Emily & Ellen's Bet Ch. 15

This is a re-write of Emily & Ellen's Bet, originally posted in April of 2011. The effort is part of re-writing the entire continuous story arc of Ellen's Bet > Roberta's Bet > Dani's Bet > Emily's Bet > Ellen & David's Bet > Emily & Ellen's Bet. I re-wrote these stories for two reasons. First, I wanted to clean up some sloppiness in the writing. Second, I wanted to take the six stories, only two of which were planned to any degree at the beginning of Ellen's Bet with the others conceived and added later, and create better internal consistencies, and plot and character consistency, between them. At this point I think a reader could look at these stories as one tale comprising a six-part novel. Emily and Ellen: Emily & Ellen's Bet - Chapter Fifteen Emily Monday morning Ellen was already at her desk when I arrived. She was concentrating intently on her monitor, probably looking through emails. In a moment I was in front of her, my face just above her screen and my hands flat on her desk. I controlled my voice. Our office alcove is off the hall and by itself, but still I didn't want my voice carrying too far. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" I asked. "Oh, hi, Emily," she said, looking up. Then her attention turned back to her monitor. I reached down from behind and fumbled under the device until I found the power button. I flicked the machine off. "After what you went through in Baton Rouge!" I stated softly but emphatically. "That was just... what?... four months ago? Are you out of your fucking mind?" I repeated. "No, you're out of your fucking mind," Ellen said, taking on my same tone of voice. "I tried to stop you. I told you not to. But you just had to go and do it." Her voice softened, but not by much. "You're my friend, Emily. You're the closest friend I have or ever will have. I won't let you do this alone. I won't watch you go through what you did the other night from those two deranged bitches again alone. And it would be a dozen times worse." "You wouldn't have had to come," I said. "Yes, I would have had to," she said and gave me a look that said I knew it all along. "I'm your friend, too," I said, "and I love you Ellen. But I'm not your husband. What does he have to say about this? Did you tell him?" "As soon as I walked in the door," Ellen said. "And?" I asked. "God almighty is he ever pissed," Ellen said. She shook her head and actually giggled a little. "Oh, my God, was he ever pissed. But David loves me, Emily. He understands why I had to take this risk, and he's actually OK with it. He doesn't want to hear a single detail if we lose, but he'll be at home when I get home and we'll move on from there." "Well," I said, subdued. "Yeah, Ian's pretty pissed too, but he feels about the same way. I feel like shit. God, I feel like I let him down. And I did. He'll stick with me, though. At least I guess he will. He says he will." "Nice to be loved, isn't it?" Ellen asked with an edge still in her voice. "Yeah, I guess," I said. "Shit, Ellen, we can't lose this bet. We just can't." "Well, yes, as a matter of fact we can," Ellen said gravely, giving me a level look. Tears welled in my eyes as Ellen continued. "They're playing at Cellular, but the Sox lose two outta three there all the time." "Shit, Ellen, I'm sorry," I said, and I felt hot tears fall down my cheeks. "God, I'm so sorry I dragged you into this." "You didn't," Ellen said. "I'm a big girl and I opened my own fat mouth and rolled myself right aboard. Of course, you didn't leave me any real choice, but I'm a big girl and I'm responsible for my own choices." This was one of the few times that Ellen's more mature age and experience and judgment really stood up and smacked me across the face. I slunk off to my desk, sat on my burning ass, and found some work that needed doing. "Italian Village for lunch," Ellen said, flicking her monitor back on. "My treat." * * * * The ensuing week was uncomfortable, to say the least. As each day passed the weekend series loomed closer and closer. I tried to be normal around Ellen, tried to pretend we didn't have my immense Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads. I think Ellen was trying to make that effort as well. We just couldn't maintain the fiction. After our Monday morning blow-up, for the rest of the week we avoided each other's eyes, our verbal exchanges were all business, our normal camaraderie and bonhomie went missing. We had our lunch date at Italian Village on Monday, but we both picked silently at our food. Tuesday we