by Karen Booth
We foolishly kept drinking and at one point, some idiot suggested we start doing shots of tequila. I was sure it was Graham, but that was conjecture. For all I knew, it could’ve been me. Marisol ignored our obnoxious behavior while she tidied the kitchen, the four of us laughing hysterically at stories told by Graham and Chris.
“Okay, hold on a second,” Chris said, slurring his words and raising his damn finger to get our attention. “I haven’t told you that Claire was a huge Banks Forest fan when she was a teenager. Huge.”
I glared at him. “Please don’t say another word.”
He winked at me.
“Aha!” Graham blurted, his eyes lighting up even though he could hardly keep them open. “Claire, you have to tell me which of us you had the hots for,” he insisted. “Come on now, don’t be shy. Just don’t tell me it was the P-Man.”
“Graham, darling, I’m sure it wasn’t you.” Angie had a comely smile on her face as she snickered.
“You two actually talk about this stuff?” I asked, irked that Chris had done what he swore he wouldn’t. “That’s completely pathetic.”
Angie giggled and slugged down the last of her wine, turning the glass upside down in disappointment when it was gone.
Chris leaned over to me, permeated by liquor. “It’s the best part of our story. She had it for me.”
“Yes, honey,” I responded, trying to disguise my own slur. “Me and a million other girls.”
“Well, that doesn’t make it sound romantic at all.” Chris frowned—he was beyond the point of being drunk, still terribly handsome with that awful look painted on his face. He tried to kiss me and I pulled away. He persisted and I dodged to the side and back again before he stopped my game and grabbed my head. “Come here,” he said, planting one on me, messy and with a bit too much tongue considering we had company.
It was obvious that Graham preferred the spotlight be on him, so he took our brief make-out session and a ten-second lull in the conversation as his opportunity to take off his pants. He then proceeded to show us exactly what kind of underwear he favored before he jumped in the pool, shouting at Angie to get in with him. I’d only known her for a few hours, but I was sure he would’ve had to be drowning for her to do that.
Chris erupted in laughter at the one-man act taking place in the pool, clapping his hands and doubling over. I then realized how he’d tolerated Graham all those years—he’d been wasted the entire time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I had a dreamless sleep the first night back at home. When morning came, the bed seemed like it stretched out for miles, I its sole inhabitant. I ached to have Chris there, twisting his long legs in the covers and breathing on me.
Our last day on the island had been a somber affair; me with a horrendous hangover and the two of us growing more melancholy as our time together dwindled. The only bright spot, the carrot dangling before my face, was Chris’s invitation to come to LA for the weekend since Graham had convinced him to book the acoustic show.
The sound of footsteps came from Sam’s room as I headed downstairs for coffee. A few days of spring break remained, but her mood was so miserable that I couldn’t imagine her enjoying a minute. It was a shame to think about the condition in which she and I’d left the island. We were both so happy when we got there.
My hand poised to knock, I wondered if today might be the day she decided to zip her lip and shut me out. I rapped gently, cracked the door, and she unraveled before I had the chance to say “good morning”.
“I miss Jean-Luc. I miss him so much. I can’t believe I’ll probably never see him again.” She slumped down on the bed, cascades of flattened flaxen curls hanging around her face. Her fingers worked at the hem of her faded t-shirt, pulling at a loose thread. She flopped onto her side, curling into a ball. “I close my eyes and he’s the only thing I see.”
I rubbed her back. “Honey, I’m sorry you feel so bad. I know it’s hard, but you’ll eventually get over him.”
She stared at me like she’d never done before. “Why do you hate him?”
“I don’t hate Jean-Luc. I didn’t want you to have to go through what you’re going through right now.”
“I think you hate him. Did you even talk to him while we were there?” Before I could answer, she chimed in on my behalf. “No. You didn’t. You let Chris do your dirty work for you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not stupid. I saw Chris pulling him aside, having their little secret meetings. It wasn’t hard to figure out why one day he wouldn’t touch me and the next day he was all over me.”
I took in a deep breath and exhaled with puffed cheeks. “Don’t blame Chris. He only did what I’d asked him to do. I didn’t want Jean-Luc to take advantage of you.”
Her response was lightning fast. “I knew it!” She sat back up and her face was scarlet. “Mom, you just can’t butt out, can you? Just so you know, he treated me better than any other boy ever has. He was polite and held my hand and he wasn’t afraid to tell me nice things. He told me I was pretty and funny and tons of other things that Andrew would never say.” Her tears spilled and dotted her t-shirt. “If that’s what you’re protecting me from, I don’t want to be protected.”
Everything I’d misread was obvious now. “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s just…” my voice wobbled. “I know I can’t protect you forever and that I need to let you make your own decisions. But it’s a lot easier to say those things than to actually do them. I saw Jean-Luc and he was so enthralled with you and it scared me. I was sure that all he wanted was sex.”
She rubbed the hem of her t-shirt again before she tucked her knees under her chin. Her eyes cast down, avoiding mine. “I was the one who wanted it. I had to talk him into it. He was worried about me, my feelings, if we did it.” She peered at me, eyes swollen with moisture. “Mom, don’t you remember what it was like to be my age? Boys aren't the only ones who want sex. Girls want it just as bad.”
