Surprise Package

by Shirl Henke

  “Ladies, I give you Gentleman Johnny Jackson!”

  With that, the emcee stepped away, and all eyes in the room fastened themselves on the big box stage center. Slowly, the lid began to rise and slide ever so slowly over to one edge. Every female in the room seemed to hold her breath, Gilly included.

  It must be the screwdriver. I never could drink without getting giddy. Her eyes were glued to the top of that box just like everyone else's. When the lid began to fall, a female sales rep sitting in the front row jumped up and caught it in her arms, peeking inside the box with a squeal of delight. A red satin top hat appeared first, tossed casually over the rim of the box by a white-gloved masculine hand. Now, every woman leaned forward on her folding chair. The top of his head emerged, followed by a pair of broad shoulders encased in a form-fitting red satin tux. He was facing the opposite side of the room as he slowly stood up, revealing…

  “Buns of steel!” a copyeditor sitting next to Gilly breathed in awe as the aforementioned tush began to move, ever so slowly, ever so sensuously, to the beat of the music.

  The red satin tux pants looked spray-painted on his body as he stepped over the edge of the gift box and jumped lithely to the floor. He scooped up the top hat with one hand and placed it on his head at a rakish angle. Everyone was hypnotized by Gentleman Johnny.

  “I never thought I'd say it, but I think this guy has a better bod than Bill—oh, God, don't you dare tell him I said that!” Charis whispered without taking her eyes off the long-legged man in red satin. She did not notice that Gilly was sitting very still, making no reply, her eyes wide and glassy as she stared at the tall man with the shoulder-length black hair.

  It can't be...

  Her mind simply shut down. He did not have to turn around. She knew every inch of that gorgeous body—the broad shoulders, the long legs, the “buns of steel,” and the graceful hands. Especially the hands—those slim, powerful hands, which he was now divesting of their gloves. Hadn't she studied the pattern of hair on their backs as he slept beside her? She knew the way he moved, the way he held his head, every nuance of his appearance. Even when he spun around and faced her side of the audience, Gilly could not fully take it in—Jeffrey Lyle Brandt, a male stripper!

  Good grief! He's coming closer. She slid down in her seat, deathly afraid that he would recognize her amid the throng of eager women who were by now growing increasingly raucous as he began to shrug the shiny red satin jacket off one muscular shoulder. Gilly couldn't seem to tear her eyes from him and the incredible exhibition he was giving. If I don't quit staring, he'll sense that it's me! The surge of panic gradually subsided as a bitter thought stung her: She was hardly significant enough in Jeff Brandt's life for him to feel any special bond that would allow him to pick her out of a crowd, especially a crowd like this.

  Flexing his knees and ever so subtly moving his hips to the music, he swung the jacket over one shoulder and strode across the floor like a devil-may-care hitchhiker, Clark Gable in It Happened One Night. When he lowered the jacket around the shoulders of the contracts manager, she nearly swooned before he whisked it away and sent it flying into the box. Then, he pulled off his tie and tossed it to the back row. There was a veritable feeding frenzy as women clawed each other for the small piece of red satin.

  Like those of every other woman in the room, Gilly's eyes followed avidly as he popped the rhinestone cuff links from his shirt and put them provocatively into one tight pants pocket. Then, he started flipping the rhinestone studs from the front of his shirt into the audience. Joan Rivers might have said that if God had intended women to get down on the floor and exercise, He would have strewn it with diamonds; but in this case rhinestones worked even better. A dozen women were on their hands and knees, seizing the faux gems as he unfastened the cummerbund at his waist and used it playfully like a back scrubber, all to the beat of the music. He applied the sash to a few other more imaginative places, then tossed it, too, into the box.

  By the time he had the shirt peeled open, revealing a dark thatch of hair that narrowed enticingly at the waistband of his pants, the women were shrieking and stomping like Greek maenads. Cries of, “Do it, Johnny, baby!” “Bare your soul,” and, “Yesssss!” echoed around the room, almost drowning out the music.

  He left the shirt gaping open and turned his attention to his shoes. How the hell could a man taking off shoes and socks be sexy? Oh, it was, it was. “Oh, God, even his feet are gorgeous!” a young billing clerk whispered breathlessly to her companions.

