by Kat T. Masen
Concentrating on the screen, Tristan yells at me to watch out on my left. My palms are sweating, my ammunition low until the screen goes black. Huh?
My head spins quickly to look at Eric. “Eric! It took us hours to unlock that path.”
Eric’s face falls. “Look at yourself, Batman. You should be outside with the rest of the world parading what you got, not holed up in here playing games. Think about the number of women lying in their lonely beds right now wishing a hot man like yourself will save them from their rabbit and personal hell.”
“Hey! What about me?” Tristan argues.
“I’ve still got a beef with you after you dodged our last gym session, and I walked past you at the Dairy Queen stuffing your face.”
“Yeah, well, I was hungry.”
“A minute on the lips, forever on the hips. Anyway, get your asses changed. There’s a happening beach party in Malibu tonight, and I, for one, need some wiggity wang.”
This is a battle not worth fighting, so I stand and head to my room as Tristan pulls me aside. “What the hell is wiggity wang?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Eric has his own language.”
Eric shouts out, “It’s called wanguage, get it?”
***
The drive up to Malibu could possibly have been the longest drive that ever existed only because Eric and Tristan keep arguing over the song choice.
“What do you mean you don’t listen to Jonas Brothers?” Eric asks in horror.
“Eric, as if I’d listen to boy bands. I’m more of a Metallica, Guns N’ Roses kind of guy.”
“Who the hell is a Metallica?”
“Did you just ask me who Metallica is?” Tristan raises his voice in shock.
I grip the steering wheel in frustration. “Oh my God, both your tastes in music are piss poor. Well, maybe not you, Tristan, so let me rephrase that. Eric, your taste in music is piss poor. I’ll not play that in my car and…” I place my hand in the air as I anticipate his rebuttal, “… I don’t want statistics on how many records they have sold, who’s still in the closet, or who you would take to bed. Now, I’ll put on Maroon 5, and let’s all not talk to each other for the rest of the drive, okay?”
Like a brooding teenage boy, he mumbles to himself before pulling out his cell and placing his headphones on.
California in the summertime is just one big party. It isn’t hard to miss it—the restaurant with an open bar area overlooking the ocean is lit up with a string of colorful lanterns, the music blasting over the huge subwoofers, and everywhere you turn, a nice pair of fake tits are staring you in the face. I’m not a fake-tits kind of guy I’m more of an ass man, but big breasts can be an added bonus.
Stop thinking about ass and tits for one second. Beach shorts aren’t made for boners. End of story.
We make our way over to a spare table and order a round of drinks. Sitting around drinking, I spend my time deciding which lucky one I’m willing to take home tonight until Eric yells out in a British accent, “Darling!”
As I turn to look his way, I notice a familiar blonde wave to Eric and start walking our way. Eric stands, and they air-kiss each other on both cheeks.
“Tristan, Julian, this is Kate.” He raises his eyebrows toward me. Kate looks over, and her face responds knowingly. It hits me like a ton of bricks, she’s the blonde I’ve seen often with Charlie at the beach doing yoga. On closer inspection, she is stunning. Would that constitute to shitting on your own doorstep?
She’s wearing a coral-colored bikini top layered with a white crocheted tank. Her shorts are denim with pockets hanging below the hemline. They are very short, but she has the longest lean legs and pulls it off nicely. Her hair is tied up in a scruffy bun, yet something about her is easy on the eyes.
Shit! Tristan won’t remember, will he?
No, he can’t even remember the name of the President, except the President isn’t a hot leggy blonde with an ass begging to be fucked.
My heart picks up a pace as the panic overcomes me. Should I pull him aside to explain? No, just play it cool, he won’t remember her.
“Pleased to meet both of you, finally.” She pulls up a chair and sits beside Tristan. “So, I hear Eric has been showing you around? Oh, my days, did he do his tour of the celebrity homes yet?”
“Yes, although I don’t know half the people he talks about. Who the hell is Shirley MacLaine?”
