Chapter II: One Problem, and Yes, It's a Bitch

Ethan stepped out of the building and into the open air. He breathed in a sigh of relief, immediately coughing it out. The pollution in Santa Monica was dense, even for the morning. It would be one of those summer days where you wonder, "Is that smog or the marine layer hovering over the city?" Regardless, it remained a beautiful day  for Ethan because his bonus remained intact, and he didn't have to write again for a while. 

You see, in his formative years, Ethan always dreamed of making it as a writer. He loved everything about it: from creating a world of words which he could manipulate, to the tawdry and unkempt persona of a writer, to the alcoholism. He wanted it all and he didn't waste any time basking in his new found revelation. He wrote everything down. Diary entries about his life grew to short prose and eventually he got the momentum to write a novel. His first attempts at the art were met with disaster however. Seemingly well written by his standards, rejection left him dejected and discouraged. In a fury of frustration, he wrote his breakout novel, You're All Bitches, I Hate You. Thoughts on paper were received as "Literary art, transcendent of the regular shit! Badass in a bottle; a pacifier for your pussy!" by Rolling Stone and other ubiquitous periodicals with similar acclaim. Drugs, sex, and redemption. A juicy read, let alone written by a 14 year old freshman in high school. Ethan's divinity began there.

13 years and 3 novels later he’s here, scraping the bottom of the barrel to survive. He began to despise his once only love: writing. It used to feel this good after finishing an entire novel. Now I'm celebrating to the same caliber for finishing a draft about…wait. 
What the hell is my book about? 
Nazis? 
Oh shit...What DID I write!? 

Ethan yanked his headphones from his ears. Kendrick Lamar reverted back to the cacophony of the city. Somehow the ambient sounds of Los Angeles was easier to think over predictable rhythm. He paused in his steps and closed his eyes, trying to draw upon his fragmented memory of the night before.

You ain't got nothing. I know what we wrote, but I don't feel like finding that for you.

His mind was a blank. 

"Christ, I hope I pulled something off...this is what it must feel like to be roofied"

His heart dropped as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Nothing was worse than a pissed Philip, except for maybe a Philip misled into believing a prose at a fourth grade level was the next flash grenade from a dying star.

“Hello?” Ethan answered timidly.

 "Ethan! Where the fuck have you been?? I've been blowing your phone up!" On the other end was Ethan's girlfriend Alexis. 

Alexis was a gorgeous Filipino girl with a black girl figure: big ass and titties. Ironically, she came across as a total good girl: went to Sunday mass every week (Ethan's mom loves that about her, unfortunately), dressed modestly, and is a pediatric RN at The Children's Hospital of Los Angeles' burn unit. Talk about a saint. Behind closed doors however, she let the freak all the way out (something about devout catholic girls: they have a strong sexual tenacity). Kinkiest, most sensuous sex of Ethan’s young career.You couldn't hit ass this good in a Drake video. Even in Ethan's moderate fame, she was still far out of his league in all honesty. She was more than he deserved and he recognized that. But lately, he'd been taking that for granted.
They had met after Ethan wrapped his BMW M3 around a light post in Westwood. Those German beasts are rock solid; not a scratch on the beloved writer. Had it not been for the insistence of the paramedic to get checked out anyway, he would have never met or dated Alexis. At this very moment, he wouldn't have minded. Even though she is the best sex he may ever have, Ethan would classify their relationship as just 'talking', i.e. a companion for the rare occasions he went out, someone to bounce book ideas off of, and a sure fuck when he did want her around. Ethan preferred a solitary lifestyle.

Alexis, on the other hand, had punched the relationship into lightspeed in the four short months they've been "dating". She wanted to meet up at least once a day, surprise visits, surprise sleepovers, here are my parents, yada yada. 

Ethan let out a deep sigh. Just when my day was getting good.

"So???" She demanded.

"I had to meet with Phil", he answered casually.

"Phil? What Phil?" The agitation in her voice did not improve Ethan's souring mood.

"Oh, you know. Phil…my yay dealer. I ran out this morning, and you know I can't start my day not cracked out of my mind." Just a pro tip boys: sarcasm and an angry woman don't mix. Ever. Ever ever. Don't be reckless.

"Really!? I'm over here worried sick and you're trying to be all Aziz Ansari over here! (that's the only comedian she has ever seen ergo the only one she can reference to hi-light my incessant sarcasm and humor)

"First off", Ethan counted on his fingers, "It was Phil. Phil Feinstein my editor for, oh, I don't know, a decade or so." Once sarcastic always sarcastic, "Two, I just saw you yesterday night! We went to LA Live! Remember?" Going for gold, "Third and finally, you knew about this appointment. You were mad cuz I didn't let you sleep over cuz I had work to do. You need a cat scan bruh."

Silence on the other end. Just opaque white noise. Huh. She hung up. Wonder at which point.

Ethan shrugged, put his ear-buds back in and played "These Girls" by Gambino, and salvaged what was left of his good mood.

