Blast From The Past 1 (6 page)

If you’ve ever wondered how long it takes to go from heaven to hell, today’s your lucky day, because, guess what? ...I know the answer.

In my experience, it takes approximately five hours to make the journey, and several years of wishing you hadn’t.

The next morning, after my sexcapade with Joe, I woke up alone in his bed. He wasn’t beside me, and, although it was my body that had gotten a pounding the night before, it was my head that ached most in the morning. I had a terrible hangover, but, even more painful than that, I had a terrible situation hanging over my head.

I stared at the empty spot in the bed beside me, and my first thoughts were of what Julie had said the night before, when she’d given Joe the cold shoulder. “I’m tired of guys like him,” I heard her saying in my head. “They come to the bar and try to get the young college girls all fucked up so that they can take them home and fuck them. Then what happens the next morning? Either they sneak out before you wake up, or they leave you with some fake phone number. Been there, done that too many times, and I’m not gonna let myself or my friends fall victim to a predator like that.”

Damn you, Julie!
I thought to myself, trying to blame her for my predicament. I
had
ended up with a predator like that, and he
had
gotten me fucked up, taken me home, and fucked me… and, now, where the hell was he?

I sat up in bed and thought about screaming his name—but, before I could, I heard the sound of running water and realized he hadn’t left, but was in the shower. But, so, too, the strange feelings I had hadn’t left, and I began what ended up being years of self-reprisal.

Patty the bookworm wasn’t the type of girl to go home with a stranger—and, neither was Patty the regular, day-to-day person. Hell, thinking of it now, not even Trish was that type of person. Picking up a stranger at the bar is a dangerous move to make, and it never results in anything meaningful. Girls don’t meet Mr. Right under those types of circumstances, and there are a lot of “wrong” things that can happen to them in the process.

I’d waited until college to lose my virginity, and I’d been picky about even that. I didn’t jump into bed with the first guy who looked my way, and I’d turned down a number of suitors over the years. What I’d done the night before wasn’t just unlike me—it wasn’t me at all—and I felt very disgusted with myself about it.

I’d devalued sex to the point that it became far less personal than it should have been, and we’d treated each other like two slabs of meat in the market. I’d always thought I valued myself more than that, and the fact that I’d had such loose morals and loose legs made me want to vomit—and, I probably would have, but for the fact that Joe was in the bathroom.

I hated myself for what I’d done and hated Joe for his role in it. I didn’t know how I would get over this slight to myself, but I did know one thing for certain—I wanted to get out of his apartment, and back to my normal life, as quickly as possible.

While the water was still running, I jumped out of bed and collected my clothing from the bedroom floor. I nearly shit my pants when I couldn’t find my shirt, but sighed a breath of relief when I remembered Joe had removed it from me in the living room.

I quietly walked past the bathroom, to the living room, and found my top, which smelled of beer, stronger booze, and drug store cologne, and I tossed it on as quickly as I could. As I was pulling a sleeve over my arm, my hand hit the wall with a thump, and I heard Joe call out from the shower. “Patty?” he asked over the sound of the water. “You up now? I’ll be out in a couple minutes.”

I didn’t take the time to answer, and I didn’t waste any more time sticking around Joe’s apartment. I grabbed my purse and made a beeline for the door, and tried to fight back the tears as I made my way out of the building.

Some girls may be fine with the type of thing I’d done—and, if so, more power to them—but I wasn’t fine with it at all. It marked a low point for me, and it was some time before I was able to forgive myself for it.

When I got back to the dorms, there was a Post-It note on my door from Beth. It read,
Call me when you get back, slut
, and had a smiley face drawn on it. I knew that Beth was trying to be funny with that note, but she’d hit the nail on the head with it. Reading it, considering the night before, I
did
feel like a slut, though I certainly didn’t want to talk to her—or anyone—about it.

I kept my encounter with Joe a secret and told my friends I’d run into Tommy instead. They weren’t close with him anyhow, and, for me, lying to them about him was easier than telling them the truth. I mean, the way I looked at it, if I ignored it and pretended like it never happened, then maybe no one else would be the wiser—and, maybe, I, too, would forget about it and think it never happened.

Ah, if only it had been so easy…

“So what’s good here?” I asked Gigi, examining the list of over twenty burgers on the menu.

“Everything,” she answered, doing the same. “I’ve had a few different burgers here already, and, nowadays, I make it a point to try something new each time I come here.”

