The Break-Up Psychic (6 page)

The knowledge that he has smelled me, experienced my scent, feels erotic and exhilarating. “It’s a bath shop, actually. We mainly sell bath salts, lotions, and body creams, but we just got in a new line of body powders that smell and taste like food. I’m particularly fond of the honey scent.”

“Sounds yummy.” Sam stares hungrily at me and I know I need to get inside before I break my strict No Dimple Licking plan.

“Thank you for walking me here,” I say, moving to the door. “It was really nice of you.”

“You can make it up to me,” he says, halting my escape. “It just so happens that I’m looking to practice my dream job seeking skills on a new test subject. How about Friday night? We can get together and conduct some scientific research.”

I consider saying yes. I’m torn between my post breakup heartache, my new resolution to make better choices, and the desire to see what Sam looks like under that white t-shirt. But an image of Suzy bent over my Ethan Allen sofa flashes before me. Sam is charming, but so was Tim. I need to learn from my mistakes. “I think I’m going to have to decline from participating in your research project. I actually just ended it with someone,” I explain.

Sam tilts his head to the side, studying me for a moment before giving a little nod and extending his hand to me. “Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I take my research very seriously and you would’ve made an excellent guinea pig,” he says, giving me a slow and sexy grin. Damn, he even makes guinea pigs sound sexy.

“Thanks, I think?” I shake his strong hand and the same electricity that filled me last night surges through me again. I let out a long breath, steeling my resolve. Before I can go back on my words, I retreat inside the shop, leaving him on the sidewalk. I steal a glance over my shoulder and see him turn to walk away.

Amber, wearing a dress that looks like it was torn from the pages of Dominatrix Weekly, emerges from the stockroom and joins me at the window. I watch as Sam ambles down the sidewalk, ass round and tightened to perfection under his blue jeans. That’s right, keep on walking, Sam James. I hope to never see you again.

“What’re you looking at?” Amber asks, sounding bored.

“My past,” I say, turning away from the window.

The week following a breakup is by far the most difficult of the transition period. One week you’re one half of a happy couple, shopping for new placemats at Target and filling scrapbooks with candid photographs. The next week you’re all alone, alternating between fits of rage and moments of self-pity. It’s during these times a girl may find herself watching
Love Actually
on a loop, spraying bottled whipped cream directly into her mouth, and living in a pair of dingy sweatpants. This is the state Luanne found me in, nine days post breakup.

“Listen, Ellie, I know you’ve had your heart broken and you think you’re never going to find another man, but you’re starting to smell a little. I mean it. You’re coming dangerously close to bag lady.”

I reluctantly place the bottle of
Reddi
Whip on the coffee table and pause the movie on Colin Firth’s eager-to-fall-in-love face. “I’m in mourning, Lu. I’ve earned the right to feel bad for myself.”

“The only thing you’re earning is a bigger ass, lying on that sofa all day. You need to get up and get back out there. What about that guy Brook wanted to set you up with? What’s his name, Celery?”

“Ellery. His name is Ellery and I told Brook I’m not ready yet.” I turn away from her, pulling a wooly blanket over my head.

Luanne grabs the end of my blanket and yanks it away from me. I recoil from the cool air and wrap my arms around my knees, giving Luanne a dark look. She rolls her eyes and releases an exasperated sigh.

“Sugar, it’s get back on the horse time, understand? You don’t have to marry the guy, you just need an excuse to get yourself pretty again.”

“Hey!” I yell, affronted. “Are you calling me ugly?”

“Of course not, sweetie-pie. What I’m
sayin
’ is that your bloom has withered. But don’t fear, the petals have yet to fall. All you need is a shower, a push-up bra, and a smile.”

I will not be removed from my self-righteousness. I cross my arms and give Luanne my best haughty expression. “No, thank you. I’m fine where I am.”

Luanne lets out a derisive snort. “You have whipped cream in your hair, and those sweatpants? They aren’t supposed to be grey. They’re white.”

I reach for my hair in the most ladylike fashion I can muster and feel the telltale stiffness of hardened sugar. My indignation at Luanne’s blunt honesty fumbles.