Casa del Ethan, Santa Monica

Ethan made his way up the stairwell two steps at a time to his third floor loft. The elevator was broken indefinitely, adorning yellow tape like a crime scene. Ethan had used the rest of the day flexing his new-found financial security. In the course of that time, he blew $4487.64 on ray-bans, an alexander wang wallet, Gucci by Gucci cologne from Gucci; a Burberry trench (which is completely unnecessary in SoCal weather); 2 pairs of Seven jeans; 3 pairs of expensive Cheap Monday jeans, a pair of limited release Air Maxes, and the Black History Month Kobes. On top of that, he had dinner and drinks with Keith and Darlene, his treat. The whole day had him spent (no pun intended). He didn't even bother unloading his financial irresponsibilities from his car, but he considered it a pretty good day. 

Rounding the final corner, Ethan stopped dead in his tracks. There she was, like clockwork; his manicured, almond-eye, copper-skinned amour.  He expected this much. He got ready for the verbal abuse.

As he approached, he noticed that she was smiling. An eerie chill went down his spine. This is it Ethan! This is how it's gonna be. Outside your apartment, disemboweled by your psycho boo. You just started a book too!
 "Can I come in, mister?” she said, drooping her bottom lip into a pout seductively. Her hands were clasped in front of her, hanging at waist level as she swayed back and forth. Her infamous naughty girl routine, oh and did it work. Needless to say, this was far from where Ethan expected this interaction to evolve. 

Dude. Get in there! Even if she does kill you, you'll go out like a champ!

"Fuck it", he shrugged. "Say you've been a bad girl and need to be punished." Ethan toyed, licking his bottom lip. 

She crept closer and whispered in baby talk, "ohh daddy I'm sawwy! I was a bad whittle girl." She nibbled his ear lobe. "I didn't wear panties all day." 

He could feel her warm breath cascade around his ear. His cock began to swell and press against his joggers. He looked down and sure enough, no panties. Her extra small pencil skirt was hiked up to prove it. Ethan almost lost it. He pressed his lips against hers, feeling the rush. He fumbled with his keys and door. They grabbed at each other in the darkness of the apartment. Clothes came off in a frenzy until it was just flesh touching flesh; two bodies experiencing each other.  They somehow found themselves in the living room on an antique floral sofa. He bit her neck; she scratched his back. He eventually found himself inside her; he thrusted hard and deep. 

"I'm gonna cum!" Ethan said, feeling the buildup in his spine to his neck. 

"Wait! Wait! Hold on." Alexis stopped him

"Babe, I'm so close! Lemme just--"

"Stop!” she scolded, "Turn on the light. Something's not right."

Ethan reached to his right and felt for the lamp. 

The light flickered on revealing a big puddle of pulpy blood underneath Alexis. Ethan nearly passed out. He immediately stood up and began to evaluate what was happening. He scrutinized his penis. It was also covered in blood alright, just not his. He looked back to Alexis. She was cupping her hands under her bloody vagina, sobbing bitterly.

"Oh my fucking god!!! Baby are you ok?? We need to get you a fucking ambulance right now!"

He rifled through his jeans on the floor, found his phone and made the call.

The paramedics carried her out of his apartment on a stretcher. Her eyes were swollen and her voice was gone from crying. Ethan felt helpless. He looked on with concern. Did I do this? How? I hit it that hard often. This never happened before.

"So what happened?" A short female police officer interrupted. She sounded annoyed, like she was finishing up a 10 hr shift, cleaning up the shit that this godless city spat out, and now she had to deal with this fucked up situation. AND she probably has to take her kids to school right after she gets off cuz her good-for-nothing baby-daddy got axed from the oil-rigs off Long Beach harbor for drinking on the job, so he's been on a "job-hunt" which takes up all his time, BUT she knows he's just playing dominos and drinking in the park with Ray Ray and Tang at the park. (Just a working theory)

Ethan tried to snap out of it. He pressed his palms against his eyes, figuring out how to say this, "Uhhh let's see. She was here when I got to my apartment."

"Inside?” the cop interjected without looking up. She hadn't since she started taking the report.

"Uhh outside. Outside ya."

"She lost her key or...” the she cop was definitely eyeballing him now. 

"She doesn't actually have a key to begin with", he explained rubbing the back of his neck, adorning a weak smile.

The officer held her stare and ceased taking notes. She adjusted her stance, "What, may I ask, is the nature of your relationship with...” she looked back down at her notes, "Ms. DeJesus?" (Based on the attitude behind that last question, that alcoholic baby-daddy back story may not be too far off the mark!)

The change in questioning set off alarms in Ethan's head! This is it! She's going to die and they'll execute me for sure.

 "Black man rapes to death extremely brilliant and extremely hot nurse. She saves burned babies for Christ sake! What an animal. So, will they lynch him or let a nigga live? More on that story after a few brief messages from our mostly white republican sponsors." 

