Текст книги "The Girl On The Half Shell"
Автор книги: Susan Ward
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
There is something different in me. I can feel something different in Alan. My fingers curl in his hair as his mouth moves to my breasts. I am impatient inside in feral way, and I don’t know where this urgency comes from. It is as if I can’t get close enough to him, that nothing I do, not even sharing my body, will get me close enough to him.
Alan lifts me from the tub and carries me back to the bed. He spreads me on my stomach. He lies down beside me and we are both damp. He starts touching and kissing me. The back of my body, up from my feet, down my back. When his tongue touches at the base of my spine, I feel his fingers between my legs and then in me. As he cups my sex with his fingers expertly teasing me, his tongue and kisses are in a different orifice of my body, since I am on my stomach, and I am mildly disgusted and incredibly hot. He is kissing me there. Around it. Near it. In there. All the while, his hands are cupping my sex and filling me with his fingers. As intense as my muscles have clenched during sex, they have never clenched in anticipation this way.
Why am I letting him do this? It’s disgusting and wrong and I don’t know why he wants this. He knows he is driving me crazy, and I can feel his excitement as he makes me more and more frantic.
He turns me on the bed and I can feel his damp, naked body surrounding me. I am breathing hard. And I am pulsing there. My eyes are still closed because Alan has not said I can open them, and for some reason I am raging in this in a way unlike any other time before.
Alan is all around me, totally consuming my body. His lips are against my ear. “The opposite of death is not life, Chrissie,” he roughly breathes into my swirling senses. “The opposite of death is you. You are my opposite of death.”
Oh god…and I am afraid. I am desperately aroused. I want him and Alan is in me.
Chapter Twelve
I am exhausted. I want to sleep. I don’t know how Alan manages the pace. Every hour he gets more energetic. Every hour I just want more to hide beneath the covers and sleep. The last forty-eight hours have been grueling. Hours in the studio. Sex. Sleep. Then the cycle all over again.
I don’t even know what day it is. Time has lost the feel of realness. I have lost the feel of realness. We have only been together for seven days and so much about me has changed. I think of the lying to Jack, ignoring Rene’s mountain of messages, the singing, the sex, and that I am all but living with a guy. I am lost in Alan and I have no feel of realness without him.
Alan made me sing three more tracks with him. I don’t know how he got me to do it. Maybe I just did it not to fight with him. He asked. I did. Maybe it is as simple as that. Alan asked me. Maybe that’s all there is to it.
The sex is only getting more intense and more frequent. I thought it would calm with time. I thought I would calm with time. I want him more. I am willing to do more.
The adrenaline-fueled intensity while he works is frightening and a turn-on. I feel something new, something different in him. I haven’t figured out what to label it in my head yet.
I curl into the blankets. I need sleep. Tomorrow I will think about how to slow this down.
* * *
When I wake, it is mid-morning and I am surprised to find Alan in bed with me. He worked the entire night and I slept, really slept, for the first time in days, until he woke me up in the early morning to make love to my drowsy, hot body. Once we were done I went immediately back to sleep.
He is sitting beside me reading. Panicking, I realize what it is he is reading. I grab for my black journal that I must have forgotten to put back into my duffel.
“Give me that.”
Alan looks up. “Why? It’s very good. I didn’t know you write song lyrics.”
Song lyrics? I make a face at him. “I don’t write song lyrics. That’s just a journal. Fragments of nothing. Thoughts. Dreams. Sort of streams of consciousness, James Joyce type shit. And it is my personal shit. Do you always just invade people’s privacy and read their personal thoughts?”
He ignores me and continues to read.
I push my hair back from my face and sit up, tugging the blankets with me to cover my nudity. I hold out my hand. “Please, give it back.”
He continues to read. Hyper-focused Alan. He turns a page. He looks at me. “Chrissie, these are song lyrics. Look at how you’ve put them together. You even have chord notations on some of the margins.”
