The Pack

by Jason Starr

  “We’ll be here tomorrow at around noon if you want to come by.”

  “We don’t have any plans so we might just do that,” Simon said. “Thanks very much.”

  Charlie rejoined the other guys, who were waiting outside the gate of the playground. The gray-haired guy nodded in Simon’s direction—maybe saying good-bye—and then Simon watched them walk away.

  “So Jeremy and I had an interesting day today,” Simon said.

  S o Alison had just gotten home from work and was looking through the mail, which Simon had left on the bureau near the front door.

  “Oh really?” she asked.

  Simon thought she sounded upset, or at least irritated.

  “Yeah,” Simon said. “I took Jeremy down to Battery Park, you know, to that playground he likes there.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, distracted, looking at the mail.

  “He met a few friends there and had a great time and I hung out with their dads.”

  “We’re a month behind on the cable bill.”

  “I can tell you’re distracted, I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “I’m sorry, I heard you, I heard you.You met some dads at the playground, that’s great. Maybe you can hang out with them again sometime.”

  “Actually they asked us to hang out with them again tomorrow.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know,” Simon said. “I mean it’s all the way downtown in Battery Park, and I’m not sure they really want us to be there. I think they might’ve just invited us there to be polite.”

  Alison made eye contact with Simon for the first time since she’d come home and said, “I don’t understand where all this insecurity is coming from. They wouldn’t have invited you there if they didn’t want you there. And you said Jeremy had a good time, right?”

  “He had a blast,” Simon said.

  “Then I don’t get what the problem is. He likes the kids, you like the dads. This sounds like a great situation for you.”

  “Yeah,” Simon said. “I guess it does.”

  Alison said, “Remember to pay the cable bill later, okay?” and then went down the hallway toward the bedroom to change out of her work clothes. Simon was going to follow her, to ask her why she was acting so weird today, but he was tired from the long day and decided to just let it go.

  FIVE

  At M Bar at the Mansfield Hotel in Midtown, Olivia Becker, into her third Vodka Collins, said to her friend Diane Coles, “What happened to all the good, solid guys in this city? I mean, seriously, where are they hiding? I mean it’s not like I’m asking for much. I just want somebody decent looking, somebody employed, who isn’t going to tell me about his coke addiction on the second date. I don’t know, I just never expected to be in this situation, you know? I never expected to be thirty-eight and alone. In my twenties, I always had boyfriends, usually older, in their thirties, and they were good, solid guys.What happened to those guys? Where did they disappear to? Now I own my own business, I have a fabulous apartment, the only thing I don’t have is a guy.And I’m so sick of playing games with these jerks who just want to go out three times till you sleep with them, and then they stop calling. It was okay five years ago, but now it’s pathetic. Men in this city act like the world’s one big frat party.” She sipped her drink miserably. Her lips were numb on the glass, so she knew she was already drunk.

  “You can’t meet somebody when you want to meet somebody,” Diane said. “When it happens, it just happens. Like when I met Steve, okay? I’d totally given up, I just didn’t care anymore. Then I was on line at Starbucks, on my way home from the gym, no makeup, looking like total crap, and this guy just starts talking to me. See? You can’t plan to fall in love. It’s all totally random.”

  “Yeah, right.” Olivia downed the rest of her drink and signaled to the bartender for another. “I’ve tried the not-trying technique and, guess what, when I try not to meet anybody, I don’t meet anybody. On Match it seems like I can’t get anyone under fifty to write to me. I’ve gone to speed-dating parties, I even went on that JDate singles cruise. I hate the whole trying-to-meet-somebody game, I just hate it. How many days have I spent in Central Park, sitting on benches, reading books, acting like Miss Happy to Be Alone, and then I come home and sit on my couch and watch TV and paint my toenails all weekend feeling like crap? You tell yourself it’s just because the right guy hasn’t come along yet, like you’re living in some freakin’ fairy tale—Prince Charming will eventually show up and whisk you off into the sunset. Then reality sets in and you realize all the Prince Charmings rode their horses into the sunset ten years ago. Meanwhile, the men my age and older, they have it easy—no ticking clocks and their wrinkles are considered sexy. I mean I get it—why would any decent, sane guy in his late thirties or early forties want to date me when he can just date some wide-eyed, unjaded twenty-four-year-old? It’s just a fact of nature. The only guys who are interested in me are the dorky commitment-phobes who still live with their parents or the fiftysomething potbellied divorced guys who’ve been in bad marriages for twenty-five years and just want to get laid.”

