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  WEAK FOR HIM

  LYRA PARISH

  WEAK FOR HIM

  COPYRIGHT © LYRA PARISH 2014

  PUBLISHED BY LYRA PARISH AT SMASHWORDS

  Copyright © 2014 Lyra Parish

  Published by Lyra Parish

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Weak for Him/Lyra Parish. -- 1st ed.

  To Will for loving me no matter who I am, or who I want to be.

  To live is the rarest thing in the world.

  Most people just exist.

  ―OSCAR WILDE

  One

  The real estate agent marked a giant black X beside the line at the bottom of the contract and handed me the pen. I understood the terms and conditions. I had read them at least twenty times over the past few days, but as my pen hit the paper, I froze.

  "Sign on this line, Jennifer. Unless you're having second thoughts."

  She tapped the paper with her pink manicured nail, causing her bracelets to jingle.

  The people who wanted the house said they would convert it into a bed and breakfast for all the tourists visiting the Golden Triangle, a quaint area in Texas, known for oil and the home of Janis Joplin. I would miss the little things, like the Groves town square and the Pecan Festival, but they would always hold a place in my heart. The worn boards, double windows, and wraparound porch would be fully appreciated by someone else.

  Every detail about the house, the way the shutters haphazardly hung on the upper windows, the boards that creaked on the stairs, and the rounded corners of the island in the kitchen, were a constant reminder of how my life changed when a reckless driver slammed into my parents' SUV.

  I didn't want the burden anymore. I had dealt with enough.

  Instead of studying for final exams, I planned two funerals.

  Instead of walking across the stage during my college graduation, I buried my parents.

  I couldn't celebrate without them. I wouldn't.

  Tragic situations sometimes forced people into adulthood, causing one to take a leap of faith they might not have taken before. If I learned one thing from the accident, it was the fragility and preciousness of life. How a person should tell someone if they loved them and not hold back their feelings regardless of the consequences. I didn't tell my parents how much I loved or appreciated them, and every day without them, I regretted it.

  The two-story farmhouse was a reminder of the memories, of my childhood, and allowed the ghosts of my parents to linger and haunt.

  Devastation could make a person stronger, or bitter, or depressed, and I didn't want to stick around to find out which I had acquired. The longer I stayed, the less time it would take to lose myself. I wanted—no, needed—out.

  I sucked in a deep breath and signed my name beside the overemphasized X.

  Mrs. Shirley, the old bleached-blonde Barbie that used to babysit me when I was a child, smiled at the signature.

  "Thanks, honey. I'll let the buyers know everything is final."

  Her country accent seemed fake, almost how actors portrayed Texans on TV, but it was natural; it had been like that for as long as I could remember.

  Signing that paper lifted a million pounds from my shoulders. The shackles had released, and I was free from the responsibility, the reminders, and everything that came with the house. I blinked the tears away. I refused to cry. Shirley continued to make small talk as I loaded the last of my belongings into the trunk of the Honda.

  "Where should I send your copies of the finalized paperwork?" she asked as I slipped into the drivers seat. I rolled down the window.

  "To my P.O. box in town. I'm having my mail forwarded there for now."

  "So no address in Vegas, yet?"

  "No ma'am, not yet."

  "You know you don't have to leave, Jennifer. There are people here who love you."

  "Yeah. There are people that I loved that are no longer here. There's no reason to stay anymore."

  She leaned into the window, hugged my neck, and kissed my cheek.

  "Take care, doll. Call us if you need anything."

  "I will."

  But she knew I wouldn't call.

  It was an empty expression that she genuinely meant, but one that I would never claim. I was an independent kid, and not much had changed as I grew into an adult.

  We exchanged one last smile, and then I put the car in reverse and sped away. As I cruised down the shell driveway, I took one last look into the rear view mirror, where she stood on the porch, watching me drive into the morning sun. I told myself I wouldn't look back, but I had to take one last glimpse at my old life, the crooked shutters, and the pasture with the tall crisp grasses, and the fence that didn't connect all the way around.

  "Goodbye," I whispered.

  The house faded away until it was miniature, and then non-existent.

  The GPS read twenty-four hours.

  I would stop halfway, and then continue.

  The only choice I gave myself was to live like the sun wouldn't rise tomorrow.

  Las Vegas bound, finally.

  Two

  Exhaustion blanketed my body. So much, I contemplated crawling from the seat of my car to the hotel lobby. My legs needed a stretch, and I couldn't drive another inch. The golden Valet sign seemed like a godsend.

  Barefoot, and with a purpose, I slid out of the Honda, stretched my arms to the heavens, and let every vertebra in my back crunch. Instead of driving to the parking garage, I threw the keys to the valet driver. He shook his head like every tourist did it, and walked over to the little podium, scribbled some things on a clipboard, and handed me a slip of paper.

