Текст книги "The Girl On The Half Shell"

Автор книги: Susan Ward

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

My eyes flutter wide as I look at him, wondering if this is more theatrics, and hating that it doesn’t feel like a game in my flesh. Is he serious? I thought it would be different the first time a guy asked me to bed. Something clear, something in focus, something I knew what to do with.

I don’t even know if he’s really asking me to bed, yet there is an alarming sense that that is exactly what he’s intending.

He holds out his hand.

“Nope, as tempting as you make it sound, I think my answer is no,” I say petulantly to cover my confusion. “I don’t want to go to bed with you. You’re too much of a weirdo. ”

“Yes, you do. It’s why you can’t stop thinking about me,” he says softly. His voice is hypnotic.

It’s the truth, and worse, I can see in his eyes that he knows it’s the truth. Crap! I have no idea what to do. Right or left. I haven’t the faintest clue how to deal with him, but the prospect of returning back to Jack’s apartment alone with my internal mess growing only more insistent is not a wise thing.

I shove my stuff jerkily into my bag and take his hand. Alan doesn’t say anything and I’m glad he doesn’t. He is impossible to read and I don’t need even one more ounce of confusion.

I’m filled with trepidation as we walk back toward the apartment. Does leaving with him mean I’ve said yes? And a part of me is a little disappointed in how this is unfolding. I always thought it would happen the first time in one of those heated, From Here to Eternity type moments, or in the least with me drunk so I could stay out of my own way until it was over.

Butterflies fill my stomach. Maybe we are just leaving the park, nothing more. It might have all been drama. His actions are impossible to process logically.

I slant a look at him and some of my anxiousness wanes. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit aware of me. Even walking side by side, anyone who looked at us would probably think we’re not even together.

The doorman has the lobby doors open and Alan’s hand stops me.

“No, not here. I want to go to my apartment.”

His apartment? I flush.

“I want you to spend the night with me at my place.” His gaze is intense.

“Oh.” The world has ceased to be beneath my feet. That was direct enough. We aren’t just leaving the park. Alan is taking me to bed.

Once in the car, I realize there is no turning back. I remind myself that I’ve been obsessing about him for days. I don’t know why this is so difficult.

It is a short drive to Alan’s apartment. In only a few minutes we’re slowing down. Jeez, why did it have to be so short, so quick? I need time to think. Time to calm myself.

His residence is in Central Park West. As the car rolls to a stop, I realize that I am only a few blocks from Jack’s apartment, and I can make a run for home should anything happen that I don’t feel completely comfortable with. That last thought makes me even more frustrated with myself.

Once through the building doors there is an impeccably dressed attendant waiting to serve him. Inside the elevator, Alan leans back against the polished, mirrored wall and studies me, while the attendant remains carefully invisible.

“Are you hungry? Would you like to go out to dinner or would you prefer I cook for you? Or are you full on Cheez-Its, Oreos and Diet Coke?”

He gives me that friendly sort of nothing smile, but its effect is the opposite. I am quaking like a leaf now. How does the attendant manage to look like he doesn’t hear us? And why is it embarrassing to me that he’s listening to us discussing dinner? Really, Chrissie, that is too lame. We are talking about dinner.

I shake my head.

Alan frowns. “Is that shake: I’m not hungry or I don’t want to go out or I don’t want you to cook for me?”

The shake is I don’t want to talk about food. I am here. I can do this. Dammit, can’t we just get it done and out of the way so I can feel comfortable again?

I stare up at him. “Whatever you want so long as it’s not Chinese takeout delivered would be fine with me.”

He laughs. “I think I can do better than that.”

Oh my. He’s put just enough in his laughter to make me tremble. I look at the attendant. Is he smirking? It’s hard to tell in the split mirror tiles.

The doors open. “Come.” He has my hand again. It is warm inside, dimly lit, a giant open space with glass on the far wall, overlooking a terrace and the New York skyline.

I can feel my eyes widening and I don’t want them to. Music’s most self-destructive bad-boy has an apartment that is elegant and one of the most magnificent homes I’ve ever seen, with its tastefully decorated rooms before a stunning expanse of the city. Alan knows art and Alan has style. I wander into the open space living room, with its lustrous hardwood floors, where there is a remarkable collection of pre-Columbian pottery that I only recognized because I’d studied some similar pieces in an art book last semester. On a far wall, an eclectic collection of art: A Picasso, a Warhol, a Monet and a Salvador Dali, all original, somehow arranged with a collection of Americana that pulls the pieces together and gives them a sense of cohesion.

