by Jamie Shupak
But first, Shelf Boy. At first when he arrives, it’s like déjà vu. All I see are triceps, bulging out from his tight gray thermal shirt. It’s unbuttoned just so, with his white undershirt peeking out, teasing me. His perfectly toned arms are full of materials. I’m talking slabs of wood, a big red toolbox and another big, hard briefcase filled with two giant power drills. Ben who?
This time I was not messing around. I stocked my fridge with Blue Moon, his favorite beer, and fresh oranges to toss in. I made a playlist of just the right rock songs to set a fun but sexy mood, and to really step it up, I even showered before he got here, and banished my sweats to the laundry basket. I replaced them with loose-fitting jeans that hit just below my hips and my favorite denim button-down because I thought it said, “I’m low-key, I don’t care, and I can get down with the contractor.”
In the hour and a half it takes him to pencil, level, drill, and install the shelving—which turned out perfectly, just as planned—we kill a six-pack of Blue Moon. He had four; I had two. The sexual tension is high, but it looks like he’s ready to head out as he packs up his tools, so I reach for my wallet on the dresser and hand him the cash I had just counted.
He shakes his head at me, smiling. “Oh, come on, Guils. I can’t take your money.”
Confused, I stare into his big green eyes while smoothly sliding my shirt off one shoulder. I flex my bicep and in the cutest, most flirtatious tone I can manage, reply, “But you just hung these gorgeous shelves for me. These arms could never have created this work of art.”
“Fine,” he says, smirking back at me. “Then we’re putting the money towards a pitcher of margaritas. Can I leave my stuff here while we go spend my earnings at Tortilla Flats?”
A rush of warmth races through my whole body—like the sensation you get after a shot of tequila—as the thought sinks in. If he leaves his stuff here, that means he will have to come back for it. He says he just needs to use the bathroom before we head out, so I point him in that direction and quickly check my phone for anything important.
I have a few notes from Angel about possible stories and rumors to include in my “Gossip for Guils” segment tomorrow, and an email from Maryann telling me I have the all clear to use sick days for the surgery time off. Excellent. I scroll through Twitter and everyone is either giving their predictions for President Obama’s speech on the economy tonight or complaining about Tim Tebow’s performance in his first practice with the Pats. I keep thumbing to the top of the feed until … wait. Oh no, this again.
@BanteringBen: @SloaneRiley turn away cause I need you more, feel the heartbeat in my mind
@SloaneRiley: @BanteringBen It’s the way I’m feeling I just can’t deny
@BanteringBen: @SloaneRiley We found love
@SloaneRiley: @BanteringBen in a hopeless place
Rihanna now? Really? We found love? They’re in love now? I copy-paste the conversation, then email and text it to Gemma. I need her to see this immediately. I know I should probably unfollow him or her, or both of them even, but it’s like the rubberneckers I report on every morning in rush hour traffic. They just can’t help but stare at the car crash in the opposing lanes.
CHECK YOUR EMAIL. I CAN’T WITH THESE TWO. WE FOUND LOVE? HEADING TO TORTILLA FLATS WITH SHELF BOY, CALL YOU LATER.
My phone vibrates, and I think it’s Gemma responding … but of course it’s Jake Spears, who has to weigh in on the very public display of affection.
One new message from Twitter.
Direct message from: @JakeSpears: I’M SO MUCH MORE OF A BEYONCÉ GUY THAN RIHANNA.
I can’t help but laugh—but I also cringe. Is he really still trying to get in my pants? He was just with my best friend. Too intimidated to rock the boat with the boss of the biggest gossip site in the city—okay, and maybe I enjoy it a little too—I reply right away.
BUSY WITH ANOTHER GUY NOW. CHANNELING QUEEN BEY, “IF I WERE A BOY …”
I smirk at my response as Shelf Boy and I head out the door of my apartment, and around the corner into Tortilla Flats. We slug down a pitcher of Patron Silver margaritas while sharing nothing but a bowl of guacamole and chips. On top of the two beers I’ve already had, this is a lot for me. I go from tipsy to drunk about as fast as a girl is Hula-Hooping in the corner to the beat of Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.” They have theme nights here—trivia on Mondays, bingo on Tuesdays, and tonight is their Hula-Hoop contest. He encourages me to give it a whirl, and only because I have a somewhat secret hidden talent—or I’ve just spent too many Wednesday nights here—I agree.
