by Avery Aster
“Blackmail,” Blake grinned proudly.
“Meaning?” I buckled my seatbelt. I always forgot. Riding motorbikes does that to a person.
“I told Birdie that you wouldn’t tell Eddie that she’d screwed Kelle if she held a press conference and admitted to starting the fire.” Blake put his seatbelt on too. “Birdie told the Fire Marshal that she was upset you were moving out. Distraught, she burned your dress and some pictures you’d left behind.”
“Genius! I still can’t believe she took the blame.”
“You told me to do exactly that.”
“Hello, I was complimenting myself.” Patting myself on the back, I then dug my nails into a Mallow cup. I licked the chocolate shell. “Mmm. The hint of coconut gets me every time.” Then I slid the whole piece between my lips and sucked out the creamy center. Again my mind flashed back to Ford and his cock.
“Well, I tacked on rehab to your press conference idea.”
“Rehab?” The marshmallow confection nearly lodged in my throat. In between coughs, I asked, “Whaa?”
“About two hours ago, after the conference, Eddie drove Birdie upstate for a month-long detox and a new way of life program.”
“Nooo!”
“Yup. Birdie wanted to go.”
Un-freakin-believable.
“Blake she’s never gone to rehab before. Heck, she refused to go to AA and NA meetings. What the fudge did you say to her?” I pushed the bucket and wrappers to the side and turned my body toward Blake’s. Grabbing his hands, I felt hopeful for Mom. Maybe she’d get herself together once and for all.
“Well, this was when Birdie was starting to come down a bit from her high.”
“She was cranky?” I recrossed my legs.
“Very. She kept calling me Don Juan.”
“He’s her dealer.”
“I know. She thought Kelle was Don Juan too. We’ll get to that in a minute. So, how I got her to agree to rehab was I told her I’d call the reporter at People Magazine.”
“When I called you from jail, we didn’t discuss this strategy. Why would you do a thing like that?” Wanting some air, I cracked the window.
“Birdie needed a zinger to snap her out of it. She was nutty as hell. The idea came to me, I’d seen it on a past episode of The Bold & The Beautiful. I ran with it. I told Birdie you’d give the reporters, from prison mind you, a full exposé confessional on how she fucked your high school sweetheart while trashed.”
“Come again?” I gripped onto the seatbelt, feeling a tummy ache.
“At first, Birdie thought I was kidding. She laughed and had agreed to take the blame if I didn’t tell Eddie. I knew shutting her up was a Band-Aid. But sobriety was the real fix. You know us gays, we love our dramatics. So I picked up the phone and called 411 and got the Time Inc. building. I started to leave a voicemail for a reporter. Gave them Birdie’s hospital floor number and everything.”
“Mom must’ve died.”
“Birdie sprung outta bed so fast. She threw a vase of flowers at me.”
“Hahaha. Good ‘ol Mom.”
“That happened after she’d spoken with that brawny, inked-up cop. Man was he hot. Anyhow, she sobered up quick when I called the magazine. Pretty sure it was the realization that you and all of your friends were done covering up for the misadventures of Birdie Easton.”“That we are.” I licked my lips tasting a trace of coconut. “You got big balls, Blake.” Why did my mind suddenly jump to Ford’s nuts? Lord, I’m horny. Quickly I glanced out the rear window. Blake did too. “Dang, the white SUV is right behind us.”
“What do we do?” he asked grimly.
“Looks like we’ll go to the Sherry Netherland after all.”
“Good idea. Their doorman will escort you right into Vive’s place. They won’t allow paparazzi out front.”
“You pulling that outta your cute, gay ass or do you know that for a fact?”
“My cute-gay ass. I was just trying to make you feel better.”
“Thanks.” The inner torment of it all began to gnaw at me again. This sucked. “I swear the press controls my life.”
“Driver, scratch the pier. We need to go to Vive’s place.” Blake said.
He glanced back at me through the rearview mirror.
I nodded it was okay and asked Blake, “You promise you’ll get Vamp for me?” It felt as if I were leaving a loved one behind.
