Never Understand Part One ( Johnthen Trent Adult Romance 1)

by Miranda Mailer

  He’s going to walk out, just like that?

  ‘Like hell you’ll “contact me” John!’ I hiss, accusingly. ‘You don’t even have my number!’

  ‘Ha!’ he laughs again, placing his fingers lightly on my shoulder. ‘I practically became your stalker to find you tonight. What makes you think I don’t have your number? I’ll be in touch. Count on it.’

  Do I believe that? I hate being gamed, and he’s gaming me. I hate even more that he stalked me. He’s pretty cool for a stalker, however, walking slowly away, hands in pockets, and off down the stairs. What the hell is it with this guy? He’s got me practically climaxing in a public art gallery, and next thing he’s off down the stairs and away. Am I his plaything, his amusement for the evening?

  After Josh, I told myself I deserved more than sex. Maybe just the beginnings of emotional engagement, the faint signs of a scintilla of commitment that may, possibly, if things went well, be on the future horizon. A little joy and laughter brought into my life - as well as just sex. Was that too much to ask?

  Instead, I find a guy who, although undeniably hot, makes Josh Lake look like he was getting down on his knees and pledging eternal devotion. It’s not like I’ve never had no-strings sex. I have had some pretty good one-night stands. I’ve had relationships that were about sex and nothing else (Josh for a start). But this guy doesn’t even want to go that far. He’s getting cold feet at the prospect of driving me to his place and jumping my bones – and how could he possibly say that that wasn’t on offer?

  Besides, he was totally seducing me back there, and succeeding spectacularly. It was a mean, mean thing to do to walk off like that. Especially in front of Josh and Phoebe. To make matters worse, I peer over the mezzanine balcony to check that he’s actually leaving, and not preying on some other female below. He is indeed leaving the party, but with his “assistant”, the immaculate blondness herself, Carmen Blacker.

  OOOOO

  Whatever. There are some moments in life where a girl’s gotta give the right impression, and this is one. I stand up, marshaling the residual sexual magnetism I feel from Golden Eyes into an irresistible aura of my own. I need to get my shit together, drink whatever free champagne is still on offer and put in some solid rehearsal time for the role of Jana Kidd, irresistible party queen. Right now I’ve got it, and I am gonna shake it!

  I have to bar JT Gamble from my spinning mind and put my game face on. I need the ladies room for running repairs. I am trying to hypnotize myself by murmuring that JT is just another jerk guy, maybe the Jerk Guy, the Jerk of all Jerks, the uber-Jerk, when Josh calls out, ‘Who is that guy? What a jerk!’ Which automatically makes me think the opposite. If Josh thinks he’s a jerk, he can’t be all bad.

  Anyhow: visit the ladies room, deal with my make up, and re-join the party below. And hopefully persuade Phoebe to ditch Josh for the evening and join the real party in the bars of Tribeca. I’ve had enough of what the Saul Hankow Gallery has to offer for one evening.

  It’s barely nine-thirty and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste my night off from work by going home. To be followed closely by Phoebe and Josh, in the mood for more noisy party games. No. That’s not my idea of a party. I’ll stay here and see who I can recruit to escort me away from this place. And if either Josh Lake or Johnthen Trent Gamble are anywhere within twenty blocks of here, I will NOT be seen leaving alone.

  Chapter 11: Battery Park, New York City, Tuesday 9 May

  Here’s the deal. I am determined not to leave the Saul Hankow Gallery on my own. But I am no longer in the mood for men, so I tell myself I don’t have to leave with a guy either. I really have no more appetite for the game of hot guy hunt, despite the fact that, miraculously, half the guys in here are checking me out all of a sudden. JT’s foot rub has given me that glint in the eye, that sparkle that attracts both sexes. Or was it just being seen with him that has put me on a whole new status level? I’d have to tell you, girls, that being seen with a rich, superhot guy and having a limitless supply of champagne at your disposal… well, it gives you a certain buzz. Even if I am never going to see that arrogant jerk again, I may as well enjoy the afterglow.

  Lawyer Woman and I find one another again. She’s fun – and fun in the way that only a married woman on a rare night away from a young family can be. She started off a demure, controlled lawyer-mom. By the time I find her again she is three times louder and getting all touchy with the guys in suits. She has an infectious laugh – loud, something like a gas explosion in fact.