The furnishings are plush and graceful, every surface spotless to the point that it looks as if no one lives here. I think of his plane, the traveling trashcan. So many contradictions. Most definitely not what I expected. Not this symmetry. This precision. This tasteful luxury that screams of old money.

I turn to find him still in the foyer, standing beside a polished table with a high-neck crystal vase filled with the stems of daylilies. I missed that before. I smile.

“Who changes the daylilies?”

Alan smiles. “I don’t know. If you get up early in the morning you can watch her.”

In the morning. I tense. “Do you have a phone?”

Alan laughs. What a stupid question, Chrissie. You couldn’t have phrased it more stupidly.

He steps into the living room and sinks on a sofa. The room is so perfect I’m afraid to step into it. “Unfortunately, in every room,” Alan says. “I hate the telephone. I don’t know why I have one in every room.”

“Really? Why do you hate the phone?”

“I never want to talk to who’s on the other end. Usually the press, even though it seems like they change my number every week or so.”

“Really? What a pain. I’ve had the same number since I was five.” I make a little face. “May I use one of your too many phones?”

“Why?”

“I haven’t checked my messages today.”

He gestures with an arm toward a stunning mahogany table. I can feel him watching as I dial the number to the answering service. Shit, there are ten messages from Rene. All day I waited for her to call, and once I left for the park she called ten times. Good one, Rene. Where were you when I really needed you?

I click down the receiver without calling her back.

“Everything OK?” Alan asks.

I nod. “Rene. Ten calls. She doesn’t want to wear fuchsia to her dad’s wedding, but number thirty-seven insists.”

“Thirty-seven?”

“That’s what Rene calls her soon-to-be stepmother. Thirty-seven. She counts her father’s girlfriends. This one is number thirty-seven. So that’s what we call her.”

Jeez, why did I tell him such a childish thing? Please laugh, Alan. I’m nervous as hell.

I move to the far corner of the room and the full-size shiny grand piano. I lift the lid. I touch the keys lightly with my finger so they don’t make sound.

“How many girls have you been with? I bet it is more than thirty-seven.”

I turn from the piano to find his eyes on me, his expression enigmatic. I can hear the sharp sound of my own breathing in the intense quiet of the room.

It seems like neither of us talk, neither of us move, forever. I can’t tell if he’s angry, insulted or amused by the question.

“I don’t keep count,” he says finally.

“Ah, probably not. Why would you? Did you care about any of them?”

Those black eyes burn into me. “No,” he says, slowly, softly. “It doesn’t mean that I haven’t kept some of them around for a while. But did I care about any of them? No, Chrissie. I didn’t. Is that the answer you were looking for?”

Heck, no. I wish I’d never asked it. “If you didn’t care for them, why did you keep them around?”

“I meet lots of girls. Some of them later become friends. Some of them I still sleep with. Some of them are just sex. Lots of girls, Chrissie.”

“So what kind of girl am I?”

“I thought we were already friends.” He gives me a smile that makes me suck in air.

“Why am I here?”

“I want you here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

He rises. He crosses the room to me. He leans into me and kisses my nose, the gesture silly and unthreatening, deliberately so, I think. He doesn’t kiss my mouth, but I am tense from head to toe and my heartbeat is soaring anyway.

Alan smiles. His eyes are stunningly bright. “I want you to stay with me here while you’re in New York. Do what you want. As much or as little as you want. Let’s keep this simple. Stay here and do what you want.”

Simple? Nothing could be further from simple. I don’t know how to do any of this.

I need time. Time to process this new, more confusing wrinkle. He just asked me to stay with him the rest of my spring break. It’s crazy. Why would he ask me such a thing?

I move from the piano into a small sitting area with a full wall entertainment system. On a table is a neatly stacked tower of tapes, and as I sort through them I realize that they are all first run movies currently in theaters or soon to be released. Some of them have handwritten notes on them from studios, directors, or actors.

He notices my preoccupation with the tapes. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

A movie. Yes. A little bit of normal. Perhaps that will take the tension and premeditation out of this.

I pick up one. “This looks interesting. It has John Candy in it.”

I turn it over. Uncle Buck. The promotional cover makes me laugh.

“There are two dramas in there that are supposed to be good. One with Robin Williams and another with Daniel Day-Lewis. Have you seen them?”

“First run movies not released? Of course not. That would violate Jack’s commitment to proletarian normalcy. I go to the theater when they are released like everyone else. I’d like to watch a movie. Do you want to watch this? Even though I’m sure it’s lame, I bet it’s funny. John Candy can be so funny.”

He takes the movie and reads the jacket. “Americans have no taste in cinema.”

