Spinning

by Michael Baron

  Then there was the third woman, the blonde. She was Laurel, Mason’s new executive assistant. I definitely found her attractive and figured that for at least one night I wouldn’t mind how she talked to me.

  “The most beautiful ladies in New York,” I said, as I moved closer to the table and positioned myself next to Billie, trying to get a better view of Laurel.

  Amanda offered a mock yawn. “We’ve heard that three times already. Aren’t you supposed to be good with words?”

  I smiled. “For a gorilla, I’m not that smart.” I didn’t find Amanda physically appealing, but I did like the way she kept me on edge.

  Billie gestured toward me. “Laurel, this is the guy who stole the Crystal Creek deal from Waverly.”

  Laurel glanced at me coyly. “Hello.” My finely tuned super-hearing detected a purring intonation in her voice.

  I studied Laurel while I responded to Billie’s comment. “I wouldn’t say stole.” Laurel was wearing a black, button-down V-neck accented in cleavage, and if Billie hadn’t been around, she would have had the best legs in the room. “They just knew when the competition overpowered them. Like that bouncer you met at Antonio’s, right Amanda?”

  Laurel laughed. It was a courtesy laugh, but it meant that I could proceed to the next round.

  Amanda flashed half of a smile and punched me in the arm. It actually hurt a little. “Play fair. What happened to Jimbo and the other gorilla? Time for their hourly feeding?”

  “Nah, Hank had to head back to the tree house to limber up for Jane and Jimbo had to leave to nurture his monkeys.”

  “Shouldn’t that be spank his monkeys?” Billie said, laughing.

  “Maybe that, too.” I looked at Amanda, who had lost her narrow-lipped smile. “What’s the matter? Maybe he can come out to play another time.”

  “I’ll get over it.”

  Laurel’s eyes kept drifting my way and a subtle smile emerged, as if she were thinking something naughty. At least I hoped it was something naughty. After catching her first glance, she had my curiosity. After catching it a second and third time, I could feel my pulse quicken and my imagination kick into gear. With Billie and Amanda around, I would have to be careful. I could never be sure what Amanda was going to say, and flirting when Billie was nearby made me nervous.

  “Dylan,” Laurel said, “how were you able to steal the Waverly account?”

  Amanda tipped her head. “She learns fast.”

  This was my cue to impress; to appear humble, while still scoring points. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. It wasn’t just me. It was our whole team. We were able to offer the client specialized product services that Waverly couldn’t.”

  I paused to assess my spin. It was a little awkward and I didn’t actually say anything. Pretty much exactly what I was going for.

  “Mr. Mason was talking about it all day. Saying how he loves to beat Waverly and how it didn’t happen very often. Apparently, they go way back… to some war or something?” She made penetrating eye contact. “He gave you all the credit.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes and sipped her red martini.

  “Mr. Mason is very generous.” I said. From the way Laurel smiled, I knew I’d responded properly.

  I allowed our eyes to touch again. At this point, I was relatively sure that I wasn’t imagining her interest. “You started working for Mason last Monday, right?”

  “Last Monday, yes.”

  “Well, I hope you like it there as much as Billie and I do.”

  “Speak for yourself, D-Man,” Billie said, tugging at her martini-colored martini.

  “You don’t like working there?” This surprised me. Mason adored her and he couldn’t have treated her better, if she was his daughter.

  “I love working for Mason, don’t get me wrong. But if the money’s good somewhere else….”

  “Well, yeah, of course,” I said, acknowledging what we all understood to be the rules of the game.

  “Waverly’s got a VP spot opening up when one of his toadies retires,” Billie said, prolonging the suspense with a dramatic sip. “I heard Toady is opting for early retirement to spend some time with Mrs. Toady at a Table Mesa retirement pond, no doubt.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Around.”

  “Around where?”

  “Just around.” She smiled. “That’s all I know.”

  I knew her too well to believe her. When she tipped her head toward her drink, I knew she was withholding information. Of course, I wasn’t letting on what I knew about the situation at Waverly. She probably knew that, though.

