There's Something About Her, A Manhattan Love Story (LOVE in the USA, #2)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  Collins starts with the “power invested in me” spiel. “I now pronounce you man and wife. Go for it, Jack.” Reverend Weasel smiles for the first time, and the entire floor explodes with laughter.

  I’m trying to figure this out. Is that permissible? Can people kiss like that at a wedding? They’re going for it. She’s running her fingers through his hair, and he’s squeezing her ass. Just when we think they’re going to end it and face the crowd, they start up again. People stand up to applaud. Mandy steps on my foot as she storms out.

  “Ouch!” I reach down to massage my toe.

  Charlie hasn’t budged. He’s still slumped in his seat and staring daggers at the new Mr. and Mrs. Lord. Feeling my eyes on him, he turns to me and shrugs. He stands and walks out of the ballroom.

  Daisy and Jack are too happy to notice. They finally stop kissing and face their guests. Jack scoops her up into his arms. The lights along the aisle click off as he carries her out of the room to the sound of continual applause.

  Chapter 2

  It’s Who You Know

  The ceremony didn’t take long, which is good. I have to run fifteen blocks home to change into a naughty hooker costume and hightail it to Monroe’s book signing.

  Wedding guests were asked to not loiter because the sooner they get to the cruise ship, the sooner the festivities start. Mostly everyone is moving to the twelve elevators. White limousines are parked in front of the building, waiting to whisk them off to the harbor.

  Jack would give a damn if I left without wishing him and Daisy well, so I stand against the wall outside of the ballroom, waiting my turn. Daisy hugs her mother, Heloise Krantz. She’s a Hollywood producer. Daisy promised Monroe a meeting with her mom the next time she’s in L.A., but the offer came with a warning. Her mother is no-nonsense and brutally honest. Monroe shrugged one shoulder and said, “So am I.”

  I have the feeling I’m being watched. It’s coming from my right.

  “So, who are you again?” comes from my left. Mandy Hill makes herself comfortable beside me.

  “I’m nobody at all,” I say.

  “Did you come with Charlie Lord?” she presses.

  “Ha,” I scoff. “He wishes. Do you know he’s got every disease in the book, including the cooties?”

  She’s reading my expression. I struggle to keep a straight face. I must look away, or I’ll break. I turn my face and see the same guy who was gawking at Mandy during the ceremony staring at us. His eyebrows are ruffled as if he’s trying to figure something out. She probably looks familiar to him. As far as I can tell, he’s handsome. Maybe she could stop obsessing over my married cousin long enough to notice that tall drink of water—maybe not.

  “Is cooties a real disease?” she asks.

  Jack watches me from across the room. He’s smiling. That’s my cue.

  “It is. It’s slang for cock-o-lock-us-hydrolyze-membrane infection. You should look it up. And if you’ve engaged in sexual intercourse with Charlie Lord, then you probably have it.” I leave her to obsess over that. Boy, was that fun.

  “Mags,” Jack sings and grabs me, giving me a monster hug.

  I thumb over my shoulder at Mandy. “Why in the hell did you invite her?” I hug Daisy.

  Jack glances at Monroe, and I’m sure that made her day. “We didn’t. She must’ve used her name to get in the door. But what about you, Mags? Have you changed your mind? Are you catching the boat?”

  I feel the sides of my mouth pull down. “I still can’t. But I really loved the ceremony. You are a beautiful bride, Dais.”

  Daisy sighs tiredly. “Then I lived up to expectations.” She kisses my cheek. “Talk to you soon.” She pecks Jack on the lips. “I have to get off my feet.”

  “Don’t move, Mags,” Jack says. He escorts his new wife to the elevator, telling guests he’ll talk to them on the boat as he goes. Everybody wants a piece of Jack.

  When he gets back, he asks, “So who’s this person you work for anyway?”

  “She’s just some lady. My girlfriends and I call her Cruella La Bitch.”

  “I don’t like this. What’s her real name?”

  I narrow one eye. “Why? What are you going to do? I can’t have you rocking the boat. Cruella La Bitch knows a lot of people.”

  Jack throws his hands up. “Are you trying to insult me?”