I’d had a late lunch and was sitting down to an early dinner, so I really wasn’t in
need
of food, but the sights and smells in Burger Bistro were enough to make my mouth water.

“Maybe I’ll just start with a beer then?” I asked, flipping through the menu in search of the draft list. “Something to wet my whistle until I figure out what to eat.”

“Good luck with that,” Gigi said, motioning toward the wall. “Picking a beer won’t be any easier.” I looked to where she pointed, and there was a list of about three dozen beers on the wall, including several IPAs, local lagers, and other brews I’d never heard of.

“OMG,” I said. “We might end up being here for hours.”

“It’s okay if we are,” Gigi, answered. “But, let me give you a piece of advice… Start by picking your burger, then the waiter or waitress will help you select a drink that pairs well with it. The staff here is really knowledgeable, and they’ll even let you sample a few drafts before you select one if you like… But, like I said, it’s probably easier to start by picking your burger.”

“Alrighty then,” I replied. I read burger bio after burger bio until I came to one that spoke to me.

“Mmmm, the Bacon Cheddar Bomb sounds good,” I told Gigi, salivating at the thought of crumbled up bacon, cheddar cheese, and jalapeño peppers atop ten ounces of Kobe beef.

“It is,” Gigi chimed back. “I’ve had it before, and, if you like a little kick in your burger, trust me, you’ll love it… I’ve decided on the Greek God, by the way.”

I quickly scanned the list to read what Gigi had selected—ten ounces of Kobe beef topped with feta cheese and a chutney of diced Kalamata olives, roasted red peppers, cherry tomatoes, and onions. It sounded just different enough to be delicious.

As soon as we shut our menus, a chipper young waitress appeared at our table and took our orders. As Gigi had informed me a few minutes earlier, the waitress recommended some drafts that paired well with our menu selections, and I ended up ordering a dark stout with cherry undertones.

While we were drinking our drafts and waiting for our main course to arrive, Gigi and I got to talking about our pasts and backgrounds—and, surprisingly, or not surprisingly, we actually had a lot in common. She’d gone to the University of Pittsburgh too and graduated two years before I got there, and, we’d both obtained degrees in computer science, though she never went on to use hers as directly as I did. After college, she’d turned to a career in administrative support, and only later went on to work specifically in tech firm administration, eventually earning her place among the ranks and rEcore approximately a year and a half ago.

When our burgers finally arrived, we ordered another round of drinks to go with them, and I dove into my plate, ready for a meal like no other. The Bacon Cheddar Bomb was not a disappointment, and judging from the way Gigi was going to town on her burger, neither was the Greek God.

We continued to make small talk as we made major dents in our burgers and didn’t think twice about ordering another round of drafts when the waitress appeared at our table to check on us about twenty minutes later. We were both mostly done with our meals at that point, but kept our plates on the table so that we’d have something to nibble on while we enjoyed another drink and another chapter of conversation.

I really was having a splendid time with Gigi, and time was flying by rather quickly. When we were nearly at the bottom of our pint glasses, she pointed out that it was nearly 6:30. We’d been in Burger Bistro for over two hours, though it felt like much less.

“I guess it’s time to call it a night,” she said, smiling at me from across the table. “We both have work tomorrow, and, I don’t know about you, but my boss is a real pain in the ass.”

“Oh, my boss is a real bitch,” I said, laughing, looking my boss in the eye.

“I hear you have to be to make it anywhere in this world,” she said, echoing my laughter.

Gigi gestured for the waitress, and, when she came near, asked for our check.

“It’s already been taken care of,” the young, chipper thing said, smiling and pointing toward the end of the bar, some distance away from us. I followed the path of her finger, then saw him.

Joe
.

There he was, sitting at the end of the bar, throwing back a draft and looking our way. As he set his glass down on the counter, a grin crept across his face.

I was a little tipsier than I should have been around my new boss, and my mind was immediately carried back in time to that night, seven years ago, when Joe had tried pulling a similar stunt on my friends and me in the campus bar.

“Some guys never learn,” I mumbled under my breath.

“What’s that?” Gigi asked, acting somewhat defensive.

“Oh, nothing, really,” I replied, trying to save face. “It’s just that guy at the bar paid our tab for us—and, really, why’d he do that? Does he think he’s gonna score with one of us or something? He looks old enough to know better than that.”

“That guy isn’t just
some guy
,” Gigi responded. In my haste, I’d overlooked the fact that Joe was a rEcore employee, and, as such, Gigi probably knew him.

