Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Miller

  When Jays called, they’d been struggling to write. Balled-up pages of false starts were scattered around the bathroom.

  “That photo shoot was totally stupid,” Carmen said, sipping the Moët that Jays had sent them.

  “People want drama, tension, and angst,” the Editor said. “They don’t want feelings.”

  “I’d say some things were felt on that bridge,” Lucas said, suddenly a wise guy. He refreshed the page at Empire.com where the video had been posted. It had been viewed 247,327 times. He refreshed again: 247,328. How could Jays be anything other than thrilled?

  “And they also want sex, because we’re not a sanitized network TV show,” the Editor continued, ignoring Lucas. “Empire isn’t middlebrow; it’s boundary pushing. So that’s why I’m telling you two: You have to embrace the conflict. Don’t get soft on me.”

  “Fine, fine. Bye,” Carmen said, and hung up the phone. Then she downed the rest of her champagne like it was a shot. “Maybe we should write these columns tomorrow. When we’re fresher.”

  “Or maybe…,” Lucas started, then paused.

  “Maybe what?” Carmen yawned. Her eyes were closed and she was absently running her index finger along the edge of the tub. Lucas watched it: the finger, the perfectly shaped nail moving along the smooth porcelain. “Maybe…” He swallowed. What was wrong with him? He’d been so decisive on the bridge, but now, alone with her, he’d lost his nerve.

  Carmen opened her eyes. She followed Lucas’s gaze through the bathroom door and toward the bed. “Oh,” she said.

  “Well, why not? This afternoon was amazing.”

  “It was.” She sat up in the tub. “But we have a good thing going—writing together.”

  “We can still write together. We can be writers with benefits! I’m just saying that maybe we need some new material, to help us get over our, um, writer’s block.”

  “A lot of men have tried to talk me into having sex with them,” Carmen said. “But writer’s block is a first.”

  “The thing is, I haven’t had sex in forever. Not since Sofia and I…,” he trailed off.

  At times, he and Carmen had each privately wondered about their new platonic condition. Each had occasionally felt hungry for the other, turned on by what they were writing. But neither wanted to disturb the equilibrium they’d established.

  That afternoon had changed things.

  “You’re saying sex will jump-start the creative process?” she asked now. The kiss on the bridge had been pretty amazing. It had put her in the mood for a good fuck. She stood up in the tub and pulled off the bathrobe. “OK.”

  “Really?” He scrambled up. “Great!” He kicked off his slippers and led her into the bedroom. Standing in the middle of the room, they began kissing. Lucas pushed himself against Carmen and she stumbled backward. She countered with her own weight and Lucas tripped back. They staggered to the left, then right. They were like a human Ouija pointer, jerking this way and that. They looked at each other and laughed as though to say, Ha-ha, we’re really making a mess of this. Then they dove back in.

  “I want you against the wall,” Lucas said, and walked Carmen backward. He unbuttoned her jeans easily enough but, after some tugging, realized he couldn’t get them down. “Can … you…?” he panted, looking hopefully up at her. Carmen braced herself against the wall and began pulling at her own pants. Lucas, not wanting to lose momentum, bent over her feet to help and crashed his nose into her rising knee. He flopped onto the carpet as Carmen landed on top of him.

  “Oh my god!” she shouted.

  Lucas cupped his hand to his face. When he pulled it away, his fingers were red.

  She rushed into the bathroom and returned with a hand towel. “Tip your head back.” She helped him into an armchair and guided his head against the seat. “These jeans should come with a warning.” She laughed nervously.

  “You kicked me in the face,” Lucas groaned. “I knew we had our differences, but…”

  “More like you kicked yourself in the face with my leg. You basically tried to pull my femur from the socket.”

  “So we’re both casualties,” he said. “I hate to say it, but…”

  She nodded and finished the sentence: “This isn’t working.”

