Ricochet Read online

  Ricochet

  By Ashley Haynes

  Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Haynes.

  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 at the email address provided below.

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Haynes

  Cover Photograph by Amanda Thomas

  https://www.facebook.com/AcoletaPhotography

  Cover Model Hannah Uhl

  “It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.”

  -Oscar Wilde

  Table of Contents

  Chapter OnE

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Recoil

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  “You can’t just up and leave. This isn’t fair,” he whined.

  “I’m not just up and anything. This is what, the third time I’ve walked in on you with a strippers legs up in the air?” I said as I tossed the last of my belongings haphazardly into a plastic grocery bag. This was kind of a snap decision.

  “I have a problem, I’ll admit that. I’ll get help. We can work through this.” His voice was grating on my nerves. Maybe he really does have a “problem.” Maybe I am being insensitive and ableist to walk away in his time of need. But, probably not.

  “I’ve heard enough excuses. I’m done. Maybe be upfront about your so-called ‘sex addiction’ with the next girl, maybe she’ll be more understanding,” I groaned. I gathered up as many of my grocery bag suitcases as I could carry. I wanted to make as few trips to Regan’s car as possible. This was trip number four. She was downstairs waiting for me, getting impatient. She said she can’t handle emotional situations like this, but I personally think she just doesn’t like manual labor. At least all of the furniture is Hunter’s. I moved into his pre-established apartment. I moved into his pre-established, serial dating, non-monogamous life. Fuck me, right?

  “Is that everything?” asked Regan, hopefully. My car was already full. Her trunk was packed, the back seat was packed, and this load was spilling into the front.

  “One more armload,” I said, embarrassed.

  “How do you have so much shit, Lilly? Can you leave it? Can we come get it tomorrow? I have to work in the morning and I think we’re about to surpass the weight limit,” she whined. Lots of whining from everyone; shouldn’t I be the one whining?

  “No, I need to be done. No coming back tomorrow. No coming back. Ever.” I turned on my heels and headed back into the apartment building. Hunter was waiting in the stairwell. I don’t do elevators, although I wish I had made an exception.

  “Babe, Look… I’m sorry. I promise. That will be the last time.” He grabbed me by my wrists, and spun me against the wall. He stared into my eyes with a gaze that he must have thought looked incredibly pensive and romantic. It came across more pathetic and unsettling. He was right. It would be the last time.

  “You need to get the fuck out of my face before I push you down these stairs. Don’t touch me,” I said as I pushed him away.

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I just… I love you,” he gasped. Yeah, okay. This is getting really redundant.

  Should I be crying? I feel like I should probably be crying. Two years of my life have been flushed down the drain. I thought I loved him. But if that were true, would I be this relieved? Would I feel like a burden was lifted from me? Maybe I didn’t love him. Maybe he was just cute and decent in bed. His dick wasn’t anything to write home about, but he went down on me for days. He had a nice apartment and HBO Go. I guess I’m pretty shallow. Whatever.

  The next few weeks involve a lot of Netflix, ice cream, take out, and booze. Hunter would not leave me alone. He sent daily poetry excerpts and professions of love on whatever communication method I hadn’t managed to block him from yet. I’ve been avoiding Hunter, avoiding showers, and feeling sorry for myself for three weeks or so; time is meaningless.

  Regan already has apartments lined up for me to look at. I’m pretty sure she’s had apartments lined up for me to look at for the past six months, since the last time I caught Hunter balls deep in someone named Bambi. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a prude. I’m not one of those “porn is cheating!” kinds of people. I never had an issue with him going to the strip clubs. I don’t care where you get your appetite as long as you eat at home. I guess he took that literally and started bringing them home. That’s kind of where I draw the line. A full STD panel later, and I am single and ready to mingle, if you call flirting with the Chinese delivery guy mingling.

  “For someone who ‘doesn’t give a fuck,’ you sure are wallowing in that self pity,” Regan often teased. I might be milking the “socially acceptable depression” as an excuse to binge drink, whine, stay in, wear the same pajamas for an entire weekend, and eat a lot of carbs. Living the dream. She also keeps reminding me that I am welcome to stay as long as I need to, but that it would do me so much good to get back on my feet. Hint taken. Tomorrow I look at one of the apartments Regan has lined up for me, and it actually looks pretty promising. It sits near a small lake, and there’s a bay window in the guest room that looks over it. I really want to get back into painting, and that sounds like the perfect atmosphere for a studio. Bad news is it’s on the fourth floor. As I mentioned I don’t do elevators, and four flights of stairs is quite the walk. But the rent is where I need it to be, and the pictures online look beautiful. I can’t crash on Regan’s couch forever.

  Chapter Two

  “This is a really great space. It won’t be vacant for long,” said Diana, the apartment manager. We turned the corner, and she led me to the elevator. I shifted nervously. I have a huge issue with elevators. It’s real, and it’s deep. I can’t even set foot into one without feeling like I’m going to die. I’m sure it is all in my head, but your head has a habit of making things feel very, very real.

