Chapter 14
Over the days and nights that follow, Delores and I literally spend every night together. She finally opens up and tells me all about her ex-boyfriends. There weren’t as many as you’re probably thinking, but the ones she had were some real winners.
There was the first prick, of course—the kid who knocked her up, then kicked her to the curb.
Douche bag number two turned out to be older than he’d first said. Like . . . ten years older. And married. With a kid.
The a*shole after that—this would be during Delores’s college years—stole her bank account information, cleaned the frigging thing out, and took off for Vegas. The dickhead left her a note explaining he had a rampant gambling addiction that he’d been able to keep hidden from Dee for the months they were together.
And finally—there’s the last gash. The motherf*cker who hit her.
Delores said it only happened once, but once is way too many times for me. She wouldn’t give me his name, but I swear on everything that is holy if I ever learn it? I’ll track the f*cker down, go to his place, and break every bone in the hand that touched her.
Then I’ll break the other one, just to be sure he won’t forget.
Oh—and then there’s the story of her parents. Delores said her mother and father hooked up hot and heavy, swearing it was instant but lasting love. Until her mom got pregnant. Then her father turned into a ghost and disappeared . . . never to be heard from again.
Now that I know the details about Dee’s losing streak, everything makes so much more sense. Why she was so nervous in the beginning, even though she liked me—because she liked me.
It’s a wonder she even trusts me now. After her history, I wouldn’t have been shocked if she threw in the towel and went full-out lesbian.
But—as cool as that would be—I’m really glad she didn’t.
The night before Thanksgiving is officially the biggest bar night on the calendar. Every year after the Day-Before-Thanksgiving Office Party, Drew, Jack, and I hit the clubs and party until the sun comes up. It’s a great time. As traditional as turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce.
Although, can I just say, I never got the cranberry sauce thing. Even homemade, it’s f*cking nasty.
Anyway, this year I invite Dee along for the ride—the office party and the after-festivities. I haven’t hung out with the guys in more than two weeks. It happens that way sometimes. When a kid gets a new shiny toy for Christmas, the last thing he wants to do is let his friends play with it. He hordes it, hibernates with it, keeps it to himself, maybe even sleeps with it under his pillow. Then, after a week or two—he’ll let someone else have a turn.
Not that Jack or Drew are going to have a frigging “turn” with Dee the way they’d probably like—but it’s time to bring her around. Let her get to know the boys so they can see she’s a cool kind of girlfriend. The kind that plays darts and shoots pool and doesn’t put a damper on the good times.
I call Dee’s cell from outside her apartment building so I don’t have to search for a parking spot for my bike. Then I smoke a cigarette while I wait for her to come down. When she exits the building, I smile appreciatively at her outfit. Black satin pants hug her legs so tightly, they look like they’re painted on. Hot-pink stilettos match her halter top, and she carries a short black jacket in her hand. Her hair is pinned up and curled, drawing attention to the diamond necklace that falls just above her cleavage.
“Nice necklace,” I tell her as I hand her a helmet.
She shrugs. “Junk jewelry from QVC.”
I make a mental note to get her a real one. And the image of Delores dripping in diamonds—and nothing else—brings a leer to my face and a boner to my pants.
She puts on the helmet but doesn’t climb on the Ducati right away. She stands on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, looking thoughtfully at it.
“What would you say if I said I wanted to drive your motorcycle to the party?”
“I’d say you’re shit out of luck. I don’t ride bitch.”
She knocks me upside the head—but my helmet softens the blow.
“Then let me take it for a ride myself. Just around the block.”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
She pouts.
I sigh. “Have you ever driven a motorcycle before?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to.”
“Well, I’ve always wanted to fly, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna strap on a squirrel suit and skydive from the goddamn Empire State Building.”
She steps closer and rubs her placating hands up my chest. “Come on, please? I’ll be really careful and grateful. Really grateful. Like . . . deviantly, let you handcuff me to the bed kind of grateful.”