  “No, but it’s my career.”

  “Her name?” he insists.

  “Patty Welch.”

  “Welch… Don’t recognize it. You know what that means?”

  I grimace. “No, what?”

  “She’s nobody. What’s the name of the company?”

  He said that with such impudence that I happily say, “Make It Work, Inc.”

  He snaps his fingers. “Stan Richfield.”

  “He’s the president.”

  “What do you do for this company?”

  I drop my face in shame. “I’m a marketing associate, which is nothing but a glorified assistant.”

  “But you graduated magna cum laude from Columbia University with a MBA in marketing. You interned at ABC and Alpha Media Group. And I spoke to Valerie Beacon. She said your work was fucking amazing. She wanted to make you a manager but you turned her down. I thought you did it because you had a better offer.”

  “Valerie referred me to Make It Work. Neither one of us would’ve guessed I would end up as Cruella La Bitch’s lackey.” I feel so stupid for giving up a slice of heaven in exchange for hell on earth.

  He shakes his head. “This is my fault. I dropped the ball. But I’m going to fix it. Give me an idea of what Patty Welch does on a daily basis—besides make it hard on you.”

  Jack has worked himself up into a frenzy. I sigh. I didn’t mean to get into this with him on his wedding day. I should’ve never said anything to him. He thinks of me as his younger sister. Charlie does too, even though we’re the same age.

  When we were children, their mom, Aunt Carlotta, used to fly out to the city to visit my mom for two weeks every spring. Jack would take Charlie and me to Coney Island almost every day. He wiped out all the money he’d saved from his allowance paying for our rides, funnel cakes, and sideshow attractions.

  Once I was riding too fast on my bike and fell off. I skinned my knee and twisted my ankle. Jack nursed me back to health by making me all the vanilla ice cream and cola floats I could eat. When I threw it all up, he gave me plenty of water and apples, blueberries, and oranges. He had taken a trip to the library to do some research and learned those were anti-inflammatory fruits, which was what I needed to get better and back on my bike again.

  When I was an undergrad, Jack had called me once a week to see if I needed anything. Then when he learned I was accepted into the MBA program at Columbia, he called every executive he knew to help me land two coveted internships. After graduation, I was offered jobs by both companies, but I wanted to work for a newer, up-and-coming company. I had no idea I would end up working for a viper.

  Jack’s still waiting for my response, and everybody’s eyeing him, waiting for an opportunity to make contact. Daisy is the lucky bride, but they all want to shake his hand and slap a business card in it while they’re at it.

  “She handles the marketing for new product development,” I say.

  “What kind of products?” he asks.

  “Mostly apps for cell phones.”

  “She’s in charge of consumer contact then?”

  “Precisely,” I say.

  “Could you do her job?”

  “With my eyes closed.”

  “That’s all I need to know.” Jack kisses me on the cheek.

  I grab his arm to stop him before he steps away. “Hey, what are you going to do?”

  “Don’t worry. She can’t do a damn thing to you. I have some ideas. Just wait for my call.” He lifts his eyebrows. “You sure you don’t want to come to the reception? It’s going to be a lot of fun. It won’t be complete if you’re not there.”

  Five years ago, I would’ve
mauled him with a big hug and hopped on the party train, free at last, knowing Jack would fix everything. However, I want to be sensible and not rock the boat until I know for sure that I can jump off of it.

  “I wish I could, but I want to be responsible,” I say.

  “All right, but if you change your mind, call me. I’ll have my phone on my hip,” he says.

  We ride down the elevator together. That guy who stared at Mandy all evening rides with us. Since she’s not with us, he watches me, but I’m sure he’s not interested in moi. His face is familiar, but I’m unable to place it. Maybe I’ve seen him somewhere. In this city, if I pay attention, I’ll see the same face at least once or twice a week. I decide to avoid eye contact with Mr. Gorgeous. In the lobby, I give Daisy and Jack one last hug and race home as fast as I can.

  I shuffle down 59th Street to 57th and 3rd Avenue to my mom’s luxury condo. She used to live in it before she took a girls’ trip to Vegas, met Cobey Miller, and married him on a whim. He’s a hedge fund manager and twenty years younger than her, which makes us the same age.

