The Man Who Can't Be Moved

Peyton has an uncanny, God given ability to attract any and all men that fit under the strict criteria of Mister Tall, Dark and Handsome. I think it’s the fact that the lucky bitch is blessed with perpetual bedroom eyes, a seductive, flirtatious tone to her voice, a body that could easily stop traffic and legs that seem to travel on forever. She can’t help it that she’s the woman that every guy in the free world wants to fuck; they’re fantasizing about those legs being draped over their shoulders or wrapped around their waist and they’re getting off on thoughts of what that phenomenal body feels like under or on top of theirs and they’re pleasuring themselves to images and sounds their perverted minds have conjured up about her pouty, glistening lips and how it will be the ultimate music to their ears to hear her whispering and sighing and groaning and screaming their names. She can’t help it that she brings out the hidden pig in every guy; she was born beautiful and she’s got a tremendous amount of confidence and the fact that she doesn’t realize how stunning and desirable she is only makes her even more attractive. Had she been an obnoxious bitch I never would have been able to stand her; I’d been the ‘plain Jane, ugly sidekick’ for the gorgeous, popular girls all of my life and I’d long ago rebelled by getting tattoos and piercing and experimenting with dying my hair all sorts of funky colours from platinum blond to pumpkin orange to vamp red to blue/black with neon green streaks.

Had this still been high school, I would have been once again relegated to playing the role of the slightly odd, eccentric and frumpy best friend; I’d long ago mastered it and I’m pretty sure I’d be able to slip right back in without any sort of complication. However, as I’d gotten older and matured mentally, I’d also ‘grown up’ physically; I’d lost the thirty extra pounds that I’d carried all my preteen and teen life and time in the gym and on the ice had seen me both slimming down, toning up, and putting on some serious muscle mass in my thighs, calves and arms. While Peyton -by her own admission- has always been a beauty Queen (in every sense of the word, her mother has the sashes and trophies and crowns to prove it) and she’s been saddled with a life of having to beat dudes off with a stick, I’d gone relatively unnoticed until I was in my first year of university and the guys on the Western hockey team -and a few on the London Knights- began to notice me. I think they like the fact that I’ve got a little bit of the ‘one of the boys’ persona clinging to me; I live to play and watch hockey and I know more about it than some of those with penises claim to. They can take me home to meet their moms one night -I look pretty damn cute in little flowered sundresses with my hair all flowing and nothing but some lip gloss on my face- and then out to a bar the next; I can rock a pair of low riding jeans and a tube top and I know how to get my drinks bought for me all night long.

I think it’s why Peyton and I work so well together; we’re Ying and Yang. She’s tall and leggy and blond and I’m short and squat and make the perfect brunette sidekick. She’s very responsible and mature and put together; she has her career and her personal life already mapped up before her and she has a sturdy, focused head on her shoulders. On the other hand, I’m slightly flighty and a tad immature; I’m struggling to make the adjustment from teenager to adulthood and I have absolutely no clue what I want to do with my life outside of staying married for the rest of my existence to one man and having a family with him. Peyton thoroughly considers every decision before she makes it; I simply plug my nose, take a breath and jump right into the deep end without any thought or consideration of the long term consequences. I immediately go after what and who I want; she sits back and ponders the pros and cons and what the long term effects are going to be.

We’re as different as night and day; she’s the oil to my water, the match to my gasoline. And we make one hell of a pair and I wouldn’t give her up for anything in the world. I’d never been blessed enough to have a sister; I’d been saddled with an older brother all of my life and I used to envy my friends that had another girl in the house to talk to and have scraps over things like boys and clothes. Peyton’s filled that void quite nicely; we don’t fight about guys or clothes (after all, she’d dated my brother and I don’t have the body to pull off the shit she has in her wardrobe) but we love to gossip and make fun of other peoples’ misery and she somehow -in the midst of all her seriousness- manages to put up with my smart mouth, often wry and dirty comments and what she calls my ‘blond moments’.

At that moment, I’m thankful she’s a ‘hottie magnet’; there’s a living, breathing God’s gift to women standing in her office door and I’m busting my ass to get down the hall before he leaves. I’m a good girl; I don’t flirt, I don’t come on to strange men or hand out my phone number and I certainly don’t let other guys hit on me. I’m one hundred percent faithful -I’ve got my own hottie that I call my own and he puts every other man on the face of the earth to shame- and I plan on staying that way. But I’m married, not dead. I’m a red blooded woman that is free to check out members of the opposite sex -Max and I have a strict ‘look, don’t touch’ policy- in the same way that my husband is free to give himself whiplash eyeing a beautiful -and more than often, skanky- woman on the street.

