by Lulu Wright
“Fine,” he’d snapped without even meeting my eye. “Just pick something.”
The whole writing process went like that, me suggesting things, him sneering and rolling his eyes. By the time we finally made it to dress rehearsal, to the scene I’d written with the climax of the characters’ relationship, a dramatic kiss that I hadn’t really expected to have to act out myself, I’d rather have punched Mark than even fake kissed him.
But my straight A streak was on the line, so I gave into a rehearsal kiss, barely a peck. Somehow, I felt that kiss down to my toes as I stepped back from him like I’d been struck by lightning.
Predictably, Mark just frowned and shook his head. “That’s not how these two characters would kiss,” he said like he was suddenly Spielberg. “That was how you would kiss your gay pal at a party. Not how you would kiss someone you love. And these two characters are head over heels for each other, so…”
“Well, how…”
“Come here.” He curved his finger.
That second kiss I felt in my soul. Time may cloud my memory, but I swear it lasted for an hour. Part of me is still in that kiss to this day. The memory still makes me miss Turnpike exits, for god’s sake.
“Rose.”
Night Vixen is back at my side with the first, I am sure, of many Tequila Sunrises. I take a sip and all of Mexico burns my tongue. “Thanks. It’s just what I needed.”
She puts her black lips to my ears. “See those two guys over there?” She points a black fingernail toward two besuited corporate looking types with slicked back hair and expensive phones.
“What about them?”
“Rumor on the street is, those two drones are from Halcyon Media.”
Fuck. Halcyon is the evil media conglomerate that’s been trying to buy us out for years. I look the suits up and down, then watch Doc Bing saunter over to them as if on cue. Robert E. Lee looks a little panicked in his doggie bag. The lasers and booming synth music must be scaring him out of his little Yorkie mind. “Maybe,” I say.
Night Vixen shakes her head. “Maybe Doc really is going to sell the station.”
I shrug my shoulders and take another long drink. “They could be from some other corporation,” I say with a calmness I realize is more for my benefit than hers. The Halcyon rumor has been circulating longer than I care to count. No way it’s true. Doc would’ve sold us a long time ago if he ever meant to. “Besides,” I reason, “at this party, they’re more likely from Bust Up and want to buy air time because of Mark.”
“Maybe.” She does a twirly finger wave to Wolfie across the room. He winks at her. “He’s got my digits,” she gushes.
I eye up the actor. He’s beach body hot with a lot of hair and dimples. He looks different when not a wolf, but there’s still something animal about him. “Good score.” I take another long swig and the lights start to spin even more crazily. Wow. The sunless tequila is really kicking my ass.
Then the house lights go up, thank god, and the lasers stop attacking my tipsy vision. The audience of journalists, actors and supermodels goes silent one by one.
Then Lambertville’s own, the Bad Boy at Bat and my one time playwriting makeout partner, Mark Carrington enters the arena and steps up to a podium.
He looks every inch as devastatingly hot as he did in high school, though older and a little rougher around the edges now. It suits him. And that dickish strut is still on point. My face gets hot. As he stands behind the podium, another man, his agent or PR rep probably, speaks about how awesome Mark is. It’s a drone in my ears because my eyes are feasting on Mark.
He’s def hotter than the Google Images revealed. The longer I stare, the hotter I realize he’s become since high school. His body filled out yet remained lean. He’s taller too, well over the six feet he was barely scraping senior year. His reddish brown hair is close cropped, because I guess that was the only way he could tame those wild curls. His nose—always the conversation piece of his face—is still prominent, but in a masculine way. It points down as his chin points up. But it’s really his eyes that rule the day. Even though I’m a good twenty feet away, I can see his blue irises are still as penetrating as they were in the library. When he trained them on me I would immediately shut the fuck up and forget whatever point I was making. They’re doing the same thing right now…my eyes dart to floor and my face feels like it’s on fire.
Did he see me? Recognize me?
Nah. No way he’d remember. Not Mark.
“Damn.” Night Vixen prods my arm. “That guy is hot. Not my type, but damn.”
