Walk of Shame Page 7

Overreact much?

  “Listen Penny,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to pry…it was an accident, that’s all.”

  “Sure it was,” she snapped. “I’ve got to leave. Something has come up. You have your weekend assignment. No charge for today.” And with that, she pulled her briefcase from the desk, grabbed her jacket and was out the door.

  Chapter 11

  Timing is everything.

  At least, that’s what they say.

  I reflect on that once I’m tucked safely in my room, reclining on my bed. My fingers gently massage my temples in a circular motion.

  So, I’m sick and tired of wondering if timing has bitch slapped me over the years. I mean my mother’s death certainly hadn’t been timely.

  I never got the chance to know her. I never felt what a mother’s love was like and how it differed from a father’s love. Did it differ? How would I ever know? By the time Louise came into our lives, I was past needing mothering I suppose.

  Speaking of Louise.

  The timing of my father’s marriage to her couldn’t have been worse. I had to endure ten months of the unwanted attention of my stepbrother, Phil, before he finally left for boot camp.

  He was always finding a reason to touch me. He would make it look like an accident, or pretend to be teasing me, and once I even caught him peeking at me through the small crack in the wood of our old bathroom door. It looked as if he had somehow widened that crack because I could see his eyeball when I got out of the shower. I had quickly found some wood putty in the basement and made sure that crack was filled up tight.

  And then there was the fact that my undies seemed to be disappearing once I’d tossed them down our laundry shoot. I had searched all over the basement laundry room, behind the washer and dryer, and even underneath the hot water tank.

  Nothing.

  So, I had finally gone to Louise about it. I told her what I suspected. She had acted as if I had accused her son of drowning kittens! She insisted her Phil wouldn’t behave inappropriately and insisted that I conduct myself in a more ladylike fashion. As an added bonus, she told me she would take me shopping for more conservative outfits.

  I was the only fifteen-year-old girl in my neighborhood wearing plaid flannel shirts and overalls the summer before dear old Phil left for the military. Thankfully, once he left for the Army, I could finally feel comfortable once again in my own home, and I tossed the hill-jack wardrobe for good.

  Thank fuck, as Eva would say!

  My problem now is watching Eva cultivate this relationship with Marcus – and it’s different than anything she’s been through in the past. This isn’t a fling…or even a friends-with-benefits type deal that she’s been known to engage in.

  Nope, this is totally different. On one hand I feel like a voyeur of sorts, but on the other, she shares every little detail with me, and what she doesn’t share, I can see with my own pea green-with-envy eyes.

  She and Marcus study together either at our place or his; they text each other throughout the day. She drives over to Hardwick so that she can watch the team practice, and they end up going out for a bite. Last weekend he took her to a car show and then out to dinner.

  So, I have been determined that this weekend with Stuart is going to be perfect timing for once. Everything is going to fall into place. I had bought sexy underwear for the occasion. Eva had agreed to take my Friday shift since I was taking hers on Saturday so that she could go to that concert with Marcus in Boston.

  But then, as luck would have it, I received that unexpected phone call from Stuart during my session with Weston. He wasn’t able to make it up to my place until tomorrow afternoon. My “special” Friday night plans were shot to hell with that news. When I told him I had taken Eva’s shift on Saturday, I could tell he was pissed.

  “Jesus Christ, Peyton, couldn’t you have at least cleared that with me before you committed? As it is, we barely spend any time together these days.”

  Oh. Okay. I get it.

  The rule is that I need to clear stuff in advance with him, but he doesn’t need to clear stuff with me in advance, otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed to put together a PowerPoint presentation for his professor who likely has a qualified admin who could have done it. But that’s Stuart. He’s all about scoring points – just not with me.

  I had stood in the hallway arguing with Stuart on my cell phone, finally ending the call and powering it off. I then proceeded back into the study room and that’s when all hell broke loose.

  I had seriously lost it with Weston.

  But I’ll be damned if he didn’t deserve it. I mean that the fuck? Poking around in my shit like that?