  Gilly watched the rhythmic balancing act as he stood on one foot, the other in midair, all the while moving with the music. He tossed one shoe over his shoulder into the box, then the other. She remembered watching Jeff go through his Tai Chi exercises, never imagining how much the discipline would help with the contortions he now performed. The roar of the crowd grew deafening when his hand moved to the fly of his pants.

  At the rear of the room several high-ranking publishing executives stood in the shadow of the door. None was certain whether to be horrified or amused by their employees' enthusiasm. Deciding to go with the holiday spirit, they exchanged a few hearty chuckles and ordered more martinis.

  “Omigod, he's going to do it!” Charis whispered to Gilly as Jeff began slowly lowering the zipper. But then, before she could notice her friend's frozen demeanor, he stopped, raising it once more.

  Charis, like every other woman in the room, groaned...every woman but one. He teased them again and again as he made his way around the circle, playing the largely female crowd for all it was worth. There was a palpable sigh of satisfaction when the zipper finally stayed down. He let the fly gape open, revealing the pattern of black hair arrowing past the navel in his washboard abdomen to disappear tantalizingly below. His narrow hips gyrated in slow sync with the music, emphasizing the way the skintight red satin pants clung to his lower body as he shrugged off the white silk shirt and flung it onto the growing pile of clothes inside the box.

  “I wouldn't have to do any Christmas shopping for my boyfriend if I could get my hands on that box,” one editor said to another. “But then again, I'd a hell of a lot rather see Johnny wearing those clothes than Sam.”

  “I'd rather see Johnny not wearing them,” her companion replied, eyes glued to the man as he began to ease the pants down with excruciating slowness, letting the women work themselves into an even greater frenzy.

  The tips were better that way.

  When he finally peeled them completely off and threw them into the box, one shiny red pant leg dangled over the edge, swinging to the music. He was six feet, two inches of lean, sinuous muscles and looked lightly tanned...everywhere. The tiny briefs didn't conceal much.

  Now the money-making part of the event began in earnest. He gave them several minutes to look but not touch, dancing smoothly around the circle, almost but not quite daring them to make the first move. Someone always did.

  It was an assistant art director, with a twenty-dollar bill and her business card. She boldly reached out and stuck both into the elastic band around his hips, whispering, “We simply must have you for a cover model. You're utterly perfect. Call me, darling.”

  He smiled and moved on as women began flinging bills of all denominations at him. Aware that two of the most influential women in the romance industry were sitting in the front row, he paused in front of them. They watched with rapt attention. Kathryn Falk, Lady of Barrow, stared up into the most fathomless brown eyes she'd ever seen, saying breathlessly, “I never carry cash. I suppose you're not equipped to process a credit card...” Her attention again moved down to his undulating hips and the scanty covering thereon. “Hmm, foolish of me to ask. Would you by any chance take a check, darling?”

  “Gentleman Johnny” nodded with a blindingly white smile. Kathryn whipped out her checkbook and began to scribble, all the while darting glances at the stunning entertainer. She had to tear up two checks before finally completing one that was legible.

  As she jammed it
into his G-string, Carol Stacy continued rooting through her Louis Vuitton handbag like a demented squirrel searching for a cache of acorns. All she could find was a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. She stuffed it into his G-string and said apologetically, “I'm sorry it's so little. Oh, no! That's not what I meant—I meant the money…really...you're...fine...very fine.”

  He grinned at her and gave her a wink, then moved on. Kathryn leaned toward Carol and said, “We have to get that hunk for our next cover-model pageant. Would he ever be an asset!”

  Enjoying the retreating rear of “Gentlemen Johnny,” Carol only murmured, “Mmm.”

  “Carol, are you listening?”

  “I am, Kathryn, I am. He has a very fine asset...a superlative asset!”

  Gilly sat near enough to overhear the exchange. So did Charis, who giggled and looked over at her friend. “At least I'll say this—he isn't some cheap bump-and-grind gigolo who shaves his body hair and lives on steroids. Everything this guy's got, he's got for real, no additives needed.”

