Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

  A.J. Rico

  Part I

  A Shallowness of Emotion

  Psychopathy is among the most difficult disorders to spot. The psychopath can appear normal, even charming.

  Psych Central

  1. Elementary

  WHY ME? I MEAN, I know what people see when they look at me. Small, petite, maybe a hundred pounds. In short, harmless.

  That's their first mistake.

  It's also the reason I end up in situations like this. I try to avoid them. Seriously, I do. How much more obvious do I have to be? I'm practically wearing a sign that says “leave me alone,” but sometimes you just have to spell it out for people.

  After taking a deep breath that did nothing to quell my irritation, I said, "Dude, I am your worst nightmare."

  I wasn't trying to be a douche bag. In truth, I was doing this guy a favor.

  "Look," I said biting back some of my snark. "I get it. Of everyone here in the cafe, only two of us appear to be eligible. Me and Ms. Coach over there."

  Labeling people was a bad habit of mine, but it made things easier so I didn't bother to try and change it.

  "Now, between the two of us, I definitely appear more approachable. I'm a little bit older, no wedding ring, so I'm likely a bit more desperate than our fashionably turned out friend over there."

  We both turned to look at Ms. Coach, who was delicately sipping her coffee the way women do when they don't want too much lipstick to rub off on the cup. Hasn't anyone hipped her to eight-hour lipstick yet?

  Turning back to my erstwhile charmer, I continued, "Here's what you failed to account for. I am radiating a 'don't bother me message'. See?" I pointed to the only other chair at my table which held my purse and business tote. My laptop was on the table, and I had clearly been working. I mean, the volume couldn't get any higher on my I-don't-want-company PSA. "Ms. Coach, on the other hand, her second chair is empty, but you probably figured her for high-maintenance, didn't you?"

  He nodded, looking somewhat shell-shocked. I'm sure when he hit on me, he wasn't expecting a lesson in observation, but hell, I was on a roll.

  "You look, but you don't see, my friend. Yes, she's sporting an expensive Coach bag, but it also happens to be three years old. I have one just like it. Those sky high heels she's wearing,” I paused to allow him to look, “also extremely expensive, but she's almost worn a hole in the sole. They're probably the only pair she owns. But, really, it's the hands that give it all away."

  I almost laughed aloud as he scrunched up his face peering at her hands, trying and failing, to figure it out.

  I sipped my mocha latte, enjoying the burst of cinnamon and chocolate as it slid down across my tongue. I adore coffee. It's my favorite beverage. Period.

  "Her hands?" he said, giving up.

  "Yup, the hands. That's a home manicure. The cuticles give it away. Now, granted, I know that because she was in front of me in line. You'd have to get a little closer. Oh, and she paid with a prepaid card."

  I leaned back in my chair smirking as I prepared to deliver the coup de grâce. "So, while I am, in fact, a business owner who is working on a proposal that you've interrupted, Ms. Coach has that 'I've fallen on hard times and I need a man' thing written all over her. If all you're looking for is to get your dick wet, you'll likely have an easier time of it in her neighborhood, not mine."

  "How can you tell she wants a man?" he said, finding his tongue, though he still had that shell-shocked look about him.

  "Simple." I admit, by this point, I was enjoying myself. "She's scoped out every unaccompanied man who's walked through the door." I shrugged.

  For several moments, he stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. It was almost comical. Then he seemed to snap out of it and said, "Um, right, well thanks," as he hot footed it as far away from me as possible.

  I wasn't offended. That had been the goal after all.

  "That was a bit harsh, don't you think?"

  I turned to face the speaker, an older man with silver hair and blue eyes, whose accent was educated and British. A copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy lay on the table in front of him.

  I wondered what brought him to D.C. A native Washingtonian, I'd run into few Brits in my life.

  "Harsh?" I scoffed. "No, harsh would have been taking that guy up on his offer. I'm lethal."

  "I find that rather hard to believe."

