Текст книги "The Girl On The Half Shell"

Автор книги: Susan Ward

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“I’ll forgive everything she owes me,” he adds. “The weed. The six large for the coke and the pills.”

Jeez, in under a week Rene ran up quite a tab in New York. I would have paid off Jimmy Stallworth right then and there, and told him never to come around Rene again, if Rene hadn’t stolen my cash. I exhale a harsh breath. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

“And you’ll stay away while we’re in New York. I mean, you won’t sell to her ever again.”

Jimmy stares at me, insultingly amused. “Your friend does a lot of drugs. Getting rid of me won’t help her, and I don’t think it’s necessary to point out again that she stole from me. But you can consider me gone after tonight if you do me this solid.”

I work my way past the line of agitated, waiting New Yorkers, face averted downward, with Jimmy Stallworth following. I’m hardly able to believe I’m about to crash the door at a New York rocker club so a New York drug dealer can finish a deal, all because Rene ripped off the wrong guy and I was desperate enough to come here.

“Wait here or I won’t do it,” I tell Jimmy a few feet from the door.

“Don’t even think to try to ditch me out here,” Jimmy warns.

I roll my eyes. The tough guy routine is really getting old. He may be a thug, but I don’t think he’s dangerous, and David my blond Nordic driver could kick the shit out of him without breaking a sweat if I called for him.

There is a pretty brunette in a sequined mini dress haranguing the bouncer with the list, and there’s altogether too much jostling near the entrance. Pushing through the crowd is an effort, getting the bouncer’s attention more effort, and the way he looks at me not worth the effort of acknowledging.

“Talk to me,” is all he says.

“I’m on the list.”

“Name,” he snaps.

I bite my lower lip and curse Rene in my mind. “I’m not on that list. I’m on the other list.”

Burly man looks up from the clipboard as if he wants to punch someone. “There is no other list.”

“Parker,” I whisper. “My dad is Jackson Parker.”

Oh crap, I don’t think this is going to work. As I turn away, a hand harshly grabs my arm and the bouncer gives me a hard stare. He jerks me behind him and I call out for Jimmy Stallworth, as the crowd in front of the door pushes me through it.

The walls and floors vibrate from the music of an edgy alternative rock song, and I feel like I’m suffocating in the packed, dimly lit room, trapped against the far wall beside Jimmy Stallworth and breathing in heavy waves of secondhand smoke.

Jimmy gives me a curious stare. “OK, what just happened?”

I shake my head. “I got you in. That’s what you wanted. Now leave me alone.”

He’s combing my face intently. “You’re not some Congressman’s daughter or something like that?”

I ignore the question and try to push through the bodies. A fat person in leather barges into me and knocks me into the wall, and Jimmy Stallworth pushes the fat guy away to give me room to walk.

We stand against the wall not talking. The band breaks, runs off stage, and the bodies in front of us become less compressed.

“I’m going to find a table,” I say.

“Good luck with that,” counters Jimmy sarcastically, lighting another cigarette. “Do you want to dance?”

Did Jimmy Stallworth really just ask me if I wanted to dance? I roll my eyes. “There’s no band on stage.”

“Later. When the next band is up.”

“I thought you had to meet someone here?”

“Later.”

“What about Victor and Richard? You should probably figure out how to get your friends in.”

Jimmy crushes out his cigarette on the floor. “Fuck them. Rich college punks. They’re the ones who screwed up getting me on the list.”

I start to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Jimmy scolds me. “I expect you to come back.”

You do, do you? “I’m going to the ladies’ room. Don’t follow.”

Of course, there’s a line, but at least in the quiet and cool corridor I’m away from Jimmy Stallworth. I hate that I’m waiting alone. No respectable girl goes to the bathroom alone, and I hate that I can’t seem to shake Jimmy or form a better plan about how I should pass the rest of my evening.

I lean against the wall, staring at the line that seems never to move. I give up. I didn’t really have to pee, but the time was well spent because Jimmy Stallworth is no longer lounging against the wall where I left him. Free at last. Fuck the world of Jimmy Stallworth!

