“My father was very strict, but I was rebellious. My sisters, for the most part, lived by his rules. I always made sure to do my best to break or at least stretch them. There’s always one kid that’s the wild child, and I guess I was that kid,” she grinned as she ran her fingers through her hair.
“So, six girls. Wow, that’s a lot of estrogen in one home,” I said as she crossed her legs and placed her hands in her lap.
“No. Five total. There are five of us. Five sisters. Sorry, I don’t have five sisters. We are five sisters. Or whatever. There’s five. Me and four others. Christi, who’s closest to me in age, is a whore,” she chuckled.
“That’s not nice to say about your sister,” I said as I leaned into the back of my chair, waiting for her to expand on the sexual adventures of her sister the whore.
“Well, she is. She can’t keep a boyfriend longer than about six weeks,” she paused and shook her head slightly.
“If you can even call them that. Boyfriends,” she huffed.
“She screws them. And then she leaves them. Call her whatever you want. But she uses them for sex. And she has commitment issues or something. So, in short, she’s a whore. A slut. But anyway, tell me more about you,” she raised her hands from her lap and pressed her fingers into her temples.
“Do you believe in love, Katelyn?” not certain of why I had asked the question, I sat and waited for her to answer.
She lowered her fingers from her temples and covered her pursed lips with her hands. Her eyes shifted to over my left shoulder and blinked a few times before she began to respond.
“I uhm. Well. Yes. Yes, I do. My parents are proof that it at least exists. I think it was or maybe is more prevalent in the older generation, and it’s what’s missing today in the nation’s youth. Kids today don’t love, they act. They do whatever they need to do – or what they think they need to do to get laid. It’s ridiculous,” her voice elevated in intensity as she spoke.
She paused and shifted her focus from peering over my shoulder to my eyes.
“I’m all for getting laid. But don’t tell me you love me so you can just fuck me. Be truthful; tell me you want to fuck me. Don’t cheapen the sex by calling it love. Call it what it is. It’s entertainment. It’s exciting. It’s a great way to kill an afternoon, evening, or night, but it’s not love. It’s like going to the beach, hiking, or learning how to ride a scooter. It’s an event. Love is forever. Fucking is entertainment. Don’t even get me started on this subject,” she exhaled and shook her head from side-to-side.
“It looks like I already did,” I hesitated and took a sip of my lukewarm coffee, “get you started, that is.”
“It’s a sore subject with me. People saying they love someone, screwing them, and then screwing them. Inevitably it ends poorly, Parker. The girl always gets left holding onto some false hope of the most recent douchebag of a boyfriend coming back to her, and he doesn’t. He moves on to another victim, screws her, and gives her some bullshit reason for leaving; generally twisting the truth to make it look like it’s her fault. Fact of the matter is this,” she spread her hands about a foot apart and turned her palms upward.
“It never was love, and it was always just about sex. He should have said, I want to fuck you and walk away without any ties to you. If I have fun fucking you, I may come back and do it again. If I don’t enjoy it, don’t expect to see me again. Had he said something like that, she could have made a more intelligent decision – a more fact based decision – and not held onto the hope of him being the one. Men. I have little use for them,” she clasped her hands together, looked down at my shoes, and shook her head.
“So,” I dragged the word along, and hesitated before continuing.
“You want to go on a date?” I asked.
“Seriously? After all of that you want to ask me out?” she chuckled.
“Absolutely,” I smiled.
“Just don’t tell me you love me and then spend the entire night trying to fuck me,” she said as she scrunched her brow into a cartoon like scowl.
“Not a chance,” I smiled, “I’m a virgin.”
“Whatever,” she said as she rolled her eyes and tossed her head to the side.
“I’m serious. My grandmother raised me with old school values,” I said flatly as I lifted my cup from the table.
“A date with a virgin. This’ll be a nice change. Sounds fun, Parker. When and where?” she asked.
