The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel

by Tamsen Parker

  “First, I’m not busy, but I appreciate the compliments. Second, I do have a planner, but it’s pretty bare bones. I color-code my pens for different activities, but that’s about it. Third, I’m sure cute people do make great assassins because no one expects to get taken out by a Cabbage Patch doll. And fourth, I do not have siblings. I’m an only child.”

  “I have no idea what that would be like. I’m one of nine. Smack in the middle, too.”

  Dempsey

  * * *

  No wonder the guy talks so much. He probably never had the chance to get a word in edgewise, what with eleven people in the house. It should bug me, the sheer volume of words spilling out of his mouth. Some people go on and on about themselves, and it’s tiresome. But listening to Nick jabber on is…pleasant. Easy. He said he’s always like this, and at first I thought he must be joking, but now I think it’s true. For some odd reason, that pokes something in me that’s usually pretty well buried.

  I do actually wish I could go out with him.

  What would it be like, to sit outside at a trendy restaurant with a fancy cocktail and listen to him follow his own wild conversation? He’s like a needle, Nick is, and he’d pull me behind him as though I were thread. I haven’t wished for that in so long, and the stab of it is keen. Thankfully, the impulse doesn’t last.

  I remember what happens too well for that kind of fantasy to survive the light of day. It feels a whole lot like walls closing in on me, everything getting black, overwhelming nausea, not being able to breathe, feeling like I’m going to die, and if I’m lucky, I pass out. If I’m not…

  Nick is reciting the names, ages, and familial status of his siblings, and that, too, manages to find its way under the thick hide I’ve developed against these things. Family. I used to have one of those. Though I’m better off without mine, it sounds like Nick genuinely enjoys his. They probably have holidays together. I bet it’s cute, and while I could probably dream up a whole scenario involving Nick in an ugly holiday sweater, I shouldn’t. Imagining partaking in family celebrations is not something I should ever allow myself to fantasize about. I ought to shrug it off, shrug him off.

  Looking at the clock, I really do need to get prepped for my next client call, though I’m disappointed to be letting go of Nick and his constant stream of narration. What I should do is end once and for all this farce that we will ever be going out on a date, that he has any chance in hell of having a filthy weekend in Las Vegas with me anytime ever. But selfishly, oh-so-selfishly, I don’t want to? That is wildly and cruelly unfair, however. So despite being all in my wants, I decide to let him down gently. As gently as I think I can and still make an impression on this bouncy ball of a person at any rate.

  “I guess our dogs don’t technically count as siblings, but we’ve always had them. At least two, sometimes three or four because my parents like to get a new puppy when the oldest dog is on the downslope, if you know what I mean, because I don’t think they’d be able to get a new one right after the oldest one died. So, yeah, rotating cast of English bulldogs. They’re ugly little fuckers, but sturdy enough to survive nine kids. So, what’re you gonna do, amirite? Do you have any pets?”

  Wow. I wonder if he actually remembers the answers to any of the questions he asks? But I’ll just pretend that he does. Because I like Nick, and it will be nice to think of him thinking of me and my answers to his twenty—no, that’s definitely a lowball, more like fifty—questions.

  “No, I don’t have any pets. I’m a dog person, but having a dog doesn’t really work with my life. I’d feel bad about it. Do you have any?”

  No, Dempsey. You are supposed to be getting off the phone with this guy, not asking him questions and getting to know him better. Tormenting yourself with more things you can’t have. But before I can backpedal, Nick’s answering, because of course he is. There’s a pretty obvious lack of a filter between his brain and his mouth, so I can’t imagine it ever takes him long to answer questions.

  “Oh, yeah. Bulldog like my folks. Just the one, though. Hey, Fiona. C’mere, princess. Say hi to Dempsey. Come on, say hi!”

