“If you like my lips, how ’bout us going out sometime?” he said with an encouraging wink. “You an’ me, Maddy, we could make things happen.”
“Make things happen?” she said, laughing derisively. “What century are you living in?”
He didn’t like that. Women were all the same, a bunch of bitches, his father had taught him that. And that’s about the only thing Leon had taught him. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a ball-breaker?” he said with a sharp scowl.
“Has anybody ever told you you’re barking up the wrong woman?” she replied coolly.
“Jesus!” he muttered, turning away.
Madison reminded herself to have a little talk with Anton about his seating. Surely he knew better than to stick her next to Joel Blaine?
Why was Joel there anyway? He was a most unlikely guest, hardly on Anton’s A list.
She turned to the man on her other side, Mortimer Marcel, the designer. Mortimer was gay, but always entertaining. A tall, slim man in his early fifties, he was elegance personified. “You must come visit our showroom sometime,” he said, chic as ever in a pin-striped suit with crisp white shirt, pearl-gray tie and diamond cuff links. “I’m presenting some divine outfits this year. You’ll love everything.”
“Do I get free clothes?” she asked jokingly.
“For you, yes,” Mortimer said, taking her seriously. “You’re an excellent advertisement.”
“I am?” she said, surprised. Hmm . . . first she had gorgeous lips, now she was an excellent advertisement. Hey, girl, she thought wryly, you’re certainly scoring tonight!
She glanced across at the other table, where Jamie was glowing as Kris Phoenix plied her with compliments. Peter was slumped in a chair a few seats away from his wife. He did not look too happy. Next to him was a stick-thin, heroin-addicted supermodel—a girl who was failing to hold his interest.
Tonight is not Anton’s greatest seating triumph, Madison thought. She feigned a yawn. “I have to leave early,” she whispered to Mortimer.
“So do I,” he whispered back, indicating his live-in love at the next table. “Perhaps Jefferson and I can offer you a ride?”
“Great,” she said, and was relieved to find that Joel had turned his full attention to the woman on his other side—a gorgeous black opera singer.
Poor soul. There was no greater punishment than being hit on by Joel Blaine.
As soon as they finished dessert she was out of there, sitting in the back of a town car with Mortimer and the black, bald and sexy Jefferson. What a waste, she thought. Why are all the good ones either taken or gay?
David hadn’t liked gay men, they’d threatened his masculinity or some such garbage. She remembered how they’d often argued about his homophobic tendencies. Of course, gay women were fine with him. There were many times he’d tried to persuade her to do it with another girl. To his annoyance, she’d always refused. Threesomes were definitely not her scene.
On reflection, there were quite a few things about David she hadn’t liked.
So why the wasted two years?
Great sex, she was forced to admit. Great, uncomplicated, satisfying sex.
“How important do you think sex is?” she asked Mortimer.
“What?” he said, not quite sure he’d heard her correctly.
“I’m conducting a survey. How important is sex between two people?”
Mortimer glanced quickly at Jefferson. “What’s your answer?”
Jefferson grinned. “Sex, man—it’s the most important thing in the world.”
“I disagree,” Mortimer said, adjusting one of his diamond cuff links. “Getting along with somebody is more important, especially when you live together.”
“How long have you two been a couple?” Madison asked.
“I discovered Jefferson when he was a mere child,” Mortimer said, patting his boyfriend on the knee. “Eighteen or nineteen . . . he’d just arrived in America from Trinidad. I was living with an older man at the time, so Jefferson and I became friends first.”
“That’s nice,” Madison said.
“He was my favorite model,” Mortimer said, turning to his significant other. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
Jefferson grinned again and shook his head. “No way, man. You came on to me in the dressing room the first show I did. It was like, ‘Oh, here we go!’ Everybody was laughing about it.”
“Who’s everybody?” Mortimer said huffily.
“The people who work for you—they know what you’re like.”