I laugh. “Cinema? My, we are so British proper when we are in our fancy penthouse where the world can’t see.”

It was meant to be a silly joke, but those black eyes sharpen on me.

“Yes, I’m so proper I’m standing here imagining what it would be like to boff during the opening credits.”

I blink twice and stare at him. There was an angry edge to his voice that I didn’t expect, certainly didn’t like, and definitely didn’t want. That pissed him off and I haven’t the first clue why.

I shrug and search for something funny to say. “Then let’s fast forward through the opening credits. I haven’t at all decided what I want to do just yet.”

The oh-so-British sitting room has a Picasso that magically drops down to reveal a full screen for movie viewing. I settle on a comfy couch and clutch a throw pillow. I laugh. Striped pillows with small flowers. Who would have taken Alan for a stripes with small flowers kind of guy?

I look up to see him watching me quizzically. “You laugh during the credits?” he asks.

I blush, remembering the boff comment. “No, it’s your pillows. So dainty and proper.”

He shakes his head and the expression on his face relaxes as he stretches out on the sofa, back against the armrest. I try to focus on the movie and I can’t, which is a disappointment because I can tell from the little I absorb that it is funny. He is watching me and not the movie. I don’t know why he’s doing that or what’s up with this strange sort of play date we’re having. And that’s what it feels like. As odd as that sounds, it feels like those silly dates I used to have in eighth grade when I let a guy come over to watch a movie at Jack’s.

It wasn’t what I expected when Alan brought me here. I chance a look at him out of the corner of my eye. “You don’t like the movie?”

“Not particularly.”

I lean back into my armrest until I’m facing him. “So is this what you do in your down time? Invite strange girls home and then watch them watch movies you don’t particularly like?”

Alan’s smile is potent and sexy. “No, this is a new experience for me. I’ve not been alone with a girl who’s selected the movie option.”

I lift my chin and smile and sidestep the last part of that comment. “Really?”

“I’ve not really done the date thing before.” His tone is one of wry amusement. “How do you think its going?”

“Date?” My voice hitches up from mezzo-soprano to soprano. “Is that what we’re doing? I thought we were watching a movie so I could pretend you didn’t bring me here to boff.”

Alan rolls forward on the couch until he is very, very close to me. “Only if that’s what you want to do,” he whispers, and then kisses me lightly.

I smile. “I can never tell if you’re being serious or making fun of me.”

His eyes are earnest. “I would never make fun of you.”

He reaches for a cigarette and lights it. After a puff, he holds it up. “Do you mind?”

I shrug. “Of course not. It’s your house. Jack used to smoke until he thought it was ruining his voice.”

With my eyes, I trace up one wall across the ceiling and then down another. “Are you all alone here, all the time, in this horrible quiet?”

“No. Not usually. I have people who work for me. They come in and out. I don’t know their schedule. Most of them I don’t know what they do. I prefer the quiet. It’s hardly ever quiet. And I’m not alone. I’m with you.”

I look at the priceless collection of art on the wall. “Are you as rich as they say you are?”

“Is that the latest criticism of me? That I’m rich? Usually it’s that I’m too commercial. But it depends.”

“On what?”

That intense black stare meets mine directly. “If you are the kind of girl who gets turned on by money.”

“Nope, I’m the kind of girl who gets turned on by really bad American cinema.”

Alan arches a brow. “You find John Candy sexy?”

I do a little lift with my brows. “Extremely. There is nothing sexier than a guy who can make you laugh.”

He takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not even a guy who sings?”

I roll my eyes, toss the pillow and rise from the couch. I wander out onto the terrace. The patio is lovely, like a tiny English garden encased in cement. Everything tasteful. Everything correct. I sink down on a cushioned, double seat chaise lounge. His view of the city is spectacular.

After a minute or two, Alan follows. He relaxes casually against the concrete wall, smoking and watching me. “You don’t want to watch the end of your movie?”

“Nope. You don’t find it funny and you’re just indulging me.”

“Do you want to stay here to see the sunset?”

“No. I hate sunsets. I only like to watch the sunrise.”

I feel the sudden heavy pressure of his eyes.

“What’s going on inside that head of yours, Chrissie?”

I look at him and tense. His eyes are smoky and a potent caress, but hidden within their shadowy depths I see curiosity,  caution, and something I’ve never had a guy look at me with before…pity.

I struggle to maintain my composure. “I’m just trying to figure out what I want to do since you really don’t do the date thing well.” Then sarcastically, “What’s going on inside that head of yours, Alan?”

“I’m trying to figure out why you are here. You’re a very confusing girl to read.”

