Cruel Beloved

Downing my drink, I place the tumbler on the counter, then walk to the door to leave. Not looking Carla’s way—even though I can feel her eyes burning into me—I walk out.

“Whiskey.”

I haven’t been called that name for a long time. I stop walking as my driver pulls up at the curb. Turning around, her long, black dress dances on the tiled floor as she stands on the steps.

“Carla.” My hand touches the door of my car, waiting to hear what she has to say.

“You’re leaving?”

“I am.”

“You weren’t even going to say goodbye.”

I smirk, get into the car, and wind the window down.

“You’ll see me again soon, Carla Star.”

4

Carla

“The nerve of him.” I throw my bag on the floor. “You wouldn’t believe it.” I huff, reaching down to pull my heels off, my aching feet appreciative and waiting for some relief. Give me my flat shoes any day over these damn heels.

“Carla…”

“Who does he think he is?” Pulling at the heel, I throw it, then reach for the next.

“Carla…”

“He’s just… so…” Pulling off the next, I throw it with more gusto than probably intended. Then I sit on the floor, cross my legs with my stupid black, full-length dress still on, and look up at Emma.

“What’s the matter?” She stands in front of me, holding a piece of paper in her hand as she looks down on me. “Who are you talking about?” she asks.

“Whiskey. He was there tonight,” I say, succumbing to the floor and lying down on it.

“Oh, my God, you are in a designer dress. Get it off that floor.”

I stare at the ceiling, not even caring. Normally, I do care about my clothing, even the items I don’t like to wear. But right now, I couldn’t care less.

“He was just so…” I pause, opening my eyes to see Emma staring down at me, her face a mixture of puzzled and entertained, “… devilishly handsome. He propositioned me. Damn if I didn’t want to tell him yes, that he could push me up against a wall and have his way with me. It was so hard telling him no.”

“What’s his first name?” Emma asks. I stare at her blankly. Is she not taking any of this in? “Name, Carla? Tell me his name.”

“Corton.” Her face drops, and she sits down on the floor crossing her legs right next to me. “Emma, why do you look like that?”

She pushes the paper she was holding behind her back, then looks up to me with saddened eyes. “Tell me more.”

“What’s that?” I ask, sitting up, reaching for the papers behind her back. She pushes them farther back while shaking her head.

“Nothing. Tell me more about him.”

“You’re acting weird. Just show me.”

“But you seem so happy, yet pissed off all at the same time. I’ve never seen you this way about a man.”

“No man has made me this angry.” I reach behind her, but she pushes the papers farther away again. “Hey, let me have that.”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Emma, let me see.” Her phone dings and she glances in that direction. So, I quickly reach over and take the papers from behind her back. Before she can pull them away, I’m up and walking with them to the kitchen.

“What’s…”

I see my name.

What the hell?

I look over at Emma, whose face is white.

Sign on the dotted line…

I , Carla Star, agree to marry you, Corton Whiskey, on the date supplied in the attached contract. In signing this document, I agree that I shall not, by any means, try to break this contract. I understand that if I do, the envelope held in escrow will be released to the parties identified within the contract, and I shall forfeit my right to the privacy currently afforded to me by the aforementioned Mr.Corton Whiskey.

Aubrey Bateman

Lawyer acting on behalf of Mr. Whiskey

“This… this can’t be real?” I look up to Emma after I read it again for the fourth time, but her face hasn’t changed, and she hasn’t moved at all. I’m sure mine looks much the same—shock, despair, anger, all the emotions flicking over it.

“It is. It has…” She steps forward and pushes a CD sitting on the counter toward me. “I haven’t watched it, but I think we should. Together. That’s a real contract too. I should know, my father’s an attorney.” She picks up the CD and walks over to her PlayStation. “We should sit down, we don’t know what’s on this.”

Picking up the contract, I scrunch it up. No way. This has to be some sort of hoax. It has to be.

“Carla, come on, we need to see what this is.”

Looking up, my face comes on screen, and I know exactly what night it is. It’s the night I met him. I’m in a little black leather hot skirt, a white singlet which hangs loosely, and heels that cost me a fortune. Hands touch me, and I’m instantly taken back to that night when I took all my responsibilities that I held close and let them go.