I pull on a pair of panties before I drop my robe. I have no shame, and Amie’s seen me in some questionable states, so underwear isn’t a big deal. I root around for a clean bra which takes far more effort to put on than it should, then I shimmy into the dress and pull up the side zipper. It’s a bit on the snug side in the chest and the hips, but otherwise it’s fine. Unfortunately, there’s a grease stain on the skirt right over my crotch.
I motion to the spot highlighting my vagina. “Unless I’m looking to draw attention to my pleasure center, I think I’m going to have to pick another option.”
“It wouldn’t hurt. Bancroft is hot, and from what I’ve heard he has an excellent skill set in the bedroom.”
“The fact that there are rumors about his skill set is not really a selling feature. Besides, I’m not trying to bed him, I’m trying to get access to a bed in his condo. Do you even know if his place has more than one bedroom?”
“He lives in a penthouse in Tribeca. It has more than one bedroom. And the rumors aren’t bad. I don’t think he’s a manwhore, I’ve just heard he’s very . . . equipped.”
“So he has a big dick? Whoop-dee-do. His dick is not my primary concern.”
Despite my lack of excitement over Bancroft’s hotness and his potentially large assets or his skills in the bedroom, I try on another six dresses before Amie approves my dinner outfit. I have to lie down for a while after that.
She spends the rest of the day attempting to nurse me back to some sort of reasonable health, by feeding me drugs and alternating Gatorade, chicken broth, and a few saltines. At least I can keep liquids and crackers down. When it’s time to get ready for dinner, Amie takes care of my hair and makeup because I lack the energy to make it happen. I’d ask why it matters how good I look, but since we’re meeting up with Armstrong and this Bancroft guy, I have to assume we’re going to some highbrow restaurant where they serve things like skate and Green Elder Rubbed Elk, which begs the question, did a group of unfortunate and senile geriatrics in green jogging suits rub themselves on a herd of elk before they were slaughtered for the upper class’s benefit?
At five, we leave my soon-to-be-vacated apartment and take an Uber to the restaurant—Amie’s treat since I can’t afford anything right now. By this point, I could really use a five-hour nap and another shower. I’m not so sure I’m completely over whatever it is Awesome Kisser passed on to me. I naively assumed it was some kind of twenty-four-hour bug, but the trickle of sweat that slides down my spine concerns me. As does the mild roll in my stomach. It’s nothing like the full-stomach seizures that ruined yesterday, but it’s still not right in there.
I manage the Uber ride okay, but I’m so clammy even with the windows rolled down that I’m wishing I brought deodorant with me. If I’d planned ahead I could rub it all over my body to solve the sweat issue.
Amie shifts so she’s facing me. “So let’s review the story one more time just to make sure we have all the details down.”
“Okay.” This is not an uncommon conversation for us. As teenagers we used to cover for each other often. Well, me for Amie more than her for me, but still, covering happened. There’s a reason her nickname was Anarachy Amie when we were growing up. She was far more likely to use staying at my place as a ruse to go make out with whatever boy she was seeing at the time. Who would’ve thought that same girl would be marrying someone named Armstrong?
This is a little different because there’s a lot more at stake than just being grounded for getting caught in a lie. This is a potential place to live and buying me some time to find an actual job that pays real money again. Enough to help pay my debt down without my father’s help. Enough to save me from working with his whore of a wife. Without his financial assistance, I’m finally seeing exactly how easy life has been for me up until now. I know I should be grateful that if I really needed help, he’d be there for me, but the truth is, I wanted to prove, more to myself than anyone else, that I could do this.
“Why don’t you have a place to live?” Amie asks, patting my hand reassuringly at my cringe.
“My lease was up and instead of renewing I planned to move into an apartment closer to the theater district, but the new lease agreement fell through.”
“Excellent. And why did that happen?”
“Is this really necessary? I doubt it’s going to be an inquisition.”
“It’s better to have a full story outlined with lots of details than something half-assed.”
“I can improv.”
