Chasing Stanley (28 page)

Denny's face fell. “What?”

“You heard me.” Michael rounded on him. “Tell me: What do you think of me as? A guinea? A wop? A greasy dago?”

“Of course not!”

“How 'bout you?” Michael continued. “Maybe I should start calling you the stupid Mick. Or Paddy. Want me to start calling you Paddy?”

“No.”
Denny's face was turning red.

“Let me clue you in to something, O'Malley. You play in New York. Know what that means? It means that lots of people who pay good money to see you play are Jewish. It means that lots of the top brass at Met Gar who sign your paycheck are Jewish. It means that if you're ever fucking stupid enough to say anything anti-Semitic again, you could wind up with more than Mitchell's fist in your face; you could find yourself without a job—not only because your views are disgusting, but because they're dangerous to the whole franchise.

“So the next time you feel the urge to show one of your teammates what an ignorant jackass you are, try to restrain yourself, okay?”

Denny was silent.

Denny jerked his face away. “Okay!”

“That goes for the rest of you,” Michael concluded with a scowl. “If I catch wind that any of you clowns are talking that type of trash, it's over. And PS, what went on in this room stays in this room. Am I making myself clear?”

Heads nodded, and voices murmured assent. Jason, who'd been expecting a personal reprimand from Michael as well, was surprised when it didn't come. He looked down at his hands; without even realizing it, he'd balled them into two fists. Vindicated, Jason slowly unfurled his fingers and filed out of the conference room with his teammates.

“I think you
know who is coming down the hallway, Stanley.”

Delilah paused, waiting for the sound of Jason's key turning in the lock. It was a bold move for her, but she'd decided to surprise him, letting herself into his apartment and preparing him a nice meal that would be waiting when he got home. Delilah saw it as propitious offering to Cupid, designed to banish the lingering uncertainty that had prevailed since their “disaster” of a date with his friends.

That Jason called it that wounded her incredibly. She knew she'd been shy and stuttery, but she hadn't thought things had gone
that
badly. Jason's immediate departure with the Blades gave full rein to her overactive imagination: She was convinced he was going to return to New York and dump her for some female
bon vivant
. When he called from the road, Delilah nearly wept with relief, though he did sound somewhat preoccupied. Sensing he might need cheering and reassurance as much as she did, she convinced Marcus to dog sit for her on his one night off from rehearsal.

“You're going to be too exhausted to do anything else anyway,” Delilah pointed out. Marcus agreed to spend the night at her place on one condition: if
My Mustache, My Self
tanked, he could immediately have his job back, with a small raise included. There'd been no question of that anyway, but Delilah readily agreed.

Jason opened the door, and Delilah felt her pulse suspend mid-beat. She'd been worried he might view her being there as an intrusion or an overstepping of bounds, but his expression of pleasant surprise said otherwise.

“Well, what have we got here?” Jason crouched down so he was eye level with Stanley and let him giddily lick his face. The sight of it never failed to move Delilah.

Eventually Jason pulled back from Stanley's loving ministrations, spluttering, “Okay, pal, that's enough. There's someone else here that
I
want to kiss.” Rising to his feet, he wiped his face on his shirtsleeve as he approached Delilah. “You okay with being kissed by a guy covered in dog schmoo?”

Delilah laughed as she slid into his arms. “Schmoo-covered men are my favorites.”

Jason smiled and crushed her to him. She was surprised by the urgency in his kiss. Perhaps her intuition had been right; perhaps he'd been just as unsettled as she by their post-date discussion. Delilah relaxed into him, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Jason lifted his nose, sniffing the air like a dog. “Something smells good.”

“I made lasagna. Is that okay?”

“It's great. I didn't know you could cook.”

“I can cook some things.”

Which was true: Delilah could cook some very simple, basic dishes. But cooking wasn't something that had ever been valued or encouraged when she was growing up—unless it was a holiday. Holidays were the only times Mitzi broke out the pots and pans, and even then, Delilah's father usually wound up taking over, since the slightest spillage or errant puff of flour could send Mitzi into fits. Delilah half suspected it was an act, her mother's way of getting out of doing the actual hard labor while still being able to maintain she'd done something “special” for her family.

Jason glanced in the direction of the kitchen, then back at Delilah. “How much time do we have before the lasagna's done?” he murmured seductively.

“About twenty minutes. Why?” The question was purely rhetorical. Delilah knew why, and so did her body, which was beginning to hum to life.

Jason nipped at her neck. “I think I can make you happy in under twenty minutes.” He maneuvered her to the couch, laying her back gently. Delilah was already beginning to tingle, anticipation of what was to come feeding an uncharacteristic impatience. Jason slid his body on top of hers, heat touching heat as he kissed her deeply.

Then Stanley came trotting over, torpedoing Jason in the ribs with his nose.

Jason jerked up his head. “Stan! Settle down!”

Stanley sat, but he didn't move. Delilah took a deep breath, trying to find her way back into the moment. Jason's mouth reclaimed hers. But Delilah couldn't enjoy it with Stanley's moist dog breath blowing on her face as he panted away.

Jason lifted his mouth from hers, sighing with resignation. Delilah opened her eyes to find him coolly regarding Stanley. So much for being moved by the bond between them.

“This isn't going to work, is it?” he asked Delilah.

Delilah stretched out a hand to pet Stanley. “Well, I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘work.' ”

“You. Me. Couch. Quickie.”

“I don't think so.” Delilah trailed her free hand up and down Jason's back. “We could try the bedroom. Close the door.”

“Let's go for it.”

They tumbled off the couch and began tiptoeing toward the bedroom.

“Why are we tiptoeing?” Delilah whispered. Why was she whispering, for that matter?

“Don't know,” Jason whispered back, looking amused.

Stanley followed, reaching the threshold just as Jason was closing the door.

