“You know, the things you find important are really baffling to me. That’s not the point!”
“Was his dick, or was his dick not, inside you at the time of the incident in question?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer. She knows it already anyway.
“Well there you go!” she crows.
“There I go what?”
She exhales in exasperation. “You weren’t even having sex, Chloe! It doesn’t count!”
“Really? Try telling that to my boyfriend, who broke my favorite vase on his way out the door to go burn down A.J.’s house.”
There’s a long, cavernous silence. Then Grace tentatively asks, “You’re telling me that you called Eric . . . A.J.?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“The same A.J. that you absolutely detest?”
I close my eyes. This is so embarrassing. “The very same.”
“The same A.J. that you wasted a perfectly good glass of champagne on when you threw it in his face, not two weeks ago, after calling him a certain smelly body part?”
“Grace.”
“The same A.J. who dates sluts named Heavenly?”
“Actually she’s a prostitute,” I correct. “He pays her. And all the rest of his girlfriends, near as I can tell.”
Grace begins to chuckle. It’s a low, throaty laugh that would make a phone sex operator green with envy. When she’s through enjoying the depth of my humiliation, she says cryptically, “Chloe Anne Carmichael, there’s hope for you yet.”
I throw an arm over my face. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”
“It means it’s time for a meeting of the sisterhood of the traveling panties. Lula’s, half an hour. I’ll call Kat.”
She hangs up. I know, from past experience, if I call her back she won’t answer. And if I don’t show at the appointed time, they’ll come and get me.
I drag myself from the couch to go get dressed.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. That must’ve been terrible for you.” Kat looks at me with big, sympathetic eyes and squeezes my hand.
We’re at Lula’s, a local Mexican restaurant where the three of us always meet in Venice Beach, at a table loaded with margaritas, baskets of tortilla chips, and a vat of salsa. Kat and Grace sit across from me. While Kat has been carefully listening to my retelling of the story about what happened with Eric, Grace has been fidgeting, anxious for me to get to the good part.
Right on cue, she demands, “Chloe, enough already. Get to the good part.”
Kat looks confused. “How can there possibly be a good part?”
I send Grace an evil glare I learned from watching A.J. practice it on me. Completely unfazed by it, she says, “That’s interesting. Did you pick up that little voodoo stare from your new boyfriend?”
It sucks when your friends are smarter than you.
I put my nose in the air and act like she hasn’t spoken. “What Grace means by ‘good part,’ Kat, is actually the worst part.”
Kat’s eyes narrow. She looks me up and down, as if checking for bruises.
I throw up my hands. “What is it with everyone assuming that because Eric’s a cop he’s going to beat me!” I glare at Grace. “Or burn a cross on someone’s lawn! On behalf of our police force, I’m insulted! Besides, you guys have known him for months, he’s a sweetheart.”
Kat—apologetically, I have to admit—says, “We also knew Jeremy for months before we found out he was the one stealing all your underwear. And wearing it.”
Grace points out with her usual dastardly logic, “And I wouldn’t call a man who destroys your favorite vase in a snit just because you had a tiny tongue slipup a ‘sweetheart.’ I’d call him unbalanced, and then I’d call him a cab and send his sorry ass home.”
“Calling a man another man’s name in a moment of passion—no matter if there was penetration—is not a tiny tongue slipup, Grace. It’s unforgiveable.”
“Oh, honey, give me just a slight break, will you? I’ve called men by the wrong name when they were doing everything from eating my cookie to plowing my corn hole! That boy just needs to grow thicker skin.”
With a groan, I drop my head to the tabletop and hide my face in my folded arms.
Someone says a tentative, “Excuse me.”
I look up and see a wide-eyed girl of about seventeen standing tableside, clutching a rolled-up magazine and a pen. The style of her clothes and general lack of sophistication suggest she’s a Midwestern farm girl. She stares adoringly at Kat.
“A-are you Kat Reid? The makeup artist? Nico Nyx’s fiancée?”