Forget the national broadcast system—this is the test.
Am I going to stick to my man-guns, keep my pride, and protect my cherished vehicle from almost certain carnage? Or, am I going to be ruled by my dick and swayed by the promise of kinky, have-Dee-at-my-mercy-all-night-long sex?
No contest.
“Riding bitch it is.”
I slide back in the seat so she has room to climb on in front of me. Then I show her the clutch, the gas, and—most importantly—the brake.
You know that saying about your life flashing in front of your eyes before you die?
By the time we make it to the office building, I can say—without a shred of doubt—it’s totally f*cking real.
I saw my whole life laid out before me. Three times.
Once for the bus Dee veered in front of. Once for the garbage cans she took out like bowling pins, and once for the cab that almost knocked us sideways.
Although, that last one wasn’t totally Delores’s fault. New York cabbies are f*cking crazy—they’ll take you out without blinking an eye and won’t even check the rearview mirror to make sure you’re dead.
Leaving my bike safely in the parking deck, Dee and I walk hand in hand into the large, festively decorated conference room. Classic, upbeat music emanates from the DJ’s speakers stationed in one corner, mouthwatering aromas waft from the buffet table along one wall, and the sounds of chatter and laughter fill the room.
John Evans is good at many things—but throwing a great party is at the top of that list.
I make the rounds with Dee, introducing her to my coworkers, my executive assistant. We get some drinks from the bar and hang out with Jack O’Shay, who gives us the toned-down version of his latest weekend exploits. I spot my parents across the room—as we head in their direction, Jack catches my eye, points to Dee, and gives me a thumbs-up.
My mother’s petite—more than a foot shorter than my father who, even now in his later years, stands at six foot two. She’s getting on in years, her poofy light brown hair is a bit grayer since the last time I saw her. But her eyes—the same hazel color as my own—still sparkle with the lively sweetness they’ve always had.
She was a true debutante, raised to be elegant, poised . . . and silent.
Legend has it, she met my father when he crashed her coming-out party, and there was an instant infatuation. He was rowdy in those days—a partier—but he was captivated by her calm serenity. She was helplessly attracted to his passion. And despite my grandfather’s threat to disown her, they eloped four weeks to the day after they met.
My mother doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She’s soft, virtuous. Her voice is naturally quiet—almost lyrical, like Jackie Kennedy in those historical White House interviews. My father has always been brutally protective of her, and there is nothing—nothing—I remember her ever asking for that he didn’t immediately provide.
My father greets me with a handshake. “Son.”
“Hey, Dad.”
Dee stands beside me as I get a hug from my mom. “Darling.”
Introducing a girl to your parents can be stressful, particularly if your mother is one of those overly critical, judgmental, no-one-is-good-enough-for-my-boy types. My college roommate’s mother was like that. She cut his girlfriend to pieces for wearing white frigging shorts after Labor Day. Needless to say, she wasn’t his girlfriend for long after that.
But my parents are easy. My dad, in particular, knows I’m not a saint. He thinks that if I can find a woman willing to put up with me, that’s good enough for him. My mom just wants me to be happy. Her definition of happy is married with 2.5 children and a family pet. Any chick who can make that happen will be welcomed into the family with open arms.
If she’s able to persuade me to sell my motorcycle—she’ll be extra adored.
“Mom, Dad, this is Delores Warren.”
Delores smiles brightly. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher.”
My father nods. “Likewise.”
My mother comments, “Those are adorable shoes, Delores.”
“Thank you. They’re my latest favorite pair—and a lot more comfortable than they look. I can even dance in them and they don’t pinch a bit.”
“Are you a dancer, dear?” my mother asks.
“Not professionally.”
“When I was your age, I loved to dance. I would make Frank take me every chance we had.”
Since Dee’s glass is almost empty, I take the opportunity to get us both refills from the bar. I see Kate Brooks walk in and recognize the guy standing next to her as Delores’s cousin, from the pictures in her apartment.