  “I’ve never been to the Magenta Martini before,” Laurel said, inserting herself. “I’ve been reading the articles, but I’ve never been here.”

  “It’s a great place to unwind after work. They have a great sound system and they play a lot of really good music. They were playing Little Wing by Stevie Ray Vaughn before you got here.”

  “Hendrix,” Amanda said, abruptly.

  “Been there…” I said.

  Amanda looked at me, confused. I just smiled at her. “This is a great place if you like lions and tigers and bears…”

  “Oh, my!” Billie said, taking the cue. “I prefer tigers.”

  “Apparently, the bears are partial to me,” Amanda added.

  Laurel had the bluest eyes I’d seen since my last shot of tequila.

  “I guess that leaves you with the lions, Laurel,” Amanda said.

  “I’ve never played with a lion before.” She threw me a glance that absolutely could not be misinterpreted.

  Billie clearly caught it as well. She grabbed my shoulder and whispered, “Careful D, she’s from one of those I-states you’re afraid of. And besides…” she moved closer “… you’d kill her.”

  “No whispering,” Amanda said in singsong fashion.

  “Billie just told me how much she loves and respects me. I love you, too, darling,” I said, kissing her cheek. “Speaking of I-states, whatever happened to Indiana Jones?”

  Amanda laughed. “He barely made Billie’s two-week mark.”

  “Better than most,” I said.

  “Please, you two. My average is three.”

  “Three?” we both said at the same time.

  Billie drew herself up in her seat. “Three.”

  Amanda thought for a moment. “What about Montana Mike?”

  I pointed a finger in Billie’s direction. “Or Danny Detroit?”

  “Singapore Steve?”

  “… or Berwyn Bob?”

  “Berwyn?”

  Billie laughed loudly and, in my mind, a little uncomfortably. “Shut up, both of you. Well, Laurel, now you know the caliber of my friends. Pathetic.”

  “These two,” I said to Laurel, gesturing toward Billie and Amanda, “are terrible to men.”

  Laurel patted Billie’s hand in sympathy, while casting knowing glances in the direction of me and Amanda. I liked her which probably had something to do with her taste in hemlines.

  My gaze drifted to Laurel’s legs again. Billie must have seen me looking. When I looked up, she rolled her eyes. I couldn’t help but laugh which, in turn, made Billie laugh.

  “You two seem to know each other pretty well,” Laurel said, glancing from Billie to me. “Have you ever dated? Or are you related? Wait… that didn’t come out right.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  I held up a hand. “We just work together.”

  Billie nodded. “Friends.”

  “Acquaintances.”

  Billie waved her hand bon voyage. “Two ships in the night.”

  Amanda scoffed. “And an iceberg.”

  “Laurel, darling,” Billie said, taking Laurel’s hand and speaking dramatically. “After a week of passion, we discovered that the world was not ready for a romance such as ours.”

  I feigned modesty. “Billie, you’re embarrassing me.”

  She clasped her hands together and held them close to her cheek. “I wa
s falling madly, desperately, hopelessly in love with the D-Man. His powers…his expertise.” She turned and pointed to me. “And you…you were going to break my heart!”

  Laurel threw a hand up to her mouth. “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “Actually, Laurel,” I added in a monotone, “she met somebody else.”

  Amanda shrugged. “True. She has a very short attention span when it comes to men.”

  Billie shook her head. “Every man gets just as much attention as they deserve. No offense, D-Man. And look around life’s way too short.”

  The Magenta Martini swarmed with activity like an ether-scented beehive. Entering it meant acknowledging that image was everything. Hormones wafted on late-summer AC currents, which sometimes clashed and other times complimented. For the most part, the fashion was first-rate. The steady hum of conversation now appropriated the melodic Little Wing memories of a few drinks ago.

  As usual, Billie was right. Today’s dating scene required a short attention span about as much as it took to watch “Iron Man” and not nearly as much as was required to read a Stieg Larson novel.