tried eating lunch at Buckingham Fountain, but we did nothing more than sit stiffly and ingest our salads and diet sodas. Ellen spent almost the entire lunch staring out at the lake, shaking her head slightly from time to time. The last three days of the week she met David, and I met Ian, for lunch. The week seemed an eternity in length, our fates, maybe even the fates of Ellen's marriage and my relationship with Ian, drawing closer day by long, tedious, joyless, unending day. And what about our relationship? Ellen and me. What would become of us? Ian came over each evening that week, and not a single evening passed that I didn't start sobbing uncontrollably in his arms. He comforted me, reassured me, and expressed his love. Finally he'd go back to his apartment, and I'd listlessly prepare for bed then cry myself to sleep. Of course, I had to tell Allie something, since it was so plain something terrible was going on. That involved starting from the beginning, as in: Emily as a fifteen year old high school sophomore sitting down to play her first game of strip poker with her friend Daria and a few guys. I told the condensed version of the long tale, and Allie's mouth hung open through most of the narrative. She ended up with tears in her eyes and wished me well with all her heart. Finally, Friday afternoon came. For the first time in longer than I could remember Ellen and I didn't walk down the stairs, out onto the sidewalk, and to our parting spot together. We almost always ended our day together, even when we were both busy and over-committed. Instead, as I pulled my purse from my desk drawer Ellen sat at her desk, and I was certain whatever she was engaged with was not anything especially pressing. "Well, see you," I lamely offered as I moved toward the hallway. Ellen didn't glance up. "Yeah, see you Sunday," she said apathetically. I hesitated for a moment, hoping we could find something more to say to each other, but there simply were no other words to speak, and I went on my way. I was miserable and hated myself for what I'd stupidly done to my relationship with the best friend I've ever had. As I descended the stairs to the lobby and the street, I felt like a walking, talking train wreck, my stupidity and pride and desire for revenge leaving a wake of destruction that was epic in its proportions * * * * I couldn't know it, but the first game of the series, Friday night the 25th of June, was over before the end of the first inning. One run was already in for the Sox when, with Alex Rios at third and Paul Konerko at first, Carlos Quentin lined a home run into the left fielder bleachers to put the Sox up four to nothing. My shout almost died in my throat when the ball rocketed off his bat, the experience of rooting for the Sox, especially against the Cubs, so alien to me. Then I recovered and cheered loudly for every play in any way beneficial to my adopted team. Ian had come over and sat with me to watch the game both this day and the next, holding my hand much of the time. For Sunday Ellen had somehow gotten us four tickets, and they were good ones too: second deck right behind third base. I hoped we wouldn't have to go home disappointed and with an ordeal staring us in the face in six days. If that happened I knew I would find a new job. I knew I could never face Ellen again; I knew the concept of resuming a relationship with her and David after so disastrous an occurrence was beyond the realm of the possible. Peavy took up in the second inning what he'd started in the first. He ended up pitching seven innings of shutout ball, giving up only three hits and two walks. He threw just ninety-nine pitches, an incredible seventy-three of them for strikes. The Sox added single runs in the fifth and sixth and the outcome was never in question. The Sox ended with a six to nothing victory. They were on a ten game winning streak. The game on Saturday the 26th was much closer. Carlos Silva for the Cubs gave up just three hits and one walk in six innings of work. Gordon Beckham tripled to lead off the Sox' third. By now my reluctance to root for the Sox was entirely purged from my system. A runner at third with no outs means a run across the plate ninety-something percent of the time. Then Juan Pierre popped out to second and Omar Vizquel lined out to short. I got gloomy in a hurry. Alex Rios came through, though, by hitting a sharp ground ball up the middle that went through to center field for a single. Beckham trotted home and the Sox were up one to nothing. The lead lasted until the sixth when the