  Before I walked into the hotel, I took in the bright lights, sounds of zooming cars, and chatter of the tourists on the streets. Smells of life and food and old hotels made my body light up with excitement. Regardless of exhaustion—and the constant emptiness that never seemed to leave—the city life exhilarated me.

  Everything I dreamed of was under my feet: change.

  Nothing but sidewalk pavement surrounded me.

  Oh, I couldn't wait to get acquainted with the city.

  Unceremoniously, I grabbed my suitcase, and headed toward the grand entrance.

  Once inside the revolving doors, the sounds of tokens dropping on metal and musical blings echoed in the distance. Gambling and booze were only a few steps away, and I would never forget the blown glass flowers that spilled from the ceiling. Deep blues, oranges, and yellows hovered above, coaxing me into their colorful spell. The lobby held the sounds and distinct smells of freedom and sin.

  "Can I help you?" the petite woman at the front desk asked. A high-pitched, nasally voice escaped her. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled.

  "I have a reservation. J
ennifer Downs."

  In a few clicks, and a slide of a credit card, I had the key to my room.

  "Would you like help with your bags?"

  Although the bellman wore white gloves and a cute little hat and practically begged me to take him away from his post, I refused. Two suitcases were no problem, and I never knew how much to tip.

  "Enjoy your stay at the Bellagio, Ms. Downs. If you need anything, please dial zero."

  I pushed the arrow for the elevator.

  Once the golden elevator doors closed, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Disheveled like I had run through a hurricane. My clothes were wrinkled from sitting, but I didn't care. All I cared about was Vegas.

  Before I let my excitement get the best of me, I sucked in a deep breath and smiled. As I hummed to Frank Sinatra, the elevator dinged and opened, releasing me onto the seventeenth floor.

  I walked to the end of the hallway and inserted the hotel key into the little slot. The mechanism turned green and clicked.

  Blue walls, blue accents, and blue curtains—the color of serenity and calmness. The room was breathtaking. Not because of the king size bed or HDTV on the wall, but because of the amazing view.

  I dropped my bags and moved to the giant windows. Tall buildings, city lights, and mountains lined the horizon. I wanted to encapsulate my emotions and remember the moment forever.

  The city drew me in, and called my name as if I were meant to be there, a divine intervention that patiently waited for each piece of the puzzle to be placed. As I stared at my surroundings, I knew that moving to Vegas was the right choice.

  After staring at the pastures of pavement for god knows how long, I unpacked my clothes, and placed them in the dresser drawers. I took my phone charger out of the side pocket of my suitcase and plugged my phone in next to the bed. The whole drive, I refused to answer although I could hear ringing and dinging until it finally died. Even once settled, I didn't have the energy to look at the calls and texts.

  When I entered the bathroom, I didn't expect a separate tub and shower, shiny tile floors, or honeysuckle-scented bubble bath. The sweet scent reminded me of summer, sugar, and sunshine. Two capfuls would do the job.

  As soon as I turned on the water, it instantly became steamy hot. Little rainbow-colored bubbles hugged the side of the fiery, sweet water, and I could not get out of my clothes fast enough. I practically ripped them off. Water, warm and comforting, relaxed my muscles. Steam filled the bathroom, causing the mirror to fog. I leaned my back against the jets and closed my eyes. Slowly, my body gave in, and my muscles turned to gelatin.

  I grabbed the little bottle of honeysuckle body wash and the shower pouf, and lightly rubbed up and down my arms, my legs, and in between. I let go of the fluffy sponge, positioned my arms on the edge, and sunk deeper into the tub.

  Although my skin had a hint of pink from the hotness and my fingers wrinkled from the amount of time I lingered in the tub, I refused to get out.

  My breathing slowed, and before I fell asleep the bathroom door creaked opened.

  I tried to cover my naked body, but not before the man in a designer black suit got an eye full.

  His eyes, the color of grass, met mine.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Miss," he said with a British accent, surprised.

  "Get out!" I yelled and threw the body wash. He ducked as the bottle flew inches past his head. Damn, if my hands weren't wet, I would have nailed him. My aim was usually impeccable.

  "I'm sorry!" he said, and closed the door, dodging a little plastic bottle to the face. It rolled to the floor.

  "What the hell? Get out!" I screamed back.

  Anger filled me. I struggled out of the bathtub, splashing water onto the tile, and grabbed the fluffy cotton towel before wrapping it around my sopping wet body. I twisted my hair in a tight, wet bun, put on some jogging pants, and slipped on an old, worn T-shirt. Forget wearing a bra and panties, a manager would hear from me immediately. There's nothing like a pissed off Texan on a mission.

  I stormed to the elevator. I could have taken the stairs, but I'd rather my anger be boiling over by the time I made it to the lobby. The mirrors in the elevator showed every sin. My nipples were hard, and I could see straight through my white shirt.