I felt like the world’s worst mom. I was trying to protect her from the mistakes I’d made when I was her age. In the process, I’d tainted her memory of a boy she’d probably remember forever.
“Yes, honey, I remember what it was like to be your age. I remember it very well.” I remembered what it was like to be desperate to be rid of your virginity, like it was something you had to lug around that you didn’t want to own anymore. I took her hand and pulled it into my lap, her skin pristine and smooth.
“If you really remember, then you need to start letting go of me. I’m going to college after next year and then you won’t be able to protect me at all. You’ll have to trust me. I can make my own decisions.”
It felt as though the future was narrowing to a very lonely point. I knew what was coming in a year, I knew I was supposed to be excited for her, but I kept giving in to horribly selfish feelings. “Honey, I’m so sorry. It’s been the two of us for so long and that’s all going to change and—.” The words were there, but they felt impossible to say. “It’s going to be hard for me to watch you go. I won’t lie to you about that.” I reached for a tissue from her bedside table.
She looked at me with her clear blue eyes. “Mom, it’s going to be okay. I have to grow up some time. I can’t be a little kid forever.”
“I know, honey. I know. And I want you to grow up. I want you to have your own life and watch you do great things.” I touched her hair and silence settled us while our tears subsided. “I might have to check into a mental hospital, but it’s not a big deal.”
Sam turned the corners of her mouth and it felt like the best gift anyone had ever given me.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but did you have a nice experience with Jean-Luc?”
“Um…” Pink bloomed on her cheeks and she went back to the hem of her t-shirt. “Yes, it was nice. He was very gentle. It hurt a little more than I thought it would, but it hardly hurt at all the second time.”
I closed my eyes and gathered the st
rength to be calm about her admission. She deserved credit for confiding in me. “I take it you used protection?”
“Of course. You hammered that into my brain a million times.”
I closed Sam’s door quietly when I left, dazed by her revelation and in desperate need of coffee. After half a cup, I still couldn’t stomach the thought of the avalanche of e-mail likely waiting for me when I started my computer. Even more daunting, I had several stories to finish if I was going to go to LA on Friday. When my cell phone rang and I saw Chris P. on the caller ID, I smiled and my shoulders relaxed, the best possible reason to put off responsibilities.
“Hi.” I started sweetly, but my voice splintered at the thought of how much I already missed him. “Is everything okay? It’s early your time.”
“Everything’s fine. I couldn’t sleep and I was thinking about you.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I hated not having you in the same bed with me last night. Do you think you can come out on Friday? I’m already miserable without you.”
My pulse fluttered. “I talked to my dad last night after we got home. He can get here Friday morning if that works.”
He let out a breathy laugh. “You have no idea how happy that makes me. Let me take care of your flight.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can do it.” A part of me still wanted to do something for myself, as nice as it was when he took care of everything.
“I tell you what, I’ll have my travel agent call you and you can arrange everything with her. Will that make you feel better? Otherwise, you’ll probably just put yourself in coach.”
“I spent my entire life in coach. It’s not that bad.”
“I know, but I want you to have better.”
Although I would have gladly spent the day on the phone with Chris, I could no longer ignore the pile of work on my desk. A voicemail was waiting when I got off the phone, and all at once, Kevin managed to sully my restored happiness. I dialed the number, facing the inevitable. Avoiding Kevin never worked.
“Claire Bear, I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”
“I was on vacation. And I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.”
“Oh, come on, you used to love it when I called you that. It brings back nice memories, doesn’t it?”
“Not really.”
“Whatever,” he said, avoiding the topic of bad memories, of which he and I had a few whoppers. “Hey, you never called me after you finished your Chris Penman interview. I’d say I’m sorry, since he’s such a train wreck, but it sounds like you hit the jackpot.”
I closed my eyes. “How do you know I hit the jackpot? Patrick is keeping a lid on that story. He isn’t even letting staffers see it.”
“Is that what he told you?” He snickered. “Patrick and I are pretty tight these days. He hooked me up with the ghostwriting gig on Elise Penman’s book.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and my brain clicked in my skull, cringing at the thought of Kevin and Patrick, tight. “Wait, Elise Penman is writing a book?”
“You don’t know about that? Oh, shit. I just assumed Patrick mentioned it.” He laughed. “You’ll love it, a total piece of trash about being a Rock ‘n’ Roll wife. Turns out Mr. Pompous British Asshole screwed her over when they got divorced. She needs the money for that pesky drug habit of hers so she’s going to drag him through the mud and cash in at the same time.”
“That’s awful. I can’t believe she’d do that to him after everything she put him through.”
“Jesus, Claire, did you actually fall for his sob story?” He paused and my stomach sank. “Oh my God. Tell me you didn’t sleep with him to get him to talk. Is that why he spilled everything?”
“I’m not even going to acknowledge that.” My heart raced at an unhealthy pace. If Kevin became the reason things came crashing down, I might have to kill him.