  His voice is all sweet, cutesy baby talk. It should make me want to hurl because baby talk can do that to a person, but there’s a bark on the other end, and then Nick’s telling Fiona what a good girl she is. Sweet. But I really shouldn’t get caught up in picturing Nick giving Princess Fiona head scritches or belly rubs. I have to go. It’s better to go.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Fiona. And good to talk to you, Nick, but I’ve got to go. I have a client in a few minutes, and I need to prepare.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Of course.”

  More of Nick loving on his dog, and I suddenly want a fuzzball of my own very badly. A dog would be such good company—a constant companion, another living, breathing thing in my empty house. But I’ve been through this before. A dog is…not a good fit for me. For how I live. But maybe I could get one to visit? Maybe I can get Oona to bring Fillmore next time she’s here. Yes, I’ll ask, and she’ll do it because I make her feel guilty. Not on purpose, but by existing. Which is less than awesome.

  And what I should say to Nick is that, while it’s been good talking to him, he needn’t call again. I’m never going to say yes, so he shouldn’t waste his time. I should be kind but firm, the same way I am with my wayward clients. I don’t get the feeling that Nick is one of those douchey guys who insults women who turn him down. He’s just got too many other things to do, people to see, tangents to go off on. But before I can, he speaks again.

  “So, hey, I know Vegas this weekend is a no-go and I won’t keep you, but can I call you some other time? I like you.”

  Oh. When’s the last time someone called me because they liked me? Not that my clients dislike me, but I provide them with a service. That’s why they speak to me. If our business relationship ended, so would our contact, and that’s fine. That’s how I like it. Vivian is the reverse. She speaks to me because I pay her. That’s what therapists do. And while Oona may very well like me—and I hope she does—she also feels responsible for me. She feels as though she’s atoning for past neglect by being here for me now. Not that she neglected me when I was her client, but what could she do when my parents fired her? She had no choice, and yet she still feels as though what happened was her fault. Which makes me an item on her calendar, I know for certain. That in and of itself doesn’t mean it’s something she doesn’t want to do, but it’s still—I’m still—an obligation.

  So it’s at least understandable, if not excusable, when I say, “Yeah, you can call me again sometime.”

  4

  Dempsey

  * * *

  Given Nick’s penchant for being kind of a Tasmanian devil, it wouldn’t have surprised me at all if I’d never heard from him again. Disappointed me, perhaps, which is silly, because what do I really know about the man, anyhow, besides what I’ve looked up on the internet? But there is no disappointment necessary, because my phone is ringing and I know it’s not one of my clients. Not that I never talk to them over the weekend, but Sunday mornings I try to leave free.

  I wipe my hands off on a dishtowel after cleaning up the dishes from my eggs benedict before I pick up my phone. Thoughts of Nick’s wild and carefree conversational style make my mouth take on the shape of a smile as I swipe to answer.

  “Hey, Nick.”

  “Fiona wants to go for a ride. You love car rides, don’t you, princess?”

  There are kissing noises, followed closely by slobbering sounds—the former I’m hoping from Nick and the latter from his precious dog. It’s actually very sweet that he adores his dog so damn much. He’s done some photo shoots with her, even, and there are pics all over his fan sites of him walking her or giving her a bath outside. Not that I’ve been spending any time looking for more photos of him or listening to interviews with him on YouTube, like the ones with the bewildered hosts on Pop Nation trying to keep up with his train of thought. Nope, not spending too much time doing that at
all.

  “Fun. Where are you headed?”

  “I don’t know. Fi doesn’t really care so much about the destination, more of a journey-focused dog, aren’t you? Really, I think she just likes the feeling of her jowls flapping in the wind while she sticks her giant head out the window. Wherever we go, I’ll probably have to wash my car afterward because she drools all over the side. Don’t you, pretty girl? Don’t you? Oh, yes, you do. You have the best drool.”

  Could he be any more freaking adorable? And laidback? Who is he turning me into, some person who just…chats with people? Who does that? For no reason, just aimlessly calls and converses with someone because they like you. Nick Fischer, that’s who, and I’ll let him rub some of that sweetly graceless enthusiasm for life, the world, and everything off on me, even if it’ll only last until we hang up the phone.

