“Sophia, you’re so pretty. You know that, right?” I cooed, leaning on her as we crawled up the stairs.
“Yes, Caroline, I’m pretty. Good grasp of the obvious,” she said. At almost six feet tall with fiery red hair, Sophia was keenly aware of her looks.
Mimi laughed, and I turned to her.
“And you, Mimi, you’re my best friend. And you’re so tiny! I bet I could carry you around in my pocket.” I giggled as I tried to find my pocket. Mimi was a petite Filipino with caramel skin and the blackest hair.
“We should have cut her off after the guacamole left the table,” Mimi muttered. “She is never allowed to drink again without food present.” She dragged me up the last few steps.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” I complained, taking off my jacket and starting in on my shirt.
“Okay, let’s not get naked here in the hallway, huh?” Sophia shot back, taking my keys from my purse and opening my door. I tried to kiss her on the cheek, and she pushed me off.
“You smell like tequila and sexual repression, Caroline. Get off me.” She laughed and helped me through the door. As we traveled to the bedroom, I caught sight of Clive on the windowsill.
“Hey there, Clive. How’s my big boy?” I sang.
He glared at me and stalked off to the living room. He disapproved of my alcohol use. I stuck my tongue out at him. I flopped down on the bed and surveyed my girls in the doorway. They smirked in that you-are-drunk-and-we-are-not-so-we-judge way.
“Don’t act all high and mighty, ladies. I’ve seen you more drunk than this on many an occasion,” I noted, my pants going the way of my discarded blouse. Ask me why I kept my heels on, and I will never be able to tell you.
The two of them pulled down the duvet, and I crawled under the covers and glared. They tucked me in so well that the only things sticking out were my eyeballs, my nostrils, and my messy hair.
“Why is the room spinning? What the hell did you guys do to Jillian’s apartment? She’ll kill me if I mess up her rent control!” I cried, moaning as I watched the room move.
“The room isn’t spinning. Settle down.” Mimi chuckled, sitting next to me and patting my shoulder.
“And that thumping, what the hell is that thumping?” I whispered into Mimi’s armpit, which I sniffed and then complimented her deodorant choice.
“Caroline, there’s no thumping. Jesus, you must have had more than we thought!” Sophia exclaimed, settling down at the end of the bed.
“No, Sophia, I hear it too. You can’t hear that?” Mimi said in a hushed voice.
Sophia was quiet, and all three of us listened. There was a distinct thump and then an unmistakable groan.
“Kittens, lay back. You are about to get wall banged,” I stated.
Sophia and Mimi’s eyes grew wide, but they stayed quiet.
Would it be Spanks? Purina? Anticipating the latter, Clive entered the room and jumped up on the bed. He stared at the wall with rapt attention.
The four of us sat and waited. I can barely describe what we were subjected to this time.
“Oh, God.”
Thump.
“Oh, God.”
Thump thump.
Mimi and Sophia looked at Clive and me. We just shook our heads—both of us, really. A slow smile spread across Sophia’s face. I focused on the voice coming through the wall. It was different. . . . The pitch was lower, and, well, I couldn’t really make out exactly what she was saying. It wasn’t Spanks or Purina. . . .
“Mmm, Simon—giggle—right—giggle—there—giggle-giggle.”
Huh?
“Yes, yes—snort—yes! Fuck, fuck—giggle-hee haw—fuck, yes!”
She was giggling. She was a dirty, dirty giggler.
The three of us tittered along with her as she giggled and snorted her way toward what sounded like one helluva climax. Clive, realizing quickly that his beloved wasn’t making an appearance, beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen.
“What the hell is this?” Mimi whispered, her eyes as wide as apple pies.
“This is the sexual torture I’ve been listening to for the last two nights. You have no idea,” I growled, feeling the effects of the tequila.
“Giggler has been getting done like this for the last two nights?” Sophia cried, slapping her hand over her mouth as more moaning and laughter filtered through the wall.
