Sidecar

by Ann McMan

  “Yeah. That.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Clarissa smiled and tugged her forward. “No argument from me on that one.”

  Someone slammed into them again. This time, the perpetrator stopped and apologized.

  “Hey, sorry about that,” he said.

  Diz lowered her chin and looked at him over the rim of her glasses. He appeared to be anything but sorry.

  “No problem,” she said.

  The guy continued to stand there, staring at them. “You’re Rachel Maddow, aren’t you? Man . . . I knew it was you. You totally don’t look this tall on TV.”

  Clarissa started to laugh.

  Diz rolled her eyes. “Well. You know how those cameras distort everything.”

  “This is so freaking cool,” the guy said. “I don’t really watch the news much, but I’ve seen you on Leno.”

  “Right,” Diz said. “I’m really proudest of my late night TV work.”

  “Hey. I won’t bug you anymore.”

  “Thanks,” Diz said. She turned away from him and started to steer Clarissa off the dance floor.

  “What’s the matter, Rach?” Clarissa asked. “Don’t you like dancing with me?”

  “You call that dancing?” Diz asked. “It was more like roller derby. Why don’t we just find a doorway to stand up in, or a deserted closet? At least we’d end up with fewer bruises.”

  “Well, that depends on what you have in mind,” Clarissa said.

  Diz stopped and stared at her. “Do I know you?”

  “Not as well as you could.” Clarissa gave her a look that could only be described as sultry. And Diz was sure about that because she checked. Twice.

  Tunnel vision. Isn’t that what it’s called when everything around you suddenly constricts into a tiny pinhole through which you can see only one thing?

  That’s how Diz felt. And she wasn’t sure if it was because of the booze, or due to the insane realization that she was moving in to kiss Clarissa—who halfway seemed to be inviting it.

  “There you are,” a voice behind them roared. “I’ve been looking all over this place for you.”

  Dash Riprock. Of course. He’d have to show up at precisely this moment.

  Diz dropped her chin to her chest.

  Clarissa didn’t look exactly ecstatic to see him, either.

  Dane Nelson looked like he’d just popped out of a ten-best list in G.Q. He looped an arm around Clarissa’s shoulders and kissed her on the hair.

  “Hi ya, babe. Sorry I’m late.”

  Diz noticed that he was holding a half-empty martini glass. Apparently he wasn’t that desperate to find her.

  Clarissa glanced at Diz, then looked back at Dane. “I gave up on you.”

  From your mouth to god’s ear, honey.

  Dane laughed, revealing a set of perfect teeth. They looked blue in the neon light.

  “Hey, I got here as soon as I could.” He looked around the crowded place. “Where’s your stuff? I’m beat. Can we get out of here?”

  “You remember Diz, don’t you?” Clarissa asked.

  Dane glanced at her. Diz could see his eyes moving up and down her frame.

  “Sure. Hi, Diz. Thanks for keeping my girl company.”

  “No problem, Dash.”

  He didn’t appear to notice the nickname, but Diz saw the corners of Clarissa’s mouth twitch.

  “Look,” Diz said. “I’m kind of beat myself, Clar. I think I’ll call it a night.”

  Clarissa looked disappointed. “You’re leaving?”

  Diz nodded. “You don’t need a chaperone anymore, and I definitely don’t need anything else to drink. I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”

  She started to turn away but Clarissa laid a hand on her arm.

  “At least let us give you a ride home?” She looked at Dane, who took the hint.

  “Oh. Sure. Yeah. We’d be happy to drop you off.” He drained his glass and set it down on a nearby table.

  Asshole.

  “No thanks,” Diz said. She looked around until she saw Marty holding up the bar. “I’ll share a cab with Marty.”

  “And Lisa?” Clarissa asked.

  Diz looked at her in surprise. Clarissa dropped her gaze.

  “Maybe,” she replied. “If I’m lucky.” She held up a hand and gave them a brief salute.