I roll my eyes. “Can I have my journal back, please?”
He glances down at me, grinning. “I haven’t finished it. I’m still looking for the parts about me.”
I stare at him. “There aren’t any.”
“No?”
“No.”
He looks hurt, but I know he’s just pretending. He’s in a good mood. He’s suddenly all around me, kissing me. He starts kissing my armpit and I squirm, frowning at him, knowing he’s just doing this to irritate me, because he knows I am overly ticklish and he knows I hate it.
God, he is in a wicked good mood. What the heck is up with him today? Happy Alan on turbo-drive. Happy Alan is never on turbo-drive.
I wiggle beneath him, and I see my journal on the bed beside him. I cautiously move my arm. He stops me. He plants his body spread eagle atop me.
“You can’t have the journal back until you make love to me,” he says, grinning.
I twist and squirm beneath him so he can’t kiss me. “Oh, go away. Don’t you have Ian waiting in the studio or an interview or something else to do? I’m irritated with you right now.”
He laughs. “Nope. Nothing but you to do, Chrissie.”
I still. “You mean you are done? As in done, done?”
He rolls off me to lie beside me, stretching on his pillow, and rakes his hand through his hair. “Yes. Done. Ian took the tracks this morning.”
“Ian took the masters? Did he leave a copy?”
Alan nods. I start to jump from the bed, but he stops me with a hand. “I have something I need you to sign.”
He rummages on the floor beside the bed, through papers and whatever else got stacked there while I slept.
I sink back on the bed. “Sign? I don’t understand.”
“Just bullshit legal paperwork. No big deal.” He is scanning the documents, frowning as if trying to find the right one.
He hands it to me. I scan the papers. I only half understand what I’m reading. “What is this?”
Alan yawns and relaxes back against his pillow, turned attractively on his side, facing me. “Just your standard release, Chrissie. It’s nothing. Just sign.”
I make a face. “Maybe I don’t want to. Is it for the label?”
He hands me a pen. “No, me. Just something my management company makes me get. It’s no big deal.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Unless you count that paragraph on page four that says I own you for the next ten years.”
I make a face at him. “What happens if I don’t sign? Am I free of you at last?”
He gives me a sexy half smile and his eyes glow wickedly. “I dump you right out the front door in a sheet for wasting my time. You either trust me or you don’t, Chrissie. Sign the damn thing.”
God, why is everything a test of wills with him? I’m having that feeling I sometimes get when he’s mocking me, that inside of the mockery he is really being serious. Fine, Alan, Fine. You win.
I take a pen and, angry and heavy, I scrawl my name on the signature line. I’m about to toss it back in his face, when he takes the contract, and starts pointing here and here for my initials.
I stare down at it, studying the papers in my lap. “There. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.” He stretches back on the bed and closes his eyes.
I focus on the signature next to mine. “Who is Alan Wells?”
“Me,” he whispers through another yawn. “My real name. The lawyers require it.”
I frown and curl into him. “I didn’t know that Alan Manzone wasn’t your real name. It’s kind of creepy to have to have a lawyer tell you who you’ve been sleeping with.”
He ignores that comment and tosses the papers on the floor. He starts to rummage through the junk again and pulls out a board, sitting cross-legged beside me on the bed.
He holds it up in front me. “What do you think of this?”
I shrug. “What is it?”
“The artwork for the album. I like it.”
I give it a thorough study, since it is flattering and unexpected that he wants my opinion on this. The imagery is dark, swirling shades of gray and black, grim with a simple title in bold black lettering: Long and Hard.
I crinkle my nose. “You should change the title. Your fans are going to think it’s a self-titled album about your dick.”
He laughs and drops a kiss on my nose. “Well, that’s better than you thinking it’s short and yuck. Besides, it’s not a phallic reference.” Smiling into my face, he starts to brush the hairs away from my brow. “Long and hard is the way out of darkness that leads to light.”