Kate lets out a loud laugh. “Aren’t you a young lad! Perhaps a tour of Joe Jonas’ house is more up your alley.”
I interject, “Please don’t bring up the Jonas Brothers. The car ride over here was painful enough.”
She tilts her head to the side, raising her brow while gazing at me. There’s something in her stare, something warning me her beauty may only be on the outside and not on the inside. I need to remain guarded. Whatever her tie to Charlie it may quite possibly involve Lex.
Eric senses the shift in mood and grabs Tristan to introduce him to another friend at the bar, leaving me alone with Kate. There’s an awkward silence. I’m fairly certain Charlie has filled her in as to who I am or, no doubt, Eric will have gladly done so.
“So, Julian. Keeping yourself busy in LA?”
“Work always keeps me busy, Kate.”
She quiets, but something tells me the conversation is far from over. I start to put two and two together. Her British accent, she must be a friend of Lex’s.
“I’m going to cut to the chase here, got no time for pussy-footing. Lex and Charlie are my family. I know Lex came to see you, and I know why.” She takes a deep breath, then continues, “I get it, you were shafted, and revenge is usually the only way to redeem yourself, but think long and hard about what you’re doing. They are a family, they have children. Think about how you’re hurting Charlie.”
“I don’t know what Edwards told you, but I’ve done nothing wrong. I wish them nothing but the best.”
“Oh, codswallop,” she huffs with a confrontational stance. “Don’t think I’m another dumb blonde with no brains. Lex is like a brother to me, he’s my family, and if he thinks his family is in danger, I’ll stand by him one hundred percent to protect them.”
For once, I know I’m not doing anything wrong. Well, I’m no longer doing anything wrong. In fact, I never wanted to harm Charlie, I only wanted to love her and have her love me in return. So, don’t be afraid of this nosy bitch. What can she possibly do?
Eric’s loud voice is moving closer toward us. She leans in quickly. “Do us all a favor and stay away from Eric.”
Kate announces she’s leaving and kisses Eric goodbye.
What the hell was that? Another person pointing out just how pathetic you are. I don’t need this, and her mild threat leaves me in the foulest mood. So much for trying to let loose and have fun.
Eric senses my demeanor has changed. His voice softens as he speaks, “Was Kate being a bitch to you? Seriously, ignore her. She gets her British panties all in a twist. She and Lex just have ties that go way back.”
“Are they related?” I question.
“No. She was his assistant for years, but now she runs Lexed in New York. She and Charlie are BFFs. Plus, she’s Amelia’s godmother… well, one of them. Kate is like the British friend everyone wishes they had.”
“I see.”
What do I know about friends? I lost all mine in my coke-can-be-my-best-friend stage.
“Anyway, ignore her, Julian. I know you wouldn’t hurt Charlie. They’re just being overprotective. You know Lex… he’s obsessed with his wife.”
Yes, I know, we have a lot in common. We both want to protect Charlie, but who is the enemy here?
Eric changes subjects, which I’m extremely grateful for, and starts talking about his family. I learn his father is none other than Marco Greg Kennedy, a very wealthy political figure in the business world. He has many ties with the Chinese government, which apparently is how he met Eric’s mother. Before I know it, we are speaking for a while about Chinese laws, somet
hing I had no clue Eric is so educated in.
“Oh, dear God, they are playing ‘Tequila’! C’mon, let’s dance.”
I nod for him to go ahead, and I’ll catch up with him later. Tristan’s already dancing with a group of girls who appear more like his crowd. His dancing, though, that’s another cringe-worthy moment. Shit, did he just do the robot? My coconut needs refilling, and what a perfect opportunity to hit up the bar.
I get to chatting with a few girls who are hanging off me as I take a seat at the bar, numbers are shoved into my pocket, whispers in my ear, but I’m not in the mood. In fact, I can feel a familiar funk coming on. More alcohol is needed.