  “Uh, are there stairs? I really prefer to take the stairs. I can meet you up there. Trying to stay healthy, ya know?” I rambled, nervously.

  Diana laughed, “We have had some issues with unsavory behavior in the stairs and we’ve been committed to making this a safe and welcoming place to live. The stairwells are alarmed and are emergency exits only.” She stepped into the elevator, beckoning me to follow. Ugh. Bay window, mama. You can do this. You can’t have this irrational crippling fear forever. Maybe today is your day to nut the fuck up.

  Nope. I was very wrong. Today is NOT my day. I’m going to die. Blackness invaded t
he edges of my vision. My heartbeat sped, my legs began to shake. This is it. This is how I’m going to die. I’m going to black out in this fucking elevator, hit my head on the fake marble floor, and bleed from my head until my heart stops beating. They’ll never get the stains off the floor. My blood will drip through the cracks in the door and down in the shaft, into crevices they will never be able to clean. I’ll be forced to haunt this elevator shaft for all of time because my blood will tie me to this place.

  “This is our floor. Are you ok?” Diana asked.

  “Uh. Yeah. No. I-D-K.” Did I just speak text lingo? Why didn’t I just die? Now I’m exasperated and embarrassed. I jump out of the elevator, grasping the wall behind me for support.

  “Well. You’ll survive, right? The unit is this way,” she chided. I could hear her mocking me in her tone of voice. Fuck you, too, Diana.

  She opened the door to the apartment, and the pictures didn’t do it justice. Diana points this out as well. Hardwood floors, unfinished brick walls, well equipped kitchen, plenty of space. All of which I noticed on my own, even though Diana made sure to point them out. Diana rambles on about the various amenities and other “I need to rent out this unit yesterday,” bullshit. We get it, Diana. I ignore her oft-recited spiel as I meander around the apartment. Yes, I do see the abundance of electrical outlets. Yeah there really are limitless options for furniture arrangement because of the multiple cable outlets. It is super awesome that we get free Wi-Fi.

  I’m sold as I wander into the second bedroom. The bay window looks over this idyllic, back of the postcard, front of the calendar lake, complete with little sailboats and children flying kites. Fuck me, I’m moving into this fourth floor apartment with no accessible stairwell. Because art, okay? I’m not really an artist in the general sense of the word. Painting is more of a release for me because it’s up for debate whether or not I have any actual skill. I just enjoy the smell and the textile sensation of a brush moving over the canvas, late nights fueled by coffee to create something, even if it’s something I hide in the bathroom because it looks like a toddler painted it. I am nothing if not self aware that my talent is mediocre at best.

  I tell Diana I’m very interested, and she suggests I fill out an application right away, as there are other parties interested in the unit. Blah blah blah, whatever Diana. As we leave the unit, I’m caught up in a daydream of me painting in the guest bedroom, bathed by moonlight as I splash paint on some poorly executed bullshit. I crash right into this wall of Versace Eros and flannel and denim. I look up to see why the walls in this apartment building smell so good, and sunbeams filtering gently through decanters of whiskey look back at me.

  “Holy shit, I am so sorry. Are you ok? I wasn’t watching where I was going,” said the wall made out of wet panties and golden eyes. It can speak for some reason.

  “Oh, no, totally my fault,” I managed to stutter back. As it turns out this wall was actually a person, and reason number two I am totally moving into this apartment. I smiled weakly, embarrassed by my own thoughts.

  “This is Cash, and he’ll be your neighbor if you decide to move into the unit! Cash, this is Lilly,” boasted Diana. I see that selling your apartments based on the sex appeal of your current tenants is not above you. Have you no shame, Diana.

  We follow Cash to the elevator and my heart sinks. Fan-fucking-tastic, now he gets to see me be a total spaz and have a full blown panic attack. Maybe my growth as a person will win him over in the long run. He’ll see me now, clammy and shitting my pants, but in a few months after my forced exposure has me hopping on and off without a second thought he’ll think “Wow. This girl is really something.”

  Cash’s voice interrupts my fantasy. “Just so you know I’m a terrible neighbor. I sell drugs and have like one thousand prostitutes. Just, all hours of the night. Constant drugs and prostitutes.” Diana playfully smacks his arm.

  “We’ve never had a complaint about any of it. Why don’t you want a neighbor? Quit trying to scare away my tenants. I have bills to pay too, ya know,” she chuckled. This exchange was uncomfortably friendly. Like maybe they used to fuck. Or are currently fucking. Even though she’s like 52 with two kids in college and probably a wallet full of photos of grandchildren. But who am I to judge what goes on between consenting adults?

  “I just like the quiet. That’s the only apartment that shares a wall with mine. The space under me is a laundry room, I like not having to censor how loudly I sing in the shower,” he explained.

