Bedding Mr. Birdsong

by Deborah Camp

  Oh, she thought she was so fucking clever! He undressed, beginning with his trousers to give his aching cock some relief. She wants to be friends? Ha! She’d be the one dreaming of him, wanting him, wishing for him! His clothes flung hither and yon, he stepped into the cold shower to lower his raging temperature and aggravation. His hands went automatically to his cock and he tried – tried his level best not to think of Zaney Miller.

  Fuuuuck. It was her face that swam behind his eyes when he finally came.

  Chapter 7

  Men vs. Women Friends

  “I can’t believe you had the ovaries to pull something like that off,” Lonnie said, dropping her fork into the mound of spaghetti like a mic drop. “Way to go, Zaney. So, what was his reaction to your declaration of hot womanhood?”

  Zaney wound fettuccini around her fork, having replayed for Lonnie her “I’m too much woman for you” speech to Matthew Birdsong last weekend. “He looked downcast for a few moments and then he seemed to accept it. Wholeheartedly. Even thanked me for helping him come to his senses.”

  Lonnie digested this along with her mouthful of spaghetti Bolognese. “He had to be faking it. He was saving face, that’s all. You know that no woman has ever spoken to him like that. Just laid it out that she was too much for him and she didn’t want to hurt him.”

  Zaney smothered a giggle. “I didn’t put it quite like that.”

  “Sounds like you did. What inspired you?”

  “Watching him play the women after the fashion show.” She grabbed a slice of garlic bread and tore it in half as the shadow of those disturbingly sharp feelings swept through her again. “He has a lot going for him, you know? He’s gorgeous, smart, ambitious, successful, and then he acts like a total turd ball.” She waved the bread before taking a big bite. After a few chews, she continued, “He’d screwed half the models there! And he was proud of himself for remembering their names, although he couldn’t tell you squat about them other than that. Why? Because he doesn’t care.” She laughed when Lonnie said the last in unison with her. “Exactly. So, his ex-wife did the cockroach dance on him. Waaa-waaa.” She rubbed her eye and made a sad-baby face. “He needs to get over that. It galls me when someone denounces an entire race, gender, or species because of a transgression. That’s simply asinine. And Matthew Birdsong should know better and do better.”

  Lonnie tapped her fist on the table. “Rah, rah, sister.” She grinned. “You like him, huh?”

  Zaney shoved fettuccini in her mouth, giving herself time to piece together a mostly truthful answer to a tricky question. “Yes. He’s likeable. Actually, I think this crusade I’m on has more to do with his ex-wife.”

  “Carin? How does she figure in?”

  “Have you talked to her lately?”

  “Nope. I doubt that I will. It’s not like we’re buds and run in the same circles. It was a fluke to see her that night at E Station.”

  “The way she talked about her relationship – her marriage – was so easy breezy. Like it was nothing.” She craned forward, pressing her point. “She hired a detective to get the goods on a husband who wasn’t cheating – while she was cheating on him! I mean, that’s ballsy.”

  “Yeah, and wrong.”

  “So wrong.” She tucked into the fettuccini again, listening to snippets of conversation around her. Someone’s daughter was heading off to college. Two men argued over why the Yankees were better than the Mets. A woman asked a waiter for a dessert menu. She stared at the mound of pasta still in her plate. “I’m gonna need to take some of this home.”

  “We always do. They pile on the feed here.” Lonnie signaled to the waiter. “Can you package the rest of this up for us, please?”

  After the waiter cleared the table, taking their leftovers to place in “to go” boxes, Zaney finished off her glass of wine, her thoughts lingering on Matthew. Had he decided to ignore her? Had she crossed the line from interesting to irritating?

  “Has it been awkward between you and Birdsong since then?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since.” She sighed. “I’m kind of afraid it will be weird, though. I’ve been coming home later than usual and leaving earlier. I’ve had Frito Pie in doggy daycare more so that he’s not alone so much. We’re gearing up for Fashion Week. Hell week.” She scrunched up her shoulders in a defensive gesture. “It’s a month away and Foster is on a fame kick. He wants his name out there more. If he could get it in lights on Broadway, that would appease him a little. But just a little.” She squinted at Lonnie’s smile. “He’s been after Jennifer to find ways to advertise his name more.”

