The Rush (52 page)

             
Because the bed did feel warmer.

             
I did dream in color.

             
I wasn’t lonely when I was alone.

             
And best of all I was standing taller.

             
Well “was” as in the seriously past tense because with monster-man looming over me, pissed off and yelling about money he wanted and I definitely did not have, I wasn’t standing taller anymore. I was more like shrinking slowly into what I assumed would soon be the fetal position.

             
But this morning, even as the warm sun sifted through my bedroom window and heated my exposed skin, everything seemed possible. I felt strong enough to get out of bed today and conquer the world- or at least the closest Starbucks and my econ class.

             
Which come on, that’s close enough right?

             
And even though last week I missed a seriously important pop quiz in my post-break-up-cowering phase so my grade was in some trouble, and then it started raining and I happened to be wearing a white t-shirt and red bra. Who does that by the way? Me apparently, in my Kelly-Clarkson-gave-me-the-strength-to-be-a-skank-mood. And then even after I came home to my roommate on her way out, for what at the time she had promised was just a bite to eat even though she was two months behind on her share of the rent, I had believed today was the start of better things to come.

             
All thanks to Kelly Clarkson and my dog Precious.

             
After setting my purse down on the counter because the entry hall table that I used to set it on had been moved, I started to wonder if maybe Kelly Clarkson lied to me.

             
Well, Ok, that’s not exactly true. First I wondered if I was hallucinating. And then I ran through the possibility of being robbed, but my roommate’s casual departure quickly negated that idea.

             
I blinked. And blinked again. And then blinked so hard tears formed in the corners of my eyes and I felt like I was trying to be the second coming of I Dream of Jeannie. If I willed all of my furniture and belongings to reappear, they would.

             
But they didn’t.

             
And that was just the start of my disappointment.

             
Then there was the letter…. The one casually explaining my roommate had a clinically diagnosed gambling addiction, and was thousands of dollars in debt. She explained that she had to sell the furniture, my furniture, to pay for rehab. Her family was insisting on it. She had a real problem. A real problem. And I needed to understand that anything she had done to hurt me was her addiction and not the real her.

             
Well her addiction wasn’t going to replace all of my furniture.

             
Her addiction wasn’t going to come up with the other half of my rent!

             
And her addiction really wasn’t going to explain to the man across the kitchen yelling at me that no matter who he thought I was, I did not owe him seven thousand dollars!!

             
I picked up the handwritten letter of crazy and with a shaky hand and held it out to him.

             
“What’s this?” He paused in his tirade to take the half sheet of torn notebook paper. I noticed my biology notes on the back of the paper for the first time. Seriously, she couldn’t even use her own paper???

             
“Um, see? I’m not the one that owes you money,” I sounded confident, but inside I was a trembling, terrified puddle. And on second thought, maybe I didn’t sound quite so confident….

             
“Who’s Tara?” he grunted after skimming the note quickly.

             
“My roommate,” I said simply and then thought better of it. “My ex-roommate. She’s moved on to group therapy and the twelve steps apparently.”

             
“And who are you?” he asked carefully. His eyes swept over me and suddenly I felt very vulnerable.

             
Ok, more vulnerable.

             
And that was a hard emotion to feel since he had elbowed his way in here not even ten minutes ago and started yelling at me and threatening all kinds of legal action and at times bodily harm.

             
“I’m uh, wait a second! Who are you? You’re in my apartment!” I dug deep for some courage. I slammed my fists to my hips and tilted my chin in my best I-mean-business pose.

             
“Don’t get cute with me.” He sneered. His upper lip curled in frustration and his dark, chocolate brown eyes narrowed. “I’m the guy you owe seven thousand dollars!”

             
Ugh, he was still stuck on this!  I cleared my throat and tried again, “How could I possibly owe you seven thousand dollars? I’ve never even see you before! I don’t even know you’re name.”

             
“You’re really going to stick with this whole doe-eyed-innocent act?” he scoffed unkindly. He walked forward and placed two meaty hands on the kitchen counter slowly, like he was weighing his strength against a fragile surface. His broad shoulders tensed and stiffened and his entire body went rigid with frustration. I almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

But then I remembered I was not that person anymore. No more pity for people that didn’t deserve it. No more sacrificing my time and money and energy for people that would just screw me over when they got what they wanted. This was the new me.
The stronger me. The me that was soul sisters with Kelly Clarkson. The I-get-what-I-want-me. And right now, I seriously wanted this guy out of my life, or at the very least out of my apartment.

“I’m not innocent,” I spat back with my arms crossed firmly against my chest and my hip jutting out. I realized that maybe that wasn’t my best defense but I pushed forward. “And I’m not doe-eyed!”

His face suddenly opened up in some shock and his lips kind of twitched like he was holding back a laugh. “I can’t believe this.” He rubbed two hands over his face in a sign of exhaustion and turned his back on me.

With his body more relaxed I saw him almost in a new light. He was less macho-Neanderthal in

this posture and more holy-sexy-back-muscles-batman. Obviously the disaster that was my last boyfriend did a number on me if I was checking out the confused hit man pacing back and forth in my kitchen.

“I think there has been some miscommunication,” I ventured, seeing how he was now

somewhat relaxed. “You think I am someone that owes you money, but I am not! Do I look like drug addict to you?”

He swung his head back around to face me. “You think I’m a drug dealer?”

“Seven thousand dollars is a lot of money,” I sniffed.

