Noah was clearly in his element, clack-clacking away and zooming his mouse around. Well, if he was going to make himself at home, surrounded by power adapters and blinking routers, I was going to surround myself with my favorite things as well. I rolled out of the nest and rummaged through my bag for my cosmetics and requisite quart-sized Ziploc for carrying liquids on the plane. I stowed them on the bathroom counter, opposite Noah’s leather shaving bag. It was understated and elegant, of course, just like him. Padding back to my carry-on in the middle of the room, I pulled out a picture of my cat in a tiny heart-shaped frame and Allen’s vintage Batman alarm clock and set them on the bedside table. The clock wasn’t exactly travel sized, but it was from the seventies and virtually indestructible.
“What the hell is that?”
Jeez, put a bell on the guy. Even with his fancy loafers back on his feet, he was catlike—quiet and stealthy.
“I inherited it from a friend. Still keeps great time. Oh, and that is Sister Frances.”
Noah contemplated the frame in his hands before gently setting it back down. “I like her milk mustache.”
“Yeah, her full name is Sister Frances Tappan Zee Got Milk. After my favorite nursery school teacher. I found her near the bridge, hence her middle name.”
Noah ran a finger over the top of the molded plastic of Batman’s cape as if he were wiping a layer of dust off. His fingers were long and elegant, I noticed, and squared off at the tips. Probably from all that blunt-force typing. “Your friend was a fan of the Distinguished Competition, huh?”
I whipped my head to face him. He raised his thick brow, allowing a slight smile to escape his lips. Only a true fan of Marvel Comics would know the nickname it gave its main competitor, DC.
“Yeah, he was,” I said quietly. “Two years gone.”
We sat in silence until the minute hand wrenched forward and Noah cleared his throat. “My pop used to buy me comics when I was little. I lost him when I was in college.”
“Cancer?” I couldn’t help it. My mind just invariably went there.
“IED.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Roadside bomb in Afghanistan.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Holy crap” was the only thing that came to mind.
“Hey, still got that quarter?”
I flipped it up to him, and he caught it between his palms. Sitting down on the edge of the bed next to me, he deftly rolled the coin down his knuckles from index finger to pinky, then back again. He let it fall into one palm, then the other. And back again, as if he were working up to something. Finally, he closed his fist around the coin and held it out to me. “Blow on it.” I hesitated. “Go on. My dad taught me this one.”
I pursed my lips and blew lightly on his hand. His fingers opened to reveal an empty palm. “Now, logically,” he said softly, “it stands to reason that the only place the coin could possibly be . . . is here.” He reached his hand up to my ear and, sure enough, he had the coin again.
“Hey!” I broke into a broad grin. “How’d you do that?”
“Stick with me, kid.” There was that tough-guy impression again, like with the banana showdown on the airplane. “We’ll go places. What do you say we raid the vending machine? The hotel restaurant’s kitchen is closing at nine.”
“Vending machine, huh?” I laughed. “I guess the honeymoon really is over.”
“Yeah, no more wining and dining you with champagne and caviar. But I’ll share my bag of pork rinds.”
With only granola for breakfast and sushi for lunch, I was ready to devour dinner, even if it came rolling out of the coils of a vending machine. I was starving.
For food, Laney Jane? Or attention?
I decided I was far too hungry to dwell on the fact that I didn’t exactly mind sharing another meal with the perfect stranger in the matchy-match suit and loafers.
Ghosts and Whiskey
“So,” I asked, after swallowing a bite of a Pop-Tart, dessert to my peanut butter crackers and Doritos dinner. Our dining music was my iPod docked into the bedside clock, accompanied by the cool mood lighting of Noah’s open MacBook screen. “What’s doing in Vegas right now?”
Noah consulted his computer, a Slim Jim between his teeth. He plucked it out like a cigar and pointed it at the screen. “According to the spreadsheet, the guys are having drinks at Casa Fuente in Caesar’s Palace.”
He had been receiving text messages intermittently from the bachelor party throughout the evening, letting him know about all the fun he was missing out on. “Tomorrow morning they’re renting Harleys and driving out to the desert,” he announced, swiveling in the desk chair to face me.