I turn the art board in my hands. “It’s you, they are going to think phallic. No one is going to think Alan Manzone is referencing an obscure literary passage by Dante.”
Alan laughs. “Probably not. They are also not going to think Milton and Paradise Lost. Fuck, don’t they teach literature in California?”
My cheeks burn, I ignore the jab, and toss the art onto the floor. “I still think your fans are going to think pornographic.”
“My fans won’t buy the fucking thing,” he says exasperated.
Anxiety floods my stomach. I curl into him and lie with my head on his chest. What will happen to Alan if this is as big of failure as the label warns? He’s coming off a rough year and artists have fragile egos and Alan, ego exempt, is right now more fragile inside than he admits to himself or me. Why is he determined to push forward with a project everyone believes should be shelved? Is this all part of Alan’s self-destructive personality?
I wish I knew how to help him. How to make him OK. I kiss the warm flesh of his neck. “Do you want to play with your long and hard or are you too tired?”
He turns until I’m in his arms, we are face to face, curled into each other. “I’m never too tired for you.”
He leans down and gently kisses me, and I can’t help myself, I kiss him back hard, pushing myself into him. He pulls back, his eyes hooded and probing, while his hands knead the soft flesh of my buttocks.
“You don’t have to give me a pity fuck just because you’re worried about me,” he mutters, and I can’t tell if he’s angry.
My entire face burns scarlet.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t take a pity fuck when it’s offered,” he breathes, a salacious smile flashing from his perfect face, as he shoves himself into me without warning.
I groan as his body fills me, curling my leg around his hip, holding him to me.
“Fucking you is all I will ever need, baby,” he whispers in veneration. “You are the light beyond the darkness…”
His raspy theatrics fade with the sudden thrusting of his body. I close my eyes, feeling the buildup inside of him that came so quickly, so hungrily. I revel in his possession; in his flesh that swings from carnal to tender; in his moods from light to dark; and in how when he touches me I want to feel everything, and he makes it so.
I cry out, my nails digging into his back. “I want it harder. I want it to hurt,” I gasp.
Alan’s body freezes even though I can feel him climaxing, and that is usually when he is his most passionate. He doesn’t move, his breathing is ragged with sound withheld, his body shudders but doesn’t thrust, and I am panting and breathless. I want to feel that building climb and he won’t let me.
I open my eyes and he pulls his body from me. His expression is disconcerted, alarmed, and even sad.
He grabs my chin, his eyes smoldering. “If all you want is a guy to make you hurt, get the fuck out of here!”
What? Why did he say that? Jeez, he says nastier things than that to me in our most tender moments. “Alan…I…”
He rolls over from me and covers his face with an arm.
I sit up in bed. “I’m going to shower.”
“Since you’re in the mood for pain, why don’t you take this with you?”
He tosses something at me. I stare down at the shiny silver lighter on the floor. I hold back the tears until I’m in the bathroom.
* * *
When I return to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, Alan is on the bed reading my journal. The room is smoky, as if he’s chained smoked the entire time I was gone, and there is an open bottle on the night table. Not even one of his elegant crystal cocktail glasses.
So, he’s still pissed off. The quiet room is pulsing.
I lie down beside him, but he doesn’t touch me. “Are you going to be pissed off at me the rest of the day,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean it the way you took it.”
He sets aside the journal and takes a long drag of the cigarette before he stomps it out. “No? I think you meant it exactly how I took it. Don’t turn me into a substitute for your fucked up addiction.”
“You are so mean at times,” I mutter, completely confused by him. “I don’t know how to deal with you.”
I roll away, sighing in frustration. Emotionally, I’m rattled by his suspicions and internally more than a little panicked that there is truth in what he said.
“Why is it so hard for you to believe I care about you?” he asks unexpectedly.
Now, on top of everything, I feel like I’m going to cry. “I don’t know. Because you are you.”