  The bartender brought Olivia’s drink, and she immediately took a big gulp. Realizing that the bartender—he was in his late twenties, blond, cute—hadn’t even made eye contact with her, she said, “See? Ten years ago that guy would’ve been all over me, trying to get in my pants. Now? Bubkes.”

  “You should probably stop drinking,” Diane said. “You’re getting drunk.”

  “Oh stop it, I’m not drunk.”

  “Trust me. When you start complaining about guys in Yiddish . . . you’re drunk.”

  “I am not drunk,” Olivia insisted, though she did feel pretty tipsy. Her lips were numb, and was this her third or fourth drink? Eh, what difference did it make? She took another big swig, then put the glass down harder than she intended and said, “I’m sick, I’m just so sick of feeling so powerless, you know? In my twenties, I had the power. I’d go to a bar and ten guys would hit on me and I’d have my pick. It’s not fair that men are in control now, calling all the shots.” She steadied herself on the bar stool, then said, “That’s it, from now on I’m not gonna wait for guys to come up to me. From now on I’m gonna be the man. Seriously, I can’t remember the last time I asked a guy out. College? Next time I see a good-looking guy I’m just gonna go for it and see what happens. Because who the hell cares, right?”

  She took another big gulp of her drink.

  “Okay, how about that guy near the door?” Diane said.

  Olivia turned to look, not exactly subtly. She jerked her head so quickly she could’ve gotten whiplash. She saw a guy on a couch in the lounge area looking—at least it seemed—right at her. He was mid to late forties, ruggedly handsome with wavy graying hair and wearing faded jeans and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves folded up to his elbows.The top few buttons of the shirt were undone, exposing some graying chest hair. The look could have been sleazy on another guy, but he pulled it off.

  “Wow, he is kind of cute, isn’t he?” Olivia said.

  “Kind of?” Diane said. “He’s a total hunk.”

  Olivia turned again and said, “He kind of looks like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman.”

  “Maybe he’s as rich as Richard Gere in Pretty Woman,” Diane said. “I think you should go for it.”

  The guy noticed Olivia and looked right at her and smiled. There was something about his eyes. They were so dark and intense; it was hard to look away from them.

  “He just smiled at me,” Olivia said.

  “So,” Diane said, “what are you waiting for?”

  “He’s probably waiting for somebody.”

  “You don’t know that,” Diane said. “Come on, if you’re serious about this whole dating-like-a-man thing, get your butt over there.”

  Knowing Diane was right, Olivia had another sip of her drink for confidence, then went right up to the guy and said, “Can I join you?”

  T
he line was so corny, it came off as cool and clever. Well, at least she thought it did, but maybe it was the alcohol encouraging her.

  “I knew you’d come over here,” the man said.

  He was looking right at her with those wildly intense eyes.

  “Oh, really?” Olivia said, trying to be flirty. “And how did you know that?”

  “I always know when a woman wants me,” the man said.

  If some other guy had said this, Olivia would have thought he was a total jerk and walked away and maybe even dumped a drink on his lap. But there was something about this guy. He was oozing charm.

  “You think I want you?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes,” the man said. He sniffed noticeably—she saw his nostrils move—then said, “You’re wearing Safari.”

  Olivia was stunned. How had he guessed her perfume?

