Ginny Blue's Boyfriends

by Nancy Kelly

  So, I was initially happy to hear about the ex. Brad said they were on amicable terms, so okay, even better. I had this unformed notion that she and I might actually get along and share Brad stories, or something.

  Then he told me that he had a child. Children. Three, to be exact. And they weren’t babies. One was actually fifteen. A boy. With a surly expression and a monosyllabic delivery that became like the sound of fingernails scraping on a blackboard to me. His name was Tremaine and he started spending more and more time with his dad, which Brad professed to love, but which left me teensitting him whenever I wasn’t on a job, which was most of the time since Brad really resented my work and its long hours.

  Thus, I found myself in the role of wicked stepmother, even before any serious thought of a wedding. I also found myself racking my brain, struggling for some kind of meaningful communication between us. With a Stepford-wife smile, I asked, “Tremaine, would you like me to order a pizza?”

  “Nah.”

  “I could make lasagna. I’m good at that one.”

  “Nah.”

  “Chicken?”

  “Nah.”

  “Hamburgers?” Ha, ha, ho, ho. Oh, Ginny Blue, trying to jolly the unjollyable, miserable teenager sprawled on the sofa, watching television and playing video games.

  “Nah.”

  “Cioppino?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” I gave up any interest in culinary skills at that juncture in my life. Tremaine just sucked the joy out of anything domestic. Brad sensed that I was unhappy and he knew the cause but rather than face the fact that his lovely offspring and I weren’t getting along, he chose to break into long dissertations on the law and his latest case rather than talk about anything personal, interesting or relevant.

  Brad’s other two kids weren’t much better. The middle daughter, twelve, surly, and possessed of huge mascaraed eyes which she constantly rolled, was a teensy-weensy little bitch. She hated me thoroughly. I could tell she went straight home to Mumsy and laid out all my faults. I used to obsess about this until I stopped loving Brad; then I scrutinized my own faults as well, chief among them being the fact that I’d gotten myself into this trap in the first place.

  The youngest boy was simply rude. Wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t look at me. And as for Mumsy herself, she was all sweetness and sugar to my face but a real rattlesnake behind my back. I read that one straight off. My illusions were shattered upon first meeting, thank God, so I didn’t have to feel like an idiot for ever believing in her.

  So, what did this all say about Brad?

  The way I saw it, he helped create these little monsters by marrying one.

  Still, I hung in there. Some kind of sick desperation on my part, I guess. Me, trying to do something I can’t: tolerate bad behavior for the sake of a boyfriend. How pathetic can you get!

  Then, the coup de grace. And this is where it gets really ugly. Knowles-It-All decided it was time to change me! His screwed-up family wasn’t enough. He needed fresh meat to pound down.

  “Ginny, who’s your stylist?”

  He caught me as I was digging into my favorite dish: pizza casserole. It was one I’d learned to make during the failed get-close-to-Tremaine era: ground Italian sausage sauteed with sliced mushrooms added into spaghetti sauce and olives then poured over pasta and baked with a crust of mozzarella cheese. Yum! Even Tremaine ate it and grunted “good,” which was high praise indeed. Brad wouldn’t eat it, however, as he was fashionably “no carb” long before it became the rage.

  “My stylist?” I repeated, gulping down a bite before speaking. Brad didn’t like me talking with my mouth full. My hair was always stick straight and sometimes I curled it and sometimes I didn’t. There was no stylist, as he well knew.

  “You need something more around your face. Go to Sylvia’s on Fairfax.” He opened his wallet and peeled off some bills.

  Well.

  I couldn’t decide whether I was totally pissed or marginally amused. I chose amused, for the time being, and went to Sylvia who chopped, sheared, scissored, and prattled and pretty much ruined me in one sitting. My hair was supposed to feather around my face but it simply got in my eyes. Brad professed to love my new look, but Brad was never wrong about anything, or so he liked to believe.

  I left Brad after about a year of this torture and scoured the ads for someplace to live. The Santa Monica condo was available for lease and I threw down the first and last month’s rent with a gulp as I hadn’t been working as steadily—owing to Brad—and it was highway robbery, what they wanted to charge.