I hand Dee her fresh drink, and when there’s a lull in her and my mother’s conversation, I tell her, “Your cousin and Kate just walked in.”
My mom excuses us with, “It was nice meeting you, dear. I hope to see you again soon.”
“Same here,” Dee says warmly.
As we walk through the crowd she tells me, “We should take your mom out dancing sometime. I can tell there’s a twerker inside her just waiting to bust out.”
“Bust out or bust her hip?” I chuckle.
We reach Kate and Billy, and Delores introduces me to her cousin. He gives me a firm handshake. “Good to meet you, man.”
I nod. And Delores teases her cousin. “Kate finally got you into a suit, huh? It looks good—never thought you’d clean up so nice.”
He pulls at his collar uncomfortably. “Don’t get used to it. The only way this thing’s coming back out of the closet is if I’ve got a funeral to go to.”
Kate rolls her eyes. Then John Evans joins us. Introductions are made and we talk shop for a few minutes. I see Drew across the room, making his way over to us. Having known him since birth, I’m kind of an expert on reading his facial expressions—even the ones he tries to cover. At the moment, he’s pissed. Royally.
Not entirely sure what it’s about. He and Kate lost Saul Anderson—the client they were both aiming for—a few weeks back. Although his old man was disgruntled, Drew was inordinately pleased with himself for telling the bastard off, so I know it’s not that. He was also able to smooth things over with his father, so that can’t be what has him riled either. For a second I consider that maybe seeing Kate—the first woman I know of who has shot him down—here with her fiancé could be what’s got him all hot under the collar.
But I discount that as soon as I think of it. Drew’s possessive of his car, his clients—not women. He doesn’t do jealousy any more than he does relationships. So I just can’t imagine him getting upset that a chick he wants to nail is nailing somebody else. Even a woman as attractive as Kate Brooks.
“Drew!” his father greets him. “I was just telling Mr. Warren about that deal Kate closed last week. How lucky we are to have her.”
“It’s all an act,” Delores goads. “Beneath her corporate suit and that good-girl persona beats the heart of a true rebel. I could tell you stories about Katie that would put hair on your eyeballs.”
Kate shoots Delores a warning glower. “Thank you, Dee. Please don’t.”
Billy chuckles and puts his arm possessively around Kate’s waist.
Drew frowns. And although he’s joking, his words are cutting.
“That’s right. You were quite the little delinquent back in the day, weren’t you, Kate? Dad, did you know she used to sing in a band? That’s how you supported yourself through business school, right? Guess it beats pole dancing.”
Dee looks sharply at Drew—obviously not appreciating his tone.
Kate coughs. Drew hands her a napkin, chivalrously. But then directs his lethal wit at Warren. “And Billy here, that’s what he still does. You’re a musician, right?”
“That’s right,” Billy answers.
“So, tell us, Billy, are you like a Bret Michaels kind of rocker? Or more of a Vanilla Ice?”
“Neither.”
“Why don’t you grab your accordion, or whatever you play, and pop up onstage? There’s a lot of money floating around this room. Maybe you could book a wedding. Or a bar mitzvah.”
Billy glares—like he’s just dying to knock Drew on his ass. “I don’t play those types of venues.”
And with his next comment, it seems like Drew is dying for him to try. “Wow. In this economy, I didn’t think the poor and jobless could be so picky.”
“Listen, you piece of—”
Kate tries to diffuse the tension—like a referee in a ring, breaking up two boxers hell-bent on getting a piece of each other. “Billy, honey, could you get me another drink from the bar? I’m almost done with this one.” She tugs on Warren’s arm.
He huffs. But heads over to the bar anyway.
Then, sounding as livid as Drew looks, Kate says, “Drew, I just remembered I have some documents to give you about the Genesis account. They’re in my office. Let’s go.”
“It’s a party, Kate,” John states jovially. “You should save the work for Monday.”