  Lucas laughed. “It felt off somehow. Like, forced. Which I don’t understand because I really, really wanted this.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, don’t look so shocked.” Carmen waved at him dismissively. “But look, just because two people want there to be chemistry doesn’t mean there’s going to be chemistry.”

  “But this afternoon on the bridge was full of chemistry. What, did we just lose it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like we haven’t been off—way off—before.”

  Lucas drew the towel away from his face and gently touched his nose. The bleeding had stopped. “But things between us are different now. Right?”

  She smiled. “Things are different now.”

  Lucas felt a sudden flood of joy. What an odd reaction to a humiliating sexual failure. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “Are you sure you’re OK? Should I call a doctor?”

  “I’ve never been better.”

  “Well, then, let’s call this a fluke.” She was decidedly businesslike. “And I think we should get out of here. That’s what made the bridge so great—don’t you think? The audience.”

  Lucas nodded slowly. The irony began to dawn on him: They used to have sex in private for the purpose of public performance. Now that they were public, they had no private spark. “I guess we only have chemistry when there’s an audience,” he said, realizing that this sealed their platonic status.

  “We only have chemistry when there’s an audience,” she replied.

  Lucas considered the meaning of this. Out of her mouth, those words didn’t sound so fatal. They sounded like a revelation. Like a discovery. Like a … plan?

  “We,” he said, repeating the words back to her slowly, “only have chemistry when there’s an audience.”

  And soon they were out the door.

  * * *

  They did not return to the Mandarin that night. The bars closed at 4:00 A.M, and deposited them out onto Bleecker Street in the frigid pre-dawn, their bodies pressed together as much for stability as for warmth, the last strong drinks still circulating through their veins. They were laughing, had been laughing for what seemed like hours now: about the comical number of people who’d offered them a threesome; about the selfies people took without asking, just shoving their faces up next to Carmen and Lucas and blinding them with a camera flash; about the CEO of some sex toy start-up who’d handed them “his-and-hers” vibrators; about the woman who showed them a tweet that had just gone out: “I’m at the same bar as Carmen Kelly right now and she looks a lot older in person.” When Carmen saw that, she grabbed the phone, hopped up on the barstool, held it aloft, and yelled, “To whoever just tweeted that I’m old, I want you to know I’m going to take young Lucas home tonight and screw his brains out!” The bar erupted in cheers.

  And that’s where the two of them finally went. “We’re home,” Carmen announced, taking Lucas by the hand and leading him into her building. They tripped up the stairs, giggling like little kids. After some effort, she managed to unlock her door. And then they were inside, kissing, shedding shoes and clothes, high on the night, the booze, the attention, the excitement of it all. They were still laughing. Whenever they came up for air, they laughed. Which, for all the sex they’d had, was something they’d never done before. And so, laughing, they fell into the bed—the glorious cloud bed. They made good use of it until dawn, at which point, exhausted, happy, and finally sated, they passed out.

  CHAPTER 36

  The first time Lucas visited the New York Public Library, he’d just gone to find a book. Still, as he climbed the stairs past those stately lions he imagined himself entering one of the world’s great cathedrals. Now, near
ly a year later, he discovered that the private after-dark library was far more magical than the public daytime one. A veteran gossip columnist in the city, Stu North, was having his annual Stu’s Survivors benefit gala. And for the occasion, the library had been transformed into a glamorous Wonderland. Guests in black tie sipped jewel-hued martinis. Waiters passed cocktails, both alcoholic and crustacean. And in the atrium, petit fours dangled like delicate flowers from trellis set pieces. Now and then, Lucas saw a movie star float by, on a current of small talk and champagne.

  Unlike Spragg’s birthday fete, the evening had a leisurely, almost somniferous quality. Everything was charming, and in the dim light everyone was attractive, no matter how overzealous their makeup job. Lucas wasn’t entirely clear who Stu’s Survivors were or how the gala benefited them, but the issue seemed unlikely to be raised. Jays had brought Lucas along to “show support,” which meant they would appear and shake some hands. Lucas liked this; his mere presence was supportive.