  “Like get him in the fashion magazines?”

  “Those and other media. I think he’s looking at doing a big ad campaign. Along the lines of D&G and Ralph Lauren.”

  “Expensive.”

  “Very.” She shrugged. “But Foster should invest it in the business. We’re showing at all of the Big Four this season. We’re even working with Bloomingdale’s for a ready-to-wear line. If we don’t grow, we stagnate. For next year’s Fashion Week, Foster wants his label and name to be more out there.”

  “Will you go to the ones overseas this time, too?”

  “Yes, which means I’ll be away most of September.”

  The waiter returned with their takeout and they used their phones to settle the bill. Lonnie leaned across the table.

  “So, did he talk dirty?” she whispered.

  Zaney couldn’t keep the devilish grin from her lips. “Uh-huh. Filthy.”

  Lonnie giggled. “Like what?”

  Zaney shook her head.

  “Come on! Give me one example.”

  Zaney inched closer. “He said, ‘Are you wet?’”

  Lonnie wrinkled her nose and fell back in the chair. “That’s not filthy. That’s not even very dirty, Zaney. You’re rusty, hon. You need to go out with some bad asses.”

  “Okay, okay.” She motioned for her to come back in for more. “He said, ‘We can do it in bed, the couch, the floor, or against this wall.’ What?” She asked when Lonnie fell back again with a groan. “That’s sexy.”

  “We’re not talking regular, old sex speak. I said ‘dirty’ and you said ‘filthy.’” She glanced around to be sure no one was eavesdropping. “I would wager a guess that Birdsong can fling the filth when given the right incentive. You cock-blocked him and dammed him up.”

  “Well, we’re friends, and so we won’t be talking filthy to each other.”

  “And how long do you think this friendship will last? A couple of weeks? A month?”

  “Longer, I hope. I want to be friends with him.”

  Lonnie stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You’re talking to me. I’ve known you forever and a day, girl. You don’t want to be friends with that man.” She shook her head. “And don’t give me that clueless look, Zaney. When he asked you if you were wet, I would say you were soaked through. You want him. Bad.”

  “Shhh.” Zaney glanced around, hoping no one had overheard the wet references. “God, Lonnie! Yeah, okay. But I’m not going to be one of his one-nighters. No way. I have too much pride for that.”

  “Which is why you delivered your I-am-woman-hear-me-roar speech. You’re throwing out the gauntlet.” She tapped her temple. “Smart. Will it work on him?” She shrugged. “Time will tell. But don’t play the fool to yourself, Zaney. You want to bed Mr. Birdsong.”

  Zaney slipped her phone back into her purse. She hated when Lonnie knew her better than she did herself. “Okay. Fine. Let’s talk about you. Did you go out with that actor – Chad, right? – like I told you not to?”

  “Yes, I disobeyed you.” Lonnie groaned as she rose from the chair. “He emoted all through dinner. By the time we got back to my apartment, I knew his whole acting history from grade school to present.”

  “So, he didn’t stay over.”

  “Oh, yeah, he did.” She picked up her to-go sack. “Let’s just say that it was a one-act play and he forgot most of his lines.�
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  “Serves you right,” Zaney said, cutting her no slack as they left the restaurant and headed for the subway. “Has either one of us ever been with an actor when it wasn’t a trial or a trip?” She swallowed the sour memories of her own actor. Barry had texted her once from the road and she hadn’t heard a peep from him since. Not even to answer her text. It still stung when she thought about it. She suspected that if she hadn’t come home earlier than usual that day to find him packing his suitcases, she would have discovered that he’d gone without even a goodbye. Maybe a scribbled note. Or a text after he was miles away. Typical. When would she learn not expect so much from a guy?

  Lonnie flung an arm around her shoulders. “Actors are asses. But they’re so cute, you know? They make you want to take care of them. And I don’t meet many other guys unless they’re in the theater biz.”