“Yes. Now listen, Lex, your mom is truly sorry. I’ve seen her alligator tears before, but once she sobered up and realized what she’d done, she was a mess. She feels horrible for sleeping with Kelle. She knows you didn’t mean to blow up the place.”
“Then why did she tell Office Gotti when he came to visit her that I intentionally tried to set her on fire?”
“Look at you, gurl, knowing that cop’s name. Officer Gotti.” Blake accentuated the ‘t’ and flexed his bicep in muscle-mockery over Ford’s Adonis-like physique.
“Knock it off. He’s just doing his job.”
“Ah-huh. Whatever. Anywho, your mom was still pretty high when he got there. She hadn’t seen the news. Birdie didn’t really grasp what had gone down till after the NYPD had left and she barked at me to turn the TV for her.”
“The news was…bad.”
“Yes, worse than that Carrie movie.”
“Firestarter,” I corrected.
“I threatened Birdie with the People magazine article. She vaguely remembered Kelle but wasn’t sure if it was him or Don Juan. Like I said, the magazine phone call snapped her back to reality.”
“You’re the only person she’d listen to. You know that, don’t cha?”
“Gurl, I got you. Don’t worry. After the hospital released her, she held the press conference, and then Eddie took her to rehab. She asked me to give you this.” Blake pulled an envelope out of his shorts pocket and handed it to me.
I studied the ecru paper with Mom’s cursive writing on the front. It was addressed To My Daughter. Tears swelled up in my eyes. I pinched my nose, hoping to hold it together.
“She wrote the letter last night. Read it.”
“No. I can’t,” I said, hearing a thickness in my own voice. Feeling warm, I titled my face toward the air vents.
“Then I will.” Blake grabbed it from my hands. He opened the letter, cleared his throat, and read out loud, “Alexandra, there are no words to correct the damage I’ve done other than to say I’m sorry. I will make this right by you. I don’t deserve a second chance as your mother; I won’t ask for one. In time, I’ll prove to you that I’ll get better, and hopefully, one day you can forgive me.”
“Great,” I said, interrupting him.
“Not done yet, boo.” He straightened his arms and read on, “Blake found a rehab facility upstate. I’m scheduled to leave tomorrow. I probably won’t see you until I return. It would mean the world to me if you visited. I’ll understand if you don’t. I love you. And again, I apologize for the past and for so much more. Please give Taddy and Vive a heartfelt thank you for being at your side when I wasn’t and for taking care of you when I couldn’t. Love, Mom. PS, I don’t think you should see that Kelle Sterling Dolley anymore—for obvious reasons. His father is a republican.” Blake chuckled.
I did too.
There was a tear in his eye.
We sat in silence for a minute.
The limo pulled onto Sixth Avenue.
Every word he’d said, every sentence she’d written, echoed in my head.
Love, Mom.
“Birdie actually signed the letter ‘Love, Mom’?” That was more shocking to me than her admitting she had a drug problem. Tearing the paper from his hands, I gave it a once-over.
And there was her signature.
“Did you write this for her?”
“Well…”
“Blake?”
“Your mom’s hands were shaky. She was upset and got sick. I may have tweaked a word or two.”
“Ha! Coming from her, I knew this was too sappy.” To prove my point
, I wanted to spit up my candy.
“We did four drafts. Give the lady a break. She was high, toasted, and shot through the air like a cannonball. The note is all her, not me.”
“Thank you.” I reached for his chin and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“My pleasure.”
“Didn’t we think coming back to the city was going to be easy?” I rested my head on his chest and looked out the window as we passed through Columbus Circle. “Why does it feel like this is the beginning of a long road to hell for me?”
“You’re not the only one.”
“Whaddya mean?” I sat up, not liking the sound of that.
“Taddy didn’t tell you?”
“About what?”
“Yesterday morning, before Vive and Taddy went back to school shopping and drinking, she got a call from the university. Apparently, the trust fund that her estranged parents had set aside for her to go college, the one which was sorta a kiss-off payment…is empty.”
