The Kiss Test (12 page)

With another strange look at me, Chris’s new friend took him up on his offer. She slipped her hand into his waistband and tugged him off the stool. The triumphant look he shot me ticked me off even more. He was going to get it and I wasn’t. Just one more reason to hate him.

For a while, I toyed with my cold French fries, twirling them in ketchup and mashing them in my mouth, the tang of the ketchup the only thing they had going for them now. Chris’s new toy laughed as she showed him how to dance the two-step. Rolling my eyes, I watched him stumble over the unfamiliar steps, with Candy using the opportunity to rub all over him, mesmerized by his overblown personality.

How could anyone take that seriously? He was like one of those spotlights used to highlight grand openings. He lit up, and everyone—female and sometimes male—turned to see what he offered. It seemed excessive.

I was used to guys who were quieter, more reserved. Kevin would no more have turned on a thousand-watt smile to get what he wanted, with me or anyone else, than he would have jumped into the Hudson. Chris, on the other hand, had people begging to do his bidding with a simple smile. Even I wasn’t immune…in a completely nonsexual sense, of course. Hadn’t I given in to him on a hundred different occasions? Picking up his mail for him when he left town, even though it was inconvenient for me to get there every day. Bringing him corned-beef sandwiches from that SoHo deli he loved when he worked on Sunday, because they didn’t deliver and he just couldn’t live without one. One smile, which Chris somehow managed to deliver even over phone lines, and everyone jumped to his beck and call, including me. Which made me really, really cranky.

My cell phone chirped, and I turned away from watching Chris and Candy slip from two-stepping into a slow dance to dig the phone from my pocket.

“What?” I snapped, fully expecting my mother again.

Instead it was Katya. I needed to start looking at the caller ID before answering my phone. “I’m going insane.”

“Join the club,” I muttered, using my knife to draw a frowning face in the puddle of ketchup on my plate.

“I’m serious, Margo. Keep your eyes out in the paper for a murder in Manhattan, because Adair is coming really, really close to forcing my hand.”

I laughed, forgetting Chris’s betrayal for the moment. “Must be getting good. You’re normally such a pacifist.”

“He bought a cat. One of those hairless ones.”

“What for?” I couldn’t picture Adair with a cat.

“Some picture in one of the fifteen modern-decorating magazines he now subscribes to showed one, so he decided we needed one. Rather,
he
needed one. I don’t think he knows I exist anymore.”

I turned to find Chris. He and Candy were in the middle of a lip lock. I groaned. “Again, join the club. Chris is administering the Kiss Test to some slutty woman as we speak, and appears to have forgotten all about the fact that he’s on this vacation with me.”

Yes, I knew we weren’t on vacation “together.” And, yes, I didn’t want him with me in the first place. That wasn’t the point. The point was Chris was right. I didn’t like to be ignored.

“Well, thanks for telling me
that,
” Kat moaned. “Just heap on more pain, why don’t you?”

Chris lifted his head from Candy’s. He was smiling. Catching my eye, he gave me the thumbs-up sign. I gave him a scowl and turned away. I could ignore him, too. I don’t know what made me feel worse. What he was doing or the fact that I cared.

“So, am I missing anything at home?” I asked.

Kat told me all about the early heat wave, Adair’s ongoing quest to bag the Wide-Strider and what was going on at the station, which involved interpreters and so much bowing non-Korean employees were lining up appointments with their chiropractors. By the time we hung up, I was more depressed. It sounded like fun.

“Anything else for you?”

I looked up to see the bartender awaiting my answer. Pushing my plate toward her, I shook my head and then looked around for Chris. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

“If you’re looking for your friend, he said not to wait up.” The bartender, whose hair could have used a good washing, winked at me just in case I didn’t get her drift.

“Thanks.”
For nothing,
I added to myself.