  He laughed, stunning me with the purity of his laughter. It was clear and untainted of any bitterness or sarcasm. The sheer joy of it was magnetic, and I found myself leaning into it wanting more. I quickly pulled myself together though.

  "Things are not always what they seem," I said.

  "Very true, but still. You expect me to believe you," he looked me up and down, "are lethal?"

  I smiled at him and said, "Only to the male ego. But, usually that's enough. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep."

  Tucking my laptop into my bag, I threw everything over one shoulder. As I turned to leave, the Brit was still smiling as he raised his cup in acknowledgment. I smiled back, gave a small salute, and left noting as I did so that Charmer had joined Ms. Coach.

  Elementary, my dear Watson.

  I lied. My appointment was several hours off, but it was an easy thing to say and garners no conflict. I avoid conflict whenever possible.

  It's not that I enjoy lying; it's more that honesty—in my experience anyway—is always punished. Sure, I could have said what I actually felt: Listen, I've just spent two hours obeying society's rules for civilized interactions. I've pretended to be interested in the random people who felt the need to share information with me. I smiled, said all my pleases and thank yous, and now I'm done. Charmer used up the last of my reserves.

  I'm sure that would have gone over swimmingly. Yeah, right. So, rather than risk unnecessary rancor and confrontation, I lie. It's easier for everyone that way. Well, easier for me.

  With several hours to kill and more polish needed on my pitch, I headed to my other haunt—the library.

  Leaving behind the eclectic shops and eateries at the heart of Dupont Circle, I walked down P Street before cutting across 24th and strolling down the picturesque street bustling with Washington, D.C.'s movers and shakers.

  Easily navigating the lunchtime crowds is an acquired skill. There are enough people who you have to weave your way through, but it's nothing like New York City. It's that balance that keeps me here. The city is cosmopolitan enough to satisfy my need for gourmet food and elegant living, but I can still see the sky.

  D.C. is my hometown, though I was born immediately over the line in Maryland at Washington Adventist Hospital. In a twist of irony, the hospital had changed its name before I was born. Before that, it was called the Washington Adventist Sanatorium. Names have power, and changing a name doesn't change the essence of a thing. I always wondered if being born in a sanatorium had impacted my outlook on life and people.

  Despite technically being born and raised in Maryland, I considered myself a Washingtonian. Most people in the greater D.C. Metropolitan area (the parts of Maryland and Virginia that flanked the District) do. Besides, trying to draw a boundary was pointless. People flowed through D.C., Maryland, and Virginia the way blood flowed through veins. One minute the blood suffused the brain, and ten minutes later it warmed your feet. Geography was irrelevant. It was much the same for the population of the D.C. Metro area. We all claimed D.C. when asked where we were from, though our driver's licenses might put a finer point on it.

  That was no longer the case for me. I officially became a full-fledged resident of our Nation’s Capital when I moved in with my boyfriend, Adam, two years before. We have an amazing
one-bedroom condo on N Street up the road from a quaint Italian Bistro, Panevino, where we are regulars.

  I say “we,” but Adam covered the majority of our living expenses. I'd stretched the truth a bit with Charmer when I'd said I was a business owner. It was technically true. I was the sole-proprietor of Big Bad Wolf Interactive—a play on my last name, Wolfe. But, the business was still in its infancy, having only come into existence when the big, glitzy web media firm where I worked as a creative director was acquired and I was promptly "right-sized" and shown the door.

  Unable to find work, I had thrown my hat into the freelance ring and was officially going it alone. After an exceedingly rough year, I finally had enough business to contribute to the household, but I was still very much dependent on Adam and his publicity director salary.

  Freelance life was good. I enjoyed answering only to myself, but it was lonely. The walls of our condo, however well-furnished, often closed in on me. So, I'd pack up my laptop and head over to Kona, our local coffee spot. Kona managed to survive in a city that bred Starbucks like lemmings by having not only amazing coffee but fresh baked pastries and shelves of books you could borrow and read at your leisure.

