Amy's Smile Ch. 01

Generally: You know the drill, don't read this if your underage, easily offended and/or living in a place where this type of material is against the law. This is purely a figment of my overactive imagination and nobody in the story is real, though wouldn't it be nice.

Specifically: This is a rewrite of an earlier story that I started last spring. Though I'd planned on finishing it, I was never happy with how it was turning out, so now I've done some revising and have turned the whole thing into a longer, multipart story. I'd like to thank everyone who's written and encouraged me to keep going on this and I apologize for the delay, but I hope you'll think it was worth the wait.

Unfortunately: No sex in this first chapter, but I promise to do better next time.

Jayne

Chapter One

"So this is it, huh? You're finally going to do it?"

John looked at me sheepishly and nodded, "I can't help it, I love her. You know how that goes."

My turn to nod. There was no point in trying to bullshit him; he'd seen me every day of the six months that I'd honestly believed that Corrine DeMarco was my soul mate, and he'd been there too when I'd written all that bad poetry for Tracy Nigg. That was the problem with having your best friend as your roommate, not only were they around for all the embarrassing shit, they actually paid attention to it too.

I'd lived with John for six years. We had met when the Gods, in the guise of the Admission's Office at Notre Dame, had smiled on us and put us together our freshman year. Trust me, if you've ever lived in a dorm, you know how rare it is to even get along with your assigned roommate, let alone become friends. So, after we'd graduated, it made sense to rent a place together since we were both going to be working in Chicago. We found an okay house in a so-so part of town and that was that.

But all good things must come to an end and this appeared to be it. Today he was moving out. He and the alluring Michelle (his words not mine, I don't care much for the outdoorsy look) had decided the time had come to cohabitate. And the rock she wore on her left hand proved they were playing for keeps. It was true love too; I had no doubt. I mean he was moving to Gary, Indiana to be with her. That tells you right there they were soul mates.

As for me, well yeah, I was going to miss him, but he'd basically been commuting for the last year and a half anyway, so I was pretty used to not having him around much. And even though we were best friends, I was kind of looking forward to having our duplex all to myself. The only real loss, as far as I could see, would be the chunk of money that would now be missing from my wallet when I had to come up with the whole rent, and of course his cooking, which was a hell of a lot better than mine.

I felt sure I could handle both though, so I helped him pack and threw him a going away party that involved two kegs, a couple of fifths of really good scotch, one stripper and a visit from Chicago's boys in blue when some of our neighbors decided enough was enough. Now we were packing up the U Haul and trying to act like we didn't give a shit about each other.

"So you're going to stop at Shelle's parents on the way out of town and pick her up?" Michelle was from some little town just over the Indiana border and she'd decided she'd rather visit her folks than come up for, as she put it, the big drink and puke fest I'd put on for John.

"Yeah, that's the plan. Christ, I hope her mother doesn't make that god damn pot roast of hers again. That shit is like shoe leather."

"Just tell her you have the hangover from hell and the thought of food makes you want to toss your cookies," I'm always helpful in a crisis.

"Oh yeah Charlie, why didn't I think of that," funny, but John never seemed as grateful about my suggestions as I thought he should be.

We walked out to his Bronco then, and did the straight man's version of a moving goodbye, a nervous, two-second hug and a lot of backslapping. Then I watched as he pulled out from the curve and drove towards his destiny - a future wife who looked to LL Bean for fashion tips and a mother in law who couldn't boil water.

I went back in the house and finished off the remains of a flat keg and fell asleep on the couch. The next morning I celebrated my new status as king of my very own castle by picking up all the half empty plastic beer cups in the nude. Life, I thought, was good.

But not for long.

It's amazing how pricey things can suddenly get when most of your income has to go for rent. And of course there were all those unexpected expenses that always seemed to crop up when you can least afford them. After running perfectly for years, my 10-year-old Mazda decided it didn't want to live anymore and left me with the option of buying a new engine for the old rusting beast or popping for a new car. I compromised with a 3 year old Subaru, but the payments were still killers. Then it seemed that every friend I'd ever had decided to get married and even when you shop at Target, wedding gifts can add up. My boss too had been making cracks about my dressing like a the delivery boy from Little Caesars, and since I knew he was looking for someone to replace our companies trouble shooter for the western region, I took the hint and sprang for some new clothes. They may not have been Armani (or anything even close) but still cost me more than I could afford.