Over the noise of too many voices starts another deafening assault of music that turns the crowd totally haywire, into a churning, bouncing swarm that I can’t completely avoid even flattened against the wall. Trying to stay out of their way, I slowly inch to the door. A stocky punked-out Italian stops me.

“Miss Parker? Who the hell left you standing in the doorway?”

I am face to face with a man who has more than his share of tattoos and piercings and an authoritative air about him. He takes my arm and eases me away from the cold concrete.

“I’m Kevin, the manager. Anything you need, anything at all, you ask me. Jack and I go way back. How is Jack? I haven’t seen your Pop in over a year...”

I go from being completely ignored in the club, to getting a healthy share of stares as I am directed to a table roped off with a reserved sign. How Rene would love this! I sink into the chair held for me, frantically scanning the crowd, hoping that Jimmy Stallworth doesn’t see me here.

I look up, realizing Kevin has already asked me twice if I’d like something to drink. “I’m sorry. That band is good. I’ve never heard them before.” What was the vodka drink Rene ordered for us? “Bring me a Kamikaze.”

Kevin crouches down at my table. He smiles. “That’s Rip the Cord. That’s Vince Carroll on the drums.”

I sit back, stunned, and stare. “Vince? Vince Carroll?”

Vince; Sammy’s best friend his entire life. I haven’t seen Vince since Sammy’s funeral. The drummer from Sammy’s band. I fight to see through the crowd the musicians on stage. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, long wavy chestnut hair, yes that is Vince wielding the sticks.

Kevin’s eyes soften with emotion. “That’s Cory Jensen on bass. That’s JR on lead guitar.”

Oh god, it’s all of them, all the members of Sammy’s band except Sammy. New name, new lead singer, and still a band. I didn’t know that they were still a group. Everyone from my brother’s world just seemed to disappear after his death.

Jimmy Stallworth cuts across the floor, turns a chair backward against the table and sinks down.

“Good. You got a table,” he says, rummaging into his pocket for another cigarette to light.

I frown. “What are you? A curse? Why don’t you bother some other girl?”

He ignores me, orders a drink when the waitress arrives, and stares fixed at the stage. I sip my Kamikaze and watch Johnny Ramone arriving, telling me it’s way past midnight. Jimmy Stallworth rises from my table. The relief I feel hoping that he’s leaving is overpowering.

“You owe me a dance,” Jimmy says staring down at me.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

He has me by the hand, dragging me to the floor before I can stop him. On the dance floor he returns to fixed-stare mode, and I realize it’s the band he’s dogging with his eyes. He tries to get us near the stage, but navigating the crowd is like trying to swim in the ocean; two strokes and then a wave pushing you back.

Jimmy leans into me. “Do that pretty girl thing where you dance up next to the stage.”

Without warning, Jimmy creates a diversion, body slamming into people near us, so much so that security comes, leaving enough territory unclaimed that I rather easily sashay to the edge of the stage. Like the bad penny he is, Jimmy Stallworth somehow reappears, dancing in front of me.

He’s dogging the band again with his eyes and I can’t help but to wonder if Vince and the guys recognize me.

Jimmy stops dancing and grabs my hand. He pulls me back to the table. I stare at him. “What was that all about?” I ask.

“I needed to get someone’s attention.”

I make a face. “Since we’ve danced, can I assume our date is over?”

Jimmy laughs. “You can leave if you want to. I’ve still got business here.”

“But it’s my table.”

“Not if you leave.” And Jimmy turns away to order another drink.

“I could call security.”

Jimmy shrugs. “But you won’t. I’m carrying enough that they could bust us both for possession.”

Jeez, how could I have forgotten that he was a drug dealer? I rise from my chair without paying. “You can take care of the tab. I should get something out of this.”

I start to leave when a voice stops me. “Chrissie? Chrissie Parker?”