  Since they met in Vegas, they moved to Vegas. My mom has become infatuated by the warm desert nights, dry hot days, and all the sin in Sin City. I wouldn’t be surprised if she and Cobey were swingers or furries. She’s become strange ever since Aunt Carlotta died. However, other than paying the utilities and cable, she lets me live in the seventeenth-floor apartment rent-free.

  As soon as I get home, I slip out of my slinky light-blue dress and into a red short dress that barely covers my crotch. I tease my limp hair until it runs home crying and put on bright-red lipstick. I rummage through my mom’s closet and find a pair of gold-studded stilettos. I check myself in the full-length mirror. My hooker outfit should work. It’s nine p.m., and I’m already late. I scarf down a cold meal of last night’s mu shu pork and a bottle of water and rush out into the night.

  Hailing a cab outside of my building is always easy. One stops as soon as I lift a hand. Cabbies can smell a big tip from twenty miles away, and a lot of rich people live here. I’m not one of them, so I don’t tip, but the driver won’t know that until we reach my destination in East Village.

  Normally I’d walk the forty-five blocks or take the 6 Train down Lexington Avenue, but I’m afraid some creepy guy will ask me how much I cost. It doesn’t take long to get there. The venue is on the top floor of a nightclub. Hookers and johns are filing in to the red-brick building sandwiched between a gray and a yellow one. I see the partygoers mingling through the windows upstairs.

  I pay the driver ten bucks. He snorts and gets a good look at my face as if he’s memorizing it so he doesn’t get stuck with the cheap girl in the future.

  “Right,” I mumble as I hop out and head in.

  There’s a good turnout. It’s not surprising; Monroe has a lot of acquaintances. People stand around sipping cocktails, conversing, and checking each other out. What’s strange is they’re playing old school gangsta rap. I hear a lot of “fuck” and “shit” and “bitch.”

  I make it to the bar to meet Hannah, a stylist, Cleo, an executive producer for a popular early morning talk show, and Monroe, a trust fund baby. They’re already three sheets to the wind.

  “To you, mother dear madam!” Monroe says as she raises her glass and slams it on the bar top without taking a drink. I take it she was merely adding drama to whatever she was saying.

  I squeeze in between Monroe and Cleo. “I’m here!”

  First they assess me as if I arrived at the prom covered in pig’s blood.

  “That’s what you call a hooker?” Monroe asks.

  She’s in a mesh see-through top and mini-skirt. I can see her vagina, which is probably why a good number of johns are hovering. In one word, she’s hot. In two words, she’s naked. She’s tall and slim but not too skinny. She has nice round butt cheeks and squeezable tits. I’ve heard we have the same physique, but I don’t see it. Neither do the men standing around drooling over her.

  “This dress isn’t short enough?” I tug at the hem.

  “That’s not short. It’s mid-thigh, Miss Little House on the Prairie,” Monroe says.

  “It’s not only short, but it’s tight. Look at this!” I rotate. “I’m just as much of a hooker as you are.”

  “Sure, you are,” Hannah says. “But tell us. Did it really happen? Is your panty-drenching cousin off the market for good?”

  I roll my eyes, then flick them back to get a good look at her cat-woman latex jumpsuit and red thigh-high boots. She resembles a dominatrix more than a hooker! I’m pretty sure Monroe pointed that out when Hannah first arrived.

  “Yep. He’s never divorcing her, so you’re going to have to find another guy to stalk,” I say.

  “Oh, God, he’s so damn hot. Just once is all I need. You think they’ll have an open marriage? Or even better, a mistress?” Hannah asks.

  The crazy thing is she’s serious.

  “Shit, Hannah, you basically handed him your pussy on a platter, and he didn’t want it. Why do you think he’ll want it when he’s married? Jeez,” Cleo says.

  “Thank you,” I say. Cleo said exactly what I was thinking. She’s quicker on the draw than I am.

  Cleo is the other me. We’re both five foot seven and a half to Hannah and Monroe’s five foot nine and a half. Her naturally blond hair is fine like mine. She’s pretty, but guys have to do a double take to see it when she’s standing anywhere near Monroe and Hannah.