“They know what I used to be like,” Mortimer corrected. “Then you came along, and now I’m a changed man.”
“Yeah, you’d better believe it!” Jefferson said, with another huge grin. “ ’Cause I don’t take kindly to nobody messin’ around on me.”
“I’m duly warned,” Mortimer said.
“So be it,” Jefferson said, and they exchanged a long, intimate look.
Madison began to feel as if she was in the way. Maybe a cab would’ve been a better idea.
“Are you interviewing us for the magazine?” Mortimer asked curiously.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I was merely thinking about relationships. Y’see, I was in one where I hardly had anything in common with the guy. I mean, we didn’t even like the same music.”
“Not good,” Jefferson interjected. “You gotta get off on the sounds.”
“Right,” she agreed. “I’m into soul and jazz, and he was a classical freak. We never read the same books, or watched the same TV programs. He loved sports. I’m bored by them. I guess we were totally different.”
“Then what was the big attraction?” Jefferson asked.
“Sex, of course. And now that he’s gone I realize that maybe I simply got too comfortable. Y’know what I mean?”
“Were you planning on getting married before you broke up with him?” Mortimer asked, ever the practical one.
“He broke up with me,” Madison explained. “That’s why I feel so kind of . . . like it’s unfinished business.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Then he ran off and married someone else to make me feel really good.”
“What an asshole!” Jefferson said.
“Agreed!” Madison said.
“How’d you like to see him again?” Jefferson ventured. “Y’know, fun times on the side. Do to her what she did to you.”
“She didn’t do anything to me,” Madison said calmly. “She was merely around when he was ready for something different.”
“But you’re still pretty pissed, huh?” Jefferson said, nodding his bald head like he understood perfectly.
She laughed, slightly embarrassed because it was true, and she didn’t want to be pissed, she wanted to forget all about David once and for all. “Oh God, I feel like I’m sitting in a shrink’s office,” she groaned.
“Maybe that’s what you should do,” Mortimer suggested. “It certainly helped me.”
“No way. I hate shrinks—all they do is sit there on their smug asses, nodding their heads, telling you what you want to hear. Either that or they don’t say anything at all. Screw that!”
Jefferson nodded knowingly. “Get yourself to a shrink, girl,” he said succinctly. “You need help.”
Before she could summon up a suitable reply, the car stopped outside her building. She invited them up for a drink, but they declined, which was okay with her because she was tired and edgy and ready to crawl into bed.
Her dog, Slammer, a large black Labrador, greeted her at the door. Well, it wasn’t really her dog, she’d reluctantly agreed to look after the animal for a friend who’d gone to Australia for a week. The friend had gotten engaged, and the week had turned into three months.
In spite of herself, Madison had grown quite fond of the big dog.
Slammer didn’t need walking because she’d given the doorman a key to her apartment and he’d already taken him out. Which was good news, because she wasn’t into late-night strolls with a pooper-scooper f
or company.
Wandering into her small kitchen, she checked her answering machine. No messages, so she picked up the phone and called her father.
Michael sounded half asleep, but she didn’t care.
“Why you calling so late, sweetheart?” he mumbled. “Everything okay?”
“Are you sleeping?”
A very audible yawn. “I was.”
“Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all.
“What’s goin’ on? You sound down.”
“No, no . . . It’s simply that I do not appreciate hearing from Anton Couch that you guys are getting an apartment in New York.”
“Hey, sweetie, I really am asleep.” A pause. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“Sure,” she said, slamming down the phone.
She couldn’t stand it when her father didn’t give her his full attention. Michael had always been there for her—unlike her mother, who was more of a distant figure in her life. It had always been that way. As far back as she could remember, her mother, Stella, was this exotic-smelling, glamorous creature she hardly ever saw. As a child she’d been raised by a nanny, then sent to boarding school at eleven, vacations at summer camp and, finally, college.