Kat and I look at each other. Wow. This is weird. Nico and Kat aren’t even married yet, and she’s already a celebrity. This girl wants her autograph.
Grace takes charge. “Oh, she gets that all the time, don’t you, Hortense? I hear the resemblance is uncanny.”
Farm Girl looks unconvinced.
“Honestly,” Grace insists, “would Nico Nyx’s fiancée be out having dinner in a crappy Mexican restaurant with no bodyguard?” Her laugh is indulgent. “I don’t think so.”
I know for a fact that she does have a bodyguard, Barney, who discreetly watches us from his position near the kitchen door. Knowing Nico, there are also half a dozen ninjas posted around as well, lurking under manhole covers or hanging upside down from the rafters like bats. His protectiveness of her is legendary.
The girl squints at Kat, then makes up her mind. “You’re right. I’m such a silly willy!” She wags the magazine in Kat’s general direction. “You’re much thinner than she is.”
She trots off. Grace bursts into gales of laughter.
“Oh, be quiet, Grace. You know the camera adds ten pounds,” says Kat, disgruntled.
She’s got the figure of a fifties sex symbol, all boobs and butt and tiny waist, and is a little sensitive about it. Personally, I think she’s beautiful. Guys are always going gaga over her curves. Standing next to her, I feel like an underfed giraffe.
“Ah, the perils of fame!” Grace says between hoots.
“Can we get back to the important topic here? Mainly, what was the worst part of your story, Chloe?”
I have to take several long swallows of my margarita before I work up the courage to speak. “The worst part . . . was the name I called Eric. Which . . . was . . .” I clear my throat. “A.J.”
Kat frowns. “Well, obviously that’s a mistake. You couldn’t have possibly been thinking of A.J., you’re not even attracted to him.”
I pull my lips between my teeth and stare at her.
Her mouth drops open. “No!”
Grace squeals and claps like a ten-year-old who’s just been given a pony at her birthday party. “Yes! Ha-ha! Isn’t it fantastic!”
Kat looks at me as if I’m possessed by the devil himself. “No! You hate him! He hates you! I’ve seen this all up close and personal! You can’t stand each other!”
“I know,” I say miserably. “Only now I sort of . . . don’t.”
Grace sighs. It’s a happy sigh. It sounds as if she’s just won a hundred million dollars. It irritates me so much I down the rest of my drink.
“You’re supposed to be my friend. You’re supposed to feel bad for me. You’re supposed to tell me what to do to make up with Eric! Instead you’re acting like this is the best thing that’s happened since you had that affair with the Italian cultural attaché!”
Grace pushes her long red hair off her neck in an elegant sweep of her wrist that is supremely her. “It’s not that good. But seriously, Chloe, as far as I can tell—and please forgive me, because I say this in total love—you have never been properly fucked.”
“Gee, don’t hold back, Grace. Tell us how you really feel.” I toss a chip into my mouth, crunching on it violently, wishing it were Grace’s head.
“All I’m saying is once you get a taste of a real man, nothing else in the world ever tastes the same. If you’re going to have a fling, A.J. Edwards is the. Perfect. Man for it.”
“Literally,” I mutter.
Grace isn’t buying it. “He’s too smart to get VD, Kat. He probably owns stock in a company that produces titanium condoms or something. There’s no way a player like that doesn’t take every precaution. Plus, high-end prostitutes are certified clean. I mean, really, they have papers to prove it. The clients expect it. You can’t charge five thousand dollars a pop and have the clap. Or worse.”
A chip falls out of my mouth. It lands on the table. Five thousand dollars? When A.J. told me he paid “thousands” for his high-rent hos, I thought it was an exaggeration.
“Dear God,” says Kat. “What kind of skills do you need to have to charge that kind of money for sex?”
I can tell Grace is about to provide a laundry list by the look on her face. I hold up a hand to stop her. “No! I don’t want to know!”
She gazes steadily at me. Her steely-grey eyes look even more steely than usual, which means I’m about to get a lecture. “Chloe, if you’re going to sleep with a man whose preferences run toward women who know how to expertly massage the prostate with anal balls while giving a blow job, you might want to brush up on your bedroom skills.”