  Unacceptable.

  And the way he continues to refer to Stuart as ‘Stewie’ is just so damn condescending, as if Penny should put up with anything just to hang onto such a great catch. I know how a frat boy’s mind works. He saw that lingerie and immediately jumped to sexist conclusions! As if Penny had nothing more to offer her man besides sex, Hustler style!

  Am I really having this conversation with myself?

  I take a deep, cleansing breath and force myself to relax. This is not the end of the world. This is life. I must learn to go with the flow. I cannot change the behavior of others; I can only change the way I react to it. I repeat that in my head ten times slowly, keeping my eyes closed to see if the mantra works. I’ve dabbled with yoga in the past, nothing that I’m entrenched in on a daily basis, but I find at times it does seem to help. Thankfully, this is one of those times.

  I get up from my bed and go over to my dresser, studying my reflection in the mirror above it. Why am I doing this? What’s the point in all of it? What the fuck am I trying to prove?

  The fact that I’ve made this whole charade my senior thesis project, along with the knowledge that it’s imperative to my being accepted in the Master’s program at UC Berkeley, brings me to the realization that it is too late to question my motives. I can’t second guess my hypothesis. This is my education, and going forward, my dream of having a career in socio-economics hinges on all of this.

  I’m not from privilege. I’m not from wealth. My father isn’t a gazillionaire venture capitalist like Weston’s. Yes, I’ve done my research; I mean that’s all part of it. It all goes into the equation so to speak.

  Weston Matthews comes from wealth and privilege. His father, Easton Matthews (cute take on the names by the way), is a billionaire who came from money. He used that wealth to make more money a hundred times over.

  Did he do it by illegal means?

  It doesn’t appear so. He’s a well respected global entrepreneur whose holdings employ thousands of people. He’s a government approved subcontractor with top security clearances in several areas. His portfolio of corporations is diverse, but nothing that points to anything suspicious. On the contrary, some of his software holdings have successfully produced cutting edge technological tracking systems that ensure our national security. He is, by all accounts, a savvy businessman that was driven by his desire for success and his vision for what future technology would demand before it ever happened.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  So what is Weston’s problem?

  I pull out my notebook and jot down some theories. Don’t get me wrong; Weston is in no way an evil person. He’s not even all that different than most college jocks with money. But for whatever reason, as I jot down his father’s traits and compare them to the traits I’ve observed in Weston over the past several weeks, I reach one very obvious conclusion.

  That apple fell far from the tree, and then it rolled some.

  I power up my laptop, and Google ‘Easton Matthews pictures,’ and it doesn’t take long until I spot several of them taken over the years. But the physical resemblance between father and son is irrefutable.

  Even though Easton is in his mid to late fifties by now, recent pictures show that his distinctly handsome features haven’t faded over the years. He is still strikingly good lo
oking. I flip though the screens and find one photo dated February of 2007. He apparently was engaged to some supermodel.

  Holy crap! He looks like a Weston clone in that pic.

  I grab my notebook and quickly scribble off one of my theories:

  Weston sired by another man?

  Weston Matthews is becoming a puzzle that I’m compelled to solve; an enigma that I long to dissect. What makes him tick? No one goes through life aspiring to shallowness, do they?

  I look at the next theory on the page in my notebook:

  Mommy issues?

  Now that one isn’t going to be easy to prove or disprove. I’m clueless as to how I can test the theory, because his mother doesn’t have the celebrity his father has had over the years. Not much can be found about her at all.

  I suppose with Eva getting close to Marcus, I may be able to get a little intel from her in passing, but I certainly can’t dig deeply. It doesn’t take much to set that one’s radar off.

  I’ll just have to figure out a way to get Weston to open up somehow.

  Some way.

  Chapter 12

  Weston downed the last of his beer and pulled another one out of the bucket, uncapping it.

  “Slow down, man. I own half of those, you know?” Alex warned as he dipped a french fry into a puddle of ketchup. “You looking to get trashed tonight or what?”

