by Kylie Adams
Sutton could finally sleep through the night. She had more confidence. She could concentrate, actually sit down and read a book chapter by chapter without veering off into a private Mars.
Her sex drive returned with a vengeance, too, and with her thicker hair, perkier breasts, and harder nails, she finally lived out the secret fantasy of fucking the hot UPS driver who had been delivering packages to her co-op for the last three years.
Of course, this kind of therapy was costing her a small fortune—easily a thousand dollars per month. But Sutton would pay twice that amount or even more for such blissful relief.
She adored Dr. Barak. His voice was soothing, his demeanor patient and sympathetic. He listened to her problems and symptoms, instead of just shoving a prescription for antidepressants into her hand and moving on to the next patient. That was the course of treatment for so many of those white-coat bastards.
With no screening scheduled in the Cinema, the White Room was deserted. Sutton dimmed the lights and sought sanctuary on one of the sofas, stretching out, relishing the peace and quiet, thankful to be off her feet.
The tranquil moment lasted no more than a nanosecond. That bitch’s name was smoking inside her brain. Emma Ronson.
Sutton closed her eyes, attempting to breathe, trying to relax. Oh, God, how she needed a dab of progesterone right now. Just one drop under her tongue. Enough to equalize her stress level.
A girlish giggle invaded the silence.
“Come on, nobody’s in here,” a male voice whispered thickly.
“No, let’s go back to the party.”
“In a minute. I want to show you something first.”
“What?”
“This.”
There was a muffled giggle. And then the unmistakable sound of lips and tongues in full erotic battle.
Sutton rose slightly to see the young couple braced against the mirrored bar. She started to leave.
“Whose party is this anyway?” the girl asked.
“I don’t know. Some old news chick. The event planner called my publicist and said she needed bodies at this thing. Nobody wanted to come. I figure the drinks are free, and I might get laid.Why not?”
Sutton sank back down and just lay there, frozen. She had stopped breathing after hearing old news chick.
“Oh, I know her!” the girl exclaimed. “She’s the woman wearing that stupid white dress.”
The guy chuckled. “The fossilized bitch with all the ruffles?”
“Yeah. That’s Sutton Lancaster.”
“Really? Wouldn’t know. I get my news off the Net.”
“I feel sorry for her.”
“Feel sorry for this.”
A moan. More kissing.
“I’m serious. Didn’t you hear? She was dating this guy. He broke up with her by FedEx and hooked up with Emma Ronson.”
“The Today in New York hottie? Now I know who she is.”
“What’s that guy’s name? My friend Nicole used to date him ... Garrison Friedberg. That’s it.” She giggled again. “Have you heard of him? He’s this old rich Jew. Nicole says he’s got a huge cock, but it only gets semi-hard.”
“Unlike mine.Which right now is all the way hard.”
“Shut up. All you think about is sex.”
“So? I’ll think about other stuff when I can only get semi-hard.”
“That’s wrong, don’t you think? Breaking up with someoneby FedEx.Would you ever do that to a girl?”
“Fuck no. FedEx is expensive. I’d just send her an e-mail.” He laughed at his own joke.
The girl was laughing, too. “You’re such a dick.”
“Speaking of dicks ...”
“I still can’t believe that Emma Ronson is with that guy. I mean, her last boyfriend was Dean Paul Lockhart. How do you go from him ... to that?”
“Baby, you’re killing me here. Please do something else with your mouth.”
“Seriously. Dean Paul is, like, gorgeous.And Garrison is ... well, he’s just gross.”
“Women are different,” the guy reasoned. “They can get into big, sweaty lugs with no problem. As long as they’re rich. I guess girls figure, ‘Okay, he doesn’t look so great, he’s not so sexy, but at least he’s got a yacht!’”
“Did you notice her face?” the girl asked.
“Whose face?”
“Sutton Lancaster!”
“Not really. I couldn’t make it out for all the fucking ruffles.”
The girl giggled. “You can tell she’s had work done. Her brows are arched, and her eyes are upturned like a cat’s. Isn’t that sad? To be competing with a girl almost half your age for some sweaty old man? I’d rather just die already.”
