by DC Thome
“I wouldn’t let it bother you. How embarrassed can you be about something like that when you’re talking to a woman who’s wearing assless chaps with nothing underneath but a leather thong?”
“What?” Lara looked across the room to where Lucretia waited for the elevator, covered chin to toe in black—except for significant portions of her considerable snow-white butt cheeks outlined by shiny rings of burnished steel studs.
Lara’s mouth dropped open. “I guess I take that back about the rich and the famous having better taste than everyone else.”
Clay laughed hard. A good-natured laugh. “You already knew that,” he said. “You had to if you were married to a movie producer for seven years.”
“Oh, you checked me out.”
“I Googled you.” Clay shrugged. “Actually, one of my people Googled you.”
“My ex-husband didn’t exactly make the kind of movies that would appeal to Meryl Streep,” Lara said. “He churned out straight-to-DVD atrocities starring actors who weren’t talented enough to do porn.”
“Sure. Lobo Rojo Productions. Savage Sisters of Simi Valley.”
“You’ve heard of Savage Sisters of Simi Valley?” Kyle’s stupid movies all employed the same formula: Mix guns and scantily clad women and shake well. Especially the women.
“Seen it six times.”
“Six times?”
“Give or take.”
“All the way through?”
“You have to watch it all the way through. The rampage at the Mulholland Drive mansion where Maura Chesterton and the nuns are keeping the garbage man as their sex slave is classic trash cinema—but if you don’t see the opening, it doesn’t make much sense.”
Lara was stunned. “It doesn’t make much sense with or without the opening. Nothing in the movie makes any sense.”
“Illustrates my point,” Clay continued. “Just because you have a million dollars, or a billion, doesn’t mean you have good taste.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Don’t worry.” Clay touched her hand reassuringly. “I’ve been insulted so much, I’m immune. People like what they like. That’s all.”
People like what they like. Did this come from a deeper measure of wisdom than Lara expected? Or a deeper pile of bullshit? This self-effacing side of Clay—the regular guy who gladly poked fun at his fondness for stupid movies—had not shown itself as she prepared for her mission. Is he messing with my head? She had to remember why she was here.
“I was tangentially involved in the business of making movies,” Lara said, “but it didn’t make me rich or famous. I never even got to hang around with anyone famous.”
“Maura Chesterton.”
“Anyone who deserved to be famous.”
Clay laughed. “But hey…you’re doing it right now. From right here I can see two Oscar nominees. A Pulitzer-winning novelist. A former ambassador to the U.N.” He nodded in the direction of a stubby man with a bad comb-over a few tables away. “Just people. People who have problems and disappointments and…bad taste. I could give them elegance, but they come here to let their hair down and act silly. This place is a guilty pleasure for people who need to kick back and blow off steam, just like everyone else.”
Lara looked around again. Thinking in Clay’s terms made it easier to see just people.
The waitress returned, and Lara couldn’t believe what she deposited in front of them: Paper-lined deli baskets holding a hot dog in a bun, some potato chips and a pickle.
“This is the special?” Lara said, trying to remain open-minded.
“Actually,” Clay said, “it’s the only thing on the menu tonight.”
“Condiments?” The waitress plunked down a cardboard six-pack container of bottles filled with raw and sautéed onions, sweet relish, mustard, ketchup and an exotic-looking reddish-brown puree.
“Try some of this one,” Clay said, pointing to the puree. “It’s called ‘Secret Stadium Sauce,’ and you can only get it in Milwaukee. The Brewers’ owner’s from here, so I asked him to ship a batch just for tonight.”
He practically drowned his sausage in the stuff, then held the bottle out to Lara.
“Really,” he said. “It’s out of this world.”
* * *
When they were done with dinner—dessert was Stephen Colbert’s AmeriCone Dream ice cream served in a miniature football helmet—Clay led Lara on a tour. It began in the kitchen, where the well-paid staff of experienced chefs seemed to be enjoying themselves in preparing dinners that sports teams pay teenagers and retirees minimum wage to assemble.