“Yes, it is. And you think the only way to go that much in debt is by drugs?” Now that he

was more calm I noticed his face wasn’t necessarily so menacing, but more chiseled and dignified. Actually when his dark eyes weren’t bugging out of his head in rage, he looked more like a Calvin Klein model than Tony Soprano…. And his hands weren’t so much meaty as they were just large and connected to very defined arms. And Ok, originally I was under the impression that his neck was the size of a redwood, but now that I’m really paying attention it’s more like just a very strong, carved out piece of art, attached to an equally and artfully sculpted body. And then to top it off, he had great hair. I just needed to admit that. He had amazing hair. Hair that I was instantly jealous of! Dark, rich coffee colored hair that matched his eyes. Short on the sides, and just a little bit longer on top, it was stylish and trendy.

Wait a minute, I didn’t think I liked that he was attractive…. more than attractive, hotter than hot attractive. When I finally took in the scruffy growth across his jaw and hiding too full lips, I wanted to roll my eyes. Who was this guy?

“Well, it’s one of the ways,” I huffed impatiently.

             
He cocked his head back, seemingly surprised with my answer. “I actually have no argument for that. You’re right, drugs is one way to go into that much debt.” I smirked at him, momentarily satisfied until I realized he was a drug lord and he thought I was his client! A client that owed him money! “But that’s not why you owe me money. I’m not a drug dealer.”

Oh whew. Sure, I knew that.

“Ok, are you a bill collector then? Because I don’t even have a credit card. Well, I have one credit card, but it’s for emergencies only and I’ve never used it. Besides, it only has like a fifteen hundred dollar limit on it.” I was growing more impatient the longer he stared at me. It was like all of the anger that propelled him into my apartment to begin with had evaporated somewhere between drug dealer and bill collector. Now his chocolate eyes were lit with amusement and his mouth was doing that annoying twitching thing again. “And my roommate gets calls from debt collectors all the time. Phone calls- have you heard of those? You seriously did not need to come all the way over here; I could have explained this to you over the phone.”  

“I’m not a bill collector either.”

              This time I could tell he was laughing at me. The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor and he held his hands up, palms out as if to stop me from guessing anymore. But I wasn’t finished. If he wasn’t a hitman, drug dealer or bill collector but wanted seven thousand dollars from me that left only one option.

             
I gasped, “Oh my gosh is this about prostitution? Oh my goodness, are you a pimp?” I shrieked and backed up three steps.

             
“What?” he burst out in a bark of confusion. “Are you into prostitution?”

             
“What? Me? Do I look like a prostitute?” I was back to being angry, narrowed eyes, hands cocked on my hips, scowl tightening my expression.

             
“Well, no, honestly, you look more like a missionary,” he shrugged a casual shoulder and let his eyes travel over me.

             
“A missionary!” I spit the word out like it burned me. I clutched at my gray infinity scarf that covered my black and white cowl neck long sleeve tee. Ok, maybe it was a little conservative…. but he seriously did not need to confuse modesty with missionary.

             
“Would you rather look like a prostitute?” He asked, his stupid dark brown eyes laughing at me.

             
“Why on Earth would you think that?” I demanded. This conversation had the disorienting feel that we were going backwards instead of forward and I started to feel dizzy from all the circles and the way he mouth quirked up when he was trying not to laugh.
         Wait, scratch that. I was only dizzy from the conversation!

             
“Listen, honesty, I don’t care what you are, I just want my money,” some of his amusement faded and a wave of exhaustion flashed across his face.

             
“So this isn’t about prostitution?” I asked, just to clarify. It was kind of important that it wasn’t about prostitution.

             
“If you’re not a prostitute and I’m not a pimp how in the hell could this be about prostitution?” he rumbled.

“Well, I don’t know, I just need to be…. sure,” I finished lamely.

              He ran a hand over his face again and growled out a frustrated sound. Then he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “This is taking up too much time. I just want my money and then I’ll be gone. I won’t bother you anymore. I promise. Although I strongly suggest that you stay away from anymore poker games. You are obviously not nearly lucky enough to be as careless as you are with your money.”

             
That got my attention. “Wait,” I held up a hand like I was asking him to stop his vehicle. But then I didn’t know how to go on. Gambling? This sounded way too convenient…. way too coincidental. A man comes to my door, demanding a seven thousand dollar gambling debt minutes after my crook of a roommate robbed me blind and then headed off to rehab for a gambling addiction? “Ok, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but why don’t you just tell me who you think I am. That might make things easier.”

A smug smirk turned his mouth and he said with confidence, “Eleanor Harris.”

              That caught me off guard. Because he was right. “Um, Ellie,” I corrected before he stuck to calling me Eleanor. Ugh! Even if he were here to murder me I would make him call me Ellie.

“Fine, Ellie Harris.”

              “Ok, you know my name, but you don’t know anything else about me. Like for instance, I don’t owe you any money!” I argued, still wondering how he knew my name.

             
“Alright, let’s see, you’re a sophomore, originally from farther up north. You transferred to Lacrosse spring semester last year. You were originally at University of Madison but you wanted to be close to your boyfriend who turned out to be a cheating douche bag. He broke up with you two weeks ago for another girl and since then you’ve gone from being a straight A student with a nearly perfect attendance record to skipping all of your of classes, doing your best to fail out of school and now you’ve apparently acquired a gambling addiction with a side of pathological lying.”