“I’m about to.”
“About to what?”
“Die if you don’t blow me in the next thirty seconds!”
“Okay, okay. God, you’re such a pig.”
And then came the rustle of a zipper, the guy’s moaning and rapid breathing, the girl’s slurping ministrations ...
Sutton Lancaster just lay there, immobile in the dark, feelingthe heat of humiliation. It was burning her cheeks. It was making her eyes glitter with tears.
Goddamn turning fifty! Goddamn this Marc Jacobs dress! Goddamn Garrison Friedberg! Sutton knew about his semi-hardcock firsthand. Every erectile dysfunction pill on the market made him sick, so she had sent him to Dr. Barak, who put him on a therapy that made him as rigid and horny as a rock star after a sold-out concert. And then he used it on the first younger woman he could find.
Emma Ronson.
The bitch had taken her boyfriend. And now the bitch was moving in on her show. Situations like this could best be described in one little word.
War.
And as far as Sutton Lancaster was concerned, it was on.
THE IT PARADE
BY JINX WIATT
Fill in the Blanks
How do you mend a broken heart? For a certain young morning news starlet, recovery is an extreme life makeover. First she traded a young, hard-bodied heir for an old, soft-bodied self-made mogul. Now she’s saying good-bye to a serious news career for a silly daytime gabfest. But a close source dishes that all the changes have done little to boost her spirits. The womanizing prince cut her loose because of her position on children (she wanted them; he preferred to wait). But then he got married, and his fruit-tastic new baby has become a Manhattan mascot. Now comes word that her new geriatric bed-warmer wants nothing to do with little things that go wah-wah in the night, so much so that he had a vasectomy years ago and has failed to fess up to the fact. This beauty just can’t win.
2
Emma
Is it cheating to think about your ex-boyfriend’s cock while your current boyfriend is inside you?
Emma Ronson wondered this as Garrison Friedberg pumped away on top of her, thrusting off-rhythm and breathinglike an out-of-shape jogger in one-hundred-degree heat.
Dean Paul Lockhart possessed a smaller dick but far more finesse. She missed his amazing corkscrew motion that had never failed to send her to the moon and back.
Garrison was swinging the kind of equipment that male porn stars might envy, but the sexual talent ended there. He just shoved it in, and a few minutes later rolled off her body and over to his side of the bed, completely spent and damp with sweat.
Emma sighed with relief disguised as satisfaction. Making love to Garrison did not exactly hurt, but the thickness and length of him caused intermittent discomfort.
“You’ve never had a cock as big as mine, have you?”
“No,” Emma murmured, her mind drifting as she answeredthe same question that he asked each and every time.
The gnawing sense of dread was still attacking her insides. Had she made the right move in leaving Today in New York?
Emma was weekday coanchor on a proven, top-rated programfor the NBC-owned News Channel Four. And she was ditching that for an unproven syndicated daytime venture that could be branded a failure after its debut airing. Hi
gh stakes career gambling to be sure.
Garrison reached out to stroke her inner thigh.
Emma glanced down and noticed that his nails needed clipping. She pushed the thought away. Somehow he made up for all of his failings with a certain blustery charm.
The telephone jangled.
Emma glanced over to see that it was Delilah Krause calling.She picked up the cordless and slipped out of bed, makinga beeline for the bathroom to retrieve a robe. “Hi,” she whispered.
“I hate Ivy League boys,” Delilah announced without preamble.“Have I mentioned that?”
“Only every day,” Emma murmured.
Delilah was a featured player and writer on the Comedy Central sketch series, Laugh Track. She had recently been hailed in the pages of Entertainment Weekly as the next Tina Fey. No matter, the show’s boys club mentality behind the scenes was still slow to catch up.
“You sound sleepy,” Delilah said. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no, of course not,” Emma insisted in a hushed tone.
“Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not ... Garrison’s here.”
“You just had sex!” Delilah accused.
Emma sighed.
Delilah laughed. “Be careful. Men his age are supposed to nap in the middle of the day. You could kill him.”
