Know Her, Love Her: Daisy & Belmont, Book ONE (LOVE in the USA 4)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  “Why?” I ask. “The advance team is going to in Paris next Thursday. Aren’t you the director?”

  “Daisy, I’ll see you on Monday,” he says in his English accent before hanging up.

  Dexter chuckles on his way out the office. He stops at the door. “By the way, I have a date tomorrow night. Do you have any plans?”

  “Oh… do you want me to go somewhere so you can be alone? I can go back to my parents’ place.”

  “No.” He appears bothered by what I just said. “But do you have plans?”

  “No.”

  “Do you need company? Because I can reschedule.”

  I fling my wrist. “No way. I’ll be fine. I’ll veg out on TV and popcorn or something.”

  “Is that what all the beautiful women do on a Saturday night? Why don’t you come hang out with us?”

  I look at him askew. “Are you seriously inviting me to be a third wheel on your date?”

  He opens his mouth but then closes it. “That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”

  “If you’re trying to get laid, it would.”

  He sniffs a chuckle. “Never mind.” He walks away.

  On Friday, we receive word that our four episodes have been cut to two. So we meet as a team and choose Malta as our second destination. Kristin and I work late into the afternoon, completing the shooting script. She doesn’t digress from the task at hand, which I prefer. Before calling it a day, I watch the new host’s test shoot that Kristin emailed me. His name is Scott Whistler, and he’s an archeologist and world traveler. Kristin did a solid job casting him. He’s obscure enough. He’ll win the audience over with all the things women like about men and men like in their irreverent, unflappable adventurer.

  Unlike yesterday, I leave work by myself. It’s a half an hour walk to my new home. The evening is warm, and bulbous clouds usher in the humidity. The sidewalks bustle with people returning home from a day at work or wasting away some hours.

  I’m stopped by a traffic light and take the opportunity to switch on my cell phone. I’ve had it off since Tuesday. It dings and buzzes with messages. I look over the list of callers: Dexter, Maggie, Dexter, Maggie, Maya, Angel, Maya, Angel, Mom, Jacques, Unknown, Unknown, Mom, Maya, Mom, and Belmont. I gasp and force myself to try to feel an emotion that’s fleeing. Could it be love? Perhaps it’s trust.

  People bolt across the street before the light turns green, and one guy narrowly misses colliding with a car. I listen to Belmont’s message as soon as it’s time to cross legally. He says my name and that he’s sorry, then he hangs up. He sounds miserable, and that doesn’t make me happy. If only I could get over it.

  I stop at the market to grab a few salads, a bag of popcorn, and some fruit. I greet some of the neighbors who are walking their dogs before I lock myself inside for the evening.

  I go to my bedroom, strip out of my clothes, and slip on Belmont’s oversized Martha’s Vineyard sweatshirt and a pair of knee-high socks. The house is icy because the air conditioner has been on all day. I turn it off. I wrap my hair in a bun, climb in bed with my salad and popcorn, and flick through the TV.

  I end up watching a show on Showtime that links into the world of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. As soon as the episode ends, I find the series on On-Demand and watch all the other episodes. The content is perfectly gory and suspenseful and keeps my mind off Belmont. I also try to catch up on this season of Game of Thrones. Belmont and I watched the last season together, never missing an episode. I fall asleep before I complete the season.

  Much later, I hear a girl giggle and the front door slam. My eyes expand. Did Dexter bring his date home? Thank goodness there’s a bathroom attached to my room. I take a shower, brush my teeth, and crawl back into bed. I close my eyes but reopen them as soon as I hear the sensual sound of a woman moaning. Dexter is definitely pleasuring his date. The noise doesn’t bother me.