  She walked away, cursing herself for her stupidity. What the hell had she been thinking? Clarissa was just using her to kill time until Lord fucking Nelson showed up. And she had almost blown it. If Dane hadn’t appeared precisely when he did, Diz would’ve ruined everything. Clarissa certainly would have slapped her, and tomorrow’s headlines in the Huffington Post would’ve been all about how Rachel Maddow got dumped in a Baltimore nightclub.

  Marty saw her and waved her over.

  “Diz.” He looked behind her. “Where’s the Duchess?”

  Diz jerked her head toward the door. “Prince Charming finally showed up.”

  “Sweet.” He looked her over. “So you’re finally on work release?” He signaled the bartender. “Let’s have another round. What are you drinking? Gimlets?”

  “Nothing else for me, dude. I’m already half toasted.”

  “Fuck that shit. It’s Friday night, and the company is picking up the tab.”

  The bartender appeared.

  “I’ll have another T&T.” Marty gestured at Diz. “And she’ll have a Goose Gimlet.” He looked at Diz and frowned at her morose expression. “Make hers a double.”

  “Jesus, Marty. You’ll have to pour my ass into a cab.”

  “Yeah. So? What are friends for?” He raised his glass. “We’ll have just one more drink, then we’ll head out.”

  Right. Whatever.

  Three drinks later, Diz was past the point of no return. She knew she was in trouble when a server reached over her to retrieve a platter of hot—something—from the bartender. The steam from the dish wafted up into her face, and she felt the room start to spin.

  Marty saw it.

  “Oh, Christ, you’re gonna hurl, aren’t you?” He quickly picked up his glass and pushed away from the bar.

  Diz clapped a hand to her mouth and nodded. She slipped off her stool and staggered toward the restrooms, gaining speed as she pushed her way through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea before the staff of Moses.

  Apparently, she wasn’t the first person to make this trip.

  In the solitude of a bathroom stall, she let go of everything, including what was left of her hope and dignity. Then she sagged to the floor and cursed her miserable life.

  This is what it always came down to, she thought. This is what you got if you let yourself believe in fairy tales.

  A pair of heels appeared outside the stall. Someone tapped on her door.

  Great.

  “Just a second,” Diz muttered. “I’ll be right out.”

  She managed to haul herself to her feet and took a quick look to be sure there was no mess to clean up.

  Diz always cleaned up her messes.

  With shaking hands, she opened the door.

  Clarissa was standing there.

  Diz was stunned. Was this some kind of fresh delusion?

  “You look like shit,” Clarissa said, without a trace of empathy.

  Nope.

  She was real all right. And she was mad as hell. Her face looked like a thundercloud.

  “What are you doing here?” Diz pushed past her and headed for the sink.

  “I came back to get you. I had a feeling you’d do this.”

  “Do what?” Diz bent over the sink and rinsed out her mouth with cold water.

  Clarissa walked up behind her. “This. Act like a stupid frat boy.” She grabbed a stack of paper towels and reached around her to wet them. Then she wrung them out and pressed them to the back of Diz’s neck. It felt great.

  “Yeah, well . . . a propos of frat boys, where’s Dash?”

  Clarissa shrugged. “I dropped him off at home.”

  “Your
home?”

  “His home—not that it’s any of your business.”

  Diz stood up and turned around to face her. Clarissa kept the damp towels against the back of her neck. That meant she continued to stand awfully close. As nice as that was, Diz felt like it was risky. Her stomach was still doing somersaults. The bright light in the bathroom was making her head swim. The scent of red violets wasn’t helping much, either.

  “I think I need to go lie down,” she said.

  Clarissa actually smiled. “You think?” She laid a hand on Diz’s forearm. “Can you walk?”

  Diz nodded.

  “Let’s go. My car is right out front.”

  Diz didn’t have the stamina to argue with her. “Okay.”

  Five minutes later, Diz was snugly strapped into the soft leather passenger seat of Clarissa’s Alfa Romeo.

  They were driving along West Pratt Street, away from the harbor. Clarissa took a right on South Paca and drove past the main campus of the University of Baltimore.

  “My home away from home,” Diz muttered.

  “What did you say,” Clarissa asked.

  Diz shook her head. “Nothing.” She ran her hand along the wood grain dash of the car. “What is it with you and all the Italian stuff?”