  All of us surveyed the scene until Billie drew us back. “Dylan, how ‘bout you buy us a drink?”

  “Of course.”

  “Blue Agave, this time.”

  “Up?”

  “Definitely.”

  Laurel drained her drink. “I’m in.”

  “Amanda?”

  “Pass, thanks. I’m working in the morning.” She got up from the table.

  “On a Saturday?”

  “Yes, I have a real job. See ya.” She waved over her shoulder.

  “See ya,” said Billie.

  “See ya,” said Laurel.

  “Bye,” I said. Then I called to Amanda as she was leaving. “Hey, how’d the move go?” Amanda’s kid sister had just begun her freshman year at Cornell. Amanda had been the primary female figure in the girl’s life since their mother had died four years ago.

  “Okay,” Amanda said. “You know, my little baby’s gone off to college. We talked about Mom a lot.” Amanda’s eyes appeared on the verge of misting over. Then she shook her head and her tone sharpened. “At least she won’t be crashing at my apartment on the weekends anymore. Thanks for asking.”

  “De nada.”

  I caught the waitress. “Three Blue Agave up, please. I looked at Billie. “So Waverly is hiring, huh?”

  “You like that, don’t you.”

  Hell, yes. “Maybe.”

  “I’d like it too. It’d look good on my résumé.” She read an imaginary marquee: “Billie Daniels, Vice President, Client Relations, Waverly Media. London, Tokyo, New York, and 36 other cities.”

  “Nice ring to it,” I said. “Kind of long for a business card, though, don’t you think?”

  “They already mentioned it to you, didn’t they, D-Man?”

  “Maybe.” I said, smiling. I had a dinner scheduled with Waverly for the next night, but I was keeping that information to myself. “And they talked to you?”

  “Maybe.” She said, returning my smile. “But after the Crystal Creek deal, you’re golden.”

  “You would consider leaving?” Laurel said, seeming surprised. “Mr. Mason loves you both.”

  “Too bad he can’t afford both of us,” Billie said.

  Mason had an eye for young talent and didn’t mind letting his best people go once they started to cost too much. “Just like the Army,” he had once told us. He said he could hire two newbies and work them like dogs for what he would have to pay for a more polished staff member.

  I sipped my beer. “Jeff Mason is a great guy…”

  Billie nodded her assent.

  “It isn’t personal. It’s about the money. A nest egg.”

  “A ski villa…”

  I looked at Billie. “Now you ski?”

  “Not yet. But if I had a villa…”

  “Gotcha. We’d love to stay.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  I looked at Billie. “You want to leave?”

  “I want to marry Donald Trump and lose the number to 9-1-1 during his heart attack.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Speaking of,” Billie said, “that could be the Trumpster over there. I’m going for a fly by…”

  The waitress set down the tequila.

  I picked up my shot glass. “He looks like the Dumpster to me.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tough. See ya.” Billie grabbed her shot and flew before I had a chance to say anything.

  Laurel picked up her glass and waved. “See ya.”

  I watched Billie walk away. I always felt a little disoriented when she left our table to head out on the prowl. With Billie preoccupied, though, a little one-on-one time with Laurel couldn’t hurt. “What should we toast?”

  “We have to toast?”

  “If we didn’t toast something, we’d be alcoholics.”

  “Well then.” She smiled. “Did you really date Billie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you stop? Did she really find somebody else?”

  If I had been less experienced, my mouth would have engaged without first taking inventory. Fortunately, I’d been through this many times before. “I love Billie like a good friend, but we’re incompatible. Or is it too compatible? Anyway, we could never settle down together. We’re too competitive. We each have too many clothes. We’d fight over closet space and that sort of thing. We even like the same foods. If we went out to dinner, we’d order the same thing. What’s the benefit in that?”

  “Yeah, you need a little variety,” Laurel said. Her tone was either extremely suggestive, or my imagination was working overtime.