My wallet was getting real empty and it didn't take a genius to figure out that things were only going to get worse. Reluctantly, I decided privacy was overrated and advertised for a new guy to share the house and expenses. After all, I told myself, John and I had lived together for years without any major problems. This sharing a house thing was easy.

I ended up with three callbacks. An eighteen year old, who let it be known that wherever he lived, would become party central. A stoner, who wanted to know if he could use the spare tub for his hydroponics herb farm, and Liam. Liam had nothing wrong with him - except he was an asshole.

We'd arranged to meet at 3PM on a Saturday and he'd been right on time. He showed up wearing jeans and golf shirt from some club that I vaguely knew was exclusive and his sock less feet were clad in loafers that looked a lot like the ones that had figured heavily in the OJ Simpson trial. But hell, I was an aspiring yuppie myself on some days, so I couldn't hold that against him.

He looked the place over and won a lot of points with me when he didn't mention the hole in the wall, or the overflowing trash can on the back porch. Actually he didn't say much except for one "Cool!" when he saw my autographed picture of my boyhood idol, Michael Jordan. He asked how much and I told him and he got out his checkbook.

And that was that. I had a new roommate. One who was pretty good too as long as you could overlook the fact that he was an asshole. One glance at my shrinking bank balance convinced me that I could. We renegotiated the lease with the landlord for another year and Liam moved in the next week.

My money crunch was significantly eased. I still was sorry that I'd had to get a roommate, but you can't have everything and eating was a necessary part of life. I would learn to live with the disappointment.

Two weeks after that, my boss stopped by my desk and told me he liked my tie. An hour after that I got promoted with a raise in pay that nearly doubled my salary.

This, has always been the way my life works.

Surprisingly, Liam turned out to be a pretty good roommate. He was quiet and pleasant, and for the most part we got along okay, as long as we didn't have to see each other too much. My new job had me traveling a lot, the western region was everything west of the Mississippi River, and I didn't really have much time to sit around and bond with Liam anyway. But this suited me fine and I was more than happy with the arrangement. I was disappointed though when I found out he couldn't cook.

Of course, some information was bound to filter through. He was 25, the same age as me, and he looked a lot like Brad Pitt. I knew this, because my girlfriend told me so; every - single - time - she saw him. I knew too, that he was from somewhere out west and his parents still lived there. He'd found a job in Chicago after taking six years to finish a four-year BA at Northwestern where he'd been some kind of jock. And that was about the extent of my knowledge. Except, that he was an asshole.

Now, you may remember, I've mentioned that before and you're probably wondering how I'd reached that conclusion so fast and why. I have an easy answer. It was Liam's best friend, Amy.

Best friend. Okay, I'll use that term; but I'll be damned if Liam ever did. He sure as hell never called her that to me. Oh, he had a lot of nicknames for her: like squirt, when he was trying to be nice, and my slave, when he wasn't.

Don't misunderstand the last one. He wasn't hinting about any kinky sex games they might have played. Liam and Amy never had any sex. At least not together, Liam had a girlfriend, Barbie or Betsy or Beatrice, some name that began with a B.

Amy might have had a guy she went out with too, though I kinda doubted it after meeting her. But anyway, what I'm getting at here is, Liam called her his slave because he could literally ask her to do anything for him and she'd do it.

If he needed his dry-cleaning picked up, Amy would do it. If his car was in the shop and he needed a lift, Amy would do it. If he wanted tickets to a concert, but didn't feel like standing in line for 5 hours, Amy would do it. If he wasn't going to be home and he wanted a game taped so he could watch it later... Well, you get the picture.

I met Amy at the same time I met Liam. He brought her along when he came to look at the house. I almost slammed the door in her face - not on purpose, I just didn't notice her. Amy had a knack for not being noticed.

