A Bit of Nothing Ch. 03

Author's Note: Sorry if this one's rushed. My original vision really drifts like a sand. There's the hurry as if I'm losing the freshness of it. After writing Chapter 2, I'm starting to think if it's Romance, Drama and Comedy as its subgenre. Or dark humor (lol).

Side note: I find my grammar softwares gentrifying certain nuances. It also polishes too much of the grit in the narrative voice. I'm having doubts putting it there instead of immediately publishing it after writing. Maybe I'll try on the later chapters the more painful, inaccessible raw draft.

Content Warning: Mention of hypothetical yet skewed and dark depiction of revenge fantasy, strong language and dark psychology, they are present throughout. Sensitive topics of toxicity, cheating and dysfunction persists.

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Chapter 3

The silence in the house the next morning felt heavier than usual, thick with the unspoken fallout from my fight with my mother. I'd expected her to be gone for weeks, nursing her wounded pride elsewhere.

Finding her tending to Dad, acting like nothing happened beyond demanding his schedule, threw me. We settled into a cold, robotic truce, the air charged but still. It's weird how the brain works after an explosion like that -- numb, almost detached, latching onto stupid details.

Like noticing, as I wrestled with a pair of jeans, that being five-foot-nothing in America is its own special kind of frustrating. You know what? To be in the same height as Sabrina Carpenter or Ariana Grande is an existential crisis. At least for me, it does. Everything's scaled for giants; sometimes I think my best bet is the kid's section.

It almost made watching a six-foot something Michael Sanditon on a ladder seem normal. He was here for his nursing shift with Dad, but I'd asked him to fix the flickering bulb. And yeah, my eyes still automatically cataloged the view. Ass: confirmed gym-toned. Attire: scrubs. Verdict: pass. Moving on.

"I'm sorry you have to perform another unpaid service, Michael," I couldn't help poking the man in scrubs. "Ricky's on vacation."

"Not a big deal, Kat," he grunted as he crouched to look for something.

Sometimes I just want to grab something sharp to pierce his nerves every time I hear him call me that. It grates on my ears.

"Where are they vacationing?" he added.

I crossed my arms and watched him boredly. "Why'd you ask? You plan to tag along?"

He paused and looked at me. "You're so nice sometimes, I really want to do something."

Fuck you.

"Bahamas," I told him.

"Hmm." He made a face. "Is it summer already?"

"Try asking Siri," I shoved him.

He was so pissed he weakly threw a plastic wrapper at me. I heard my mother, who was sipping coffee at the kitchen counter, butt in: "Be careful, Mr. Sanditon. She's been a tease since she was little. She says one thing and means another."

Attention-seeker.

I looked between her and Mike. He, however, was clueless. Let him have it.

I walked away from both of them but could still hear them chatting.

"By the way, have you taken a break yet, young man?" said the matron.

"No, ma'am," replied the gullible one.

"Would you like to try some ethnic food?"

"It would be a pleasure, Mrs. Nievez," I heard him chuckling as he climbed down the ladder.

When asked to carry my Dad, he treats it like a universal struggle, but when offered food, he's quick to arrive.

Mi-ka-el. I internally shook my head. Humans.

"It's a turon."

Cliché. Moving on. I searched through the living room for some Japanese drinks my parents brought from their Tokyo trip last year. I was craving matcha.

"Hmm... a turon," he tested the word. "How about these white ones?"

"Oh, that's maja blanca," my mother said.

I whipped my head around at those words. I stood up and took quick strides to confirm. There was indeed maja blanca. "Is it pure coconut?" I asked.

"It was made by your Lola," she answered.

When your grandparents do the cooking, you know they have the expertise. I scrambled to grab a small plate and spoon before taking a good slice from the container.

"H-Hey! Tsk-tsk! Katarina! Don't be rude. Offer some to your Dad's hardworking nurse," she scolded.

I looked up at the mentioned nurse, annoyed. "You will have what will be left for you," I said.

My mother slapped my wrist. "Katarina!"

"Would you like some, Mike?" Ugh. Do I have to mention him out of politeness?

This asshole was quick on the uptake. After thanking me, he dug in and stole my slices. Thief.

"So your name is Mike, I presume?" My mother turned to him as he chewed his stolen maja blanca.

He swallowed first. "It's Michael, ma'am. Mike for convenience."

My mother nodded approvingly. Feeling betrayed by Mike's usurpation of my slice, I begrudgingly took the edge pieces--meaning: less coconut essence because a thief snatched the best part--and sought revenge.

"They own that blue mansion in the East," I snitched to this ruthless woman who counts success by capitalism.