  Then, for the first time, Charis noticed the way Gilly was slouched down in her seat, practically cowering, her eyes wide with stunned shock. “Say, sweetie, are you all right? I mean, I didn't intend to gross you out...although I guess every woman in the place has already done that. I'm sorry. I—”

  Charis stopped short as Gilly's eyes began to focus and narrow. Gilly's mortification at the chance of being recognized was finally beginning to shift to boiling fury. “How dare he do this to me! The hypocritical, conniving, sneaky, slimy, deceitful, wretched...did I say hypocritical?” Charis nodded dumbly. “He tricked me! He...he...he told me he was from Scarsdale. His mother raised Afghan hounds, and he was supposed to be a lawyer.”

  “Then all of the adjectives are appropriate,” Charis said dryly, realizing with an irrepressible urge to guffaw that “Gentleman Johnny” was really “Gentleman Jeffrey.” “This is too rich!” The whoop of laughter burst out before she could stop it.

  Gilly turned to glare at her, then returned her narrowed eyes to Jeff. “I suppose you'll say I deserve it for telling a few fibs myself.”

  “A few fibs? C'mon, girlfriend. You told some whoppers.”

  Gilly ignored the still chortling Charis, whose attention had also returned to Jeff's body. He had made almost a complete circle of the room, working his way through the chairs, which were now askew at all angles as the women jumped up, yelling, clapping, and throwing everything from cash to clothing. They blew kisses at him, the bolder ones going so far as to reach out and touch those “buns of steel” or tangle their fingers in his hair.

  Somehow, he always gracefully disentangled himself without ever seeming to put off a single woman. Now and then, he would pause and reach out a hand to women who were shy or not particularly attractive, drawing them up for a light buss on the cheek, then carefully letting them down, collapsed in bliss on their chairs. By the time he'd worked three quarters of the crowd, his skimpy briefs were literally stuffed, front to back, with money...and slips of paper with phone numbers on them. The cash he'd keep, the other he wouldn't.

  He was almost ready to call it a day and signal Archie to take down the lights so he could make his exit, when he saw her. It couldn't be. But it was. Her pale green eyes were blazing with wrath as they collided with his startled dark ones. Shit! How in hell did a literary editor from FS&G end up here?

  Nothing to do but brazen it out. Struggling to maintain his professional persona, Jeff made his way toward her. Maybe now that she knew his dirty little secret, he could explain everything; and she would understand why he'd stood her up the night of her friend's party. Then again, maybe not. She looked mad enough to chew nails and spit fence staples, as David Strongswimmer's dad used to say. He proceeded cautiously, aware as he had not been for several years, of the effect his act had on women. It was like trying to walk through a wall of limpets.

  Jeff had thought after the first few months that he'd gotten over the acute embarrassment, but it came rushing back now. When she realized that he was trying to reach her, Gilly jumped up and practically climbed over the bodies of the people who were in her way, just to escape him. By the time he called out her name, she was down the aisle and out the door. He collected himself enough to give Archie the signal. The lights went down and the music rose to a crescendo as Jeff backed into the open circle and took a bow, then bounded up the aisle and disappeared to the roaring cheers of his fans. Archie followed with the gift box. One woman tried to snag the pant leg still dangling over its edge, but he foiled her by grabbing it first and tossing it inside.

  Jeff raced through the suite and down the hallway, darting glances into the empty rooms, calling Gilly's name. She had vanished. When he came to the ladies' room door, he paused.

  “Don't even think it, chum,” Archie said, lighting up one of his Swisher Sweet cigars in spite of the no smoking signs.

  “She's probably gone anyway,” Jeff replied, more to himself than to Archie.

  “You gonna chase after her, ya better put a little more on first. If the cops don't getcha, frostbite sure as hell will.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too,” Jeff replied with a snarled oath, then turned and headed into the men's room, where his street clothes were waiting. He knew there would be no Gilly waiting. Ever again.

  “Dames is nothin' but trouble,” Archie philosophized as they walked toward the elevator. “But they pay like hell won't have it if you got the right stuff. You could go for the big time, Jeff.”

  Archie had delusions of managing Jeff's “career.” “No way. We've been over this before. I'm only doing it until I finish my law degree.”