  Out of all colors to choose.

  For a second, I thought about going upstairs and changing, but instead, I crossed my arms to hide my body. The last thing I needed was someone gawking at the girls. Bringing attention to myself was never something I wanted, and I felt so exposed.

  I stormed toward the counter where Mr. Eye-full-in-a-nice-suit coincidentally stood. He complained to the woman at the front desk, and I overheard bits and pieces of the conversation as I waited behind the "wait-here" sign.

  "No… Yes, there was a woman in that particular room… You must have made a mistake and double booked the room… I understand you're the manager. Do you know who I am?"

  "Yes, sir. You're Finnley Felton. I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience, and we hope this incident does not discourage your future stays. We will be upgrading you to a suite, and can guarantee this will not happen again," the overly happy woman said.

  She handed him a new key, and he rudely ripped it from her hand. As he turned, he made direct eye contact with me, and I cowered. I had only been in Vegas for approximately an hour and a stranger had already seen me fully naked.

  Thank god he is a stranger and I will never have to see him again.

  "And here is the young woman I walked in on," Mr. Felton said.

  With a voice as sweet as candy, he said, "I do apologize, Miss."

  Little specks of light brown sprinkled the inside of his irises. His green sparkled like emeralds. At a closer inspection of his face, I realized he wasn't much older than me, mid-twenties—early thirties, maybe. I opened my mouth to reply, but he was gone before I could say a word.

  The woman at the counter would hear an earful from me.

  "Do you have any idea what just happened to me?" I said.

  "Yes, Ms. Downs, and I would like to apologize for any inconvenience this mishap has brought to you. In return, we will be compensating your room for the next two nights. Also, feel free to order anything via room service."

  "Do you think this takes back the fact that he saw me completely naked?"

  "Oh."

  The woman didn't know what I experienced.

  "Ms. Downs. I am very sorry for the inconvenience. Is there anything I can do to rectify the situation?"

  "Actually, I would like a bottle of wine," I said, matter-of-factly.

  "I will have room service deliver it right away," she said.

  I walked away without thanking the woman. My mother had taught me better manners, but at that moment, I didn't care.

  Mindlessly, I punched seventeen on the elevator and within a blink I was at my room. Outside of my door stood a woman with a bottle of wine, and two glasses on a silver platter. Bitchiness worked, and it felt good.

  Once inside, I sat the platter on the dresser and changed into my bra and panties. After pouring myself a glass of wine, I pulled the chair up to the window, rested my feet on the little ledge, and soaked in the city lights.

  This is what a queen must feel like.

  Tonight, I will get sloppy drunk. First time for everything.

  I tasted wine at a friend's wedding, but after a glass, the desire to drink vanished. But the wine hadn't been expensive and sweet, or cranberry like the kind I had in my hand.

  Without another thought, I picked up the bottle and drank straight from the top. I didn't want to be responsible. I wanted to let loose, relax, and pretend I was important.

  The most important woman in the Bellagio.

  Hell, if I were pretending, I wanted to be the most important woman in all of Vegas.

  My head swam as the alcohol moved through my bloodstream, making everything seem hot. Then my face went tingly, and I had to pee.

  As I stood, I slightly lost my balance and placed my hand on the window to s
teady me. The cool glass felt nice on my palm.

  I raised the bottle toward the city streets and the urge to be wild without worry or care overcame me. But that wasn't me, must have been the alcohol talking.

  "Fuck it!" I said, aloud.

  Tonight, I would drink myself drunk. I had a sexy man see me naked and in front of the entire city of Vegas, I stood confidently in my bra and panties.

  I lived on the edge.

  Well, the edge for me.

  Three

  I woke with a headache from hell.

  Stupid-ass wine. Stupid-ass Jennifer.

  As I walked past the bottle, I picked it up. Bone dry. I had drank the entire bottle and passed out.

  Hangovers sucked royally, and the queen needed coffee.

  I stood and shut the curtains because my eyes were just a little too sensitive to light. Gah.

  Before entering the bathroom, I caught sight of a black envelope under my door. Who still used stationery? It seemed so old-fashioned. I peeled the golden seal from the back and opened the letter. A business card fell to the ground.

  Ms. Downs,

  Again, I would like to sincerely apologize for disturbing you last night. The hotel, I hope, compensated you for their foolish mistake. I overheard you in the lobby, telling a woman you drove from Texas to Vegas alone. Impressive. You must be a woman of determination. If you are here for the long-term, and are looking for a job, I would love to give you a chance. Feel free to call my office.

  Regards,

  Finnley Felton

  The neatest calligraphy-like handwriting filled the pages with the most perfectly curled F's.

  Finnley.

  I remembered the shock on his face when I threw the shampoo bottle. No way Mr. Eye-full would see me again or become my boss. Out of the question. How embarrassing would it be to look him in the eye each day?