“I’d agree, except you’re sick and I’m not sure your improv skills are all that amazing right now.”
“Can you refrain from saying that word aloud right now?” Even that’s enough to make me queasy again.
Amie’s right, though, my ability to do anything other than breathe and stay upright are severely compromised. I sigh anyway, because we went over this three times before we left my apartment. “The lease fell through because there were problems with the pipes in the apartment above mine. They have to gut the apartment. It could take months to renovate.” I give Amie a wide-eyed, sad look, indicating I’m distressed by the unfortunate circumstances I find myself in. And I honestly am.
“Perfect.” Amie nods her approval at either my recollection of our fabricated scenario, my superb acting skills, or both. “And why can’t you stay in your current apartment?”
“It’s already been rented out and the new tenant takes over the lease in five days,” I continue rambling, “The only unit available in my complex is scheduled to be rented out mid-month, so I’d be moving my stuff only to move it again two weeks later.” Dabbing the back of my neck with a tissue I say, “I still don’t think this needs to be so elaborate. Can’t we just say there were issues with my new apartment?”
Amie gives me a withering look. “Didn’t you learn anything from high school? We want the story to be plausible, the more details the better. What about your job situation?”
“I’m between roles right now, but I have several auditions lined up.” This comes out monotone, mostly because yesterday’s audition was the last one I had scheduled with my now-retired agent. I’m on my own until I find someone new.
She squeezes my arm. “You’ll get something, Ruby, you’re too talented not to.”
I’d like to believe this, and honestly, a few months ago I did, but my inability to find a new agent and my small Off-Broadway roles make it hard to keep the faith.
“Here we are.” Amie smiles as the Uber pulls into the valet and the attendant opens the door. Before we head inside Amie smooths out my hair. “Okay. So when Armstrong or Bancroft brings up the trip I’ll be the one to mention the pet-sitting and you can get excited about his guinea pig or whatever it is.”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay. Let’s get you a place to live.”
I nod, take a deep breath, and let her link arms with me as the doorman hurries to allow us entrance. Tonight’s restaurant choice is exactly as I predicted. Over-Botoxed women in their sixties cling to the arm of their balding, paunchy husbands with wandering eyes. Excessive jewelry tells me the wandering eye has probably extended to a wandering hand, and likely their dick.
I’m familiar with this particular scenario considering it’s exactly what my dad did to my mom. Although she was never really one for baubles, so I’m guessing my father found other ways to apologize for his indiscretions. At least until she got tired of the philandering and left.
My mother is gorgeous, but she refused to play by the same rules as so many of the other women in this environment seem to. She wouldn’t get the surgery, the facelifts, whatever tucks and nips to keep her looking like the twenty-three-year-old my father married. So he upgraded to a newer model, and test-drove a lot of them along the way.
It’s why I’m a little jaded when it comes to the trust-fund boys. Like father like son is usually how it tends to go, and I haven’t met many fathers who aren’t looking at their daughters’ friends like they’re the next toy th
ey want to play with. It’s disgusting really.
Armstrong is already at our table drinking scotch, or bourbon, or some kind of amber alcohol, sans his cousin Bancroft. The waitress at the table has her back to us, her tray balanced on one palm, her other hand perched on her jutting hip. She laughs at something he says and flips her long dark ponytail over her shoulder.
I glance at Amie, who’s stiffened, her grip on my arm tightening just a little. I want to believe this match is a good one, but I’m not sure I do. On the outside, Armstrong appears to be ideal husband material. But I worry that this whirlwind romance is clouding her judgment, as is her parents’ approval of this match.
Despite being a bit of a wild child, Amie is also an approval seeker. Anarchy Amie used to like to get up to no good, but she’d suffer serious remorse if she got caught in her acts of defiance. On the rare occasions our cover story didn’t work, she would spend the next month attempting to be the perfect daughter to atone. It’s an interesting dichotomy. She wants to do the right thing, but she also likes to push the boundaries.
