Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305)

by Topper, Jessica

  I felt a victorious jolt as she relinquished a tiny bit of control, allowing me to sidestep next to her and give it a try. How was it possible I could find such a stubborn person so seductive?

  She tilted the bottle under my instruction as I opened the muselet, keeping my thumb on the cork. “Turn the bottle now, like this,” I said. Probably overkill, but I placed my hand over hers to guide her. Jeez, Noah. The cork wasn’t the only thing ready to pop.

  I felt her other thumb rub against mine on the cork. Just a bit of pressure was all that was needed for it to escape with a little sigh. “Here we go,” I said under my breath. “Listen for the soupir érotique.”

  Laney lifted her eyes to meet mine in questioning camaraderie. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “If we do it just right . . .” I trailed off. Find neutral ground, take the high road, don’t go there. “It makes this sound, like . . .”

  The playing field had been so even before, back when I thought she was a Bridezilla and I had been dragging my cold, miserable feet across the country. Now my feet were against hers, in matching pairs of socks, bolstering us as we braced for the release.

  Laney pulled the bottle a little closer to her chest for leverage, taking my clutch with her. My chin grazed her bare shoulder, setting the strap of her tank top askew. Shit. If I moved back, I’d let go, and we’d run the risk of getting soaked in a shower of champagne.

  “Like what?” Laney turned her head, her lips just inches from mine.

  If I didn’t move away, we were in danger all the same.

  The cork hit the shower wall and she shrieked, jerking back into my arms. Her thumb slipped over the bottle opening and it was all over; the movement of her landing against me shook the effervescent contents just enough.

  Champagne geysered from the small space between her thumb and the lip of the bottle. It rained down the shower curtain, dripped from the ceiling, and cascaded over us. Laney’s unbridled laughter bounced off the walls of the small space, shoulders hunched as she shook what was left and aimed the neck at me.

  “Don’t you dare, Hudson!”

  “And if I do?” she challenged, with a gleam in her eye.

  Laney squealed as I took charge of the bottle and turned it on her, but not before I got blasted square in the jaw. Her bangs were sopping and her top was bordering on wet T-shirt contest–worthy by the time the bottle was spent, but we were both laughing so hard, it didn’t matter.

  “Oh, my God, that was fun,” she gasped. I took a haul off what was left in the bottle and then offered the rest to her. She guzzled the dregs of Michigan’s Finest and deposited the empty bottle into the bathroom wastebasket with a thud and a giggle. “Serves them right for not bringing us champagne flutes, right?”

  “Damn straight,” I agreed, wringing out the bottom of my T-shirt.

  Laney wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and grinned. “So what were we listening for before that thing exploded?”

  “The soupir érotique.” I grabbed a hand towel from the rack behind her. “Sometimes uncorking makes a sound”—I ran the towel gently down her dripping hair and across her collarbone before I even realized what I was doing—“like an erotic sigh.”

  “If it’s done right,” Laney added, her tone soft and serious, her smile now gone.

  She reached up tentatively to my cheeks, her fingers on my stubble, sticky to the touch. My left hand, still holding the towel, moved down her back. When my right hand reached for the other end of the soft cloth, encircling her waist and pulling her closer to me, she let a breath escape that was by far the most erotic I had ever heard.

  “I think we did okay,” I said, trying to remember how to breathe in her presence.

  “I know I ranted about alcohol-infused camaraderie and sleazy movie-fantasy hookups earlier—” Her thumbs moved across my lips to silence me as I started to protest. “And I know you said ‘not interested,’ but that was back before you knew it wasn’t my dress, right?”

  “Ah, Laney . . .”

  The look in her eyes was absolutely slaying me.

  “I wish you could skip the bachelor party,” she blurted out, “and I could skip the wedding and we could just stay here, like this.”

  I closed my eyes, turning into her caress.

  In wine there is truth. You stupid idiot.

  You have to tell her.

  “I wish we could, too,” I said, my own sigh catching in my throat. “But I kinda think the guest of honor is expected to be there.”

  She laughed in my arms, and I hated myself.

  “I told you, silly. I’m not getting married.”

  “I know. But I am.”

  Burst Bubbles

  “It’s my bachelor party, Laney. In Vegas,” Noah added, as if I was stupid and I needed it spelled out.

