Annihilate Him (Volume 1)

by Christina Ross

  “Do you think that’s enough?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’ll need to wait and see how he behaves before we can know for sure.”

  “Hmmm,” he said.

  “Hmmm, what?”

  “Hmmm, as in I’m thinking. If I can get anything more concrete, I’ll let you know. I have friends in security all over this city. Many of them owe me favors. Let me put out some feelers today. It’s unlikely that Rowe will see his woman so soon after you called him out on it, but men are men. He’ll be with her again. Give me some time to see what I can lock down.”

  “I’m so glad Lisa is engaged to you.”

  “And I’m perfectly happy that she accepted.”

  “Thanks for helping me out with Rowe. In the end, it will only help Wenn.”

  “I just wish I could have been there, because I know how you can be.”

  “You should have seen his face.”

  “I would have enjoyed it.”

  “Today, he sent me a dozen black roses with a note telling me to fuck off.”

  “Did he sign the note?”

  “Hell, no. But I know it came from him.”

  “Class act.”

  “That’s what I said to Ann.”

  “Let’s get you to Lisa,” he said. “She hasn’t seen you in a week, as I was reminded a few times this morning. She’s anxious to see you, especially after what Alex and you have been through recently, and particularly after what happened last night.”

  As we crossed the lobby, I looked out the window to my left. “It doesn’t appear as if any members of the press are here.”

  “They’ll be here by the time Alex and you leave. As for now, there are other stories to cover.”

  We walked through the doors, stepped out onto a sidewalk teeming with people walking along Fifth, and moved toward the car waiting for us curbside. Cutter was driving. Tank held open my door for me, closed it, and got into the front seat.

  “La Masseria,” he said to Cutter. “Jennifer needs some downtime with her best friend.”

  LA MASSERIA WAS LOCATED at 235 West Forty-Eighth Street. From the outside, it was intentionally nondescript and looked deceptively small. But inside, it was large, thriving, and inviting, which was perfect since the stars of the surrounding Broadway shows were frequent patrons. It was a unique space that allowed well-known actors to disappear toward the back of the restaurant without causing the stir they might have caused otherwise.

  Unlike many of the restaurants in Times Square, this one was a justified standout. The service was impeccable, the wine list was extensive, the cuisine was authentic and delicious, the pasta was made on site, and no matter who you were, you were never rushed. It was the absolute antithesis of what dining in the Square typically offered—cheap eats and underwhelming food at popular chain restaurants. La Masseria was so understated, only those in the know knew how good it was.

  Which is what I loved about it.

  The car stopped in front of the restaurant, and Tank stepped outside and escorted me inside, where a hostess greeted us.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “I’m actually here to meet a friend,” I said. “The reservation is under Wenn.”

  A look of recognition crossed the woman’s face, but she checked it almost at once. She looked down at her computer. “I see here that there are only two of you.”

  “Yes. I’m here to have lunch with my girlfriend, Lisa. Has she arrived?”

  “In fact, she has. But I think I have a table that will better suit you, Mrs. Wenn. Something more private and discrete. Would you like that?”

  “Please.”

  “Will the gentleman be joining you?”

  I turned to Tank. “Why don’t you have lunch with us? Come on—you know it will be fun. Don’t say ‘no’.”

  “This is all about you and Lisa,” he said. “You two need time alone.” He winked at me. “Besides, I get to spend tonight with her.” He gave my arm a friendly squeeze. “Call me when you’re ready to leave. I’ll be outside before you pay the bill.”

  And with that, he left the restaurant.

  “Let me take you back to your friend, and then I’ll bring you to another table at the rear of the restaurant,” the hostess said. “It’s for VIPs. You won’t be bothered, Mrs. Wenn. I can assure you of that.”

  If there ever was a time that I wanted privacy, this was it. “I appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you.”

  When we came upon Lisa, who was seated in the middle of the large space with her blonde hair raked back into a chic ponytail and her bright blue eyes shining up at me like a balm, she stood up and gave me a hug. I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

  “God, it’s good to see you,” she said in my ear. “I’ve been thinking of you all week—especially today.”

  I drank in her warmth like a tonic, and gave it right back to her. “I’ve had better weeks,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry, Jennifer—for all of it.”

  “How about this? For the next two hours, we put it all behind us. I want a mental break from it all and I want time to enjoy my friend. They’re moving us to a more private table. So, gather up your things, darling. Apparently, we’re heading south.”

  Within seconds, we were seated at the back of the room at a lovely, large table that overlooked the entire restaurant.

  “I assume with your new zombie novel coming out that you’re having something rare for lunch today?” I said. “Brains? Intestines? Maybe a beating heart?”

  “I’m all about embracing the raw movement.”

  The hostess who seated us asked if we wanted anything to drink.

  “Two martinis, please,” Lisa said. “It’s what we do.”

  My stomach wasn’t exactly craving a martini—I still felt a bit nauseous from the weight of the day. But I refused to spoil lunch, so I just went with it. “Belvedere for me,” I said. “With a twist.”

  “Grey Goose here, three olives, dirty.”

  “Perfect,” the woman said. She handed each of us a menu, informed us of the specials, and then told us that our waiter would be back in a moment with our drinks.

