The Kissing Game Page 4

  At the door, I remove my keys from my purse, but they collide with the lock. After several tries, I realize the keys can’t make contact with the key hole. Something must be wrong with them.

  “Give them to me,” Robert orders. I hand them over. He slips them inside the protruding lock like a judge smacking a gavel. Then he opens my door, and I flick the switch. Light from my kitchen splinters through the room. As we enter, I realize I’m not prepared for guests. My laundry basket full of blue towels and jeans sits on the floor near what barely passes for a couch. I hope there are no bras in the basket, but I don’t care enough to do anything about the situation.

  Then I hear footsteps trotting up the stairs.

  “Caroline,” Ted says, appearing at my door. His fingers touch the frame. “I saw you almost take a tumble. You alright?”

  Ah, Ted Bundy to the rescue.

  Somehow I manage the several paces over to my couch and flop down. I kick off my shoes and look up. Two good-looking men stand there in my doorway gazing at me. One wears the same shorts and t-shirt he wore this morning, and the other wears a suit and looks surly.

  “Fine, thanks, jus’ a little too much to drink tonight,” I reply. I lean into the couch and close my eyes. My bare feet feel heavenly unchained. I know there are a thousand things to worry about right now, but I can’t fight the relaxation that waylays my body.

  “I’m her neighbor from downstairs. I’m Ted,” he introduces himself to Robert. I open my eyes and watch Ted reach out to shake Robert’s hand. The door to my apartment remains wide open and cool freeway air runs inside. Standing there, Robert looks liquid blue in his suit, framed black by the night sky. He just gazes fiery at Ted’s extended hand and then lays my keys on the nearby kitchen counter.

  “I’m her boss,” Robert replies, as if that is enough to shoo Ted away. He doesn’t even offer his name, just “boss.” Classic Robert. He has no time for commoners. Next, Robert puts his hands on his hips and observes me, as if he’s a doctor and doesn’t know whether to operate on me or let me die. He’s a couple inches taller than Ted, whose eyes cut concerned looks between Robert and me. Ted looks as if he thinks Robert might be the potential serial killer in this situation.

  “She’ll be fine,” Robert huffs dismissively to Ted, without looking at him.

  “Is that so?” Ted asks me. His voice is just a few notches higher than Robert’s. I don’t answer. My hair is like a hat to my head. The freeway air feels silky. I slump down further into the couch. If feels like a cushy cradle.

  “Caroline, answer him, so he knows he can go,” Robert commands me.

  “You can go,” I oblige, closing my eyes again.

  “Okay.” Ted seems hesitant. “See you tomorrow then.” But it’s more like a promise than a farewell. I hear the door click, and for a moment, I think Robert has departed too, until I hear his marsh-like footsteps on the carpet. God I hate my carpet. It’s tan and old. I bet Robert has stone or hardwood floors, something less shamble-like. He must shudder just to be here.

  He sits down next to me on the couch. “You should lie on your side,” he orders me.

  “What?”

  “On your side, in case you’re sick. You don’t want to choke,” he tells me.

  Robert’s voice makes me think he’s pitched on that plateau between leaving and staying. I wonder why. Perhaps he feels obligated. Like doctors, lawyers are forever worried about being sued, but what can I possibly sue him for? For leaving me inebriated on my couch? Or maybe he just doesn’t want me to choke here all alone because he’d rather choke me himself later, in the office. As his car keys jingle in his hand, I remember he’s sitting on the world’s ugliest couch. Goodwill special, forty dollars. Purple with big white flowers. Classy.

  “Look, you can go. I’ll be fine,” I tell him, motioning my hand toward the door.

  There’s a dark stretch of silence while I lay like the moon capsized on its side and Robert says nothing. The air feels mute and wooden with the door closed. I’m perilously close to sleeping, which must be the worst offense an assistant can ever commit in front of her boss. It feels as though I should be doing something vitally important: printing timesheets, collecting boxed shirts, or polishing Robert’s polished shoes. I can’t seem to move though.