  My friends were thrilled that I was a) living closer to them, and b) through with Knowles-It-All, but none of them could move in with me and help out with rent as they were all deep into their own leases. I advertised for a roommate and got Nate. Nate and I lived together for two months before we became a couple. I realize, somewhat belatedly, that it was nice of Nate to just up and move out without creating a problem for me. The trauma of trying to find another place around Santa Monica—my preferred choice of location but where the rents jump astronomically once you move—might have sent me around the bend.

  My trip down this Knowles-It-All Memory Lane ended in an epiphany so strong it sounded like a bang to my ears.

  My mother wanted to help me buy my condo.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” I practically yelled at myself. The empty walls were the only ones who heard. Good God. What was I waiting for?

  In a frenzy of sudden decision, appreciation, love, and gratitude, I called Mom.

  “This is Lorraine,” she said in her bright realtor’s voice.

  “Are you serious about the down payment for the condo?”

  “Virginia! Er ... Ginny. Yes, of course I’m serious.”

  “And you’ve talked to Mr. Norrell about it?”

  “Yes. If you’ve had a change of heart, just say so.” I could hear the smile in her voice.

  “I have,” I said humbly. “I’ll pay you back. I need some kind of security in my life.”

  “Darling, if it’s not going to be a wedding ring, it sure as hell better be real estate.”

  Words of wisdom from Lorraine Bluebell, she of the big-ass purses and vast knowledge of the residential market. I said, “I love you.”

  She said, “I’m calling your landlord right now.”

  My meeting with Brad wasn’t the trial I imagined. I never got the hang of calling him Bradley, but I did check out his Santa Monica purchase and was a little surprised that it wasn’t as nice as mine, although it made up for it in square footage. I asked about his kids—just to be polite—and learned that Tremaine was a senior and would be graduating in the spring. The daughter (He called her Kate. I never would have remembered that) was about to get her driving permit, and the youngest boy was into snowboarding in a huge, huge way. As Brad prattled on, I wondered if CeeCee and her boy-toy would meet this wunderkind on the mountain, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

  I asked Brad about his work and he started talking in theory. Memories swirled. I felt my energy level sink like a deflating balloon. My mind wandered. For some reason I remembered sex with Brad. What it had been like.

  While he rambled, punctuating the air with a finger now and again to make a point, I thought about his nighttime calisthenics. Brad was the distracting sort. Always moving and grunting and generally turning lovemaking into a noisefest. Just when I was close to that elusive “feel-good,” the first hint that a dozing climax, the kind sleeping just out of reach, might be about to stretch and awaken, Brad would do something like blow in my ear and bite my earlobe. This sounded like the surf at Diamond Head and felt like a sand crab grabbing hold. Or, maybe he would squeeze a breast too hard, or shift position and take away the pressure from the only thing that was working: the penis. Sometimes, you just gotta wonder.

  Hurried attempts on my part to put things right made the nearly waking climax slip into a huge yawn. This was followed by a loss of sensation, where all the
parts of my body suddenly slipped into a nap. I wanted to cry out from frustration, but that would give Brad the wrong idea. Any sound during sex was a turn-on to him. If I wanted any hope of regaining what was lost I had to remain utterly silent and damn near immobile. Unfortunately passivity only increased Brad’s need to stir me up and I would be vigorously bounced, bitten, and rubbed.

  Nothing worked.

  Now, true, any one of these little tricks can be an enticement, something to jolt the sleeping climax to full alertness. But with Brad it never quite happened that way. He’d always do something that would send everything sideways. My own frustration would build and build and build until I wanted to explode—and not from sexual release. To this day, Brad is the only man I faked an orgasm with. Sometimes out of sheer necessity to get him to GET ON WITH IT ALREADY.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked suddenly.

  We were seated at a little bar off Third Street Promenade. I’d scarcely touched my martini. I’d almost forgotten where I was.

  “I was actually thinking about us,” I admitted.

  He grinned. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the gist of my thoughts. “I was thinking about us, too.”

