Beth Michele: Scarred Beautiful

Peyton turns around with daggers in her eyes. “That’s a low blow, Fran, and as much as you know how bad I’m crushing on him, I can’t go to the conference. You know I have too much work to do on that new sneaker campaign that just rolled in.”

I sigh and fall backwards on my bed, right next to the large pile of clothes I’m bringing with me if—and it’s a very big if—I decide I’m taking the death plane.

“Why am I doing this again?” I throw out to Caleb while I scramble to get my shit together so I can prepare for the conference.

He sinks in the chair, grinning. “Because the CEO can’t go, that’s why, and as one of the vice presidents of the firm, you need to represent.”

I grab my dick through my jeans. “Well, they can represent this .”

Caleb clutches his belly and laughs. “Yeah, I’d like to see you say that in a staff meeting. You’d certainly have all of those sexy female project managers turning their heads.”

“That’s the last thing I need.” This job at the architectural firm keeps me busy around the clock and I don’t have time for complicated relationships. I’ve dated here and there over the years and had my share of women, but nobody has kept my attention. Besides, I don’t need them trying to reorganize my life. It’s perfect just the way it is. My brother Brad razzes me about it all the time. Now that he’s found Gabby and is deliriously happy, he wants the same for me.

“You, my friend, need to get laid. You work way too much and don’t stop to smell the roses…and let me tell you from experience,” Caleb taunts, inhaling through his nose, “those roses smell pretty damn amazing.”

“Yeah,” I joke, tossing a couple of polo shirts into my suitcase, “and we all know how many roses you’ve smelled, so many I’m surprised you don’t have thorns digging in your ass.”

“Hey,” he says with a satisfied smirk, “it’s better than having Allison’s heel in my ass when she kicked me out the door after a few years. I can’t believe I actually considered having handsome little Calebs with her. Speaking of which, my mom called me the other night and gave me the spiel about finally settling down and finding a ‘nice girl.’ I told her I found a nice girl, but she turned out to be a bitch.” He chuckles. “She didn’t really appreciate that.”

“Go easy on your mom, Caleb, she just wants the best for you. Besides, you know how much I love her, so you’re not getting any sympathy from me on that front.” I grab a few more t-shirts and several pairs of Calvin Klein boxers and stuff them in my bag. “Okay, I’m all set. Do you want to get some breakfast and hang out with me at the hotel for a while?”

Caleb sags back in the chair, hands knotted behind his head. “Yeah, that sounds good. But can I ask you a stupid question? Why are you staying at the hotel when your apartment is only twenty minutes away?”

I zip up my suitcase and haul it off the bed. “You do realize the conference is at The Ritz-Carlton, right?”

Caleb shrugs his shoulders, looking dumbfounded. “And?”

“And it’s one of the most upscale hotels in LA, on the company’s dime. That’s why. I intend to chill out all week, order some room service, watch a couple of movies, and then I’m coming home.”

Caleb shakes his head. “That sounds boring as shit, man.”

“Exactly.”

The ride to JFK airport is filled with silence, void of conversation that is, with the exception of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” blaring through the car speakers. Peyton is obviously mistaking her Acura Integra for the club. The music is booming and my head is pounding as I press it to the glass, trying to keep my heart palpitations to a minimum.

I turn to her, raising my voice to a screech so she can actually hear me. “Peyton, please turn down the music!”

She tunes me out and continues doing her erotic dance, which only infuriates me. My teeth grab at the inside of my lip, fingers scrape through my hair. By the time I get on the plane I’m going to be a hot mess.

We stop at a toll booth and wait in the very long line of cars. Peyton finally turns down the music and angles her body to face me. “Fran, this is supposed to loosen you up. Shake your bon bon a little before you have to sit in a confined seat for six hours.”

And there it is.

“Thank you so much for reminding me how long I’ll be on the plane in which I’ll plunge to my death, no doubt into the ocean where I’ll get eaten up by sharks.”

She bursts into laughter, the sound drowning out Beyonce’s voice. “When you get back, Fran, I’m signing you up for an acting class.” She shakes her head at me and pulls the toll pass from the center console. “Sharks, really ?”

We make it to JFK in record time, two hours before my scheduled flight thanks to Peyton’s Mario Andretti tendencies. Even though I know she has better things to do, I make her come in with me so I can give her a proper goodbye since this very well could be my last day on earth.

“All right, all right.” I slap her hands away. “I’m going! Stop pushing.”

Peyton’s hand remains on my back. “I’ll stop pushing as soon as you start walking.”

The path to the terminal is the longest of my life. I can hear my heart beating loudly in my ears, my breathing uneven. We push past the crowd of travelers striding briskly, coffees in hand, cell phones plastered to their ears, seemingly relaxed. I wish I could be that way, too.

I stop short in front of the double doors of the terminal. I hear a grunt from behind and turn to see a gentleman with peppered hair sidestep me, cursing under his breath and wiping the brown liquid that just spilled on his fingers from our near collision.

“I should’ve told them I had travel-phobia,” I say, my eyes focused to a spot on the ground.

She sets her hands on her hips, an exasperated sigh leaving her glossy red pout. “Travel-phobia?”

“Yes,” I reply, wishing I had thought of it sooner. “You know, that the farthest I can travel is to the nearest Starbucks and to the All Male Review on West 27th Street.”

Peyton laughs and grabs my hand forcefully to drag me through the entrance. Once inside, she doesn’t let go, but continues to pull me toward the Delta ticket counter.

Digging my fingernails into the palm of my hand that’s clinging tightly to my suitcase and sucking on my lip isn’t helping. Neither is Peyton. She feels when my feet come to a halt beside her and turns her head to glare at me, her pecan-colored eyes narrowed into tiny slits.

“Okay. Deep breath and count to ten,” she instructs, splaying her hands out in front of her.

“How about, deep breath and we go home?” I reply, my lips twisted into something resembling a grin.

She cracks a smile, then blows a chestnut strand of hair away from her face. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. Hold out your hands.”

I drop my bag to the ground and release my firm grip on the suitcase handle. I hold out both hands in anticipation…of what, I have no idea.

Peyton shakes something that sounds like a maraca and it lands in my palm. “Ambien,” she says with a smile. “Just in case you have a freak-out.”

I roll my eyes.

“Now, for the good part.” She reaches into her Gucci purse, pulling out three mini bottles of Jack Daniels, and shoves them into my hand. A mischievous grin spreads across her face. “In case you get thirsty.” She winks and her brown eyes light up like the Fourth of July.