by Maria Geraci
Chuck returns and takes a seat across from me. He stares at me for a few long seconds. “You’re not what we expected,” he says.
“Um, what were you expecting?”
He shrugs. “You know, the usual.”
I’m about to ask the usual what, but something tells me to keep my mouth shut. I fumble through my purse and pull out my business card. “Do you have a pen?” In case Trip is too sick to remember details, I want to jot some information on the back of my card.
“What’s that?” Chuck asks, pointing to the card in my hand.
“My business card.”
Chuck laughs rudely. Which is odd. Why would he find me having a business card funny?
I can hold my bladder no longer. “Can I use the restroom?”
Chuck takes a sip of his drink and watches me the way a lioness would eye a wounded zebra. “Down the hallway,” he says.
Does he know I’m a reporter after a story? He seemed friendly enough at first, but from the way he’s acting now, I conclude that he must know, and he obviously does not have a high opinion of those in my profession. He’s probably sorry he let me in the door. I should be ready to be kicked out on my keester any second now.
I slip inside the bathroom. I can barely pee I’m so nervous. I’m washing my hands when I hear the door open and close. I whip around to find Trip just a couple of feet away. If I hadn’t seen recent pictures of him, I would never have recognized him as the boy I went to high school with. He looks exactly like he does in his pictures from all the magazines—tall and tanned with his blond hair cropped short. He’s the epitome of the all-American boy, except his blue eyes are slightly bloodshot and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in at least three days. He’s also not wearing anything except a pair of faded jeans. I can’t wait to tell Richard that Trip’s six-pack abs are not a product of trick photography. For some reason I can’t look Trip in the eye (or anywhere else), so I stare down at his big bare feet.
“Oh, hi!” I say. “I guess I didn’t lock the door? Listen, Trip, I’m so sorry to come barging in here. I can see that you’re not feeling well and—”
“I thought Frank said you were a blonde.” My gaze shoots up to meet his eyes. He shrugs. “No matter.”
A blonde? At the mention of Frank’s name my mouth goes dry. Why would Uncle Frank tell Trip that I’m a blonde? Then it occurs to me that maybe he noticed Kimberly following him. But why would he remark on it to Trip? Unless maybe he thought Kimberly was a groupie? None of this is making much sense at the moment.
“Trip, don’t you remember me? I’m Emma Frazier.”
“Of course I remember you.”
Relief! I sag against the counter behind me. “You have no idea how hard it is to get ahold of you, you big celebrity you,” I tease.
Trip grins.
“I know this is a terrible time, what with you being sick and all, but I was hoping we could talk.”
“Talk? Sure, you can talk…I actually kind of like that.”
I notice Trip is slurring his words. It’s probably from the medication he’s on. I really hope this is just a tiny cold or a flu and that Trip is not seriously ill.
“Are you okay? Do you need to lie down?”
“Nah. We can do this standing up.”
“Here? In your bathroom? Wouldn’t you prefer the living room couch?”
He comes in close and this is when I smell the alcohol on his breath.
“With Chuck lookin’ on?” Trip chuckles. “I’m not really into being watched. I just like the dirty talk.”
Dirty talk?
He’s looking down at me with glazed eyes. Trip is not sick. He’s skunk-ass drunk!
“Look, I guess this isn’t the best time. Maybe I can leave my card and you can call me?”
Trip looks momentarily confused.
“Trip Monroe, you really have no idea who I am, do you?”
“You’re…Emily?”
“I’m Emma Frazier from Catfish Cove. We went to school together. Don’t you remember senior year I won the poetry contest? My poem was about my moms and how I was conceived with the help of a sperm donor? You wrote in my yearbook that you liked it.”
“You need a sperm donor? Sorry, baby, I don’t do that kinda thing.”
All these weeks of scheming on how to get an interview. Involving Kimberly and the Yeager Agency. The money I spent on my new dress, the makeup session at the Estée Lauder counter. All of it just to get this one moment with Trip and he’s so drunk he can’t even remember where he went to high school. I want to scream with frustration. Instead, I take a deep breath.
“All right, obviously you’re in no condition to think rationally. I’m just going to leave my card with your friend Chuck and you can call me later. Or I can call you. Whichever you prefer.” I try to squeeze past him but he blocks me.
“Ah, c’mon, honey, don’t be mad. Stay awhile.”
“No, thanks,” I say firmly. “Trip, listen up. You’re going to move away so I can leave and then you’ll call me later. Right?”
He smiles and looks so goofy I almost laugh. “Sure I’ll call you again.”
I set my palm against his chest and try to shove him out of the way but it’s like moving an iron column. He grabs my hand and lays it over his crotch, holding it firmly in place.
My face goes up in flames. “Give me my hand back. Now.”
“But it feels so good where it is.” He places his mouth against my neck and starts laying a series of slobbery kisses on me.
I try to shove him away again but it’s useless. He’s not listening to me. Trip must be at least six foot three and a good two-hundred-plus pounds of solid muscle. There is no choice. If I want to get away from him, I’m going to have to go for the big guns. I muster up all my strength and knee him in the balls.