  ‘So, did Gorgeous George bewitch you with those soulful eyes?’ she says, fluttering her eyes in mockery. ‘Or did he take you up there and fuck you behind the Aung San Suu Kyi installation? That’s probably some kind of blasphemy you know… not politically correct. And I CANNOT BELIEVE you pinched his ass like that.’

  I blush at the very thought and change the subject. ‘No staring into eyes. No naughty stuff,’ I lie. ‘And no disrespecting the Martyr of Rangoon. He offered to rub my feet, would you believe? I think he has a foot fetish.’

  She laughs, ‘Like Mary of Bethany with Jesus. No finer way to make an impression.’

  ‘Now who’s being blasphemous?’

  ‘Still. It IS kinda kinky. Not everyone goes for that stuff.’

  They’d go for this stuff, girl. I promise you. I am thinking of his long, strong pianist’s fingers, and I can think of him playing me in more ways than one.

  00000

  Lawyer Girl’s name is Beth. She is married with two small children. I ask why she doesn’t want to go home and be with her family. She looks guilty.

  ‘I know, I ought to. And I do feel guilty, but you don’t understand, Jana. I’m so worn down when I go home every night and it’s time to bath the kids and put them in bed. They’re always cranky by then, it’s the worst time to be with them. To be honest, I just need a break sometimes. But then I feel like a bad mother, and tonight I hit the champagne.’

  That makes two of us.

  ‘Why here though? Why not just take in a movie with your husband?’ I ask, but she rolls her eyes, as if I don’t understand. I guess she feels this is more of an escape. I don’t press the point. She’ll tell me about everything soon enough. She’s certainly loosened up a whole lot since the prickly woman I met with Pirate Boy only an hour or so before. I guess we’ve both discovered we have a talent for spending JT Gamble’s money on champagne.

  The sparkling, effervescent nectar is fizzing and popping inside our brains again. We are joshing and joking and busting on all the good looking guys in suits. Why can’t I do this every night? Why can’t I be like this? Four guys ask for my number already. Four! Flushed with the arrogance of success, I refuse each one. I have a crazy notion that if I give my number, the spell will be broken, and I will have to run off like Cinderella, shoeless in her rags. Although if Prince Charming is coming around the village to give the foot exam, I’ll definitely be first in line!

  With the guys we’re both talking a mile a minute, and I guess I start letting it all out. One guy who was with Andrea has made a clear effort to come to talk to me, but all I can do is laugh in his face, do unflattering impressions of past boyfriends, and generally crack jokes about men. The poor sap still asks for my number so I must be on good form, and he looks utterly uncomprehending when I tease him and refuse to give it. Undaunted, he gives his card to Beth, and we both shriek with laughter as soon as he turns his back. Amazing what a girl can achieve by busting on a man.

  Beth is laughing and joking and she is sharp as a tack. My new best friend. It must be the lawyer’s training or something, that speed she has with the comebacks. But there’s something slightly hysterical about her too. Beth is thirty-two, and she’s having some kind of minor crisis. She should be at home, but she’s out with me, telling her husband it’s a working dinner with some German bankers (I’m not kidding!) that she can’t get out of. Something tells me it’s not the first time she’s done this. She tells me early on that her husband is “bo
ring”, which has to be a danger sign. Credit to her though - she doesn’t start pouring her heart out to me, despite the alcohol. She’s just in need of a big night out. Which is great, because so am I.

  The champagne is pretty much lapping against the back of our teeth by the time we leave. Miraculously my feet no longer hurt in those shoes. I’m either numbed by the alcohol, or Johnthen somehow managed to transfer all the tension to somewhere inside my panties, or the endorphins are simply carrying me around at this stage.

  Beth and I find ourselves in Pete Maginiss’ bar in the Village, where it feels like a roaring bachelor party is in full swing. Can it really be that on a Tuesday? Of course not, but that’s what it feels like. Music is pumping and this place is jumping with hot guys who all want to get to know Beth and me. For some reason we’re just man-magnets tonight. After so much monotony in my life for the last few months it feels like such a huge relief, such a joy. I’ve forgotten all about Josh Lake, and I’ve forgotten my crappy job at La Serenissima – which isn’t even so crappy. I just hate myself for not making it as an actress.