  It was the first time since their public debut that Lucas and Carmen weren’t doing a big event together. Which did seem odd. But Carmen appeared unconcerned. “It’ll be more Greenwich, Connecticut, than Greenwich Village,” she’d told Lucas. “I’m too uncouth for the stuffy old suits there. You go play the southern gentleman.”

  And so Lucas did just that, following Jays around and meeting the attendant philanthropists and executives. Carmen was right about the retro scene. When couples walked together, the men led, subtly, by touching the low-mid backs of their dates. When women went off to the bathrooms in small groups, their husbands clustered ever closer. It occurred to Lucas that most men were drinking brown cocktails, while most women were drinking clear or brightly colored ones. Most attendees he met didn’t register even a flicker of recognition—no knowledge of Nice Guy, or “Screw the Critics,” or, it seemed, anything about Empire aside from its powerful place in New York media and the importance of Jay Jacobson. And so, by way of introduction, Jays often went full Nicholas Spragg on Lucas’s family history—transforming Lucas into a deeply connected son of the southern elite.

  “If you buy a luxury car in North or South Carolina,” Jays told one mustachioed man, “you can be sure that Lucas’s father was somehow involved.”

  Lucas just smiled and shook the man’s hand. The lies made him uncomfortable, but he had to admire the narrow line they walked: The amped-up details sounded impressive but begged no questions that Lucas couldn’t answer. None of the men in this library had ever, or would ever, buy a car in the Carolinas.

  “This crowd seems outside Empire’s demo,” he said to the Editor as they waited at the bar. “Are they really useful to us?”

  “The College needs some fresh capital,” Jays said. “And the kids of these people are half our audience.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “I’ll be providing them a valuable service: babysitting the scandal-prone set.”

  * * *

  Later, Lucas stood at the second-floor balcony, watching Jays maneuver through the crowd, shaking hands and smiling with the fluidity of a politician seeking campaign donations. The Editor kept his disdain for these people well masked.

  “Incredibly stuffy down there, right? Full-on nasal congestion.”

  Lucas turned to see none other than his roommate, Tyler, gnawing on a lamb chop. “I haven’t seen you in a week!” Ever since Lucas had been named Brand Ambassador, he’d spent almost every night at a fancy hotel or at Carmen’s apartment.

  “And whose fault is that, Nice Guy?”

  “I’m really sorry, Tyler. I wanted to tell you the truth. I really did.”

  “No need to apologize. Noser’s the enemy. And anyway, I figured it out a while ago.”

  “What? How? Did Sofia tell you? She promised—”

  Tyler shook his head. “Sofia may be fickle, but she’s true to her word. It was simpler than that. About two months ago, you left your laptop open in the living room when you went to the bathroom and I saw a very mean description of oral sex written out in a Word document on your screen. A few days later, I saw it in the magazine. Case closed.”

  “I’m a moron,” Lucas said. “Why didn’t you out me?”

  “I’m your friend, dude. I’m also not especially interested in drawing attention to the fact that we’re roomies. It wouldn’t look good for either of us, especially since, these days, I’m on the Jay Jacobson financial ruin beat.”

  “Hyperbole much?” Lucas felt a little defensive on behalf of his boss. After all, he was here to show support.

  “This is obviously off-the-record and I’m still putting the pieces together, but if those blue bloods down there knew how overextended Jays was, his rock-hard ass would be hitting Fifth Avenue. Follow the money, right?” Tyler sucked the fat off his lamb chop. “This is delicious,” he said, and looked around for a waiter. “Oh, and I have it on good authority that the Wild Boar is closing.”

  “But that’s horrible. The Wild Boar is like his child. It’s an institution.”

  “An institution you can’t even set foot in without an invitation.” Tyler flagged down a waiter carrying a tray of cocktails. “Although for all I know, with your new fancy status you can go whenever you damn well please.” Tyler deposited the lamb bone and lifted two martinis. He handed one to Lucas.