“And he doesn’t need to buy anyone a burger and a beer to score with them,” she added. “All he needs to do is tell them his name.”

“Huh?” I asked, looking at my boss curiously.

“You don’t know who that is?” she fired back.

“No,” I answered, shaking my head just as Joe stood and started walking over towards us.

“That’s J.R. Marley, my dear,” she responded, standing to greet him as he approached.

Those few words sent shivers down my spine that lit a fuse inside me, and I felt as though the Bacon Cheddar Bomb I’d just consumed exploded in my stomach.

According to its corporate website, rEcore was founded in in 2010 by two ambitious young men who wanted to change the way people interacted with their computers and other electronic devices. Brent Gaylord and J.R. Marley started the business together after many years of friendship, and several combined years of lower level positions in the tech world. Both men were now billionaires, by all measures, and had accumulated acclaim around the world—and, each remained active in their business, though only in seasonal capacities. Brent spent six months of each year tending to the satellite offices, while J.R. spent four months, each year, hunkered down at the main office.

The website went on to give other information about the practices of the company, as well as of its founders, but nowhere did it say what “J.R.” stood for, and nowhere did it feature a photo of either him or Brent.

I’d done my research before applying for, and accepting, my position at rEcore—but, damn me, I never thunk to research whether or not I’d unknowingly banged one of the head honchos… But, lo and behold, I had, and, as I sat there with Gigi in Burger Bistro, he was walking right towards me.

“Hi, J.R.,” Gigi said, leaning in to kiss Joe on the cheek.

“Gretchen,” he said, with a smile on his face. Seeing him up close was nothing like seeing him from a distance earlier that morning. He was still tall, dark, and handsome—with those steely gray eyes set deep in his rugged face—but his face and hair showed slight signs of aging, which suited him quite well.

“Who’s this?” Joe—or was it J.R.?—asked, turning to look at me. “Our new hire?”

“Yes,” Gretchen replied. “This is Patricia Williams. We scooped her up from a firm in Cincinnati, and she’s already making progress on that music app we recently started developing.”

“Great news,” he said to Gretchen. “And great to meet you,” he added, turning to me. “Do you go by Patricia, or something else? I know Gretchen here sometimes goes by Gigi, so I figured I’d ask.”

“I go by Trish,” I said, swallowing the huge lump that was forming in my throat. I was waiting—
just waiting
—for him to say something else that’d make me choke on that lump.

“Really?” J.R. responded. “I would’ve pegged you for a Patty.” When he said that, I was sure he was about to say something else…
He had to recognize me, right?
Whatever game of cat and mouse he was playing, I didn’t like it.

“Nope,” I said, giving into his game as much as I was willing to give in. “It’s Trish. Patty’s a little girl’s name.”

“I guess it is,” J.R. said, looking at me as if my mere existence confused him. I figured the wheels in his head were turning, and he was trying to remember where to place me in the long line of girls he probably encountered before and after his huge success with rEcore. Like the burgers on the menu, or the drafts on the wall, I was one of many, and I figured it might take him a moment to register me.

“Well, welcome to rEcore, Trish,” J.R. said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “I look forward to working with you, and learning more about you… I’ll let you ladies finish up here. I just wanted to come over and introduce myself, but I really should be going now.”

Not even a minute later, J.R. was gone. He’d walked out of Burger Bistro, and, in that instance, I realized… he had no idea who I was. He didn’t remember me at all, or, if he did, he wasn’t man enough to admit it. I bit my lip, and my tongue, and sat back, trying to let the beet-red look run off of my face.

“What the hell was that all about?” Gigi barked at me.

“What? What do you mean?” I asked, trying to act as though nothing had happened.

“One of the richest, most powerful men in the world just bought us dinner, and you got all snarky with him,” she clarified. “Why? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, bending at the waist a little. “I didn’t mean to come off like that. I guess it’s that stout and those peppers causing mayhem in my belly.”

“It better be,” Gigi—or, in this moment, Gretchen—followed up, though it was apparent that she didn’t believe me. “‘Cause if you keep acting that way around your superiors, you won’t last long at rEcore, or in any other office.”

I felt reprimanded and scolded by Gretchen, and more than offended by J.R.’s behavior. This job at rEcore was supposed to be a big career move for me—the kind that could make or break my career—and, at this point, given the fact that I’d once upon a time slept with the founder and just pissed off my supervisor, it seemed more likely to break it.