As I shift the weight of my body from one hip to the other and slowly get in the necessary rhythm to hold the hoop around my waist, I catch his eyes planted firmly on me. I smile, knowing I don’t have to say another word—he’s coming home with me tonight, and not just to pick up his tools. I keep the hoop in motion by thrusting my pelvis back and forth—that’s the secret, to go forward and back, not side to side—and he begins cheering, calling my name and clapping to the beat of the music. One of the waiters who’s assigned the task of counting how long each person Hula-Hoops starts the countdown chant from ten so everyone knows I’m approaching the two-minute mark. If you make it that long, you win a tequila shot and a “Hula-Hoop Master” T-shirt; I already have two.
After Shelf Boy and I take my winning shots—Patron, chilled, of course—we head out the door, back towards my apartment. We stand outside my building and do the dance on the sidewalk that I’ve done so many times these past few months: the shifting of my weight back and forth from my left to my right; the fidgeting with my keys in one hand, then the other; and the anxious, nervous, flirtatious look from his eyes, to the sidewalk, to the door to my building. He finally leans in and kisses me, and I can feel all the tension in my body release, first from my head to my hands, and then from my stomach to my feet. He puts one hand behind my head and the other along my jawline, gliding my mouth slowly and smoothly in and out from his. I don’t know if we’re standing there making out for two or ten minutes, but each time he seems to pull away for a second, I can tell he doesn’t want it to end either, because he keeps drawing me in for more. We finally unlock our lips from one another and he holds both of my hands in his and looks me up and down.
“Wow,” he says, with a look on his face that I imagine mirrors the satisfied expression on mine. “I know you have to get to bed, but I have to get my tools.” Tools, right.
We barely make it inside the door to my apartment, and within seconds, we are rolling around on the bed, kissing, petting, and giggling. He strips off his thermal, revealing the white undershirt that had been tormenting me all night. It was begging to be touched and now it was. I reach up to take it off him, and he’s quick to grab my hands and put them above my head.
“Uh-uh-uh,” he says, shaking his head. “Ladies first.” And with that he reaches down and grabs for my shirt and bra, whisking them off over my head and throwing them on the floor. The streetlight sneaking in between my blinds is almost making his abs glisten, and I grab for them, drawing him inside of me. He immediately flips me on top of him and scooches toward the wall, so his back is now pressed against the white brick. His hands are all over me—and so are his eyes. Some men sure know what to do with their eyes, don’t they? And other body parts. “God, you are so fucking hot,” he says, at least twice. “I just want to stay inside you forever.” Normally I’d be tempted to smush my hand in front of his mouth, shutting him up—but I think I’ll let him talk this one time. A few minutes in, he’s not speaking so much as mumbling. I think I know what’s coming so I kiss his neck to encourage him. When he finishes he moans so loudly I think Gemma might hear us one floor up. Every part of my body wanted him to keep going—well, maybe every part except for my back.
He gets up to go to the bathroom and asks if I’ll care if he goes home. I know that no one wants an unnecessary wakeup call at 3:30 in the morning, plus I may need to sleep with that heating pad for my back anyway, so I assure him it’s
okay. He gives me one more long, tender kiss by the door and promises to come back soon. “I need to make sure you’re taking care of those shelves.”
Is that what they’re calling it these days?
I skip back to the bedroom and triumphantly bounce into bed, checking my phone one more time before I pass out. I have a dozen texts and emails related to round two of Ben and Sloane’s song-lyric tweeting, but I don’t feel like responding to any of that right now. And my body is all like, “Ben who?” Instead I open my text message queue and find the conversation with Gemma.
PASSING OUT NOW. SHELF BOY IS THE HOTTEST. BACK HURTS AGAIN THOUGH, UGH. NEED TO TALK BEN AND SMILEY IN THE MORNING. NITE MWA
Two days later, I’m on my couch, waiting until I hear my buzzer. It’s Jack, the Brooklyn bar owner, here to pick me up for our date. The green skirt that Gemma borrowed for me fits perfectly—just snug enough against my tush and short, but not too short. And she was right: It looks great with my favorite off-the-shoulder black top.