Guilt swamped Delilah. “I feel badly closing the door in his face.”

“I don't,” said Jason, feverishly pulling off his shirt.

His ardor revived Delilah's. As quickly as she could, she stripped off her own shirt and bra. Jason came and held her tight, the feeling of his hot skin against hers the only aphrodisiac she'd ever need. When he dipped down, running his tongue along the smooth plane of her collarbone, Delilah thought she'd shoot out of her skin. That's when Stanley began to howl, scratching at the bedroom door.

Jason hung his head in mock defeat. “I don't believe this.”

“I do. You've been away, Jason. He wants to spend quality time with you.”

Jason raised his eyes to Delilah's. They burst out laughing.

“I guess we'll just have to wait until we've put junior to bed,” said Jason. His finger traced a lazy circle around the nipple of her left breast. “You
are
staying the night, aren't you?”

Delilah nodded, feeling dizzy. “I persuaded Marcus to stay with my guys.”

“I thought he was in intensive play rehearsals,” said Jason as he opened the door to let Stanley in.

“He has a night off,” explained Delilah, quickly gathering up her top and bra before Stanley happily trampled them. “Speaking of which, the play opens in two weeks, and we're invited to the opening.”

“Oh.”

Delilah fell silent, thrown off balance by his distinct lack of reaction. She thought he'd be thrilled that they were going out and
doing
something. “I think it will be fun,” she said, sounding a bit more strident than she intended.

“Did you check the date against my playing schedule? Are you sure there's not a conflict?” There was a prick of hopefulness in his voice that annoyed her.

“No conflict. You're free that night.”

Jason smiled weakly. “Then I guess it's a date.”

 

 

I should never
have agreed to this,
Jason thought as he sat beside Delilah, suffering through
My Mustache, My Life.
When the balding actor playing Dr. Phil had belted out, “Oprah / She's no dope-rah / She sees something fine in meeee,” it had taken every ounce of Jason's strength not to bust a gut. He checked his watch discreetly. The play was limping toward intermission, and Dr. Phil hadn't even been given his own show yet. Shit.

Still, he had to give credit where it was due: Marcus was an outstanding dancer. Every time he appeared onstage, Delilah's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Jason knew it was selfish, but part of him hoped the show flopped so that Marcus would go back to working for Delilah. Her father's fiancée hadn't worked out; the minute she realized there was dog poop involved, she bailed. Delilah had been working solo the past two weeks, so she barely had any time for Jason.

The curtain went down, and the audience applauded, pulling Jason out of his own head.

“Well?” Delilah asked him eagerly as the house lights went up.

Jason glanced around furtively. “It sucks,” he whispered. “Don't you think?”

Delilah looked offended. “No!”

“It's awful, Delilah. Admit it. It'll close in three days.”

She wouldn't. “Marcus is good,” she pointed out defensively.

“I agree. But everything else . . .” He stood up. “Want to split?”

“If we leave now, we could probably catch a movie somewhere.”

Delilah looked incredulous. “You're not serious.”

He peered at her, interrogation style. “Do you really want to sit through an hour and a half more of this?”

Delilah flicked back her hair. “Yes, I do. And even if I didn't, I would do it anyway. For Marcus.” Her expression was bewildered. “I thought you'd be happy that we're out
doing
something.”

“Not when we're doing something boring.”

“You're the arbiter of what's worth doing and what isn't?”

“No.”
Jason could feel the walls closing in.

“Then this counts as a legitimate night out for us.”

Jason hesitated. “Yeah. I guess.” He didn't dare tell her
he
counted it as a night of making Delilah happy, not a night consisting of an agreed-upon leisure activity mutually enjoyable for both of them. In other words,
fun
. Speaking of which . . .

“There's going to be a surprise birthday party next Friday night for David—you know, one of the guys we went to dinner with?”
The one who isn't an anti-Semite,
Jason added in his head. “You up for it?”

“If I don't have any boarders.” Delilah looked tense. “Weekends are hard, Jason. I told you that.”

“They might not be if you looked a little harder for a replacement for Marcus.”

Delilah drew back and just stared at him. Oh, fuck. Had he really just said that? It was the type of thing she herself might say in one of her more blurty moments.

“Would you mind explaining what you mean by that?” Delilah asked quietly.

I mean that running your business alone gives you an excuse to be a hermit.
Jason couldn't say that, but deep down it was what he thought.

“Jason?”

He blinked, realizing he'd yet to answer her question. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I meant”—
Think fast, bucko
—“I miss you. I don't get to see you as much now that you don't have an assistant.”

“I can't hire just anyone,” Delilah protested.

“Right.” Jason took her hand, wishing the whole conversation away. “Look, forget I said anything. It's not important.”

Delilah didn't look too convinced. “If you say so.”

Delilah might be twittery, but she wasn't a twit. Jason knew damn well she wasn't buying the line he'd just handed her. He feigned interest in his Playbill to avoid her eye. Somehow, in the course of five minutes, everything had changed: He couldn't wait for the play to resume.

 

 

“The play sucked
.
I sucked.”

Delilah's heart went out to Marcus as she handed him a cup of jasmine tea. As Jason so cruelly predicted,
My Mustache, My Self
didn't last a week. The critics were ruthless, one newspaper describing it as a “car wreck.” Cha-Cha's prediction of success from beyond the grave had proven completely wrong. Poor Marcus! He so deserved a break, and Delilah was beginning to fear he might never get one. She pictured him a bitter old man, hovering outside the American Ballet School, trying to trip young dancers on their way inside. It could happen.

“You didn't suck,” Delilah assured him as she joined him on her couch.

“Whatever.” There was pain in his eyes as he gazed down at Delilah's sleeping dogs curled up at their feet. “Can I have my old job back, boss?”