hard not to get my hopes up.
"If you're that worried," Jamie says as we are driving to Malibu that evening, "maybe you should just ask Stark directly."
I glance at her sideways. "What do you mean?"
"Evelyn said he's coming tonight."
"Really?" From what I've heard, Damien Stark is exceptionally particular when it comes to accepting invitations.
"Apparently they go way back. She's repped him on and off since his tennis days." Jamie glances at me as she waits for a light to change. "It's weird, though, isn't it? Stark's the reason you don't have a job at C-Squared. And now here you are trying to get him to license your stuff."
"Small world," I say, but it is a little weird. I'd just started at C-Squared when my boss pitched a new software product to Stark Applied Technology. Stark had turned it down--too similar to another product that was just about to hit the market. Unfortunately, although I didn't know it at the time, I'd been hired to work on that account. When the anticipated deal went away, so did I.