He lets out a howl of pain and doubles over. “What the hell! What’s wrong with you?” he asks, wild-eyed.
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Besides being a drunken asshole, that is!”
“I don’t understand. Are we gonna fuck or not?”
“The answer to that is not.”
Trip looks more confused than ever.
I make a motion to shove him aside. This time he practically jumps out of my way. I open the bathroom door and scurry out as fast as I can, tossing my business card to a stunned-looking Chuck on my way out.
chapter eighteen
On the drive home I tell Kimberly my story, down to the last dirty detail.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“Pray that Trip calls me?”
“So he can what? Apologize? Emma, he thought you were a prostitute.” Kimberly is almost back to her old self again. Her ability to metabolize alcohol is nothing short of amazing.
I sigh dramatically. “Maybe he would have taken me more seriously if I’d worn the polka-dot dress.”
We both laugh, and this lightens our mood a bit.
I’ve been dissecting what went down with Trip. I wonder who came up with the stomach-flu story. I really don’t think Esther Finnegan has a clue. The whole world thinks Trip is this great guy. And maybe he is. But he’s got another side to him that he’s managed to keep out of the press. I read once that Jackie Kennedy used to smoke cigarettes but the powers that be didn’t want it known. Photographers knew that if they published a photo of her with a ciggy to her lips, they’d be blackballed from the White House. I don’t think Trip has that kind of power, but I find it hard to believe that something negative hasn’t been written about him before. Is he an alcoholic? Or just a party boy who doesn’t care about his responsibilities? Either way, it looks like I’m not going to score the interview of a lifetime.
I had hoped to spend the weekend writing up my interview, which, of course, isn’t going to happen now. Nick has plans to fish with some buddies in Destin, so driving up to Catfish Cove is moot. I call him and tell him about my run-in with Trip.
“I don’t care who he is, I’m goin
g to kick this guy’s ass.”
“Can you say that again? I’m getting all hot and bothered.”
“I’m serious, Emma. You could have been assaulted. Hell, you were!”
“Not really,” I say, thinking back over the incident. “Well, almost, maybe. I honestly think he was so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Don’t make excuses for him. You should expose this guy for the asshole he is.”
Nick isn’t suggesting anything I haven’t thought of already, but Florida! isn’t that kind of magazine. Plus, I don’t really know what went down in that hotel room. Was it a onetime, isolated incident? A nightly occurrence? Has Trip been tested for every STD under the sun? These are the questions that have me spinning. As a journalist—
“Did you get your period?” Nick asks.
“Um, not yet.”
“Shouldn’t you do one of those home pregnancy tests? I think you can tell almost right away now.”
“Maybe in a few days,” I say.
Thankfully, Ben has gone to Orlando for some mysterious workshop, so we skip the Monday-morning staff meeting. I really don’t think I could have taken all the questions about the Trip Monroe “interview.” I know I have to tell Ben what happened but I’m relieved I’ve gotten a reprieve. Despite the fact there is no meeting I still bring in donuts, because I certainly don’t want to cause a riot or anything.
I’m sitting at my cubicle, trying my hardest to act productive. Richard leans over and places his hand on the back of my chair like he does whenever he wants my attention. “So, how’d the cocktail party go? You and Trip hook up?”
I know Richard does not mean “hook up” in the popular sense, but I still find his choice of words ironic. This is also the first time Richard has gone out of his way to talk about the Trip Monroe story to me. It’s like he knows the whole thing was a disaster and now he wants to gloat.
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Guess I’ll just have to read about it with the rest of the schmucks.”
“Those schmucks are our loyal readers.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Richard goes back to playing with his cell phone. I wish I could escape into something mundane but all I can think about is all the advertising T.K. planned to sell that isn’t going to happen now. I am, without doubt, the biggest loser ever. Can I get fired over this?
“Richard,” I say impulsively, “what would you do if you didn’t work for Florida! anymore?”
He immediately stops Twittering. His eyes meet mine and I suddenly feel like a jerk. It’s no secret Richard’s dream job would have been playing professional baseball. He covers almost every kind of sports story under the sun, except baseball. He only does that when forced. Even though he never talks about it, the Dr. Phil in me thinks it’s because it’s all too painful for him. Or maybe I’m just giving Richard too much emotional credit.
“Have you ever thought about writing for Sports Illustrated?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, write about it.”
“But there must be something you feel passionate about.”
Richard studies my face a second. “You seriously want to know?”
I nod.
He places his hand on the back of my chair again and leans in until he’s only a couple of inches away from me. Once, a few years ago, I think Richard hugged me at Stuart’s New Year’s Eve Party. We were both slightly drunk at the time but I’m pretty sure I hugged everyone that night. Other than that, however, I think this is the closest physically I’ve ever been to him. Even though it’s not yet noon, his jaw is shadowed with his five o’clock beard. I catch a whiff of his cologne, which is subtly pleasant. I try to scoot my chair back but he holds it firmly in place with the back of his arm and lowers his voice to a rough whisper. “If I didn’t have this gig to go to every day, I’d have time to finish revising my novel.”