“Oh, hell no. Tonight is the first night I’ve had the pleasure of this one. The first night was Spanks. She was a naughty, naughty girl and needed to be punished. And last night Clive met the love of his life when Purina made her debut—”
“Why do you call her Purina?” Sophia interrupted.
“Because she meows when he makes her come,” I said, hiding under the covers. My buzz was beginning to fade, replaced by the distinct lack of sleep I’d experienced since moving into this den of debauchery.
Sophia and Mimi peeled the covers from my face just as the chick screamed, “Oh, God that’s . . . that’s—hahahaha—so good!”
“The guy next door can make a woman meow?” Sophia asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Apparently so.” I chuckled, feeling the first wave of nausea wash over me.
“Why is she laughing? Why would anyone be laughing while they’re getting done like that?” Mimi asked.
“No idea, but it’s nice to hear she’s enjoying herself,” Sophia said, laughing herself at a particularly loud guffaw. Guffaw, my aunt Fanny. . . .
“Have you seen this guy yet?” asked Mimi, still staring at the wall.
“Nope. My peephole is getting a workout, though.”
“Glad to hear at least one hole is getting some around here,” Sophia muttered.
I glared at her. “Charming, Sophia. I’ve seen the back of his head, and that’s it,” I answered, sitting up.
“Wow, three girls in three nights. That’s some kind of stamina,” Mimi said, still looking in wonder at the wall.
“It’s some kind of disgusting is what it is. I can’t even sleep at night! My poor wall!” I wailed as I heard a deep groan from him.
“Your wall, what does your wall have to do—” Sophia began, and I held up my hand.
“Wait for it, please,” I said. He began to bring it on home.
The wall began to shake with the rhythmic banging, and the woman’s giggles got louder and louder. Sophia and Mimi stared in wonder, as I just shook my head.
I could hear Simon moaning, and I knew he was getting close. But his sounds were quickly drowned out by this evening’s friend.
“Oh—giggle—that’s—giggle—it—giggle—don’t—giggle—stop—giggle—don’t—giggle—stop—giggle—oh—giggle-snort—God—giggle-giggle snort-snort—don’t—giggle—stop!—giggle.”
Please. Please. Please, stop.
Giggle-sniffle.
And with one last giggle and groan, silence fell across the land. Sophia and Mimi looked at each other, and Sophia said, “Oh.”
“My,” added Mimi.
“God,” they said together.
“And that’s why I can’t sleep,” I sighed.
While the three of us recovered from Giggler, Clive returned to play in the corner with a cotton ball.
Giggler, I think I hate you most of all. . . .
chapter four
The next few nights were blissfully quiet. No thumping, no spanking, no meowing, and no giggling. Admittedly Clive was a little forlorn from time to time, but everything else around the apartment was great. I met some of my neighbors, including Euan and Antonio, who lived downstairs. I hadn’t heard or seen Simon since that last night with Giggler, and while I was grateful for the nights of perfect sleep, I was curious about where he’d disappeared to. Euan and Antonio were only too glad to fill me in.
“Darling, wait until you see our dear Simon. What a specimen that boy is!” Euan exclaimed. Antonio had caught me in the hall on my way home and had a cocktail in my hand within seconds.
“Oh my, yes. He is exquisite! If only I
were a few years younger,” Antonio crooned, fanning himself as Euan looked at him over his Bloody Mary.
“If you were a few years younger you’d what? Please. You’d never have been in Simon’s league. He is filet, while—face it, love—you and I are tube steaks.”
“You would know,” Antonio cackled, sucking pointedly on his celery stalk.
“Gentleman, please. Tell me about this guy. I admit, after the show he put on earlier this week, I’m a little intrigued about the man behind the wall banging.”
I’d broken down and told them about Simon’s late-night antics after realizing that unless I dished the dirt, they would not reciprocate. They clung to every word like a turtleneck over a tight bra. I told them about the ladies he made the sweet love to, and they filled in a few more blanks.