  Clarissa shrugged. “I like simplicity. I like beautiful things.” She smiled. “I like things that are simply beautiful.”

  Diz snorted. “No kidding.”

  Clarissa looked at her. “No kidding.”

  Shit. There was that stomach thing again.

  “I think you need to stop,” she rasped.

  Clarissa checked her rearview mirror, then roared over to the side of the road. “If you puke in this car, I’ll kick your ass,” she cautioned.

  Diz was fumbling with her seatbelt.

  “Jesus.” Clarissa reached over and unhooked it. Red violets. It was too much. Diz fell out of the car and staggered to her feet. She made it as far as somebody’s parked Mercedes, slid down the hood, and tossed her cookies all over its front tire.

  She felt a set of cool hands on her forehead. They held on to her until she finished.

  “Come on,” Clarissa said. “We’re almost there.”

  She helped Diz stand up and guided her back to the car.

  “Where are you taking me?” Clarissa didn’t live in this part of town. She lived in a high-rise condo, near Boston Street Pier.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “You know where I live?”

  Clarissa looked at her. “Of course.”

  Diz wanted to ask how, but it was too complicated. She was amazed at her ability to be coherent at all.

  “I don’t suppose you have a bottle of Lavoris stashed somewhere in this thing, do you?” she asked.

  Clarissa actually smiled. “No. But I think there might be some Tic Tacs in the glove box.”

  Diz opened it and fumbled around inside the uncommonly large compartment. Italians must have to carry a lot of shit around, she thought. She pulled out a rolled up pair of torn pantyhose.

  She held them up. There was a gaping hole in the thigh area of the left leg.

  “Care to explain these?” she asked.

  Clarissa glanced at them. “No. I really don’t.”

  “Hmmm. Okaaayyy.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Clarissa said.

  “Since you don’t know what I think, you don’t really get to say that.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I bet you can’t.”

  Clarissa sighed. “Okay. What do you think?”

  Diz rolled them back up. “I can only imagine two explanations. One—Dash was in an incredible hurry, and these got snagged on one of his diamond-studded cufflinks.”

  “You have a rich fantasy life, don’t you?”

  “I’m starting to develop one.”

  Clarissa shook her head. “What’s your other explanation?”

  “Ah. You wear these on your head while you indulge in your secret passion for knocking over mini-marts.”

  Clarissa thought about that for a moment. “I do love Twinkies.”

  Diz looked at her smugly. “Inspector Dupin’s got nothin’ on me.”

  She put the pantyhose back into the glove box and continued to rummage around until she found her prey.

  “Voila.” She pulled out a white plastic box and shook it. Then she held it up to read its label. “Oh, great. Citrus. Just what I need.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, Diz.”

  Diz shook out a handful of the tiny mints and popped them into her mouth.

  “Ugh. Maybe I should just chew the pantyhose?”

  “I always knew you were a pervert.”

  Ten minutes later, they were parked in front of Diz’s brick row house. Her condition had deteriorated dramatically. Clarissa got out and walked around to open her door.

  “Keys?” she asked.

  “Pocket,” Diz said. She didn’t carry a purse.

  “You expect me to look for them?” Clarissa asked.

  Diz nodded.

  Clarissa sighed. “Stand up, then.” She helped Diz climb out of the car.

  Diz leaned against Clarissa as she fumbled around in her front pockets.

  “This is kinda nice,” Diz muttered against her hair.

  “Don’t get any ideas, nimrod.”

  “I won’t,” Diz promised. “Not any new ones, at least.”

  Clarissa held up the keys. She took hold of Diz’s arm. “Can you make it up the steps?”

  “I think so.” Diz took a shaky step forward, then stopped.

  “Oh, god, you’re not going to be sick again, are you?” Clarissa asked with alarm.

  “No. Just want to savor this. Can we go slow?”

  Clarissa sighed. “Sure.”

  They slowly climbed the steps. Diz leaned heavily against Clarissa while she fumbled with the keys.

  “If you don’t have a car, why do you have so goddamn many keys?” she groused.