“Don’t give me bullshit, Chrissie.” He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I love you,” he whispers. “Don’t ask me to hurt you. Not ever. I won’t be a part of that.”
I nod. I understand. “I’m sorry.”
“Why do you get all uptight whenever I say I love you?”
Oh god! I blink at him. How did we get back to psychoanalyzing me again? I’ve been contrite. I’ve apologized.
“It’s just not something I’m comfortable with. Please, can we not do this today?” I whisper.
“I’m just trying to understand you. You are a very confusing girl.”
Frustrated, I jerk into a sitting position, letting my towel drop. “How confusing can I be? You’ve seen my burns, you are in my head and I do pretty much anything you ask without a fight. I’m not confusing to you. Sometimes it feels like you know me better than I know myself.”
“Not exactly,” he murmurs, a trace of irritation still in his voice. “I don’t know why you hurt yourself. I don’t want to be just an extension of that.”
“You’re not. So let it go.”
“So, then what am I to you?”
I let out a shuddering breath. “I don’t know what you are to me. I don’t know why I’m here or why you want me here or what we’re doing. I don’t know. How’s that for an answer?”
He leans into me to kiss me very gently on the lips. His eyes are soft and glowing as he pulls back. “I don’t like it, but it’s a truthful answer.”
He takes me with him as he sinks into the sheets, his body molding into me, his arms holding me closely. “Sleep, Chrissie. I need to sleep now.”
And shamefully, I’m reminded he’s been awake thirty hours. I’m not tired, but I lie in the tuck of his body, listening to his breathing change. I stare at the album artwork on the floor. In the center of the swirling darkness there are shapes. I didn’t notice that before. Long and Hard. They look almost like eyes. They look almost like me.
* * *
“Don’t laugh.”
Jeez, why did he say that? Of course, I’m going to laugh now. I fight it but I can feel my body shimmy against him.
“You’re laughing,” he chides.
“If you tell me not to laugh I will laugh.”
He is smiling down at me fondly. After twenty hours straight of sleep, he woke no longer pissed off at me. He is playful Alan since we’ve finished having the sex he always wants when he wakes. Sex, quiet time, and then hopefully food. And maybe if I’m lucky, getting out of the bedroom today.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
“Why?”
“I don’t want to leave you, and if you laugh or move you will force me out.”
“How long do you plan to stay?”
“Until I am forced to go.”
“Why do you always want to hang after?”
He grins against my skin and I can see he’s fighting his own laughter. Oops, I didn’t phrase that well. I bite my lower lip, but it’s Alan who laughs and his body slips out of me.
He rolls onto his side beside me, still laughing, and runs a hand through his hair. “You make horrible puns. I can’t figure out if you do them deliberately or by accident.”
I crinkle my nose. “Unintentionally.”
“So, what do you want to do today?”
I pretend to give it serious thought. “How about a date-date?”
Alan laughs. “What’s a date-date?”
“An evening that doesn’t include an entire evening in the bedroom.”
His eyes sharpen. Shit, what have I said now? It seems to take him a long time to decide how to answer. “You are not getting bored with me, are you?”
I look at him, puzzled. “Why do you have to be so touchy? I’d just like to get out of the apartment today.”
“Do you want Colin to take you shopping?”
Shopping? I make a face. “I didn’t say I wanted to go out without you.”
A knock on the bedroom door saves me from what I can feel is going to be a quickly escalating argument.
“Fuck, Jeanette,” Alan growls. “Stop pounding! What do you want?”
I enjoy his flash anger directed at someone other than me, right up to the point where Alan jerks open the door butt naked in front of his secretary.
They talk in quiet tones I can’t hear. Then Alan rakes an aggravated hand through his hair. “Shit! Is that today?”
“You can’t put this off, Manny,” Jeanette says sternly.
“Fuck.” He closes the door and jerks on a pair of jeans and nothing else.
“Get dressed,” he orders.
