Can't Touch This (24 page)

“Vanessa Virtue, I can’t believe what’s coming out of your mouth,” Reagan scolds.  “Children have
died
not wearing helmets.”

“Do I look like a child?”  I don’t know why I’m taking out my Rory-wrath on nice Reagan.

Kyle leans against his bike.  “Vanessa, you need to wear it.  It’s like a state law or something.  We don’t want anything to happen to you,” he says with a manipulative smile.

I plop the fuchsia monstrosity on my noggin.  “Sorry, Rea.  It’s not you.  It’s me,” I say, not wanting to elaborate.

“That’s okay, girlfriend.”  She buckles the strap under her chin.  On her, it looks cute, hip, and adventurous.  It makes me look like a flathead worm.

“It’s not like you’re going to run into anyone you know,” she says with a laugh.

“Exactly,” Kyle agrees.

I straddle my bike.  “You both better hope not.”

According to the map, it will take four hours to traverse the western shore of San Francisco Bay, cross the Golden Gate Bridge, and ride down into Sausalito.  From there, we’re supposed to take the ferry back across the Bay.  Because Reagan has to stop and take pictures every one hundred feet, we’ll never be done with this.

“You guys pose over there,” she instructs, waving Kyle and me toward the duck pond at the Presidio.

Awkwardly, I lean on Kyle and he wraps his arm around me.  I’m suddenly crushed against his steel frame and it feels way too good.  I must be exhibiting something similar to panic because Reagan yells, “Smile for Christ’s sake, Vanessa.”

Never have I been so cold in my entire life, yet there’s a warm after-glowing tingle across my shoulder as Kyle pulls away.  It’s probably pheromones on overload.  I hop back on the bike and try to pedal faster so I’m not behind Kyle, looking at his behind.

At Baker’s Beach, Reagan wants to photograph the wind surfers, so Kyle and I wait on the sandy path.  My cycle is propped on the kickstand until a gusting wind blows it over, knocking me to the ground.  The pedal cuts a nasty gash in my jeans and blood oozes from my calf.

“Dammit all!”

Kyle tosses his bike down and is immediately at my side.  He pulls out a familiar handkerchief and presses it to the wound.  “I’ve got to put pressure on it.”

My fingers are so cold, my teeth won’t stop chattering, and I fear I’m going to start weeping like a baby.  I bite my quivering lip with my teeth and will the bleeding to stop.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, his warm hazel eyes comforting.  He’s acting more like my friend than a co-worker.  Isn’t he worried how Reagan might interpret his attentiveness?

Somehow, I don’t care though.  I stifle a feigned laugh.  “I’m more upset that my new jeans are ripped.”  I take my helmet off and run my fingers through the clumped mess.  I hope I don’t look as bad as I feel.  This is not the cool, city girl image I try to project.  Cold.  Bleeding.  Annoyed.  Bad hair.  Seriously, I don’t know what else can happen.

That’s when I hear...

“Vanessa Virtue?  Oh, my God.  Is that you?”

I cringe, not wanting to turn around.

“I think that guy’s calling you,” Kyle says.

I crane my head around to see a wet surfer approaching.

No.  It couldn’t be…

Alan Partridge.  College boyfriend.

Oh right, he does live here.

“Vanessa!  It
is
you,” he exclaims, trotting toward me with surfboard on his hip.  “It’s been forever”

Man, I’m going to kill Reagan for making me wear this helmet.  One always wants to look sensational when running into an ex.

Kyle helps me up and lowers his brows in Alan’s direction.  He stands by possessively while I fake an excited look.

“Alan, I can’t believe it’s you.  How are you?”  I try to sound composed.  He’s just as adorable as he’d been in college.  Only more muscular.  His black hair is slick from swimming and his green eyes shine out from his smiling face.

“I’m fantastic.  What are you doing here?”

“I’m in town on business.  We’re flying out tonight, so we thought we’d kill time and bike around the city.”

“That’s fabulous.  And you happened upon my beach.  I come out every weekend, no matter the temperature.  The waves are amazing.”  He smiles past me and looks approvingly at Kyle.

“Hi, I’m Alan Partridge.  Vanessa and I went out in college.”

“Kyle Nettles,” he says, stretching his hand out.  “We work together.”  There’s a bit of an irked off tone to his voice.

“So, last I heard you were in Dallas,” I say to Alan.

“Yeah, but I met someone and he wanted to move here.”

“He?”