Once the doorman rings that Jack’s here, I make my way downstairs and see that he’s procured a black SUV for us for the evening. This guy doesn’t mess around. On our first date, he picked me up in a similar Escalade-looking machine and took me uptown—way uptown, all the way to Harlem, to Red Rooster. He couldn’t believe I had never been. But he’s a Brooklyn boy through and through—even-keeled in the same way Ocean was, which is sexy. Also sexy: He owns and operates five successful bars and knows how to order smooth yet potent cocktails. When we met a few weeks ago, at a birthday party for a friend of mine at one of his bars, he poured me one of the best tequila drinks I’ve ever had. After asking for my number, he took my hand and kissed the outside of it, before planting one on my cheek too. “I’ll be in touch, traffic girl,” he promised. The next day, he called.
There’s a mini makeshift bar in the back of the SUV, and he offers me a drink as soon as we get in. I didn’t think I’d still be excited about Jack after Shelf Boy the other night, but man, was I wrong. His jeans, which are so worn in they feel like silk, fall perfectly over his retro blue New Balance sneakers. I’m digging the white V-neck T-shirt he has on and the gray unzipped hoodie he’s wearing over it. Guys should never look like they try too hard, and he gets that. He’s dressed much more casually than I am, so to ensure I’m comfortable he continues to remind me how hot I look—both with his words, and looks. He’s very direct and confident too; when I commented on how difficult it was to get into the back of the car in my skirt, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll help you step out of that skirt later.”
It’s no surprise then, that after we’ve barely taken two sips of our drinks we’re already making out. He places his hand at the top of my chest, right by the base of my neck, in order to control the rhythm of our kissing. Even though his hand covers just a fraction of my body, I feel like he’s in control of the whole thing. I love each time he stops kissing me for a second and quietly says, “Man, you look like a model” and “I just want to rip this shirt off you.” My body is screaming. I want to rip my shirt off for him, but I’ll have to wait until after dinner for that. Or maybe not. He puts his hand up my skirt and suggests we skip our reservation at La Esquina and just drive around the perimeter of Manhattan instead. I’m guessing he’s done this before, because he’s smart enough to suggest to the driver that we get on the West Side Highway in Tribeca and head southbound towards the Battery Park Underpass. Then we can cruise along the entire length of the FDR Drive without traffic lights. He says it’s for the scenery. Come on. I’m a traffic reporter.
Jack pulls his pants up as we pull up to my building about an hour later. We made our way up to the Harlem River Drive and onto the West Side Highway, then all the way from the George Washington Bridge down to the West Village. We stopped and started having sex about three different times, but now that we’re in a more conducive environment, I’m sure we’ll finish what we started. We stumble into my apartment and he goes right for the kitchen, mixing another round of tequila cocktails for us. We slug a pair of his concoctions down and make our way to the bedroom, re-undressing each other along the way. We keep the lights off and my curtains are drawn, so I really can’t see anything.
“Turn over,” he commands after he’s kissed his way from my shoulder blades down to the place on my lower back where all that pain emanates from. It feels good, but it definitely hurts a little too. Luckily it’s dark so he doesn’t see me cringe. I turn over and he slides back to get a better grip on my torso. Just as I feel his fingers start to wrap around the oblique muscles on the sides of my stomach, I feel him let go in a hurry.
Then I hear a crash.
There, out of the corner of my eye, is Jack—on the floor.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” This isn’t just oops, he fell—he plummeted from the edge of my queen-size mattress headfirst into my dresser. He nods, and I think I can make out his hand on his head, but he doesn’t move. Sexy-time appears to be over, so I flip on the lights to survey the damage. I see blood on the floor, and it looks like he nicked part of his forehead on one of my dresser’s knobs. I get some ice for his head and bring him three Advil with a bottle of water.
