I laugh, grabbing my burger and chowing down. Man, there’s nothing better than eating a burger while you’re sitting outside in the warm air drinking a beer. Spring is the best time to be in New York, hands down. Hell, it’s the best time to be alive, really. And since Shake Shack is the apex of all these things, it’s one of my favorite places in the city.
“You need to get it together,” I say through a mouthful of perfectly seared beef. “It’s not Lizzie’s fault your wife is holding out on you. Wasn’t she turning you down way before this stupid strike?”
“She says she’s been inspired now.” Miles slumps, morose. “Apparently, I’m not giving her what she needs. But when I asked what she needed, she said I should already know!”
“Marriage.” I shrug. “Sucks to be you.”
“Thanks for the support.” Miles picks listlessly at his food. “I don’t suppose you’ve been starving for female attention, strike or no strike.”
I flash back to Lizzie, up against the wall. Fuck, that was hot. Like four-alarm fire hot. Which makes her strike even more ridiculous, because she’s clearly a red-blooded woman when it comes down to it. With a weirdly strong sense of self-control. I don’t think anyone’s ever taken my pants off and then demanded I leave, but I guess I’ll never understand women. At least she’s not making it awkward—it’s been a few days since our nooner, but she’s acting like nothing happened at all.
Which weirdly is kind of insulting. I mean, I’m pretty sure she was enjoying herself, if those gorgeous pert nipples and damp panties were anything to go by.
“Can’t you say something?” Miles pleads. “You’re working together now, right?”
When I can keep my hands off her.
“Tatiana’s complaining now that I’m not romantic enough. I mean, I brought home takeout the other night when she didn’t feel like cooking, and I always remember to take out the trash! Well, Simon does it, but I always remember to remind him. That counts, right?”
I stifle a smile, taking in Miles’ anguished expression. Simon is their houseman, and Tat and Miles own an entire brownstone in Park Slope. It’s not like Miles ever so much as folds his own laundry, much less takes out the garbage. They have a staff of ten to handle the day-to-day crap of their lives—including two full-time nannies and a driver.
“How long do you think it’s gonna last?”
“Who knows?” Miles throws up his hands in exasperation. “And she’s Brazilian! They’re some of the most stubborn women on the planet! I’m doomed, Jake, I’m telling you.”
“Look,” I tell him. “This strike thing isn’t going to last forever. In a week or so, women will get tired of it and move on. Plus, eventually they’ll get horny, and that’s where we come in.”
I think about coming in Lizzie, and immediately get hard. Fuck, tenting in the middle of Madison Square Park. What am I, fourteen?
“I said as much to Tat, but she just told me that’s why God invented vibrators. Then she went out to the Pink Pussycat—you know, that store on Grand? And she came home with a whole BAG of them! Big ones, little ones. The ones in the shape of a little butterfly? It’s a disaster.” He looks around the park, taking in the teeming crowd lined up in front of the restaurant. “I wonder who the lucky guy will be,” he muses.
“To fuck your wife?” I crack.
“No, asshole.” He smiles for the first time since we sat down. “To break Lizzie’s strike. I mean, I’d bet guys would be lining up to do the deed, just so they could say they’re the one that ended it, you know?”
My phone buzzes with the alarm I set, and realize I have to get a move on if I’m going to make visiting hours at my grandpa’s place.
“You out of here?” Miles asks, watching as I ball up my napkin and throw my trash on our tray. “Sure, just abandon me in my time of need,” he sighs.
“You’ll be fine, bro.” I slap him on the shoulder. “Just go home, jerk off, and stop thinking about shit you can’t control.”
“It’s alright for you to say. If a woman turns you down, you can just move on to the next one. But Tatiana’s my wife.”
Like I said, marriage.
I head over to the Upper West Side, where the streets are still tree-lined and quiet, and haven’t been overrun with hipster coffee shops serving six-dollar almond-milk lattes. Silver Harbor is one of the nicest assisted living facilities in the city, with spacious suites, round-the-clock medical staff, and more activities than a cruise liner. I moved my grandpa Hank in here after his first heart attack a couple of years ago. It’s pricy as hell, but the old man deserves it. He practically raised me, so the least I can do is make sure he spends his twilight years some place with pizza delivery and Monday-morning yoga.
The nurse on duty looks up from her computer and smiles at me.
“Hi, Jake. Right on time. Hank’s in his room, I think. Tell him we missed him during morning workout.”
“Thanks, Nina.” I sign in. “You should tell him yourself. I think he’s got a crush.” I wink, and she laughs.
“He’s a rascal,” she says. “You just tell him I’m on strike.”
“On strike?” I echo, with a sinking feeling inside.
“For romance.” Nina beams. “I saw a story about it on Good Morning America last week. So I’m not having sex until men shape up.”
Jesus. This thing really does have a life of its own.
“Well, good luck with that,” I say and walk away.
I walk through the common room on the way to Hank’s suite. There are seniors all around, playing cards at small tables, reading in front of the fire that seems to be constantly crackling in the early evenings here, winter through spring.
Hank is sitting up in bed when I come in, playing a game of backgammon with a busty blond nurse, her cleavage all but falling into his lap as she leans over the board. He’s wearing his favorite navy-blue smoking jacket, his white hair carefully combed back from his face. His blue eyes sparkle merrily as he grabs the dice and rolls them theatrically before he turns to greet me.
“Jake, my boy!” he says in his big, booming voice as I reach over to shake his hand, knowing better than to lean in for a hug with a dame in the room—his term, not mine.
“Hey Hank,” I say, as the blond gets up.
“I’ll see you later, I hope?” she asks, smiling.
“You bet!” Hank turns to give her a wink before she sidles out the door. I chuckle under my breath as I watch her go. Once a player, always a player. Or should I say playboy?
“How are you?” Hank exclaims. “Sit down, sit down!” He gestures to the newly vacated chair and I sink into it and look around. We moved in all his favorite furniture and effects, so Hank’s suite is like stepping into a gentleman’s club, circa 1962. He’s got a bar cart set up with crystal tumblers, autographed prints of Sinatra and Brando on the wall, and even a vintage record player that I just know he uses to tempt all the hot seniors back to his room.
“I’m good,” I say, relaxing. Hank’s suite is the only place I feel entirely like myself, where I can really let my guard down. “Busy. I’m working on acquisitions for a new show opening at the Met in a few months.”