The day she graduated, Michael had handed her the keys to her own small apartment. It was quite obvious there was no going home, and that was fine with her. She loved her parents, although there were times she felt she hardly knew her mother, but that was okay too. Michael more than compensated. He was a dynamic, interesting man, and she was glad he was her father.
She undressed, got into bed and attempted to read. After a few minutes she found her mind wandering and knew it was impossible to concentrate.
Slammer jumped on the bed, snuggling up beside her. She didn’t push him off. It was comforting that somebody cared—even if that somebody was only a dog.
She thought about Anton’s dinner and how she’d hated every minute of it. It hadn’t been up to his usual standard. Joel Blaine hitting on her. Ugh! And Peter Nova, drunk. Double ugh!
Tomorrow she’d fix an appointment with Victor’s private eye to sort out Jamie’s problems. Oh well, that’s what friends are for.
She switched off the light, but after ten minutes realized there was no way she was falling asleep. It was destined to be one of those nights. Maybe Jefferson was right, maybe she did need to see a shrink. Of course, Victor would know the best one in town, but how could she ask him?
She tossed restlessly, finally gave up and clicked on the television, flicking past several porno stations, marveling at a soft-core movie where the girls’ breasts jutted to attention without a sign of the effects of gravity. What a bunch of freaks. You didn’t see guys running out buying themselves perky silicone balls.
Silicone balls. What a hilarious thought!
She began to giggle. Slammer started to pant, a sure sign that he too was not ready for sleep.
Finally she got up and padded into the kitchen, where she fixed herself a cheese-and-ham sandwich with plenty of lettuce and pickles.
Slammer got the crusts. He was one happy dog.
Finally satisfied, they both returned to bed.
CHAPTER
6
“What?” Rosarita shrieked bad temperedly, staring at Dex, who stood in the front hall blocking her way. It occurred to her that maybe he’d found out about her and Joel, and she was all set with a thousand excuses. Not that she needed excuses—but until this was over she had to keep up some kind of show.
“Got a surprise,” Dexter said.
“Good or bad?” she snapped, cagey as ever.
“Good.”
“Then perhaps I can come in the fucking apartment,” she said, attempting to push past him.
“Don’t swear,” he admonished in a fierce whisper.
Maybe, just maybe he’d landed the lead role in a major movie and was about to tell her. Wouldn’t that be something.
She could dream, couldn’t she?
Dexter suddenly jumped to one side, making an extravagant gesture with his left arm. And to Rosarita’s horror, there stood Martha and Matt Cockranger, his goddamn parents.
“Shit!” The word slid out of her mouth before she could stop it. What in hell are they doing here? followed. But she was able to refrain from actually saying it aloud.
“Hello, dear,” said Martha, a plump, faded blonde in a lime-green polyester pantsuit, with jangly rhinestone earrings and white plastic open-toed sandals. “How lovely to see you.”
Rosarita was still in shock as Matt stepped forward, giving her an all-encompassing hug. Dex’s dad was a florid-faced man in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped gray hair and faded blue eyes. Once handsome like his son, he had been beaten into submission by the passing years. Plus he had a huge, protruding gut—solid as a football.
“How’s our Dick’s—” he began.
“Dexter,” Dexter interrupted, frowning at his father.
“How’s our Dexter’s little girl?” Matt corrected himself quickly, wary of his famous son’s wrath.
For once in her life, Rosarita was speechless. This was a nightmare. What had she done to deserve a visit from the Cockrangers?
“Mom, Dad, I didn’t tell Rosarita you were coming,” Dexter said, beaming. “She’s kind of overcome. You know how much she loves you.”
Oh, yes, Dex, pour it on. How could he do this to her? How could he?
“They’re staying with us, honey,” he continued. “I had Conchita fix up the guest room.”
“You did?” she croaked, wishing nothing more than an immediate shower and a long night of uninterrupted sleep.
“Isn’t it a neat surprise?” Dexter said, squeezing her arm. “I knew you’d be pleased.”