  “So did you make any contacts while you were there? I know tons of high-powered people who were invited to that wedding,” Monroe says. She’s all about networking.

  “Oh, do you know who I sat next to? Mandy Hill!” I reveal.

  “The actress?”

  “Yeah.”

  Monroe gasps. “I want to meet her! I want her to play my mom in the movie they’re making out of my book.”

  “What? They’re making a movie out of your exploitative tale about your mom’s trashy life story?” Cleo asks, once again unfiltered.

  “Hell yes,” Monroe replies.

  Monroe’s mother, Chloe Richardson, was a big movie star in the seventies and eighties, and she was a New York City madam by night. She died in an airplane crash with her big-time politician lover in the mid-nineties. Monroe spun it as if the guy was the love of her mother’s life, but in truth, according to Monroe, they were only sex buddies. His wife was a prude, and her mom was a whore.

  “It’s simple mathematics,” Monroe had said.

  Monroe tilts her head. “And I’m moving to L.A. in August. Maybe earlier.” She mumbles the last part and guzzles her drink after dropping that bomb.

  “Really, Monroe? This is how you’re going to break this to us? While we’re in hooker costumes?” Cleo asks.

  We study each other’s stunned expressions and hideous outfits before bursting into laughter. After that, I let them know just how much of a psycho Mandy Hill is. Maybe Monroe will rethink the idea of her starring in her movie.

  “Psycho meets psycho. What’s the problem here?” Monroe says.

  Christopher Lamb, her editor, walks up to us, unable to take his eyes off of her nipples. If it weren’t for that, I would think he was gay. Or maybe she’s so sexy not even gay men can resist her.

  “Monroe, the show’s going to start soon, and I want you to meet someone,” he says.

  “What show?” I ask.

  Monroe flexes her eyebrows. “Just wait and see.” She links arms with Christopher and lets him lead her away.

  The mysterious show starts ten minutes later. Butt-naked women strut out and gyrate to the type of music that screams red-light district, circa 1970s. Before long, they’re fanning their legs spread eagle, showing their twats. It’s nasty as hell and yet too captivating to look away.

  Before the night ends, I down three cocktails and have two conversations with men who want to know how close I live, as if I’m that easy to take home and thump. Since it’s three in the morning and I have to be at work in three hours, Cl
eo and I share a cab. She only lives a few blocks away from me.

  I slog into the apartment and look around. The purple velour sofas and glass coffee table, end tables, and shelves have my mom’s taste written all over them. One day I’m going to make enough money to move out of this relic of poor taste.

  I make a pot of coffee. I’ll stay up for the next three hours so I won’t be drowsy for the first half of the morning. I can already hear Cruella La Bitch speaking to me as if I’m the town idiot. She’s so patronizing, and she never looks me in the eyes. She always looks me up and down as though I’m some kind of freak of nature or I’ve worn the wrong outfit to work.

  I take my cell phone out of my purse to charge the battery and notice a missed call from Jack L. and one new message. I narrow one eye. I can’t believe he called me on his wedding night. The call came at 2:17 a.m., which wasn’t too long ago.

  I sit on a rod-iron stool at the breakfast bar and listen to the message as I wait for the coffee to steep.

  “Hey, Mags. Don’t go into the office this morning. You’re done at Make it Work. You now work for A&RT Media Group. Heard of them? I’m sure you have. It’s a good paying job, and they’re going to put your talents to use. Report to HR on the twenty-second floor tomorrow at noon. I figured you went out tonight, which was why you ran up the street. Hanging out with your crazy friends.” He chuckles. “All right, Mags, I’ll call you from Malta to see how it’s going. You’re missed. Charlie is being a jackass. Later.”

  I can hardly breathe. That was quick. I can’t believe Jack secured me a new situation, and hell if I won’t take it.

  Right?

  I hop off the stool, go into my bedroom and fall on top of the bed. Gazing at the ceiling, I can’t deny the overwhelming feeling that has fallen over me. I feel as if I’ve just been freed from a twenty-year prison sentence or arrived at the finish line after a treacherous 26.2 mile run. I can close my eyes in peace and get some sleep.