Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (94 page)

His friends are laughing
at him, but this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

“Okay, you three,”
Annabeth says, pointing to everyone but Rick and I, “you’re coming with me.”

“I don’t—” I start, but
Annabeth puts a finger to my bottom lip.

“You’ll be fine,” she
says. “I’ll be right over there.”

She doesn’t indicate
where “there” is, but I suppose I’ll live.

“Now,” she says to Rick,
“go on.”

She leads the other three
away and my shot arrives.

I down it without
prompting, and Rick starts again.

“I don’t know,” he says.
“This is kind of uncomfortable.”

It is uncomfortable, very
uncomfortable, but I haven’t really had a man talk to me in so long that I tell
him to, “Keep going.”

He sighs. “Well,” he says,
“your hair reminds me of picking up chestnuts when I was a kid. I know that
sounds weird, but—”

“It’s okay,” I smile. “Go
on.”

“Your eyes,” he says, “I
don’t know, they’re like really blue.”

Okay, so he’s no poet.

“One more over here!” I
call to the bartender.

The barkeep brings me
another shot and I down it.

Bourbon just might be my
drink. I haven’t felt the need to vomit once.

“Go ahead,” I say.

“This is too weird,” he
says. “We just met, and I’m sitting here going on like I’m Wilhelm
Shakespeare.”

“You’re really not,” I
tell him.

Really, he’s not.
“Wilhelm” Shakespeare would probably know his own name.

“Why don’t we just sit
here and talk,” I say. “Where are you from?”

After the initial fear,
pity and revulsion, Rick and I actually start to hit it off.

He’s into foreign films,
I’m into foreign films. Of course, he’s more Godzilla and kung fu while I’m
more
Amélie
and 8 ½, but it’s something. He likes
horse racing, and I like horses running free without someone kicking them to
make them go faster.

All right, so it’s not a
match made in Elysium, but I guess I could see myself spending a little time
with him. Probably not more than the hour Annabeth suggested, but I’ve got to
get back into the swing of things one way or another.

After I’ve had drink
number four, I’m starting to feel tipsy again and decide that if I’m going to
make a move, I’d better do it before I’m too drunk to remember anything, so I
put my hand on his thigh.

His eyes grow wide and he
stares at my hand as if it’s some alien object, the likes of which he’s never
encountered before, and I ask, “Would you like to get out of here and go
somewhere we can,” I blow a strand of hair out of my face, trying to come off
coquettish, but landing somewhere closer to clumsy, “talk?”

“Sure,” he says, far too
eagerly and he’s off his stool, walking toward the door before I’ve really
given a serious thought to standing.

You would think that
someone in finance would have a little more poise or some sort of—what’s the
word?—instinct, but this is my frog. I’m not expecting a prince.

Do I really want to sleep
with a man that I’m not attracted to, though? If I wanted to do that, I’d see
what Dane was up to. At least I know he’s been with a woman before.

I cringe and wait to see
if Rick comes back, but he’s out the door and hailing a cab.

He must be waiting for
me, and I don’t want to be rude, so I think I’ll just go out there and tell
him—and now he’s getting in a cab and the cab is pulling away from the curb.

Well, there’s half an
hour of my life wasted. I guess, on the bright side, I could have wasted what
I’m sure wouldn’t be more than another three-and-a-half minutes with him and
then another hour, clutching my knees and rocking back and forth in the shower.

I look out on the dance
floor and spot Annabeth.

She’s grinding with her
three finance goblins. Best not to disturb whatever strange ritual this is, but
I really don’t want to leave here empty-handed.

My options this time of
day in this ridiculous hole are pretty limited, though. It seems like Rick was
one of the better specimens available.

What a frightening
thought.

So, I ask the bartender
if he’ll pour me a shot of something strong enough to forget what a waste of
time my life is and when he reaches for payment, I just point to Annabeth, who,
seeing the smile on my face, waves at me.

It’s close enough a
gesture for the bartender to put the drink on Annabeth’s tab and after one shot
of what I’m fairly certain is kerosene and a quick trip to the ladies’ room to
vomit later, I’m in a cab, trying to figure out where my life went so wrong.

Chapter Eight

A
Breath of Rancid Air

Dane

I’m half-asleep when I
hear the apartment door slam shut.

I get up and put some
clothes on. If someone’s breaking in, I’m not going to be one of those people
found dead with their dick out.

Slowly opening the door,
I wonder if I shouldn’t go for some kind of weapon, just in case. Leila’s not
supposed to be back here for a few more hours, and as far as I know, nobody
else has the key to the place.

There she is, though,
stumbling around drunk, trying to scoop some peanut butter into her mouth with
her bare hands.

I think she’s a bit of a
lightweight.

“How you
doin
’ out here?” I ask, trying to sound concerned and not
like I’m thinking of her as that good-girl who just got talked into breaking
into her parents’ liquor cabinet for the first time.

Not that she’d really
know the difference right now.