And Peyton’s current sample of perfection -over six feet tall, a couple days worth of scruff on his face, a Pirates cap perched on his head, his dark washed jeans hugging his muscular thighs yet baggy around his calves and an apparently lovely and more than acceptable ass and his black leather bomber jacket unzipped and shoving off a black Henley shirt that’s tight across his chest- is simply too good to be true.

“Well hello…” I slip between the impressive specimen and the doorframe; effectively sandwiching our bodies in the opening and nearly pressing my face into his chest. Fuck…he smells amazing, too. “…I’m Emma-Leigh…Peyton’s much younger and much more beautiful best friend.”

“Emma-Leigh Talbot,” Peyton stresses from behind her desk. “As in Max Talbot. Of the Pittsburgh Penguins.”

“He’s my older brother,” I explain.

“Em…” my best friend gives a weary sigh.

“I mean my husband,” I quickly correct with a flirty laugh. “Did I say brother? My bad. I meant husband. You must just have me all tongue tied.”

“Lee-Lee…” Peyton’s voice has a stern, warning quality to it.

“She’s so uptight,” I jerk my thumb into the room. “Don’t you find her just a little anal? Just a little too serious? I’m sure it’s nothing a soothing, butt naked all body massage from a hot looking masseuse wouldn’t cure. Or a good old fashioned throw her against the wall and…”

“Emma-Leigh!” Peyton bellows. “Do you mind?”

“I am just kidding!” I heave a dramatic sigh and roll my eyes. “He finds me amusing. I bring the comedic relief around here. Your friend finds me funny. Your friend…” I leave it hanging it hopes he offers his name. Even though I’m already fully aware of who this particular scrumptious treat is.

“Garrett…” he offers one of his monstrous hands. “Garrett Jones. I play for the Pirates. Although considering who your husband is, I think it’s safe to say you’re more a hockey girl.”

“I eat, sleep and breathe it,” I conquer. “It’s a way of a life. A religion. But that doesn’t mean I have anything against baseball. There’s nothing wrong with spending two or three hours checking out attractive, buff men in spandex pants.”

“Ignore her…” Peyton finally appears at my side and she wraps an arm around my shoulders, draws me tight into her side and flashes our favourite baseball player a brilliant smile and bats her impossibly long eyelashes. “…she’s a little…odd.”

“I think…” Garrett glances down at me. “….she’s adorable.”

“Stop that…” I laugh and slap him across the chest. “Stop it before I consider getting my marriage annulled and running away with you.”

“Em…” Peyton squeezes me painfully tight and speaks through gritted teeth. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

“See what I mean?” I reach out to run the tip of my finger over one of the smooth buttons on the front of Garrett’s shirt. “She is just way too uptight.”

“And you are either way too horny or way too drunk…” Peyton whispers in my ear, and then curls her fingers around my wrist and yanks my hand away from the Pirates’ right fielder. “Doesn’t she just have the most…unique…sense of humour?” she asks Garrett. “Isn’t she just a laugh riot? Sometimes I don’t know whether to kiss her or strangle her.”

“Pretty girl like that?” he eyes me from head to toe. “I’d say kissing her is the best option.”

“He’s handsome and has good taste,” I grin, and bounce up and down on my heels. “I swear, if there was mistletoe hanging above our heads, I’d…”

“If you were single, I’d definitely indulge in the kissing part myself,” he gives a slow, sexy grin. “But seeing as you’re not…”

“Yeah…I see how the whole ball and chain thing can be a real turn off,” I agree. “And it’s not like you want a scary, possessive and severely jealous Frenchman coming after you and pouring acid on your car or messing up that pretty face of yours. Although if I found a way to kill him and hide the body…”

“Don’t you have another appointment to get to?” Peyton asks sweetly -and pointedly- and gives another one of her thousand watt smiles. “Weren’t you saying something about having to meet someone from Adidas or…”

“Reebok,” he confirms. “My agent’s thinking of getting some kind of endorsement thing going on. Teaming me up with Sid the Kid on a couple of things.”

“Imagine those commercials,” I sigh dreamily, and then give a yelp of pain when Peyton squeezes me a little too tight.