Exactly the reaction I wanted--she was surprised. "Really? You're an heir?"

I looked at him and saw his embarrassment. Serves you right. But I wasn't done. "He's Andrew Sanditon's son," I continued.

"You're Andrew's son?" my mom repeated. "Who is that young man who works as his protégé?"

"That's my younger brother, ma'am," he replied. "He loves what my father does."

"I see. I've met him at executive events." She turned to me. "Katarina, Andrew works as a CMO at that agricultural firm."

Don't care. Mike didn't live with big rats like me. Didn't I mention I hate privileged kids? I did. My mother is the only one obsessed with the Forbes list.

"Is there anything else they brought?" I asked, suddenly remembering other food presents. "How did you even get these?"

"Oh--Mike? May I call you Mike?" She addressed him, and he nodded. "Would you like to take your snacks to the living room? Katarina will bring you more familiar comfort food later," she requested.

Me? I'm giving him more maja blanca? What the hell? What's left for me?

Mike had no choice but to follow. When he took his plate and sat watching Shark Tank, my mother turned to me. "Your dad, grandparents, and I are going on a trip. Would you like to come?"

"No. It's full of seniors."

"Really, Katarina? Is that what you're supposed to say?" she challenged.

My forehead furrowed. "Where to?"

"Your father's childhood places," came her wistful voice.

I knew what she meant, but I still wasn't going. "It's summer. Last time, the temperature was a hundred degrees."

"That's just a lame excuse," she dismissed. "Now, bring these to your guest," she stood and handed me some grocery snacks. She then sliced ripe mangoes and put them on a plate. "And make him comfortable before he goes back on duty."

"Why?"

She gave me a sharp look. "No more of that. Be a good host, Katarina." She shooed me away.

When did that nurse become a guest?!

Against my deepest will, I grabbed the food and walked my ordeal. With careful movements, I put everything on the table and sat silently.

So silent I just stared at Mi-ka-el Sanditon to annoy him. He turned his head and blinked. "What?"

"You have a gunk in your left eye," I told him.

When his hand moved to check and found nothing, he looked at me and continued eating the mangoes. I kept staring like an idiot, and he was uncomfortable at first. Eventually, he just shrugged and adopted a don't-give-a-fuck approach.

"Since you're off-duty, can I ask you something?" I blurted out, still watching.

He made a sound since his mouth was full.

"When are you free this weekend?" I asked.

He didn't respond right away. Instead, he scooped more mango and kept eating. He'd already had three. Really? Nothing will be left for me.

"Why are you asking? Planning to tag along?" he shot back.

Try harder, boy. I've heard sharper wit.

"Exactly. But I'm not taking you to the Bahamas. What are your plans?"

He shrugged. "I wonder..."

That made me want to punch him. He continued eating until he got back to work. When he stood up, he turned to me, "I'm free this late afternoon. Why?"

I flipped my hand dismissively. "I've changed my mind. If you'd been quicker to respond, I might have forgotten you're still my father's nurse. Are you on a diet? You didn't touch those calorie-filled snacks."

His face said it all. Pissed, he turned away and didn't talk to me for the rest of the day.

I visited Mamita at the grocery store that afternoon to pick up supplies my mother ordered.

"Chica, this is an unusual time for you to come," Mamita remarked from behind the counter.

I dropped the items in front of her. "I have more time to kill these days. Mom's finally decided to come back."

"Really?" She seemed surprised as she scanned the items.

I nodded before exhaling a word, "When you said if you were my mother, mami, I could have agreed since you would only throw a sandal at me. My mom tried a drinking glass."

Mamita paused and stared. I just nodded. Finally, she spoke: "Oh my, come here." She gestured me closer and gave me a tight hug, her wild curly hair brushing against my cheek. She smelled like her kitchen. It reminded me of piñatas.

Mamita didn't ask questions or press for details. She just told me to breathe and hugged me again. After that, I felt a little giddy.

I waved my typical goodbye. "See you, mami. No more price increases this time," I grinned and teased her.

"Por favor," she sighed. "Chica, I really don't know what to do with you and your issues about money. I'll wait for the day you swipe a credit card without checking the bill."

"That'll never happen, mami. I like counting bills," I chuckled, blew her a kiss, and ran.

I got Mamita this time, which made me feel a bit victorious. I hate drama. And speaking of hate, I'm reminded of lesser drama. I paused my walk, set down my groceries, and dug out my phone.

After two rings and a pickup, a loud shout blasted through: "Katarina! I swear, you keep messing with me and I might lock you in a basement!"