I’m surrounded by Vince and the band. And shit, Vince is telling Jimmy Stallworth more than any smart girl would want him to know about her. I grow agitated as the guys sink down at my table, flooding it with beer bottles, and nervously I listen as Vince talks about Sammy, telling Jimmy Stallworth things I usually prefer to keep private.

Vince smiles at me. “I never expected to see you here with Jimmy,” he says. “How do you two know each other?”

“I don’t know her,” Jimmy replies quickly. “She cleared a debt by getting me into the club tonight.”

It’s a moot point, but I’m really pissed that Jimmy didn’t specify that it wasn’t my debt, but if Vince thought anything of that, it doesn’t show on his face.

“About that thing…” Vince says to Jimmy.

Jimmy’s dark eyes harden coldly. “That thing.”

Vince rises. “It’s all good. Why don’t we step into my office? Clear everything up now. It’s cool.” Vince smiles at me. “Why don’t you hang out with the guys until I get back? I don’t want you wandering off tonight. What’s that you’re drinking? A Kamikaze?”

I nod, even though I have every intention of slipping away the second I can. I watch Jimmy Stallworth and Vince disappear.

The conversation resumes and there is an irritated heaviness within Vince’s band that tells me they know about Jimmy Stallworth, and are not at all pleased with Vince’s association with him. Studying my glass, I try to follow the fast moving conversation, but I feel that edgy feeling you get when something is nagging at your memory.

I look up to see one of the guys watching and waiting expectantly for some kind of answer. What was the question? Oh, yes… “I’m just in New York just for a few days. No, Jack isn’t here. I had an audition at Juilliard.”

The conversation flows rapidly past me, and I stare at my glass, lost in my thoughts, feeling strange and not knowing why. I look up as Vince and Jimmy return. I can tell by Jimmy’s satisfied smirk that he just got paid by Vince whatever he needed to make up from Rene’s stealing. Vince’s glassy eyes reveal that some things never change. I feel a knot strangling my throat and try to escape the vividly rising pictures in my mind of Sammy and Vince in the old days. Only Sammy is dead and Vince is here, exactly the same.

Vince lifts my near empty glass from the table and sets a fresh drink before me. Their laughter and talking swirls around, not penetrating whatever this strangeness is that’s overtaken me.

Vince points at me. “You’ve got to sing one song with us, Chrissie.”

“No. I don’t sing. I’m a cellist.”

My words are slightly slurred. Did they notice? It’s hard to tell. Vince looks the same, but Jimmy Stallworth is staring at me in a way I find worrisome. I sway in my chair and Jimmy darts out a hand to steady me.

Jimmy leans into me. “You OK?”

“I want to go home,” I whisper, though why I implore Jimmy Stallworth for help makes no sense at all.

“She has the best set of female pipes I’ve ever heard and that was at eight,” I hear Vince say. “Come on, Chrissie. One song.”

“No, Vince. I really can’t.”

The action around me suddenly seems very fast, it moves in and out like a movie shock wave, and my befuddled brain registers that Vince has called Kevin the manager over.

Through my foggy senses I feel panic. “No, Vince. I can’t. I really can’t…”

“Sing one for Sammy tonight,” Vince says, rising.

Sing one for Sammy, and I would because I loved Sammy and it would make him smile.

Vince has me by the hand, pulling me through the crowd. I’m staggering slightly and I don’t remember answering him. Did I answer him? Oh shit, he’s taking me on stage. Vince pulls off my jacket and the cool air touches my sweaty flesh.

I have to grab his arm to hold steady center stage. I don’t know if it’s my vodka-based fire drink or the welling panic inside me that is making it nearly impossible to stay balanced. It feels like I’m about to hyperventilate as he explains who I am. Jeez, now they know who I am, and I’m about to sing in front of Johnny Ramone and whoever that is from the Beastie Boys. And this is a New York crowd. A tough sell. I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw things and boo me tonight.

I shake my head and body to loosen up. The guys are waiting for a song. “Death by Degrees,” I say into the microphone.

