Grannie Panties Are UnderRated Read online

  Grannie Panties Are UnderRated

  Gayle Erickson

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Untitled

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 Gayle Erickson

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Book design by Marlon Namoro

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9989959-1-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017906979

  LCCN Imprint Name: Mile High Publishing House Lone Tree, Colorado

  ISBN: 978-0-9989959-1-5

  Created with Vellum

  For Taylor, who always believed.

  Peter Gabriel: “In Your Eyes”

  PROLOGUE

  Soul Asylum: “Runaway Train”

  May 11, 1994

  10:36 a.m.

  Thank God Tak had a normal toilet. If not for her boyfriend’s obsession with all things American, Elle’s face would now be lying in a pool of her own vomit.

  Having lived in Tokyo for nearly two years, Elle was accustomed to traditional Japanese-style toilets which didn’t have seats and meant users were in for some serious squatting. She was actually a big fan of this system—it seemed much more sanitary (there was no danger of accidentally touching someone else’s nasty butt germs), and Elle liked to think she was getting in a good thigh workout every time she used the bathroom. But at this moment, as she desperately hung on to the toilet seat to maintain her balance while heaving out thick, sallow bile, Elle was eternally grateful for the good ol’ solid American porcelain bowl.

  Highly underrated.

  Elle felt like shit. She was in a cold sweat from the sheer physical exertion of throwing up bile, she had a throbbing headache, a severe case of dry mouth, and her left cheek stung—she must have hit it against the toilet seat while puking. Worst of all, a relentless tingling sensation on her upper lip signaled a cold sore was on its way.

  Fuck! Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!

  And what was that smell? It was sour and warm—the unfortunate result of a combination of undigested sushi and stomach acid. Wanting to remove herself from the source of the funky odor, Elle gingerly sat up and turned away from the toilet, her back resting against its base. She needed water—her tongue was like an enormous cotton ball in her mouth—but she was too nauseous to stand up and go to the sink.

  Completing the utter clusterfuck of her present situation, Nirvana’s “Heart-Shaped Box” was reverberating up through the vents from Tak’s nightclub, Samantha’s, which was directly below the bathroom. Kurt Cobain’s howls of despair were like fingernails against a chalkboard—each screech thumped in concert with the throbbing ache in her temples.

  Was the club still open? What time was it, and how long had she been in the bathroom? Elle looked around. Daylight peeked through the small window above the toilet. It was definitely morning, probably around ten-thirty, the time Samantha’s cleaning staff came in to erase any traces of the previous evening’s debauchery. They must be vacuuming, which would explain the blaring music.

  If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with her hangover, Elle would have realized hearing Nirvana was a bad sign. Kurt Cobain had just killed himself in April, so there was that. Plus, as tragic as his death was, she really wasn’t a fan of angsty grunge bands. The music was hard to dance to, and greasy-haired guys dressed like lumberjacks didn’t do it for her. Eighties music ruled. Sting, Jon Bon Jovi, and Bruce Springsteen—now those were men worth throwing your panties on stage for.

  Irritated, Elle tried to drown out all the noise and focus on how she had ended up in this predicament. What, exactly, had happened the night before?

  Think, Elle. Think.

  Elle couldn’t remember anything. Her brain was scrambled, like the egg splattered in the frying pan on the TV commercial from high school. “This is your brain on drugs.”

  Oh right, drugs . . . there had been the cocaine. That would explain why Elle felt so shitty now—she could drink so much more when she was high. She shouldn’t have used again; she had promised her best friend, Mitch, that she was done with all of that. Disgusted by her lack of self-control and ashamed of all the lies, Elle put her head down in her hands and covered her face in shame.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  This wasn’t a rookie mistake. It’s not like she was a freshman waking up in her dorm bathroom after a night of over-drinking at a frat house kegger. She was a twenty-four-year-old college graduate. She had woken up strung out by coke with her face in a toilet. She was better than this.

  Get it together, Elle.

  Determined—she’d battled through worse before—Elle carefully stood up and plodded her way over to the sink. As she scooped water into her dry mouth with cupped hands, she heard a door slam and the sound of men talking. Elle immediately recognized her boyfriend Tak’s rapid, commanding Japanese. The other voices were likely those of his “bodyguards,” Johnny and Mike.

  Shit. Tak was the last person she wanted to see.

  Elle looked in the mirror. It was bad. Her eyes were red and puffy and her left cheek was swollen and smeared with dried blood from what appeared to be a deep cut—man, she must have really hit the toilet bowl hard. There was a clump of blonde hair (Clairol #59 Platinum) matted against her forehead, and she could see the offending cold sore starting to develop, a third eye on her dry lips.

  In anticipation of Tak’s arrival, Elle instinctively brushed the matted hair behind an ear and attempted to smooth her miniskirt. Her thong underwear was wedged uncomfortably up her bum, and she pulled at it as Tak stormed in with Johnny and Mike following closely behind.