  “I was thinking you might want to come with.”

  Shit.

  I close my eyes and try not to be sad about the movie playing on my eyelids of Nick driving some fancy car while I sit in the passenger seat with a slobbering bulldog on my lap. Chatting and laughing, and then—same way it always ends, Pinkie. I wouldn’t even make it into his car, who am I kidding?

  “I can’t.” I don’t lie. Dissemble some, yes, because when I’m speaking with clients all they need to know is that I can do my job. Which I can, very well. But I generally end things with potential friends or lovers before too many questions get asked. Or if they’re particularly persistent, once I’ve answered their questions, things are pretty well over, so it’s easy. It’s just a consequence of how I’ve chosen to live my life. And not all consequences are negative. They just…are.

  But Nick… I don’t know. There’s something about him that makes me want to prevaricate, if only to keep his attention for a little longer. Would that really be so bad? My heart cautiously inflates with a modicum of hope but quickly deflates. Yes, it would be, and I know it. It’s not fair to either one of us.

  Nick’s started burbling on about some other opportunity for us to hang out in the next few days, and his enthusiasm is so earnest that I can’t take this anymore. I should rip off the fucking Band-Aid.

  “I’m doing my laundry,” I blurt. “That’s why I can’t leave. You know how when you leave it in the washer for too long, it gets gross and mildewy and it never quite smells the same, and if you leave it in the dryer even with the wrinkle-preventer-thinger setting on, stuff still gets creases and looks weird until you wash it again? Yeah, that.”

  It’s a good thing I keep fire extinguishers on hand because liar, liar, my ass is so on fire.

  Nick

  * * *

  “Okay?”

  It’s not like I do my own laundry, and I’m sure if Dempsey thought about it, she’d know that. Hell, she’s probably got enough clients who bring down the serious dollars that she’s used to accounting for laundry in their budgets. Magda can handle mine most of the time, but sometimes I have a show or an event or something that I need to clean up for and then…I don’t know. Magda still handles it. Because she’s awesomesauce.

  But no way am I letting something like laundry get in the way of me hanging out with this girl who I’ve been thinking about basically nonstop since our last conversation. When I’m not thinking about other stuff anyway. Which I am most of the time, but when my brain simmers down, it’s Dempsey who’s been there like something bobbing to the surface of a lake.

  “I usually take girls out on a first date because I like to impress them, but I’d really like to see you and I’m totally cool chilling at your place. I could bring Fiona by so she gets her ride and we could hang out.”

  There’s hesitation on the other end, and I don’t like how it makes my heart skip. I scramble to find an excuse for her to say yes.

  “So, yeah. I’m going to be taking Fiona out for a drive anyway. We could stop by, say hi, and if you’re too busy, we’ll stay for a few minutes and then come home. But if you’re not super-busy, we could come in, order some takeout—Fi really likes sushi, but she can be flexible. Can’t you, princess?”

  I rub Fi’s head, and she glares at me. Like she’s saying, Fuck you, dude. Now I really want a fucking spider roll—no avocado, just cucumber—and you’d better get me one or I’ll make enough stinky farts to keep you awake All. Night. Long. I don’t know how, but she could do it, too.

  There’s a little snort-giggle on the other end of the phone. “Your dog likes sushi?”

  “Uh, yeah, and now that she’s heard the S-word, I’m going to be in big fucking trouble if she doesn’t get some in her belly STAT. Don’t suppose there’s a good takeout place near you? Our favorite place closed, and I’m on the hunt for a new one.”

  Which is true, but while I know Dempsey lives in LA, it’s a big city and she could be nowhere nearby. Good enough excuse for her to say no to my patently ridiculous reasoning, but she doesn’t.