Sammy’s one and only hit before he overdosed. It was the first song up on the tape in the apartment. I already sang it once to the city from our terrace. The words are fresh in my mind. Just pretend you’re on the terrace, Chrissie, and be prepared to run for the door.

Stay on the beat, Chrissie. Listen. Listen. Hit the beat. I never perform. I never sing for anyone. But I just know how to do this. How to sing. How to move. How to use a stage and an audience. I always have.

Shit, one of my lockboxes has opened and I’m remembering things I don’t want to. Sammy used to say music was in our blood. We had no choice—it was who we are. The only place he felt alive was center stage. He was going to die on stage. But you didn’t, Sammy, you died in your bedroom. And I’m the one who found you. Damn you, Sammy, I’m the one who found you!

I lean against the mike stand, breathing heavily, fighting the emotion, relieved that it’s done, and trying to figure out all the other stuff going on inside of me.

“One more, Chrissie. One more,” says Vince from the drum stand.

I am shakier and whatever is inside me is running loose, even more wildly than before I left the table. I should never have sung Death by Degrees. Why did I pick that song?

Across the room by the entrance there is a stir, a sudden gathering of people. I wonder who has arrived. It must be someone. The entire chemistry of the club has changed. An electric current shoots up my flesh. Black eyes lock on me. Alan. And I can tell by how he is staring that he heard every part of that wretched performance.

Oh god, I want to die. That’s all there is to it. I rush across the stage. I’m beginning to feel nauseated, but not from the alcohol, though the Kamikazes are making my head spin. It’s seeing Alan with Nia, and knowing he just saw me make a fool of myself.

I hit the cooler air in the dirty, dark walkway leading from the club to the back alley and realize how messed up I am. I’m not seeing double, but I did let myself get pretty messed up. And to make matters worse, I am cowering in a back alley, afraid to go back into the club because I just made a fool of myself on stage in front of Alan Manzone, who couldn’t care less, because he is with Nia, and I haven’t a clue how to get from the alley to Bowery to find my blond Nordic driver.

Oh shit! Oh Shit! Oh Shit! I lean back into the chilled wall and want it to swallow me whole.

“Chrissie?” Vince has joined me. “You OK?”

I fan my burning checks with a hand. “I’m OK. Just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“I get that. I miss Sam too.”

He steps closer, putting his arm around me. I look up at him. “Is there a way to get to Bowery from this alley? My car is out front and I don’t want to go back into the club.”

If he thought my request strange, it doesn’t show in his expression. Instead, he looks very no big deal about the whole thing.

“I can get you through the club without taking you through the club.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry to be such a pain.”

“You’re Sammy’s sister. I wouldn’t leave you hanging in an alley.”

I smile weakly at him and relax into the comforting coolness of the wall. I won’t look completely alone and pathetic if Alan should see me leave the club. Not that Alan would notice. Not that he’d care. I feel my emotions start to churn again.

“Chrissie, it’s amazing that we just bumped into each other,” Vince murmurs, and I look up to find his eyes regarding me intently. “I’m glad you’re in New York.” He steps closer, putting his arms on either side of me, and I now feel trapped against the supporting wall.

I fumble for words. “I won’t be in New York. I’ve decided to stay in California.”

“But you’re here tonight,” Vince says, and now I’m in his arms being pulled into him.

Panic. The feel of him sends me into instant panic. “Vince, please!” I try to squirm out of his hold. He’s going to kiss me and if he does I think I’m going to be sick. I twist and he quiets me with his hands.

“You know I’ve always liked you, Chrissie.”

That small child voice in my head screams: No you didn’t. You were always mean to me. His hand is on the base of my spine moving me into him and his face is lowering. His mouth flattens against mine and the feeling is suffocating.

“Please stop, Vince,” I plead, as his lips move to my jaw.

I slip my hands between us, up against his chest, but my arms are like putty and I can’t force him off of me. His breath smells of beer and pot, his mouth is cruelly hard against me, and his hand is moving upward under my shirt.