  “You need to expand your territory,” Zaney counseled. “Seriously, Lonnie. Don’t take up with another actor. Find yourself a butcher or a baker or a candlestick maker.”

  Lonnie giggled with her. “Honey, sometimes just finding a straight guy is a chore!”

  “Tell me about it.”

  They took the subway. Lonnie’s stop was first. They hugged and Zaney promised to text Lonnie as soon as she made it home. In less than half an hour, Zaney punched in the numbers that unlocked the street door to the apartment building. She hadn’t sequestered Frito Pie in the bathroom this time, so he made a racket as she unlocked her door and stepped inside her apartment.

  “Okay, settle down.” She squatted down to pet him and let him give her kisses before she straightened and closed the door. Before she could move further into the apartment, she heard the door across the hall open and close. “I shouldn’t,” she said to Frito, but whirled around anyway and pressed her eye to the hole. “Of all people!” she whispered, watching Carin walk past, head down, a tissue pressed to her cheek. “What was she doing? Visiting the cat?” She glanced behind her at the mantle clock. It was ten. Kind of late for a cat visit. Wait. Had she been crying?

  Zaney backed away from the door. She retrieved her phone from her purse and fired off a text to Lonnie. Safe at home. Just saw Carin leaving Matt’s apartment! What up?

  After a minute, Lonnie texted back. I’m home, too. Hey, not your monkeys. Not your circus. Get some sleep.

  “She’s right,” Zaney murmured, stuffing her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. “But I think Carin was crying.” She hooked the leash onto Frito’s halter and took him out for his evening stroll. When they came back inside, she lingered for a little while in the foyer, hoping Matt might come out of his place. He didn’t. “Rats,” she hissed, taking Frito Pie back in and unclipping the leash. “I should forget it, right? No, wait. I’m Matt’s friend. A friend would be concerned. So, I’m not nosey. I’m concerned.” She smiled. “Right. I should check on him.”

  Leaving her place, she went across to Matt’s and rang the bell. She heard it chime inside. A deep bing-bong. A tingle tickled the back of her neck when she sensed that Matt was peering through the peephole at her. Would he pretend he wasn’t home? That would blow. But then the lock disengaged and the door swung open.

  “Hi, neighbor. I know it’s kind of late.” She feasted on Matthew Birdsong in low-slung jeans and a tight, white t-shirt, and bare feet. And glasses! Tortoise shell eyeglasses that somehow made him even sexier. Her toes curled in her tennis shoes and her girly parts clenched and tightened. “Sorry to bother you, but I . . . as a friend, I thought I’d check on you.”

  He leaned his forearm high against the doorframe. He seemed weary, giving her second thoughts about bothering him.

  “I happened to see Carin leave. She looked upset. Is something wrong with the cat?”

  A smile nudged the corners of his mouth. “The cat is fine.” He stepped back so that she could come in. At last! She’d see inside the triplex.

  It was completely different from hers. First of all, his had an entry area with white marble tiles underfoot and walls painted a dark gray. It gave access to a large living room with a charcoal marble fireplace. The living room walls were a light coffee color. A red leather couch, deep-cushioned chairs, and gleaming wood tables sat on a thick, dark rose and cream Aubusson rug. A big trunk with brass fittings served as a coffee table. Notes of cinnamon, vanilla, and Man in Black cologne lingered in the air.

  “You wear glasses,” she noted.

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I wear contacts most of the time, but at night I switch to these.”

  “I like them.” Zaney glanced sideways at him. “The other neighbors are going to be so jealous that I get to see inside here.” He stood by the couch, his shoulders sagging a little, a frown riding his lips. “I should leave. You look beat.”

  “No, it’s okay.” He extended a hand, motioning to her right. “Come into the kitchen. Want a drink? Wine? A gin and tonic?”

  “No, thanks. I had a couple of glasses of wine at dinner.” She followed him through a dining room where a long table and eight chairs sat under a chandelier of stained glass and brass. A swinging door gave access to the kitchen, which was equipped with stainless steel appliances and gleaming, white subway tiles. Dark gray granite countertops and a wood floor with inlaid slate tile grounded everything. She eyed the double oven. “Do you cook much?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.” He selected a cut-glass decanter from a portable bar and topped off a squatty glass full of ice and an amber liquid. “I like to cook. Don’t you?”