  * * * *

  Charis Lawrence had lost Gilly in her headlong flight, so she regrouped and went looking for the man in her friend's life—or out of it, for the time being. Genuine concern tempered her raging curiosity about Gilly's mystery man. She staked out the men's room and waited, then followed at a discreet distance as he and his assistant loaded their gear into the freight elevator at the end of the hall.

  “Well, Char, my girl, it's now or never,” she whispered, steeling herself as she walked up to them and extended her hand in what she hoped was a calm, professional manner. God, what if he thinks I'm going to give him my phone number—or a pair of panties!

  Chapter Nine

  Christmas Eve afternoon Gilly reached for the phone, almost desperate enough to call home. Home. As if she'd ever had one. Oh, there was the shabby old shotgun house just off Superior Avenue on the east side of Cleveland. Mill hand houses—that's what folks used to call them. Endless rows of narrow frame buildings, soulless in their austere similarity. Her family had lived in one, bought with the money Whalen Newsom had once earned before the steel industry started closing down and her dad became a brutal drunk.

  Her mom had stuck it out stoically, living with grinding poverty and abuse, unable to see any other possibilities. She and Liv had. But that was where the similarity ended. Gilly had struggled for scholarships, while Liv had dreamed of Hollywood and instant stardom. Her older sister had dropped out of high school and run away with a sleazy actor, turning up drugged out and pregnant when Gilly was a freshman at Oberlin. She'd lost the baby but not the drug habit.

  It was the final thread to snap in Clarissa Newsom's life. Their mother slipped away that year, and Liv returned to the West Coast. She and their father heard from Liv occasionally, when she wanted money. Gilly sent what she could at first. Whalen used what little he had to buy Four Roses Bourbon.

  He was still alive, her dad. It was Christmas, and he was the only man in her life. A hell of a note. She dialed his number and let it ring half a dozen times before he answered. His slurred speech indicated that he was already celebrating the holiday, although it was only mid-afternoon. “Whaddya want?”

  “Dad, it's Gilly. Just calling to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  “Whozit?” a high-pitched female voice whined through the wires. Gilly listened as her father and his current floozy ex
changed drunken curses, ending with the all-too-familiar sound of a fist hitting flesh. “Gilly, that you, girl? Hardly recognize yer voice after all this time. You never come around anymore. Whatzamatter, too hoity-toity for an old steel-worker?”

  “You know that's not true, Dad. I have a really tough job here in New York, and I don't get much vacation time. I—”

  “Well, if you can't come, least you could do is send me a few bucks once in a while. I got another notice from the gas company.” His voice was wheedling now.

  Her stomach clenched. She knew he'd never given a damn about his daughters, any more than he had about his wife. “You have enough between your mill pension and Social Security to live on, Dad.” If you didn't drink it up. “The house is paid for.” Thanks to Mom's working all those years at Kmart.

  “I don't need any of yer smart lip. I got expenses—medical expenses.” He faked a cough.

  Gilly knew he was as healthy as a horse in spite of having a liver the size of The Flats on Cleveland’s waterfront. Every dime she'd ever sent him went directly to the liquor store. “Have you seen Dr. Raymond?” She'd learned years ago that the best way to foil his manipulations was to check with their old family physician. Unlike Whalen, the doctor told her the truth.

  The conversation deteriorated from there, ending with him yelling at her, “Yer just like yer no good sister and that bitch that spawned ya. Ain't no daughters of mine. Probly the mailman's.”

  As he laughed drunkenly at his own witticism, Gilly quietly set the receiver back on its stand. She rubbed her eyes and leaned back in the overstuffed chair, which had now been covered with a moss-green throw. The room no longer looked like a hovel. In fact, her redecorating frenzy had wrought wonders. Warm earth tones dominated, with terra-cotta and cream-colored throw rugs brightening the dull neutral carpet, and melon and celery-green scatter pillows piled on the sofa. She stared at an immense poster of a southwestern desert scene, courtesy of Delux Travel, which hung over the faux fireplace mantel. She'd even splurged on new lace curtains in celery green and bought a small Christmas tree. After that she'd run out of energy. There were no presents under the pine.