  “Yes,” she said. “How did you—”

  “I like it,” he said, “and I’m not just saying that to compliment the perfume. I’m not a big Ralph Lauren fan; I really prefer Dior, Givenchy, or Creed. It’s because the perfume’s on you that it smells nice. It’s the combination of the perfume and your own scent that makes it so irresistible.”

  Even drunk, Olivia realized that this guy was, well, out there. Still, she liked him. He was different anyway, which was a nice break from the cookie-cutter lawyers she’d been dating lately. He was manly too, which was a relief. She was sick of all the metrosexual losers in this city.

  “Well, that’s probably the most interesting compliment I’ve ever gotten,” she said.

  “I’m Michael . . . Michael Hartman.” He smiled and extended his hand and looked right in her eyes. She felt like she was staring back at two dark magnets.

  “Olivia . . . Olivia Becker,” she said, and they shook. He had a very strong grip that hurt a little, but she didn’t mind. Holding his hand made her feel strangely secure, protected. She didn’t want to let go and felt the disappointment when he did.

  “I’ll be direct with you,” Michael said. “I know you’re attracted to me—if you weren’t you would’ve walked away by now. So, the way I see it, we have two choices. We can talk, get to know each other, then meet a few times before I ask you back to my place in Tribeca, or we can go back right now.... So you’ll come home with me now.”

  Olivia was staring at Michael, thinking, Is this guy for real? Part of her didn’t even know why she was having this conversation. She was normally reserved, even standoffish, and would never have put up with a guy hitting on her so crassly. Hadn’t she just been complaining to Diane about how Manhattan was turning into a frat house? Still, there was something about this guy that was so refreshing. Maybe it was because she was sick of the game-playing too and knew where he was coming from. Or at least she knew where he was coming from with the alcohol content of four Vodka Collinses traveling through her bloodstream.

  “Let’s go,” she said. She heard the words as if someone else had said them and she were just another listener in the room.

  “Great,” he said, and stood.

  She knew this was insane, that she shouldn’t be doing this, but noticing how sexy he looked, with his well-developed shoulders and muscular—but not too muscular—arms, she said, “Let me just tell my friend I’m going.”

  When she told Diane, Diane said, “Are you out of your mind?”

  “What?” Olivia said. “It’ll be an adventure.”

  “An adventure? Are you insane? You don’t even know this guy.You were talking to him for what, two minutes? Not even two minutes. Come on, you’re joking, right?”

  “I’ll text you later and let you know how it is.”

  Olivia started away, and Diane grabbed her wrist and said, “How what is?”

  Olivia looked over at Michael, noticing his dark and dreamy eyes again, then said to Diane, “Please let go, you’re embarrassing me.”

  Diane didn’t let go and said,“You’re drunk, okay? You’re not making a good decision. Go tell this guy that it was great to meet him, maybe ask for his phone number, and let me take you home.”

  “I’m not a child,” Olivia said seriously. “Now can you please let go of me?”

  Diane let go reluctantly, then said, “Fine, but please . . . be careful.”

  “I will,” Olivia said, and went over to Michael and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  They went outside, down a few steps to the street.

  “It’s right this way,” Michael said.

  Olivia didn’t know what “it” was, but she didn’t bother to ask. Michael held her hand again, with a strong, masculine grip, leading her along the sidewalk. Although it had to be before seven P.M., it was already dark, the days getting shorter in October. The cool air was sobering her up a bit and, though she was still excited about the unpredictability of all of this, she was starting to wonder if this might be a mistake.

  Then Michael went up to a double-parked black Lexus SUV and opened the back door. There were two plush black leather seats facing a mini bar.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Olivia said.

  “Please get in,” Michael said.

  Remembering what Diane had said, about how Michael might be as rich as Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, Olivia said, “What the hell?” and got in the car. Michael sat next to her, still holding her hand. The car pulled away toward Fifth Avenue.

  “This is so insane,” Olivia said. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “You think you’re insane,” Michael said.

