by Abbey Foxx
Two glasses of wine and I’m feeling ready to break the ice here. I was going to leave it a little longer, but now feels like the right moment to do it. She might be pleading to go home tomorrow after all.
“You have never been that interested.”
“Please.”
Now I’m the one leaning. “You don’t remember me do you?”
“Remember you?”
Lucy gives a stifled laugh, looks away and then back again and her eyes tell a story of a million words.
“What’s there to remember? An asshole jock so self-involved he pushed everyone else away.”
She does remember me. Fucking hell. I’m not the only one with a secret here. I lean back in my chair and let the truth manifest itself between us. I’m a little shocked. Quite a lot shocked actually. This could be good, or it could be very bad indeed.
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me coming from you.”
“I didn’t think-.”
“Is that why you brought me here?”
“Are you upset with me?”
Lucy’s shaking her head. “I can’t believe you knew.”
“What difference does it make if I did?”
“All that time.”
“It’s a long time ago, maybe you’re misremembering.”
“I wasn’t the one who spent it in a drunken haze.”
“You were too busy with your nose in your book to pay attention to what was going on around you.”
“I was working hard on my career, Writing about you actually.”
“You were shutting yourself away.”
“Says the man who lives on a private island in the middle of nowhere.”
“At least I have an excuse.”
“Yeah, that you’re an arrogant and conceited asshole that thinks the world has nothing to offer them.”
Wow, now I’m definitely sure that’s the wine talking.
“Can I quote you on that?”
“You could if you talked to anyone in the real world.”
“Thank you for being honest.”
“Isn’t that what you brought me here for? Or was it really to see if you could fuck me? What are you doing, going through the yearbook one by one and you’ve finally got to the last person still standing?”
Lucy almost can’t resist laughing at her own joke.
“You look cute when you're angry, I remember that.”
“You’re thinking about someone else.”
“Not right now.”
Those hands go up in the air again, so quickly she almost knocks over her wine. “First line, Alex Vann Haden, notorious womanizer, still hasn’t changed his ways. This reporter had to fight him off only hours after their first meeting.”
“You said you’d be honest.”
“Alright. Alex Vann Haden, notorious womanizer, still hasn’t changed his ways. This reporter had to fight him off only hours after their first meeting, escape to the helipad and pilot herself back to safety.”
“You see, I never knew you could be so funny.”
Lucy shakes her head. I can’t tell whether she sees the funny side of this or not.
“You look the same”, I say.
“How do you even remember what I looked like before?”
“You know, I wasn’t the guy you thought I was. I wasn’t as confident then as I am now.”
“Confidence is not the same as arrogance.”
“You should use that.”
“I probably will.”
This time, Lucy makes a point of pouring her own wine.
“How much do I win?”
“You need to make a stake first.”
“Everything I own.”
“Then it’s a good job I’m the kind of person that can look after you.”
“Just so you know, I’m not the kind of person to write a bad article just to get your money.”
“No, I’m going to win yours fair and square.”
“Four years and you didn’t even look at me. Four years. Not once, not one look. You know I sent you Valentine’s cards every year we were there, God knows why. I guess I was just as stupid as you were back then, certainly more naive. I had a crush on you like you wouldn’t believe.”
Boom, and the cards hit the tablet. She’s going to regret telling me that.
“I guess we all make mistakes.”
“What was her name, that girl you took to the prom?”
“Rachel.”
“Rachel Banks, that’s it. Daddy was a lawyer but Rachel was as white trash and slutty as they made them. I wonder what happened to her.”
“She works in the porn industry as a go-to girl.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“You really sent me Valentine’s cards?”
“You really noticed me?”
Lucy pauses to sip at her wine, looking at me over the top of the glass as if challenging me to look away first.
“Don’t put that in the article, it might change your opinion of me.”
“My opinion won’t change until you make me believe you mean it.”
“It’s true you know.”
“Bullshit.”
“Ok.”
“Me and you, back then? The nerdy bookworm and the best quarterback in college football, no-one would have allowed that to happen.”
“It would have made a good article.”
“It wouldn’t have done anything for your bad boy reputation.”
“It might have made me a better person.”
“So now you’re admitting you’re a jerk?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I’m going to have a lot of fun with this article.”
“I hope you're going to have a lot of fun while you’re here.”
“A week is not a substitute for four years. Not even the mighty Alex Vann Haden can manage that.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Arrogance is not the same as confidence.”
“Don’t misquote me.”
“I’m not, I’m correcting you instead.”
“Some people might call that manipulation.”
“Isn’t that your bread and butter?”
Lucy avoids the question. Instead, she reaches for the wine bottle which she is disappointed to see is now empty.
“I can get another.”
“Maybe it’s time to go to bed.”
“We haven’t eaten dessert yet.”
“Save it for tomorrow. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Alright.”
Lucy smiles. Already I can see she’s changing her opinion of me. I knew it wouldn’t take long.