It was so loud I had to pull the phone away and put it on speaker.

"Hey, Mike..." I greeted. "So, you're free this late afterno--"

"What. Do. You. Want?!"

I hung up. But he called again, so I answered.

"You will answer me, and you'll do it with some decency. Don't be a coward, Katarina Nievez."

I adjusted the speaker volume and held it away from my face. "Alright, I'm serious. Something's been bugging me lately, and I need to talk to you about it. If you don't have plans, I'd like to meet up."

There. Happy now, Michael?

After seconds of silence, he spoke: "I'll let you off this time. But try pulling that again--"

"I won't. I'm not in the mood for your anger, okay? Or do you want me to tell you over the phone?"

"Oh yeah?" His voice held a challenge. "Let's see how you handle that."

Okay. So he wanted it by phone. I sighed and briefly closed my eyes. "Can I have a one-night stand with you? Just to relieve this frustratio--"

He hung up.

Damn it. What a loss. Never give up. All the good girls go to hell. I called again, but I was blocked.

I stared at my phone in disbelief. Bitch.

This is where it gets annoying. You state your true intentions and they hate you for it. You sugar-coat and use pleasing maneuvers, and they happily accept.

Who are they kidding? Can't Mike just agree so I could slake my lust, and he could get a free taste of my body? Just be done with it?

My phone vibrated. Speaking of the devil, he left a message. What was written, however, is a one big joke:

I don't do sex. And definitely not with my patient's daughter.

So I replied with a bigger joke:

That's manageable. I can get you fired.

And we got on a tirade of text message wars afterwards.

Him: Haha ????

That message had an annoyed emoji in it.

Me: It's easy, I'll just tell them I don't like your work ethic.

Him: What? Don't tell me you prefer a slave labor that leaves no room for a simple snack break?

Me: Bingo. When did you become such a mind reader?

Him: Looking forward. I dare you.

I finally found the cue to leave him on read. Until he messaged again.

Him: Just so u know, unlike ur views, I don't wish to be commodified. There are things meant to be intimate and exclusive. Since ur so persistent, consider dating me.

Me: Did you master Mandarin after French? You're quite fluent in foreign languages.

I flushed this information immediately from my brain's toilet. I grabbed my groceries and continued walking. Our house's distance to different establishments is lucky, I guess. Since I wanted to eat, I spotted a small diner.

Now that I think about it, I took New York's convenience for granted. Walking here isn't a stroll; it's an endurance test. I ordered carbonara and cheese waffles, and while waiting, I looked around.

Large place, cool climate. Drunk college boys in one corner, a family near me, two pals by the window. The rest of us buzzing through the crowd.

The door chimed, and a tall silhouette appeared. The feet of that silhouette stopped in front of me, forcing me to look up. He wore a black cap and a neutral gray t-shirt that showed off his packed abs.

Whoa. Hot shit, as always.

"Are you stalking me?"

"Your mom asked me to find you," he replied.

"You could always block her like you did to me. You know, like mother, like daughter."

The audacity of this man--he sat across from me, planted both arms on the table, and raised both his eyebrows. His bright eyes gave me a cool, sober gaze. "So, have you thought about it?"

"No. I don't have to think about it. But hey..." I tapped the table. "Since you're a nice guy pushed to his limits, let me soothe your patience. What if we do friends with benefits instead? I believe we have great chemistry." I couldn't help my cheerful expression.

He ignored the offer and gestured to the waiter to bring the food to our table. The asshole pulled out his fat wallet and gave the waiter a generous tip while ordering more.

"We could be friends. But you'd still end up ogling me shamelessly like you do when you think I'm not aware," he said dismissively before taking my cheese waffles.

See this guy? He's a food thug, taking a big bite. No...

My waffles.

"That'll be your loss of the bargain," he continued.

"I said with benefits. What part of that didn't you hear?"

He wiped his mouth before swallowing. "Oh, I wonder how you'd handle that arrangement? Act normal by day as we sleep together at night?"

"Speaking of day, why the fuck are you even continuing this proposition? Didn't you mention the ethical Magna Carta of your profession?"

That's when he paused, set down the waffles, and crossed his arms. He looked at me with focused bright eyes and a knowing smirk. "I don't know either, Kat. You tell me, since I'm only indulging your wishes."

If he thought he'd reached my level of derangement, he hadn't. But at least he tried.

I reached out, gesturing for him to come closer. When he did, planting his arms on the table, I took one of his hands. "Mike, please. I just really want to fuck you," I pleaded earnestly.

He was stunned.

But I wasn't finished. "I want this lust to be over, get it? Then we go back to business."