  Despite names indicating otherwise, Johnny and Mike were both Japanese. As equally fixated with America as Tak, they had given themselves Western-sounding nicknames. Elle found it rather absurd, but whatever. At least Tak had agreed to drop “Tim,” the name he had introduced himself with. No way she was going to call him that. She didn’t come all the way to Japan to date a guy with the same name as a shoe salesman at Sears.

  Elle could tell by the redness of Tak’s nose and cheeks that he had been drinking. Her boyfriend couldn’t hold his alcohol, and his face betrayed this weakness every time. That he was drunk this early in the day worried her.

  “You are okay?” Tak said in heavily accented English. He didn’t m
ake eye contact with Elle, which was unusual. Instead, he seemed intently focused on turning the ring on his left pinky finger. The same ring that had been covered in another man’s blood a few weeks earlier.

  “I’m fine.” Elle tried to sound rueful, unsure of where this was headed—Tak’s behavior had become increasingly erratic of late. She needed to be careful; he could be a mean drunk. Still, it was hard to play nice—Elle was in no condition to deal with Tak, and the smell of his generously applied Polo aftershave was noxious. She nearly hurled again.

  Tak turned his back on Elle and abruptly left the bathroom. Again, his behavior was confusing. Normally, he would stay and take care of her. Regardless, Elle was relieved, pleased even, to see him go. Mitch had been right about her boyfriend—he was bad news and needed to be ditched, right along with all the drugs.

  Elle was left with Johnny and Mike and the lingering smell of Polo, which at least masked the warm and sour stench of vomit. Although she didn’t particularly like either of Tak’s companions, Elle appreciated their presence. She could have them go to the McDonald’s down the street and get her a Diet Coke with extra ice. And maybe an Egg McMuffin. Or better yet, a Big Mac and some fries. There really was nothing better than Mickey D’s for a hangover. Elle started to place her order when, with an overly dramatic flourish of his arm, Johnny removed a small object from his pocket.

  “You know what this is? This yours?” He held out what appeared to be a small square of shiny gold paper. Half of Johnny’s front tooth was broken off, and his tongue protruded out through the gap it left when he spoke. It gave him a slight lisp and made his halting English even more difficult to understand.

  Johnny’s tone pissed Elle off. Had he forgotten who she was? Hoping to indicate that he was lucky she even acknowledged his question, Elle rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. She didn’t need his attitude. Annoyed, Elle strained to see what Johnny was holding. After a few moments, she recognized it as an empty condom wrapper with one corner torn off. “It’s a rubber package. So what?” Why was he wasting her time with this?

  Johnny scowled. “It yours?”

  One long second passed. Then another.

  Oh shit.

  Reminders of the previous evening came to Elle in quick flashes, like frames from a horror movie. Sensing the magnitude of the situation, her body reacted immediately. Nauseous and light-headed, Elle quickly got down on her knees and grabbed hold of the toilet bowl to steady herself for what was to come. From the nightclub below, she could hear the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge” playing. This was another bad sign.

  Japanese toilet, American toilet—it didn’t much matter now. Elle was in trouble. Big trouble.

  Chapter One

  Jackson Browne: “Running on Empty”

  May 18, 2017

  6:47 a.m.

  It’s going to be a bad day.

  Elle was so over it already, and her morning had just begun.

  She’d had the nightmare again. The one where she is stuck in a room with no windows or doors, surrounded by a bunch of mangy dogs and cats feasting on her used tampons and pads. Elle could never make sense of this bizarre and disgusting dream; she only knew it was messed up. Kind of like she was.

  After the nightmare, Elle had fallen back into a fitful sleep only to be woken by a news report, not a song, when her alarm clock radio went off. Something about a recent earthquake in Japan. That Elle hadn’t woken to music was ominous enough; more troubling was the first song played after the news report — “Shake It Out” by Florence + the Machine. Music provided Elle with messages, and this song’s meaning could be interpreted in two ways: it could suggest optimism—forget your mistakes and be happy; or it could foreshadow trouble—all that talk about regrets and the devil on your back. Elle hated it when the signs weren’t clear. That they weren’t was, in and of itself, a bad sign.

  And then there was the weight gain. After a few blissful minutes rubbing the belly of her beloved golden retriever, Duke, the first thing Elle did upon waking was to pee and then step on the scale. That morning, “113” had flashed out in bold red, like a Public Service Announcement warning of an impending disaster. “ATTENTION! ATTENTION! Elle’s gained weight. Run for cover!”

  Elle had tried taking off her tank top and drawstring shorts—and even her white cotton underwear—hoping it would make a difference, but suspecting it probably wouldn’t. Sure enough, even stark naked, she was still three pounds over her target weight of 110.

  Elle berated her lack of self-control at dinner the previous evening. Martin Global Industries, her husband Win’s company, had sponsored a fundraiser for the Wounded Warrior Project and there had been a burrito bar. Mexican food was always challenging—all those carbs and so much dairy. Accepting it would be nearly impossible to avoid high, fatty calories, Elle had decided to go for it, loading her plate to the hilt with beans, guacamole, sour cream, and enough cheese to impress even the most jaded Wisconsin dairy farmer.