  The great thing is that every time I think Beth is going to throw in the towel and take a cab home to her family in Queens, she waves the idea away. I haven’t laughed so much in months, and neither, I am sure, has she! She is great at busting on the guys, and it just keeps them coming back for more. She flirts in a way only a married woman can – completely outrageous. There must be something about having kids and contending with the diapers and the whining and the husband snoring and farting all night. She doesn’t care, and she treats these single guys like they were scared rabbits.

  To a man who’s perfectly dressed, with a beautiful suit: ‘What kind of suit is that? Does your mother still buy your suits for you?’ The guy’s trying to tell us it’s Hugo Boss or whatever, and she’s saying it’s from Target, ‘You should speak to your mom about this. I’ll speak to your mom about your suits. Have you got the number? No, I don’t want your number; I want your mom’s number. Your shirt’s OK, I suppose.’ She is fingering the man’s shirt on his chest, as if checking the cloth and this guy is hot too. It would be massively flirtatious if I did this, but she’s married and somehow she gets away with it. Then she says, ‘I bet your mom buys your underwear too. In case there’s an accident.’ And the man is laughing and telling her about his expensive underwear choices. Beth’s not having this. ‘Don’t tell me, she buys you those Haynes white shorts. In case there’s an accident and you have to go to hospital…’ The guy’s laughing, we’re all laughing, but of course he feels he has to defend himself. Beth has started referring to him as momma’s boy, and then after that “Haynes Underwear” or just “Haynes”.

  The poor guy is red-faced, but ends up semi-undressing. He loosens his trousers to reveal his matching Boss underpants, which, for the record, are red with a black waistband. I am screaming with laughter, as is the rest of the bar, but Beth affects squeamishness and covers her eyes. (‘Were they clean Jana? Please tell me they were clean. Haynes’ mom will be so embarrassed when I tell her about this…’).

  Beth finishes up checking out this poor mutt’s Fifth Avenue designer underwear, feeling the waistband between her thumb and forefinger with mock fastidiousness. I think she’s going to yank them down at first, but it’s just a big joke. She’s totally struggling to keep a straight face. The rest of us are wetting ourselves with laughter. It’s only then I realize that for about the last three hours, Beth has been pouring drinks away and consuming only water.

  She’ll be fine in the morning, whereas I… may not be quite so fine.

  Chapter 12: Chelsea, New York City, Wednesday 10 May

  8.30 am. There’s one more benefit of working at La Serenissima. I can stay in bed when I have a hangover.

  Phoebe is long gone from the apartment, having no doubt succumbed to another “early night” with Josh. Or perhaps he refused to have sex with her after she’d drunk a couple of glasses of champagne. Josh can be picky about that kind of thing. He must be about the least spontaneous lover I have ever met. I’m surprised he doesn’t give girls a medical before he agrees to date them. Alcohol and tobacco consumption… body fat percentage… he’d run a rule over the lot. Did I ever say he’s an asshole? He’s an asshole.

  9am. Rinnnnnng, rinnnnnng. Hangover or no hangover I am forced from my bed at nine am sharp by insistent ringing on my cell phone. I resist for a minute or so, disabled by the taste in my mouth as much as anything. As I come to I realize that I must have somehow tried to undress after I got into bed. I am naked on the bed with bra, panties, stay-ups stockings and the rest strewn around me, like dead leaves fallen on a decomposing corpse. Which is how I feel right now.

  Rinnnnng, rinnnnnng. Jeez, who the hell is this? Can’t they get the message that I’m not going to pick up? My mouth tastes like I was drinking rat urine rather than expensive Veuve Cliquot champagne, and my head feels stuffed tight with that white powder Haynes and his friends were snorting last night. Rinnnnng, rinnnnnng.

  What the hell? I am developing a sharp throb behind my eyes. Not helped by all that ringing. I struggle out of bed and wrap my robe around me, if only to give the idiot on the phone a piece of my mind. I stumble out of bed, catching a glimpse of my pallor and messed up hair in the mirror. Proof that video-phone technology will never catch on. I finally pick up, ready to give an earful.