  A memory makes me smile. Charlie, Angel, Maggie, and Vince once joined Belmont and me in Martha’s Vineyard for an intimate New Year’s gathering. At the end of the night, we retired to our rooms, which were too close for comfort. Angel was the first to cry out, then Maggie. Belmont and I were pretending we weren’t on the outs, but we made love that night too. When he made me come, I came hard, and I screamed. Charlie grunted. Vince grunted louder. Belmont just yelled. Then we all started laughing. We always have the best time together. It would be a shame if the six of us ever allow breakups to tear us apart. I fall asleep right after Dexter grunts.

  My cell phone chimes and wakes me but only halfway. I fall back asleep as soon as the chiming ends. A while later, someone else calls. I flip over and continue dreaming about something that makes no sense. Then there’s knocking.

  “Hey, sleepyhead?” Dexter says.

  I have to force my eyes open. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, fully dressed.

  “Hey?” My voice is scratchy.

  “It’s after twelve.”

  I clear my throat. My head hurts. I groan and hide under a pillow.

  “Are you okay?” Dexter asks.

  I reemerge. “I don’t know.” I press the back of my hand against my forehead.

  “Let me do it.” Dexter puts his hand next to mine. He looks serious about the examination. “You’re fine.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Doctor.”

  “You’re not hot. So you’re not sick.”

  Actually, I feel better already. “You brought your date home.” I flex my eyebrows.

  “Were we too loud? Sorry about that.”

  “Believe me, I’ve heard louder.” Then I groan because I remember something. “I have to go to Jacques’s performance tonight.”

  His eyes expand. “Jacques Blanchard is playing in Chicago tonight?”

  “Yes, and surprisingly, he asked me to come. He never does that.”

  “Do you need a plus one?”

  I balk. “Really?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Well, sure, but aren’t you taking the girl you brought home last night out on a second date?”

  He drops his face and snickers. “Not tonight. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  He tilts his head. “You’re not going to ask me?”

  “Ask you what?”

  “Who I was with?”

  I shrug. “It’s none of my business.”

  “It was Melissa.”

  I gasp. That wakes me right up. “Our Melissa? You like her?”

  “She’s cute.”

  “Well, you’ll definitely see her again.”

  “She promised no strings attached.”

  “Ha! Darling, there are always strings attached with women like her.”

  Dexter frowns as if what I said bothers him. I hop out of bed, and his eyes nearly pop out of his head. I forgot I’m wearing a tank top, no bra, and panties.

  “Oh, shoot!” I scurry to the bathroom and close the door.

  “I’ll be back in thirty,” he calls.

  “Make it fifteen,” I shout.

  Dexter and I have lunch on the crowded patio of a restaurant on Rush Street. Never at a loss for words, he tells me he grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He wanted to become the puppet master living in the television set, which was why he majored in media studies at Perdue University. After graduating college, he returned home and worked at one of the local networks as an assignment editor. A year later, he married his now ex-wife.

  “That’s a mistake I wish I never made,” he says.

  “What do they say? Hindsight is twenty-twenty?”

  “What does that make foresight?”

  “Blind,” I say.

  We laugh.

  “But didn’t you love her?” I ask.

  He takes a moment to reflect. “You see, there was this war going on in my head. In the back of my mind, I knew all the fun I was having in college had to end. That’s why I used to drink and fuck like there was no tomorrow. I was supposed to marry a good girl with the values I needed t
o whip me in shape. I knew that was bullshit, but I couldn’t stop the fucking programming, you know?”

  I nod. “I know. It’s kind of like being raised with religion.”

  “Exactly! Here’s her trope—small-town waitress, virginal, good girl. Here’s my trope—wild college boy returning home to saddle himself with the ‘American dream.’ It was just fucking good TV!” He shakes his hands dramatically.

  “I wasn’t raised to follow any tropes. My mom used to say that nothing in this world is real. It’s all made up, and she made a career of reinforcing the shit people want to believe.” I shake my finger and mimic Heloise. “‘So don’t you believe a fucking thing, ma fleur, unless you know for certain it’s true.’”

  “Who’s ma fleur?”