“I wish I could’ve taken a crack at Penman. I mean, I wasn’t hired on Elise’s book until a week after your interview, but damn. There are some nasty stories in this book. I could’ve nailed him to the wall.”
“Nothing like skirting the whole journalistic ethics thing.”
“Yeah, right. Good one.” He snorted. “But seriously, this will be good for you. There’s a great buzz on your story and Elise’s book is just going to add to it once word gets out. Patrick told me he’s already planning on offering you another feature, maybe another cover.”
The mention of another big story made my heart race in a better way, but I struggled to wrap my head around the mess about to unfold. “What’s in Elise’s book?”
“Sorry, babe. Sworn to secrecy. They don’t want anyone in Penman’s camp finding out about it. I think they’re hoping for a bit of an ambush.”
“Lovely.” And here I am. Squarely in Penman’s camp.
“I’ll be back in LA in a few days, do you want to come and visit? Maybe you could persuade me to tell some secrets. You know, I miss that thing you do with your tongue.”
“Oh, gross. Cut it out. Will you at least tell me when the book is coming out?”
“Fine.” He paused and I heard him swallow, which was beyond disgusting. “It comes out a few weeks before your story. It’s called,” he laughed, “you won’t believe this, it’s so genius. The title is Love, Destroyed.”
Just like that, the thing that was going to crush Chris got even worse.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chris picked me up at the airport, waiting outside of the security checkpoint in his sunglasses and gorgeousness, leaning against the wall as if being beautiful took no effort at all. We hardly managed words before we were kissing, oblivious to the commotion of the airport swirling around us.
“I need to get you out of here,” he whispered into my hair, “now.”
We waited for the valet and I leaned on him as if I didn’t have the strength to stand on my own, with my hands deep inside his jacket. The feeling of his arms around me was bristling and intense, having gone for days without it.
When they brought his car around, a glossy silver-gray Aston Martin, the men within sight of the curb turned their heads in perfect unison and watched with lustful eyes. Chris was predictably cool about it with his hand at my back as the valet opened my door. Knowing nothing about cars and caring only slightly more, I could say that even I found the car super sexy, making it a perfect match for its owner.
He zipped around like he owned the city, but I appreciated his likely motives. His show wouldn’t have had the same effect in my Volvo station wagon in Chapel Hill or in a beat-up jeep on dusty roads. No, if he was going to impress me with a car and his skill, it had to be in that particular vehicle, on his home turf.
My skin prickled as it dawned on me that I had just been plunged into Chris’s world. The island had given me a taste, but it was fantasyland. Today I would see where he spent his days, ordinary for him and something more for me. He glanced over and grinned as he made another risky maneuver with the car, leaving the heat to ripple over me in steady, persistent crests.
“I find it funny that the person who drives like a complete maniac loves to criticize my driving.” I cracked a smile.
He slid me a handsome smirk, erasing days of lonely, and shifted in his seat. “But I’m in total control of the car. You’re one distraction away from running off the road.”
“That’s not true,” I insisted. Watching him, I noticed his hair was too perfect. I made a mental note to make it extra untidy as soon as we got to his house.
It was early evening and the sky was a gaudy shade of pink, a fitting backdrop for the endless sprawl of palm trees and donut shops. I’d been to LA many times, the last being when I ended things with Kevin. He was a great writer but would’ve made a better lawyer, quite practiced at wearing me down with his convoluted arguments until they almost made sense. Sure enough, his excuses for cheating had been well crafted, but I could only be a gullible idiot for so long.
This time was entirely diffe
rent. It was more than the person I’d come for; it was what was already here between us. Things felt as though they were about to burst forth. I had optimism in my heart, not a head full of scorn and acrimony. If I hadn’t been carrying around a secret about his ex-wife and her nasty book, everything would’ve been perfect.
The car climbed the hills, pivoting precisely at every turn, and just when I thought we couldn’t go much higher, we stopped at 4521. We waited for a heavy black iron gate to roll across the driveway before the engine crept us up to the house. He parked the car exactly where he felt like it, askew, forgoing the three garage bays.
The house was modern; dark gray with black exposed metal framing in orderly rows of rectangles and a flat roof. Inside, the space opened dramatically, sweeping in all directions after a wide entryway and two steps down to the living room.
We’d entered on the second floor and my eyes were drawn to the million-dollar view of rolling California hills through the towering windows at the back of the house. The sun was setting, shifting into black and blue.
The polished concrete living room floor was covered with a white shag rug, the ideal setting for his enviable collection of vintage 60s furniture, Scandinavian blonde wood tables and low couches and armchairs in gray textured upholstery. I adored the fact that he’d skipped the standard issue wealthy bachelor furniture, black leather and chrome.
“Well?” he asked, breaking me down with the sound of his voice.
“It’s beautiful. Incredible.” I set my purse on the coffee table.
He smiled and took my hand. “Good, I’m glad you like it. I want you to be comfortable here.” He pulled me close and wrapped me up in his arms, exploring my neck with buttery soft lips. I dug in and ruffled his hair just as I’d promised myself.
He pressed his lower body into mine and slid a hand under the back of my top, peeling it away in one seamless motion. “I vote that we postpone the house tour.”