Since dinner was clearly on me tonight, I paid the bill and then surveyed the room one more time, absently scratching at my thigh, where the rubbing of my jeans antagonized the bug bites. The bar hadn’t changed much in the last hour. Still had dancers, still had drinkers, still had girls scouting for hot guys. The music was loud and very country. My favorite song, “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problems,” Kenny Chesney’s island-beat song about vacationing in Mexico, played on the jukebox, which usually got my feet moving, but today just brought me down.

Dang it! This wasn’t how my vacation was supposed to be going. I’d come to enjoy myself. I was supposed to be figuring out what to do with my life. Being depressed because Chris deserted me, when he wasn’t supposed to have been on this vacation in the first place, was stupid. Since he
was
with me, though, it would have been nice if his attention wasn’t focused elsewhere.

I needed a good night’s sleep. Which I just might get with the room to myself.

A particularly annoying bite below my right ear started to irritate me, so I headed back for Benadryl and another oatmeal bath. Tomorrow would be better.

Fifteen minutes later, with my Elvis bobblehead that I’d swiped from the dash of Chris’s Jeep watching me from the bathroom counter, I sank neck-deep in warm water, meditating on my future, trying not to scratch. I knew the Benadryl would kick in soon, but in the meantime, I had to make an effort.

My thoughts mixed with the silence and the softly lapping water. It was so quiet here, unlike New York where, no matter how quiet your apartment seemed, outside sounds still drifted in. Here, minus the honking, the car engines and the constant murmur of miscellaneous street sounds, a person was truly alone with her thoughts. Not sure I liked it much. Lying in a tub in Tennessee didn’t put me any closer to getting a new job. Or did it? The photo shoot tomorrow took me in the right direction. Once my face graced the cover of
Today’s Country Magazine,
I’d have ammunition.

“I’ll just waltz right into WDIG when I get home and tell them they can’t live without me,” I told Elvis, sinking into water which made me drowsier by the second. “Who wouldn’t want the opportunity to employ this year’s Best Country DJ?”

At least I hoped it would go down that way. After all, rent didn’t pay itself, and unemployment checks didn’t even make a dent in living expenses in Manhattan. I couldn’t stay with Chris. Meeting him at the bar for drinks on Friday nights, the occasional ball game or movie, was enough. This close-quarters stuff would wear thin soon.

“I just have to get back on my feet again,” I muttered, shutting my eyes against the dim light shining from above the vanity. “I’m meant to be an independent woman.”

Some time later, muffled noises drifted into my consciousness, or lack thereof. The Benadryl had knocked me out and I’d drifted off in the tub. Dazed, I pushed myself upright, simultaneously noticing the chilly water, the oatmeal stuck all over my body and the escalating moans coming from the room. Vaguely remembering I was supposed to be alone because Chris left the bar with his conquest, I froze, listening. It sounded like…

“Oh, that’s right, baby. That’s right.”

No. Way.

The sounds waxed and waned as Chris and Candy went at it in the next room. Hopefully on
Chris’s
bed.

For God’s sake, why me?
I thought, covering my ears. What did I do to deserve such punishment? I needed to get out of here. But I was stuck. I’d have to wait and hope they quit soon and I could sneak out of here with some of my dignity left.

They didn’t stop. They went on and on and on. I had to hand it to Chris, he had some kind of stamina. Even without Viagra. Pretty soon, though, awe turned to annoyance. The water grew progressively colder, the oatmeal stickier and the sounds of passion too…intimate. The cold water turned me into a frozen prune, so I turned on the warm water to a trickle and attempted to rinse myself off. It didn’t work. The pipes must have been old, so when the water wasn’t on full blast, they made an awful groan. Giving up, I turned the water off and let the bathtub drain. I’d have to dress without rinsing.

Except, I had no clothes.

Shit.

They were on the bed. Hopefully
not
the bed Chris and Candy were using for their play date. I, on the other hand, was stuck in the bathroom with no clothes, only bath towels with the absorbency of plywood. I set a towel on the toilet lid, shivering, and wrapped another towel around my shoulders, which did absolutely nothing to make me feel warmer.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to think happy, non-sexy thoughts. I searched for a happy place…far, far away from this motel room.

It didn’t work.