  Weston lowered his hand, the beer bottle dangling between his index and middle fingers. “I’m just pissed. I can’t fucking believe the season starts next weekend and I’m sitting out. The old man is annoyed because he had plans to be there when we took Boston College down. I mean, seriously, could he cut me some slack just once?”

  “Your old man has nothing on mine, dude,” Alex said with a laugh. “Hell, he’s just happy I haven’t flunked out yet. He could give a shit about me playing a sport.”

  “Lucky you,” Weston replied sardonically. “The thing with my old man is that nothing’s ever fucking good enough for him, you know? It’s as if he automatically assumes I want the same life that he has had. It’s as if he expects that I will be there to fill his shoes when he retires, and I want none of it.”

  “Aw c’mon, man? You’re full of shit. What? You don’t want to continue being rich? You want to start at some entry level position in some no-name business and scrape your way up the ladder?”

  “I’m not sure what I want to do, but yes, doing that sounds better than being pushed to fill his shoes.”

  “Yeah, yeah – life is so tough being a Matthews. What the hell’s wrong with your old man? He seems nice enough the few times I’ve met him…and your mom, I mean wow!”

  Weston frowned and placed his half empty beer on the table with a thunk. “What about my mom?” he asked tersely.

  “It’s just that, well shit! She’s a MILF, dude. And I mean that in a good way, you know?”

  “Oh for Chrissake, Alex. Get a grip, man! I don’t want to hear shit like that about my mother. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “Just sayin’,” he laughed and then something across the crowded room caught his attention and he stopped. “Hey, check it out. Isn’t that the chick that gave you such a hard-on that night we were all drinking over there by the bar? You know, the one you royally pissed off as only you can?” he finished with a nod.

  Weston turned around; his eyes skimming the room until they landed on the bar clear across the room. Yep. It was Peyton. He furrowed his brow in confusion. “I didn’t think she worked on Saturdays,” he replied, bringing his beer up to take a swig. His eyes didn’t move as he continued to watch her from across the room.

  Ah. Peyton. Beautiful hair. Great tits and legs. Any guy’s wet dream. What the hell was her deal anyway? He had bent over backwards trying to be polite and rectify his previous asshole behavior, but damned if she wasn’t one cold fish. Said she had a boyfriend, but it didn’t appear as if she had much of a social life. He’d been tempted to ask Eva about him, but thought better of it once he remembered how chicks couldn’t keep anything to themselves. His younger sister had educated him well on that. One thing he didn’t need was Eva taking a perfectly innocent question back to her and making him seem like some fucking stalker. Fuck that.

  He turned back around and caught the smirk on Alex’s face.

  “What?”

  “Dude, why aren’t you all up on that? She’s perfect for you, right?”

  Weston shrugged noncommittally. “Why would you think that?”

  “Tell me you don’t have a hard-on right now and I’ll shut the fuck up.”

  “She has a boyfriend, Alex. She’s made that clear. I don’t chase, remember? There’s plenty more where she came from, and besides, she comes off kind of mouthy. Let her boyfriend deal with that shit, I don’t need it.”

  “I see, well looks like he’s just stopped by to deal with that shit,” Alex said with another nod in her direction.

  Weston turned around again, simply out of curiosity, just in time to see Peyton leaning over the bar, a great big smile on her face as a tall, well-built blonde haired guy bent down to plant a kiss on her lips. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  Hmm…

  Big Daddy’s was so crowded he could only catch glimpses of the couple between people moving back and forth between the bar and where he and Alex were sitting.

  Alex was just as enamored from his vantage point. “Oh – look, look, dude, she’s handing him something from her purse.”

  Weston saw her hand over what looked to be a key ring, and then she quickly returned her purse underneath the bar. She gave him one last quick kiss before he turned to leave.