“It’ll just take a minute,” she tells him with a smile. Then her smile drops as she grabs Drew’s arm and drags him away.
While John chats with an associate next to him, Dee leans in and tells me quietly, “I don’t like how your friend was running his mouth at my cousin—and Kate.”
I put my arm around her. “He’s just competitive. It’s business—a dog-eat-dog kind of thing.”
And I have no doubt Drew would give up his right ball for the chance to eat Kate Brooks.
Dee’s not pacified. “If he comes back and decides to be a dick again, I’m going to tell him he’s risking getting his cut off.”
In the weeks since meeting her, I’ve seen many sides to Delores—carefree, seductive, tender, silly. But this is the first time I’ve witnessed her protective side. I’ve got a lot of respect for loyalty. The fact that Dee is so violent about expressing hers is goddamn adorable.
I press my lips to the top of her head. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”
When Kate and Drew didn’t return to the conference room within a couple of minutes, I’m guessing Billy went searching for them. Because ten minutes later, Billy and Kate appear at Dee’s side—both looking uncomfortable. Tense. Definitely not happy campers.
Drew doesn’t come back to the party at all.
When Jack takes his leave a half hour later, I assume he and Drew made plans to start bar-hopping early. Given her recent threats against Drew, it’s probably not the best night to bring Dee out with the guys after all. So when the office party winds down, Kate, Billy, Dee, and I hit the city together. We walk a few blocks and grab a table at a just-starting-to-get-crowded tavern that’s hosting an open mic night on its small stage.
Delores and Kate harass Billy to sign up to perform. Billy nudges Kate with an elbow. “Sing with me. Like old times.”
Kate shakes her head. “No way. My singing days are over. I’ve hung up the microphone for good.”
Although her tone is joking, Warren looks . . . disappointed. Maybe even a little wounded.
After downing our first round of drinks, his name comes up and he takes the stage—borrowing one of the tavern’s guitars. He sings a cover of “Here’s to Us.” I don’t remember the name of the original band, but I know their sound leans toward heavy metal and their lead singer is a smoking hot redhead with killer pipes.
And I have to say—I’m pretty frigging impressed with Billy Warren. His guitar playing is really good and his voice is awesome—smooth, with just the right amount of gravel.
Dee raises her glass, claps, and calls, all while bobbing her head in time to the tune. Kate, however, watches Billy with proud—but serious—eyes. I guess some of the lyrics are kind of sad, in a way. Poignant.
They talk about toasting love, good times, mistakes, and moving on.
Warren hits the last note of the song perfectly, and the whole place erupts in applause. Kate smiles and stands when he comes back to the table, telling Billy he did a great job. I shake his hand and say the same. While Dee goes for the more exuberant approach. “Awesome job, Jackass!” Then she hugs him until he turns red.
Kate excuses herself to the bathroom. And I turn to Delores. “So . . . I guess your cousin got all the musical genes in the family, huh?”
Billy adds, “I see you’ve sampled Dee-Dee’s singing skills.”
“Screw you both—I’m an excellent singer.”
Her cousin chuckles. “Sure you are, Rain Man. Cats come from miles around just to hear you—hoping to get lucky.”
I laugh and tap my beer bottle to Warren’s. Then he ducks as Dee whips a pretzel at his head.
Kate sits back down next to Billy, and I can’t help but notice the space between their chairs. Billy leans forward and says, “So . . . I’ve got some news. That music producer who came to my gig a few months back called. He wants me to come out to California . . . says he can get me into a studio.”
Dee smiles joyously. “Oh my God! That’s fantastic!”
But judging by the look on her face, fantastic isn’t what Kate thinks it is at all.
“When . . . when did this happen?” she asks.
Billy shrugs. “A few days ago.” He sips his beer.
“Why am I just hearing about it now?”
Tension sweeps across the air like a swarm of locusts.
Billy stares hard. “When was I supposed to tell you, Kate? You’re never around.”
Her frown deepens. “We live together.”