Did sex always sound like that? I knew I made noise during sex, but did I sound that bad? Like a rhino in heat?

With a grand finale, things in the other room finally quieted down.
Thank God.
Hopefully now that they were done, Candy would clear out, and I could get out of here and go to bed. Only, what if one of them needed the bathroom? I dove for the door, trying to turn the lock quietly. I hadn’t bothered before, since I was all alone, but now…

It wouldn’t budge. I desperately jiggled the lock as quietly as possible. No such luck. Glancing around the bathroom for something to cover up in, I decided on the shower curtain. Only it was attached to the rod in such a way as to never come off.
Yeah, because people stole them all the time,
I thought sarcastically.

Finally giving up, I decided to hide in the bathtub. I lined the tub with towels and climbed in, draped another flimsy towel over the top of me for warmth and closed the curtain. The worst that could happen now was that one of them needed to use the john, and I’d be subjected to more ear pollution.

For a bit, everything remained quiet, as I waited impatiently in my little tub/cocoon for someone to do something. Anything. Hopefully involving saying goodbye and leaving.

Apparently, what I thought had been the grand finale was just intermission. Next thing I knew, they were going at it again, the headboard banging the wall, the box springs squeaking in protest.

God.

Weary beyond belief, I decided to get some sleep. When I woke up, it would all be over. Candy would be gone, and I could knife Chris in the back for putting me through all this.

Didn’t take long to discover it’s impossible to sleep with someone having sex in the next room. It’s like watching an X-rated movie. Probably. The last porn movie I’d seen was when Mo had gone through his “deconditioning” phase. He thought if he watched porn night and day, he wouldn’t miss sex when he moved to Tibet to become a monk.
Damn it!
I wanted to wake up in the morning still liking sex, still having hope I’d
have
sex again someday—even if I didn’t know how I’d do that
and
keep men out of my life at the same time. I didn’t want to be deconditioned. Which meant I didn’t want to listen to any more of this shit.

Tossing open the shower curtain, mindless of any noise I might be making—because God knew they couldn’t possibly hear me through all the grunting, groaning, puffing and panting—I grabbed the roll of toilet paper from its holder. I tore off small pieces and balled them up before stuffing them into my ears.

It helped, but not much. I settled back into the tub, shifting this way and that, trying to find a comfortable position. I had better luck on the hard forest floor last night, with nothing but a sleeping bag between me and several tree roots. The cold porcelain of the bathtub seeped through the thin, damp towels. The oatmeal flaked and itched, and once sent up a little cloud that had me holding my nose, practically blowing out my eardrums trying to sneeze without making any noise.

I shoved the toilet paper roll between my left cheek and the faucet, a makeshift pillow. I draped a towel over my shoulder, hoping to stave off pneumonia.
Although,
I thought, seeing a bright spot,
that might get me out of my mother’s wedding.

Finally, the Benadryl took over, causing my eyelids to shut of their own accord. Despite the marathon screwing going on in the next room, I eventually drifted into a fitful sleep.

The world went black.

“Would you be quiet? Margo, wake up.”

A sandpapery hand shook my bare shoulder, but I was incapable of opening my eyes. It was too foggy in my brain.

Someone pulled the plugs of toilet paper out of my ears. “Margo. Come on, just open those stubborn little eyes of yours. You can do it. Come on.”

The hand, presumably Chris’s, did some more shaking. My head did some more aching. Right smack in the middle of my forehead.

I groaned.

The screamer, presumably Candy, shrieked again.

“Okay, she’ll be fine.” Chris’s voice came from farther away than it had been a minute ago. “I think it’s time to call it a night.”

People shuffled around the motel room, speaking in muffled voices, and there was more whining about dead naked bodies, followed by the door opening and closing.

Then Chris was back in the bathroom.

Again with the shaking of the shoulders.

Again, I groaned. “Stop moving me.”

“You have to get out of this tub.”

“Not moving.”

“Either you move, or I’ll move you.”