Cubs Ryan Theriot lead off with a single. Kosuke Fukudome grounded out one to three, sending Theriot to second: what is known in baseball as a 'productive out'. Marlon Byrd hit an infield single to third, allowing Theriot to advance to third base. Derrek Lee followed with a line drive single to center, allowing Theriot to cross the plate, and the visitor's half of the sixth ended with the score tied at one. The Sox half of the sixth started with a walk to Konerko and with Quentin being hit by a pitch to put runners on first and second with no outs. Mark Kotsay put up a fly ball to center that allowed Konerko to advance to third. Alexei Ramirez followed with another fly ball, this one to right. The throw went through the cutoff man to the plate but wasn't close, and the Sox were back on top two to one on the sacrifice fly. The lead lasted only minutes as Aramis Ramirez lead off the top of the seventh with a home run for the Cubs. The seventh inning stretch saw the game tied again, now at two apiece. The Sox went scoreless in the bottom of the seventh, as did the Cubs in the top of the eighth. There was one away in the bottom of the eighth. Andrew Cashner had taken over the mound from Silva right after the seventh inning stretch. He'd cruised through that frame one, two, three. Now he retired Alex Rios on a ground ball to start the bottom of the eighth. He got ahead of Paul Konerko one ball and two strikes and then tried to put a hundred mile an hour fast ball by him. The pitch sailed into the center of the plate belt high and Konerko jumped on it and got all of it. He was into his home run trot before he left the batter's box, the ball was that far out. The Sox were back on top three to two. Matt Thornton came on in the top of the ninth for the Sox to try to close down the game. Could it really be this easy: the bet decided, like the last one, in two games? Thornton got Xavier Nady to ground into a six to three out. Then he walked Alexei Ramirez, and my stomach started to churn with the tying run now at first, the go-ahead run at the plate. Alfonso Soriano stepped in. Thornton fed him four-seam fast balls and sliders. Soriano fouled off the first two, then took a ball. He fouled off two more, then took a ball. On the seventh pitch of the at bat, at two and two, Soriano hit the ball hard down the third base line, but the ball was hit right at Omar Vizquel. He fielded the ball on one hop and started the ball on its way around the horn for the five to four to three double play. And the game was done, our bet won. My cell rang two seconds later. "Oh my God!" Ellen screamed into my ear. I could feel nothing but incredible relief. "I can't talk now," I told Ellen. Suddenly I was crying, tears leaking uncontrollably from my eyes and my breath hitching in and out. "See you Monday," I managed to croak out, and disconnected. I jumped on Ian, closing him in an embrace, holding his head tight to my chest. "I'm so sorry, Sweetie," I managed through my sobs. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I promise never again. Please, please forgive me." I broke the embrace and leaned back to take in Ian's face. His visage was neutral and inscrutable. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "You know what, Emmy? I think there may be more to this baseball than I previously gave it credit for. Delightful game. Think I'll give mum a call tomorrow before we go to the game and tell her I've found my girl. If it's all right with you, that is." Go figure. Sunday afternoon was as delightful as one could hope for a day at the ballpark. We sat in the mezzanine behind third base, basked in the sunshine, our bet already won, our feelings still undetermined but much on the mend, and watched the Sox go down. Who cares? I didn't really need six hours with Marcy. Three would do just fine. The Sox went into the bottom of the ninth down eight to three. Even at that score neither Ellen nor I are leave-in-the-eighth-inning kind of people. It was just the four of us: Ellen and David's girls are once-a-season kind of young baseball fans. The Sox mounted a rally in the bottom of the ninth. They pushed three across to bring the score to eight to six, but ultimately fell short, and their eleven game winning streak was broken. The event I'll remember best is Juan Pierre's at bat in that bottom of the ninth. Before he singled he hit a high foul ball behind and above us that landed in the third deck. Suddenly the ball dropped down and hit the seat back in front of and one seat to Ian's right. The occupants of the seats