“I can’t believe you knew I liked you and didn’t do anything about it.”
“I didn’t know you liked me at all, I just knew I liked you. I thought you had no interest in me whatsoever. In fact, I thought you had no interest in anything but your writing.”
“The football-mad wannabe sports journalist eye candy for the quarterback hunk? Now I know you’re definitely an asshole.”
“Like I said, people make mistakes.”
“Most people learn from them too.”
There is a lull in the conversation that feels like sexual tension city. Lucy is a little drunk from the wine and I’ve got a bit of a buzz on too. When we both speak again, we do so together momentarily, embarrassingly overlapping one another.
“What time does work begin on the island?”
“Whatever time you get up.”
“Good, because if there’s one thing you’ll learn about me this week, it’s that I like a long lie-in.”
There is space for a cheeky comment, especially because of the way she’s looking at me, challenging me to give it, but I refrain. Did I bring Lucy here to see if we could fuck? Maybe. Did I bring her here because she’s part of a turning point in my life, part of a decision I regret? Maybe. Does she turn me on? Yes. There’s no denying th
at.
Bringing her here is not completely immoral either. I want her to know me and I want her to write about the real me and show it to the world. What they knew, the reputation I have, that’s not the person I want to be anymore. A leopard can change its spots, and a Rhino's horn can be only for one person if that person is the only person he’s ever wanted to be with. Sounds daft when I say it to myself, which means I know for a fact it’d sound insincere if I said it to the world. Guys like me don’t fall in love, and they don’t let girls get away either.
A kiss feels too close, a handshake too informal, a hug completely inappropriate. It’s obvious Lucy feels the same way because she too stands awkwardly for a moment looking like she’s wondering how to get away. In the end, she says goodnight and leaves me alone in the vast open space of my patio, deciding to find her own way back to her room.
Maybe not tomorrow, but before this week is out, no matter how long she likes her lie-ins, I’m confident she’ll be sharing them with me. So confident I’m going to bet my career on it.
Lucy
Fuck me and my stupid huge big fucking mouth and fuck this beautiful gorgeous super comfortable bed that’s almost too big for words.
What am I doing? What is he doing? Why did I even think I could come here, stay for a week and not get tied up emotionally in Alex Vann Haden once again? It’s been over five years since I saw him last, plenty of time to move on and less than a few hours in his company and all those memories and feelings and things come flooding back like someone’s opened the Hoover dam and I’m standing right underneath the wall of water.
Thank god he’s still just as arrogant, although that didn’t exactly stop me crushing on him the first time around as though the fate of the world itself hung on my very emotional state. Four fucking valentine’s cards! What the hell is wrong with me? I should have gotten the picture after the very first one went ignored, and to think I spent so long on each one as well. I have wasted so much time already on Alex Vann stupid extra surname Haden that when this week is over, if I even manage to get that far, I’m going to make sure I never see him again. I want that beautiful chiselled face out of my life forever.
I don’t care if he’s retiring, or that this is just a vanity piece to get him back into the limelight, he shouldn’t have brought me here in the first place and I shouldn’t have come. And then to have the audacity to lie to me about our time in college, I mean, what an absolute jerk. Why would he even do that unless he forgot to laugh at me enough back then and suddenly remembered he ought to do something to rectify it?
That I wasn’t confident enough to ask you out bullshit, the I thought you never noticed me angle, I mean, come on, who is he kidding?
Alex Vann Haden could have had any girl he wanted at college, and he did. His exploits were legendary. No-one else in the history of LSU, or any other college across the country, probably, slept with as many girls. He knew more about the insides of rooms in that place than the architects who designed it, and had access to more keys than any single one of the janitors.
AVH was codeword for drop your panties, and as soon as girls saw him coming, it was enough to get them wet and horny. He had an entourage, and every single one of them he’d have in a queue lining up to polish his rhino’s horn. Of course, back then he wasn’t called The Rhino, he was just called Alex, and everyone knew which Alex it was without even needing to define it.
Well, two can play at this game. If he wants to flirt with me now, or pretend to, or carry on in the ridiculously conceited way he is, I’m just going to give as good as I get. When Alex comes at me I’ll bat him away until I’m absolutely convinced he’s serious. If there’s one thing I know about this man, beyond the fact that he’s got an excellent choice in bedding materials, it’s that he’s convinced he’s better than everyone else.
Whatever ulterior motive he’s got for bringing me here, I’m not going to let it get in the way of the story I’m going to write.
I think I already have the headline now. The Rhino, after a long fought battle with humanity, is sadly now extinct. It’s sad really, with that body, and those beautiful eyes, it’s disappointing to think it’s all kind of wasted on someone so undeniably up themselves.
