Page 48

48

The Mad Dash

Jake

My phone vibrates as I slam Bill’s front door behind me. It slips out of my fingertips and onto the ground, screen cracking, bouncing into a shallow puddle. The snow is melting already, spiky green grass peeking through all over Bill’s lawn.

The screen says LARS .

“What?” I snarl into the dripping phone.

“Where’s the Lambo?” says Grant’s friendly, curious voice.

“The what?”

“Black, um, sleek…”

“Did you check your closet?”

“It’s a car.”

“It’s right in front of me.” Its lone taillight pulses as I unlock it remotely.

“Oh, that’s a relief,” he says with an indulgent chuckle. “Just, uh, borrowed it?”

“Yeah.” I throw myself into the driver’s seat and pull the belt across my body.

“That’s fine, that’s fine. And where’s the Brunello Cucinelli?”

I crank into reverse and run through my mental inventory of his cars. One has the Italian flag incorporated into its crest, I think?

“Is that the green one with the racing stripe?”

“It’s blue wool…”

“Dry cleaners.”

“And the espresso machine—”

“You have to twist it all the way.”

“And the sauna repair company—”

“They’re not coming back because you left a sex doll in there last time.”

“I don’t have sex with them,” Grant says primly.

There’s a pregnant pause while Grant takes a deep breath, and I ram the rear end of the Dickmobile onto the sidewalk and into an elm sapling encased in a protective plastic tube.

“I’ve been a bad friend.”

“You’re not even a friend. You’re a bag of dicks, Grant.” I’m swiveling madly, ripping the wheel around with one hand, trying to twelve-point turn my way out of this parking job while holding the phone in my other. The back right wheel goes over the curb again and again.

“I know,” he says sadly. “I know.”

“Do you? The bag of dicks has sentience and self-awareness? This is really fascinating.” I’m coasting down the street now with one hand on the wheel. The Bluetooth connects suddenly and Grant’s voice fills the car.

“When are you coming home?”

“I’ve got a new place.”

His breath catches. I toss my phone on the passenger seat and hang a right.

“I respect that,” he says sorrowfully. And it’s…surprising. “I didn’t really deserve your friendship. I see that now. But I want…Can I make a gesture of amends?”

His new therapist must be good.

“I want to…I should have been paying you. For your help. Can I…Well, I want to know what would make your efforts feel acknowledged.”

The car’s been warming up and it fucking stinks. I roll a window down, and I think of Dodi’s hair blowing ragged in the night wind on the way to Las Vegas. I remember her smashed-up car. She belongs in something fast and expensive and…fast.

“I want one of your cars.”

His breath catches. “The Lambo?”

I think of the smashed rear, the pine sap, and the rabbit juice. The giant dick on the trunk. “No.” I clear my throat. “I know this one’s sentimental to you. You can give me a different one.” I remember the car I drove Dodi to the airport in. She’d stopped in her tracks and hissed, “Fucking kidding me ,” under her breath. I think that meant she liked it. “The red one with the black leather interior.”

His breath comes out in a whoosh. Relief.

“The Hellcat. I’ll leave the deed on the kitchen counter here. Are we still friends, Jake?”

Were we ever?

“Of course. Grant?”

“Yes?”

“Legal question: if someone was hired for a job, and then she was supposed to be laid off, but she wasn’t, and the company forgot about her and kept paying her for years because of a clerical error—”

“Not really my wheelhouse, but was there a letter or email of termination?”

“No.”

“Then she wasn’t terminated and she was owed that paycheck.”

“Even if she wasn’t being given any work, and no one was supervising her and it was obvious that—”

“Jake,” Grant says, his voice persuasive and smooth. “Work-for-hire is a fixture in today’s highly competitive corporate world. It’s a strategy to sequester talent away from the competition. Even if your company doesn’t need another top-tier analyst or software engineer—or what have you—at least you can keep her away from assisting the competition, right? Do you see what I’m saying?” Essence of suave criminal defense lawyer condenses on the windows and drips all over the expensive leather upholstery. “She was given no reason to think her situation was anything other than that. And she showed up, didn’t she? She was available for work every day. Professional. Ready. Willing. We have character references and testimonials notarized and ready for submission at discovery—” He sketches in the details, falling in love with his own story.

