BRIELLE
“Yeah, I’m like, super into rowing. It’s a men’s only crew though. No offense, but women just can’t keep up and I like to go hard. Gotta stay in shape, right?” The stomach-turning frat boy masquerading as a man winks at me, the innuendo decidedly not subtle. The thing is, that was probably the least offensive thing he’s said about women all night.
Bradleans his elbow on the table and gives his wrist a shake. He’s been doing it all night, forcing me to look at the gaudy watch strapped around his wrist. If this bozo really wants me to comment on his knock-off Piaget, he’s going to have to ask for it, and he’s not going to like what I have to say. The cheap imitation was probably made by children paid pennies a day, if they were even paid at all. Every time I look at the thing, it makes bile rise in my throat, much like the man sporting it.
I don’t respond to the double entendre. I really couldn’t care less how ‘hard’ he goes with his ‘crew’ or the new shell his daddy bought him.
What kind of grown man still talks like this? One who had everything handed to him, I think. Leaning back in my chair, I try to subtly get our server’s attention, resisting the urge to roll my eyes as Brad prattles on about river conditions this week.
Gag. I really should have bailed the second he ordered for me without even bothering to ask what I wanted. But his family is connected, and it won’t do me, or my company, any favors to be a raging bitch, no matter how much he deserves it.
Chicago is a big city, but the high rollers do their rolling together, and they are petty as fuck. Bringing on the ire of any of the old-money families could be enough to sink my little fledgling. Still, I’d give my left ovary to get out of here.
Brad is engrossed in the dessert menu, telling me which ones he wants to share. Does he offer me a choice? Does he offer me my own dessert? Of course not. And I never expected him to. Not after he looked me up and down and declared me “curvier” than his “normal girls.” My left eye hasn’t stopped twitching ever since. God forbid my ribs don’t jut out.
The server finally glances in my direction, and I mouth ‘check’, eyes flashing as I wag a hundred-dollar bill by my hip, down out of Brad’s sight. It’s crumpled and sweaty. I snuck it out of my purse fifteen minutes ago, and I’ve been clutching it between angry fingers ever since.
It’s taken the server a hot minute to catch on, but it’s all his if he moves his ass and brings the check. His eyes go wide in his baby face and, like a freaking wizard, he apparates by my side in under a minute, the leather folder tucked against his side. He moves to set it on the table, but I take it, quickly tucking the Benjamin inside, along with my credit card, and handing it right back.
“Hang on,” Brad says, finally catching on. The waiter freezes, eyes darting between the two of us. “I thought we were going to split a cheesecake.” My date pouts. He actually pouts. If he was five, I might give a shit. But at 35, there’s no excuse for pouting like that.
“I have an early morning,” I say, forcing my expression into what I hope looks like a disappointed grimace. “We’re all set,” I say to the waiter, dismissing him. He doesn’t need to be told twice, and turns on his heel, scampering away before Brad can hold him up again.
“You should have at least let me pay,” he grumbles.
Ha. No. I know exactly how men like him think. If I let him pay, he’s going to think I owe him something. And without fail, that something is sex. I’d rather carve my own eyeballs out with a melon baller than let this douche get in my panties.
“That’s okay,” I say, my fragile politeness wearing ever thinner. “It’s not like I can’t afford to pay for my own meals.” I can’t help getting the little jab in. It’s true, too. My sustainable, fair-trade clothing company is blowing up. Growth at an unprecedented pace—that’s what our last financial report read. My net worth may not match his family’s wealth, but I built it from the ground up.
I can see the wheels turning behind Brad’s dull eyes, grinding along at a glacial speed. I wonder if he was always this vapid or if a lifetime of handouts and undeserved praise turned him into… this.
“Well, let me pay next time.” Because Og is Man! Og pay for weak female. Og deserve pussy. He doesn’t say the last part out loud, but it’s layered in there with that caveman tone of his. I grit my teeth, suppressing the urge to tell him where to shove his toxic masculinity, but he still hasn’t caught on.
“Whatever. Let’s get out of here. I could use a nightcap.” Brad winks at me again and runs the rough edge of his shoe up my bare calf. The pain isn’t what pisses me off. It’s the blatant disrespect. The ass-hattery of his assumptions. At no point in this entire miserable evening did I say one thing that would lead him to believe I’d want to go home with him. The lion, the witch, and the audacity of this bitch.
What part of ‘I have an early morning’ doesn’t he get? His complete lack of social awareness makes me want to bury my face in my hands and scream. Just… wow. Is he really that stupid or does he think I’ll go home with him if he keeps pretending this has gone well? I’m leaning toward stupid.
And selfish.
If the one-sided conversation over the last hour is anything to judge by, I’d bet a million bucks he’s a two-pump chump in bed who thinks buying me half a dessert is plenty of foreplay. I’m already standing when the waiter brings my credit card back. I slip another hundred in his palm as I take my card and scribble my name on the bill.
I head toward the door, not bothering to see if Brad is following. I really couldn’t care less. I just want to go home, get the hell out of these heels, and drown my loneliness in a bottle of expensive red wine. And chocolate. I deserve chocolate.
* * *
My alarm goes off at 6 am. There’s a soft whirring as the automatic shades lift, exposing skyline views of downtown Chicago. There’s a hint of light coming from the east, but the sun has at least half an hour to go before the golden glow spills through the space. I make my coffee and step out onto the balcony, settling into my favorite chair to catch up on emails.
When JustCloth went big, it went BIG. And it did it almost overnight. One celebrity plug on the red carpet and a four-minute feature on the morning news was all it took. I think it was a ‘right idea, right time’ situation more than anything. For every clothing company that picks up a solid following, there are hundreds that go nowhere.
But we got lucky, and I wasn’t about to squander it. We worked day and night for months, sourcing new items, building up the infrastructure, and fitting out extra warehouses to keep up with demand. I went days at a time without sleeping, but I pulled through. We pulled through—and we didn’t just keep up. We thrived.
After months of crashing on my office couch or passing out face down on my desk, I spoiled myself. No more rat-infested studio apartments on the edge of the city, with their leaky pipes and weird smells. It’s been six months, and I still don’t miss the trumpet quartet that lived, and practiced, in the unit above me.
This condo came at a premium, but the walls are gloriously soundproofed, and waking up to watch the sunrise over downtown makes my Chicagoan heart sing.
I wrap up a few loose ends before getting ready to head to the office. I carefully tuck a cream-colored silk blouse into my black pencil skirt. My long, black hair goes up in the same French twist I wear every day. My stylist always tries to cut little pieces in the front to ‘soften’ the look, but I don’t have time to fuss with it. I do my makeup, keeping it natural-looking. But even that requires a ton of work.
“It’s almost Friday, girl. You got this,” I mutter as I smudge out soft brown eyeliner. I love my company. I love my employees (most of them anyway). I love working. But fourteen-hour days stack up fast and take their toll, physically and mentally. By the time I get to the weekend, I have a lot of steam to blow off.
I hail a cab and climb inside. I don’t like working in moving cars, so I let my mind wander and count it as meditation time. Meditating today mostly consists of brainstorming ways to blow off the aforementioned steam.
Kickboxing works. Mostly.
There’s always clubbing. I’m not a party girl by any stretch. I’m not a heavy drinker, and I never liked the way party drugs made me feel. What does it for me is the dancing. The body-vibrating music, the crush of bodies, the fever pitch the crowd reaches, roiling like a living entity… that calms me in a way I can’t explain.
But it doesn’t make my toes curl. It doesn’t wrap around me as I sleep, or go for leisurely brunches with me on Sundays.