“Gross!”
Vindicated, she sits back, shaking her head. “It’s like shooting puppies in a barrel.”
I turn to Kat. “Help me out here.”
“Hey, you’re the one who has the hots for him.”
“I never said I had the hots for him! I just don’t hate him so much anymore . . . is all.”
Grace drawls, “Riiiight. You just don’t hate him so much. Which is why you’re calling out his name during sex.”
I need to get new friends. These two are the worst.
Something terrible occurs to me. I bolt upright in my seat and grab Kat’s hand just as she’s lifting a loaded chip to her mouth. Salsa flies all over the place.
“Hey! I was going to eat that!”
“You cannot say a word to Nico about this. Promise me you won’t.”
“Chloe, even if I did, he would laugh me right out of the room. He’s seen you two together. He’d never believe it in a million years. When I told him you needed A.J.’s address, the first thing out of Nico’s mouth was, ‘Why, is she going to plant a bomb under his porch?’”
That makes me feel a little better. I release her wrist, and sit back in my chair.
“Needed his address?” Grace repeats, a little cattily I think.
“It’s not like that. He placed a flower order for some chick in Russia, and the address was wrong. Trina probably wrote it down incorrectly. It ended up being some cemetery. Anyway, the dude doesn’t own a phone, or a computer, which means he has no email, so I have no other way to contact him.” I add a teeny, tiny lie. “I’m going to send Jeff over to get it.”
Kat and Grace stare at me.
“What?”
Kat says, “Russia?”
Grace says, “Cemetery?”
I shrug, plowing into the salsa with two chips. I’m trying to make a chip-and-salsa sandwich. “Yeah. I know. What’s even weirder is that he told me when he looks at me, he sees ghosts.”
Grace starts laughing again. “He sees dead people? Like the kid in that Bruce Willis movie? This shit is solid gold!”
Kat isn’t laughing. She’s just staring at me with this really weird look, like she can’t decide if she wants to say something or not. So of course I have to know.
“Tell me right now or I’ll throw my chip sandwich in your face, girlfriend.”
She dusts off her hands, takes a swig of her drink, and wipes her mouth with her napkin. It looks like she’s stalling. Finally, she asks, “Have you guys ever noticed A.J.’s accent?”
Grace and I repeat in unison, “Accent?”
“Yeah. His accent. His oh-so-subtle-but-definitely-there European accent.”
Grace says, “You’re on crack.”
Kat shrugs. “That was almost exactly Nico’s response when I asked him about it, too.”
But I don’t dismiss it so lightly. Kat is really intuitive about certain things. Like, scary intuitive. She’s the one who told me I should check my ex-boyfriend Jeremy’s closet for my missing underwear.
“He grew up in Las Vegas. How could he have a European accent?”
Instantly, Grace has me pegged. “You Googled him, didn’t you?”
Crap. I motion to the waiter to get me another margarita.
“His tattoos are a little Russian prisony looking, though,” she adds thoughtfully.
“Prison? What?” I’m totally confused, but Kat picks up Grace’s train of thought right away.
“That’s what I thought! Those tattoos on the backs of his hands are totally Viggo Mortensen in Eastern Promises!”
Grace licks her lips. “God, he was so hot in that.”
“And when we were on tour, one time I saw him without a shirt. It was a total accident. I walked into the wrong dressing room. You’ve never seen a guy go sideways so fast, though. He was so pissed I thought he was going to explode. He acted like I’d caught him fucking a chicken or something.”
A chicken? I look to Grace, the expert. “That’s not a real thing, is it? Please tell me people don’t have sex with poultry.”
She smiles at me like I’m the village idiot and pats my hand.
Kat says, “If you think fucking chickens is weird, you should’ve seen some of the stuff we saw in the red light district in Amsterdam when we were on tour.” She shudders. “I’ll never look at bananas the same way again.”
“You guys are really starting to freak me out.”