“Now put on your party dress, Ellie, because you and me are
gonna
hit the town. I got a hunch there’s a dumb redneck with a fresh paycheck out there tonight, just waiting to get taken advantage of.”

“But—” I start.

“But nothing,” she says, snatching the whipped cream off the coffee table.

I want to put up more of a fight, but it’s hard to be self-righteous when you can feel crumbs in your bra. “Excuse me,” I say, rising from the couch, “I’ll be right back.”

Head held high, I square my shoulders and make my way to the bathroom, not looking back at Luanne. I avoid the mirror and jump straight into the shower, attacking my hair with a heavy dose of shampoo. As I lather, rinse, and repeat, I scold myself for getting into this state. I’m not the one that was sexing-up the downstairs neighbor. I should be out celebrating my new-found freedom, not silently reciting the dialogue from romantic comedies under my breath.

Once properly cleaned, coiffed, and dressed in the little black number Luanne laid out for me, I head back into the living room and catch Luanne using her hands to push her breasts into a more top-shelf position. She’s wearing a tight fitting corset style dress and hot-pink stiletto shoes. Oh no, what have I agreed to?

“There you are!” she exclaims. “Now, don’t you look just as pretty as ever? How do you feel?”

“I feel better. Thanks for the push, I needed it. And I’m sorry about eating all of the junk food,” I say, sheepish. “I promise I’ll buy some fruit and vegetables at the store tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it. I lost three pounds this week. I know they say you shouldn’t starve yourself but I’ll tell you, it works like a charm for weight loss.” Luanne grabs her little rhinestone purse from the table and hands me the keys to her truck. “Now you’ll have to drive because I can’t sit upright in this dress. It’s made for more of a lying down position,” she says, winking at me.

As we head out of town and onto the freeway leading to the city, Luanne fills me in on the night’s planned festivities. “It’s a country western bar called Whiskey Tango. Thursday is lady’s night and you know what that means. Two-dollar margaritas!” she squeals.

“Isn’t Whiskey Tango slang for white trash?” I ask, watching from the corner of my eye as Luanne applies another layer of lip gloss.

“Yeah, I think so but that’s fine by me. Just means the men there’ll be right up my alley.” Seeing my leery expression, Luanne shakes her head. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Ellie, don’t worry, I won’t push you into having any fun tonight. I know you’ve got a big pity party planned for later. Just know this,” she says, pointing a red polished nail at me, “I threw out your last bag of Doritos.”

“Lu!” I whine, pulling into the bar’s parking lot.

Luanne cranes her neck to look out the driver’s side window. A slow smile spreads across her face. “Bikers,” she says, nodding her head at the promise of a dance floor full of leather-clad men.

I eye the line of Harley Davidsons parked against the side of the dimly-lit building. I repress the urge to kick Luanne out of the truck and peel away from the parking lot. “I just don’t feel like being felt up by a bunch of drunken parolees,” I warn, leaving the safety of the truck behind.

“Who said you’ve got to get with anybody? You’re here as my wingman. It’s been a good many weeks since I’ve been manhandled, and I’m looking to have some fun tonight.” Luanne shakes and shimmies, pulling down her dress for maximum cleavage presentation.

Her face determined, she saunters up to the doorman and gives him her sexiest smile. He replies with a seedy grin and ushers her into the bar, foregoing the cover charge, then he looks at me. Maybe I should lay off the whipped cream. I give him a dirty look as he moves me through the door. I catch up to Luanne who’s bent over the bar, ordering our drinks. The place is loud and stifling. My shoes stick slightly to the floor with each step. I try not to think about why.

Luanne hands me a drink and we turn from the counter to judge the crowd. There’re a good number of couples attempting to line dance on the sawdust covered dance floor, but mostly I see small groups of women, hooting and hollering over their discount margaritas. Luanne spots a small table near the front and we rush over to claim it. She hands me a shot of tequila and we clink glasses before knocking them back. The tequila burns my throat but the sensation makes me feel alive, and I anticipate having another.