“And even when you’re at the apartment, you’re not there.”
She looks away and pushes a hand through her hair. Delores watches them—worriedly—like a child of divorce stuck between two bickering parents.
“I can’t . . .” Kate starts. “I can’t go to California now.”
Billy keeps his eyes on his beer bottle. “Yeah . . . I know. That’s why I’m going by myself.”
Kate looks completely blindsided—hurt, and a little angry.
“But . . . we had a plan. You supported me when I was in school and now I . . . it’s my turn to do that for you.”
Billy pushes his chair back from the table. Defensive frustration makes his hands clench and his expression tight. “Well, plans change, Katie. I mean really, will you even f*cking notice when I’m gone? ’Cause it sure doesn’t feel like you will.”
She’s about to ask what he means. It’s right there on the tip of her tongue. But she stops short and says, “I don’t want to fight.”
This just pisses Warren off more. “Of course you don’t want to fight. You don’t want to do anything with me these days! You’re too busy to go anywhere—”
“I’m working!”
He ignores her. “You don’t want to argue, or talk; you don’t want to have sex . . .”
Kate’s cheeks flush pink, but I can’t tell if it’s because she’s embarrassed or mad.
“All you want to do is look over your f*cking files and decide what suit you should wear to the office.”
“That’s not fair!”
“I know business is a man’s world, but I didn’t know you had to dress the part.”
Delores jumps in. “Don’t be a dick, Billy.”
“Stay out of it, Dee-Dee.”
With fire in her eyes, Kate gets in her financé’s face. “Screw you.”
He laughs in a bitter way. “Interesting choice of words. I’m not sure who you’ve been screwing lately, but it hasn’t been me.”
Kate stands up and rips her purse off the back of the chair. “I’m going home. Good night, Matthew. Dee, I’ll call you.”
As Kate walks out the door, Warren stands up to follow her, but Dee grabs his arm.
“Billy! Don’t . . . don’t say things you can’t take back . . . things you and I both know you don’t mean.”
All he does is nod. Then he’s out the door too.
Dee takes a long drink of her martini. “Well, that just happened.”
“Think they’ll be okay?” I ask.
“No. I’m sure they’ll make up, stay together—do the long-distance thing. But they haven’t been okay in a long time. Their relationship is like a morgue . . . lifeless. And Billy’s right. I can’t remember the last time they argued before tonight.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I wonder, finishing off my beer.
“Not for them. They don’t not argue because they’re happy—they don’t fight because, I think, deep down where neither of them wants to admit, there’s nothing worth fighting for.”
The most successful marriages and relationships are between best friends—who want to f*ck each other. Trusted confidants who can’t keep their hands off each other. When you’ve been with the same person for years, it’s supposed to get comfortable. Broken in. Like a well-worn favorite pair of sweatpants.
But there has to be heat—desperate attraction. A craving need. Sometimes, like Steven and Alexandra, it comes in waves. They indulge it, when the demands of life let them. But if the passion is gone and you can’t be bothered to even try and rekindle the flame—all you have is friendship. Companionship.
At eighty years old, that may very well be enough. But at frigging twenty-five? You’re just settling for the status quo.
“You ready to head out?” Delores asks.
“Yep. Looks like it’s just you and me tonight.”
She pumps her fist. “Weekend warriors . . . on a Wednesday. Let’s do it.”
Delores and I spend the next few hours bar-hopping. We play darts and pool. She takes me for fifty bucks on our last game because I didn’t realize I was dealing with a practiced hustler.
I should have known.
Ultimately we end up at a club—pressing and grinding together on the crowded dance floor. But the whole time, Dee’s more subdued than usual. She seems weighed down. Disquieted. Not the unpredictable and jovial girl I’ve come to know the last few weeks.
I call it a night—much earlier than past years—and we go back to her place. Once there, we crash on the couch and talk about nothing . . . and everything. Eventually, the subject of pets comes up, and I tell her all about King, the massive black Great Dane I grew up with. I genuinely loved that big hairy bastard, so I’m kind of horrified when Delores tells me, “I never had a dog.”