in that direction had left after the eighth inning. The ball rattled around under the seat next to him and he reached down and picked it up. "Well, look at this!" he exclaimed. I saw his right arm rear back as he said, "I'm supposed to throw it back. They'll need it, right? I see them do it on your Cubs games all the time." "No! No, no, no, no, no!" I nearly screamed. Of course he was kidding. He handed the ball to me and I turned it in my hand. Six years I've been going to games and I've never come close to a foul ball. I rotated the pale orb in my hand. The red seams stood out in bright relief, both visual and tactile. It was a bit off white from the mud they rub on all the balls before the game. That perfect off-whiteness was marred only by the smallest smudge of dirt on one side and a couple of small nicks, likely the result of its impacts among the seats. I turned it once more to look at the dark blue printing on the narrow part of the seams: The Rawlings logo above the top seam; the MLB logo below the bottom seam. Between the seams: *Official* Major League Baseball Below those two lines was a signature: Allen H. Selig, and below his signature the title: Commissioner Bud Selig. The Nitwit. I took another look, turned the ball in my palm, and placed the ball in Ellen's hand, a pathetically small offering. "The girls'll get a kick out of it," I said. "The girls won't give a crap," Ellen said. "I can't. Can I?" "Oh, yes, you better believe you can," I said, and leaned toward her and placed a kiss on her cheek. "You're going to be hear me saying 'I'm sorry' for a long, long time, Ellen." She put an arm around my shoulders, hugged me tight, and held the hug a long while, saying nothing. * * * * Ellen and I were more than busy all the next week. We hardly saw each other: She was here, I was there. We ate our bag lunches when we could and always alone. I think our engagement with work was a good thing: it allowed us to timidly and haltingly reconnect, to begin again to exchange our looks and smiles. Ellen had to work late every day except Friday, and by then we were both too tired to think of anything but home. It was just Allie and me most of the week at the apartment. We finally got caught up with each other's lives. We talked about my relief over not losing my bet. Then Allie was ravenous to hear more of my war stories. My only activity of any significance at home (well, aside from talking incessantly with Allie and boffing Ian when I got a chance) was on Tuesday evening. Ian had to stay at his apartment, busy with a little work he'd had to bring home. At about nine o'clock I slipped on a pair of flats and walked around the corner and then the two and a half blocks to the restaurant where Martina works. Martina wasn't around when I arrived: out on some deliveries. I was in a mood to indulge myself all that week, so while I waited for her I ordered a beer and a side mushroom calzone. With every delicious bite I cringed at how an indulgence like this, eaten so late in the evening, would sit like a brick in my stomach all night. But the Tums bottle back at the apartment was full, and Ian wouldn't be over to be repelled by my flatulence, so I threw caution to the wind and enjoyed my luxurious treat. As my culinary extravagance began to look small I caught Martina out of the corner of my eye coming through the doors to the kitchen and heading for the Ladies. I got up and followed her in. She was in a stall so I waited. When the door opened and she emerged she caught sight of me. "Hey, Emily, how're you tonight?" she greeted me. "You know what? I'm real good. Just really good," I said. Martina smiled at me in the mirror as she washed her hands. "Hey, you have to work Saturday night?" I asked. "Yeah, I'm almost always on for Saturday night," Martina answered. "Can you get out of it somehow?" I asked. "Ah, yeah, I suppose I could," she said. "One of the guys owes me a favor and I'm sure I can get him to take my shift. Good thing you caught me early in the week. But I know he'll do it." "Good," I said. She'd finished drying her hands and I pushed a piece of paper into one of them. She looked at it. "I know where this street is," Martina said, "but we don't deliver that far out. What's there?" "Let's just say it's a pleasant little surprise," I said, smiling. "Be there about ten or a little before?" "Yeah, I guess," Martina said, sounding perplexed. "Can't you gimme a hint?" I thought about it. "No. No, I think it's better as a surprise," I said. I put my hand on her forearm. "Trust me, this is one you