“After smoking cigars and drinking cognac all night?” I snorted. “Doubtful.”
Noah laughed from behind a mouthful of Slim Jim with a Coca-Cola chaser. “Is Hawaii surviving without you?”
“Apparently so.”
My mother had texted an hour before with my new flight information; leave it to Mom to take charge from four thousand miles away. I hadn’t heard a peep from her since, but Danica had been drunk-texting and sent me at least six pictures of the beach at sunset. “Looks like my best friend is getting bombed in honor of Pearl Harbor.” I showed him her latest toes-and-tropical-drinks picture. “This was supposed to be our girls’ week together.” I pouted. “She moved out of state last year for a job and I haven’t seen her since.”
“That sucks. You’ll be there soon, though.”
“Yeah, Mom to the rescue.” I smirked. “She booked a 10:05 A.M. flight for the dress, and I am allowed to fly free as its companion.”
“Come on, it’s not that bad.”
“Yeah, it is,” I said softly. My entire teenage existence revolved around gaining and losing that woman’s trust. No amount of years or therapy had changed our mother-daughter dynamic. “She always has to run the show.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I never even wanted to go to Vegas for this stupid party, anyway.” He turned his attention back his laptop.
“Gee,” I said mockingly, “I didn’t know there were sour grapes in that vending machine.”
Cruising the Strip, blackjack and comp drinks, partying till dawn, and then motorcycling through the desert? I would’ve gladly traded places with him. I’d even stuff the stripper’s G-string with dollar bills. He could go to Hawaii. My mother would probably be too preoccupied to notice if I sent a surrogate as the dress bearer.
Noah didn’t comment right away. The glow from the screen highlighted his face in profile: lips pursed, brow slightly furrowed.
“At least it’s a good excuse for getting all us guys together. One teaches high school”—he ticked items off on his fingers—“one works at a college, another is in the military, there’s a doctor . . . it’s hard to find time for a Skype call, let alone a week together.”
“And the groom?”
“General consensus among his friends is that he’s a lucky bastard.” He gave a short laugh. “On the fast track at work, engaged to the boss’s daughter, blah blah blah. Sounds good on paper, I suppose.” He didn’t look up from his computer.
“You don’t think so,” I observed.
Using his foot, he pushed himself away from the desk in the rolling chair. “I don’t know what I think anymore, Laney,” he admitted, running both hands through his thick, dark locks. “I’ve been up for, like, nineteen hours at this point.”
I brushed Pop-Tart crumbs off my leggings and hopped off the bed. “The hell with cigar bars and beach cocktails for now. Let’s have our own party right here.” The minibar had been singing its siren song to me all evening. “Come on, it’s time to leave the office,” I singsonged.
Noah had already booked himself a new flight that left an hour after mine. Keeping tabs on the weather and the Vegas itinerary was futile; nothing was going to change no matter how many times he
refreshed that browser. We had two fresh cans of Coke and ginger ale in the hotel ice bucket and a minibar filled with overpriced but limitless opportunity.
Back in the day, everyone relied on Life of the Party Laney to get the festivities started. Granted, I was rinsing out empty cat food cans more than beer bottles after a blowout Saturday night these days, but my alter ego still remembered how to get my drink on. “Happy hour’s waiting,” I tempted, wiggling tiny bottles of Jack Daniel’s and Crown Royal between my fingers. “Turn off your computer, Tech-Boy.”
“Tech-Boy, huh?” He swiped the bottles from me and mixed us our first drinks in the glasses provided. “Cheers, Bridezilla.”
With just twelve hours until my flight, half of which I hoped I’d spend passed out sleeping, I reasoned there was no harm in failing to correct him when he called me that. Let the pretty-boy, all-put-together techie think I was someone’s bride from hell. Self-absorbed to the max, without a care in the world except making sure that the world revolved around starting our new life together? That sounded a whole helluva lot better than the pathetic, lonely truth.
But I had to admit, I kinda liked when he called me Laney.