“Men are stupid,” she
slurs.

“No argument here. What
are you doing home so early and, you know, drunk?”

“My boss told me to take
the day,” she says, holding her peanut butter hand out and making a snatching
motion, “so I took it.”

It would actually be
somewhat endearing if I didn’t know that I’m going to be the one who has to
clean the whole place up.

“I can see that,” I tell
her. “Well, I’m going to go back to—”

“Dane,” she whines. “What
is it about me that’s so awful?”

“Awful?” I ask. “What do
you mean?”

“Oh, don’t act like you
don’t know,” she says.

I’m getting the strong
impression that she’s a lot drunker than she thinks she is. Hilarious.

“I don’t think you’re
awful,” I tell her. I walk over to her and lightly grab her wrists. “I do,
however, think you should wash your hands before you get peanut butter all over
the
entire
apartment.”

“You know, you’re not
such a bad guy, Dane,” she says. “I mean, you swear like a jackass and your
tattoos look like they were done by a
sociophatth
—a
scossiopthahh
—”

“A sociopath?”

“Right!” she says,
flicking her wrist in a motion that sends little bits of the chunky peanut
butter flying in places I’m positive I’m never going to find.

“What was I saying?” she
asks.

“Let’s get you washed
up,” I tell her, turning on the kitchen sink. “You were saying that I’m not
such a bad guy even though I swear and have tattoos.”

“Yeah,” she says, leaning
her head back.

“How much did you have to
drink?” I ask.

“Let’s see,” she says,
“there was tequila and bourbon…” she’s using her fingers to count. Trying to
get her hands under the water is a nightmare. “Oh!” she ejaculates, both of her
hands going up in the air, peanut butter landing in one of my favorite eyes.
“Then there was the
big
shot, but I
puked, so that makes four!”

“You’re not supposed to
mix large quantities of different kinds of alcohol,” I say. “It’ll make you
sick.”

“I didn’t drink a
lot
,” she says. I’m having a bit of
trouble believing her. “I had four drinks.”

“Four drinks,” I say.
“Sounds like you’d better ease up on that party lifestyle, you crazy animal,
you.”

I don’t even get buzzed
until shot number six.

After finally persuading
her to put her hands under the faucet, I squeeze a generous amount of dish soap
into her hand and start rubbing her hands together, hoping she’ll get the idea.
Her mind is on different things entirely, though.

“It seems like I can’t
attract a decent man,” she tells me. “That is, when I can attract anyone at
all.”

“I’m sure that’s not
true,” I tell her. “You’re a beautiful woman. You can’t hold your liquor worth
a damn, but that’s not a crime.”

“You’re
so
nice,” she says, and I’m starting to
get worried.

That’s got to be the
first nice thing she’s somewhat-willingly said to me.

“I do what I can,” I say
and give up on trying the fantasy of getting her to wash her own hands,
cleaning them one at a time, myself.

“I’m not a virgin, you
know,” she says.

“That’s really none of my
business,” I tell her.

“No, I’ve seen the way
you act around me.
You
think I’m some
prude who never does anything crazy.”

On the word crazy, both
of her hands go up in the air. Maybe the dish soap will help clean up the bits
of peanut butter.

“I think you’re a very
nice person who’s having a rough day,” I tell her and help her get her hands
under the water. “Maybe you should dial back the drinking, though.”

“Oh, you don’t know,” she
says. “I know you stick your dick out and women just come running, but it’s
harder for me.”

And now I’m trying not to
laugh.

I finish helping her
rinse her hands and I shut off the water. The plan was to give her a towel, but
she’s decided to use her pants instead.

Close enough.

“Maybe we should get you
to bed,” I tell her.

“I’m not tired.”

“Yeah, but I think you
should lie down before you fall down. You seriously only had four drinks?”

“Hey, man, four drinks is
a lot for me,” she says.

“Oh, I get that.”

“Maybe help me over to
the couch?”

“I think that’s a good
idea,” I tell her. “I’ll put on a movie for you.”

“You know, Dane,” she
starts.

“Do we have any gum in
the house?”

“I almost had
sex
today.”

“That’s wonderful,
Leila,” I tell her and help guide her to the couch.

“No,” she laughs. “It’s
really not. This guy was
so
stupid.”

“Yeah, we’ve established
that men are stupid. You’re going to want to sit down, now.”

She doesn’t sit so much
as she falls onto the couch.

“I was ready, though,”
she says. “I wouldn’t say I was really turned on, but I was ready to just get
in there and get it over with so I could get back in the game.”

“Sometimes that’s what
you need to move on,” I say absently. “So, are you good? Do you want me to put
on a movie or something?”

“Dane?”

Deep breath. “Yeah?”

“Do you think I have a
big butt?”

“No,” I answer
mechanically. I really don’t know why women ask that question anymore. Everyone
knows that there’s only one correct answer.

“Oh, come on, you didn’t
even look at it,” she says, rolling onto her side.