“How does Friday night sound? Say six o’clock or so?” I raised my eyebrows and waited for her response.
“You really a virgin?” she asked, her eyes studying me as she spoke.
I nodded my head sharply, “I certainly am.”
“Six o’clock sounds great,” she responded.
“How about this,” in an effort to make myself seem more interesting and a little on the mysterious side of things, I stood from my chair and picked up my tablet.
“I’ll pick you up here at six o’clock on Friday. If everything goes well, we’ll exchange numbers and such afterward.”
Undeniably surprised, she looked up at me as I picked up my coffee cup.
“Sorry, I have a meeting in a few minutes,” I said as I turned my wrist and glanced at my watch.
“Sounds great,” she looked up, smiled, and shook her head slowly.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you again,” I nodded and turned toward the stairs.
As I approached the steps, I dropped my coffee cup into the trash can. Turning to face Katelyn as I pushed my hand into my pocket, I hesitated and held the gaze for a long moment before I stepped onto the first step. When her mouth began to form a smile, I smiled in return, turned, and began to walk down the steps.
Certainly Kenton would be proud of me – considering my accomplishments for the morning. I didn’t really understand why, but his approval of my endeavors was important to me. As I stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk, I began to think of what I would tell him regarding having met Katelyn and my morning at the coffee shop.
Kenton had requested my updates be delivered in person. Speaking on the telephone, he advised me, was impersonal. The thought of acting in a manner other than what would be perceived as anything but personal bothered me.
I started the car and typed Kenton’s address into the navigation system. As I pulled from the curb, I thought of how I would describe Katelyn to Kenton. Her natural good looks, the asymmetrical haircut, her hatred toward her whorish sister, clear skin, general lack of faith in the male species, and her small yet athletic build.
Imperfectly perfect.
VICTORIA. “Look above the stove, in the pantry,” my mother moaned.
“I did mother,” I responded as I walked from her bedroom into the living room.
I tried to recall the last time she actually slept in her bedroom. I was probably in middle school. For as long as I could remember, my mother had slept in the recliner in the living room. Basically, she lived in the chair, pointed strategically at the television - which blasted meaningless matter twenty four hours a day.
Without a doubt, painkillers dull all of one’s senses, hearing included.
“Can we turn it down a little?” I asked as I walked toward the television.
“I can’t hear it now,” she said through her fingers as she stretched her hands over her face in agony.
“In the bathroom, under the sink?” she groaned.
“I looked, mother. I’ve looked everywhere. You’re out. Completely,” I sighed.
“Go find me something. I’ll even take Lortab’s,” she begged in an almost inaudible tone.
My mother had fallen at work when I was in second grade, fracturing several bones in her hip. Her employer was found negligent in court, and was required to settle with my mother financially as well as medically. The end result was a lifelong addiction to pain killers, a short period of unemployment, and a paltry monthly paycheck spent entirely on obtaining more painkillers than the doctor was allowed to prescribe.
&
nbsp; Immediately following my birth, my father was killed in a car wreck. My mother never remarried. She claimed he was her first and only love. As I grew older and watched my mother become a drug addict, I often wondered if she was merely wallowing in the grief of her loss by dulling herself senseless with narcotics.
Her medical state didn’t allow me to do or see much beyond working. My paychecks primarily kept me in clothes, fed me, and supplemented the amount of painkillers she was prescribed by the doctor.
Her addiction had become her life.
Enabling her had become mine.
“What day is it?” she breathed as she scratched her arms unknowingly.
“It’s the fifth,” I responded.
Ten more days.
“Oh lord,” she groaned.
“I’m going, mother,” I sighed as I turned toward my bedroom to retrieve my purse.
Growing up, all I ever wanted was to be a chef. Cooking was something which had always fascinated and satisfied me. I suspect it grew from the necessity to cook for myself at such a young age. In my wildest dreams as a child, I never would have guessed life’s destination for me was going to be here.
