The Opportunist Part 9

I shuffled my feet embarra.s.singly. Her face was red and she was looking at me pointedly.

"Um..." I pointed to the door, which they were blocking and raised my eyebrows to demonstrate my annoyance.

"Oh, sorry." Jessica giggled and pulled Caleb out of the way. She made sure to wink at me as I squeezed past and I made sure to brush Caleb's back with my arm. He jerked away from my touch and I smiled in satisfaction.

Jacka.s.s.

I walked quickly to my room with the faint stirrings of anger beginning to rise in my chest. How could she be all over him like that, after what she'd just done? I jabbed my key into the lock and turned it so hard the tips of my fingers hurt from the force. Hours after aborting her baby and she's already wrapped around him like string cheese. She was an idiot and I had to have him-simple as that. I would learn to balance him with my ambition. I could have both and I would. I burst through my door with determination and told Cammie to shut up before she had the chance to open her mouth. I threw myself on my bed and pretended to read a textbook. By the end of the week, Jessica and Caleb's relations.h.i.+p would be in tatters and I would have my second chance.

Chapter Eight.

The Present "Olivia? Will you come?" Caleb's voice hangs on the other end of the line, waiting for my response. I sigh, looking around my apartment and plucking at my sweater. He wants me to come over for dinner and I feel like that would really be crossing the line. It's not like I am virgin to crossing lines but I am trying to be a decent person. If I can keep things away from his personal life then I can make-believe that he is instigating the whole shebang.

"Seriously, Caleb, I don't think it's a good idea. Your girlfriend would have a breakdown if she found out. Why can't we meet at a restaurant or something?"

"My cooking is better than any restaurant you've ever been to. Besides there's more chance of her spotting us out at a restaurant than at my place."

Unless she's stalking you like the last time....I think bitterly.

"She didn't have much of a problem finding my apartment," I say sourly. "Besides, I barely know you. How prudent would it be for me to show up to a stranger's house for dinner? You could be a rapist for all I know."

"Olivia, you've already had me over to your place and survived. I'll open a bottle of wine...it'll be fun."

"I'm not really a fun loving person."

"It will be dangerous."

I smile.

"I only drink red wine."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And make sure she doesn't show up this time."

Caleb laughs. "Really? I thought it would be nice if she came."

We make arrangements as to what day and time and I hang up feeling anxious. I stuff my face into a pillow and groan in shame. I am in over my head.

My phone rings again. Thinking it is Caleb with a last minute detail, I s.n.a.t.c.h up the receiver.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Olivia?" It is a different voice.

"Yeeees?"

"Olivia! You s.e.xy beast of a woman! Where have you been all my life?"

"Jim?"

"The one and only, baby. How's life? Kicking your a.s.s lately?"

"Hard as usual," I say laughing, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm in town and there is nothing I want more then to spend some quality time with my dream girl."

"Dream girl! Last time I saw you, you called me a shrew and told me I had no talent."

"Those are just words, baby girl. Besides, you had just rejected another confession of my love for you. Give a man his verbal abuse, huh? Now, when are you free for the taking?"

Jim. Jim. The same guy I used to make a statement about my s.e.xuality. The one I dropped like a dirty sin the moment I stole Caleb. He remained faithful. I received a call every time his work swept him past my zip code and we would have a whirlwind night of dancing or eating or whatever other guilty pleasure suited us. Then, he would leave and I was fine with that.

"How long are you in my corner?"

"Two days-three at the most. I was thinking we could go down to the Wave, get drunk, grind around on the dance floor..."

"Hmmm...sounds romantic. When can you be here?"

"Fifteen, I have to stop for some smokes."

"Fine," I say. "I'll be ready."

I hang up and smear some lipstick on my mouth. I am still thinking about Caleb and I have force myself to stop.

Tonight was just going to be Jim and me and a good time. No obsessions. I slip on a pair of black pants and a green off-the-shoulder s.h.i.+rt, and pull my hair into a ponytail.

