I close my eyes and sigh to myself. This is the hard part.
“I don’t think so,” I say to him. “It’s going to sound silly Arsen, but it’s someone I work with.”
“But you work as a phone-“ Arsen starts but then lowers his voice. “As a phone sex operator. You don't work with anyone except for the people that call you.”
I look at him, hoping he understands. After a moment of matching my gaze, it dawns on him. “Oh,” he says. “You’re falling for a person that’s calling you?”
I nod. A single tear starts to form in my right eye.
“I’ve been talking to him for some time now and he’s single too,” I say, rushing the words out. “He lives in New York City also and he’s in real estate.”
Arsen looks at me like I just slapped him with a glove. His eyes are stricken. I can't imagine what he must be going through right now. How betrayed he must be feeling. I take a sip of my drink.
“Does he go by the name of King Henry?” Arsen asks.
What the fuck?
I don't think neither of us notice as my martini glass drops to the floor.
58
Arsen
“Does he go by the name King Henry?” I ask with a smirk and Ashley freezes in time. It’s like her muscles seize up, and not the good kind of seizing like when I make her cum. This is the bad kind, as if she's having a fucking stroke.
The martini glass falls to the ground, the olives from her drink rolling toward my shoe. I’m vaguely aware of the elderly couple next to us at the bar turning to look at us.
“Oh my God,” Ashley whispers. Whisper is a strong fucking word actually. It’s more like she croaks it out, like her mouth has just gone dry. Her skin is starting to look pale and I can see her eyes widen and narrow, as if she’s trying to figure something out.
“You…you’re…” but she stops and doesn’t finish.
I nod my head at her, hoping it’ll calm her down. “King Henry,” I say to her trying to smile but wondering if I’m fucking smirking instead. “Thought it was an appropriate name, don’t you…”
I don’t get a chance to respond because her hand reaches out at the speed of fucking light and slaps my cheek. I wince. I wasn’t fucking expecting that; that’s for sure.
I taste a tiny trickle of blood on my lip and I can tell that the immediate people around us are all staring now. The people beyond them are pretending they don't know what's going on but trying to look anyways. Fuck ‘em all, anyways.
“You fucking bastard,” Ashley says. Her voice is cold, low, and gravelly.
I’m about to say something but she doesn't even fucking care anymore because she just turns around and walks away, clutching her purse.
I look at the bartender who comes by to serve drinks and I look at the olive that rolled close to my shoe.
I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into me, but I bend over and grab the olive and the glass and hand it to the bartender. He nods to me.
Fuck it. This is fucking insane. I need to go after her.
I race out of the Boathouse and scan the surrounding area looking for Ashley.
She’s not hard to miss. Cute girl, shoulder length blonde hair, curvy body, fantastic ass. Dressed to kill in a black casual dress with a pair of black heels that are making it difficult for her to storm off across the up and down sidewalk of Central Park.
I run toward her.
“Ashley!” I yell to her, hoping she sees me, and stops. She doesn't. A few passers by stop and look at me as I race past them, but I don’t have any more fucks to give no matter what they do. “Ashley, stop and fucking listen to me.”
“Stay away from me, you fucking asshole!” Ashley shouts and stops walking. But instead of turning toward me, I see her pause and take off her heels. She’s going to want to walk fast and she’s getting ready.
But by then I’ve caught up to her.
Hey, give me some credit here, okay? I may drink and fuck all night long, but I have a body made of steel. Genes that are fucking blessed. I used to play football in high school and college and I still got the moves. Of course I could keep up with Ashley. But there’s a fine fucking line between having her say no and it being cute and then forcing my presence on her. And I never, ever, ever, fucking do that.
“Just let me explain,” I say to her, trying to buy some time.
“There’s nothing to explain, Arsen,” she says, still not looking back at me. “This whole thing was a big fucking joke to you. You’re a sick, perverted creep.”
“No I’m not, Ashley,” I reply as I match her stride. She’s walking toward the gates to the park on 72nd and 5th. Fuck, she’s going to hop into a cab or a bus from there and I won't be able to do a goddamn thing about it. I can’t force her to stay. “Just let me explain. I love you.”