His hand swerved and caught mine, wrapping around my wrist. Ooh...

Holy shit! He could hold me like that in bed. I'm willing. I'm consenting. His hands are three times the size of mine. Yes, please! You can be my Dom, Mike.

"We can either be friends where your bitchiness stops, or you can be my date before sleeping with me."

My face frowned as I pulled my wrist away. He let go. "Why do you insist on such a fade-out? How about fuck buddies?"

"All or nothing, Katarina. Your loss, not mine," he answered, grabbing his waffles again.

I crossed my arms and put a hand to my chin, thinking. "So to have sex with you, I should play pretend first to be this sweet, convenient girlfriend material?"

"Work for it. Earn every 'performance' I give you with my 'warm dick'--as you'd call it--by making an effort to satisfy me," he said between chews.

"You've been here before? This diner? You seem comfortable enough to steal my meal. However, Michael, acting like a girlfriend is basic, but it leaves us in circles."

He shrugged. "That's what I want. You're using my body; I might as well take what I can get. It's called being mutual."

"I don't get it."

"Me neither, given how complicated you make things. Why not choose from the two options?" he added.

"I want sex." That goes without question. Have I been unclear?

"And," he exhaled, fixing his plate, "that's how I deal with my own sexuality." He grabbed a glass of water while I contemplated.

"What if I seduce you?"

He gulped and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "The question is, will you succeed?"

My face flattened. "How encouraging," I muttered. "Now that we're at it, can you tell me what your girlfriends looked like? I need research."

He gave a ridiculous cheeky smile, grabbed his phone, and began typing. He showed me an Instagram account, and I was floored. Then he showed me another.

"Those are my long-term exes," he said.

All of them were fucking blonde and tanned!

"I'm not bleaching my hair!" I blurted. "The last time I did, my scalp got burned."

"Who said you had to? Besides, who asked for their profiles? Curiosity killed the persistent Katarina."

"Why are you still single? Shouldn't hot people be constantly dating?" I asked, jutting my chin at him. "It's not like you never had a fling. When was the last time?"

"High school," was his short reply.

How to say you were popular without saying you were popular?

"So?" I prodded. "What happened? Found true love and never returned to hook-ups?"

"Seems like it."

Oh, shit. Sympathy to those who tried. "Mind elaborating?"

"First ex didn't work out. High school and adulthood have different priorities. Second ex cheated."

Mike Sanditon got cheated on? How? Given the physics and chemistry of his model-gorgeous looks, how?

I sighed. "Speaking of cheating, I know someone who did. When I found out, I wanted to fuck the affair partner. You know, like if your ex cheated with a man who has a college-age sister, you go for that sister as revenge?"

"What the hell did you just say?" Mike recoiled.

I shrugged. "Just imagining, you know."

He sighed, rubbed his temple, and whispered, "Jesus Christ." He straightened his posture and looked at me. "Katarina, you can be disturbing as hell. Have you ever tried therapy?"

Oh, that.

"I checked their rates," I told him. "Couldn't afford it."

"Huh?"

"It's not like I'm asking my mother for money. I hate her guts, and I hate her cunt--"

He raised both hands. "Whoa. Easy. She's nice to me."

At that, I smiled.

"Of course she's nice. You're Andrew Sanditon's son, remember? She'd love to climb the ladder and step on those beneath her. Have I ever mentioned cheating?" My eyes darkened.

Mike paused, observed, and grew silent.

I averted my gaze and stared out the window. "How did you find out you were cheated on?"

"She told me. Asked for a clean break and moved on," I heard him reply.

I gave a slight nod, still not looking. "Can you still call it quits, though? I guess confusion and self-doubt ate you for some time, Michael." I looked at him briefly and shrugged, "who knows?"

"Wouldn't you ask me?" he injects.

I looked through those eyes, across him then on what's behind him moving in still pictures. "You seemed to rise above it," was my assessment. "At the very least, she stood up her shit too. And you, not yet putting a ring on it. What I've got? Mind-fuck. So fucked, I left everything to karma."

Dad never found out. Divorce was available, yet that coward wanted the best of both worlds. Slowly, things undermined the very foundation of our family. She betrayed us, and I resent her fully while the rest remain oblivious. We stick to our roles while my little protests break out now and then.

Heavy fights, good bruises, acidic words thrown between us. I wonder where you find intimacy in that? Like asking a rose to bloom in a goddamn desert.

"I can fix him." Go fuck yourself for getting involved with someone carrying heavy baggage, then crying about how you tried to fix him but ruined yourself.