  “Not literally,” she said. “But going home with a guy I just met isn’t what I normally do.”

  “It’s not insane at all,” he said. “It’s actually very natural. You saw something you wanted and you’re acting on it. If you just sat there and did nothing and let the chance to meet me disappear, I think that would have been insane.”

  This made sense to Olivia.

  “I guess that’s another way to look at it,” she said. “So do you always get driven around the city and try to pick up women?”

  “Sometimes, yes,” he said.

  She had to laugh. It seemed like the only appropriate response.

  “Where are you tak—I mean, where are we going?”

  “No, you were right the first time, I’m taking you,” he said. “We’re going to my place.”

  “Right, you said you live in Chelsea?”

  “Tribeca.”

  “Right, Tribeca, of course.” She was looking at the bottles of alcohol, wondering if she should have another drink; it probably wasn’t a good idea. “Can I have a drink?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Michael said. “You’re drinking Vodka Collinses.”

  Olivia let go of Michael’s hand and crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, “Okay, how did you know that?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a very observant person,” Michael said as he started making the drink, pouring the vodka.

  “I don’t know why you’re not freaking me out,” Olivia said.

  “Because you’re insanely attracted to me,” Michael said.

  “See? Insane might be the right word choice,” she said.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “You’re open and honest with your feelings. You don’t hide from your emotions. I think that’s wonderful.”

  “Seriously,” she said, “how did you know I was drinking Vodka Collinses?”

  He was finishing making the drink, mixing it.

  “I notice details that other people don’t notice,” he said. “I guess you can call it a natural gift.”

  She still thought it was weird. She wondered if he was stalking her or something. Then she wondered why she didn’t care.

  He put the glass in front of her and said, “Sorry, no sugar.”

  “How come you’re not drinking?” she asked.

  “My family’s from Germany,” he said. “We used to own a brewery.”

  She was going to ask him what kind of brewery and what this had to do with not drink
ing, but she was distracted by the sip of the drink she’d just taken.

  “Well, you’re a good bartender,” she said.

  After another sip she put the drink down. The car had cut over to the West Side and they were going down—it looked like—Broadway. She felt like she’d gotten her buzz back.

  “So don’t you want to know anything about me?” she asked.

  “I know your name, that’s more than enough.”

  “You don’t even know what I do for a living, and I don’t know anything about what you do.”

  “What I do doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, I own my own graphic design comp—” Olivia said, but was silenced when Michael started kissing her.

  Like any other thirty-eight-year-old single woman, Olivia had kissed many men. Every guy had his own unique style of kissing, but she couldn’t remember ever being kissed with so much passion, so much genuine emotion. Michael’s lips were strong and firm, and his tongue was magical. She felt like he wanted her, like he couldn’t get enough of her, like he wanted to devour her.

  She was so caught up, almost gasping, that she didn’t realize the car had stopped until Michael pulled back for a moment and said, “This is it.”

  Her lips were still parted and her eyes were still closed.

  “What is?” she asked, still lost in kiss-land.

  “My place,” he said.

  They got out of the car. She wasn’t sure what street they were on, but it was far west—West Street and the river were less than a block away. The street was poorly paved, exposing old cobblestones, and it was hard to balance on her heels.

  Michael led her into a renovated industrial-type building that had one of those elevators you have to call for.

  “Nice place,” Olivia said. “What floor do you live on?”

  “Every floor,” he said. “I own the building.”

  Olivia thought, A top-of-the-line SUV, a building owner, who is this guy, Donald Trump? She squinted at him, wondering if he was Trump. Hey, she was drunk, so you never know. Nope, not Trump, but handsome as hell.

  They rode the elevator up a few flights, and then they were in a tremendous loft. It was something out of a style magazine, in a spread of the most spectacular apartments in Manhattan. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high and dividers separated the place into rooms, and there was a spiral staircase leading upstairs.