“You wanna just go to bed?” I’m disappointed about the premature end to our evening, but what am I going do? Just as I followed his instructions all night, he took mine and passed out within seconds. Any worry that I had of him dying in his sleep from a concussion was quickly put to ease by the sound of his snoring. Had my eyes been closed, I would have thought I was lying next to a car engine in desperate need of a new transmission. I flop back next to him, resigned to the fact I’m not getting any sleep tonight. My only saving grace is that tomorrow is Friday. Thank god, I think. Then I remember I still need a lead item for “Gossip with Guils.”
CHAPTER 26
“It’s just about 7:30 on this Friday morning, so you know what that means. It’s time for your end-of-the-week gossip roundup, and Guiliana, I understand that not only do we have a whole slew of movie shoots this weekend, but you also have an update on one of your biggest stories.”
“And Eric, I think our viewers are going to love this one. It’s media power couple news! It looks like things are really heating up between everyone’s favorite NYC newswoman, Sloane Riley, and her main squeeze, mister “Bantering Ben” Abrams. As I reported, they were first spotted together as an official couple last week at HBO’s premiere of Girls looking lucky in love, and now word on the streets of downtown Manhattan is that they were having dinner at famous Tribeca eatery Locanda Verde last night with her parents. Could Bantering Ben be angling to get closer to Mr. Riley, perhaps to ask his permission to put a ring on it? Sources tell me they were getting very cozy over plates of seafood tortellini and grilled branzino. We’re keeping our eyes on these two, that’s for sure. And coming up in our next half hour, Eric, I’ll tell you where you can catch a glimpse of Michelle Williams this weekend and which East River crossings will be closed for the shooting of her new film. Make sure to stay tuned for that.”
“And you’re clear.” Eddie’s voice comes through my IFB signaling that I’m done, at least until my next traffic report, up in about nine minutes. I sit down at my desk and pull up my traffic database so I can get my maps ready. The accident on the Belt Parkway cleared and there’s a disabled vehicle now on the northbound side of the Van Wyck. I’m updating the graphics on my map computer when my phone starts purring from underneath my gossip segment scripts. I lift them up to peek at who’s talking to me, thinking it must be some Twitter reaction to my segment. Nope, it’s Bantering Ben calling. I guess he was watching. I’d love to hear what he has to say, but I don’t have time to talk before my next report. And besides, I don’t want him to think he’s going to get me on the first try after ignoring me for what must be over a month now. I let it go to voicemail, then wait for him to hopefully speak his piece there.
And boy, does he.
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING, GUILIANA. I DON’T KNOW WHO’S FEEDING YOU
FALSE INFORMATION, BUT YOU SHOULD REALLY CHECK YOUR SOURCES BEFORE REPORTING TOTAL BULLSHIT TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK. AND YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT BY COVERING SLOANE AND ME YOU JUST LOOK JEALOUS. CALL ME WHEN YOU GET OFF AT NOON CAUSE I NEED TO SET YOU STRAIGHT ON A FEW THINGS.
Since he sounds all bent out of shape, I decide to text him back right away to let him know that I have a meeting with my bosses right after work, but if he’d like to meet me outside my office at around 1:30, I’d be happy to hear him out. He agrees.
As soon as he walks up to the corner of Fifteenth Street and Ninth Avenue, I can see why he was willing to schlep all the way over to Chelsea from two miles away in Soho in the middle of the day—homeboy’s got a bone to pick. His body language looks so tense and pissed off that I’m surprised I don’t see actual flames coming out of his ears. He says it’s good to see me, but I can tell it’s a mere formality because he doesn’t go to hug me, or touch me at all for that matter. Not even a hand on the shoulder—nothing.
“So you missed me?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood a bit. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“Always a joke with you, isn’t it, Guiliana?” he says, sounding more like a dad scolding his teenage daughter than a friend. And I don’t think he’s ever used my whole name before. It sounds so … serious. “Look, I didn’t come here to fight
“Coulda fooled me,” I murmur under my breath, interrupting him.
He ignores my aside. “Sloane was really upset after your segment this morning.”
Great. Sloane. He came to defend his woman’s honor. I can hear the Peter Cetera song from Karate Kid hitting a crescendo in the back of my brain somewhere.