“Yeah, Josh.  My boyfriend.  We’ve been together almost three years.”  Alan must read the shock on my face.  “I guess you didn’t know I’d come out of the closet.”

Kyle covers his uncomfortable laugh by clearing his throat.  I can’t look at him for fear I’ll throw up right here, right now.  “Umm, well, no,” I stutter.

“Come on, you guys,” Reagan yells from fifty feet away.  “We’ve got to keep going.”

“Look, it was great seeing you, Alan.  I’m happy for you and, err, Josh,” I say.  We hug awkwardly and then I give him my business card, telling him to keep in touch.

My history with men sucks.  My college boyfriend is gay and my last fling is in jail.  Two strikes.  One more, I’m out.

I look into Kyle’s clear eyes and wonder about him.  About his kindness.  “You keep rescuing me and I don’t know why.”

He gazes at me softly, almost too softly, and says, “Maybe one day you’ll figure it out.”

“I
’ve been beating
a dead date dad,” I slur to Griz at Cuchi Cuchi’s over my third Godiva chocolate martini Sunday night after returning from San Francisco.

“You’re doing what?” she asks over the loud music.  “You’re beating off?  Vanessa, really.”

I bang my head on the table, trying to erase the memories of the last three days and Griz’s current attempt at humor.

“Stop that!”  She pushes my shoulders back.

I’m emotionally drained and I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything.  I’ve been foolish in my judgment and I deserve to suffer.  I want to drink until I don’t feel pain.  Until my brain can make sound decisions again.  Until I can exterminate everything about
him
from my system.  The lying sack of human excrement.

Griz signals for another cocktail.  “Start from the beginning.”

I enunciate slowly.  “I’m.  Dating.  A.  Deadbeat.  Dad.”

“Well, that’s a new one.”

After relaying the sordid details to Griz, I realize I’m going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow, so I order a Diet Coke.  “What idiot allows bars open on Sunday anyway?”

“People who know other people need to sulk and feel sorry for themselves.”  She looks at her watch and then notes.  “You officially have three days to that and then you have to get the hell over it.”

I think what happened with Rory qualifies for the need to wallow in a huge vat of self-pity.  All this time, I’ve tried to be professional—and follow company rules—around Kyle when he’s the one who’s been on my side.  Supporting me.  Rescuing me.

“So do you think Rory’s going go to jail to stay?” Griz asks.

“I don’t care.”

“So that’s it?  You’ll never hear from him or see him again?”

“Would
you
want to see him again?”

She thinks for a moment.  “I suppose not.”

“Besides, I was calling it quits anyway.”  I poke at my chest.  “
I
wanted to be in control, though.”

“‘Because of all the sneaking around and stuff?”

“It didn’t feel right, Griz.  He didn’t seem right.  Don’t I look smart now?  I hope they put him under the fucking jail.”

“Vanessa…”

“No, seriously.  Pour concrete over him and seal him up for all eternity so he won’t do anything manipulative or harmful to another person.”

Sipping my soda, I hope it will sober me up.  I slump in the seat, my shoulders feeling the weight of my head.  I can’t hold it up.  Don’t want to.  Sitting tall means I’m proud and sturdy.  Those words don’t describe me right now.  I can’t believe what a dumb shit I’ve been. “This whole thing was a salmon trip, Griz.”

“I don’t know what a salmon trip is,” she says.

I squint at her and point my index finger.  “It’s when you spend your entire life swimming upstream only to get screwed by someone you barely know and then die in the end.”  I let my head fall back to the tabletop.

“Vanessa, you’re not dead.  You’re only beaten up.  Like Grizabella the Glamour Cat.  Everything’s going to be okay.”

If she breaks into a song from the musical “Cats,” I’m going to get up and leave without paying my bill.

She doesn’t, so I pull myself up and smile weakly.  “I let this happen,” I say.  “Rory got what he wanted.”

“What are you talking about?  He abandoned his family and messed around with you.  If he hadn’t got arrested, he was going to mess around with you some more!”  Griz doesn’t know about the demo disk.  And she never will because it’s a spotlight on my own idiocy.  “He’s a duplicitous salesman.”

I nod.  “Yes, he is.  I don’t want to talk about him or what happened anymore.  Guys aren’t worth the effort.”

She sips her water.  “You should become a lesbian.  It’s very ‘in’ these days.”

I shake my head and laugh.  “I’m sure I’d screw that up, too.”

“What about Kyle?”

My heart betrays me with a quick skitter.  “What about him?”