I took a healthy gulp, relishing the burn. “Oh, my God, look!” I choked, gesturing. We had the television on with the volume down.
“Giant Monsters All-Out Attack!”
“No way! That’s my favorite Godzilla movie of all time.” Noah hopped onto the bed and perched cross-legged like a little kid. “Let me guess. You’re too old-school to like this one?”
“What can I say? I’m a purist. Although”—I balanced my drink on the flat wood of the footboard before sprawling belly down—“any movie with Mothra in it is okay in my book.” Propping myself up on my elbows, I watched the citizens of Japan flee in silent terror.
“But Mothra dies in this one, remember? Godzilla kills her with his atomic breath.”
“He must’ve been eating Slim Jims,” I teased, sneaking a look back at him.
Noah gave my leg a mock kick. And he gave me that adorable, sheepish smile.
Maybe it was the Alice-in-Wonderland-tiny bottles of alcohol or maybe it was the bonding over awful monster movies, but I felt very content. Even Noah’s cologne, a heady vanilla and lime woodsy combination, was growing on me.
Suddenly I became very aware of sharing such a small, intimate space with him. The king-sized bed may have been movie-monster large, but it felt no bigger than our first-class row on the plane. Especially with his leg still resting so close to mine. And there was no Anita or other flight attendant to save us with hot towels.
“I lived in Tokyo for a year,” Noah supplied.
“That’s right, three countries, nine states.” Saved by small talk. “Where else?”
“Well, born in Philadelphia, moved to Bel Air—”
“Like the Fresh Prince?”
“No.” He laughed. “Bel Air, Maryland. G.I. brat. I’ve also lived in Virginia, North Carolina, Texas, Ohio—”
Anywhere
I don’t care
I’d follow you
but you wreck me
wreck me
through and through
“Oh, jeez. Sorry, let me, um . . . crap—”
My iPod had shuffled onto a rowdy surfer-punk anthem by Allen’s band, rousing me out of my reverie. I reached over Noah and practically pawed the iPod off the dock in the process.
“Sorry. That song was just so . . .” Heartbreakingly perfect, painfully nostalgic, blaringly truthful? “Loud.” I gulped.
Realizing I had practically foisted myself into the poor guy’s lap in my haste to change the song, I scooted off the bed and fiddled with the shuffle.
“It sounded cool to me,” Noah said. “Who was that?”
“Three on a Match,” I answered, trying to keep my voice light. “I went to high school with them.” Et cetera, et cetera.
“Never heard of them.”
“Seriously? You don’t know Three on a Match?”
“Oh, wait. That dude what’s-his-face, Rob Thomas, who was on The Voice last year. His band?”
“No, that’s Matchbox Twenty. Not even close,” I said.
“I know now—they had that hit song ‘Kryptonite,’ didn’t they?”
I stared stonily at him. “You’re joking, right? Three on a Match, not 3 Doors Down.”
Noah scratched his sexy scruff in thought, then tapped his chin. “Do they sing that one song, what’s it . . . ‘Cumbersome’?”
I nixed him with an obnoxious beep. “Wrong again. That’s Seven Mary Three.”
“Okay, then I’ll take ‘Wrong Lyrics by Bands with Numbered Names’ for five hundred, Alex,” he joked, the corners of his mouth pushing into that adorable sheepish smile.
I guess there were a lot of bands with a variation of that magic number in their name: Third Eye Blind, Three Days Grace . . . I couldn’t recite the U.S. presidents to save my life, but I could match bands and songs all evening.
“Before you go asking if they wrote about a bullfrog named Jeremiah,” I teased, “that was Three Dog Night.”
Noah tsked, as if I could be so silly as to suggest he didn’t know that.
I put the iPod onto a more benign playlist. “Three on a Match is a psychobilly band out of California.”
“Psycho-what?” he asked, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
“Psychobilly. Like rockabilly with a punk slant. Koffin Kats? Bang Bang Bazooka? Not even Reverend Horton Heat?” Noah was still shaking his head. “No? How about Southern Culture on the Skids?” I asked, incredulous. “Wow, you could use some schooling.”