  “Sort of. I’m not adventurous in the kitchen, though. I stick with about five or six different dishes.”

  At the center island, he pulled out a stool for her. “That’s not much variety.”

  “I’m a simple girl.”

  He sat next to her and downed the drink in two long gulps. Zaney gave him an astonished look. That certainly gave her more insight to his funky mood. He ran the tips of his fingers up and down the condensation on the glass, staring morosely at it.

  “As a friend, you can unload on me,” she said. “Whatever is bothering you or eating at you will stay between us. That’s what friends do for each other.”

  He slanted a glance at her. “I have friends, Zaney. Just not women friends.”

  “Do you talk out your troubles with your guy friends?”

  “No. Well, a little sometimes, I suppose.”

  “If you don’t discuss the hiccups in life with them, what sort of support do they give you?”

  He tipped back his head and reflections streamed over the lens of his glasses from the overhead canned lighting. “We do things like go to a baseball or hockey game. Or we meet up for a drink and play darts or pool.”

  “How can you have a deep discussion doing stuff like that?”

  “We don’t.” He shifted on the stool to face her. “It’s a way not to dwell on the shitty things in life.”

  “Oh, so they provide distractions. Like drugs.”

  His laugh was short and harsh. “Yes.”

  “I know that guys tend to do that, but isn’t it putting off the inevitable? How does that actually help? After the game or whatever, your problem or pain is still there.”

  He ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “Men don’t spend hours talking about things. We give it some thought and then we act.”

  “So, when you were going through your breakup and divorce, all your friends did was take you out for drinks? They didn’t listen to you, commiserate with you?”

  “Sure, some of that went on. But like I said, we don’t spend a lot of time talking it out. We soldier on.”

  She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “And that is exactly why men need women friends. It’s not healthy to pack up your troubles and carry them around.”

  “Yeah, but how does yapping endlessly about anything help?”

  “By getting it out there,” she said, gesturing a little wildly. “You talk it out and your friend or friends listen and share y
our pain. Misery loves company. You’ve heard that, right?” She held up her hand to stop him before he could speak. “Listen, Matt, a good, insightful friend will nudge you toward a better path and sometimes even show you how this experience you’ve gone through was good for you.”

  He stared at her through his amazingly sexy glasses. “Well, that would be a feat.” His tone opposed his words. “I can’t think of one thing that was good about the implosion of my marriage and the angry, hurtful divorce proceedings that lasted a whole year.” He eyed the portable bar. “I need another drink.”

  “No, you don’t.” Zaney clamped a hand on his forearm, keeping him beside her. “Talk to me, friend to friend. Why did Carin stop by? What upset her?”

  He regarded her warily for a few tense seconds before releasing his breath in a hiss. “She just showed up, unannounced. Before, she’s always called or texted and asked to come by to visit Toodles. She totally blindsided me. Told me that she was sorry for everything and that she wished we hadn’t gotten a divorce.”

  Zaney whistled. “Holey moley. No wonder you look shell-shocked. That’s why she was crying?”

  He massaged the back of his neck. “I guess she wanted me to be more receptive.” He made a sound of frustration. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s always acted like she had every right to accuse me of cheating on her while she cheated on me. But, tonight? She admitted that she fucked me over and asked me to forgive her.”

  “Whiplash, right?”

  “That’s how it felt, yeah.” He let go of a big breath. “I admit that it’s what I’ve wanted to hear. I’ve wanted her to grovel, to admit that she’d fucked up. I didn’t tell her that, though.”

  “Right, but you must feel relieved. Vindicated.”

  “I do, but I couldn’t forgive her. The bitterness is still here.” He tapped his fist against his heart. “I’ve tried to put it all behind me. Letting her stop by to see the cat and all. I’ve tolerated her and I’ve gotten my verbal zingers in whenever I could.” He hung his head, shaking it slowly. “Tonight, though. She seemed sincere. But I don’t trust her.”