The sunset has arrived on my first Tequila Sunrise, so Night Vixen procures me a second, which I suck down with fury as flashbulbs pop on Mark and Tommy Pizza shaking hands. After I suck down my third, I see Doc Bing waving me over to where he stands with the Bad Boy at Bat and his PR team. It’s high school reunion time. Powered by tequila, like all the best reunions.
I steel my resolve and steady the rattling of ice coming from the glass in my hand. When I approach the huddle, Mark and I lock eyes. He has no expression on his face, so I do my best Lady Gaga Poker Face too, even though I’m dying inside.
Then his look changes. He narrows his eyes and throws his shoulders back.
“Rose Taylor, this is Mark Carrington,” Doc Bing says.
Mark looks at me like he’s looking around me, over me, through me. “Nice to meet you, Rose.”
The lack of recognition hits me like a sucker punch. I thought he might need a moment to recognize me, might need to hear my name first, but really? I open my mouth to speak but he interrupts. “Later.” He stalks off after some model chick.
“I guess he doesn’t remember you after all,” Becks whispers in my ear with a smirk, and I regret ever admitting to her that I knew this asshole. When was it? Oh yeah, drunk at the office Christmas party, bragging about celeb encounters.
I fume. I rage. I want to vomit. I feel like Tommy Pizza must have felt when Mark landed that sucker punch. Actually, I take that back. A physical blow would have been easier to take.
By the time my fourth Tequila Sunrise has gone down, Mark Carrington has exited the building and, although it was cloistered behind the DJ booth, I have located the secret VIP bar. So has Tommy Pizza.
A tall drink of water, Tommy’s long brown hair stops bluntly at his wide shoulders. He’s not a bad looking guy, in spite of the beady eyes and bruised left cheekbone. He tells me how much he hates ‘these stoopid events’ and asks me if I like the chicken fingers I keep stealing from his plate.
“They’re awesome,” I slur as I shove another one into my mouth. So…hungry…
He’s keeping me in top shelf tequila since I told him I went to high school with Mark. “Sucker punch,” he sneers, pointing to his damaged face.
I nod in sympathy. I knew it.
The media and celebs emptied out when Mark left. Now only lucky fans who scored a guest list slot and a few radio folks remain to mack on free food and whatever is left of those shitty Cosmic Cocktails. Night Vixen left hours ago with Wolfie. Just fans, radio folk and one Mets player now. And drunk me.
Tommy nudges the plate of half-eaten chicken fingers toward me and plops onto the next barstool. “You can have the rest,” he says with the same smile I’ve seen in his Sputnik Vodka ads.
Another drink lands in front of me, because apparently when you’re a baseball player people will kill themselves to serve you, and I am loving the attention and the top shelf tequila. No more off-brand, open-bar shit for me.
“What was Mark like in high school?” Tommy asks, sipping at his own drink. “Was he a violent thug then too?”
As I linger with my glass against my lips, I give him a side-eye and his face softens.
“I mean, look…” He glances around and then trains his eyes back on me. “I’m just tryin’ to understand the guy, you know?”
I sigh and nod. I remember Mark strutting around like he owned our high school. Never mind that he did, dammit. He was so damn popular, e
ven then. I’m almost blind drunk and I slur out a couple of words, something about his cocky posing, but then suddenly I remember kissing him and I forget what I was saying.
Tommy curves his plump lips into another smile and slides my Tequila Sunrise closer. “I know.” He sighs, and as his smile drops his eyes grow cold. He looks down and fingers his phone on the table. “Why do you think he’s like that?”
I release a drunk groan. “Because reasons.”
“But his family was okay, right?” he asks. His eyes are so wide that he looks like my five year old niece right now, all innocent and sweet. I feel this weird urge to make him happy.
“God no.” I snort a dejected laugh and take another long sip.
Tommy grabs my hand and squeezes and I feel like he’s my best friend of all time. “Tell me more.”
And I do. I tell him all about Mark’s mess of a mom and his wreck of a dad and disaster of a childhood until I notice my glass is just ice.
“Let me get you another,” he says.