She moves my empty martini glass away.  “He likes you.”

“He thinks I’m pathetic.”

Griz sighs.  “You know, maybe you’re not so smart.  You need to look around and see what’s right in front of your face, woman.”

I don’t understand why Griz is doing this to me.  I’m vulnerable.  Weak.  “The last thing I need is to throw myself at Kyle.  I have no chance with him.  Unlike you, I don’t want to jeopardize my job.”

“Rick and I are discreet.  You and Kyle could be, too.”

“We’re working together on this project.”

“All the more reason to see where things could go,” she says.  “Jiles knows you spend time together anyway, so what’s the big deal?  Just say you’re working when you’re really dating.”

“No.  Maybe.  I don’t know.  Perhaps in another lifetime.”  I’m warmed by the thought of Kyle and me.  Hell, I’ve been attracted to the guy since Day One.  I don’t know if it’s worth the risk, though.  Bottom line, I have to make myself happy.  Work.  That’s where I’ll bury myself.  Aislin’s on maternity leave and it’s my chance to shine.

Starting tomorrow morning.

I down the rest of my soda and signal for the bill.  “I can’t talk about this anymore, but thanks Griz.  I really appreciate it.”

She lays money on the table.  “You’re not wearing those earrings Whatever-The-Hell-His-Name-Was, gave you.  What happened?”

Straightening up, I laugh at my last melodramatic act related to the Rory Incident.  “I gave them to William to put on eBay.  Last I saw, the current bid was twenty-eight dollars.”

*****

I
 pulverize my
keyboard while adding leads into the sales system from the San Francisco show.  An Outlook alert pops: 
New mail has arrived.  Would you like to read it now?

“No, fuck off,” I mutter out loud.  “I would not like read it right now.”  Still, I Alt+Tab to my e-mail.  It’s a multi-forwarded urban legend from Jack.  I respond:
I’m busy.

Two minutes later, he sends:  
Why do you hate your keyboard?

Bad weekend.  Don’t mess with me,
I reply.

What are you, Texas?
he sends.

I crack up laughing, silently blessing Jack for staying on me.

“Up to no good?” a velvety voice interrupts my shenanigans.

I look up into the hazel eyes that always make me feel at ease.  “Can’t get away from you, can I?”

Kyle leans against my cube.  “I hope not.”

I swallow the knot in my throat that his smile produces.

“Listen, are you ready to roll on the customer service plan?” he asks.  “I can’t do it alone.”

A smile crosses my face. “Whatever you need from me.  I owe you.”

“Let’s talk about it over lunch.  Paparazzi?”

Eek.  That’s a nice restaurant.  Kyle’s dressed in a black shirt and tan pants.  I, on the other hand, am cultivating the Boston sports fan look wearing a Bruins hockey jersey and my blue jeans.

“Maybe not somewhere so fancy.  How about Boca Grande?”

He points toward the door.  “Lady’s choice.”

We walk in silence in the chilly November air.  What a depressing time of year.  As a kid, I loved the holiday season, but now it’s all crass commercialism.  We pass the Galleria, decorated to the hilt for the season.  Christmas sales and ads already consume the city and it’s not even Thanksgiving.  The aggressive chain store marketing is everywhere you look...the T, the newspaper, on cabs.  Hell, Santa and his elves are sponsored by Dunkin Donuts and are all wearing Gap T-shirts.

In Boca Grande, we each order a chicken burrito with extra sour cream—we like the same things—and head for the top section to discuss the customer service plan.

“So, we’ll go with the classroom style seating for the meeting in New Orleans,” I say, taking a bite of the messy meal after I jot down some notes.

“You aren’t from here, are you?” Kyle asks with a glint in his eye.  If he’s not careful, he’s going to convince me that not all guys are jerks.  That and I can disregard company dating policy rules because if his sexy eyes, deadly smile, and that goddamned dimple.

I smile at his query.  “No
hah-sh
New England accent.  I’m a military brat.  I’m from everywhere.”

“Ahh.  I’m a local boy, myself.  Grew up in Wellesley Hills.”

I lift a brow, listening.  Wellesley is one thing, but Wellesley Hills means his family probably has money.  You’d never know by looking at him, though.  He’s not nearly as pretentious as Ted Spencer thinks he is.

“Where’d you go to school?”  I ask, wanting him to keep him talking about himself.  Suddenly I crave more knowledge about him.  Nice Kyle who’s always been on my side.  I’m finally opening my eyes wide enough to see what’s there underneath the corporate image.