“Miss Parker? You have a phone call,” says a voice in the darkness. Vince jerks off of me and I see Kevin in the shadows.

“I do?”

I clumsily pull my clothes into place as my disjointed thoughts function enough to warn me to hold it together, Kevin is rescuing me. I take his outstretched hand and nearly stumble as I walk to keep pace with him.

A few more steps, Chrissie. A few more and then you’ll be in the safety of your Blond Nordic Driver and it won’t matter that Vince is following and you can’t seem to shake him any better than you could shake Jimmy Stallworth.

Kevin stops at an open office door and reaches in, then shoves the receiver at me. I stare at the phone, my brain snapping. I couldn’t possibly have a call here. My shaking hand holds the receiver against my head.

“Hello?”

If there is a person on the other end talking, I can’t hear them. There is too much blaring noise and background music. “Hello? Is there anyone there?” I shout.

Quiet. It’s almost as though whoever is on the other end stepped out of a noisy room. I can hear street sounds now.

“It’s Mr. Whoever You Are. I thought I would see how you were doing,” says a low, raspy voice.

Whoa. My head spins. Is Alan really calling me while on a date with Nia or am I so messed up I’m imagining things?

“Really. How remarkable. Where are you?”

“In front of the club.”

My head buzzes and I lean tiredly against the wall. “How New York chic of you. Do you always slip out of clubs to escape your supermodel dates to call other girls in the club?”

Alan laughs. Vince is watching me like a hawk. I don’t understand why Alan is calling me. I don’t understand anything at present or why I feel like I’m about to faint.

“So, what are you doing on the street talking to me?” I ask my tongue heavy with my words.

“You disappeared so quickly from stage it seemed the logical next move. I heard about your audition, by the way. What happened?”

How does he know about my audition? Jack probably, and again I feel that strange sense of curious disbelief knowing that they talk about me.

“Your kiss didn’t work. I could hardly play.”

“That bad?”

“That bad. Didn’t permit me my second piece. Excused me after one.”

“Maybe they didn’t need to hear more.”

“Oh no,” I counter, my words very breathy now, “that’s Juilliard’s version of booing you from the stage. They don’t throw things at Juilliard. They just say enough.”

“I should have kissed you better.”

I think of his mouth on mine. “I hate New York. I can’t wait to get home. I don’t want to live here.”

“Do you need a shoulder to cry on?”

“I just want to go home, Alan.”

“OK, Chrissie, we’ll do that, but you have to hold it together. Exit the club and climb into the car waiting.”

“Sorry, Alan. I don’t do threesomes. Not even in limos.”

Oh god, what made me say that? I feel Vince’s eyes dig into me.

“I’m alone,” Alan says, and this time there is a raspy caress to his voice.

It feels as though the floor beneath me has given away. Did Alan Manzone just dump Nia to pick me up in a club? No, Chrissie, no. I don’t know what’s happening here, but that would be entirely too crazy.

“What did you do with Nia? Send her shopping?”

“No. I told her I had to go. I left her my car. I’m in yours.”

Mine? How did he know that the car out front with the blond Nordic driver was mine? I inhale deeply, willing myself calm. “How gentlemanly of you.”

“No. Actually very ungentlemanly. How much have you had to drink, Chrissie? Is Vince Carroll still with you?”

How does he know that Vince was with me in the alley?

“I’m a little buzzed. Two…” Why is my head swimming again? “…maybe three drinks. Nothing more. Just a little buzzed.”

“Put Vince on the phone.”

I hand Vince the phone. Vince is nodding and saying aha, aha, aha, then hands the receiver into the office.

I don’t like the way Vince is looking at me.

“What the fuck is going on, Chrissie? Are you involved with Manny?”

Manny? It takes a moment for my fuzzy brain to realize he’s referring to Alan. “Why?”

“Because Alan Manzone just told me to get your ass out front now and if I touch you he’s going to kick the shit out of me.”

The whole situation is beyond the abilities of my befuddled mental state: Vince and his prowling hands; Alan and the phone call; and how messed up I feel after only three drinks.