I don’t like the way he sounds. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
I roll my eyes and pull on a long sleeve T-shirt, shorts and my UGG boots. I’m still struggling to pull one up as his hand practically drags me down the hall to the terrace. It’s packed with chattering bodies, balancing food and drinks from a long buffet. My insides go numb as I recognize the well-known faces of his band, and what must surely be assorted wives and girlfriends.
There is no time for Alan to explain what this little unexpected interruption is about, or even why he wants me here for this. We are quickly swallowed up by fast quips and greetings, the unrelenting flow between him and the people competing for his attention. There is too much going on all at once to catch any of it in clarity, and it is a particularly haunting pathos to be trapped against him in the drape of his arms while they all fight to get near him.
Everyone seems to just bounce off Alan with hardly any notice, except Linda. She cuts her way through the circle, ruffles his hair, kisses his cheek.
“Poor Ugly,” she teases with a pout. “Thought you could hide out here with the little kitty forever, didn’t you?”
The entire cluster sinks in unison, almost like a moving football huddle, onto the large cushioned chaise lounges. I’m still against his chest, and they’re like a firing squad in front of us.
“Listen. We’re just going to clear the air,” Len Rowan says, silencing the disjointed chatter of the mob. “No pressure, mind you. But we just all need a no bullshit, straight answer about what’s up.”
Kenny Jones, Alan’s drummer, is not quite as pleasant in his manner. “I’m tired of being fucking jerked around by you. We hear things, OK. We leave on the road in three weeks and we need to know: are you going to be there?”
Alan takes a long sip of his whiskey and smiles at me. “Yes. We will be there.” He says it clipped, succinctly, but I tense in every muscle. We? What does he mean by we?
“But it’s not enough just to show,” Len says intensely. “You’ve got to really be there. No barricading yourself away for days in your room. No jumping tour and disappearing. You’ve got to be on the road for the show to be any good.”
Alan nods. “I get it. You don’t have to lecture me, Len.”
“We need to get back into the space. Rehearse,” Kenny adds.
“Soon. I have things to take care of in the city, and then we’ll go to the rehearsal space,” Alan says tonelessly.
“You are OK, aren’t you?” Pat Despensa asks.
“I’m OK,” Alan states flatly.
From there the conversation diverges into shoptalk, the upcoming tour, and everything Alan’s missed in the last six months. Silent, I listen and watch this totally bizarre dynamic, where the limit of their concern over Alan and all that has gone on the past year was to ask him once, evasively, if he was OK. It makes me hate each and every one of them, and it reminds me of Alan’s comment about real people and the everyone else in his life.
I stare at my toes, trying to ignore the group. No wonder he wants me here with him. I may be a fucked up girl, but on my worst day I’m better than them. I feel Linda watching, and I lift my chin to look at her. Except perhaps Linda. She is totally weird, but under the weirdness I think she really does care about both her husband and Alan.
I feel the steady pressure of eyes on me and shift my gaze to find Kenny Jones studying me. “I know you,” he says, almost as an accusation.
“No, you don’t, Kenny,” Alan says flatly. I don’t know what was in that no you don’t but Kenny backs off and changes the subject.
I realize we’ve been on the terrace quite awhile and Alan hasn’t introduced me to any of them, and I wonder why. I can feel that they are all curious about me, the yet-to-be-determined significance of my presence.
The talk shifts into that strange guy-world mode, half talking and half laughing. Guys talk about nothing, and yet they give the air that everything they say has a deeper, important meaning. Stories I know nothing about. Places. Things they’ve done, girls from the road…I feel myself get a little queasy. Music, parties, concerts and nothing. Guys talk about anything. All shit. Except the real shit. There is no real shit in guy-world.
All the girls except Linda have vanished, and I would have vanished too, except Alan hasn’t relaxed his grip on me.
“I am bored, Len.” Linda breaks through the talking with her voice, which can be so earsplitting at times.