A drug dealer and caregiver to my Barco Lounger dependent narcotics addicted mother.
After assuring her I would return with something, I stepped outside and onto the sidewalk. As I walked to my car, I smiled at my recollection of the boy from the book store.
Parker.
The thought of getting to know a boy and developing a relationship was satisfying.
But impossible.
I’d probably never see him again anyway.
If I did happen to see him again, he wouldn’t stick around for very long.
They never do.
PARKER. If wealth were measured by the aesthetics of one’s living quarters, Kenton Ward was one rich man.
6201 Camino De La Costa.
As the front of my car approached the gate, I stared at the speaker which was carefully hidden in the ornamental stone post on the left side of the brick and stone driveway. As the car came to a stop, I sat and gawked like an idiot; not quite knowing what to do next. A precursory glance toward the trees that surrounded the left side of the entrance revealed a security camera mounted to any ivy covered fence.
I glanced toward where I expected the home to be. From the entrance, the home was well hidden by the stone fence and trees which separated the land in front of the home from the street.
“Good day Mr. Bale. Mr. Ward is expecting you. Follow the drive to the front entrance of the home, please. Feel free to park in front of the fountain.”
The voice was pleasant and surprisingly clear.
I stared at the stone post and smiled.
“Thank you,” I no more than spoke, and the gate opened automatically.
As I drove slowly along the driveway, I admired the front of the home. I suspect I had some form of preconceived notion regarding what I expected Kenton’s home to look like, but what I was seeing cleary wasn’t what I had previously expected.
At the end of the drive sat a very spacious two story home with a semi-circular center and straight sides that tapered toward the rear as if they were wings. The circular drive encompassed a large three tier fountain which sat directly in front of the entrance. The front of the home was constructed primarily of glass. A home like this was where I would expect to find Steve Jobs, Mel Gibson, Kobe Bryant, or Tiger Woods.
My heart began to race at the thought of just who Kenton Ward may be.
As I continued to stare at the home admiringly, I unfolded my gum wrapper and dropped my gum into it. A feeling of uncertainty masked my nervous stomach as I stepped from the car and onto the brick drive. As I closed the car door, a man opened the front door of the home and stepped onto the spacious porch.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Mr. Bale? I’m Downes; I assist Mr. Ward in his day-to-day activities,” the man said in a soft reassuring tone.
His voice was almost hypnotic.
Without thinking, I pressed the key fob and locked the door of the car. At the sound of the doors locking, Downes spoke again.
“I can assure you your car is safe here, Mr. Bale. Mr. Ward insists on having a secure home. Please come in,” he said as he gestured toward the open door behind him.
“Downes?” I asked as I approached the steps.
“That is correct. How has your day been so far, Mr. Bale?” he asked as I walked up the steps and onto the porch.
“Splendid. Thank you,” I responded.
Dressed in grey linen pants and a white V-neck designer tee shirt, Downes appeared to be in incredible physical condition. His close cut hair and cleanly shaven face made guessing his age difficult, but I suspected he was in his latter thirties. Stepping through the doorway and into the home revealed a breathtaking display of Kenton Ward’s taste.
The home was filled with eclectic furnishings of rich velour, earth tone leather, and animal print. Again, not what I had expected, but it was decorated using extremely good taste.
“Pleasure to see you, Parker. Would you like a sandwich?” Kenton asked as I followed Downes into a large room at the rear of the home.
The exterior wall was constructed of glass and faced the ocean. The view was spectacular. The elevation of the home, in comparison to sea level, was considerably higher. The view was of the ocean, but from this particular location, not of the beach.
In awe, I stood and stared out at the ocean.
“Well?” Kenton strung the word along as he spoke, jokingly.
“Pardon me?” somewhat nervous, I had spoken before I had time to think. He wanted to know about the sandwich, I was sure.