“Is it always so much fun working here?” Lara remarked.
“Yes—and why not?” the head chef said in an accent that could have been French or Greek—Lara couldn’t tell. “It is a great honor to be involved with such a noble cause.”
Noble cause?
“You didn’t know?” Clay asked. “All the money we take in tonight goes to charity.”
Lara felt her face getting red.
“It’s understandable,” Clay went on, acting more embarrassed than Lara felt. “It was an invitation-only event.”
“Duh,” Lara blurted. “A hot dog and chips? What kind of dope would think…”
Clay laughed a laughing-with-you, not-at-you laugh. “Yes, that would be crazy,” he said. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s my fault. I should have said something.”
“I’ve heard about this place—everyone has—but I don’t remember anything about charity.”
“We don’t really make a big deal out of it. Don’t want to make it look like we’re patting ourselves on the back.”
A terrible thought struck Lara: What if Clay Creighton wasn’t as bad as she had built him up to be? Environmentally responsible bamboo in the elevator. Elaborate dinners for charity. And her creeping suspicion that he really was interested in her and not just faking it in the hope of scoring. Although she certainly wouldn’t mind if he was just trying to score.
But, damn it, why can’t people just be what they appear to be?
The tour ended in Clay’s “personal box,” which could have held its own against the most opulent luxury suites in the new Yankee Stadium.
“People come here to watch TV?” Lara stared at the two gigantic high-definition TV screens hanging from the ceiling at opposite ends of the suite.
Clay handed her a glass of deep red wine. “I host game parties. People expect a big screen.” He clicked a remote control and bossa nova played from speakers hidden behind the most lavishly stocked bar Lara had ever seen. A few bottles were arranged on a tray on the bar—the ingredients of a Centurion cocktail. Lara picked up the Fast Lane-label Cynar bottle, but put it back down when she realized how obviously phallic it was.
Clay fine-tuned the stereo, tweaking the treble, then the bass, then the treble again. Lara admired his shoulders. Good angle.
Lara quickly looked away when Clay turned around. “You like the seats?” he said.
Lara hadn’t even noticed she was brushing one of the spectator seats with the back of a hand. “It’s so soft,” she said.
“Feels like kid leather, doesn’t it?”
Oh-oh: Another revelation on the way. No doubt the Clay Creighton that Lara had constructed would install politically incorrect leather seats in his luxury box. But this “new” Clay Creighton?
“It’s Alcantara. Man-made. Feels great—cleans up easy,” Clay said as he moved close to Lara. “Pretty important when you consider how crazy things can get. Go ahead, spill your wine on the chair. It’s like a miracle fabric.”
“That’s okay. I’ll take your word for it.”
Lara sipped the wine. It tasted funny. Funny, as in the way good wine tastes to someone who usually drinks the $3.99-a-bottle stuff from the discount bin at Rite-Aid.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and worried that she sounded surprised, like a rube who didn’t know Beaujolais from Hawaiian Punch.
“That tartness at the back of the mouth, it
does goose you a little,” Clay said.
So it’s not just me.
The music caught Lara’s attention. Corcovado. Lara had a soft spot for the song. It reminded her of warm, carefree summer nights in her childhood. The sun setting over the San Gabriels. Music drifting through the screen door. Her father resting on the porch steps as she colored on the sidewalk with chalk.
Lara became aware of Clay looking at her. How long had he been doing that? And what had he been thinking while her mind was wandering?
“The music,” she said.
“I thought you’d like it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Clay put down his wine and cozied up to her from behind. Lara closed her eyes as his cheek—freshly shaved—brushed against hers. Clay’s cologne smelled as good as the wine: A balanced bouquet, outdoorsy with a hint of spice. Astrud Gilberto’s dreamy monotone floated through the air with words about starry nights and windows with views of the mountains and sea.