With everything becoming more relaxed as the liquor runs through my veins, I have no clue how I’ll be able to drive home. This coconut is livening up the party, or perhaps it’s the Pina Colada it was filled with. I find myself bopping to the tunes and somewhere around the song ‘Love Shack,’ I lose my shirt.
I’m this close to joining the conga line forming—Eric is the head of the pack.
Suddenly, heavy arms pat my shoulder. Oh crap, I know I shouldn’t have taken my shirt off.
“Julian, dude, what’s been happening?”
I turn to see the familiar face, Charlie’s friend, Rocky. Gee, looks like all her friends are here tonight. Is this a vendetta against me? You know, let’s kick him while he’s down? I don’t feel like another lecture about being a naughty boy, so I plan to use an I-don’t-feel-well excuse if needed. Sunstroke? Yes, I’ll use that, except it’s night, and your brain is intoxicated, moron.
Rocky plonks himself on the stool beside me and motions for the bartender to serve us. He orders some fancy beverage which also sits in a coconut, makes a comment about coconut jugs, and then carries on rambling. He sure is a talker, and I mean nonstop he goes on and on about who knows what.
I have to be polite, right? I am not the jerk everyone has me pegged out to be. “So, how are you and the family doing?”
His shoulders slump, followed by a loud sigh. Oh, why the fuck did I have to ask that question? I eye the bartender—more fucking drinks, please! This talker is going to hold me hostage, and I’m no Dr. Phil.
“Okay, I guess. Nikki didn’t come tonight. We had an argument again. The whole point of coming to LA was to visit Charlie and to have a break for two weeks. But in typical Nikki fashion, she’s in denial of everything going on, and all we do is fight. Not even hot fighting followed with dirty sex,” he sulks.
“I’m sure it will work out. You’ve been married for a while. There’s always going to be bumps in the road.” There, simple and no more inviting questions.
Coconut man, where art thou!
“Bumps? Ha! More like mountains with a big pile of shit on top. It’s not like it’s all my fault, you know. It’s both of us. Instead of doing something about it, she’s decided to bury her head in the sand.”
“Okay, you’re kinda losing me here?”
Seriously, I need drinks ASAP, and the damn bartender is trying to pick up some cougar flashing her fake tits. I bang my fist on the bar, he turns around, and I believe I have caught his attention until he sways back around to talk to the cougar.
Rocky is still rambling on, unaware of my little outburst. “We’ve been trying to have a baby for a while now. It’s not happening. I want to see someone about it. Nikki thinks we don’t need to because we already have a son, so it’s bound to happen again. That was like ten years ago. Things change, bodies change. I joined this trying-for-a-baby group online, and I tell you, so many couples suffer from secondary infertility. It’s more common than you think.”
“I read an article about it once. It affects like one in five American couples,” I inform him.
“Yes! So, you know, right?”
Friday night at a beach party with sexy ladies in bikinis all around me, and I’m talking to a guy about secondary infertility. Life fucking blows right now. Why hasn’t that conga line come to save me yet?
I strain my eyes, trying to focus. “Just give her time to come around to the idea. Maybe you do need medical intervention.”
He chuckles loudly. “Have you met my wife? She’s as stubborn as two mules. Look, I’ll be honest with you, dude. It’s gotten to the point that she wants to fuck all the time, and for the first time in my life, it’s not fun. I know she wants to do it just to have a baby, but I never thought I’d say this to anyone… I feel used like she only wants me for my body.”
Okay, so I want to spit out my drink and burst out laughing. This is Rocky, after all. However, his crestfallen look tells me it’s far more serious and not a joking matter.
“Rocky. You’ll get through this. You need to communicate with each other. The families who were interviewed in that article said it tore their marriages apart. I can only imagine the stress it can add when, in theory, trying for a baby is supposed to be your happiest time. You’re both young, and I’m sure if you take a breather, it’ll work out.”
Who the fuck am I right now? From stalker to counselor?
Where are my drinks?
Rocky lets out a huge belch, and some ladies near us yell “Gross” and walk away. God, this isn’t helping me score at all. I’m going home alone. Alone and drunk as a skunk.