“I’m . . . I’m . . . shocked,” she stammered. Then turning to his big, blustery dad, she added, “How’d you get away from your job, Matt?”
“Took a three-week leave of absence,” Matt replied proudly. “Everyone at work watches our boy on Dark Days. Makes me something of a celebrity back home.”
Three weeks! This was getting worse every minute. Goddamnit! She asked for a divorce and the motherfucker flew in his parents! Unreal!
“We wanted to be sure to spend plenty of time with you,” Martha said. “Remember when you came to see us before you were married? The family is still talking about your visit.”
“Yes,” Matt agreed, rubbing his hands together. “And I’m looking forward to getting together with that dad of yours. He promised to show us the town.”
Oh, that was rich. How about a tour of all the strip clubs and a few drop-ins at mob-connected restaurants? Matt and Martha would fit right in.
“I wish I’d known you were coming,” Rosarita said, struggling for something to say. “I would’ve planned dinner.”
“That’s all right,” Dexter said—Mister-I’ve-got-it-all-under-control. “I made a reservation at ‘21.’ ”
Valiantly she tried to keep her scowl down to a minimum. “You did?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock,” she repeated.
“So let’s all get cleaned up and meet in the living room at seven-thirty,” Dexter said.
“Should I wear a tie?” Matt worried.
“Can I wear a pantsuit?” Martha asked anxiously.
Rosarita couldn’t stand it. Her life was turning to shit right before her very eyes.
•
Somehow Rosarita got through dinner, seething all the while. They were not given a good table at the restaurant, and she could understand why. Matt and Martha Cockranger had suburbia written all over them, and apparently the name Dexter Falcon meant nothing.
She didn’t mind that they were shown to a lousy table, because the truth was she didn’t wish to be seen with them. Christ! Going out with Chas to one of his gangster hangouts would be better than this. In fact, anything would be an improvement.
So far she had not gotten Dex alone. When she did, she planned on giving him an earful. How da
re he invite his parents to stay without consulting her? Especially when he knew she’d been talking divorce. The way he acted it was as if they were the happiest couple in the world. Was he losing it?
She spent the better part of the dinner worrying that Joel might come in and spot her, although everyone else appeared to be having a wonderful time. Martha downed two vodka martinis in a row and promptly got tipsy. Matt ordered several beers and kept jumping up to visit the men’s room, while Dex had a big stupid grin on his big handsome face all night. Boy, was he living in dreamland.
On their way out, a female customer stopped Dex and asked him for his autograph. It made Matt and Martha’s night. It put Rosarita in an even worse mood than before. Didn’t the idiot fan standing there with a pen and a dopey look on her moon face realize that he was nothing but a stupid nobody well on his way to nowhere?
Rosarita squelched a strong desire to scream. Why did she have to stand for this crap? Why couldn’t her father cooperate and arrange to have Dex whacked, thereby putting an end to this charade?
“It was such a lovely evening, dear,” Martha enthused when they got back to the apartment. “You make my little boy so happy. It truly warms my heart.”
Oh, God, was she going to have to face Martha at the funeral? Would she be forced to play the bereaved widow and pretend to be desolate?
The moment she and Dex were alone she started a litany of complaints. “What do you think you’re doing?!” she shrieked. “Inviting your goddamn parents without checking with me first. This is unfuckingacceptable.”
“Why are you so upset?” Dexter asked blankly. “You’ve always told me you love my parents.”
“When did I ever say that?”
“When we first visited them. Remember? Before we were married.”
“Ha! Before we were married I said a lot of things I wouldn’t say now.”
“You did?”
Was he obtuse, or what? God had given him exceptional looks, but he sure as shit hadn’t given him any brains.
“Listen to me,” she said, spitting her words out very slowly, making sure he heard every single one. “You don’t seem to get it. I . . . want . . . a . . . divorce. That means I do not intend to sit around playing nice with your parents.”
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