She was maybe 5'3" and probably didn't weigh a hundred pounds, though the baggy clothes she always wore made her look smaller. I found out later she was 24, but she looked about twelve. She had limp, brown hair that drooped to her shoulders and hung in her face, her movements quick and birdlike.

She kind of reminded me of a bird, a little brown wren. She fluttered around the edges of a room, hiding in corners, perching on the end of the couch, always poised for flight. Personally, I've never cared much for birds.

But this makes her seem almost attractive. She wasn't. It's not that I'm shallow - well, okay maybe I am, but I try not to be. The point is if she'd shown any spark of personality I would've gotten used her looks.

Probably.

But she was as dull as the finish on my old Mazda. The only light I ever noticed in her was when she allowed herself the treat of looking at Liam. Then she would glow, her eyes staring adoringly at him under the one unbroken brow that slashed across her face. It was enough to make my stomach turn.

Liam however, loved her hero worship. Why not, it's fun being a God. That first day, he let her twitter behind us as I showed him the house; then he gave her a big thrill and gave her a toothy smile as he told her to go get his checkbook in the car. He swatted her playfully on the ass as she turned to leave, and she giggled in delight as she scurried off.

Then he turned to me grinning and wiggled his eyebrows as if to say, What can you do? Yep, he was an asshole all right.

Listen, I am no new aged, sensitive kind of guy. It wasn't my feminine side that was outraged by this blatant exploitation of another person's feelings. Personally, I didn't give a shit about Amy, and if she wanted to be a doormat for Liam, it didn't matter to me. I just didn't want to watch it happen.

It made me uncomfortable. It was a little too familiar. See, there had been a time when I had been like Amy. Of course, my object of worship had been a woman, well, girl really. And she'd never referred to me as her slave. No, she would never have been that crude. Her pet is what she called me, her little poochie.

Jesus.

Hey, this can't be a completely unfamiliar scenario to you. Everybody has seen this dynamic before; the cute guy or girl who has a strange friend that nobody else would touch with a ten-foot pole. They're too fat or too tall, or they always have a 5 o'clock shadow by noon.

Which isn't a good thing, when your name is Amanda.

The object of their affection tolerates them. Even lets them tag along sometimes; for trips to the movies or the beach, or anywhere there'll be enough people around to insure that they don't have to actually talk to the serf. Of course, they'll only issue these invitations if they're positive the rest of their crowd understands that it's charity, not affection that motivates their benevolence.

And you know what really sucks? One of that crowd will invariably make the remark; out loud so the sad little shit can hear, that isn't wonderful how kind Tiffany or Troy is to that weird kid that keeps hanging around.

So here's this poor humanoid, always in the background, oozing a desperate need to be loved and appreciated. Instead, they have to accept the reality that their idol barely knows they exist.

Except, when it's time to pay for the popcorn.

I'd been lucky; I'd been in high school when I'd done my stint as a pet. Time and nature had been kind to me since then; I was no longer the puny weakling I'd been. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, this little nerd still lived. And it bugged me to be reminded of it.

But back to Amy and the asshole.

I tried to avoid Amy's daily pilgrimages to kneel at the feet of her master. And for a while, I was pretty successful at it. Like I said, I was gone a lot and when I was home, my girlfriend, Kendra (she of the big tits and bigger feet) wanted her own measure of idolatry. Since she liked the services to be held in her bed, I had no problems attending.

But we had nothing else in common, and eventually we both grew bored of the ritual. She finally excommunicated me in a ceremony that included the ritual sacrifice of my lucky Bull's jersey in her fireplace.

I hadn't realized I'd been worshipping the devil.

After that, I was spending a lot more time at home having sworn off women for the rest of my life, or the end of basketball season whichever came first. Now for the first time, I got a really good look at how my new roomie operated; and it wasn't pretty.

I'd get home from a long day at the office, and there he'd be, stretched out on the sofa, watching the tube while Amy ran back and forth to the kitchen, getting him cold beers and hot nachos. That is, if she wasn't folding his laundry or balancing his checkbook. It was a real cozy domestic scene. Sometimes, my skin would actually crawl.