Big threat,
I thought. But I placed a hand beneath my side and tried to push myself upright. The minute I moved, two things registered: the dizziness had returned with a vengeance…and I was bare-ass naked. Candy the Hysterical had pointed that out already, but judging by the painful hammering in my skull, I had another concussion and could be forgiven for being dense.

“Shit.” The word was a prayer, whispered by the desperate.

“Jesus.” Chris was not the answer to this prayer no matter what he thought.

Before I could protest, Chris reached into the tub and lifted me out. Towels went askew, slipping to the floor, baring more than just my ass before we even exited the bathroom.

“Hey!” I kicked and squirmed, trying to cover myself, all while keeping my eyes clamped tightly shut and fighting waves of nausea.

“Just hold still, will you?”

I was dumped onto the bed. Okay, he laid me on the bed very gently, but it felt like being dumped. Then he pulled the covers over me, to cover my nakedness. My whole body sank gratefully into the soft warmth of the bed, and I felt Chris heap on another blanket, trying to quell my shivering. It felt heavenly compared to the insubstantial bath towels on hard porcelain that had been my bed for…how long
had
it been?

“Are you all right now?” he finally asked.

All right in the sense I wouldn’t die tonight, maybe. But all right in any other sense? The answer was a definite no.

“Don’t try to be nice, you son of a bitch,” I growled, pressing my hands to my forehead. I yelped in surprise at the pain that radiated through my brain.

“Don’t touch it, idiot.” He yanked my hands away from my face. “You have a huge knot on your forehead.”

No shit.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Opening one eye, I saw Chris pull a pair of jeans on over his boxers before heading out the door. Probably to go pick up a new conquest to torture me with.

Not that I cared. He could do whatever he wanted. He was my best friend, not my boyfriend. So it made absolutely no sense at all that my throat felt tight and my chest heavy as I glanced at Chris’s bed, visions of what he’d been doing with Candy flashing through my brain.

Feeling stupid, I shook it off. Figuratively, of course, since my head was killing me. According to the clock on the bedside table, it was 2:00 a.m. Less than twelve hours until I had to stand in front of the cameras that would immortalize me for my former, and hopefully future, fans. Eleven hours, and from the feel of my skin, plastered with dried oatmeal, scraping against the bed linens, I was still covered with spots, couldn’t stand up or even open my eyes for more than a second or two, and God knew what my forehead looked like after contacting the metal faucet of the tub. I’d be lucky if I could get out of bed by morning, let alone make it through a photo shoot.

True to his word—and determined to ruin my life—Chris was back momentarily, carrying an ice bucket. He took a handful of cubes and wrapped them in a damp washcloth from the bathroom before returning to the bed. I closed my eyes again, because I wasn’t speaking to
or
looking at him. Ever again.

“Here, put this on your forehead.”

I didn’t move, so he put it there for me. It made me suck in my breath.

“What the heck were you doing in the bathtub?” Chris finally said, after he piled more blankets over my now seemingly impossible-to-heat body.

“Taking a
bath.
Then, keeping away from you and Candy the screamer,” I shot back, without opening my eyes. The ice was cold and as it melted quickly against my skin, rivulets of chilly water dripped down my temples and over the top of my right ear. “Why the hell did you come back here to screw around?”

“We didn’t plan on doing it in here. I stopped in for a condom, and the room was empty.

So—”

“So you decided to ignore the fact that even if I wasn’t here then, I would have to come back eventually?” I opened one eye and attempted to glare at him from beneath the makeshift ice pack. It probably wasn’t very effective since the pain searing through my head made glaring difficult. “Where’d you think I was spending the night? The damn bar?”

Chris frowned. “I didn’t—”

“Think? Care?”

“Hey! I didn’t know you were in there. Don’t blame me.”

I whipped the soggy cloth off my forehead and opened both eyes to glare this time. Bad move. The room spun, the floor waved, the walls danced. My stomach heaved.

Chris dove off the bed and reappeared with a wastebasket just in time. By the time I finished, I couldn’t even summon the energy to yell at him anymore.

So I simply passed out.