  In a moment of pure reaction, I swept my hand over his and said, “No, Brad.”

  We sat that way a moment. For once in his life Brad didn’t talk, he listened.

  And he heard.

  And that was the end of my evening with Brad.

  I was still inwardly marveling about this moment of pure communication that had never happened before, with me and anyone, as I pulled up to the valet at Someplace Else the following night. I watched my Explorer disappear and forced myself not to worry about theft.

  Drawing a breath, I crossed to the door. I’d dressed for success. A tight blue dress. Bare legs. Strappy black heels. A black jacket.

  I actually got a whistle as I strode inside. Calves. My best asset. Cover up most of the thighs and the nonexistent boobs and I wasn’t half bad.

  My confidence was definitely hitting the upper reaches. A little more whistling and I might hit the red zone.

  Good. It was how I needed to feel to face both Jackson and Will.

  My gaze fell on them the next moment. They were seated at CeeCee’s birthday booth. They were sitting fairly close to each other for two men in such a large space, which led me to believe someone out of my range of vision was seated across from them. Jackson was wearing a white shirt, open at the throat, exposing a vee of tanned skin. His sleeves were rolled up his forearms. There was something wonderfully masculine about him.

  I had a moment of pure clarity: I want him.

  I managed to keep my tongue from hanging out as I approached their booth. I told myself I was feeling great. And why not? So I’d slept with Will? So he’d ended things first? So Jackson and I were in some kind of strange dance that would probably never be resolved? I’d seen Bradley Knowles-It-All and had gotten the last word! That was worth celebrating in itself.

  “Come here often?” I said to both of them, my smile wide. My gaze swept around to the other side of the booth.

  Oh. God. Shit. No.

  My jaw slackened. John Langdon sat there, grinning at me like an oaf. And beside him was a very young, very blonde girl, of the Nate’s Tara ilk, who blinked and smiled and gazed from one man to the other as if waiting for her cue.

  “Well, hello,” I said, finding my voice. I tried to pretend it didn’t squeak like a mouse on helium.

  One Ex-File and two near misses all at one table? There oughtta be a law.

  “Could I get you something?” The approaching barmaid looked at me expectantly.

  “Ketel One vodka martini. Lightning speed or sooner.”

  Jackson was looking me over appreciatively. I tried hard to concentrate on that and feel good as he said, “John’s agreed to be in the film. He’s investing in it.”

  “Jackson’s my financial manager,” said Lang. “He tried to talk me out of it. Said I should stick to more ‘sure things.’ I say bullshit to that.”

  My breath, which had been caught in my throat, came out in a rush. I said, forcing a normality I didn’t feel, “You’re playing Boone?” Lang nodded and I added, “You’re perfect for it.”

  “Thanks.” He was surprised, I could tell. I was, too, come to think of it. Sometimes manners take over to save the day. Thank you, Lorraine Bluebell.

  Will stated flatly, “Let’s all stop congratulating ourselves and really talk about this project. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  Trust Will to be the wet blanket. What had I found attractive about him? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember.

  The girl bubbled, “John said I might have a small part. I can’t wait! I’m so excited!”

  Lang gave her a hug, as if he were trying to squeeze her lips closed. She gazed up at him adoringly. I excused myself for a moment. Time to catch my bearings. I was halfway to the ladies’ room when a hand touched my shoulder. I turned around, half-expecting and half-hoping it was Jackson.

  I stared into Lang’s famous face.

  “You’re the one that got away,” he said.

  A feeling of joy swept over me. Then a vague memory. Jackson telling me at CeeCee’s party that Lang had said that about me. Another woman might have believed it to be true, but I knew Lang. I said dryly, “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

  He grinned.

  Bullseye, Ginny Blue.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “The feeling’s mutual,” I said. Not really. But Lang was basically harmless as long as you stayed detached.

  Like you should do with Jackson.

  “We’re going to have a good time,” Lang predicted.

  “I think you’re right,” I said, not sure if I believed it or not.