really don't wanna miss." "Well, OK, then," Martina said. "See you Saturday night." "When you get to the door just tell the person there that you're a guest of Ian and me," I instructed. "God, now you've got me wonderin' big time," Martina said. She pulled a pack of gum from her jeans pocket, fiddled a moment, and popped a fresh stick into her mouth. "Believe me, you're gonna enjoy this," I said and turned and left her. As I exited the Ladies a guy in an apron approached the door and rapped his knuckles loudly on it. "Hey, Martina!" he said gruffly, "c'mon!" Martina's muffled voice came from beyond the door. "Yeah, just shut yer face. I'll be there in a minute!" "Yeah, well hurry up," the man said. Martina's voice sounded again. "Hey, you bother me again when I'm peein', Lenny, and I'll quit and you'll have to go find somebody else's tits to stare at." Snap. Lenny looked chastised. "Hey, no hurry," he said. "Take your time." With that he slunk back to the kitchen. I smiled and shook my head, left the last few bites of my calzone unfinished, paid my bill, and walked back to the apartment. Friday finally came. After work Ellen and I parted ways in front of our bar. "See you tomorrow night," I said, a little hesitation in my voice. "Yeah," Ellen said, "think they'll show?" "We'll find out soon enough," I said and turned and headed for the El station. * * * * Saturday night I dressed to the nines: a Jean Paul Gaultier ankle length gown and Jimmy Choo heels. I'd blown a good chunk of a bonus on them. I'd felt overwhelming guilt at the indulgence and buyer's remorse once they were in my apartment. Where was I supposed to wear an outfit like this? I'd managed to use it for one art opening in the neighborhood. Of course, it was now spent ammunition: I couldn't wear it to anything else in the neighborhood again. Really, though, it was absolutely the perfect outfit for a top at a BDSM club, the vertical red and black cascades of color the perfect expression of my position as top for the night. I patted myself on the back for my foresight. When Ian and I arrived at the club -- since we'd won our bet the boys were attending the event -- we were greeted almost immediately by a tall women, of an age between Ellen's and mine, wearing the dungeon master's maroon vest. Well, I suppose in this case it would be the dungeon mistress. "Well, hello!" she said enthusiastically. "You must be Emily!" I shook the hand she extended, and when I did she cupped my hand in both of hers and pumped enthusiastically. "Hi," I said. "I don't think we've met." "Oh, I'm Andrea," she said. "I usually do dungeon master duty a couple of times a month." I introduced Ian, and Andrea continued. "To tell you the truth we had to draw cards to see who got tonight. We all wanted to do it so badly." I gave her a questioning look. "You and Ellen are legends around here," Andrea explained. "That's great and all," I said, "but this is only the third time I've set foot in the place. How could I be a legend?" "Well, it may only be your third time, but Marcy graces us with her presence quite often," Andrea said. "Really too often for some peoples' tastes." "You can't get rid of her?" I asked. Andrea looked a little disappointed and sighed. "She never crosses any lines, at least not by any more than anyone else. Everyone else slips every once in a while. With Marcy it's more than that. She gets just as close to the lines as she can and has to be reeled back pretty often. We like to be fair to all our members, even assholes like Marcy, so we won't boot out any dues paying member as long as they don't flagrantly break any rules or disobey the dungeon master or a sub's top. We feel to do otherwise would inhibit the action, and that's something no one really wants to do. But she does push the envelope just as far as she can. And she just, I don't know, has a pretty deep cruel streak I guess is what it is. We all like to play, but the way she plays is, well, I guess maybe 'nasty' or 'malicious' says it best. That Brooklyn is with her a lot, but she's not as bad. Kind of docile." "OK," I said, "but how does that make Ellen and me any kind of legend?" "Are you kidding me?" Andrea said. She squeezed my shoulder warmly. "Everyone knows about the bet you made with those two. You hung your asses way, way out there. And you won! Believe me, there are plenty of people who have been looking forward to tonight. I've never seen a full house like this. You'll find Ellen and David somewhere. They're already here." "Oh, hey," I said, "we have a guest, a woman named