It wasn't always like this. A couple nights a week, Amy would be replaced by Liam's real girlfriend. He had the nerve to call her that, even when talking to Amy, as in; 'You can't come over tomorrow night, I'm going out with my real girlfriend.'

When Bonnie or Blanche, or whatever the Hell her name was, came over, things were a lot different. She'd show up at the house on Liam's arm, after having been properly wined and dined, and they'd make nice for a while before heading up to his bed to continue the night's entertainment. I don't even think that girl knew where our kitchen was. I had to give her credit for that at least, Ms B. was nobody's slave.

For one thing, she might have broken a nail, something she seemed to live in deadly fear of. She always wore these porcelain claws that featured different designs on every finger. They were fascinating, really. I think my favorites were the ones that featured the entire Warner Bros. cartoon roster. Liam liked those too. I know this because I heard them talking one night in his bedroom while I was making my usual 2 AM trip to the john.

"Oh no Liam," Brittany or Bethany squealed, "we can't do that, it might ruin the design."

"Oh come on," Liam wheedled, "doesn't Bugs Bunny want to explore the cave?"

I didn't hear anymore. I had no desire to find out what dark cavern the silly wabbit was heading for, and I sure as hell wasn't about to stand around and find out. I scurried my ass to my bedroom and opened the window and peed on a tree. Better to risk arrest for indecent exposure, than suffer from nightmares for the rest of my life.

But even with the Fritz the Cat illusions, I still preferred having Bernadette over at the house to Amy. At least, I could sit in a room with her for more than 5 minutes without feeling the urge to go find an eyebrow tweezers.

Buffy was really quite nice to look at actually. A medium sized, honey blonde with a voluptuous body. Yeah, she was eye candy all right. A couple nights spent gazing at her, and I knew my voluntary celibacy probably wouldn't make it through the playoffs.

In fact, I was thinking about breaking my vows with Veronica, this red headed attorney that did some work for my company, on the day I came home to what I will always think of as: The Great Cannelloni Disaster of 1998. I was just getting to the part where I was alone with the luscious legal eagle in our conference room and our briefs; hers, mine, and the firm's, were all in a pile on the floor, when I walked though my front door and smelled something.

Something seductive, something enticing, something that smelled suspiciously like real food. I stopped and tilted my head. This was my house wasn't it? I looked around. Yup, there was my mom's old sofa and the lamp with the football shade that Aunt Claudia and Uncle Jack had given me for my eleventh birthday. This was home all right. But what was that amazing aroma?

By this time, you're probably thinking I was a little obsessive about food, and maybe you're right. But you've got to understand, at the moment I'm describing here, I'd probably gone 5 months without eating something at home that didn't come with instructions that told me to, 'Punch top to vent'. Christ, I didn't want to beat up my food, I just wanted to eat it.

Of course I ate out a lot, but most of the time, the only good things about those meals were the toys that came in the bags. Even restaurants with menu's you could hold and seats that weren't attached to a pole in the floor, were a poor substitute for sitting in the comfort of a real home, eating meat that took hours, not minutes, to make. Yeah, I was ready for a home cooked meal.

I lifted my face and sniffed. Then I dropped my briefcase in the middle of the hall and made like a bloodhound. It smelled like tomatoes, it smelled like garlic, oh God; it smelled Italian. I sighed and smiled and swore on my mother's grave (who wasn't dead, but I knew she wouldn't mind) that whatever was cooking, a good portion of it was going to land on my plate.

It had to be Amy, I thought, unless some lost tourist from Napoli had invaded our house. No way Belinda could be behind that smell. She didn't do kitchens, only Liam.

Amy, Amy, Amy, I thought, why have you been hiding this talent from me? Hell if she could cook a moist pot roast, I'd marry her and happily sire mono-eye browed kids in exchange for a piece of homemade raspberry pie.

I made it to the kitchen, looked around and realized that dreams really do come true. There was a huge Caesar Salad on the counter and a loaf of hot crusty bread that steamed with butter and garlic. A big chocolate cake sat under a glass dome; and it wasn't store bought, I could tell because it leaned a little to the left and the frosting looked like it was spread on with a trowel.