  “My mom and Jacques call me ma fleur.”

  “My flower?”

  I nod. “Um-hum.” I chew on my sandwich.

  “I notice you don’t call Jacques your father.”

  I frown. “I don’t?”

  He’s amused. “You didn’t realize it?”

  I shake my head. “No, I didn’t. Although when I think about him, I don’t feel all warm and fatherly fuzzy.”

  “That sucks for him. I want my daughters to feel all warm and fatherly fuzzy when they think of me.”

  “Are you close to your daughters?” I ask.

  “As close as a divorced dad can be.”

  “How much time do you spend with them?”

  “I’ll have them for the summer. That’s why my friend wants me to buy the house. If the network picks up the series, we’ll be headquartered here in Chicago. If the network doesn’t green-light us, then I’ll move back to New York.”

  “Jeez.” I scratch my head, conflicted. I stop once I realize that it’s a habit I picked up from Belmont. “I don’t know if I want to live here full-time.”

  “Me neither. I prefer New York.”

  “I prefer Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “Yeah?” He’s intrigued.

  “It’s where Belmont and I met. He has a beautiful house there, and I just like the island as a whole.”

  We smile at each other. He says he’s happy his ex-wife chose to stay in Manhattan. His daughters attend private schools, the kind where the girls smoke in the bathrooms and hook up with boys from the school across the street.

  “You’re not afraid they’ll fall down the wrong path?” I ask.

  He shakes his head resolutely. “I’m not.”

  “Why not?”

  “When Mariana was six—”

  “Beautiful name,” I interject.

  “Thanks. She’s a beautiful girl, but Luddie and I don’t harp on it.”

  “Understandably.”

  “But when she was six, she was playing with something of mine. I can’t remember what it was—maybe it was my watch. She used to like to play with anything that wasn’t a toy. I took it from her and scolded her. Then it clicked—I should’ve given her the choice to give it back. I handled it differently the next time.”

  I’m on the edge of my seat. “What did you do?”

  “She had my wallet. I told her it was very valuable to me. If I lost anything inside of it, then that would make things harder for all of us. I told her I didn’t want to yell at her, but I wanted her to do the right thing. I asked her what she thought the right thing was.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She didn’t say anything. She handed me back my wallet and never messed with my shit ever again.”

  “Impressive,” I say.

  “My daughters know that life is about choices. That’s it. They can make good ones or bad ones, right ones or wrong ones. There are always consequences attached.”

  “Not always,” I say, smirking.

  “Always, Daisy. There are even consequences for not believing in consequences.” He winks.

  I ruffle my eyebrows, pondering all the consequences of every choice I’ve ever made. Somehow Dexter ends up telling me the reasons why pot should and shouldn’t be legal. He thinks it’s a win-lose situation, and he wants to know what I think.

  I frown and shrug. “I really don’t care.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t smoke it, but if you do, then it’s your business.”

  “You’ve chosen to be unaffected.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve chosen it. Plus, I’ve been watching a news show on HBO. As my husband would say, ‘We’re fucked!’”

  “Quoting Jack Lord? Javar’s fucked!” He laughs.

  I reprise the story of how Javar and I met. I start from day one and end with the last time we hung out, which was during the Cannes Film Festival nearly four years ago. Dexter has no comment. He asks if I want to go yachting on the lake with him and a few friends after lunch. I decline the invitation because I’ve been craving a long, hot soak in my parents’ infinity tub. We agree to meet at the house at nine so we can head to Jacques’s concert. I make the two-mile walk to my parents’ condo to take that bath.

  ***

  Dexter Frampton

  Dexter hadn’t expected Daisy Lord to be so fascinating. She hadn’t tried to seduce him, but he found himself standing in line behind Jack Lord, which made him the improbable winner. Javar was no competition at all. The more time Dexter spent with Daisy, the more he understood why Javar could never seal the deal. He’s too superficial, though not in a bad way. All of Javar’s cards were spread out for the world to see. Dexter figured Daisy was the kind of woman who was attracted to enigma and depth. Dexter had laid awake trying to figure out what was it about Daisy that made him feel that something extra. What was her allure—other than the obvious? Why did she stand out?