I frown. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. I’m not confusing at all. Why do you say that?”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette and stares at me through the smoke. “There are usually four types of girls who end up with me: addicts, fame-whores, gold-diggers and rich little girls with daddy issues.”

Oh god, he stole my line and is using it cruelly. “Very organized. A nice system,” I say with a calm I don’t feel. “Which kind of girl am I?”

“I don’t think you fit in my A through D list.”

Forcing an air of amusement, “No?”

“No.” There isn’t even the slightest hint of lightness in that. He puts out his cigarette. “I’m not sure what it is I see in you, but whatever it is, it worries me, Chrissie. And I never expected that and I really don’t like it.”

Oh shit. My body grows cold as the entirety of my body heat concentrate in my cheeks. I rise to my feet.

He crosses the terrace to me. “You don’t have to leave.”

I look at him and find those black eyes watching me, assessing every change in my expression.

Afraid and flashing with internal anger, I head toward the door. “Sorry, Alan, I’m out of here. Go play your games on another girl. You are just too weird for me.”

He smiles, unruffled, and lightly brushes my hot cheek with an index finger. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not too weird for you. I think I’m exactly what you look for.”

I slap his hand away. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You think I’m a fucked up asshole who’s going to fuck you, fuck you without ever getting to know you, and then toss you aside. And that’s what you want. That makes me safe for you. That’s the reason you’re here with me.”

He walks away, not waiting for an answer. He disappears through the terrace doors and leaves me alone in my anger, knee deep in verbal shit and emotional mess. Wanting to scream, I shake my hands to contain my reaction, and then I realize I’m containing tears. Is that really what Alan thinks of me? It shouldn’t matter, but my insides grow icy as I realize he pities me.

He pities me! Numb with humiliation, I flee the orangey sunset glow on the terrace into the dim corridors of the apartment.

I’m almost to the door before I turn back. Oh no, Alan Manzone, I am not going to sulk off like a wounded child without answering that. Who the fuck does he think he is? He’s the one with the life that’s a train wreck.

Livid, I storm into the kitchen. There are two place settings set up on the butcher block island, two empty wine glasses and something sizzling in a pan on the stove. Alan is focused on gently moving the contents of the skillet with a spatula.

I struggle to organize my thoughts and find a way to launch my tirade.

“I offered you dinner so why don’t you stay,” he says quietly.

I exhale a long, ragged breath. “Why should I stay? You don’t even like me.”

He looks over his shoulder and the expression on his face is puzzling, yet strangely unthreatening. “I never said that I didn’t like you, Chrissie. I said that you worried me.”

I sit on the high bar chair and let out an angry breath. “How can I worry you? You don’t even know me.”

Alan ignores that question and concentrates instead on transferring the contents of the pan onto the plates. “There isn’t much here to cook,” he says, smiling in an apologetic way. “The kitchen hasn’t been stocked yet, but I promise it’s edible. I make a very good Un Croque-Monsieur.”

I stare at the plate as he opens the wine. “I hate to ruin your fancy dinner party, but it’s a grilled cheese.”

He arches a brow and starts to fill the glasses. “In Paris it is Un Croque-Monsieur.”

“In California it is a grilled cheese. Only you did it wrong. The cheese is supposed to be on the inside.”

I don’t know why I’m being so combative and petty about this. It’s just a freaking sandwich, but I don’t want to relax my guard and I’m not exactly certain why I am here eating with him.

He takes a bite and studies me with curiosity. “Haven’t you ever been to Paris?”

I pick at the layers of my sandwich, trying to figure out what’s different. “I’ve hardly been out of California.”

“You don’t travel with Jack?”

“Jack hardly talks to me. Why would he have me travel with him?”

I regret that comment the second it’s out because it makes me sound pouty and little girlish. His eyes fix on me like a laser. I take a bite of my sandwich, and then a sip of the wine.

“It’s the Gruyère cheese,” he explains, smiling over his wine glass before taking a sip. “That’s what’s different.”

I watch as he downs two thirds of his wine. “So much for recovery. Why are you drinking?”

He sets his wineglass before him. “I stayed sober in Rehab to get out of Rehab. I stayed sober at Jack’s to stay out of jail, but I don’t buy into that total sobriety bullshit and I never will. You should know that up front.”

His mouth sets in a grim line. He looks angry and it feels like he’s assessing my reaction. I frown and return to my food. “How did you end up at our house in Santa Barbara? Maria said you were there four months. And what did you do to fuck up so completely?”

His lips quirk up in a half-smile. “Ah, you’ve opted not to playact. There are consonants with your expletives. It’s a boring story. Not worth repeating.”