Vince is pulling me through the club and I can’t get my thoughts to keep up with the rapidly shifting scene as he drags me out onto the front sidewalk. My car is parked by the door, my blond Nordic driver is waiting, there is a crowd, and the tabloid photographers are no longer relaxing against the brick of the building. They are rapidly clicking away. Flash, flash, flash.

The popping flashes make me sway a little on my feet and Vince reaches out to me. I panic, nearly tumbling to escape his repulsive touch and I’m suddenly swallowed by an angry swarm, taking pictures, shouting questions, so many questions, and I can’t get out of the swarm and I can’t breathe.

“Keep the fuck away from her,” someone shouts behind me, and then the swarm evaporates and there are people everywhere, the cameras are flashing like a meteor storm, and Alan and Vince Carroll are fighting. Everything is moving slow, like I feel inside: Vince on the ground; Alan kicking him in the gut over and over again; Vince trying to crawl away; the hard snap of Vince’s arms; the girls screaming.

“Oh my god!”

Frozen in panic, I stare at the ensuing chaos. Shit, did Alan Manzone just kill Vince Carroll right in front of me? I feel frantic screams rising inside of me, but I can’t get the air from my lungs to push them out. Then Vince groans, and I’m relieved and I don’t know why, but it’s probably because Alan is shouting to put me in the car and I have David’s kind steadying hands helping me there.

I’m pushed down onto the seat, the door slams behind me, and I am trapped inside. Strange flashes mar the tinted windows, and there is shouting, so much shouting and my head hurts. Nightmarish images flash in and out of my head and I struggle to try to lift myself from the seat. I need to call David to get me away from here.

I’m pushed back into the leather and Alan drops heavily into the seat beside me. The car door slams. I can feel the pressure of the car moving forward with rapid speed.

The only sound within is Alan’s heavy breathing and I warn myself to hold steady, but his eyes are blazing and I don’t understand what is happening. Why would Alan Manzone show up out of nowhere and beat up Vince Carroll on the sidewalk in front of CBGBs?

I can feel Alan all around me and I know without looking at him that he is very angry. Why is he angry? Why doesn’t he say something?

“What the fuck are you doing at CBGBs with a known drug dealer and Vince Carroll?” he growls through gritted teeth.

“You know Jimmy Stallworth?” I ask, though why that seems a reasonable question I don’t know.

His eyes are blazing as they lock on me. “Everyone in the industry knows Jimmy Stallworth. Fuck!” He lets out a long and primal exhale of anger. “What the hell are you doing making the rounds of the New York club scene alone? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? Fucked up? Alone? With guys like Vince Carroll and Jimmy Stallworth? Where the hell is that useless friend of yours?”

“Rene,” I supply contritely, though I don’t know why I am contrite.

“Whatever,” he counters, sharply dismissive.

I’ve never heard whatever with a British accent and I can feel myself being swept away by laughter. The laughter feels strange, a disobedient force, but I can’t seem to stop laughing and am vaguely aware that there is nothing funny happening here.

Alan’s eyes lock on me, blazing. “Stop laughing. This isn’t the least bit funny. It would have been better for us both if you hadn’t done this.”

My head buzzes. Nothing I do has anything to do with him. He has no right to stomp about like a caveman and then yell at me. I want to tell him to go to hell. I’ve obsessed over him for five days, and now he has the nerve to pop up out of nowhere, create that horrifying scene, then behave as though I’ve behaved badly. What I do is none of his business.

“I really wish you’d stop telling me what would be better for me,” I exclaim in frustration. “How would you know what’s better for me? I don’t even know.”

He arches a brow. “Exactly. If you did, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to be out partying with Vince Carroll and Jimmy Stallworth.”

I hear it in his voice, concern, something I understand. My combativeness fades. My limbs relax all on their own and it’s as if I’m melting, my flesh is melting, until I am deep in the leather seat, against him, my cheek resting on his shoulder. It feels so wonderful to be touching him, to be close. I tilt my face. I stop when he fills my eyes.