Jim picks me up outside of my apartment. I hop into his car, a restored 1969 Mustang painted green with yellow racing stripes, and smile at him across the seat.

"You're like a Percocet on a bad day, Libby," he says, surprising me and kissing me straight on the mouth. I pull back and shake my head.

"Mmmm, I love it when you compare me to prescription drugs." I plug in my seat belt and begin messing with the radio. Jim likes Phish and that's practically a sin in my books, since they're just Grateful Dead wannabee's.

Jim winks at me and perches a cigarette between his lips. Usually, I don't tolerate smoking-it makes me feel gritty and it doesn't help that my mom died of cancer. But, there is something about the way Jim smokes that makes me want to watch him. I look on in antic.i.p.ation as the wick of his lighter spits out a tiny tongue of fire. He lowers his cigarette to the flame and inhales. I can almost hear the tip of his camel hiss in delight as it accepts the fire. This is my favorite part-he takes a long drag, his eyelids flutter like a junkie, then he pushes the grey smoke out of his nose and it curls into the sky, like a graceful, ashen, ghost. Beautiful.

I sit back satisfied. Jim is darkly handsome. He is wearing eyeliner and jeans that cling to his body like lizard skin. His hair is s.h.a.ggy and dyed black, which makes his sharp blue eyes seem almost lavender. I always thought the British accent belonged more on him than on Caleb. I fan away smoke and hum along with the final bars of an oldie my mom used to love.

"Why are you so happy tonight?" he asks, tapping an inch of cigarette ash into an empty can of Red Bull.

"There is something devastatingly wrong with the universe when you are happy enough to hum."

He scoots his car into traffic almost hitting the b.u.mper of the truck in front of us.

"I dunno. I just am."

Jim raises an eyebrow.

"Come on, Libby. I know when something is up."

I pause. Then I say, "Caleb's back."

There was shocked silence. Gladys Knight was on the radio. Jim's fingers are absently tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song.

"He's back." This comes as a statement instead of a question. I can hear the distaste in his voice and I don't blame him. Caleb had always been a thorn in Jim's flesh, especially when I eventually chose Caleb over Jim.

"Olivia," he turns the radio off and stubs out his cigarette, which means I'll get to watch the whole lighting process again in a few minutes. "In what way is he back?"

I have no intention of telling him about the amnesia.

"I don't know. He's just back and I don't really care why."

Jim narrows his eyes and appears to be looking suspiciously at the road.

"I don't know what it is with you and that a.s.shole. Four years and a bad breakup later and you're still in a f.u.c.king chemical romance with basketball Ken."

I don't want to hear it. Not from Jim. Not from Cammie. In my wildest dreams I never imagined this twist to my story. A thousand girls could tell me that they would have done something different than what I did the day I pretended not to know Caleb, and I wouldn't care. This was my re-do.

"It happened by accident. I didn't go looking for him, so just shut the h.e.l.l up about it."

We pull up to the front of the club and I hop out before the valet can open the door. I wait for Jim as he unwinds his long body from the car and tosses his keys to the attendant. He is p.i.s.sed. I can see it on his face. More than once he's accused me of using him as a fall back when Caleb's not around. I walk in front of him, ignoring the beating his eyes are giving me. I feel kind of bada.s.s tonight, so it's not hard. It's none of his d.a.m.n business anyway-meddling, eyeliner wearing, punk. Jim hates weakness, and by G.o.d, Caleb is mine. But I have faith that by the time we start dancing, he will get over it.

The Wave is filled wall to wall with vibrating bodies. Jim grabs my hand and pulls me through the throng of dancers until we reach the bar. Most of the girls turn to look at us. What is a razor edged rocker doing with a softie like me? I bristle under their curious eyes, fanning out a couple of dirty looks.

Jim lays a fifty on the slimy bar and orders four shots of tequila. I ready our limes, and smile at him.

"Are you still mad?" I ask.

The bartender slides the shot gla.s.ses towards us and we both claim two. Jim shrugs.

"Does it matter?"