I’ll tell him that in the morning, right after I’ve had my ten hours that is. I’ll tell him exactly what I think of his attempts at humor tonight. The big reveal that he was actually always in love with me all the way through college but too scared to admit it. I bet he doesn’t even remember what classes I took. He could have made an attempt to think of something more convincing to get people to like him, you know, like he’s secretly gay or has a terrible mental illness or something like that. I figure that’s what this is all about. He’s sick of hiding in the shadows and needs someone like me from his past to tell the world he wasn’t arrogant at all, just misunderstood, that he’s really nothing like all those other journalists make out, he never had more than a normal amount to drink, all those fights he got in were someone else’s fault, and he finished college a virgin.
I’ve got more chance of winning the lottery. More chance of actually sleeping with Alex Vann Haden for real than being able to convince everyone of a lie like that.
Sleep is pulling me under, and I’ve still got Alex on my mind. The Alex of college - brash, arrogant, immature and the Alex of now - grown up, muscular, undeniably sexy. I want to believe he’s matured, and more than anything, I want to believe that he really did notice me, Lucy Parker, the girl who could look invisible in an open space, but it’s just too much of a stretch, even for this creative and wine inspired mind.
Four.
Lucy
For a moment I have no idea where I am. I stretch, kick my bare legs out from under the duvet and roll into the warmth of the sheets below me. I’m used to waking up alone, so that’s not uncommon, what’s missing is the buzz of the alarm on my cell phone, the crash of inner city traffic, the acrid smell of the paint shop below my apartment wafting in on the morning breeze, and the general feeling of anxiety I always seem to start the day with.
As I let reality seep into me, my eyes adjusting to the natural light, sweeping in from the window in front of me, I begin to come to. Not my apartment, or even my city, Alex’s rock. His private residence, his utopia, his permanent get-away-from-it-all.
With the morning light comes the memory of the conversation of the night before and I kick myself with the confession I allowed him to have from me so easily. Too much wine gives me a greater sense of impregnability, and as I work my way over what was said, I come to the awful conclusion that from my side, it was far too much.
I didn’t need to tell him I had a huge crush on him. There was no need for that at all. I should have just admitted I knew who he was, that we were obviously at the same college together, although clearly didn’t move in the same social circles, and left it at that. What the hell am I doing fuelling his already huge ego, especially when I’m the one telling the truth and he’s making something up to play a game with me?
No more wine. No more past. No more conversations about some kind of assumed emotional connection, and nothing more about me. I’m the reporter here, not the reported, and I’m the one who was summoned not the one who did the summoning. Alex wants me to get to know him so I see the truth, well today that starts for real. Today I’m the Lucy Parker of Endzone magazine, number one shit journalist in the whole of the country, and I’m not prepared to take any more of Alex Vann Haden’s bullshit.
I shower in a purpose built wet room as big as a squash court with jet’s that come out of the wall at the perfect height to excite me if I adjust the pressure in exactly the right way. I feel like a teenager again, discovering the incredible properties of the adjustable shower head in the family bathroom, and lose myself in thoughts of making The Rhino pay for his poor taste comments over dinner.
When I finally pull myself away, obviously in no rush to do anything too quickly today - these seven days might get old quickly, especially if A
lex decides he doesn’t want to keep his mouth shut - I’m refreshed, invigorated and ready to begin work. I’m hungry too, which isn’t surprising, because when I check the time on my cell, noticing in the meantime I still haven’t got reception, I see it’s almost twelve o’clock.
After wandering the wrong way up several corridors, I finally find my way back to the patio, where I find Alex, shirtless and sweaty, deep into a session of pounding seven levels of shit out of a punching bag. He doesn’t notice me right away, and I choose not to make my presence known until it feels awkward and far too voyeuristic.
I’ve never seen the beauty in boxing before, like some people do, never been convinced of its grace, but now, watching Alex’s muscles flex in the sunlight, seeing the sweat shimmer across his skin, the ink of that Rhino tattoo shine like oil on water, I’m ready to change my opinion. There is nothing more exciting than seeing perfection in nature - an animal at the height of its evolutionary cycle, doing the one task it was put on this earth for - and watching Alex round the bag, bob, weave, dance in the low sunlight as though never out of sync with the world around him, I’m reminded of that perfection, and how we rarely see it in the human world.
Athletes at the height of their careers, dancers, physical performers, boxers from time to time, and Alex now, this morning, and probably every morning, deep into his routine, muscles flexing, abs defined across his Adonis belt, the rucked up shorts around that bulge, bigger than the photo I couldn’t take my eyes off, somehow more defined, more alive.
I’m not even crushing, I mean, I am, obviously, but it’s more than that. On one level it’s base, it’s pure sexual attraction, raw animal magnetism - which I’d never admit to him in a thousand years by the way - and on another plane entirely, a higher level that Alex would probably struggle to understand as much as a cheetah would simple mathematics, it’s nothing but appreciation.
Pure and simple appreciation of form, much like I feel when I see him play. When he throws the ball or picks out a pass or just does something you don’t expect and you can do nothing but stand there in admiration and clap your hands, and say well done, no matter who he is, no matter how arrogant and big headed and no matter how much you dislike him.