Asshole Mike. Can he convert me to the road of intimacy? I looked back at him, and he was watching me. I noticed his eyes were becoming clear, focused.

"What are you looking at?" I asked.

"You. What are you looking at?" he shot back.

I continued observing him. Given that his face card screams the Hollywood actor vibe check, there was something in his expression that anticipated.

Something genuinely curious and attentive. I have the capacity to hurt him. To take something away until that attentiveness and curiosity slip from his features.

I can, because I thrive on dysfunction and toxicity. Between us, it's the only potency my subconscious has grown used to. It would infect him. So he shouldn't demand intimacy and exclusivity when there's nothing to offer.

Argh! Can I just fuck him?

Besides, his type is clearly long-legged, toned blonde chicks. I should have steered clear, knowing this. But fuck, every time I see his face, his body, the way he moves, walks, does nothing, or just breathes, my libido spikes.

I'll do almost anything to have him.

"It's complicated," I sighed, breaking the silence. "I want to separate sex from dating. But since you don't want that--understand this clearly--I can role-play being a girlfriend to satisfy you. Since I'm doing this for the incentive of sleeping with you, it's essentially friends with benefits."

Mike tapped a drinking straw on the table. "I've tried that setup. It has limits when it comes to expectations and boundaries. Dating has more."

"Oh shit, you tell me," I couldn't help retorting.

"Sure. I can't call you whenever I feel like it, can't introduce you to friends and family without everyone thinking I'm lying if I call you a friend. And I couldn't say I love you when I feel like it--"

"Hold up," I stopped him, raising my hand. "Those words mean nothing if you're role-playing."

Mike stopped tapping and nodded. "True. But being introduced as exclusive reduces your chances of being hit on, plus we could sneak around without questions."

I cackled. "Me? Getting hit on? The opposite, sir. I hit on them. I grab the dick I want."

Unfazed, this asshole concede. "Fair enough. But it's not like Frederic didn't enjoy sucking your tits."

Now, did he took his time to watch me get it on for a short stint to that French beau? Ha! If Frederic like what he got, it's not like I'm complaining.

"He did," I said evenly. "Even covered them when you butted in."

"Welp," he sighed, knocking the table with one hand. "Suppose you slept with me, saw another guy you wanted to bang--would you sleep with him even during our FWB?"

"Depends," I shrugged. "If we negotiated exclusivity, which is nonsense--no, I'd be lying. Honestly, I'd bang him and bring you medical results showing I'm still STI-free."

He leaned closer with a low, pressing voice: "Not on my watch."

I stomped my feet in agitation. "Michael," I appealed. "You're making this difficult." I grabbed both his hands. "Why? Why can't we just simply fuck?"

He took my hands and held them firmly. Those warm and smooth hands completely covered those of my fingers. He leaned closer and whispered, "Because you can be quite unhinged."

"Huh?" I pulled back immediately. "If you want someone very demure and very mindful, you shouldn't have brought this up."

"I wish I hadn't," he said. He leaned back, shaking his head, looking worked up. "But you kept bugging me with your mind games, driving me insane. You annoy me at work and hit on me off-duty. I might as well face it head-on."

"About work..." I paused, "what would you do if we got involved?"

"Change assignments, obviously. Wait for things to settle, then proceed with the plan."

My ears perked up. "You mean you'd no longer be my father's nurse?"

He nodded. I did a complete 180.

"Alright!" I cheered. My face splitting to a grin as my face stretched and brightened real quick. "I agree. Let's date. You wearing scrubs around my Dad makes my pussy dry anyway."

His face soured. "Fuckin' hell, Katarina. Just when I thought I'd heard enough, you keep coming harder."

I crouched and wiggled my eyebrows. "You'll like it soon enough," I said with a salacious smile.

He simply took the ketchup, put some on his finger, and flicked it at my face. It splashed right on my cheek.

"Damn. I've pictured doing that," he murmured appreciatively as he looked at me smudged with ketchup.

Instead of getting angry--which I should have--I sat up straight. I watched his bright eyes as my finger slid through the ketchup on my face and slowly dip it with my tongue.

I made its execution with my eyes, mouth and tongue looking like a seductive pornstar as I start licking it. Bring it on, bastard.

He took a sharp breath, stood up, and walked out the door. I ended up having the last laugh, holding my sides.

Loser.

Just then, the waiter brought over a feast that Mike had ordered. I was forced to tip on this buffet and silently cursed Mi-ka-el.

Is he trying to add calories to my body? Make me fat?

I shrugged. Don't care about that. I ended taking a good feast on this diner's food trip.