I pour the first one down my throat and suck on a lime to pull the flavor. Tequila is gross.

"I don't want you to be mad. I hardly get to see you."

Jim does this triple blink thing that makes him look really annoyed and then he kisses me on the cheek.

"Let's just have fun."

He orders two more shots and we clink our gla.s.ses together. We linger at the bar for a few minutes watching the dance floor. We are still too sober to let loose.

"Let's go do some dance floor humping," he says, tossing his lime peel into the trash. I follow him into the wiggling crowd as the tequila finds my head.

We dance until my feet feel numb and my hair is damp with sweat. Jim touches me more than he usually does. I equate it to Caleb's return. Men always need to p.i.s.s on everything they feel is theirs. I let him pull me close. I am too drunk to care. It reminds me of the scene in Dirty Dancing where Baby crashes the employee party clutching the watermelon. We are dancing face-to-face, dirty. Jim doesn't believe in the b.u.mping and grinding, the token dance of teenagers. He calls it dirty spooning. We dance face to face. I find something very honest in that.

We don't leave until the D.J. starts packing away his equipment.

"You okay to drive?" I ask him. I felt like I am bobbing in s.p.a.ce.

Jim snickers. "I'm as sober as a Preacher on a Sunday morning," he tw.a.n.gs in a mock Southern accent.

On the ride home I keep my eyes closed and let the wind blow over my face. We don't speak much. Jim plays an old Marcy Playground CD that we used to listen to in college. s.e.x and Candy. I giggle when he sings loudly to the words.

When we pull up to my apartment, he hops out of the car and follows behind me to the door.

"Was this a date? Why are you walking me home?" I laugh. I dig around in my purse for the keys while he watches.

When I look up, he is staring at me funny.

"Jim?" I ask, taking a step toward him. "Are you okay?" I think that maybe he is sick. His face is blank and a little flushed, like someone who is deciding if they are about to throw up. I pull to a stop when he suddenly jerks forward. At first I think he is going to be sick but at the last minute he veers right for my face and tries to kiss me. I turn my head so his lips land in a wet mess on my cheek. When he pulls back, his eyes are red. "What are you doing?" I ask. Jim and I never go there. It's an unspoken rule of mine.

He is so close that I have to bend my head all the way back to see his face. We haven't kissed since college.

"Is it because I'm not him, Olivia? f.u.c.king, Caleb?"

I shake my head. I feel so fuzzy. I can't seem to formulate words quickly enough.

"It's not like that with us, Jim. Why now?"

"You know s.e.x doesn't always have to mean something. It can be done for fun."

His eyes are blinking, blinking, like he's trying to expel me from his vision. What am I supposed to say to that?

"I think that friends should stay friends-without the complication of s.e.x."

"Friends," he croons, in a nasty hiss. "I'm sick of being your f.u.c.king reprieve."

I shudder. It is very true, but ugly to hear.

"You're a real c.o.c.k tease, you know that?" I look up in surprise. He has called me that in a joking way many times, but never in this tone of voice. He is blotchy faced and red eyed and he is scaring me in that deep part of a woman that tells you to run. I take a step back.

"Jim, you're drunk," I say slowly.

"I'm drunk and you're a b.i.t.c.h." Then he is all over me with his mouth, pus.h.i.+ng against my tightly pulled lips, his hands between my legs. I make a m.u.f.fled cry from behind my attack and I try to push him away. He doesn't budge beneath my shoving and I realize there is nothing I will be able to do to stop him. I try to plead but everything seems to roll right off of him. He is groping at me trying to pull my pants down. My neighbor's door is less than ten yards away on the other side of the building. If I can break free, I can run for it. Then comes a moment when he is distracted and his grip loosens on my arms. I take the chance to wrestle my hands free and I slap him hard across the face. He draws back in shock and his hand cradles the place I hit him. I am prepared for him to come back harder, stronger, but he just looks at me. There is nowhere for me to go. I am cornered against my own front door. I consider screaming, but the only person who might hear me is Rosebud and what could she do? So, I try to reason with him.