All evening long Clay had subtly tapped wedges of doubt into chinks of Lara’s iron-clad reason. Now he worked on her body as well, stroking her sides from the tops of her hips to just under her arms, allowing his fingertips to venture teasingly past her breasts. Her whole body flushed with warmth. Every muscle relaxed. Her resistance dissipated in the silky dusk of the dimmed lights. The languor of the tropical music. The welcome pressure of Clay’s chest against her back.
It’s too soon for this.
And then Lara spilled her wine. A deep purple stain spread over the virgin skin of a seat cushion.
“Fuck!” Lara clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry!” She felt dumb, but as she grabbed a napkin and daubed furiously, she was thankful for the diversion. Damn it, Lara, stay focused on why you’re here!
Clay took her hand with the crumpled-up napkin still in it. “You don’t have to worry about that.” He raised Lara’s hand to his lips and kissed her wrist. “Besides, spilled wine is sort of romantic, don’t you think?”
He looked at Lara with those glittering golden eyes, then kissed her mouth. Fireworks blew away the quiet nights of quiet stars. Stay strong.
“I guess I overreacted,” she said when their lips finally parted. “The F-bomb, and all.”
“The F-bomb?” Clay laughed. “That’s what’s bothering you? I haven’t had anyone apologize to me for that in god knows how long.”
He moved toward Lara again. She pulled back. “What about all those people!” She motioned toward the still-crowded dining room.
“They can’t see us.” Clay stood, moved up close to the window and tapped on the glass. Two couples in grandstand seats nearby looked around for the source of the sound, obviously unable to locate it. For good measure, Clay made a funny face and flipped off the unsuspecting diners with a very assertive double bird.
“See? Nada. You want to try?”
Lara was laughing. “I—I can’t.”
“Sure you can!” He put his hands on Lara’s shoulders and tugged her into position. “Let the F-bombs fly!”
Clay flipped off the couples again. “Hey, you people! F-bomb you! Come on.”
Lara couldn’t muster even one extended middle finger, let alone two.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Clay said. “Hey, F-bomb you, Will Railling.”
The cable news blowhard? “That’s not really—?”
“I don’t think so. But he looks just like him.”
“He does!”
“Hey, Will, you fatuous bastard.” Clay danced around with both badfingers wagging.
Lara laughed so hard she fell back into a seat. Clay plopped into the seat next to her. The one Lara had spilled on.
“Watch out!” she said. “You don’t want to ruin that nice white shirt.”
“Yeah. I only have thirty-seven more just like it.” He rubbed the spill with his back. Then he looked at her with eyes that crackled with light, like sparklers on the Fourth of July. He moved a tendril of hair off Lara’s forehead. Lara subtly nodded to make it fall back.
“You’re even more beautiful close up,” Clay said.
Lara could feel her will melting again. “You—”
“Shhh.” Clay put a finger to Lara’s lips. “Don’t change the subject. We were talking about you.”
He ran his fingers down the length of her hair where it had fallen over her shoulder. Then he playfully tugged on one of the little cotton puff balls.
“This is a nice dress,” he said. “It looks good with your hair.”
“You like dark hair?”
“Sure,” Clay responded. “On you.”
Another line? Lara shot him a look.
“In general, I like hair on a woman. It’s not necessary. But if it’s there, then dark, light. Whatever.”
“Thank you. I think.” Lara’s smile contained an ounce of mischief.
Clay smiled. “I’m going too fast, aren’t I?”
“I don’t mean to—”
“No, it’s just that—and this is not going to sound good no matter how I say it—women usually throw themselves at me.”
“You’re right. There’s no good way to put that.”
“I’m not saying I’m some kind of superhuman love machine.”
Lara laughed.
“It’s like an occupational hazard.”
Lara laughed harder.
“Women think they can impress me by—”
Lara put her hand on top of his. “Stop! You’re digging yourself in deeper.”
Clay let out a little laugh, too.