“Well,” Luanne yells, her hawk eyes searching the room for a quality dance partner, “what do you think? Any bad decisions out there tonight?”

I squint, trying to make out the faces that look bleary through the smog of cigarette smoke. There isn’t a hatless man in the entire place. Cowboy hats are clearly the favorite choice but there’re a few trucker hats thrown into the mix. Most of the men are also sporting the trademark Texas belt buckle and pointy cowboy boots. I look over to Luanne and follow her line of sight, spotting a couple of cowboys sitting a few tables down from us. Luanne motions for them to join us, and I wave down a waitress and order two more shots. I’m going to need them.

As the men approach our table a wave of Old Brute aftershave wafts over me, making me feel nauseous. Luanne places her hands under each breast and pushes up. The higher the cleavage, the closer to God, I guess.

“Well, well, well, what have we got here?” says the bigger of the two. He’s a hulking cowboy wearing an
‘It’s Bigger in Texas’
belt-buckle and he’s got at least one gold tooth that I can see. Oh no, Luanne’s a goner.

“Looks like we got us a couple of foxes,” says the second man. He’s squat with a pot-belly and a thin, wide mouth. “What’re you gorgeous ladies
doin
’ in a dive like this?” he asks, white spots of saliva working at the corners of his thin lips.

Eww
. Yuck.
Nuh
-uh. Speechless, I look to Luanne, but she’s beaming like she’s just been named Harlow County Corn Queen.

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest,” she gushes, thrusting her chest further up and out. “We’re just looking for a good time. So tell me, which one of you is the good time?” she purrs.

Cowboy number one responds first. He places a meaty hand on the table and leans into Luanne, whispering something into her ear I’m certain would make me physically ill. Cowboy number two steps around the table and mirrors his friend’s position, leaning close to me. I bend back on my stool, watching in horror as he hovers a fat gold-ringed finger over my forearm. He hasn’t even touched me yet, and my skin is already crawling.

“My name’s Daryl, but you can call me
Dawg
,” he says. His breath is warm, tainted by cheap beer, and he smells sour beneath a heavy dose of cologne. I can see beads of perspiration clinging to his forehead beneath a too-big cowboy hat. His eyes have a glassed over look, maybe from having one too many
Budweisers
. “How’d you like to take a slow dance with the
Dawg
out on the dance floor?”

“Gee,
Dawg
,” I say, trying not to gag. “I’m not really here to dance. I just came to watch over my friend Lu.”

I throw a pleading look to Luanne, but she’s completely ignoring me. She’s removed her cowboy’s hat, which had been covering up a glassy bald spot on his head, and tries it on. Tipping the brim back with a finger, she looks coyly up at him and releases a throaty laugh.

“She looks like she’s
gettin
’ watched real good to me,” says Daryl
Dawg
, his breath hot on my cheek.

“Yeah, well, I’m her wingman tonight, so I really can’t leave her,” I say, turning my body against Daryl’s oncoming assault.

“Don’t worry about it, Ellie,” Luanne calls. “Get out there and have some fun. Me and Wyatt Earp here are
gonna
hit the dance floor,
ain’t
we, handsome?”

Luanne’s cowboy places those meaty hands of his on either side of her tiny waist and hoists her into the air. Luanne squeals out what I can only describe as a slutty giggle. It may be time for me to make some new friends.

Daryl
Dawg
, becoming more assertive by the second, pulls out my chair and uses a clammy hand to shove me onto my feet. He guides me through a throng of drunken hillbillies toward the dance floor, and I stumble as we push further into the crowd. I rise up on tiptoe, searching for Luanne, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I’m going to kill her when we get home.

Daryl stops and yanks my arm, pulling me around and straight into his moist, soft chest. My utter disbelief at my own bad luck has left me all but paralyzed. He takes advantage of my shock and draws me in closer, grinding his hips against mine to the crooning music of Hank Williams. I try to wiggle free, but old
Dawg
just uses the movement to spin me out and bring me back against him, hard. I can feel something bumping against my thigh and look down to see Daryl’s thin erection outlined beneath too-tight Wranglers.