He had to be around my age. Music had been such a big part of my friends’ and my lives growing up, that it was hard to believe all my peers didn’t share the same soundtrack. “I was in the glee club at school,” he offered.
“Ah, no wonder.” Actually, it was oddly refreshing to know that this guy had no clue who Three on a Match was, or Allen Burnside, for that matter. “Just kidding. I guess they’re kind of . . . obscure, then. If you aren’t into that scene.”
Obscure, that was, until they had recorded a scathing rock rendition of Bananarama’s “Cruel Summer” the first year they were out in L.A., which made it into a big, blow-’em-up, bullet-filled beach movie starring Hilary Swank.
We sat on opposite sides of the bed and watched in silence as a missile ripped Godzilla from the inside out. Down he went, disintegrating to dust. The citizens of Japan rejoiced.
The poor bastards had no clue that the monster’s heart was still beating far below on the ocean floor.
“Refill?” Noah asked.
“Why the hell not.”
His thumb grazed against mine as he reached to take my glass. Holy pulse rate, Batman! Mine was alive and kicking, keeping time with Godzilla’s heart at the bottom of Tokyo Bay.
I blamed the Crown Royal; my libido always had liked the liquor.
Noah mixed two more drinks. “Hey, what’re these?”
My sketchpad, along with an oversized deck of cards, had found its way out of my bag and onto the floor. Probably around the time I was playing the role of DJ Jazzy Denial to Noah’s Fresh Prince.
“Nothing. Work stuff.”
I hastily scooped up the sketchpad, almost clocking heads with him, as he had reached down to help. It had fallen open to the picture from the boarding area.
“Is that . . .” Noah leaned closer and took it from my hands. “That looks like me.”
“You were hogging every electrical outlet in the entire boarding area.” I giggled, looking at the exaggerated depiction now.
Currently Noah looked nothing like his alter ego. Back in the airport terminal, he had been hardwired to all those gadgets like they were his armor. Suit jacket and crisp button-down shirt were now long gone, and I couldn’t hel
p noticing, even in my fuzzy state, that he filled out his plain white tee quite nicely. And no evil supervillain ever had such nice hair as Noah’s. Whatever grooming gel had been taming his slightly long locks had been worn away throughout the evening by him running his hand through his hair. It was a gesture I noticed he repeated when he was nervous, but also when he was laughing that great laugh of his. I had a crazy urge to run my fingers through those thick, full curls, just to make sure they were as soft as they looked. The smoky, vanilla lime scent that had repelled me at the airport was now drawing me in with a pull that had nothing to do with gravity. His shoes had been kicked off over by the door, but even had they been on . . .
I could kinda see myself kissing the guy in the loafers.
“The detail, it’s just . . . incredible.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I agreed absently, fixated on just how perfect his eyelashes were as he gazed down at my rendering. So dark and lush, perfect for butterfly kisses against the cheek . . .
“Like, pro incredible.” He blinked up at me and snapped me out of my trance.
“I was, once.” I cleared my throat and added, “I worked for Marvel.”
His eyes widened. “Get out of town.”
“Dude!” I laughed. “I’ve been trying to.”
He swatted me with the sketchbook. “No, seriously. That sounds like the best job ever. Why did you leave?”
“There aren’t enough bottles in the minibar to get into that mishagas.” I gave a wave of my hand to dismiss the topic, but Noah didn’t seem to want to let go of it; or the sketchpad, for that matter.
“Can I look through it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it sucks.”
“No,” Noah said vehemently. He grabbed the hotel pen and small pad of paper sitting near the telephone and started scribbling away. “This sucks.”
He held up his drawing of a stick figure, clutching what looked like a drawing of a stick figure and puking a rainbow out of his mouth at the horror. “What you drew was the opposite of suck.”
I heard a sloppy, drunken laugh and realized it was my own. “No, what I meant was, most of the subject matter sucks.” I took back the sketchbook, holding it tightly to my chest. “Wrongs I cannot right.”
Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305) Page 9