We eat for a while in silence

“Addiction isn’t like it is in the movies, Chrissie,” he starts, his voice raspy and tired and strangely sounding far away. “It’s more insidious, more fun, and less obvious. Unfortunately, it always ends the same way. I just got absorbed in the pain of living. I tried to escape it. But you can’t no matter what you do. So I pushed the limits a little more. And then a little more. And then I’m dragging down my best friend with me, and Len is trying to hold me together, and all I can think of is that I want to stop fucking thinking for a moment.”

I don’t want to be enthralled by this and find that I am. Stop fucking thinking for a moment…yes, I understand that. It is the first thing about Alan I understand.

“One day we were in Chicago. I don’t know exactly where and I don’t know exactly how. I was pretty fucked up by then. I’d been clean for eight years and I was quickly all back in it, doing more and more, and more not being ever enough. I don’t recall who gave it to me. But I sort of thought, fuck it. Why not today? It was a speedball. Do you know what that is?”

I nod. Of course. Stupid question. My brother was Sammy.

“It was good shit. Really pure. Enough for a nice size party. And I lined it up and I snorted it all and I said, fuck it, maybe I’ll just stop thinking today.”

The naked honesty in his voice is mesmerizing. He is a private and guarded guy. Why is he telling me this?

“The days after that are a blur. I don’t remember anything except waking in a hospital room somewhere, and Jack is there. He took me to detox. I bolted. Then there are some days in Chicago that I really don’t remember clearly. Then I’m in Rehab in California. And then I’m released and Jack is waiting on the steps to take me home with him. And then I wake up in the pool house and Jack is barbequing like everything is fucking normal. Except nothing is fucking normal. I don’t care who you are. You don’t expect to wake up to find Jackson Parker tossing a burger on the grill for you. And then slowly Jack’s everything normal takes over the fucking world and he’s got me straight and sober and recording again. And I’m still fucking thinking, but I’m off the smack, so something good came from it, I guess.”

He shakes his head, but the phrase ‘Jack’s everything normal’ tears me up inside. Jack’s everything normal helped Alan. It has never done a fucking thing for me. I feel the tears behind my lids.

“So, that’s it, Chrissie. End of story about me. But that’s not really why you asked that question, is it? You don’t give a shit what happened to me. You are trying to understand yourself.”

Startled, I look up. Oh god…how effortlessly he can turn my world into a shaky, shadowy mess. I can’t feel my arms, I can’t feel my legs and the words I want to scream are trapped inside my head.

“Do you want to know what I thought the first time I met you?”

Instinctive fear rises through my center and the small child in me screams: No, I don’t want to know! Go away, Alan. I don’t want you or anyone stumbling around in my lockboxes!

“I thought, what a beautiful girl. How is it possible she’s so sweet and charming and innocent in this fucked up world? So emotionally fragile that she playacts to hide how afraid she is. Sweet and charming and totally forgettable.”

I feel as though I am shrinking, diminishing.

Alan arches a brow. “Then I met Rene and I thought, how interesting. What’s wrong with Chrissie that she would have a friend like that? Maybe there is something beneath the surface of the girl she doesn’t let people see.”

The child in me screams: There is nothing. There is nothing. Go away!

“And now three days in New York,” he continues with a voice like velvet and words that burn, “I’m wondering how Jack fucked this up so completely. You’re a pretty fucked up girl. You hide it well by being charming. For what it’s worth, I think you should work at being less charming and more real.”

Scrambling in an emotional avalanche, I snap, “I am not fucked up and Jack didn’t fuck up a goddamn thing.”

His calm in the face of my welling panic is wholly defeating. It is the truth. No one ever sees it. No one ever speaks it. No one ever sees my truth. I don’t know what to do with this or what to do with him.

Alan rises, grabs the dishes off the counter and deposits them in the sink. “I don’t do bullshit, Chrissie. That’s why you are here. There are seven bedrooms. Pick the room you want.” And without looking back, Alan walks from the kitchen.

I sit in the quiet, in the kitchen that somehow got clean as though no one was ever here, and I want to run, but I don’t know why I’m not running or why I am still here.

I’ve been angry for so long, with all the things trapped in my lockboxes, and then finally there is truth in the room. I thought this moment would feel better. It doesn’t. It feels only different; a different kind of weirdness. The weirdness of letting truth in the room.

I suddenly know why I am so obsessed with Alan, and what is pushing me toward him. Alan Manzone can see right through me. It should make me run, it should terrify me; instead, it draws me toward him.

Alan sees me and has done so from the first night we met. I push off the counter and I am trembling and afraid.