“I should get going,” Garrett says, and he gives a bashful smile when I pout in disappointment. “Pleasure,” he drawls, and tugs the brim of his hat downwards in a gentlemanly farewell.

“Oh believe me…” I watch from the doorway as he saunters down the hallway. “The pleasure was all mine.”

********

“You’re evil,” Peyton declares, as she retreats to her desk and plops down heavily into the black leather chair behind it. I notice she looks like complete and utter shit; the usual glow to her cheeks has been replaced with a deathly, grey pallor and instead of one of her many exceptionally tailored and even more expensive business suits and Jimmy Choo shoes, she’s clad in a pair of charcoal grey sweatpants and a frumpy, knitted granny cardigan over a pale yellow t-shirt. No make up, no stylish hair do, no bling adorning her ears. “Supremely evil,” she adds, and grabs a bottle of ginger ale off of her desk, uncaps it and takes a sip. It’s obvious what’s eating her; the stale pop and a nearby package of crackers are both dead giveaways.

“I was just having some fun,” I defend myself, and shrugging out of my pea coat and tossing it into one of the empty chairs in front of her desk, journey around the chrome and glass concoction in order to park myself behind her and wrap both arms around her neck. “Awwww…little Miss P…” I press a kiss to each of her cheeks. “…is it safe to say that you’re regretting not being more diligent about using birth control?”

“I feel like death!” she moans, and downs some more ginger ale.

“That’s what happens when you can’t keep your pants on or stay off your back whenever Kristopher is around,” I tease. “I mean, I can’t really blame you for being a total hooch around him. I know exactly what it’s like to fall constant victim to that sexy accent; how impossible it is to resist when he’s whispering sweet nothing and total filth in your ear. In French.”

“I thought you’d be a little more sympathetic!” she cries, and directs an elbow into my stomach.

“Well you thought wrong,” I tease, and drop a kiss on the top of her head and give her shoulders a supportive, comforting squeeze before walking around the desk once more and perching myself on one of the chairs in front of it. “So…spill…what was Mister Walking Sex here for? What’s he still doing hanging around the ‘Burgh in the off season? Or did he miss you and decide to pay you a visit?” I pucker my lips and make kissing noises.

“Strictly business,” Peyton stresses. “Nothing more, nothing less. His agent has a few things in the works and Garrett’s considering starting up a charitable organization and he wanted to talk to someone from the PR department. And I work in the PR department, remember?”

“Oh how ironic …” I roll my eyes and then pluck my cell phone from my coat pocket and set it on vibrate. “Out of all thirty employees that work in the PR department, he just so happened to get assigned to you, Goldilocks?”

“He asked for me,” she admits.

“I bet he did,” I grin. “I bet he beg and pleaded with your boss to talk to you. I’m surprised I didn’t walk in here and find the entire room full of roses and a bottle of Dom Perignon chilling in an ice bucket and expensive chocolates and caviar spread all over the place and a violinist serenading the two of you and…”

“You’re a comedienne,” Peyton snarls.

“Tell me…” I cross my right leg delicately over my left knee and pretend to be interested in the rather professional looking manicure I’d successfully given myself that morning. Who needs a ridiculously expensive spa? I’m not that lazy; I’m not your typical WAG. “…does Lepretty know that you’re fraternizing with one of your smoking hot exes?”

“I am not fraternizing with anyone,” my best friend informs me. “I am strictly doing business with him. Earning my paycheque. Unlike some people who shall remain nameless…”

“I will have you know that I have a job interview next week,” I defend myself.

Peyton arches both eyebrows sceptically.

“I applied at the Pottery Barn in Ross Park Mall,” I reveal in all seriousness, and then crack a sly smile as I tack on: “And then I dropped off resumes at Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds…”

“Smart ass,” Peyton grumbles. “And I’ll have you know that Garrett is not my ex boyfriend. We never dated. We never…”

“So it was never an official thing between you,” I conclude. “It was more of a mutual ‘call me whenever you’re horny’ type deal. Now that’s the perfect relationship. Crazy, wild monkey sex with no strings attached and no expectations or hopes of it ever going further. Honestly, I think I should have had something like that going with Max for a little while. I should have kept him on the boil for a bit; kept him guessing while I used him for purely selfish, perverted reasons. We would have made awesome fuck buddies.”

“Fuck buddies are never successful if either one of you have feelings for each other,” Peyton informs me. “That kind of thing never would have worked for you and Max at all. You were in love with him the second you saw him naked in the shower that day at Tyler’s.”