  I looked at Lisa. “Do you realize that this month marks our one-year anniversary of moving here? Think about that for a second—one year since we kissed Maine goodbye.”

  “I actually thought of that this morning.”

  “It seems like five years ago.”

  “I know. It’s weird.”

  “A year ago, both of us were busting our asses to get to a better space in our lives. I was out of work for months. You were just starting to hit on Amazon. And now look at us. It’s almost too much.”

  “And I’ll take it,” Lisa said. “Have you forgotten our shitty little walk-up apartment?”

  “Well, there’s that...”

  Once our drinks had arrived and the waiter had stepped away, Lisa picked up her cocktail and held it up to me. “Lives change. But this friendship hasn’t. Cheers to you, Jennifer.”

  “And cheers to you, Lisa. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  I picked up my cocktail, and we touched glasses, but I found that I could only take the slightest of sips, which Lisa noted. “Sorry,” I said. “My stomach is a little off. Laying booze on top of it probably isn’t the smartest thing I could do right now.”

  She furrowed her brow at me. “That’s a new one,” she said. “Usually, a martini calms your nerves.”

  “I know, right? I should be bathing myself in vodka at this point. But the thought of drinking makes my stomach turn.”

  “You’re just going through a difficult time. I know you don’t want to talk about it now, and I respect that. Just know that I sent a bomb threat to the Post after reading today’s special edition.”

  “Thanks, lovey.”

  When the waiter came by to take our orders, Lisa said that she was going to have the trancio di salmone con salsa alla mostarda.

  �
�Salmon,” I said. “Yum.”

  The waiter looked at me. “And yourself, Mrs. Wenn?”

  “I’m not that hungry. How about something simple, like the spaghetti allo spugnito di pomodoro? Just something light and fresh.”

  “Perfecto.” He looked at our drinks and saw that while Lisa’s was empty, mine was nearly full. “Another martini?” he asked Lisa.

  “Do you mind?” she asked me.

  “Why would I? Have another. I’ll just tell everyone that you’re drinking for two now.”

  WHEN OUR FOOD ARRIVED, I don’t know why, but I was feeling increasingly queasy, which I’d been trying to keep from my friend for the past forty-five minutes while we launched into a host of gossip, revelations about what it really was like to live with our respective partners, and my story of running into Immaculata Almendarez and Epifania Zapopa at Bergdorf’s.

  “Epifania’s mother’s name is Guadalupe?”

  “Mama Guadalupe. I never laid eyes on her—they were in a different part of the store. But I can tell you this—I actually heard Epifania’s mother say to her daughter that she looked like a whore in the dress she was wearing, which essentially set the place on fire. Defensively, Epifania did what she always does—she said that since she was worth half a billion, she was no whore. But her mother went for the jugular. She said that Epifania’s dress fit her tighter than the skin on a blood sausage.”

  “Oh no, she didn’t.”

  “Oh yes, she did. And it only got worse—Epifania actually called her mother out. She said that at least she didn’t wash up on shore in an inner tube wearing nothing but a banana leaf and a couple of coconuts. It got ugly.”

  “Why couldn’t I have been there?”

  “The world should have been there. Immaculata is as deranged as she is unhinged. And she totally set Epifania up for failure with that ill-fitting dress. I can’t stand her. And speaking of Epifania, I should call her today. She’s been raked through the press since what happened to Audric. I’ll send her flowers in a show of support. What happened to Audric wasn’t her fault. She didn’t want to sit in his lap. She tried her best to suggest that she was too heavy for him, and that it was a bad idea. But he insisted upon it. Epifania is a nice girl. She just played along—and then look what happened. The press is pinning part of this on her—and on Alex and me for not stopping it from happening, as if we could. But Alex and I can handle the negative press. I’m not so sure that Epifania can. I’ll talk with her later today or tomorrow, and ask her over for coffee sometime this week. Somebody needs to get behind her, because I can guarantee you that bitch Immaculata has already distanced herself from her.”

  When the server placed a full plate of spaghetti in front of me, I knew that I’d never get through it—even if it did smell good. But when he moved Lisa’s plate of salmon in front of me and I caught a whiff of the fish, for some reason my stomach went sour, and I knew in an instant that I was going to throw up.

  “Excuse me,” I said as quickly as I could.

  When I stood up, I stood too quickly—my chair hit the ground, but I didn’t stop to pick it up. There was no time. I was about to hurl. As fast as I could, I cut through the tables as people turned to watch me flee to the ladies room. Just in time, I found a stall, dropped to my knees, and started to dry heave into the toilet. I had nothing in my stomach, but my stomach didn’t seem to give a damn about that. I just continued to heave until I heard the bathroom door open and then Lisa’s voice just outside the stall.

  “Jennifer, open the door.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s got to be stress.”

  “But we were just having a fun conversation.”

  My stomach clenched one more time, but only bile came out of my mouth. I felt ashamed and humiliated. Worse, I’d just ruined lunch with my best friend. I grabbed some tissues, wiped my mouth, and stood once the nausea had passed. I wasn’t sure when I’d ever felt so weak, but I pulled it together and opened the door to find Lisa standing just beyond it.

