A Betting Man

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Justin's Point of View

The entire week is pure hell.

I'm fortunate enough to be preoccupied with work for a day or so, but that isn't enough to keep this girl from my mind. I think about her constantly. Even when trying to focus my energy on something else, my thoughts always seem to drift back to the same place – the smell of her hair, the softness of her skin and lips, the way her brown eyes seem to shine when she's happy. She even has a tiny cow-lick in her left eyebrow – an insignificant thing, to be sure – but even that tiny feature has haunted me in her absence.

I'm consumed. Utterly, pathetically, painfully consumed.

I try calling Kathleen, but the first time she doesn't answer. When she finally calls me back, she's in such a rush that I'm not able to reveal the shit-storm that has taken place in my life this past week.

"Oh, Justin! It's good to hear from you!" she says.

"You too, Kathleen. Do you have a second to talk?"

"Oh, I wish I did, but I'm already fifteen minutes late to meet Max and some friends for drinks. Can I call you when we're finished?"

What choice did I really have? I wasn't about to spoil her night.

"Sure, Kathleen. Just don't forget, okay?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Justin. Of course I won't."

But she doesn't call me back.

The next morning she leaves what sounds like a very painful, hung-over message on my voice mail while I'm in a meeting. It's from Max's number. She says something along the lines of "fucking Screwdrivers" and "stupid bathroom stalls with broken locks" and "straight from my back pocket into the toilet." She then moans a bit about having to stick her hand in toilet water to retrieve her cell phone – they wouldn't allow Max to come into the ladies' restroom, apparently – before promising to call as soon as she has purchased a new one.

I feel antsy at work. It's a slow day; I take my lunch break early and decide to leave the office rather than have my assistant pick something up. There's a deli downtown, so I drive nearby and park, hoping the short walk and time spent outside will help clear my head.

While passing a small boutique, something catches my eye. In the window, on display among various plus-sized women's clothing, is a fat, stuffed, black and white cat with its pudgy arms sticking out at its sides. It's not identical to Ursula, but the resemblance is still uncanny.

Cayden had reluctantly revealed the true origin of Ursula the night I left Fey's place. That part didn't really surprise me; Cayden's involvement in the entire affair did.

"You knew?" I had hissed at him. "And you helped her?"

"Dude, I already told you before. Fey and I tell each other everything. If she knows, then I know."

"You didn't have to encourage her, though!" I'd said angrily. "You practically handed her the ammunition."

He thought about this for a second. "Yeah, I guess I kind of did," he agreed, shamelessly.

By that time, I was emotionally spent and no longer had the energy to argue.

"Whatever, man. I hope it was worth it." I shook my head and turned to walk away, but he quickly grabbed my shoulder and spun me back around.

"You've always gone through women like they mean nothing," he said seriously. "Consider this a friendly intervention."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Cay. I've never blatantly disrespected women."