  Aside from the coffee shop, the West End Library was my favorite haunt. When the requirement to be even passively social overwhelmed my capacity to comply, I went to the library. Situated at the corner of 24th and L Streets, the West End was surrounded by the office buildings and ritzy hotels that made up this end of Dupont Circle, where the sight of cavalcades of black, armored SUVs transporting the truly powerful of D.C. was common.

  The automatic doors swished closed behind me and I stopped, as I always did, to peruse the new releases, letting the musty smell of paper and ink wash through me. It was a small library and showed the inevitable neglect that comes from a city that once ousted a mayor known for smoking crack and cutting community programs to cover pet projects. The tables were old, their surfaces cracked and scarred. The carpet was threadbare and an ambiguous shade of blue morphing into some form of grey. Despite the decay, I loved the notion of being surrounded by the imaginations and deep thoughts of generations of people.

  The New Release shelf was my favorite section of the library. Recently published books are their own form of birth. New ideas, new stories, new histories all add to the collective consciousness of the world. I picked up a history of Sotheby's and held it as reverentially as some people would hold a newborn baby. Opening the cover, I quickly scanned the book jacket and decided to check it out.

  I began to turn away when a new release by Judith Ivory caught my attention. Surreptitiously, I snatched the book off the shelf and added it to my stack without bothering to read the cover. It didn't matter. I knew from experience the story would be romantic and titillating. It was all I needed to know. I repeated my stealth snatch-and-grab maneuver twice more for Nora Roberts and Christine Feehan.

  Damn I want a Kindle but my cash flow doesn't support it yet. Adam and I shared a condo but not our finances. He paid for the bulk of our living expenses, but that was only fair since he earned six figures and I was barely covering my business and wardrobe expenses. Needless to say, unless he made a present of it—and so far my hints had been ignored—I couldn't afford a Kindle.

  It's not that I am ashamed to read romance novels, though you do tend to get disparaging looks from people when you're holding one in your hands. It's more that my gluttony for them is never satisfied and physical books are heavy. The weight of my growing stack had me thinking back to how tempted I'd been to steal a former co-worker's Kindle when she'd shown me her library. She had almost 200 books on that thing! And now, the West End had eBooks available. With a Kindle, I could satisfy my romance novel habit and not break my back carrying around all those heavy books!

  But I was good. I left my co-worker's Kindle alone and started dropping hints to Adam. But, if I landed the deal I was pitching this afternoon, I was treating myself to a Kindle. It had been a tough decision because Secondhand Rose, my favorite consignment shop in Georgetown, had called and told me that they'd gotten in an art nouveau ring that I might be interested in.

  Did I mention that I'm a jewelry fanatic? I love jewelry, specifically art pieces. I don't like typical jewelry that you can find any old place, which means that I shop for jewelry in thrift stores, consignment shops, and estate sales. It also means I have to be ready to buy when something presents itself. But, as much as I salivate at the idea of adding to my jewelry collection, I want a Kindle more.

  With a sigh, I sat at my usual table immediately outside of the stacks for Biography and Memoir and set my books on the battered surface. Pulling out my laptop, I launched my presentation so I could finish it. After about ten minutes of pretending to work, I pushed my laptop aside and gave in to the urge I'd been resisting.

  A small break wouldn't kill me. Setting the alarm on my phone for one hour, I opened up the Christine Feehan novel and dove into the dark, erotic magic of her world.

  My alarm vibrated right as the heroine lost herself in the arms of her nemesis, soon to be love. I admit it, I was aroused. My breathing was elevated, and I pulsed deliciously between my thighs, but that was only because it was all in my head. Sex in real life was never that erotic or fulfilling. I was lucky if I could stop thinking about the laundry long enough to make the requisite noises to get Adam off and make myself orgasm, or fake it if I didn't feel like putting in the effort.