  Regretful over these indulgences, Elle resolved to do better that day—no carbs or sugar—and if that didn’t work, she would do another cleanse. Elle hated cleanses. The lemon juice and cayenne pepper mixture tasted ghastly and was difficult to swallow, but it was an effective way to quickly lose a few pounds.

  Elle needed to get back into her workout routine. She had been finding excuses to cancel sessions with her personal trainer and hadn’t gone to Pilates in weeks. She had given up on yoga altogether. Rather than it having the intended effect of calming her racing mind, Elle felt worse after each class, obsessing over whether her bow pose had been good enough. It wasn’t supposed to be a competition—that’s what everyone said—but Elle knew better. She noticed the other women, smug that they could squeeze their bony little bottoms into size 0 lululemon capris, not so discreetly watching each other and making judgments. And hot yoga? Forget it. Elle tried it once but couldn’t get past all the sweaty bodies so close to one another.

  Finally, there was the matter of the sheets on her bed in the guest room. Elle changed the white Frette hotel linens once a week. Always. If she waited any longer, her skin felt itchy. The sheets needed changing, and Elle would have to take care of it herself. Every so often, she could get away with asking her housekeeper, Angela, to do it. Elle would lie and say they had entertained out-of-town visitors—to complete the deception, she would dampen a few towels and washcloths and leave them on the guest-bathroom floor—but if her requests to change the sheets became too frequent, Angela would figure out that either Elle or Win was regularly sleeping in the guest bedroom.

  This would be a disaster.

  Tantalizing gossip had a habit of spreading quickly, and it wouldn’t take long before this news reached Aubrey, the self-appointed social arbitrator for Elle’s peer group. Convinced it was her duty to get involved, Aubrey would immediately convene an emergency meeting with their mutual friends to discuss the state of the Martin’s marriage. “Did you hear about Elle & Win?”—dramatic pause—“Her housekeeper and my housekeeper are friends and she claims they sleep in separate beds!” (Gasp!)

  Everyone would set down their skinny lattes, Restylane-plumped lips openmouthed in shock. Forlornly shaking their heads, they would feign concern, hoping to mask their glee that things weren’t so perfect in the Martin household after all. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they got a divorce; it’s just sooo sad.” (Smile. Smile. Ha! Ha!)

  Elle couldn’t fathom how a group of women who had so much could take such pleasure in another’s misfortune. Wasn’t there enough joy for all of them? She had learned in a college psychology course that there was actually a German word for the concept of delighting in another’s pain: schadenfreude. At the time, Elle couldn’t fathom something so twisted, but as an adult she understood that schadenfreude ran rampant in her crowd, warranting her paranoia about something as seemingly innocent as dirty sheets.

  Sure, Angela had always been loyal enough, but Elle couldn’t take any chances—she knew how things like this wo
rked. Just a few weeks earlier, over lunch at the club after their weekly tennis drill, Aubrey shared that her housekeeper had discovered several scrunched-up, crusty tube socks stuffed behind her teenage son Grayson’s bed.

  On the surface, Elle found the story highly amusing. Having a sixteen-year-old son herself, she understood all too well the retarded temporal-lobe development of teenage boys which prevented them from realizing that someone would find the soiled socks and figure out that they had been using them as a convenient receptacle for the sticky result of their frequent masturbation sessions. Maybe they simply didn’t care. The point was, if a housekeeper would sell out a sixteen-year-old to his mom for hiding the evidence of masturbating, no amount of private information was safe.

  Elle looked at the clock—6:53. Her children would be leaving for school soon. Rushed, she stripped the bed and left the dirty sheets in a pile on the floor to be dealt with later. With Duke following loyally behind, Elle darted up the back stairs to the master bedroom, thinking through her schedule for the day. She had a tennis match (it was a big one—if her team won, they would advance to Nationals); a coffee at Jane’s to plan an upcoming school fundraiser (she would ignore the baked goods but would allow herself a small bowl of fruit); a tour of her children’s private school, Country Day (she hoped the prospective parents wouldn’t be the loathsome, pompous type who were convinced their child was a genius. “Did you know our son speaks Mandarin and read Moby-Dick when he was six?”); a SIDS Alliance board meeting (they were having a guest speaker so she probably wouldn’t need to contribute much); and finally, her son Four’s high school lacrosse state championship game (this was the one high point, but she was nervous about the outcome—it meant so much to Four to win).

  Elle sighed heavily. She wished she didn’t have the coffee, or the board meeting, or the tour. Even the tennis match, for that matter. She wasn’t in the mood to be perky, and her full schedule meant she had to think about what to wear. As Elle entered her walk-in closet, she looked around at the racks and drawers full of overpriced designer clothes with dread. She didn’t want to think about what to wear. It made her tired.