  “There is, actually. And now that I’ve heard the S-word, I’m kind of craving a rainbow roll myself. So, um…”

  Come on, Dempsey, say yes. Say yes! I don’t know why I’m so fixated on this one woman when I meet a hundred in a day. Sometimes literally tens of thousands. But something about Dempsey has me valuing her opinion of me more than I usually give a shit about anything, and I want her to like me. Want her to want to spend time with me. Maybe it’s because she’s got her shit so together. If I can impress a girl like that? Maybe I’m not as much of a fuck-up as everyone assumes. Fucking hell. Whatever it is, I want her to say yes.

  “Uh, yeah. Okay. I’ll text you my address, and you and Fi can drop by. I’m not really dressed for company, because laundry but—”

  “No worries. Promise I won’t change before I come over. Or shower or anything. We’ll both be a mess; it’ll be great.”

  “Right. So I guess I’ll see you in a little bit.”

  Yes, mission accomplished, and Fiona will even get her sushi. Best dog dad ever.

  5

  Dempsey

  * * *

  I am extremely cautious about who I let into my home. Hell, about who I let know where my home is. Some people I can’t help—if I want food delivered, I need to tell them where to deliver it. But for the most part, I am perfectly happy being a presence on the internet and not in reality at all. It is somewhat extraordinary for me to let a stranger into my home, but Nick doesn’t feel so much like a stranger anymore.

  Though it may not be considered friendly or romantic or whatever (which are, frankly, tools of the patriarchy), I googled the ever-loving shit out of Nicolas Knutson Fischer after I told him he could call me again, and again after I agreed to let him come over. Yeah, I’d seen his Wikipedia page and several pages of image results when I looked him up before, but I paid more attention to his reputation than his tats this time around. If there had been a whisper of stalkery behavior or sexual assault or violence, no way would I be waiting for him to knock at my door.

  While he hits the gossip pages plenty for stuff like his naked-in-a-fountain-with-an-accordion stunt a few months back, the only person he ever seems to hurt is himself, and his regular public nudity doesn’t seem to be so much about getting off on exposing himself, but just, I don’t know, being a goofball. I can live with silly; I cannot live with harassment.

  The bell rings, and my heart gives a squeeze, half in anticipation, half in fear, because opening the door is always kind of scary. Even when I’m expecting someone, someone I know, someone I’m happy to see, it’s a reaction I can’t quite shake. Manage? Yes. Get rid of entirely? No. Which is pretty much the story of my life.

  I wipe my hands on my jeans and take a breath. It helps that I can hear Nick on the other side of the door.

  “Listen up, Fi. We’ve gotta be on our best behavior, okay? I like this girl, and she’s not gonna like us back if either one of us takes a shit on her floor.”

  Um, true? The laugh that bubbles inside my chest crowds out the nervousness more. And him talking to his dog in such an unselfconsci
ous way makes it easier for me to unbolt and unlock my door and swing it open to where Nick in-the-flesh Fischer greets me with a lopsided smile.

  “Hey.”

  I bite my bottom lip and immediately feel like such a girl. I mean, I am a girl, but not the swooning variety. Especially not over big celebrity types. But maybe that’s why I like the look of Nick. He totally kept his word and is standing on my stoop with worn jeans, hair that doesn’t appear to have been washed or brushed, a T-shirt that says tacocat SPELLED BACKWARDS is tacocat on it, and a rope leash that leads down to the fattest bulldog with the biggest head I’ve ever seen. And her brown-and-white coloring is set off by a very frilly yellow dress. With sequins.

  “Hi. Uh, come on in. I feel a little underdressed?”

  Nick steps over the threshold, and Fiona trundles after him. Hilariously, they both wipe their feet on my mat, and Nick slips off his checkerboard Vans while Fiona gives me the once-over.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry about that. I told Fi we were just coming over to hang out and she didn’t need to dress up, but she wanted to make a good impression.”

  Once they’ve moved aside, I shut the door and lock it after them, wringing my hands when I’m done, because I’m not sure what to do now. It’s not like I never have people in my house, but it’s always the same people over and over and over again. I know what to do with them, how to greet them, what they expect from me. Nick is a mystery, and that tight, airless feeling is starting to take over despite my very real feeling of delight at them being here.