  The elevator dings to announce its arrival, which is actually more welcoming than you would think for someone with a crippling phobia. Anything to get away from being told that my presence would be disturbing to someone’s sold out shower performance of Queen’s greatest hits. I wait for Diana and Cash to step into the tiny metal death box as I try to gather my wits. I step over the threshold, and despite my most valiant efforts to maintain my composure; I instantly lose my shit as the doors swish shut behind me. Here we go. I’m gonna fucking die.

  “Are you scared of elevators?” Cash asks. No! What gave it away? Is it my pallid color? My heavy breathing? Maybe I get off from elevators. You don’t know my life.

  “I used to be really terrified of elevators. I used to pretend that I was doing some dangerous heist and when the doors opened there would be a bunch of guys shooting at me. I would get all hyped up for the danger when the doors opened that the ride itself became less scary. Might sound ridiculous, but it worked. I’m not scared anymore.” Cash’s story distracted me and I didn’t even notice we had made it safely to the ground floor.

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll try that next time,” I said as I stepped out of the tiny metal death box.

  “See you around, maybe. If you don’t mind copious amounts of drugs and hookers,” he said playfully. I followed Diana back to the office to complete the paperwork. I’m definitely moving into this apartment.

  Chapter Three

  Moving day went smoothly enough. I only had to cart up 97 plastic grocery bags full of shit. I ordered minimal amounts of furniture from Amazon, blessed be thy Prime. Shitty couch, shitty dresser, shitty bed, amazing memory foam mattress. Did you know those things came in tiny boxes? They’re magical. I haven’t seen Cash since the day I came and scoped the apartment. I’m half convinced that he was an actor, hired by Diana to play the heart strings of lonely single girls to help her sell the apartment. Without the cute boy, there was only the window. But it was a beautiful window.

  I drag myself out of bed. I gather my clothes and track down the bag with my make up. I hear water running in my bathroom, which is kind of alarming. I realize the apartment next door must have the shower running. My thoughts instantly turn to Cash, naked. His bronze skin glistening under the running water, shampoo trailing down the curves of his spine. Nope. Stop. I want to meet him in the hallway; I don’t have time to rub one out. I quickly shower, tousle my hair, and wing my eyelids. I don’t have time to go full magazine spread make up today. I run into the hall, and linger for a few moments. I fear that I may have missed him. I press my ear against his door, because that’s not creepy. I quickly duck back into my doorway. I rush back out just in time to see him close his door behind him. Holy shit.

  “Woah. Nice suit dude. Are you some kind of CEO or something?” I ask, genuinely surprised that Mr. Flannel Button-up cleans up so nice on Monday mornings.

  “Are you kidding me? Would I live here if I was a CEO? I push papers at an insurance company. What about you? Do you work at the Gap or just really like their clothes?” he teased. Okay, so fuck you, you’re funny.

  “No, I don’t work. I’m on my way to meet up with my sugar daddy,” I quipped back. He gave me a side eyed smirk as we headed towards the elevator. I hesitated as I began to step in. I’d been on several rides now, and it wasn’t getting any better. I dreaded the ascent and descent to and from my building. Cash grabbed me by the shoulders, and spun me to face him. The doors glided shut behind us.

  “Listen to me. I
don’t think we’re gonna make it out of here alive.” he whispered, inches from my face.

  “What?!” I gasped.

  “When these doors open, they’re going to be waiting for us. Lot’s of them. We’re going to have to run. Are you ready? Can you do this?” he asks, excitedly.

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I smile, finally catching on.

  We slid to opposite corners of the elevator, glancing back and forth from each other to the door, our fingers held like guns. This is going to be a real treat for whoever has to review this security footage. When the doors opened, he shot to the center of the elevator, yelling “Go! Go! Go!” I spun out into the lobby, shooting fast with my finger gun. Cash laid it on thick with the “pew pew pews.” He let out a cry as he sunk to the floor, saying “You’re gonna have to go on without me.” I burst into laughter.

  “Okay, get up. Thank you. You’re fantastic. I don’t even feel like I’m going to vomit,” I laughed.

  “Well, I do pride myself on not making girls want to vomit,” he said, as he took off towards the mailboxes. I hadn’t given this as my forwarding address, or attached my mailbox key to my keychain, so I had no excuse to follow him. I headed to the parking lot instead.

  Work sped by, and I rushed home. I hoped that we had similar enough schedules to bump into each other again on the ride up. I waited in the lobby a moment, crushing some candy and obnoxiously finishing up some Song Pop challenges sans headphones. No Cash. I pushed the button to my floor and thought about him the entire ride. I thought about what adventure we might have tomorrow morning. Should I be this enamored? I’m over a month post horrible breakup. But aren’t I the portrait of unattached and emotionally available? Regan has been on me to meet someone since hour 17 post Hunter. “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” she would say, because she is horribly unoriginal. I’m not really sure I need to get over him though. I think I’ve been over him for a long time. I think I’m just ready to move on with my life. My biological clock is ticking or some other cliché Regan bullshit. I was so caught up in justifying my attraction to Cash I forgot to even be afraid of plummeting to my death down a cold, four-story shaft in a metal bread pan. I got this.