  “Variety,” I said, getting caught in the tractor beam of her eyes again.

  She raised her glass. “To variety.”

  I raised mine and reached my other hand out to grasp hers. Her expression confirmed that I had been interpreting everything correctly. We toasted and drank, and I looked around the room one more time. “Should we?” I said.

  She smiled and got up from her stool without saying another word.

  We took a taxi back to my apartment. Although I lived only a few blocks from the Martini, Laurel didn’t want to walk in heels. Easing Laurel to my place was no more complicated than negotiating a locked door with a set of keys and a bag of groceries.

  Dimming the lights, I put a mix of Usher slow jams on the stereo before going for a 2006 bottle of Chassagne Montrachet that I kept chilled for evenings such as these.

  At first, Laurel began to sway to Usher’s mellifluous voice. Then, she noticed the dim spotlights highlighting the artwork on my walls. She adjusted the light and began to dance for me.

  “I love how Usher makes me feel.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” The cork left a resounding echo and I filled two glasses.

  Laurel lifted her leg overhead like a ballerina, placing it flush against the wall behind her and pushing her skirt up.

  “You’re a very graceful dancer.”

  Laurel smiled and moved toward me. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me to the center of the room and began to circle around me. She looked so free, so extraordinary. Her arms went over her head. Kicking her leg high, she held it for a moment before reversing direction. The black miniskirt must have slowed her down because she began to unwrap it from her narrow hips.

  When her skirt fell to the floor, I forgot about the wine. It spilled over my fingers. She danced close, took my hand and licked the drops from my skin. Suddenly, her lips brushed mine. She moved slowly behind me and began to unbutton my shirt. My head dropped back and my eyes rolled closed. Laurel drew her fingernails against my ribs. As the rest of our clothes landed on the floor, I became enveloped in her perfume, forgetting about everything else. No matter how many times I did this, the effect was always the same.

  From deep sleep, I heard the noise again, was unable to place it in my dream, and ran my fi
ngers along the sheet in search of Laurel. The sound came again. It took several seconds for me to recognize it as knocking on the front door.

  “Do you hear that?” I said, rolling over, hoping to glimpse Laurel’s magnificent body another time. She was gone. “Laurel?” I sat up. Still naked, I grabbed my robe and walked into the other room. It was dark and quiet. Laurel’s clothes were gone.

  Three more knocks came from the door.

  “Just a second.” It was almost 3:00 a.m. and everyone I knew should have been in bed for one reason or another.

  It’s Laurel, I thought. She left her panties under the coffee table or something like that.

  “Coming,” I said. I checked the peephole and the image on the other side made me forget where I was. I opened the door.

  “Dylan!”

  A woman in pink, orange and yellow stood there, with her arms extended. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light yet or the bright colors.

  I squinted. “Diane?”

  “Dylan!”

  Just then, a head poked out from behind Diane and looked up at me. It was a little girl.

  All the air left my body.

  Chapter 2

  Waddle

  “Diane,” I said again, having suddenly lost access to all other vocabulary.

  It wasn’t Laurel returning for more, or to retrieve something that she’d left behind. Seeing Diane’s black wavy hair and gray eyes took me back a few years to a Chicago hotel room off Lake Shore overlooking the Odyssey cruising Lake Michigan. That had been a remarkable handful of days.

  “Dylan!”

  The conversation was obviously taking a little while to develop. It was understandable, considering the circumstances. Diane Sommers from Chicago and a lifetime ago was standing at my door at 3:00 a.m., extending her arms and waiting for a hug.

  Pulling her close, the memories of her perfume, her bright colors, her smile and her touch began to connect the dots until completing my vague recollection of the past. We’d worked head-to-head on the marketing campaign all day, wrapping ourselves in each other all night.

  I began to pull back, but Diane continued to hold me. Focusing neither on the drab hallway nor the bead of sweat forming on the back of my neck, I called to mind the lines in her face friendly, familiar, and yet foreign.