Even her degree was more about making her parents happy than actually doing what she wants with her life. Although, she seems reasonably satisfied with her job—and she has one, so there’s an upside to all her pleasing of other people. Maybe if I suffered from that affliction I’d also be gainfully employed. With my own fiancé.
Armstrong’s smile dips for a second when he notices our approach, and then widens to reveal his perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. He nods to the waitress and slides out of his seat, smoothing a hand over his tie as he gives Amie a heated once over. She’s wearing the same simple black dress she had on when she showed up at my apartment. It’s cinched at the waist with a pencil style skirt that highlights her curvy hips and an ass shaped by hours of Pilates and uncountable squats.
“My gorgeous fiancée.” The waitress moves aside and Armstrong takes Amie’s hand, pressing a kiss to each one of her knuckles.
Amie giggles and blushes when he pulls her in close to whisper something in her ear. I’m assuming it’s in relation to activities taking place later in the evening based on how red her face goes.
It’s short-lived anyway. Armstrong steps back and turns his charming smile to me. “Ruby, I’m so pleased Amalie extended the invitation for dinner tonight. I trust you enjoyed yourself at the engagement party.”
“Thanks. I had a lovely time. The food was exceptional.” At least until the morning after. It seems best to leave that part out.
“Excellent, excellent.” He sweeps a hand out to the chair on the other side of the table, where a host is waiting for me to take a seat so he can tuck me in like a five-year-old. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better. I haven’t had much of an opportunity to meet many of Amalie’s close friends, especially not ones who have known her for as long as you have.”
“Yes, well, it’s been quite the whirlwind, hasn’t it?” I smooth my hand down the back of my skirt as the host moves the chair under my butt. I fall into the habits I’ve spent the last several years shedding like an old coat, nodding at him with a polite smile and a quiet thank you.
Armstrong waits until the host has moved on before he gives me what seems to be his signature, pickle-up-the-ass smile. “When you know, you know. I’m sure you’ll understand once you find your soul mate.” He turns to gaze lovingly at my best friend.
I hold back both the snicker and the gag—although the latter had more to do with the return of the roll in my stomach than the actual cheesiness of his response. Instead I smile and nod my agreement. “I’m sure when that day comes I’ll be just as excited as both of you. Maybe I’ll even want to elope.” I glance down at my drink menu so he can’t read the disingenuousness on my face.
“I wouldn’t suggest elopement, it makes it seem like you have something to hide,” Armstrong says with an air of snoot. Although almost everything he says comes across as pretentious.
Any potentially sarcastic response is thwarted by the sudden arrival of Armstrong’s last-name-first cousin whose home I’m hoping to move into for the next five weeks.
“Sorry I’m late. I got caught up at work.”
“Don’t you ever rest?” Armstrong asks.
“Last-minute trip details,” he replies.
I look up from my drink menu as the chair opposite mine slides across the carpeted floor. The hand doing the chair dragging isn’t a manicured one. The nails are imperfect and scars litter his knuckles. And the hand is huge. Like it belongs to some behemoth Neanderthal.
As I lift my eyes to further judge this cousin of Armstrong’s I realize the abnormally large hand is attached to one hell of a forearm and that is attached to a rippling bicep. Up, up, up I go until I reach the thickly corded muscles that make up his neck, and the incredibly cut jaw with the perfect amount of five o’clock shadow. As with any finely crafted physical specimen, I’m definitely intrigued to see whether the face does the body justice. I’m met with a plush set of lips that currently have a tongue dragging across them, making the bottom one glisten in the expensive chandelier lighting.
His nose is mostly straight, but there’s something a little off there, I can’t figure out why, though. My gaze reaches his eyes, his dark blue eyes. They’re stunning. Just unreal. And he has these perfect arching eyebrows to complete the perfection of his face. Amie wasn’t lying. This man is seriously f’ing hot. And I haven’t even checked to see if he has all his hair yet.