  “You know, for someone with such a classy background, you sure do curse like a sailor.”

  “Yeah? Well it must be from spending two years in a basement with you.”

  Clarissa finally found the right key and unlocked the door. They stumbled inside. Clarissa stopped dead in her tracks while she looked around the spacious interior. It was tastefully appointed with primitive antiques and colorful artwork.

  “Whatssamatter?” Diz asked.

  “This place is gorgeous.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  Clarissa looked at her. In the soft lamplight, her eyes looked more hypnotic than usual, and that was saying a lot. Diz got an idea. Well, it was a repeat of the same idea she’d had earlier at the club. She leaned toward her, but gravity wasn’t cooperating. She missed her target and kept going. Clarissa barely caught her.

  “Come on, Casanova. Where’s your bedroom?”

  “That was fast,” Diz slurred. “I was at least gonna make us drinks.”

  Damn, she smelled good. Diz dropped a sloppy kiss on her neck. “I really like you,” she muttered.

  Clarissa steered them toward the stairs. “I really like you, too. And I’ll like you a whole lot more when I can get your clothes off. You smell like a brewery.”

  Diz continued to nuzzle her neck as they made halting progress up the stairs. “You wanna get me naked? I’ve always wanted to get you naked.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Clarissa pushed Diz’s hand away from her breast. “Step. Step. One more. That’s right. You can do it.”

  You bet I can do it, Diz thought.

  They were nearly at the top landing. Diz was feasting on her neck now. And she’d managed to work her free hand back inside Clarissa’s jacket. It was soft and warm in there. Everything about Clarissa felt soft and warm.

  Next thing she knew, she was falling backwards, and Clarissa was right on top of her. They landed on the bed with a soft thud. Clarissa pushed up on her forearms.

  “Good god, you�
�re a pain in the ass.” She sat all the way up and straddled Diz. “And a heavy one, at that.” She unhooked her suspenders and started to unbutton her white shirt. “Let’s get these dirty clothes off you.”

  “I’m dirty?” Diz was busy groping any part of Clarissa she could reach.

  Clarissa batted her hands away in between manipulating buttons and zippers. “Yes, you’re dirty. And I must be crazy.”

  “Why are you crazy?” Diz asked with a yawn.

  “Because,” Clarissa pulled off Diz’s shirt and backed away to tug down her trousers, “against all reason, I seem to like it.”

  Clarissa stood up next to the bed and removed Diz’s shoes. Then she pulled her pants the rest of the way off. Diz was now clad only in her bra and panties. Clarissa hastily pulled a blanket up to cover her.

  “You need to go to sleep now,” she said. She removed Diz’s glasses and put them on the nightstand.

  “I don’t wanna sleep.” Diz reached for her. “I wanna snuggle.”

  “You want to snuggle?”

  Diz nodded sleepily. “Please?”

  Clarissa glanced at her watch.

  “Please?” Diz made her biggest, puppy-dog eyes. “I promise to behave.”

  Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Sure you do.”

  “I promise, Clar.” Diz yawned again.

  Clarissa deliberated for a minute. Then she sighed and knelt on the edge of the bed. “Okay, but only for a minute. I mean it.”

  Diz smiled through her haze of inebriation and happy delusion. She held up the blanket in invitation.

  “I must be in my dotage,” Clarissa said as she kicked off her shoes and lay back against her.

  Diz wrapped her up in her arms. God she felt great. They fit together perfectly.

  “Clar?” she asked, stifling another yawn.

  Clarissa turned her head on the pillow to look at her. Their noses were practically touching.

  “What?” Her voice was soft and low.

  “Thanks.”

  Then Clarissa kissed her. Or she kissed Clarissa. She wasn’t sure which one of them started it, but it didn’t really matter. The kiss went on and on, until Diz felt herself floating away. She was aware that her head had dropped onto Clarissa’s shoulder, then she wasn’t aware of anything but the faint, sweet scent of red violets.

  When the morning came, Diz was sure of three things. One, she was alone in her bed. Two, something clearly had died in her mouth. And three, she would never drink eight vodka gimlets again. Ever.