“Why are you angry with me?” I ask and those captivating black eyes flash at me.

“The Blue Light was awful enough, you stumbling and drunk and making a fool of yourself. But I didn’t expect to see you tonight wired on stage singing with Vince Carroll.”

The interior of the limo has calmed, less full of angry Alan. I take in more details of him. He definitely looks rock star New York chic tonight: Leather pants, open shirt and all. The same clothes from his television interview earlier today.

“I hate how you’re dressed,” I whisper.

“I don’t particularly care for your attire. That top must belong to Rene.”

I crinkle my nose. “Attire? My we are British again. I guess this does make me look a little slutty. And you are right. It is Rene’s.”

Those black eyes lock on me. I begin to burn. “No, Chrissie. You don’t look slutty. You look like a girl out looking for trouble. That’s how you look tonight. Incredibly hot and looking for trouble.”

His thumb runs along my jaw line. I can feel a jolt shoot down, all throughout my body. He turns my chin until I’m looking straight at him.

“You are a very beautiful girl.” He kisses the underside of my chin. My organs tighten. I pull in a sharp breath. “And unfortunately,” he whispers, “you are very, very fucked up.”

He sets me back against my seat. My body screams. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, toying with me or angry with me. “Behave yourself,” he commands.

I jerk away from him and sink into my side of the seat. “And I was about to take my top off because you are right—I would never buy this for me.”

“You can take your top off if you want. I don’t fuck fucked up little girls and I’m sure the tabloid photographers would enjoy it.”

OK, he’s mocking me, and through my deadened senses I feel my anger surge. “Yeah right, Alan. I’m yellow carding you. That’s bullshit. Do you mean to sit there and tell me you don’t go to bed with drunk women? You’d be the first rock star in history…”

Those black eyes swivel. I shiver. “No, what I’m saying is you are too much shit to deal with for a fuck. I fuck drunk women all the time. I don’t do bullshit, Chrissie. If you ask me a question, I will tell you the truth. You need to decide how far and in what direction you want to go before you start something.”

OK, this is a little frightening and a little bit of a turn-on. And damn, if he doesn’t know it. I stare out the window.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask quietly.

“Back to your apartment. Where did you think I was taking you?”

“Shopping with Nia. You said you didn’t like my top.”

The car rolls to a slow stop. He did take me home. I don’t understand anything that’s happened tonight. And I definitely don’t know what to do now. Do I invite him up, Mr. I don’t fuck fucked up little girls? Do I thank him for seeing me home? Do I kiss him goodnight? Christ, why is this all so hard to figure out? It’s just goodnight. What’s wrong with me that I can’t figure this out?

The car door opens. A blast of cool air rushes in and it makes me feel not at all good. I begin to feel faint and I am definitely aware of my dizziness as I climb awkwardly from the car with the assistance of my blond Nordic driver.

My shifting vision fixes on Alan. God, why does he have to look so good? No, don’t think about that. You’ve got to send him away. Tell Alan goodnight and send him on his way.

“I’d invite you up but you don’t want to fuck.”

Oh shit, those weren’t the words in my head. The world shifts. Alan grabs me before I fall, and some moments later the world refocuses, I’m in his arms, tucked against his chest, being held close against him. He is firing off rapid words to the driver and I can’t catch any of them. Maybe I could figure out what was happening if the building would stop spinning. Why is he yelling at David?

The doorman pulls back the door, proceeds to the elevator, but Alan waves him off before he enters with us.

“What did you do with your elevator key?” he asks me.

“Key? Oh, it’s in my pocket. Back. Left cheek.”

The metal doors of the elevator slam shut behind us. I can feel every motion in the elevator, the long ride up floor by floor, the feeling of his pulse beneath my cheek, the slow, deep breathing. I curl more closely into him. I can feel the heat of his body as I tuck my cheek against his shoulder and watch the pulse move in his neck. I want to kiss that spot.