  Melissa was adequate. He’d gone out with her to prove to himself that he wasn’t that into Daisy. He feared he’d made a mistake bringing Melissa home last night. She kept asking who lived with him after seeing Daisy’s shoes by the door. He was positive Melissa had recognized Daisy’s black heels. He had asked Melissa to quiet down during sex, but instead, she got louder. He couldn’t see them getting any mileage out of a relationship. Melissa was good for a different kind of guy. He was an idiot for boning her.

  Dexter boarded his friend Grey Lansing’s luxury yacht at a restaurant along the riverfront. Grey had a reputation as a party boy who lived off his dad’s cash. He did claim to have a career, but what it was, hardly anyone knew.

  Dexter had met Grey at a fashionable party in the Hamptons last year. Dexter had been invited by a model he’d met in a bar in the West Village. Luta had lots of friends there and had left him alone while she circulated. He didn’t mind because he wasn’t that into her, although he did sleep with her at the end of the night—and a few nights after that. But while she socialized, he planted himself on a stool at the bar, and like most men in his position, he waited for something to happen.

  Grey Lansing had squeezed into the space next to Dexter and mumbled, “Fucking models.”

  “Tell me about it,” Dexter replied.

  That broke the ice, and they’d started talking about how easily they got sucked into the model trap. Grey invited him to another party and promised there would be no models present, only desperate co-eds. Dexter declined with a laugh. They’d exchanged contact information after Dexter told him that he was an independent television producer. Grey never said what he did, but Dexter had heard whispers that Grey was involved with Internet investigations, obtaining legal and illegal information.

  Grey was in Chicago for a few days, and when Dexter agreed to ride out on his yacht, he wouldn’t have guessed Jack Lord would be on the boat with them.

  “Hello,” Jack said. His entire demeanor was frosty.

  Dexter started sweating and couldn’t look the man in his eyes. “Hi.” He cleared his throat to say it with more confidence. “Hello.”

  Dexter only breathed easily when Jack followed Grey to the bottom deck. It was too late to abandon ship. Plus, leaving would make Dexter look guilty. So he lounged on the upper deck and drank
beer as he listened to two men lament the changeable temperament of the stock market.

  After losing interest in the men’s conversation, Dexter focused on a group of pretty girls in bikinis dancing on the sky deck. There were a lot of scantily clad girls onboard, but most of them were in the Jacuzzi on the lower deck, griping about the lake being too cold to swim in. Dexter had made eye contact with at least three of them. They weren’t his type. He was into women like Daisy. Her body was amazing, all curves and ass and tits, her pussy print in those panties… He’d grown wood after she’d climbed out of bed half naked. He would give a finger and a toe to make love to her one momentous, fantastic, and exciting time. But Dexter needed to convince himself and Jack Lord that that was not the case.

  He finished his second beer and walked up to the sky deck to stand beside a pretty brunette with short hair. She was much shorter than Daisy but had the same killer curves. He said hello and commented on the ocean. The girls around her grinned and batted their eyes, hoping to divert his attention. If only dating were that easy in New York. He and the brunette talked about the cold lake and when it would warm up and the hot spots in town. She invited him to another party that night at a bar that was supposed to have the best beer and crowd. He asked if she drank a lot of beer.

  She pumped her fist and said, “Hell yeah!” She smiled as if she expected him to find her response endearing.

  He didn’t, but he smiled at her anyway, mainly because she was easy. He could skip the concert and opt for a drunken night out, punctuated by riding the killer curves of the girl whose name he’d already forgotten. He asked for her number just as Jack Lord walked up the stairs.

  “Can we talk?” Jack asked.

  Dexter told what’s-her-name that he’d be back.