“We have a problem Cat”, the baritone voice of Scott Schreiner exhales arduously; plopping down on the living room sofa next to Cat Riley who had been busying herself exploring the numerous channels available on the household cable TV package. She sets the remote control down on the brand new coffee table, an exact replica of the previous one destroyed last week, and leaving the 60 inch LCD Sony flat screen on an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. An unavoidable fate given that the majority of American programming tends to focus on reality TV. Arching her bushy dark brows in annoyance she turns her gaze to her new manager looking at him quizzically,
“What’s today’s catastrophe”? She asks sullenly.
“I’m not the man of the house any more”, he answers in a deflated huff. Reaching for the newly replaced remote he presses a button and instantly the screen flickers to a sporting event, the world cup. “I don’t get how you British get so wrapped up in soccer”, he says, abruptly changing the subject. “All it is is a bunch of skinny dudes with no pump running around frolicking in the grass for three hours”.
“Because that’s our team playing right now”, she answers, inwardly grateful to him for find something unrelated to the Kardashians. “The team in the red is England, but forget about football, let’s get back to what you just said; how the bloody hell are you not the man of the house”?
“He took it away from me”.
“What”? Cat demands incredulously. “I don’t get it, you have the biggest arms in the house”, she offers, feeding a small portion to indulge his inflated ego.
“I know, but he threatened to withhold sex last night, and I can’t function without having sex. He knew where to hit me and I don’t know what to do now. I can’t get you your raise and now he’s taking the cost of those clothes he bought you back in Georgia out of your pay”.
“But you said that he agreed to..,”
“I know”, Scott interrupts, dropping his trusty ‘shooting iron’ into his lap, “and he did agree to buy you some clothes, but I think you pissed him off. He was pretty mad on the trip home, he kept rambling about it on and on, wouldn’t even let me put my hands down his pants”.
“Oh for.., spare me the details, please”. Cat rises grievously from her seat and begins to pace around the coffee table, the fresh rubber on her newly sneakered feet chirping against the floor as her mind races about in an effort to catch up to the rapid twist of fate. Scotty Schreiner is a man who prides himself immensely on being just that, a man. But Christian shrewdly has taken on the role of the ‘woman’ in the relationship and playing the same game she has seen her mother play with her father throughout her entire life, a game her father has never been able to win. “Where is he now”? She asks, hoping for a respite long enough to grant her time to develop a plan.
“He took Genie to the groomer; he won’t be back for three hours or so, why”?
“Because this is tricky”, she answers, stopping in front of him. “We are in a real pickle and we need time to work out a plan, something that will firmly establish you as the man of the house once and for all”.
“Don’t do it Cat”, he shakes his head pleadingly. “It’s too risky, and you know I can’t live without sex”.
“I know and that’s what makes it tricky”, she says while running her fingers through the silken tresses of her long blonde mane, mulling over the dilemma and resuming her pacing. “We have to do it in such a way that you’ll still be able to keep me awake all night because sleep is for the weak and apparently I am the strongest one there is”.
“Second strongest”, Scott says curtly, flexing his right peak and admiring the pinnacle of muscle with a toothy grin before puckering up and kissing it.
“I was speaking figuratively and being sarcastic you twit”, she groans while rolling her moonstone eyes. “Any way, we need to work out a scheme that will allow us to..,”
“I said we’re not working out any schemes”, Scott insists, lowering his voice to a stern inflection, “and that’s all there is to it. You heard what he almost did to me and I ain’t gonna chance it. So forget about your evil plans or whatever, we’ll just have to play ball and do what he says, alright”?
“No, it’s not alright”! She wails, flinging her arms outward in exasperation, turning to him with a muddled reflection. “What’s gotten into you to be so scared? Do you even understand what’s happening here? I’m practically working for free! Every dime I earn flies right out of my pocket to pay him! I haven’t seen a check in weeks and have nothing to my name so I ask you for help so that I can at least earn a bloody living. You said you would help but now all of a sudden you have your bollocks locked up in his bloody coin purse afraid to even mention his name. So he’ll withhold sex? Big deal! You know how to use your hand! If you’re going to be a man you have to stand up to him and..,”
“I said we’re not leaving it to chance”! He bursts in a thunderous clap rising in a loom from the sofa and jettisoning his trademark dark sunglasses; his icy blue orbs freezing Cat in place with a frosted glare. “The only thing you’ll end up doing is driving a wedge between me and the man I love. We’ve been together for more than 20 years and I am not about to see anything drive us apart, least of all a damned woman. Now, I said drop it”!
Her heart leaps into her chest palpitating wildly and bringing forth a percussive stampede of emotions. Gone was the big teddy bear as Christian had always referred to him, his relaxed demeanor replaced with a sheet of permafrost and chilling the combative young woman to a state of numbness. She studies his frigid veil hoping to see some thaw but instead is treated to a benumbed breeze of apprehension as the big man stares quietly at her, saying nothing, his mind obviously occupied with the situation at hand; his only action is to reach up and stroke his bleached goatee in a gelid consideration. Cat is the first to blink, dropping her gaze to the floor.
“Scotty I..,”
“This isn’t going to work”, he interjects coolly having seen the end of a 20 plus year relationship flash by in an instant through his mind’s eye; a tragedy he is bound and determined to avoid at any cost.
“W-what do you mean”? She stammers in a shivery tone, innately afraid of the answer.
“You need to go”. He answers gruffly. “I can’t have you getting between me and Chrissy”.
“Scotty, I’m sorry”! She chokes, her eyes welling up in a torrent of despair as the dam holding her biggest fears in check gives way. Madly pumping, her heart spikes the river of remorse with free flowing adrenaline which washes over her trembling body in a gushing tributary of anguish. Overcome by the freefalling gloom she collapses onto the floor, her knees thudding against the floor in a quivering heap. “Scott, please”! She sobs, tugging weakly at his pants leg looking up at him through wide, mournful lenses. “I’ll do anything you want”!
“I want you to leave”, he reiterates sternly, folding his thick arms across his chest in conviction.
“But..,” she laments between heaving whimpers. “I.., I don’t have.., anywhere to go.., or any money. Please..., just let me stay until I get paid and I can get my own place.., I’ll keep out of your way.., I p promise”.
“I wish I could take your word for it, but I’ve seen you in action”. He murmurs, reaching down to pull her quaking hand off his leg. “But you’ve shown me that I can’t, so get your things and leave”.
“I don’t have anything”, she snivels and rises shakily to her feet. Pausing to wipe a warm, salty stream from the corner of her mouth she looks at Scott through a forlorn veil in the futile hope of triggering a sense of sympathy only to see him replace his dark, wrap around shades and stand in expectant stoicism. Giving up the fight and succumbing to her lost footing she grabs her tattered faux leather purse from the corner lamp stand beside the sofa and shuffles to the door, her feet dragging plaintively against the polished flooring. Wiping back another tear she turns one final time mouthing the words “I’m sorry”, and pulls it to a close with a terminal clunk.
Looking on in reflection, furiously rewinding and replaying the surreal events over and again in his head, supplemented with Cat crying convulsively on the other side of the heavy door he feels a solemn weight bearing against his heavy heart forcing the man to ask himself if he is doing the right thing. Fighting an urge to open the door and allow her back in, he squints his eyes shut trying to force the apprehension from his thoughts and allow his initial tenet free reign, unhindered by sentimental misgivings. Bowing his head the man of the house retreats from the living room, away from the disconsolate yowl of a woman he would love to have been able to call a friend.
“Forgive me Cat”.