“Got it, thanks,” I say.

His voice abruptly returns to normal. “I’ll always have your back. If you ever need a criminal defense lawyer—”

“I don’t plan on it.”

“I’m here when you need me. Oh, and Jake?”

“Yes?”

He clears his throat, and I know what’s coming. No. No, no, no.

“I was wondering if—”

We’re on W now. “Wendy? Wanda? What did you call this one?”

He sighs. “Willow.”

“No.”

“I need her out of here—Jake— please . I’ve been journaling. Everyone needs to journal, Jake. And I’m realizing things about myself. I’m afraid of rejection. I’m afraid of disappointing someone and failing in a relationship. I work so much. And the sex thing”—disgust and anguish enter his voice now—“it’s so hard to date when everyone expects that.” He sighs. “I just wanted to love someone. I wanted to have a person. I wanted to feel normal .”

Twenty-three sex dolls in the pursuit of normalcy.

“I get it,” I say slowly. And I kind of do. Dodi did, right from the start. Being afraid someone won’t accept you as you are, being afraid of hurting other people, being afraid to share your secrets. And if you get past all that, being afraid of losing them.

“So can you throw her out for me when you come by for the car? I’ve got a full bag of compost under the sink too.”

I end the call.

There’s an accident on the bridge, which means I have to go north and take the other bridge, which takes me past Grant’s. On the other side, it’s going to be gridlocked all the way from the bridge to Dodi’s…I grit my teeth. I slam my brakes for a red light and another caller is announced by the dashboard screen: SPENCER & STERNS.

“What?”

Cynthia’s cool HR voice is on the other end. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I have a piece of paperwork here on my desk with your name on it.”

“I don’t work for Spencer & Sterns. I’m a temp —”

“I make a point of wrapping up all unfinished business myself before my contracts expire,” she says firmly.

“—and it’s the day after Christmas.”

“I’m not sure I follow? If you are not an employee of Spencer & Sterns, you are not enjoying paid time off right now. And I work on contract. I never stop working.”

She’s truly remarkable.

“If you have a moment to meet…?”

“Sure thing, Cynthia,” I spit at the dashboard screen. “But it’s the holidays . Come over now for some fruitcake and do an in-person exit interview. You have my address in your system. Come right up to the top floor.”

I imagine her showing up at Grant’s penthouse. I’m going to leave the door unlocked and the sex doll right there on the couch for when she walks in.

There’s a pause and then, “All right,” and the call ends abruptly.

Immediately my phone vibrates again: ANDREW . I throw it out the window.

—

At Grant’s building, I fishtail into a reserved parking spot in the basement and leave the Dickmobile straddling a white line. The elevator is waiting, and I go up and let myself in, holding my breath—

Grant is gone. The deed is there on the counter with a pair of key fobs. I shove it all in my pockets. In my room, I get the box of papers from under my bed. I reach for the coat hangers with my shirts and slacks, and I stop. I don’t need any of that shit. I take my box and go. I have to get out of here before Cynthia shows up. But as I pass through the living room, I finally notice her.

Long black hair, dark eyes, tan skin. At some point they started making them with tattoos.

Sometimes it’s necessary to compartmentalize, because I’m not fucking thinking about this right now.

At least he never treated an actual woman like an object, never tried to control or possess a real one. Unlike some men. Dangerous men. Men who shouldn’t be anywhere near a real woman, because that’s when they really get nasty—when the women refuse to be possessed. When they try to leave.

My guts fold in on themselves.

Through the window I can see the bridge and the commuter highway beyond, bumper to bumper with traffic. Somewhere beyond that are Dodi, Cat, Princess, and Laura. Kind, gentle Laura. Has she already called Andrew? Why didn’t I tell her to coordinate a plan with me? Because Andrew’s out there somewhere too, stewing, furious to be coming home after ruining Christmas to discover he didn’t ruin anyone’s Christmas after all. To discover his wife left with a suitcase, humiliating him . Did Laura turn off her data again after texting Dodi? Is he looking up her location right now? I pat for my phone to call Laura, but I don’t have it.

I need to get to them, now.