  “Guess they plan on hooking up later,” Alex said, as he drained the last of his beer and grabbed another bottle. But Weston didn’t pay attention to what Alex was saying because as the guy turned and headed towards the exit he recognized him. There was no fucking denying it.

  It was the same dude.

  Peyton was seeing Penny’s boyfriend. Ole’ Stewie was shagging on the side. Did Penny know about Peyton? Did Peyton know about Penny?

  Holy fucking shit.

  Chapter 13

  I’m in the fetal position on the center of my bed, my arms wrapped tightly around my bent knees, as I rock back and forth sobbing uncontrollably. There’s no one in the apartment to hear me and for that, I am thankful.

  It’s late afternoon on Sunday. Eva won’t be home until late from her magnificent weekend she’s no doubt had with Marcus. I know I have to get my shit together before she gets home or there will be a billion questions. I’m not up for that.

  It’s my own damn fault. I own this.

  Me and nobody else.

  What the hell had I been thinking? Was I a clueless idiot when it came to the art of seduction?

  Apparently so.

  At least that’s what Stewart had alluded to in his own way after I had presented myself, made up like a whore, and wearing my new lingerie, complete with 5” stilettos. I displayed myself to him perched on my new satin sheets splayed out like a centerfold from some Triple X magazine sold only in seedy newsstands.

  You know the ones?

  They always have brown paper wrapped around them to cover most of the front. Wouldn’t want to shock the minds of those under eighteen-year-old males that might be drawn to such a blatant show of pure sexuality – even though the covers always have the good parts concealed. Still, such a display could incite masturbation amongst the lads I suppose, and we couldn’t have that.

  Unfortunately with Stuart, it only incited disbelief and humor. His eyes widened in shocked disbelief when I called him into the bedroom for his surprise.

  That had quickly morphed into pure amusement. “What is this, Peyton? Halloween isn’t for another two weeks,” he had said laughing.

  He had no clue that his amusement ripped my confidence to shreds, not to mention it killed any desire I had to ignite a spark---tonight or ever.

  I had quickly pulled myself up from th
e bed, elbowed my way past him and stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Twenty minutes later, I reappeared, my face scrubbed clean, my hair pulled up into a ponytail and my chenille bathrobe tied securely in place. Stuart had relocated back to the living room.

  “Hey, what’s going on with you, honey?” he had asked, from his position on the sofa where he had been tapping away on his laptop. “Did you really think I’d be turned on by you sashaying around here like a common hooker?”

  That had totally set me off.

  “I thought maybe it would generate some heat, Stuart,” I snapped, collapsing into the chair across from him. “For the love of Christ, aren’t you sick of tepid? Don’t you want sparks?”

  “Sparks? What are you talking about – sparks?” His tone was angry. Maybe even defensive. “Do you really want to go there, Peyton? Because it sounds like you want to put our sex life under some feminist microscope for whatever reason.”

  “Maybe I do,” I snapped. “I have nothing to compare it to, but I’m wondering why I’ve never felt sparks or butterflies or even had a goddamn orgasm!”

  “Where in the hell is this coming from? Oh wait! Let me guess – Eva has somehow filled your pretty little head with her “Tales from the Boudoir,” and now you feel like you’ve been missing out on something, am I right?”

  His eyes had flashed anger. That was new. Stuart never got really angry with me. Oh there were times he became irritated with me, or maybe even irked at something I did or said, but never full-fledged pissed off.

  Until now.

  “And what’s this shit about orgasms? Good God, woman, you’ve practically punctured my eardrums with your wailing and screaming!”

  “I was faking it, Stuart! My God, even Eva could tell that, what’s your problem that you couldn’t?!?”

  There had been deadly silence. And then Stuart went in for the kill.

  “I don’t think the problem is with me, Peyton. I think the problem is with you. I get that you had no experience with intimacy before me, but in all this time, you’ve learned nothing about pleasing a man. And now---now you tell me those dramatic displays of ecstasy in bed were nothing more than a desperate attempt on your part to convince yourself that you have no issues with your sexuality?”