Simon was a freelance photographer who traveled all over the world. They guessed he was currently on assignment, which explained my quality sleep. Simon worked on projects for the Discovery Channel, the Cousteau Society, National Geographic—all the bigwigs. He’d won awards for his work and even spent some time covering the war in Iraq a few years ago. He always left his car behind when he was traveling: an old, beat-up, black Land Rover Discovery, like the kind you’d find in the African bush. The kind people drove before the yuppies got ahold of them.
Between what Euan and Antonio told me—the car, the job, and the international house of orgasms from the other side of the wall—I was beginning to piece together a profile of this man, who I still had yet to see. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more and more intrigued by the day.
Late one afternoon, after dropping off some tile samples at the Nicholsons, I decided to walk home. The fog had burned off, revealing the city, and it was a nice evening for a stroll. As I rounded the corner to my apartment, I noticed the Land Rover was absent from its usual place behind the building. Which meant it was out and about.
Simon was back in San Francisco.
Although I braced myself for another round of wall banging, the next few days were uneventful. I worked, I walked, I Clived. I went out with my girls, I made a great zucchini bread in my now well-broken-in KitchenAid, and I spent time researching my vacation.
Each year, I took a week and vacationed somewhere totally alone. Somewhere exciting, and I never went to the same place twice. One year I spent a week hiking in Yosemite. One year I went zip-lining through a rain forest canopy at an ecolodge in Costa Rica. Another year I spent a week scuba diving off the coast of Belize. And this year . . . I wasn’t sure where I was going to go. Going to Europe was becoming prohibitively expensive in this economy, so that was out. I was considering Peru, as I’d always wanted to see Machu Picchu. I had plenty of time, but often half the fun was deciding where I wanted to spend my vacation.
I also spent an inordinate amount of time at my peephole. Yes, it’s true. Whenever I heard a door close, I actually ran to my door. Clive looked on with a smirk. He knew exactly what I was up to. Why he was judging me, however, I will never know, as his ears perked up every time he heard noises coming up the stairs. He was still pining for his Purina.
I still hadn’t actually seen Simon. One day I got to the peephole in time to see him going into his apartment, but all I caught was a black T-shirt and a mess of dark hair. And even that could’ve been dark blond—hard to tell in the muted hallway light. I needed brighter lighting for better sleuthing.
Another time I saw the Land Rover pulling away from the curb as I came around the corner on my way home from work. It was going to pass right by! Just as I was about to get the first peek at him, actually see the man behind the myth, I tripped and went ass over applecart on the sidewalk. Luckily Euan spotted me and helped me, my bruised ego, and my bruised bum off the concrete and inside for some Bactine with a whiskey chaser.
But all remained quiet at night. I knew Simon was home, and I could hear him occasionally: a chair moving across the floor, a quiet laugh or two. But no harem, and therefore no wall banging.
However, we did sleep together most nights. He played Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller on his side of the wall, and I lay in bed on my side, listening shamelessly. My grandpa used to play his old records at nighttime, and the pop and crackle of a needle on vinyl was comforting as I fell asleep, Clive curled up at my side. I’ll say this for Simon: He had good taste in music.
But this calm and quiet was too good to last, and all hell broke loose again a few nights later.
First, I was treated to another round of Spanks. She had once again been a very bad girl and certainly deserved the resounding spanking she received—a spanking that lasted almost half an hour and ended with calls of “That’s it! Right there. God, yes, right there!” before the actual walls began to shake. I’d lain awake that night, rolling my eyes and growing more and more frustrated.
The next morning, from my post at the peephole, I saw Spanks leaving and got my first really good look at her. Pink-faced and glowing, she was a soft, round little bit of a girl with curvy hips and thighs, and packing some serious junk in the trunk. She was short—really short—and a little plump. She had to stand on tiptoes as she kissed Simon good-bye, and I missed seeing him because I watched her walk away. I marveled at his taste in women. She was the total opposite of what I’d seen of Purina, who looked like a model.
Anticipating that Purina was soon up on the roster, the following night I gave Clive a sock full of catnip and a bowlful of tuna. My hope was to get him wasted and passed out before the action started. The treats had the opposite effect. My boy was ready to party down when the first strains of Purina came shrieking through the walls about one fifteen in the morning.
