“I better go,” he said roughly. “You take care and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Except now she didn’t seem to want him to get off the phone—and his cock was very truly happy about that: “So you’re really staying?” she said.
Can we talk about something else, his erection thought.
Down, boy.
“Yes, I am.” As he shifted on the hard floor, he tried to ignore the way that zipper stroked at him. “I have to meet with Samuel T. about my divorce.”
“So you’re really going to …”
“Yes,” he said. “Immediately. And, no, it’s not just about you. I made a mistake, and I’m fixing it for everybody.”
“Okay.” She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“I’m only looking forward, Lizzie.”
“So you say. Well … good-bye—”
“No,” he cut in. “Not that. We say good night, all right? Not good-bye, not unless you want me showing up to sleep on your doorstep like a stray dog.”
“All right.”
Before she ended the call on her side, he mouthed, I love you. “Good night, Lizzie.”
“Good … night, Lane.”
Ending the connection, he let his arm fall down, and the phone hit the concrete floor with a crack. “I love you, Lizzie,” he muttered out loud.
Taking another draw off the bottle, he thought how convenient it was that his family’s fortunes were based on something that could get him drunk—as opposed to the countless other consumer products which wouldn’t have helped him in his current situation: pencils, car batteries, Band-Aids, chewing gum.
When his phone went off again, he snapped to and picked the thing up. But it wasn’t Lizzie calling him back.
“Jeff,” he said, even thought he didn’t really want to talk to anybody.
His Manhattan host’s voice was dry. “You’re still alive.”
“Pretty much.” He put the bottle to his mouth again. “How’s you?”
“Are you drinking?”
“Yup. Number Fifteen. I’d share it with you if you were here.”
“Such a Southern gentleman.” His buddy cursed. “Lane, where are you?”
“Home.”
Cue the crickets over the connection. “As in …”
“Yup.”
“Charlemont?”
“Born and bred I was and back to the fold I have returned.” Huh. Guess he was getting drunk; he sounded really Southern. “Like you and the Upper East Side, only we have chitterlings and fried chicken—”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“My …” He cleared his throat. “A very important person got sick. And I had to come.”
“Who?”
“The woman who raised me. My … well, mother—even though she’s not my biological mother. She was sick a couple of years ago, but, you know these things. They can return. She says she’s going to be fine, though, and I’m hanging on to that.”
“When’re you coming back?”
Lane took another drink. “Did I ever tell you I got married?”
“What?”
“It was right before I came up north and started crashing with you. I’m going to stay down here until I know Miss Aurora’s okay and that dumb idea is taken care of. Plus … anyway … there’s this other woman.”
“Hold on. Just, fucking hell, hold on.”
There was some rustling, then the chk-chk-chk of someone trying to get a lighter to spit out a flame … followed by some puffing. “I’m going to need a Cuban to get through this. So … there’s a wife?”
“I told you I wasn’t gay.”
“And is that the reason you haven’t been with anyone up here?”
“No, that’s because of the other female. The one I didn’t marry. The one who is naturally beautiful and way too good for me.”
“I’m going to need a Venn diagram,” the guy muttered. “Goddamn it, why didn’t you talk about all this?”
Lane shook his head even though his old friend couldn’t see him. “I was in running mode.” Man, he hated that Chantal had called it right. “It was all too loud in my head. The whole thing. So how’s you?”
“You drop all that and cap it with a how’m I?”
“I got drinking to do. Talking is only slowing me down, but I’m free to listen.” He swallowed a long draft. “So … what’s up?”
“I’m good, you know, work is the same. Ten thousand screamers calling, a boss who’s up my ass, and sixteen Motrin a day to keep my head from exploding. Same ol’, same ol’. At least the money’s there—especially now that you’re not taking me for a quarter of a million dollars every week across the felt.”
They spoke for a while more about nothing in particular. Poker games, Wall Street, the woman Jeff was banging. And even though Lane wasn’t much for phone convos, he realized he missed the guy. He’d gotten used to the quick talk, the fast wit, and especially that hint of a Jersey accent where words that ended in “a” were pronounced with “er” and people waited on line instead of in line. And it was “birfday,” instead of “birthday.”
“So I guess this is good-bye,” his old college roommate said.
Lane frowned and pictured Lizzie. Heard her voice. Remembered her caution.