  I left him and headed for the restroom. When I returned to the table, Jackson had made room for me. I sat down beside him and there was just enough space to perch on the edge, as long as my thigh was pressed tightly against his. The warmth split my attention throughout the meeting. Later, all I remembered was Jackson’s heat, his blue eyes, Lang’s gift of cowboyish bonhomie, and Will’s dourness.

  But Jackson’s heat was foremost in my mind.

  Maybe we were going to have a good time.

  I hope so, I thought, meeting his gaze.

  His fingers lightly grazed my arm.

  Dial it back, I told myself, plastering on a smile for the others at the table. Dial it back.

  A week later I met the girls at Sammy’s. Jill arrived sans Ian, but looking healthier. I gazed at her expectantly and she said, “So, I’m eating better. I’m trying to change.”

  “Good.”

  “I took the job at Ian’s restaurant,” she added.

  I was blown away. Trust my friends to always have more interesting stories than I did, even when mine were good. “What about the catering?”

  “I’m still doing some jobs. But I needed a little more stability. Ian and I are working things out.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We’re not dating—but we’re not not dating.”

  Which, in Jill-Ian speak, meant status quo.

  Daphne arrived in a bright pink blouse and tight faded blue jeans. She said, scooting into her chair, “I’ve met a great guy.”

  “An actor?” I asked. I’m sorry. I can’t help myself sometimes.

  “An acting coach.” She dimpled. “He’s teaching me things I never knew.”

  “Better than ‘Getting Able’?”

  She sniffed. “Don’t talk to me about Kane. He couldn’t handle a relationship.”

  “He couldn’t handle vaginal itching,” Jill pointed out.

  “Oh, I don’t think that was it. He really has no time for anything but his work.”

  Denial, I thought. Maybe it’s how we all live.

  CeeCee came last. Her hair was a tad longer; her once-pink tips now a virulent shade of orange. She said, “Yes, I’m sleeping with him. He’s young. He’s quick.
He doesn’t ever say anything meaningful. I like that in a man.”

  “A boy,” I corrected.

  “He’s eighteen,” she reminded.

  “How are things going with you, Blue?” Jill asked.

  “Passable.” I waited a moment, savoring the spotlight. All three of my friends waited expectantly. “We’re starting the film next week. John Langdon’s starring.”

  Daphne actually gasped aloud. Maybe they all did. “Mr. Famous Actor?”

  “In the flesh. I have completed my mission,” I informed them all. Counting on my fingers, I stated with a flourish, “Nate, Charlie, Kane, Hairy Larry, Don the Devout, Black Mark, Knowles-It-All—yes, it’s true, I’ve dealt with Bradley—and last but not least, John Langdon, Mr. Famous Actor.”

  “And?” Jill asked, looking decidedly impressed.

  “Are you cured?” CeeCee put in.

  “Cured?”

  “Of bad relationships,” Daphne stated impatiently.

  “That’s the point, isn’t it?” Jill put in. “You seem about to swear off men forever.”

  “Really?”

  They all nodded in unison. The three of them acted as if they’d been talking this out behind my back. I could gain a serious complex. I swear, sometimes I think it’s a conspiracy: Fix Ginny Blue.

  Why is it I think they’re the ones with the problems?

  “Swear off men forever?” I repeated.

  Jackson Wright’s face swam in front of my vision. My inner eyes focused on the curve of his lips, the strength of his jaw. His humor. His intelligence.

  I knew I was going to sleep with him. It was in the stars.

  I looked at my three friends and grinned like a devil.

  “Nah.”

  Please turn the page for an

  exciting sneak peek at

  Nancy Bush’s

  CANDY APPLE RED

  the first Jane Kelly mystery

  Now available in paperback!

  Chapter 1

  If I’d known they were about to find a body at the bottom of Lake Chinook, I never would have gotten myself into the whole mess. The lake’s deep in places and the Lake Corporation only drains it every couple of years to check the sewer lines running along its muddy bottom. The thought of the little fishy things trolling the waters, chewing off teensy nibbles of human flesh, would have been enough for me to say, “Hasta la vista, baby” and I would have exerted great haste in making tracks.