For a woman trying to
show me her ass, this isn’t the most attractive scene.

“Be honest,” she says. “I
need to know.”

I chuckle.

“It’s fine,” I tell her.
“So, do you want a thriller? Comedy?”

I turn and walk toward
the bookcase where she keeps her movies.

“A foreign film?” I ask
as I try to decipher the various French, Italian and Swedish titles. “Do you
actually speak these languages?” I ask.

“Ja,” she says, “
sì
,
oui
.”

“That’s pretty
impressive.”

“You never answered my
question,” she said.

“What question’s that?” I
ask, turning around.

Her knees are on the
couch and her upper body is resting against the back. Her pants are pulled down
around her knees. She’s wearing underwear, but the way she’s trying to fix it
to get the best result isn’t doing much to hide her skin.

“Yeah, I think we should
get you to bed,” I tell her, shocked. “This isn’t you right now, Leila.”

“Just tell me if I have a
nice butt or a
dispropriarportionalately
…” she sighs.
“Is it too big for my body?” she asks, giving up on the word.

I breathe in and out.

“Fine,” I tell her. “You
have a very attractive posterior.”

“Yeah, like I believe it
when you say it like
that
,” she says,
laughing through her nose. “That’s not how you talk.”

Drunk or not, she’s
hilarious right now, and I can’t help but laugh with her.

“I don’t know,” I tell
her. “What do you want me to say? You’re my roommate and—”

“I’m not your roommate
right now,” she says. “Just answer the question and I’ll let you go back to
whatever it is that you do.”

“Honestly,” I tell her,
trying to find that line between looking enough to form an opinion and staring,
“it’s pretty perfect. Not too big, not too small. Good curvature.”

I really hope she doesn’t
remember any of this.

“Yeah?” she says. “Chad
told me that I had a huge butt,” she sputters.

“Why don’t we just get
your pants on?” I ask and walk closer to the couch.

“He said a lot of things,
actually.”

“Well, I don’t know who
this Chad guy is, but he sounds like an asshole,” I tell her. “Now, you’re
going to need to turn around so we can pull these up, all right.”

Like a foal or a drunken
toddler, she slowly makes her way to her feet, her legs shaking and unsteady
beneath her.

She turns around to face
me, her pants falling to her ankles.

Sure, I may sleep with a
different woman every night, but I’m not completely without respect, so I avert
my eyes as best I can as I bend down and pull her pants up.

“I’m such a mess,” she
says, starting to cry.

“You’re just drunk,” I
tell her. “Once you get some sleep and maybe a bit to eat, you’ll start feeling
better.”

I’m still holding her
pants up, as zipping or buttoning them would be a bit too familiar as a
platonic roommate. She fastens the button and zips herself up, then falls back
onto the couch.

“What is the matter with
me?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I tell her.
“You’ve just had a bit to drink—”

“I’m drunk,” she says. “Yeah,
I get that. I mean, why is it that everything has to be so screwed up? My
sexually inappropriate boss just told me that there’s an opening at the firm
and that they’d love to hire me on permanently, but he looked like he was going
to burst a blood vessel by being decent to me for once.”

“Leila,” I tell her. “I
know you don’t think so right now, but this will all be better after you’ve had
a chance to sleep it off, all right? I’m going to bring you a blanket and put
on a movie for you. You can sleep on the couch.”

“I think you’re right,”
she says.

“Good, do you want me to
grab a blanket from your room, or—”

“No, I mean about what
you were saying before. When you said that sleeping with someone is what it
takes to move on sometimes. That’s what I was trying to do earlier, but that
idiot got in a cab and left me there.”

“He left you?” I ask.

She relays the story and
I do my best not to crack a smile.

“Some guys are like
that,” I tell her. “People can get weird when they haven’t been with someone
for a while.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“But do you know what’s
going to help even more?”

“Yeah, yeah, sleep and
alcohol wearing off and blah, blah, blah,” she answers.

“That’s right,” I tell
her. “Do you want me to grab you a blanket?”

“You know Dane,” she
says.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we could, I don’t
know.”

I think I know where
she’s going with this.

“Let’s talk about it in
the morning.”

“You’ve been so nice to
me today,” she says. “I always thought you were kind of a jerk, but you’re
really taking care of me right now.”

“Leila, I’ve got to level
with you.”

“What’s on your mind?”
she asks.

I’m not sure whether it’s
the guilt from not having told her yet, or if I’m simply trying to change the
subject, but I blurt out, “I’m losing my job.”

“What? What happened?”

“Well, let’s just say the
place where I work,” I start, trying not to throw the fact that I lied about
what I do onto the pile of things I should have told her a while ago, “they’re
having some money problems. People just aren’t coming in like they used to. My
boss told me that he could keep me on for another month.”

“When did he tell you
that?” she asks.

If this conversation’s
going to take a bad turn, it’s probably going to be right here.

“About a month ago,” I
tell her.

“Oh,” she says.