  Soon, however, my mind slips into a half-dream filled with rifle smoke and pretty soldiers dressed in blue army suits. Through a forest, they run in pursuit of the enemy. One soldier sprints breathless ahead of the rest and is the first to be shot down. He tumbles and dies beautifully under the shade of a tall tree. Next, I hear the distant pandemonium of horse hooves and keys. And then I hear my door closing and think that Robert has left my apartment. With that thought, I ride fondly toward deeper sleep.

  When I awake, I feel as if I’ve slept for a thousand years while drifting on a massive, warm ocean. My legs and arms are well-rested tendrils. From the white-numbered clock on the kitchen stove, I see that it is 6:06 a.m. My apartment feels like the silence before the thundercloud. Jumping up from the couch, I pause before rushing to the window to look for Robert’s car. It’s not there, thank god. I don’t know what I expected, but my scalp tingles at the thought that he is gone.

  On a fence across the street, an orange cat crouches, waiting to pounce on an approaching poodle. The dog hobbles along the sidewalk with its equally decrepit owner. Beyond the freeway, scattered bands of grey-black clouds shape the distant sky. I hear the growl of thunder and see the sheets of water releasing in the distance.

  Knowing the day will be rainy usually makes me grumpy. But today I hum myself into the shower, where I lather gloriously, primal blood coursing in my veins. I’m not thinking about the confrontation that awaits me, only the outcome. After dressing, I head out my door early, feeling as though I have wings on my back. I take two steps at a time, nearly tumbling on the last step. Just as I round the corner, Ted opens his sliding glass door. His black hair looks as if he’s spent the night prowling and pillaging. He wears just sweats, no shirt. His chest is as toned as any busy serial killer’s would be.

  “Caroline, hey,” he says. He runs a hand through his wavy hair. “How are you? I was a little worried about you last night.” He leans on the frame of his door.

  Ted Bundy, worried about me. How sweet.

  “I’m fine. Just can’t seem to hold my liquor. Thanks though. That was nice of you to be concerned.” I’m clutching the strap of my backpack which is slung over my shoulder. My feet feel ready to spring toward the bus stop a few blocks away. I want Ted to hurry up his greeting.

  “Some weather today, huh? Feels like a monsoon.” He drifts forward a little, one bare foot reaching out onto his patio. “Look, I was wondering,” he continues, pointing toward his refrigerator. “I’ve got some steaks in the freezer that I’ve been meaning to cook. Got ‘em on sale at Vons. Would you like to stop by tonight and help me eat them?” Now I wonder if Ted planned to open his door shirtless. Perhaps he wants to show off his chest. It is deserving of a whoop whoop. I glance toward my destination and then back at Ted. His sweats flutter in the stormy wind.

  “I’m not sure. It all depends,” I say, thinking about whether I actually want to eat with Ted Bundy. Then I wonder what he would say if he knew I call him Ted Bundy. Regardless, I might be busy getting my boss fired. This thought makes me ponder lying in a carpet of spring flowers. It also makes me feel as though I’m about to be struck by lightning. “Look, I have this work thing I have to do, so I might be getting home late.” I give him an expression that hopefully says I’m sorry.

  He shakes his head like an unbreakable man. “No worries. Some other time,” he tells me. Then he points at me. “Have a good one then, and lay off that boozing. Wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of you, would you?” He smiles while I squint at him. The rain hisses overhead.

  “No, I don’t think I would.”

  As I cross the grassy patch to the sidewalk, I pull up the hood of my raincoat and hustle.

  After dise
mbarking the train downtown, I find the streets a torrent. Silvery fragments saw through the air in front of me, throwing water that tastes like iron onto my lips. When I reach the elevator, I’m alone. Inside I shudder up to the 22nd floor. Cory’s floor. He always arrives early, and I desperately need someone to talk to. The thought of facing Robert today is slowly growing inside of me like one of those demon babies in a scary movie, or like that movie where the alien that pops out of that guys stomach while he’s eating spaghetti.

  Exiting the elevator, I pass blackened offices, one after the other, until I cross the threshold of the Technology Department of our firm. There, I find Cory’s light shining underneath his door. Two knocks and I burst into his office.

  “Well, good morning, my little pumpkin. How can I help you?”he says without looking at me. Apparently he sees my reflection in his office window. He’s wearing a green and black tie-dye shirt and slim black jeans. (See what I mean about his fashion sense?) His dark hair, long for a guy, looks as soft and curly as a toddler’s. He swivels around in his office chair and smiles at me as if he’s hiding great boulders of gold behind him. In his right hand, he cradles a steaming cup of tea.