As I put together all the individual components of his rugged, sexy face, I also come to realize that beyond his being hot, he’s also terribly familiar. In my somewhat lust-induced haze of stupidity, combined with the still-hanging-on fever, it takes me a few more seconds to come up with a reason as to why this man is so familiar.
I break the rules of etiquette that were bitch slapped into me my entire life by pointing at him and saying, “You!” Thankfully, my voice is still hoarse so it’s a lot quieter than it may have been otherwise.
His smile, his pretty, white-toothed smile falters and he cocks his head to the side. His expression registers a flicker of recognition, although there’s also confusion. “Do I know you?”
“Do you know me?” I parrot.
“You look incredibly familiar.” He drops into the chair across from me, those eyes of his could be burning holes in my damn dress they’re so hot. Jesus. This man is like a nuclear bomb of sexy, just waiting to go off. I’m honestly surprised women aren’t super-gluing themselves to his body like in one of those men’s spray deodorant commercials. He may actually need women repellent. “I feel like I should know your name already.”
His now lopsided grin is making my panties reevaluate their importance in my life.
I recall him telling me he’d been popping cold medication like candy. Maybe his memory is fuzzy. Sadly, I remember every second of that accidental kiss, and the unfortunate aftermath.
I gawk for a few extra seconds before I finally remember how to put words together. “Well, you have had your tongue in my mouth.” Not really the best words, or the most appropriate ones, unfortunately.
“Do you know each other?” Amie’s smile is tight and her voice is high.
I wave a hand in his direction. “That’s Awesome Kisser.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Now she looks concerned, and she may have a right to wear that expression, because I’m about to go off.
“This is the guy who kissed me and then coughed in my face.”
There’s one of those lulls in conversation at the tables near us, so a few people stop to stare for a second or two before resuming their fake conversations.
Awesome Kisser whose name I now know is Bancroft, looks horrified. As he should. I lost the part in the play because of him. Well, that’s also assuming I would’ve given the best performance out of all 175 people who tried out for the lead and supporting roles. But, with my background I should’ve at least been offered some part, even if it wasn’t a major one.
�
�What?” Armstrong looks from Bancroft to me and then to Amie, apparently not in the know.
“Oh shit.” Bancroft’s distress is real. At first, I think it’s embarrassment, until he continues, sounding remorseful, “I really am so sorry about that. I probably shouldn’t have attended the engagement party in the first place, but Armstrong’s my cousin and I couldn’t miss it. Too much scotch and cold medication makes for a terrible combination.”
“Apparently. Your date certainly wasn’t pleased.”
“Does someone want to fill me in here?” Armstrong looks super confused. And annoyed. I can’t decide if this is a good or a bad thing, because it means the incident isn’t something Bancroft’s shared—out of mortification or tact, I’m not sure yet, since I don’t have much of a gauge on his personality. My knowledge of him is limited to the way his mouth feels and his tongue tastes.
I turn to Armstrong and smile. “Just a misunderstanding. It isn’t a big deal.”
The waitress comes by to take drink orders. Based on the turn in events, I consider a glass of Prosecco, but ultimately decide to go with sparkling water, hopeful the bubbles will settle my stomach, although maybe the alcohol would help kill whatever bugs are floating around in there.
Armstrong does a good job of dominating the conversation and Bancroft’s references to his business trip are quickly turned into another jumping-off point for Armstrong to talk about himself and his family’s media empire. Maybe he’s a nervous talker. Or a pompous ass. Either is possible, the latter seems more likely.
Appetizers arrive. Apparently Armstrong took the liberty of ordering for us prior to our arrival. A selection of tapas is placed on the table, including smoked salmon and sautéed calamari. Usually I’m a fan of seafood, but my recent unintentional fasting makes anything with actual flavor seem rather unappealing. I go with the safest option: baked pita chips, skip the hummus, and I order pasta primavera; the plainer the better.
“You must be looking forward to getting your feet wet on this trip,” Armstrong says to Bancroft before popping an oyster—he decided they were a necessity—much to my stomach and my gag reflex’s dismay.
Shacking Up Page 5