  “You are pissed at me.”

  Tyler shook his head. “Not at all. Jays is doing all right by you. Though I have to ask—roommate-to-roommate—why come out as Nice Guy now? And don’t try to tell me that it was Jays’ decision. He didn’t have a clue who you were, am I right?”

  Lucas wasn’t eager to talk about his near firing. The Spragg profile was like a shirt tag scratching at his neck. If he could ignore it long enough, he could probably get used to it. But Tyler would most certainly want to cut it off and examine the rough edges.

  “Fess up,” Tyler said. “Don’t I deserve something for my decency?”

  Lucas groaned and, after extracting a vow of silence from Tyler, explained what had happened in Jays’ office. When he’d finished, Tyler merely observed the scene down below, contemplatively chewing an olive.

  “You have nothing to say?” Lucas asked.

  “Sorry, what?” Tyler looked up at Lucas.

  “To my story. You have no response?”

  “Well, yes, but…” Tyler glanced back at the party. Jays had ceased chasing WASPs and was now casting about the room. “Is he looking for you?” Tyler asked. Sure enough, Jays caught Lucas’s eye and pointed toward the doors. A sufficient amount of support had been shown for one night.

  “I guess we’re heading—” Lucas began before he realized that Tyler was no longer standing beside him. Lucas looked up and down the gallery, but his roommate had vanished.

  * * *

  “Let’s take a drive, Lucas. Do you feel like a drive?”

  They’d reconvened in Jays’ car, the heat blowing full blast. Before Lucas could answer, the driver was already heading toward the FDR. It felt odd, going for a late-night drive with his boss. But also a good sign. Jays was taking Lucas seriously in his new position. He wasn’t just trotting him out to events. He wanted to develop a relationship, maybe even a friendship.

  “Fucking freezing out there,” Jays said. “February in this city is a special kind of hell.”

  “At least you don’t have to take the subway,” Lucas offered.

  “Can you imagine?” Jays said as though Lucas, too, had the luxury of being driven around in a private car.

  Not that Lucas was going to point this out. He was in Jays’ world now—literally inside the Editor’s car—and so the moment required a Jays’-centric point of view.

  “Can’t you just jet off to your house in Anguilla when the weather turns nasty?”

  Jays looked amused. “This car is one thing, but a house in Anguilla! Who told you that?”

  Lucas’s colleagues spoke about this with such certainty that he’d never thought to question it. “Well,” he said. “I guess everybody.”

&nb
sp; “Huh.” The Editor looked amused. “Tell me, what else do people say?”

  Lucas hesitated.

  “I don’t want any names. But indulge me. What’s something especially outrageous? It’s been a long, draining night.”

  Lucas pondered. “People say you commissioned a sculpture of yourself modeled after Michelangelo’s David.”

  “Life-size?”

  “They didn’t get that specific.”

  Jays nodded. “Fair. Because most of them have never been to my home, so how would they know?”

  “So you won’t be hosting the next Empire book club meeting?”

  Jays laughed brightly. “This game is fun. What else?”

  “Let me think. Well, people say that you primarily subsist on gel capsules—like futuristic food substitutes? And that you wax your arms. Oh, and that you wear foundation.”

  “Honestly,” Jays said. “Why is it only acceptable for a woman to artificially correct her skin tone?”

  “They say you get manicures.”

  “That, in fact, is true. Go on.”

  “They say you’re into kinky sex stuff.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “Oh, and people say you tell gossip columnists fake things about your love life.” Immediately after blurting this out, Lucas knew he’d gone a step too far.

  “Oh?” Jays said with exaggerated incredulity. “And like what?”

  Lucas swallowed. They were galloping full speed toward a precipice. “It’s just talk. I’m not even sure—”

  “Like what?” Jays said sharply.

  “Like you say you’re dating women you aren’t dating.”

  “Such as?”

  Cursing himself, Lucas said, “That indie singer Felicity Koh.”