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Ross barged into his apartment, slamming the door harshly behind him, dropping the now-wilted flowers that he'd, for whatever reason, carried with him all the way back home in the trash. He was loosening his tie and pacing erratically around the coffee table when Carver walked in from his bedroom.
"Woah, what the hell are you doing home?" he asked, looking genuinely confused and even a bit worried.
"Don't ask," Ross insisted, shaking his head.
"Was she not there or something?"
"Oh, no, she was there, alright!" Ross almost yelled, still pacing. He was a wreck-- a loose canon. The reaction he was having was more than just emotional-- it was physical. He could almost feel his stomach sinking into his bowels and a cold sweat coating his body. He had never been so furious. He had to stop himself from breaking something.
"Jesus Christ, dude, calm down! What happened?" Carver yelled back, having no idea what on Earth could have shaken his normally calm friend so much. He was sure it had to be terrible.
"She was..." Ross began, then deciding immediately against elaborating. He couldn't say it. He couldn't explain it or even think about it. No matter how he tried to express it, he knew the image would come flooding back into his head, and he couldn't risk that. He wouldn't be able to bear it, and he wouldn't be able to maintain his rapidly diminishing composure, then. "No, just...forget it. Forget her. I don't think things will be working out," he informed, swiftly heading back towards his bedroom.
He was hot. The whole apartment felt like a sauna. Eagerly, he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped off the undershirt, dropping his pants next, desperate to relieve the smoldering, choking heat. Instinctively, he headed towards the shower, turning the cold water on full blast. Before he could get in, Carver was standing behind him.
"Dude..." Carver began, looking almost afraid that Ross was going to jump down his throat. "Are you okay?" He sounded completely sincere. Ross sighed and turned around to face him.
"Yeah...yeah, it's just, uh..." He shrugged and scratched his head. "She's not really who I thought she was," he diplomatically lied. That wasn't it at all. She was still exactly who he'd thought she was...she just wasn't his anymore, was all. She never had been his.
"Fucking slut," Carver spat, trying to make Ross feel better in his own, immature way. Ross was surprised when he took offense to Carver's comment.
"No, that's not it," he shook his head. Was that it, though? He sure wanted to see her as one. He wanted to hate her-- to spit at her and scream demeaning profanities that dwarfed the ones he'd whispered to her face not 30 minutes ago. He didn't know why his instinct was still to defend her.
"Whatever it was," he continued, "she was obviously never worth your time."
Ross nodded and attempted a smile, turning back around to signal that he was done talking for now. He slid into the shower, his muscles contracting in protest of the ice cold water. He didn't care. It still felt like a warmly welcomed relief from the heat that had been building up inside him. He sealed his eyes shut and let the aching cut sharply into his skin. He wasn't sure if it was the water or something else.
He couldn't stop picturing it. This man he had never seen-- who he had never known, and who had never existed to him before-- touching and groping and grinding against her. His hands traveling down the smooth curve of her ass and up the backs of her thighs. His mouth at her ear and neck. He had wanted to throw up and pound the guy's face in at the same time. His reaction had been so primitive-- so territorial. His initial, instinctual thoughts had been that she was his and this man was threatening that. He was being robbed of something that was his-- or at least, something that was so close to being him.
All of this hadn't blinded him from how devastatingly sexy she'd looked, either. Somehow, he'd simultaneously been feeling all of those repulsive, terrifying things, and fighting back a hard-on from starring at her. It was sick, really, that he could do that-- that he could be turned on while wanting to vomit. Her hair had been so silky and chic, flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was so dark and smooth, silky-looking and stretched across her bones so delicately and taught. And that dress...God, that dress had floored him. He couldn't bear to think that he might have been dancing with her right now, with her wearing that dress and his hands roaming over her like that man's had been.
He climbed into bed, freezing cold and not bothering to put any clothes on besides a dry pair of boxers. He tried to fall asleep immediately, but knew it would be impossible before he even attempted it. For a moment, he remembered the way she'd chased after him down the hallway and out into the lobby. She'd grabbed his arm and stood in front of him, so intent on telling him something...but then nothing. He'd wanted an explanation so badly, and had been waiting eagerly for one, though he'd put on a solemn face for show. When she'd remained silent, he'd known it was over. He might have been able to look past it-- to stop himself from walking out-- if she'd offered any kind of justification or condolence. If she'd said anything at all, really. If she hadn't used that damned word.
Friend. They were friends. Admittedly, he'd seen past it, and he'd known from the moment she'd said it that she didn't mean it. He knew she was falling in love with him, just like he could feel himself slipping closer every moment he was with her. They'd been anything but friends. They'd be enemies before they'd be 'just friends'. She'd said it, though, and that had been his exit cue. There was no turning back after that forced admission.
He wondered why she'd run after him, though. Had it merely been her knee-jerk reaction? Had she been caught in her web of philandering and lies and had only attempted to stop him out of embarrassment or, God forbid, pity?
Or was there something more? The possibility that this was all just one big misunderstanding played at the back of his consciousness. The way her eyes had burned into his, silently pleading with him, haunted him. No one could fake that-- not even a beautiful woman. There had been sincerity there, accompanied by fear and anxiety.
It probably didn't matter, now, anyway. He knew very well that he might never see her again.
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"Fucking shit!" the pretty girl screamed into the warm New York air, stomping her heel against the cracked pavement and soliciting the sideways stares of strangers as they passed. A saltiness welled up underneath her eyes as she leaned back against the dark brick of the building.