  My mouth opens, but I think to myself that there’s no way Cory could have put together a tape from the security footage already. Not this soon. Could he?

  “You didn’t already, did you?” I scowl at him with what must look like an expression of disbelief.

  “You have no idea,” he says wiggling his fingers, “what these hands are capable of. It’s like I don’t even have to try. Plus, you forget, my dear, that I see all and know all.” Then he swivels back around to face his computer screen and places his tea on his desk. Pulling out the keyboard, he lets his fingers slope across it like a musician. While the screen zooms to life, he waltzes past me and kicks his office door closed. Resuming his seat, he doesn’t bother watching the tape begin to play on his computer. Instead, he just watches my face for a reaction.

  “I should get an academy award for my editing skills,” he says, exhaling. “I don’t know why I bother keeping this stupid job. Such a waste of my talent. I should be working in Hollywood. In front of the camera, behind the camera, either one.”

  I’m hardly listening to him because I see myself on his screen. I’m wearing the red dress and kissing Robert. Somehow Cory has edited the tape so that the camera doesn’t catch me instigating the kiss. Robert appears to be the instigator. He’s pushing me into the elevator wall. On the grainy footage, filaments of light hit Robert’s face, and a slight smile haunts his lips. Because of the overhead angle of the security camera, his hair looks darker, almost pitch black. When my hands go to his neck, his suit jacket quivers. Must be the Xanax, I think. He looks a foot taller than I am on the tape, but he couldn’t be. Watching the spectacle makes me feel like a voyeur, a slut, a criminal—all rolled into one. My empty stomach feels as though it’s shouting at me. My hand covers my mouth.

  And then the tape ends. It’s only a matter of seconds. Cory obviously edited out the elevator doors opening.

  “Jeezus,” I say.

  “I know, right?” Cory responds. “You might be deserving of an academy award, too. I’ll call you Jessica Chastain from now on—what with the red hair and the Oscar-worthy performance.” Cory looks devilishly pleased with himself. Taking his breakfast bar out of the wrapper, he pulls off a chunk of stretchy-granola substance and shoves it into his mouth. It smells like nuts.

  “Want some?” he offers.

  I can’t reply. I drift over to the spare chair against the wall and sit down. Dropping my backpack on the floor, I wonder why such an ecstatic moment feels underwritten with ugliness. I see my own reflection in Cory’s office window, which has become a mirror. It’s as dark as night outside even though it has to be around 8:15 a.m. The image looks warped, with blackened rings round my eyes.

  “So what do we do now?” I ask, zombie-like.

  “Now, my skinnier Jessica Chastain, you take this.” He shoves a flash drive inside a pre-addressed envelope, licks it, seals it, and hands it to me. “And you drop it in the mailbox of your choice. I suggest the one on the corner. No one will know it’s from you, so you hopefully won’t have to deal too much with Robert. The Chairman should get it by end of the week. He’ll think someone who hates Robert got his or her hands on the tape and sent it in. That way, you won’t look like the bad guy in this scenario.” Cory bites and chews with a half-smile.

  Taking the envelope from him, I inhale, feeling about to embrace a full-on panic attack, the kind that makes you feel as if you’re actually dying.

  “I’m not sure about this,” I confess, breathless. Heavy coins seem to be clunking around in my chest. “What if this whole thing is just, you know, wrong? It might be wrong, don’t you think?” I ask, wondering how I’ve gotten myself so far into this situation. Somehow I’ve been transported to a different dimension, a place where even old men and children wear holsters that house the giant guns they carry on each hip, where massacres are a daily occurrence.

  Cory presses a few keys and his computer screen returns to sleep mode, which consists of crazed robotic bunnies hopping across the screen. Then he turns back to me, the half-eaten granola bar still in his hand.