My vision is black around the edges and I have this need to press my forehead to the bar. “Nah.” I struggle to my feet. “I’m good.”
“I bet you are.”
Scooting his body closer, Tommy wraps his arm around my body and leans me against him. “Let’s go someplace quiet.”
I try to get my arm off him, but he is too strong and I am pinned to him and he’s leading me to a dark arena gate behind the bar. I suddenly feel very, very, very small. He mashes his face to mine and sticks his tongue in my mouth as I try to push him off. “Just relax,” he murmurs.
His other hand is on my thigh trying to maneuver between my legs and he’s still dragging me away. From light. From lasers. From people. To some dark corner. My eyes dart behind him until I see the familiar face of W-ALT’s noon DJ.
“Ralph!” I call out as I squirm away from Tommy and bang into a wall. Tommy grabs my arm, but I shake it off and stumble into the skinny, safe arms of Rockin’ Ralph.
“You OK?” Ralph looks over my shoulder toward Tommy.
My arm hurts from Tommy twisting it. I rub the bruise I can already feel forming. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “Can you take me home? Please.”
“Of course, Rose,” Ralph says, his voice gone hard all of a sudden. “I got you. Let’s get you out of here.”
4
Mark
“Is that it?” I mutter. “Really?”
My eyes are glued to the crumbling red brick building with the flapping banner in front of Stanley’s Mercedes convertible. The radio building looks like a place where post-apocalyptic survivors would hide out from zombies. I expect Andrew Lincoln from Walking Dead to run out with a rifle and shoot me in the head. Part of me wishes he would.
I spot the ancient fallout shelter sign and know I got some wood on the ball about the place. Part of me can’t believe Rose Taylor works here, but part of me can. True to form, she was as cold as ever to me at the party. She looked at me like I was trash. But she also looked good. She lost weight, though not as much as it looked like in her pictures. That’s good. She really didn’t need to lose an ounce. Especially not if it detracted from those luscious curves of hers…
Stanley lets out a long breath next to me and I can’t tell if he’s in agreement about this bomb shelter or annoyed with me again. I feel a hot shot of anger in my chest, but remember what that headshrinker Todd said and count backwards from 100. Around 90, the anger has gone, but it was just a little burst this time. “This is a bad idea, Stan. This place looks…” I can’t find the words.
“This place is perfect,” he replies with the same sternness I’ve come to expect lately from him. “You’re the big fish in the miniscule pond here. It’s gonna look like you’re swooping in to save the place. We can play up the hero angle.”
I sigh. It’s cool to be ‘that guy’ sometimes, when it’s some veteran’s charity BBQ or visiting the Make-A-Wish kids. But this pile of shitty bricks needs a demolition crew, not a savior.
Alright, then. Time to dust off the cape. Maybe save the jobs of a couple DJ’s.
Including the girl who hurt me in high school. I grimace. As long as she and I can keep it professional, it’ll be fine, I tell myself.
Stanley nods at the building. “Showtime, slugger.”
The first thing that hits me in the lobby is the smell of stale beer blended with ancient tobacco smoke, barely disguised by a cheap floral air freshener. At least someone is trying. The walls are a faded yellow-white and the reception desk looks like it was found on the street with a FREE sign taped to it. Behind it sits a blowup doll that someone put a fancy dress and a headset on.
I stare the doll down for a minute, debating if this is a practical joke or just an indicator of the budget this studio operates with, that they hired a blowup doll for their receptionist.
I start at 100 again like Todd Murphy taught me. 99. 98. 97…
An older woman bounds out of an office and catches me by the shoulders, which makes me stiffen in surprise. She’s got a huge mane of sexy-messy red hair and what have to be brand new silicone tits. The perfect revenge. If Rose hasn’t changed since high school—and judging by the amount of side-eye I caught from her last night, she hasn’t—then hitting on this cougar in plain sight will definitely get a rise out of her.
“I’m Becky Lynch. Becks.” She lets go of my shoulders, but only to squeeze my hand. She’s ignoring Stanley completely.