“Moving on: Is his chest as lickable as it looks underneath all those stupid hoodies he’s usually wearing?”
Grace is more interested in hearing about A.J.’s naked torso than I’m comfortable with.
“I was too busy being goggle-eyed by all the tattoos to really notice. You’d never know it, but he’s got full sleeves, wrist to shoulder, in addition to stuff just everywhere, all over, front and back. Nico has lots of tats, but I’m talking hard-core. I’m talking full-on hard-core.”
I remember his face when he told me to get my ass on the back of his bike. I remember the look in his eyes. Now I imagine he’s naked, covered in tattoos, and, with that same look in his eyes, ordering me to strip and get my ass in his bed.
I drop my face into my hands. What’s happening to me? I’m a good girl!
“Look.” Kat digs her cell from her handbag, types something, waits, then hands it to me. It’s a website depicting various types of tattoos, in particular the types criminals in the Russian penal system are known to have.
“Okay, so the tattoos on A.J.’s hands might look similar to some Russian prison tattoos. That’s not evidence of anything! Maybe he just likes the culture!”
“Maybe.” Kat puts the phone back in her bag. Then she gives me a look that says or maybe not.
“It’s not like she’ll ever find out, anyway.” Grace toys nonchalantly with a lock of her hair. “Since she’s so full of guilt over her ‘unforgiveable’ name-mix-up episode with Eric that she’s going to beg him to take her back and forget all about the crazy-sexy secret Russian spy she’s dying to do the dirty deed with.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s not a secret Russian spy!”
She pounces. “Aha! So you don’t deny you’re dying to do the dirty deed with him?”
“You’re fixated on sex, you know that?”
“Why do you think I became a marriage therapist? Not only do I get to enjoy my own sex life, I get to hear all about everyone else’s!”
“Then why didn’t you just become a sex therapist?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Too tacky. Might as well own a massage parlor that gives happy endings.”
I blink. “That’s not a real thing, either, r
ight? Happy endings at massage parlors are just urban legends.” I look at Kat. “Right?”
Kat and Grace look at each other, pick up their glasses, and clink them together in a toast.
“Oh, screw you guys,” I mutter.
Kat slurps the salt off the rim of her margarita glass. Casually, she says, “Well, if you do ever find out anything . . . strange . . . about A.J., my advice is to keep it to yourself. In my experience, it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Equally casually, Grace asks, “That sounds interesting, Katherine. Care to share more?”
Kat’s face grows serious. She sets down her drink. She meets my gaze. Suddenly, in place of my normally lighthearted friend, there’s a stranger looking back at me. A stranger who’s older, and wiser, and has endless dark shadows in her eyes.
“You know what I went through,” she says, her voice quiet. “And I learned that people keep secrets for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes they’re sad reasons. Sometimes they’re selfish reasons. And sometimes . . . they’re dangerous reasons. If—and I’m only saying if—A.J. has secrets, they belong to him. And they’re best left alone.”
Kat’s talking about Nico’s crazy brother, Michael, who’s in prison for trying to kill her, among other things, and Nico’s crazy sister, Avery, who overdosed due to the complete insanity of her life . . . not least of which was the incestuous affair she was carrying on with Michael since she was a kid. The whole thing was a complete mess. Kat came out the other side okay, but there’s the occasional moment, like this, when it seems like her world was knocked off-kilter, and she hasn’t quite found her way back to center yet.
In the silence that follows, I think of how A.J. never looks into a camera lens. How he sits alone in a dark corner of a gay bar on a Sunday night, when the rest of the world is at home with their families. How when he looks at me, all he sees are ghosts.
I heave a sigh, and fill another tortilla chip with salsa. Around my chewing, I say, “I think this might be a good time to tell you guys about what happened last night. Then tell me if you think I should let this particular sleeping dog lie, or pat it on the head and wake it up.”
Four days later, at half past three on a sunny Friday afternoon, I stand outside my car at the end of a long dirt road in the Hollywood Hills, shading my eyes with my hand as I stare at a rusted chain-link fence bisecting the road.
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