“Oh, I think he’ll kill me first.”
“Have you picked up the Post today?”
“That sounds like a warning not to.”
“Trust me. It is.”
“Okay, I’ll steer clear.”
“Good girl.”
“I don’t even care what’s in there. I believe you when you say it’s something I don’t want to see.” Emma paused a beat. “Okay, what is it?”
Delilah groaned. “More of the same. Those two gorgeous twits and their idiot child.”
Emma bit down on her lower lip. As much as she might loathe herself for it later, today’s edition of the New York Post would be in her hands within a matter of minutes.
Having a famous boyfriend sucked something fierce. Becauseonce he becomes an ex-boyfriend (as most boyfriends do) there is still no escaping him. And Emma had a personal case study in this observation ... Dean Paul Lockhart.
He was the closest thing to a prince that America had to offer, the son of a celebrated New York senator and a retired big screen actress who walked away from Hollywood while still at the top of the A-list. As their only child, he became a household name at birth, a celebrated baby and toddler, an adored boy, a scrutinized teenager, and an obsessively chronicledyoung man.
Like every other straight single woman in Manhattan, Emma had followed Dean Paul Lockhart’s romantic entanglements in the columns with hopeful interest. Even so, his quickie marriageto Aspen Bauer, a former cast member of MTV’s The Real World, should have been ample warning.
But Emma had succumbed to Dean Paul’s devastating good looks and laconic charms at a cocktail party for a new perfumelaunch. Talking turned to making out. A one night fling upgraded to a long weekend. Suddenly, they were living togetherand making vague plans for the future.
Until the subject of children floated up to the surface. Emma had been approaching thirty, and seeing so many women just beyond that age struggling with infertility, she wanted to start a family sooner rather than later. But Dean Paul preferredto wait ... indefinitely.
The conflict sealed the fate of the relationship. And as if to accelerate its demise, Dean Paul morphed into a complete asshole during the final months, making it easier for Emma to leave him.
Of course, the real heartbreak hit a short time later. The man who could not commit was suddenly ready for marriage again. His engagement to Tilly Winston, the ubiquitous heiress, cosmetics model, and junior social fixture, generated exhaustiveattention. This continued all the way up to the wedding.
And then, just months into the marriage, the man who wanted to wait to have children, announced that he and his wife were expecting their first baby, a girl.The news sent Emma into a deep depression, a condition that left her vulnerable to the head-scratching appeal of Garrison Friedberg.
He was the self-proclaimed magalog king of Manhattan, a man on the cutting edge of hybrid publications that combinedelements of a magazine and a catalogue. Garrison knew how to finely doctor the editorial mix to control the message and create a brand world. His clients included top retailers and designers like Bergdorf Goodman, Neiman Marcus, Tory Burch, Kate Spade, and Donatella Versace.
Garrison was not quite handsome, not quite in shape, but quite old enough to be Emma’s father. Still, there was a sexinessabout him, a worldly, baby-I’ve-lived-a-full-life attitude that captivated her. He had approached her on the street with a simple, “You’re beautiful. Have dinner with me tonight.”
It became a distraction that saved her from the daily despairof reading about Dean Paul and Tilly’s newborn child, whom they had christened Cantaloupe. Apparently, they suffered from the Chronic Stupid Name Syndrome that afflicted so many other celebrities. There was Gwyneth Paltrow’s Apple, Claudia Schiffer’s Casper,Toni Braxton’s Denim, John Mellencamp’sSpeck Wildhorse, Nicolas Cage’s Kal-el, and former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell’s Bluebell Madonna to name only a few. And now there was Cantaloupe Lockhart.
Just having Garrison around to occasionally fawn over her provided enough emotional succor to persevere through the baby crisis. Suddenly, before Emma even fully realized it, she found herself involved in another relationship. Dean Paul’s heat had been replaced by Garrison’s comfort. It was hardly perfect.But it was not the worst thing in the world, either.
Emma thought this as she closed the door to the bathroomand turned on the faucet at the sink to drown out the sound of her voice. “Delilah, what the fuck am I doing?”