“What?” This news, combined with my overdose of sugar, suddenly made me feel nauseous. I threw my head back on the seat.
“Taddy’s broke. I told Birdie.”
“If Taddy asks Mom, she’ll pay for her schooling. She loves Taddy like her own daughter. Heck, after yesterday, I’d say probably more than me.”
“Taddy has too much pride to take any handouts.”
“We could pay for her schooling and not tell her. Set up some fake scholarship,” I said, feeling hopeless.
“No. After Birdie finished puking, she called her agent and demanded Taddy get a meeting with her old modeling agency.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Birdie’s convinced Taddy can land some work to pay for school.” Blake said it all so matter-of-factly. But my mom’s good deeds toward others always had me in awe. More so because they were fabulous and often directed at everyone else’s kids but her own. Come to think of it, that’s probably what prevented me from disowning her for good.
“That’s a wonderful idea. Granted Taddy hates that kinda stuff, but it’s good money. And if anyone looks like a model, it’s her.” Realizing the mess Taddy was in, I sunk in my chair. “No money for college. Okay, now my problems don’t feel so bad. Thanks, Blake.”
“Who are you kidding? You tried to kill your mom. Hell, it’s on every TV station in the world. According to CNN, your life is shit.” Blake put his arm around me and laughed.
“Hahaha. Funny. Dad’s paying for my education. I’ve got his money to fall back on. Always have. Always will.”
“I love how you manage to see the silver lining in our crazy world.” He pushed my hair out of my face.
“With folks like mine, you have to.” That much was true.
The limo stopped at the entrance to the Sherry Netherland.
Through the dark-tinted windows, Blake scoped out the left side of the street as I did the right.
“Looks clear to me,” Blake said.
“We must’ve lost the SUV when we headed east.”
“Do you want me go in with you?”
I glanced around one last time. “I don’t see anyone.” I pulled off the wig. Keeping my overalls on, I removed the sneakers and buckled up my riding boots. Something about walking into Vive’s foofoo building wearing low tops didn’t feel right. “Take the limo up to the dorms. Did you get unpacked? You didn’t even get a chance to tell me what it’s like on campus.”
“Small. Old. Nothing like Avon Porter. But we’re starting over. Oh, and Lex, I’m sorry about Paris.”
“Me too.”
“The girls said they’d order dinner in tonight. We’ll have a party at Vive’s. Just us four.”
“Let me think about it. I’ll call you later.” I kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Blake. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You saved me, the girls, and if Mom gets outta rehab okay, I’d say you saved her too.”
“That’s what we besties do. Remember?”
“Yeah. I remember.” I had echoed those very words to him once during our junior year during Sanderloo’s murder trial.
Hey! Maybe that’s a good memory we can hold onto—the devotion to our friendships.
“I love you too. Oh…and don’t tell Taddy that I told you that Birdie got her a meeting with her agent tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Taddy is acting as if everything is normal. She won’t take our pity.”
“Typical. When does she need to have the money?”
“The school said she couldn’t attend classes till her affairs were in order. I’m assuming they want full payment before classes start.”
“That’s in less than a month.”
Blake shook his head. “We’ll come up with something. We always do. Birdie’s agent said a magazine might be interested in shooting her in Caribbean.”
I said my goodbyes, opened the door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Nothing felt better than Fifth Avenue. Turning my back toward Vive’s building, I waved Blake off as they drove away. Taking in the view of Central Park across the street, I admired the view. A few blocks to my left stood The Plaza and Bergdorf Goodman. Living on the Upper East Side was going to be quiet. Nice and peaceful.
“Alexandra!” someone shouted.
“She’s here,” said another.
Anxiety spurted through me. I whipped around. On the side street, where Vive had told me I could park Vamp, were one, two, three—oh my gosh—a dozen or so TV vans.
Cameramen rushed out.
I breathed in shallow, quick gasps. My nerves tensed.