“I had a great time tonight,” Lara said. “We could get together again soon. The weekend, maybe?”
“Yeah. I like that idea.”
They got up and headed for the door.
“Are you sure those people can’t see us?” Lara asked, looking back over her shoulder.
“Ninety-nine percent.”
Lara flipped off the dining room.
“Hey, that does feel kind of good.”
* * *
Lara felt in control again by the time she and Clay got back to the elevator. But her mind wandered. In her reverie, he knelt in front of her. She was wedged into a corner. Naked from the waist down. Fingertips digging into the bamboo strips on the wall. Moving subtly to guide Clay’s tongue to the sweetest spot. And watching from multiple vantage points in the mirrored panels.
Lara had been on movie sets when such scenes were being filmed, and she’d always thought it would be exciting to be on camera that way. Not R-rated Hollywood style, with sheets obscuring the best parts of the action, but in triple-X mode. Or maybe a homemade sex tape. She wouldn’t actually want anyone to see it, but the thought of other people seeing it aroused her.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Clay said.
Lara blinked. Clay leaned safely against the opposite wall, but she saw him everywhere in the mirrors.
“Oh, nothing. It’s been a long day.”
The door opened to Chip’s smiling face. “Your car is waiting, Miss Dixon.”
When Clay opened the car door for Lara, she glimpsed the stain on the back of his shirt and rubbed it. “I still say it’s a shame about the shirt.”
“Here,” Clay said as he undid the buttons. “It’s yours.”
What?
“Besides, it’s cooler than when you got here.” Clay draped the shirt over Lara’s shoulders. It was the softest cotton Lara had ever felt.
“I guess I should say thank you,” she said.
“The shirt’s messed up, so I wouldn’t hold it against you if you didn’t.”
Lara reached up and touched his bare chest. His skin was as smooth as the shirt, but the muscles beneath his skin were firm. I wouldn’t mind if you held this against me.
Their eyes met. They kissed. Then she got into the car.
She rolled the window down, and the last things she saw as the car moved into traffic were Clay’s gleaming irises. Lara put her head back on the overstuffed seat, closed her ey
es, and let images of the evening ping through her mind.
4
After Lara left, Clay could have stayed at Rev to hobnob with the glitterati. He had planned on spending the night in his penthouse above the restaurant, but felt that time breezing down the PCH in his ’29 Bugatti would clear his head. Specifically, he had to clear his head of an image that struck him while he leaned against the wall of the elevator at Rev, trying to look cool. He had found himself lost in a fantasy in which Lara stood tucked into a corner, naked from the waist down, fingertips digging into the bamboo strips on the wall, arching her back to guide his tongue to the sweetest spot. And in his mind, he looked up and caught her watching him from the multiple vantage points provided by the mirrored panels.
Now, as he, shirtless again, watched the moon from the railing of the Upper Deck, Sun tickled his back with her perfectly manicured nails.
“Hey,” she said. She let the front of her wrap drop open and pressed against Clay.
“Is that how you’re supposed to wear that outfit?”
“I could take it off if you don’t like it.” She blew into his ear.
She was so tall. So slender. So rapturously beautiful. The jet-black hair cascading down her back caught the moonlight in silky undulations.
“You know, you’re beautiful in about a million ways,” Clay said.
“But, apparently, not in the way that counts most.”
One of Clay’s eyebrows went up.
“Oh, yes,” Sun said, brushing the hair on his chest, “a girl starts to get the hint after eighteen months.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“I know. We have a business arrangement.”
Clay stared out at the black water. “You know who was president when I was your age? Bush. George H.W. The first one.”
“You prefer something with a few more clicks on the odometer.”
I hate this part. Despite what Clay wrote in his blog, regardless of what his “rules” required, letting go of a woman with whom he had shared so many experiences was more difficult than anyone knew. He always hoped the women would be good sports about it—and they all had been so far. Well, there was that one. In a way, Clay had loved all of the women who had passed through The Rotation over the past sixteen years.