“I assume you’re referring to your life in general,” Delilah answered glibly. “This is why I don’t recommend sex with old men. It makes a girl too existential.”
Emma slumped down onto the edge of the bathtub. “I can predict the rest of my day. As soon as I hang up with you, I’m going to rush out and buy the Post. Then I’m going to stare at Dean Paul and that bitch and that perfect baby and be twisted up in knots for the rest of the day.”
“So do something different,” Delilah reasoned.
“I’m not sure that I want to,” Emma said quietly, reflectingon how much power Dean Paul still seemed to have over her life. Once upon a time, she had been an unstoppable force—a high school overachiever, a double degree earner at the University of Miami, a fast riser in the broadcast journalismranks. And now she had become this simpering girl who could not move past a busted love affair.
The breakup predicated almost everything that she did. Her decision to go into therapy, her reliance on antidepressants, her zombielike openness to an affair with Garrison, even her career shift from a serious journalist on Today in New York to a lightweight chatterbox on The Beehive. In some way, all of it stemmed from Dean Paul.
“Emma, you have to snap out of this,” Delilah said, her voice teeming with equal parts shoulder to cry on and tough love advocacy. “He’s not worth it.”
“I know,” Emma moaned, frustrated by her unwillingness to move forward. God, she was getting on her own nerves.
“You need a hot guy to give you a little amnesia. Someone sexier and more famous than Dean Paul.What about Matthew McConaughey?”
Emma cracked a smile. “Do you have his number?”
Delilah sighed. “No, but even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. He’s my fantasy.”
“Fine,” Emma sniffed. “Just don’t expect me to share Patrick Dempsey.”
“Oh, you bitch. I forgot about him. Let’s trade.”
“Never,” Emma teased.
“So have you checked on Garrison since you bumped uglies?” Delilah asked. “Is he still breathing?”
“You make him sound ancient,” Emma protested with good humor. “I’m not exactly Anna Nicole.”
“But he has voted for over t
en presidents.”
In her own personal record, Emma could count only three elections. Disturbed by the thought, she shook it away. “I should go. I don’t hear Garrison snoring.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” Delilah cracked.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Emma said, laughing in spite of herself as she hung up and ventured back into the bedroom, where Garrison was alive and well and reading The Financial Times.
His gaze zeroed in on the cordless telephone. “Secret boyfriend?”
“Delilah,” Emma confirmed.
Garrison grunted disagreeably and returned to his newspaper.There had been one get-acquainted-with-my-friend-Delilahdinner at Mr. Chow. It had not gone well. In fact, he had referred to her as a “foul-mouthed cunt” in the cab on the way home.
Emma began to dress quickly in a Juicy Couture suit that was hanging carelessly across her vanity chair.
“Are we finished?” Garrison asked. Engrossed in an article,he barely looked up. “I could go at it again.”
“I have to run down to the newsstand. Can I bring you back anything?”
He shook his head. “Fix me a bourbon before you go.”
The request irritated her. It sounded like a line from an old Harold Robbins novel. The rich bastard had just screwed the young girl, and now he expected her to serve him like a geisha. She took in the sight of his bald head and protruding stomach, experiencing a moment’s pure disgust.
All of a sudden, it was astonishing that Garrison Friedberg had landed someone like her. Even Sutton Lancaster, a woman closer to his own age, should have been out of his league, not to mention the scores of beautiful girls who had come before both of them.
Men who played the asshole card usually enjoyed consistentsuccess with uneducated women. So why was Emma pouring the Masterpiece bourbon into a highballer instead of splashing it in this guy’s face?
The fact that she had no answer simply underscored how far off course she was. Dutifully, Emma delivered the drink.
Garrison accepted it without a word, clicking on the small flat screen television to CNBC’s Street Signs.
Emma grabbed her BlackBerry and dashed downstairs to the newsstand on the corner. The teaser headline ONE SWEET LITTLE MELON made her stomach do a revolution as she pushed a dollar into the attendant’s hand and walked away, lost in the business of tearing through the smelly newsprint for the actual story.