“Why can’t you be a good house cat like the little kitty, love? She just sits there looking beautiful and smiles. The perfect girl.”
Len winks at me.
Linda pushes up from the cushion. She downs her margarita and then sets the glass on the table. She makes a face at Len. “You’re right, Len. I am not the perfect girl. I’m the expensive wife.” She springs to her feet. “Come on, Chrissie, let’s get out of here. They are almost to resurrecting Hamburg. If I have to hear the Hamburg shit one more time this little kitty will go ballistic.”
The thought of escaping instantly lifts my mood, I’m halfway off the chaise before the impulse is in me is to look to Alan for permission, and I feel relief that he nods. Would I have stayed if he hadn’t? God, I don’t even want to try to figure that one out.
As I walk into the apartment, Linda follows behind me all the way to the bedroom. My duffel was beside the chair when I left, my things still inside, but now it’s gone.
She plops on the bed. “God, that was awful!”
I’m really glad she said it first. “Are they always like that?”
She nods. “We’re a dysfunctional family. I never thought they’d last after the first year.”
“Is Alan always like that with them? Tense and withdrawn and sort of just tired of them all?”
She starts randomly rummaging through a drawer in the bedside table. “Just for the past two, maybe three years. It’s hard to be the star. Everyone pulling on you, depending on you. Using you. It’s made him cynical, and I don’t think he’d be here at all if he wasn’t loyal. Alan is the most loyal guy I know.”
Loyal? Interesting. I hadn’t really thought of Alan in that way.
I return to my search for my things. It’s then I notice that the bed is made. Alan and I were in it right up to point when the band arrived. I frown. Bed made. The room no longer smells like sex and everything is back in perfect order. Sheets changed? Who cleaned the bedroom? Jeanette? I cringe. Too creepy of a thought for today.
Linda grabs the phone. “Colin, its Linda Rowan. Can you bring the car around? Now, please.”
She hangs up the phone. Her eyes lock on me. “What’s the matter, Chrissie?”
“I can’t find anything. I want to change and I don’t know where my clothes are.”
Linda shrugs. “Why are you changing? You look cute in the little shorts and fuzzy boot thing.”
“Who do you think cleans the bedroom? Do you think it’s Jeanette?”
Linda makes a face. “God, I hope not. I’d rather have a bullet in my head than that bitch touching my things.”
“What’s up with that, Linda?”
Linda lifts her brows. “We used to be best friends. She was my roommate at USC. We did our year abroad together in England and that’s when we met Alan and Len. We’ve been enemies ever since. I’ll leave it at that.”
And then I know, I just know. Linda had a thing for Alan and Jeanette was her best friend. And only one thing can turn that into a feud that never ends. Alan had a thing with Jeanette. Yuck, she’s his ex-girlfriend and now works as his secretary. God, no wonder she hates me.
I can see exactly when Linda realizes I put together the pieces. She crinkles her nose. “I wish he’d fire her. It’s been over like forever. Manny hates her.”
“Then why does she live here?”
Linda shakes her head in aggravation. “Showed up on his door maybe a year ago. That’s when everything first started to get weird. Manny all secretive and shit. Cruella in the background. And then all the shit started. That’s all I know, Chrissie. And I shouldn’t have told you that. Manny is going to be pissed at me.”
I am suddenly very uncomfortable and feeling very territorial. “I don’t give a shit who she is. I don’t want her touching my things.”
Angry, I stomp into the bathroom to see if my clothes are there.
“Chrissie? Let’s go,” Linda calls from the bedroom. “You don’t have to change. I’m not changing. Fuck the New York foo-foo bullshit on Park Avenue. We can do what we want. Let’s roll.”
* * *
Lunch and four hours later, we’re still shopping. I can’t even count the number of stores we’ve been to. Linda is right. She is the expensive wife, but I wonder if this marathon of shopping isn’t really her ploy to keep me away from Alan for the afternoon.