"Who the hell was that guy?" her repellent male associate asked accusingly as he stepped out of the rotating glass doors into the night air. She shot him an evil scowl.
"DAMMIT, Mark, leave me alone!" she literally screamed, attracting even more onlookers. She was openly crying now, her voice shaken and cracking and her eyes misty.
"Hey, whatever," he murmured, holding up his hands in surrender as he backed away. "Even you aren't a good enough fuck to be worth all this. Call me when you've booked a shrink," he quipped, turning and reentering the building.
Rachel let out a loud sob and sat down, shamelessly, on the ground underneath the overhang of the building. She knew people were starring at her, but she didn't care. She couldn't make herself. Her tears fell from her cheeks and hit the ground, splashing in what seemed like mass amounts enough to be considered puddles. She slumped her shoulders and buried her face in her hands.
This always happened. Sins of her past-- juvenile mistakes she made over and over-- kept coming back to haunt her. It seemed like she was the one woman in Manhattan who wasn't allowed to sleep with the wrong guy, get into the wrong relationship or make the wrong friends without paying for it with her sanity.
Mark had been a brief, ill-advised period of weakness a few months ago, She'd just broken up with Barry and was feeling alone and worthless. Mark made her feel so good and wanted, though she'd known all along he didn't love her. She'd thought it okay, since she knew she didn't love him either, and the sex had been so good. He'd be rough with her-- something Barry had always refused to do. He'd make her feel sexy, his eyes burning so primitively into her body right before he'd throw her against a wall or the mattress and fuck her until she couldn't remember her name. She'd never had a man be that aggressive and passionate with her, and it had excited her.
It had eventually begun to spin out of control, though, when he'd come over to her apartment unannounced and well past midnight, drunk and demanding not-always-wanted sex. The way he'd treated her on a few occasions towards the end had been borderline abuse, if not rape, so she'd cut it off for fear of her own well-being. He hadn't taken it well, obviously, but this had been the first time she'd had to deal with him since she broke it off. 'The perfect moment,' she thought bitterly to herself.
Mark perfectly exemplified her history with men. They'd all been outwardly attractive in some way-- be it physically or monetarily-- but always such unworthy, ill-matched losers, in the end. Even her high school boyfriends had all been either brain-dead, shallow jocks or burnouts.
And now, for all her perpetual blunders and bad luck, the only thing she'd ever done right was potentially gone forever.
She couldn't shake that face from her thoughts. She'd never seen such a combination of devastation and betrayal in one expression before. That one image alone had been even worse than the nauseating feeling of Mark's erection pushing against her hip. She dreaded going home, now, and climbing feebly into bed, as she knew she'd end up doing. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep with that face haunting her.
Weakly, she picked herself up and held in her sobs, wiping the mascara from beneath her eyes and beginning the trek back to her home. She wouldn't try for a cab for a few more blocks.
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Rachel sat on her bed, starring at the telephone, her knees tucked up under her chin. She'd been sitting in that position for almost an hour now. Once, she'd even begun to dial, but had immediately thrown the receiver down as soon as she heard the first rink. She closed her eyes and sighed in exasperation.
Part of her knew she was being silly. If she could only talk to him, she knew she could clear this whole mess up. She almost smiled when she thought about his voice, and how it would pulsate so velvety and soothing over the line, making her stomach jump and her head spin, just like every time before. The grin faded when she realized it wouldn't be that simple.
What would make him believe her? Even if she tried explaining herself, why would he be compelled to buy her story? The position he'd caught her in had been quite compromising, and even she didn't know how she'd let it go so far. She was sure he'd want to believe her, but would that be enough? He might very well never be able to trust her again, and she knew that calling and confirming that would be more than she could bear.
She laid back and clutched her pillow to her body, wondering what he was doing. Maybe laundry? Maybe meeting some new girl, with a slightly brighter smile and much simpler story? Less baggage and more to offer? Maybe she'd take the time to get to know him properly, rather than just irrationally taking him back to her apartment for a quick fucking like she'd so hastily done. She'd been so stupid and undoubtedly given him the wrong impression.
Maybe all of this was what he needed-- a chance to start over with a more worthy girl. Maybe it was a sign that her history was too drawn-out and complicated for him-- her laundry too dirty. She needed to be with a man as unstable and lonely as herself, not wasting a perfectly unharmed man's time with her hang-ups.
Still, she couldn't shake the resolute nagging in the back of her mind that she should at least make an effort. Rather than picking up the phone, though, she headed for her laundry bag. Reaching for a black, hooded sweatshirt and her wallet, she headed our the door in search of something she'd already undoubtedly lost forever.
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Ross switched the television off and let the remote slide down between the leather cushions. He glanced over at the phone on the kitchen counter...the one that hadn't rung in days. He was fatigued and felt dirty, and images from the previous Friday were still dancing around unscathed and fancy-free inside his head.
Something impulsive inside him-- something restless and irrational-- told him to leave the house. He needed to get out. He'd called in work to sick the past few days, and it was getting ridiculous. It was time to snap out of whatever haze this was that had a hold of him-- he couldn't put his life on hold for her forever.
Well, maybe just for a little longer.
He was leaving, but he knew where he was going. He didn't know why. Maybe it was just his the hopeless romantic inside him. Maybe it was the masochist. Either way, he grabbed his canvas army bag filled with almost every clothing item he owned and headed out the door. He knew he'd be disappointed, but he had to be with her one last time. Even if she wasn't there.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO End Chapter 6. Continued in Chapter 7.