If Clive could have put on a mini smoking jacket, he would have.
He stalked the room, pacing back and forth in front of the wall, playing it cool. When Purina began her meows, though, he couldn’t contain himself. He once again launched toward the wall. He jumped from nightstand to dresser to shelf, scaling pillows and even a lamp to get closer to his beloved. When he realized he would never be able to burrow under the plaster, he serenaded her with some weird kind of kitty Barry White, his yowls matching hers in intensity.
When the walls began to shake, and Simon was bringing it on home, I was amazed they could maintain their control and focus with the racket going on. Clearly, if I could hear them, they must have been able to hear Clive and all his carrying on. Although if I were impaled on the Wallbanger Wondercock, I imagine I could compartmentalize as well. . . .
For now, though, I was impaled on nothing and getting angry. I was tired, I was horny with no release in sight, and my cat had a Q-tip sticking out of his mouth that looked frighteningly like a tiny cigarette.
After an abbreviated night’s sleep, the next morning I dragged myself to the peephole for another round of HaremWatch. I was rewarded with a brief side profile of Simon as he leaned in to kiss Purina good-bye. It was quick, but it was enough to see the jaw: strong, defined, good. He gave great jaw. The best thing about that day was the jaw sighting. The rest of the day was shit.
First, there was a problem with the general contractor over at the Nicholson house. It seems he was not only taking extremely long lunch breaks, he was actually blazing it up in their attic every day. The whole third floor smelled like a Grateful Dead concert.
Then an entire pallet of tiles for the bathroom floor arrived cracked and chipped. The amount of time needed to reorder and reship would set the entire project back at least two weeks, leaving no possibility of finishing on time. Any time major construction takes place, the project end date is an estimated time of completion. However, I had never missed a deadline, and this being such a high-profile job, it made me very warm (not in a good way) to realize there was nothing I could do to speed things up short of flying to Italy and bringing back those tiles my damn self.
After a quick lunch, during which I spilled an entire soda all over the floor and thoroughly embarrassed myself, I headed back toward work and stopped in a store to look at some ne
w hiking boots. I had plans to go hiking in the Marin Headlands this weekend.
As I examined the selection, I felt warm breath in my ear that I instinctively flinched against.
“Hey, you,” I heard, and I froze in terror. Flashbacks poured over me, and I saw spots. I felt cold and hot at the same time, and the single most horrifying experience of my life passed through my mind. I turned and saw . . .
Cory Weinstein. The machine-gun fucker who’d hijacked the O.
“Caroline, lookin’ good in the neighborhood,” he crooned, channeling his inner Tom Jones.
I swallowed back bile and struggled to keep my composure. “Cory, good to see you. How are you?” I managed.
“Can’t complain. Just touring restaurants for the old man. How are you? How’s the decorating business treating you?”
“Design business, and it’s good. In fact, I was just on my way back to work, so if you’ll excuse me,” I sputtered, beginning to push past him.
“Hey, no rush, pretty thing. Have you had lunch? I can get you a discount on some pizza just a few blocks away. How does five percent off sound to you?” he said. If it was possible for a voice to swagger, his did.
“Wow, five percent. As much as that does sweeten the pot, I’m gonna pass.” I chuckled.
“So, Caroline, when can I see you again? That night . . . damn. It was pretty great, huh?” He winked, and my skin begged me to tear it from my body and throw it at him.
“No. No, Cory. And hell no,” I blurted, the bile rising again. Flashes of in and out and in and out and in and out. My hoohah shrieked in its own defense. Granted, the two of us were not on great terms, but nevertheless, I knew how afraid she was of the machine gun. Not on my watch.
“Oh, come on, baby. Let’s make some magic,” he cooed.
He leaned in, and I could tell he’d had sausage recently. “Cory, you should know I’m about to vomit on your shoes, so I’d back up if I were you.”
He blanched and stepped away.
The Cocktail Collection Page 3