“Au contraire,” I shake my head adamantly. “It was an obsession. I was obsessed with him. There’s a big difference between obsession and love.”

“Yeah…obsession usually ends with the crazy one being issued a restraining order,” Peyton teases. “And Pottery Barn? Are you for real? Why would you…?”

“I need a job, P. Max wants me to get a job. And I have little to zero skills; I’d never get anything other than retail. So I…”

“He doesn’t want you to get a job,” she interjects. “It isn’t about you having to work for a living because the two of you are struggling for cash and you need two incomes to pay the bills. I know he doesn’t even crack half a million a year, but even with all of your combined bills and car payments and a mortgage, there’s more than enough money for both of you to live extremely comfortably. It’s not that he wants you to go out and work for a living and contribute to the house. He wants you to do something that will make you happy; he wants you to get your degree and establish a career. It’s about wanting you to feel good of yourself and you having something that gives you an identity outside of Max Talbot’s wife. And you working at Pottery Barn…I don’t know…something tells me he’s not going to like that idea.”

“Think he’d be more approving of me working at Hooters or becoming a stripper?”

Peyton sighs exasperatedly.

“And don’t worry; I’ve got the whole schooling thing under control. I went and picked up some course catalogues this morning. I’ve even marked a few of the pages. Maybe you can glance at them over lunch? Give me some kind of input considering you’re the brainer and the career girl in this operation?”

“I will have a ‘come to Jesus’ moment with you,” she promises. “And is that why you’re so late? I thought you were going to the city clerk’s office and…”

“I did that too!” I chirp. “Spent forty five minutes in line behind some old woman that had to redo her application five times because she kept putting ‘08 instead of ‘09 on all her government forms. And I wasn’t in danger of being late to meet you until I decided to stop at that tattoo parlour a couple blocks from here…”

“Lee-Lee…” she narrows her eyes and stares at me. “What did you…?”

“Nothing yet,” I assure her. “But I did make an appointment to get a new tattoo! I’m going to get the symbol for Pisces and the symbol for Taurus on the back of my neck. Not to mention a branding right here…” I jump up and point to the top of my pubic bone. “…doesn’t that just scream ‘hubby’s eyes only?’. Think he’ll love it? I’m going to get the Pens logo and the number twenty five.”

“A branding?” Peyton wrinkles her nose in disgust.

“Yeah…you know…like on farms when they burn a symbol or a logo or whatever into a cow’s ass?”

“I know what a branding is, Em. The question is why would any rational, sane human being burn something into their skin? Wait…I forgot…rational and sane isn’t in your vocabulary.”

“Don’t be a party pooper just because I have the stones to be wild and spontaneous and you don’t. Just because I’m the crazy one and you’re the boring one…”

“You’re the loopy, eccentric one,” she corrects, as she pushes her chair away from her desk, stands up and gathers her purse from the bottom drawer.

“You love me, P. You love me and you’d miss me if I wasn’t around.”

“I would,” she agrees, and draping her arm around my shoulders, pulls me into her and presses a kiss to my temple. “So thank God we’ll never have to find out just how much I would miss you. Now let’s go to lunch and…”

“Yes! Let’s!” I exclaim. “I’m starving! I’m starving and I’m dying to know all about your meeting…” I wriggle my eyebrows suggestively as I say the last word. “…with Mister Walking Sex.”

“You’re a trouble maker, you know that?” Peyton inquires, as she loops her arm through mine and we head for the door. “You’re going to get us both tossed in jail one day.”

“Well that’s the sign of a true best friend,” I conclude. “A friend bails you out of jail. A best friend is the one that’s sitting in the cell alongside of you saying ‘that was a fucking riot’.”

“I would gladly spend the night in the slammer with you,” she laughs. “You’re so cute, I’d even turn lesbian just to keep us both happy.”

“Jesus, don’t ever let Max hear you say that. That’s like his dirtiest dream come true. A threesome with me and some hot chick. Although I still owe him a better birthday present, so if you liquor me up enough…”

“Keep dreaming,” Peyton tousles my hair affectionately and leads the way from the office.

“Actually my wildest and wettest dream involves Max and Lepretty and a bottle of maple syrup,” I admit, and then laugh when she shoves me into the hallway. “You love me, P! You love me!”

She gives a small and a somewhat reluctant nod.

She may be uptight and my total polar opposite, but I wouldn’t give her up for anything in the world.