  I used romance novels the way some women used vibrators. They filled my mind, they excited me in a way that actual sex never had. I devoured romance novels like chocolate chip cookies, but I didn't relate to them in any way. They were nothing more than erotic fantasy. As much as I wished life would imitate art, it never had.

  Sighing over the futility of wishing for things that couldn't be changed, I put the book away and refocused on the business at hand.

  2. The Scotty Principle

  I PUSHED THROUGH THE DOORS of the building in which Hudson Barnes & Associates was housed and asked the security guard for directions while trying to calm my galloping heart. I was pitching a full-scale website redesign and digital branding effort to their vice president of communications. If I landed this gig, it would be my biggest to date.

  Hudson Barnes published a request for proposals that made it clear they had no idea what they truly needed. I love clueless clients in that regard. I come in, show them what they don't yet realize was possible, and leave them salivating over the possibilities they have never even envisioned. Of course, clueless clients are a bane when it comes to the actual work because they want unreasonable things, expect miracles, and tend to whine.

  Landing this project would be my biggest payday yet, hence the Kindle decision. I'd put in a six-figure bid, having buried a lot of consulting costs in the software selection portion of the presentation. The beauty of pitching to a large agency like Hudson Barnes in a town like Washington, D.C. is that they expect consultants to be expensive.

  Make no mistake, I don't screw anybody over. I always deliver quality work. Hell, my entire business is built on what I like to call The Scotty Principle. Being a huge Star Trek fan, I've watched every episode of Star Trek ever made except Enterprise. Scott Bakula didn't sit well with me as captain. Quantum Leap, yes. Star Trek, no. I couldn't tolerate him, but I digress.

  You see, whenever Captain Kirk would call down to Engineering demanding some miracle, Scotty would always tell Kirk he needed twice as long as he actually did. Then, he'd deliver early making himself look like a hero. That's the Scotty Principle—under-promise and over-deliver. I operate every project I take on by this principle.

  That doesn't mean I don't have to look out for myself. I need wiggle room for the unexpected. I wanted to deliver miracles, not fall on my face. It works for me. I was gaining a reputation in the area and had developed a small network of freelancers I trusted to whom I subcontract portions of my projects.

  Doing that was very, and I do mean very, hard for me. I don
't trust other people to do things the way I want them done, but I'd been fortunate. I found a few college kids who were masters at their craft despite their age looking to make money to support their weed and gaming habits. They came cheap and worked well. Win-win.

  In the elevator, I pushed the button for the tenth floor and examined my surroundings. It's my theory that you can tell the true state of a building from its elevators. This is especially true in hotels. A company will put effort into its lobby. They want to make a good first impression, so I tend to ignore lobbies unless they are truly hideous. Once you're past the lobby, however, you can't be too certain. A building with a high-end lobby may actually house a bunch of struggling companies that are in that building because the rent is cheap. That would not be a good omen for me here. With the bid I put in, I need the company to be solvent, not struggling.

  Look around me, I can't help but grin. The elevator currently whooshing me up ten stories has a highly polished marble floor, glossy wood paneling, a spotless mirror lining the back wall of the compartment, and a digital display that announces the floor when it stops. I've got nothing to worry about.

  A wall of glass and steel confronts me as I exit the elevator. I have arrived at Hudson Barnes. I'm greeted by a bubbly and voluptuous piece of female eye candy guarding the aggressively minimalist front desk. She's dressed in a beautiful, wine-colored suit that on any normally-proportioned woman would have been demure. On her, it's as if it had been poured on. The silk of her blouse is stretched taut enough that I, and I'm sure every male here, knows she's wearing lace underneath. But, the thing that stands out to me is that their receptionist can afford silk. A quick check of her hand shows no wedding rings, so either she's landed a generous sugar daddy or her salary lets her dress expensively. I'm hoping for the latter.

  After ringing the vice president to let him know I'm there, she directs me to a seating area that could grace a designer showroom. I sit in a leather and steel chair and mentally practice my pitch while doing my best to settle my nerves.