“Really? Never? Not even like . . . a Chihuahua?”
She shakes her head. “I had a hamster—they’re pretty self-sufficient. My mother never wanted the responsibility of a dog. Plus, there was the drool phobia.”
I grin, ’cause I can already tell this is gonna be a good one.
“The what?”
“Drool phobia. I have a long-standing aversion to any man or animal with over-productive saliva glands.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I can handle wet kisses—you already know that. They’re hot when I’m caught up in the moment. But too much saliva is nasty. And spitting, drooling—those are deal breakers. Makes me nauseous.”
Delores isn’t bothered by dirt or sweat or sloppiness. She’s not afraid of rodents—even the cat-size rats that scour the city and are pretty f*cking frightening if you ask me. She’s in love with my motorcycle and actually likes snakes. So, I can’t help but find this quirk—this chink in her otherwise “doesn’t give a shit” armor—cute. Funny.
And I want to f*ck with her about it.
The nine-year-old boy inside me—the one who was amused by dangling a long-legged spider in Alexandra’s face, despite the consequences that always followed—takes over my body. It’s the only explanation for what I do next.
“So . . . it would bother you if I did this?” I scrape my nasal passage loudly then hawk the thick ball of phlegm up to the back of my throat.
Delores leans back, closes her eyes disgustedly, and holds up her hands. “Do not do that.”
I swallow my spit and taunt, “And I guess you really wouldn’t want me to do a John Bender in front of you.”
John Bender—The Breakfast Club. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, watch and learn.
She actually looks a little panicked. “Don’t you f*cking dare!”
I smile wide. Then I tilt my head back, open my mouth and launch an impressive loogie wad up into the air. It gets some distance, hangs for a moment, then falls back into my waiting mouth. Before I can say “tasty,” Dee is up on her feet screaming.
“Ah! That’s sooo gross!” She dances around like there’s ants crawling under her dress and points at me as she shrieks, “You are no longer *-Boy or God! You’re Loogie-Man and you disgust me! I’m never kissing you again!”
“Is that a challenge?”
She laughs nervously and backs away. “No . . . no, you and your foul tongue stay away!”
In a flash, I’m off the sofa with my arms around her waist. Dee struggles to get away and we both fall to the floor in a screeching, rolling, laughing heap. I’m able to get on top; I straddle her stomach and pin her wrists above her head. There’s no chance for her to buck me off, but that doesn’t stop her from trying.
And maybe it’s the friction from her writhing body underneath me. Maybe it’s because I’m having so much fun. Or maybe it’s the fantastic sexual escapades we had in this particular position—but whatever the reason, I’m instantly and totally turned on.
Still, I ignore the boner. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon, and I’ve got some torturing to do. Like a tentacle in a sci-fi horror film, my outstretched tongue slowly lowers toward Dee’s face. Her head thrashes and her screams turn ear piercing.
Then she tries to bite me.
So I go in for the kill. I lick her cheek and her forehead—making sure to leave a heavy slime trail, like a slug that’s been mutated from a radiation leak. I get her closed eyes next, and I’m about to move to her neck when there’s a loud knock at the door.
I wonder if a neighbor heard Dee screaming and called the cops. I roll off of her. She gets up, making snorting but revolted sounds as she wipes at her face vigorously. Then she threatens, “You’re ass is grass, Fisher, and I’m the lawn mower. Do not close your eyes tonight.”
I just laugh.
Dee opens the door without looking out the peephole. And standing there, head down, guitar case in hand, is Billy Warren. He looks up at Dee and asks, “Can I stay here tonight?”
Dee opens the door wider to let Billy walk in.
“Yeah—sure. What . . . are you okay?”
He drops his guitar in the corner. His eyes are moist, like he’s fighting to hold back tears, but losing. “Kate and I . . . we . . . I broke up with Kate.”