His heart was pounding through his ears as the panic set in. He said the first thing he thought of to restore his seemingly defamed name. "She's not a hooker. Err. I don't pay for sex."

 Everyone stopped in their tracks to judge Ethan; firefighters, paramedics, some guy dusting the lampshade (really? forensics? Is that really necessary?).

"She's my girlfriend!" Ethan immediately assured the room. 

"Mhmm" the she cop hummed under her breath, rolling her eyes and writing more notes. 

Cedars Sinai hospital

Ethan never drove this fast on LA city streets. They’re perilous even at the speed limit. He didn’t care. All he could think about was getting to Alexis. She must have said something to Officer Judgemental cuz he went from a potential domestic abuser to a buster nobody who wouldn’t hurt a fly. In any case, they cut him loose on sight, warning him not to travel anytime soon.

Like I have anywhere else to be.

He screeched into the parking lot, stopping on a dime at the Cedars-Sinai E.R. drop-off only zone. Without hesitation he left the car and ran inside.

    It was bright and smelled of latex. Ethan always had a morbid fascination with hospitals. They were romantic; where we are born and where we die.  He stood in line at the check-in desk behind a Mexican guy clutching his hand wrapped in a bloody towel, then a mother trying her best to tame her rambunctious toddlers while  trying to sooth her youngest, wrapped in a sling close to her breast, yelling in her ear. Ethan tapped his foot impatiently, flicking his phone screen on and off, waiting for a message…or something.

 Finally he got to the front, “EXCUSE ME! I need to find my gir—“; he caught himself. He knew they wouldn’t just let a ‘boyfriend’ see someone. They have a privacy protocol. He thought fast, “—wife! My wife. She got brought in by ambulance. Alexis DeJesus.”

The secretary lazily punched a few keys on her computer. A couple mouse clicks. Then her brow rose; the only facial expression he saw her make since he got there.

She looked up at him, “One moment sir. I must consult with the physician.”

“NO WAIT! I—“ She had already gotten up from her desk and disappeared through a door. Ethan checked his phone again. No messages. No missed calls. He slammed his fist on the counter before regaining his wits, and looking around to see if anyone saw.

The secretary returned, “I am sorry Mr…?”

“Uh Dejesus.” Ethan might as well keep up the subterfuge.

“Right”, the secretary patronized, “We have no record of your "wife"(did she really air quote "wife"? What a bitch!) checking-in. Maybe call her?”

NO SHIT LADY!

“That’s not possible! The medics said they were coming here.” Ethan reasoned, mostly thinking aloud, “Can you check again please?”

The secretary punched a few more buttons, stared at the screen and shook her head.

How did she just disappear?

    Ethan’s phone began to ring. He hoped for a sign of relief. It was his roommate Keith. Ethan couldn’t imagine why he called at this hour. The only thing he could think of was Keith had some update on Alexis. They knew each other way before Ethan and her dated. They were in nursing school together at West Coast College. Ethan punched the redial.

    “YO DUDE! ARE YOU OKAY?” Keith answered the phone after only one ring, “THAT’S SOME CRAZY SHIT BRO!” Loud music in the background prompted him to shout. Ethan cringed and pulled the phone further from his ear.

What did Keith know that I didn’t?

“Alexis?” Ethan asked after a moments pause.

“A MISSCARRIAGE BRO? I didn’t know you guys were even expecting. Thanks for the clue in. Thought we was boys.”

Ethan tuned out everything after "miscarriage".  The sound went off; the room went dark.

His eyes fluttered open. He didn’t know where he was, why he was covered in sweat, or why he was on the floor or why these strange people were hovering over him. It had to be bad if the Paisa with the hand was trying to help you.  He recognized the secretary who, he realized, was slapping his face as his color came back. He blocked the last slap, “Thank you. Thank you. I’m fine. Sorry sorry.” He was embarrassed to say the least.

Did I pass out? I’m sure slaps to the face aren’t an approved medical procedure. She should know that. She works in a fucking hospital.

Then it came back to him: the sofa, the blood, Alexis; MISCARRIAGE?? He felt sick. He stumbled outside and leaned facing the wall, his forehead resting on his arm.  He focused on taking deep breaths; breathing through the nose and out through the mouth. He felt his pocket vibrate again. He grabbed his phone without hesitation.

It was Phil Feinstein. Ethan was so caught up in everything that was happening he completely forgot about his original concern: the contents of his mystery novel. Phil was definitely calling to tear him a new one.

    Ethan let the call go straight to voice mail, then opened it up and pressed his phone to his ear.

“Ethan. Phil here. Uhh this draft…it’s different. Gimme a call back. You might know something I don’t.”

Doubt it, Ethan thought pocketing his phone. He just wanted to go home and sleep now. Sleep a day or two if the need be. Ha! if only.

He turned to where he left his car. Gone. Towed by the LA public works. Might as well throw this on top of the shit show that was now Ethan’s life. He was too tired to get upset again. That’s all he did today.

He pulled out his phone and requested an Uber.