I catch her eye and let it linger for a bit until I feel her hand melt in mine. That was an easy ball, way too simple to knock outta the park. “You have one hell of grip there. Ever tug at a bat?”
I can tell by her naughty smile that she gets it.
Her cheeks redden and she lowers her chin. “I’m glad to have you on our team,” she purrs.
Behind me, Stan covers a snort by coughing loudly into his palm.
“Well, miss.” I lean close to her and lower my voice. “I’m a team player.”
She’s got a mom vibe, but she’s looking at me like I’m candy. “We met yesterday, you know.” Her cool, white hand is in mine and I give her the eye treatment. “I didn’t have a chance to get your number, though.” She’s sparkling right back at me with the matched aggression of a caged tiger. You gotta love older woman. They don’t fuck around when they fuck around.
But no Rose Taylor yet, which means no making a big show of adding this cougar to the black book of pussy. When I do that, I want Rose to see it happen. “I’ll make sure to get yours today.” I grin at her, and Stan coughs again behind me. Fine, if Rose isn’t going to show, I’ll get a move on. “So, where do we start?”
Before the redhead can answer, possibly because she’s still distractedly feeling up my bicep with her pencil-sharp fingernails, someone else, a guy, yells down the hallway. “Becks? Is that the new guy? Bring him on back to Rose’s office.”
Stanley slaps my back. “Good luck, kid.”
My heart skips a beat. “You ain’t staying?” I ask, in a voice that’s less confident than I’d like.
His eyes stay on me and I see a twitch on his mouth. “You’re on your own, kid.”
Then I’m off down the rabbit hole with no one but Red to guide me.
Rose Taylor’s office is very Rose Taylor, but Rose Taylor ain’t in it. I should have expected she would make me wait. How long did I used to wait in the library for her? Or outside her house in my car? Or after school by the canal? Hell, half our hangouts were me waiting on her, too doped up on endorphins to realize I was being jerked around. This is so her.
Even Red has abandoned me. The guy who called us back, Chris something or other, went to fetch coffee, which I’m sure will be atrocious. So I’m left alone with Rose’s things.
Her office walls are covered with posters and concert bills like it’s wallpaper. Most of the bands I’ve never heard of, but I recognize a couple big names. Pearl Jam, for example.
That gets the memory bank going. Jesus how music could start an argument between u
s. At the time I was still a country fan (blame Lambertville). I used to troll her with Toby Keith at every possible opportunity.
Wonder if he still makes her cringe.
Her desk is controlled chaos. Cluttered, but there seems to be an order, like things just pile up and she’s got to constantly shift her priorities. I bet she complains to anyone who will listen about how busy she is. She did that back in high school too, always stressing about classes and homework and her perfect GPA. She’s such a liar, though. She loved the energy of working that hard. Even when she was swamped with finals, she’d volunteer for extra work, or extracurricular, or extra-anything she thought would be cool. It’s one of the things I liked about her, how she always kept me on my toes.
Sometimes too far on my toes, if you know what I mean.
I hear a beep and see her phone lying face up on her desk with a message from some contact named Geo. Is that a guy? Her guy? Nah, she’d broadcast that all over her social media. Wouldn’t she?
Suddenly I regret not Facebook-stalking her one more time before I came in today.
I focus my eyes on the message, unable to resist.
Is that dumb baseball jerk in da house?
Fantastic.
I collapse in one of the chairs in front of her desk, then immediately stand up. Fuck that. I’m not waiting comfortably for her.
I lean on her desk, but then think no, no way. Too posed. Trying too hard.
I move around her desk and make myself comfortable in her chair. Yeah, that’s the ticket. I put my feet up on her desk and sprawl out. This will absolutely piss her off. I toy with the idea of continuing to pretend I have no clue who she is. I like that fire in her eyes, the one that set off immediately at the party last night.
I hear her voice in the hall and I jump a little, but ease back into the chair and catch my breath. Be slow. Be easy.
This is like eyeing the pitcher as he reels up. I’m gonna hit that ball hard. My heart slows down and I go to that place of pure calm and focus like I’m on home plate. Bat in my hand. Right at home in the world.