“A sandwich, Parker. You’ve had one before, I would guess. If not, you should try one. They’re quite good; two or more slices of bread with a form of filler in between the slices. Today, it’s chicken breast, artichokes, some type of jam, provolone cheese, and what appears to be Romaine lettuce,” he paused, rotated the sandwich in front of his face slowly, and looked at it intently.
“On a whole wheat hoagie,” he turned to face me and smiled.
“Yes sir. I have had a sandwich before. I’ll have one, thank you,” I nodded my head slightly as I finished speaking.
“To drink?” Downes asked softly.
“Water. In a glass, please,” I smiled.
“The only way it is served,” Downes winked, turned, and walked out of the room.
“Stop the sir shit, Parker. I’m Kenton. That’s all. Understood?” Kenton said in a soft yet stern tone.
“Yes sir,” as soon as the word sir escaped my mouth, I rolled my eyes.
“My apologies,” I paused and shook my head, “Kenton.”
“That’s better. Are you a golfer, Parker?” Kenton asked as he turned to face the ocean.
He was dressed in khaki shorts, a Polo style shirt, and golf shoes. The shoes made an audible clacking noise as he walked across the wooden floor toward the window.
“I have golfed, but I am far from a golfer. I do enjoy the sport,” I responded.
“I don’t know what type of that jam is, but it’s damned tasty,” he said as he licked the tips of his fingers.
“Downes, bring me another sandwich, would you?” he spoke in the direction Downes had walked from the room.
“Now, let’s sit. Tell me about your day,” he said as he turned and walked into the furnished portion of the room.
I studied the furniture, not sure of where to sit.
“Sit wherever you like, Parker. In time, you’ll find I’m not the type of person you believe me to be. I’m wealthy, but I’m not a wealthy prick. Sit, please,” he motioned toward the open room as he spoke.
“It’s not so much you. I think it’s being here. It’s rather intimidating,” I admitted as I walked around the arm of one of the chairs and sat down.
Viewing the home from outside, it was apparent the center section was two stories tall. I assumed the two stories were two stories of living are
a – two separate floors. Once inside, it was obvious the center of the home was one very, very tall living area. I looked up at the ceiling, which appeared to be thirty feet over my head. As I lowered my head, I looked out once again at the ocean in front of me.
“I can see how it might be. Let me tell you a little about me,” Kenton said as he lowered himself into an overstuffed burgundy velvet chair.
He looked around the room as if everything in it was new to him. Slowly, he took every viewable inch of the home into his path of sight. As Downes entered the room with food and beverages, Kenton sighed lightly and nodded in his direction. After leaving the tray containing the food onto a large coffee table positioned between Kenton and me, Downes quietly exited the room.
“My wealth. I didn’t deserve it. Hell, I don’t deserve it now, but I have it. I suspect because I have lived on the other side of the wealthy, and have earned all of what is before you, it allows me to keep myself in check. I don’t take my wealth, life, or people for granted,” he hesitated and reached for one of the glasses of water.
“At least not now. I appreciate all of what I have and what people offer me from my exposure to them. Don’t get me wrong,” he paused and turned to face me.
“I enjoy this,” he motioned in my direction and opened his arms toward the room.
“I graduated college and worked in architecture for about ten years. I lived below my means, but appeared - at least on the surface - to be wealthy. I drove a ten year old luxury car, but I kept it spotless. I leased a condo in Old Town. I dressed well. People assumed I had money. I allowed them to assume what they assumed, and I used it to my advantage. I manipulated women, had sex with anyone who would allow me to, and never once fell in love. My love, I can easily admit now, was money. My only concern, Parker, was how people perceived me,” he shook his head lightly and took a drink from his glass.
“Their perception, albeit an inaccurate one, allowed me to become a horrible person. I cared about nothing and no one but myself. Well, myself and money. I appeared wealthy, worked like a slave, and saved every penny I could. At around that ten year mark, I got an investment tip from a friend on a particular stock. What is now Sirius XM Radio,” he stood from his chair, walked toward the windowed wall, and gazed out at the ocean.