  “Look here,” he begins seriously. “I’m not gonna tell you what to do. I wouldn’t be a true friend if I did.” He pauses, throws the granola wrapper in the trash, and thrusts the rest of the bar into his mouth. After chewing, he resumes his little speech. “But do you remember that time you told me to end my relationship with Stanley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember how he kept accusing me of cheating on him with Elena?” Cory shivers at the thought of his ex-girlfriend, a woman he dated only briefly during a time when he questioned his sexuality. They’re just friends now. “Remember all those times I kept thinking I could fix it with Stanley? I kept telling myself that if I could just say the right thing or be a better man that Stanley would finally trust me and love me and stop all that nonsense?” Cory rubs his hands together, discarding granola bits onto the floor.

  “Yeah,” I answer. I can feel the back of my neck perspiring, so I take off my raincoat. The room feels like a sauna.

  “But Todd and Henry kept telling me to be patient. They told me what a great catch Stanley was, so good-looking. They told me I should be happy as hell that some hot guy was so jealous over me. But you,” Cory leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “You told me enough was enough. You told me Stanley had made me miserable for long enough. You said I deserved to be happy, that I shouldn’t go through my life constantly fearing Stanley’s next accusation, that I should take the risk and leave him. Do you remember that?” Cory looks at me as if I’m five years old.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

  “Well then.”

  He doesn’t say anything else. He just leans back in his chair.

  “So you’re saying I should go ahead and mail the flash drive to the Chairman then?” I question.

  “I’m not saying anything. You know me better than that. I’m saying you gave me the right advice back then. I’m saying listen to yourself. Listen to your own advice.” Crossing his arms in front of him, he smirks. “I can, however, tell you what Todd and Henry would say.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he chuckles. “They’d grab that envelope from you and run like twelve-year old bandits down to the box. They’d fight to see who’d get to put it in.”

  They would fight over it.

  “Anyway,” he continues. “It’d be an utter shame for my editing skills to go to waste, seeing I did such a fabulous job. And besides, I think you’re forgetting something important here. It’s not just you who Robert makes miserable. Think of everyone else at the firm he tortures. All the interns, the file clerks, the messengers. You wouldn’t just be doing something for yourself. You’d be doing something for the good of mankind.”

  He has a point. I hadn’t thought about the other people. />
  Rain spatters against his window. It sounds like bullets.

  “You’re right.” I study Cory’s face a moment. “I’m gonna do it. Right now.” I slip on my raincoat and backpack, feeling as though I’m about to cross a bridge, but it’s a rickety one over swollen waters.

  “Thanks,” I tell him.

  “Anytime, my little peanut. See you at lunchtime.” Then he swats me away, the king on his throne of the Technology Department.

  With the envelope in hand, I take the elevator back down to the lobby and then march toward the mailbox on the street corner. The light envelope feels strangely heavy. As I trod, my coat is pelted with the torrent, which beats the cars that swish by, pummels the blue awning of a bakery, and chokes the gutters with swirling grey. A pigeon swoops down and lands on the dried patch of concrete nearby.

  Reaching the box, I attempt to open the metal door, but it jams, the hinge squeaking. When I finally get it open, I place my envelope inside but hesitate. Looking into the little black hole, I listen as it drops inside with a small thud.

  As I slog back toward the office in the downpour, I spot a familiar tall figure loping out the lobby of the firm. Abruptly, I halt to watch him. Without seeing me, he crosses the street. He’s wearing a dark grey raincoat over a darker grey suit. The umbrella he’s carrying crowns his head in bright red. Watching to see where he’s going, I shy under the awning of the bakery like a stupid five-year-old. Several people walk past me giving me looks. But I don’t care. I’m too busy watching him and feeling a scalping sensation in my stomach.

  He stops in the middle of the street, opens the passenger door of a black town car, and just before he gets inside, he spots me standing there nearly a block away from him. Pausing with one hand on the open door, he glares at me as if I have a beam of light shining on my face. A cab pulls up behind him, impatiently waiting for the town car to move. For a second, I think Robert might whip out a massive silvery gun from his holster and shoot me. Of course, he wouldn’t miss. His bullet would impale my stomach, and I’d fall to the ground, a puddle of pure red around me. I’d lie there wounded while passersby conferred about what to do with me. Robert would blow on the end of his smoking pistol and slide it back inside its soft leathery case. Meanwhile, I’d feel like a hero in a cowboy movie who saves the whole town from the villain but dies before he gets a chance to enjoy the spoils.