Martina, coming this evening." "No problem," Andrea said, "I'll send her your way when she gets here." Andrea excused herself to go greet more arriving members. She began to move off, but called back over her shoulder, "Great dress!" As we walked through the club in search of Ellen and David we discovered Andrea was right. Since it was only my third time here, Ian's second, we didn't have much basis for comparison, but the place was far more peopled than two Saturdays ago or when Ian and I had been here. Almost every few steps someone we'd not yet met stopped us and had enthusiastic words of introduction and greeting. Because of that it was quite a while before we finally found Ellen and David. They were in the St. Andrews cross room, a place that held lousy associations for me. They were surrounded by smiling and friendly people. I checked my cell and found the time to be about ten before ten. I excused my way through the people surrounding Ellen and David and stepped up and shared a hug with Ellen. We looked long into each other's eye, then we smiled and hugged again. She'd had the same idea as me: she was dressed to kill and looked fabulous and red hot. She introduced me to the gathered members, and I was soon sharing the adulation Ellen had been enjoying, exchanging comments and answering questions. A few minutes later I spotted Martina wandering out of the hallway and into the wide space of the St. Andrews cross room. I waved, got her attention and motioned for her to come over. "Wild place!" Martina said after we exchanged greetings. "What's up? The lady in the vest at the door was all over me when I told her I was here with you. Practically offered to come to my place and vacuum the carpets." "Just wait," I said. "Just a few more minutes, I promise." I looked Martina up and down and she looked fabulous too. She was wearing nosebleed heels that set her attractive calves in sharp relief. Her dress came to just above her knees. It was just your typical little black dress. The neckline was modeled into a low vee that made her enormous boobs into two giant mounds of eye candy. Her hair was the same as the first time I'd met her, but of course sans the uniform ball cap. Most of her hair was pulled back into a neat and simple pony tail, except for enticing strands at either side of her face. She wore almost no make-up. My God, any woman in the world would want to look like she did tonight! As it turned out we didn't have to wait even those few minutes. As I finished my visual appraisal of Martina I could hear the place go progressively quiet. Suddenly the general noise level lessened, and I could tell it was because the noise coming from the front of the club had gone quiet. Then that slightly restless silence progressed through the club getting closer and closer. Finally, as the noise level in our wide alcove suddenly died away Marcy and Brooklyn walked into the room. "Holy shit," Martina said softly. The double snap of her gum reverberated in the silence and she got a bit of an embarrassed look on her face. She suppressed her habit for the time being: I didn't hear any more snaps for a while. Brooklyn looked frankly scared. She held her hands together at her waist, her shoulders slightly hunched. Marcy was brassing it out, but she was trying way too hard to look unconcerned. Then she saw Ellen and me and her face reddened noticeably. "Watch this," I said to Martina in a low voice. I strode over to Marcy and Brooklyn and gave Marcy a hard slap across the face. The slap sounded impressive in the now silent room. Brooklyn's eyes flew open wide and now I could see they were a bit teary. "Hey!" Marcy exclaimed, putting her hand up to her cheek. I slapped her again, this time across the other cheek. Then I stepped close and took her chin firmly in my hand. "The next few hours are gonna suck, Cunt," I said. It was definitely the truth. "Just how much they're gonna suck is up to you. They can be bad, or they can be really, really bad. Your choice. You are now a slave." Brooklyn's chin was trembling now. Marcy looked like she might have something to say, but nothing came from her mouth and she lowered her eyes, stared at the floor. Good. She was catching on. I stepped back to a position between Ellen and Martina, and took out my cell and glanced at it. I nudged Martina with my elbow and then spoke to Brooklyn and Marcy. "I've got ten minutes after ten." I said. Really my cell read three minutes past, but I thought an extra seven minutes might be good for them. "Now the both of you. Strip!" 2405 2.18/512345