  “You’re practically white,” she said.

  “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that today.”

  “Come over to the sink. Rinse out your mouth.”

  I did as I was told. When I was finished, I looked at myself in the mirror, and knew that something was wrong with me that went beyond mere stress. I could handle stress. Moreover, I knew that my gut was made of steel.

  What’s happening to me?

  “I need to leave,” I said. “People saw me topple over my chair. I can’t go back into that crowd as if nothing happened.”

  “Of course we can leave. But something isn’t right. Why did you throw up?”

  “I don’t know. When I smelled your salmon, that was it for me. I just wanted to puke.”

  “You threw up this morning?”

  “I’ve been throwing up all week.”

  She gave me a curious look. “At what time?”

  “Mostly in the morning. But one time it happened later in the day.”

  “I’m going to ask you a question, but try not to freak out.”

  “What question?”

  “Are you pregnant?” she asked.

  “Am I what?”

  “Pregnant.”

  “God, no. I’m on the pill. You know that I am—and I never miss a day. Ever. Alex and I aren’t planning on having a family for another two years. That’s way off the table. It’s got to be something else. I should probably see a doctor, but I can’t because I’m too busy. And I can’t have Alex worrying about me right now. It would be too much for him. It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

  “He’s your husband. You have to tell him if something is wrong.”

  “How about if I confirm that something is wrong, and then I’ll tell him? What’s the point otherwise?”

  “I think you need to take a pregnancy test.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not that. You’ve seen what my life has been like this week. Obviously, for whatever reason, my body is reacting to it.”

  “Fine,” Lisa said. “You’re not pregnant. So, why don’t we just prove it with a test? What’s the harm? You pee on a stick, you get your negative, and then you call your doctor to get to the bottom of this. How’s that for a plan?”

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  I can’t be.

  “Besides,” I said. “With the press on my ass, I certainly can’t walk into a drug store and buy a test anyway. Oh, they’d be all over that.”

  “Then let me buy it for you. We’ll leave here separately. I’ll take a cab, buy the test, tuck it into my handbag, and meet you at your apartment. Then, you’ll pee on the damned stick. If you’re not pregnant, then something serious might be wrong. You’ll need to see your doctor ASAP. But if you are pregnant, then you need to know now so you can see your doctor for a whole host of different reasons. Either way, Jennifer, I know you. Stress has never made you throw up. When have I ever even known you to throw up, with the exception of that time in college when we downed a bottle of tequila between us?”

  She put her hand on my shoulder.

  “Can we just do this?” she said. “Please? I’ll pay for the bill. You text Tank now, and he’ll meet you outside. Give me an hour, and I’ll be at your apartment with the test. OK?”

  “I’m not pregnant, Lisa.”

  “Then prove it to me—and to yourself. You owe yourself that. You owe your health that, you owe Alex that, and if you are pregnant, you sure as hell owe your child that. So, we’re doing this?”

  “What choice do I have?” I said.

  AN HOUR LATER, WHEN Lisa arrived at the apartment, I took the test from her hands, read the directions, opened it, and went into the bathroom.

  And then I peed on the stick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  LATER THAT EVENING, I was feeling much better. The nausea was gone, and finally I felt like myself. Earlier that afternoon, I’d texted Alex to tell him that I wo
uldn’t be returning to Wenn for the day, and that I’d see him when he came home.

  His text back to me was loving and revealing, especially since he knew how Lisa and I were whenever we got together: “Too many martinis? I hope so. You deserve them. There’s much to discuss, which will probably end with a back rub if you’re feeling up to it. When I tell you what’s in front of us tomorrow night, you might also need one, and I’ll deliver. I love you, Jen—Alex.”

  It was almost seven o’clock when Alex finally walked through the door, his face showing a conflict of emotions that I’d never seen before—exhaustion, anger, and what appeared to be a trace of concern, which was likely due to the fact that Wenn’s stock had closed at its lowest point in nearly three years. It was now down another forty-eight points, thus erasing the gains Ann and I had seen earlier.

  Before he arrived, I’d showered, done my face and hair, and changed into a sexy red top that did nothing to hide my cleavage and an exquisite pair of Versace skinny jeans that barely fit my ass, though I’d heroically thrown myself down on the bed and squeezed myself into them. On my feet were my favorite Manolo Blahnik Audi ankle-strap pumps, which were especially hot when paired with jeans. I looked fresh and ready to greet my man when he walked into the foyer.

  And when he did, he just stopped.

  “Look at you,” he said. “Jesus, you look good enough to eat.”

  “Dinner’s served whenever you’re ready to dine.”

  He smiled at that, but behind the smile, I could sense a strong element of distress. I went over to him, kissed him for a long moment, took his briefcase from his hands, and then asked him for his jacket and tie.

  “You need to relax,” I said. “I’m here to help.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and removed his tie. “You’re the best.”

  “And you are tired—I can tell. So, let’s talk about all of it. To say the least, I’m curious about what’s happening in Singapore. But first, let me get you a martini. Sit over there on the sofa—go on. Right over there. I’ve got this. Have you eaten?”