“See how pathetic I am? I’m here on a Friday night. The chick with the huge rack bounced her coconuts past me, and did I even salute her Rocky-style?” He shakes his head, disappointed in himself.
“Maybe you should head home, you know, be with your wife.”
How much I envy what he has.
“I would, but she and Charlie went out somewhere to watch a show or something.”
And there’s that name again.
Rocky must have noticed my body language. “Oh, dude, sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I play it off.
“For bringing up Charlie. Don’t know if I should have. You’re probably over her, right? I mean you must be screwing babes like there’s no tomorrow.”
I smirk while raising the coconut to my lips and finish the drink in one sitting.
“I know that look. Tell me! I need to live vicariously through someone else. Lex is boring as hell when it comes to talking about his past. Eric, well… forget that. I don’t need a re-enactment of sucking dick.”
Ahh, the blissful memories of last night. “Not much to tell. Last night was the first time in a while. They were sexy—”
“They?” He cuts me off, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets.
I don’t respond. Instead, I remain quiet. I’m not one to talk openly about my sex life despite how nasty it was last night.
“Dude, fuck, did they eat each other out? Fuck, no, wait, did they finger each other’s asses?”
I almost spit out my drink because they did, I just didn’t think he’d ask.
“Let’s just say, whatever your imagination thinks, it was done.”
Fuck, I’m a cocky motherfucker when I’m wasted.
He lets out the loudest, “Fuck,” I have ever heard and then mentions something about needing to find his wife or a bathroom pronto. Either one, he vanishes, and I’m left alone once again.
It’s not for long, though.
The conga line finds me, Eric front of the train, and the night becomes one massive blur after that.
“What the hell is this?”
I stare at the drink Tristan hands me. The color is dark green, the texture thick with something floating near the brim. I feel the bile rise in my throat, and I struggle to swallow, wrestling with the vomit which is fast bubbling to the surface. I push the glass away, but his strength overpowers me. I’m weak.
Fucking Eric and that fucking conga line!
He pushes it back my way. “Drink it. I promise you won’t have a hangover if you drink this.”
I’m short-fused, my head is pounding like a jackhammer, and I want nothing more than to feel the coolness of the bathroom tiles caress my face. Oh, and pour that rancid-looking drink all over Tristan’s head.<
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“Kid, fuck off. I’m not drinking that.”
He continues to stand over me and doesn’t let up. For fuckin’ fuck’s sakes. I grab the stupid drink off him and down it in one go.
Oh, mother of fucking.
I run for the bathroom, certain the contents of my stomach will soon be saying hi-de-ho to the toilet bowl. I wait, but as minutes pass, the feeling subsides, the headache eases.
“What the hell was in that?”
“It’s best you don’t know. You feel better, though, don’t you?” He appears pleased with himself.
I nod, then motion for him to get the fuck out of the bathroom, and take the longest shower in the history of mankind.
The magical drink gets me out of bed and in the mood to write. Tristan goes out with Claudia, leaving me with the peace and quiet I so desperately need to finish my manuscript. Mr. Grimmer sent me an email wanting to see an update, so I was hauling major ass trying to get it done. I’d had tighter deadlines than this before, to the point where I didn’t eat or sleep for seventy-two hours straight in the middle of a third-world country, just so I could get a small section printed in the newspaper. It’s all part of the journalism game.
But this isn’t the journalism game.
This is my heart and soul turned into words and poured into this manuscript. It’s a dream, my ambition, my future all riding on this publishing deal.
Come Monday, I’m a ball of nerves again.
Sitting in my office, I’m finishing off a piece I’m doing for the newspaper when Nyree calls.
I switch on my sultry voice. “Good morning, Nyree.”
“Hi, Mr… I mean Julian. I have a call for you on line two. A Mr. Grimmer.” Her voice is sweet, and I know I shouldn’t go there. So I don’t, for now.
Picking up line two, I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the worst.