This is the last thing I expected Richard to say. I’ll admit, for a second there…well, let’s just say Richard is not my type but I understand why Lisa finds him appealing.
“You’re writing a novel?”
“Not just a novel, I’m writing the novel. The one that’s going to make Steve Danger a household name.”
Richard’s last name is Sutter. “Who’s Steve Danger?”
Disappointment flashes through his eyes. But only for a second, because then he grins at me and says, “That’s my pen name. You don’t think I’d publish my novel under my real name. Do you? I’ve got a lot of hot sex scenes in there and I’ve got a professional reputation to worry about.”
Although I’ve known Richard forever, I sometimes have trouble figuring out whether he is pulling my leg and this is one of those times.
“What’s the novel about?” I ask cautiously. “It’s not…erotica, is it?”
“It’s about corruption and loneliness and greed and love and betrayal. It’s about the American dream and how fighting to achieve that dream takes its toll on your soul.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, and it’s got horny vampires and werewolves in it too. Think The Great Gatsby meets Twilight.”
“Wow,” I say again, even more stunned than before (which I would have thought impossible).
“Want to read it? I have a rockin’ first draft but I can always use some professional input.”
“Um, sure, okay.”
Richard’s eyes light up. “Honest?”
“Sure I’ll read it.”
Richard rolls his chair back to his desk and starts tapping away at his keyboard. A few seconds later his head pops back around the cubicle wall. “I just sent it to you. It’s kind of on the long side but I’m really anxious to hear what you think.”
“Just how long is it?”
“About a hundred and eighty thousand words. But, I know that needs cutting,” he quickly adds.
A hundred and eighty thousand words? How did I get myself into this mess?
“So how’d the interview go?” he asks again. Before I can respond, Richard says, “Let me guess. Trip Monroe spilled all his deepest darkest secrets to you, making you the reporter of the hour. Shit. Forget that, making you the reporter of the year, and you’re now writing up the article that’s gonna score you even more points with Ben.”
The way Richard says Ben’s name makes me blink. I was right. Richard is jealous of my professional relationship with Ben.
“That’s not exactly how it went down,” I say.
I wasn’t going to tell anyone else what happened at the Don Cesar, but since it’s all I can think about, I decide, why not confide in Richard? At the very least, I’ll make his day. I roll my chair over to his cubicle and spill my guts to him. I tell him all about how Trip was a no-show at the charity event and how he was drunk in his hotel room and almost accosted me.
“I hope you kicked his ass.” Richard sounds angry. I’m both surprised and a little touched at his concern.
“Actually, I kneed him in the balls.”
“Good girl. And remind me never to make a pass at you.”
“I think we both know it would be a cold day in hell before that ever happened.”
I expect Richard to make a joke but he doesn’t. “So what did your boyfriend the cop say when you told him?”
“He said he wanted to kick Trip’s ass, as opposed to, you know, your suggestion that I do it myself.”
“Hey, that just shows how much confidence I have in you.” Richard places his hand on my shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. “Listen, don’t sweat the interview. You did the best you could. Gallagher and T.K. are just going to have to get over it.”
“Thanks.” As strange as it sounds, I actually feel better now. If it was anyone else but Richard consoling me, I’d reach out and give him a hug. But this is Richard, and it would be too weird.
“So are you bringing the cop to Jackie’s big party?”
“Yep, Nick will be there.”
“I l
ook forward to meeting him,” he says sincerely.
“Are you bringing anyone?”
“Yeah, I’m just not sure who exactly. I’m kind of dating two girls at the same time, you know?”
No, I don’t know, but I’m not surprised.
Richard leans back in his chair and watches me closely as he says, “I hear the boss is bringing an old girlfriend. Someone he was actually engaged to at some point.”
“You mean…Ben? Ben was engaged? When?”
“A couple of years ago when he was working in New York. He and this chick made it two weeks away from walking down the aisle. Then he called it off.” Richard frowns. “Or she called it off. Not sure who blew who off. She’s here in town for a few weeks.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Ben told me the other night when we were at McDintons.”
“You and Ben went out?”
“Sure. We go out every once in a while and kick back a few beers, go catch a Rays game, you know, guy stuff.” He pauses. “Don’t look so shocked. Some people actually enjoy my company.”
I flush. I suppose it makes sense that Ben and Richard have socialized outside the office They are both guys, both single, both work at the same place. But I would have never guessed that Ben would confide something as personal as a broken engagement to Richard. I can’t think of two people who are more different than those two men. Ben is an intellectual and Richard is…well, he’s smart, but earthy. If Richard was born in Catfish Cove, he’d be what the locals call “a good ol’ boy.”
“So what’s she like?” I ask.
“I haven’t met her, but she’s apparently some hotshot cancer doctor. I think she’s here doing research at Moffett. Some big presentation or symposium or something.”
Ben was engaged to a research oncologist? I can picture her now. Tall, elegant, sophisticated. No wonder Amy and her Harvard law degree weren’t so impressive. It’s pretty hard to top someone out there trying to cure cancer.
“That’s great. Can’t wait to meet her. Do you think they’re getting back together?”
“Who knows? Who cares? When do you think you’ll get back to me?”