So far, I’ve bought only one thing: sunglasses from Versace. As I rummage on a rack, I admit I’ve sort of enjoyed the afternoon. Linda is fun, like a hurricane version of Rene, and it’s been nice having a small break from Alan. He’s just so intense, and it’s like you don’t realize that you need time for your emotions to quiet, because he is all-consuming.
I look up from the dress I’m studying to find Linda watching me. “You OK, Chrissie?”
I smile. “I’m fine.” I hold up the dress. “What do you think of this?”
Linda nods. “I love Prada. Drew Barrymore wore a dress almost exactly like that to the Oscars.”
I bite my lip and stare. It is completely impractical for Santa Barbara. There is no place at home to wear this. Even at the most posh restaurants, I never wear anything fancier than a sundress and flip flops. This would be too much even for the clubs.
I start to put the dress back and Linda frowns. “You are taking care of yourself, aren’t you?”
I flush scarlet. Are we really about to have a sex talk here in the middle of a New York boutique? Oh my god…Linda is beyond weird.
I smile. I nod. I pull out another dress and pretend to focus on it.
She comes around the display rack. “You need to take care of yourself, always. You can get home, can’t you? I mean, you do have people waiting for you should you need to go home?”
Oh. Is that was this is about? She thinks I’m some girl Alan just snatched from the road and brought home with him.
“Don’t worry, Linda. I can get home. I have a return ticket in my bag.”
“You do?” Linda sounds surprised and relieved. “I just … I just wanted you to know that if you ever needed anything that you can depend on me. You know they don’t think of us girls. Not really. Not ever. And with Manny, you are everything until you are not, and then before you even know what’s hit you, it’s like he doesn’t know your name.”
I know Linda means well, but that warning helped me not in the least. It’s hard enough to try to figure out what this is with Alan without someone telling you its most likely nothing. I’m starting to feel a little sick and very unfocused.
I search through the rack for the Prada.
“You going to try that on?” Linda asks. “I think you’re going to look sensational in it.”
“Um, maybe.” I hand the dress to our shopping associate.
I just want to get away from Linda right now, but unfortunately she follows me to the dressing room. The salesgirl stays, as well. It didn’t occur to me that the salesgirl would stay or that Linda would follow, and, Jeez, I just want a moment alone.
Linda is lying on the couch sipping champagne. Every store. Champagne. She looks at me, since I’ve been here several minutes doing nothing but staring at the dress.
“What’s wrong, Chrissie? You haven’t gone cold on the dress, have you?”
“Can you find me some shoes, Linda? Size seven. I want to see it with shoes.”
Linda springs to her feet and smiles as if thrilled to be of assistance. “I’ll find you just the perfect ones.”
Thankfully, the sales associate leaves with her. I shed my clothes and pull on the dress quickly. Linda gapes when she returns with several pairs of black spike-heeled shoes.
“I love that, Chrissie. You should get that dress.”
The sales girl gushes that it looks like it was made for me, but then that is her job. I look in the mirror. I do look kind of sexy. It is short, it is black, and it is tight, with a straight cut low neck and small sleeves at the bicep. A little red flower design on each sleeve. And the Tiffany bracelet I never take off is just the right jewelry for it.
Prada. I’ve never purchased anything Prada before. Rene will positively die when she sees it. I do like the dress. I do like the shoes.
I smile at Linda. “Fine. The dress. The shoes. Can we go home now, Linda?”
Linda laughs. “Sure, Chrissie. One afternoon and you’re already hot to get back. Not good, Chrissie. Not good. It doesn’t pay to let them know you want them.”
I flush, but Linda is already out of the room to call Colin, and I quickly pull on my clothes and then hand the dress and shoes to the sales associate.
We meet up again at the sales counter. I stare off in horror when I’m told the total. Four thousand dollars? How could it be more than four thousand dollars? Some panties, some bras, one dress, one pair of shoes! Four thousand dollars!