  ‘Hi, sleepy. I’ve been at work for an hour. How’s your head?’

  A female voice, kindly and soothing. Not Phoebe, who would be all resentment and get-your-ass-outta-bed in this situation. It takes a few seconds to percolate through. Beth. Beth the Lawyer Girl from last night. Just about the only person in the world I am happy to speak to.

  ‘How the hell are you doing this, Beth? Aren’t you exhausted?’

  ‘One hundred consecutive nights with screaming child. Last night has nothing on teething, let me tell you.’

  ‘So… are you calling me to gloat, or what? Or just to make me feel inadequate?’

  ‘Would I?’ Yes, she would. I saw her devilish streak with young Haynes last night. ‘No, Jana. There is a time for pranking, and this is not that time. There’s something I need to tell you.’ Her voice has calm, almost a bedside manner, like the kindly physician tending the sick princess. ‘Remember a guy came up to you - quite a nice man, I think your friend Andrea sent him over.’

  ‘There were a lot of guys…’

  ‘Sure. This was when you gave him a one-woman monologue about the evils of men and your foot-rubbing friend in particular. You really gave him both barrels. Mimicking him and mocking him. Quite an act.’

  I remembered vaguely. ‘Was it that bad? Did I insult the poor guy?’

  ‘Kinda. The thing is, he’s making a new TV pilot.’

  This is great. This is just fine. Andrea makes a point of telling a TV producer about me, and the guy makes the effort to come and talk to me. This is exactly the kind of person I was there to meet and network with. And I blew it. I envisage what my father would say and screw up my eyes in humiliation.

  ‘Shit Beth,’ I say, resignedly. ‘That guy was OK. He was trying to talk, and I practically laughed in his face.’

  ‘You actually did laugh in his face.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’

  ‘I didn’t know who he was, and besides, after the ass-pinching episode, I thought it was just your way of doing things. Outrageous, but effective. I have to hand it to you, Jana. You did good with that Jonathan guy. I just never would’ve had the nerve…’

  ‘Fuck it, Beth, I can’t believe I blew off an opportunity like this,’ I say, feeling sick to my stomach. I also can’t believe Beth has called me at nine am just to lay bad news on me.

  ‘No,’ says Beth. ‘It’s OK. Or it might be OK.’

  ‘You mean he was drunk too?’ How bad is it when that’s my only hope?

  ‘Let’s hope so. Anyhow he offered you his card before he left.’

  ‘He did? Shit, I have to find it.’


  ‘You refused it.’

  ‘I refused it?’ Can this get any worse?

  ‘Sure. Not your best move of the evening. But he gave it to me instead. I have it right here,’ she says, and I feel like hugging her. ‘He wrote on it, “Call me TODAY if you want to audition. Seriously. Call me.” He wrote the word “today” in capitals, and his name is Brad Barrett.’

  Beth gives me the number, and after a completely comical search for a pen that works, I write the number down. Beth hangs up and gets back to her lawyering, and I collapse back into bed. Beth is the best person, and I make a mental note to ring later to thank her.

  At the same time: why does this stuff happen when I feel like I want to die? I haven’t been out partying in months, yet here I am with an extinction-level hangover and forced to get my shit together, call this Brad Barrett and replicate the wild energy and verve I had last night. Why this morning? It seems so… unfair. I feel like I need a week to prepare for that phone call, let alone an audition. And by the sound of it, he’s in a hurry and he might want me to audition today.

  I rummage in my drawer for medication, and take a double dose of both paracetemol and Advil then collapse back into bed. It’s going to take a few minutes to build up the will power even to make coffee. I tell myself it will be fine so long as I make the call to Brad Barrett before lunch.

  00000

  Do I doze off or is it a hangover trance? My phone says five after ten when the noise begins again. Ba-bang bang. What is it today? Most days when I’m here on my own, I don’t speak to a living soul. Today it’s part telephone exchange, part construction site. Ba-bang bang. Hard, insistent banging on the door. Some knocks are polite, or friendly. This one is a surly, raised middle finger. Fuck you! Get here and open the door!