Reporters got in my face before I could even make it toward the lobby.
My embarrassment at being caught out in the open turned to raw fury.
A little guy, the doorman perhaps, popped his head out of the entrance and looked at me suspiciously. He probably didn’t realize I was going to be a new tenant.
Crap.
“Miss Easton.” A middle aged woman with a beehive hairdo approached. “Care to tell Channel One what really happened yesterday?”
Unable to respond, I gaped at her.
Clickety click. POP. Flash! A camera snapped in my face.
“No comment.” I needed more time to erase the pain of what Kelle and Birdie had done. Not making eye contact with any of them, I made my best attempt to walk toward the door.
Another reporter jumped in front of me. “Tell us what jail was like last night for you.”
“Please. Excuse me.”
Clickety click. POP. Flash!
The flash blinded me for a second. “I can’t see.”
They wouldn’t budge.
Feeling hopeless, I closed my eyes. Little pink, white, and yellow dots danced between my temples. Just like before in Mom’s bedroom doorway. The swell of pain was beyond tears.
Surrounded by the paparazzi, I started heaving, trying to catch my breath. Thoughts of the stretchy dress and Mr. Softy came over me. That day had been humid, just like it was now. Trapped and scared, I’d taken off running down the street and fallen. Dad and that damn Vicodin. Why not a Band-Aid? Always pills, that’s all he’d given me. Probably how he’d gotten Mom so whacked.
“Lex!” A familiar voice shouted from the street.
Squinting, I could barely see through the crowd. I stepped in the opposite direction of the reporters who’d blocked Vive’s building and headed out toward the curb.
The clear-cut lines of his muscular arms gripped firmly at the handlebars. Oh my…
“Ford?” I stood on my tippy toes to be certain.
There he was, on a black racer bike. His gloved hand extended a helmet.
I stepped closer to him and further from the paparazzi.
“Hop on,” Ford said, in a deep timber voice.
Taking the helmet, I tucked my hair and slipped it on my head. I straddled the seat behind him feeling the bike’s shocks bounce. I asked, “How did you know where to find me?”
“I overheard Vive saying you could stay
here once released. Not expecting this crowd, I came by to wish you a happy birthday.” He pulled out into traffic and said over his shoulder, “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
“And where’s that?” I asked.
“My place.” He accelerated. “Hold on tight.”
The Ride of My Life
We didn’t talk. Not at first.
How could we? We were going way above the speed limit.
His precise zigzagging between cars as we whizzed west on Central Park South didn’t surprise me. The speed at which we traveled did.
My mind raced with questions. Possibly a million miles faster than his sleek, jet black wheels, which my motorcycle aficionado-self determined was a 6-speed, 149 horsepower, limited-production Centennial Edition Triumph—more commonly known as the Daytona 955i. New this year, I’d read about this ingenuity in Biker Girl magazine. A sporty effer, I was fortunate my bum fit on the seat. Seriously!
The fiberglass helmet I wore came with a speaker inside. The earpiece crackled static. Then I heard…him.
Ford inhaling unevenly and rough as if we were getting it on, naked, on his bed. This was, of course, only in my imagination. Uncertain whether to kiss some more or fuck, he’d breathe in my ear, letting our bodies take us where our minds wanted to go.
Hot. Ford exhaling, in the way I fantasized he would, if buried deep inside my Lady V.
“Lex,” Ford saying my name in my ear, as I held onto his shoulders while he…wait a second. He did just say my name in my ear, and I was holding on to him.
Instinctively I leaned forward, gripping him tight. He felt good.
V-shaped back? Check.
A broad set of shoulders? Like two boulder stones, next to one another.
How about a tight waist with a little bit of love to squeeze on? Ding. Raking my nails up and down, I could feel each ripple of his six-pack.
If I lowered my hand a smidge, I bet I’d brush up against his bulge. He must be hard. I’m certainly wet.
“Lex,” he said again.
I didn’t reply. Instead I bit down on my lower lip and enjoyed hearing him say my name.