  Seriously? He couldn’t have worked that in earlier? No by the way while we were having sushi at the airport? No I’ve been meaning to tell you over drinks in the hotel bar? Or even wow, what a funny coincidence, you’re not really a bride but—surprise! I’m really a groom when I confessed? Name, birth date, and social security number . . . but this little detail slips his mind?

  Erotic sigh? What the hell was that, if not a moment to seize?

  He was still holding me.

  And my hands still wanted to touch his cheeks, even though they should have wanted to slap him right about then. Traitors.

  My brain called a truce and commanded them to move away. I reached behind me and extricated myself from his embrace.

  WWDD?

  Laney, just walk away.

  Dani had given me that sage advice after seeing the picture of Allen frolicking with the lingerie model in Australia. We’d dubbed the billboard bitch “King Kong in a bra” and joked about the possibility of her airbrushed ta-tas hanging out with P. Diddy and Mr. Peanut on a billboard twenty-three stories high in Times Square. Let her have him.

  Just walk away.

  Dani was never one to beg a boyfriend during a breakup; she never got teary or upset in front of one of them, no matter how hurt she was. “Okay,” she’d say, and simply walk away. I can’t tell you how many guys ended up crawling back and making total asses of themselves, but Dani? She always kept her dignity intact.

  “Well,” I managed, “that’s the way the cookie bounces, I guess.”

  Walk away. And leave him to clean up the bathroom.

  “Cookies don’t bounce.” He followed me out of the bathroom, looking genuinely perplexed. “Do they?”

  I smiled, remembering having the exact same exchange with Allen after he lost the seventh-grade class election. “More often than balls crumble.”

  “I’m sorry, Laney.”

  “For what?” I barked out a bitter laugh. “For getting engaged? For getting drunk with me? For flirting?” For getting my hopes up?

  “Yes. No, I mean . . . oh, damn it, Laney.”

  This guy was smooth. And all I could picture was him effortlessly sailing through the blowout bachelor party, once he was rid of me. Then gliding through his nuptials with a gorgeous, adoring bride. Everything would be perfect, down to the satiny sheen of fondant draping their wedding cake.

  Noah didn’t need someone like me anywhere near that happiness. I was like a finger dug into the frosting, personified. Messy and undignified.

  I grabbed my sketchbook and pencil. “I think I need some air.”

  “Air?” Noah sputtered. “It’s twenty-one degrees out. And we’re on the twelfth floor where the windows don’t even open anyway.”

  I laced on his Chucks once more. “Okay. There’s a dartboard calling my name downstairs, then.” I reached for the doorknob. “See ya.”

  • • •

  The bar was slightly transformed late at night, its small dance floor lined with flexi LED rope lighting. A motley-looking assort
ment of patrons were swaying their hips and sipping their drinks to some benign flavor-of-the-day dance song. I recognized the two dart-playing flight attendants from earlier. They were now in jeans and shimmery tops, shaking their rumps with a couple of Saturday Night Fever types. Obviously the women were used to flight delays and probably packed their bags for any possibility. Converse sneakers, leggings, and a champagne-splattered tank top was hardly club attire, but it wasn’t like I was up against a velvet rope and a VIP bouncer.

  Lance and Jimmy were no longer behind the bar. I ordered a ginger ale from their replacement, a flirty Filipino who was aptly name-tagged Phil, and took to the corner stool. Who needed company when they had a sketchbook? I flipped through mine until I caught a glimpse of the rough sketch I had done of the Manhattan skyline on my way out to the airport.

  When you lived in Manhattan, it was easy to forget to look up at the wonder around you. Sometimes it took crossing a river to remember.

  Noah wasn’t a boyfriend; he wasn’t much more than a stranger. A handsome, funny, and seemingly nice enough stranger. Who, it turned out, was taken. Off the market before I even knew him. There would be no crying or begging on my part. But still, it was nice to follow Dani’s advice, walk away, and get some perspective.

  The bellhop who had brought the bubbly to our door skittered through the lobby with a big rolling cart. I thought back to those few minutes after I had told Noah the truth. There’s that stupid saying about the truth setting you free, and for a moment, I had freed myself up to the possibility of getting to know this guy. It had felt like we were on the same page. On equal footing.

  I looked down at his sneakers on my feet. Of course he was taken.

  All the good ones were, some way or another.

  That’s the way the cookie bounces.

  Turning my attention to my work, I ran my pencil up the top of the Empire State Building, sharpening the spike. It didn’t matter where I was in life—in the dusty back room of a comic book store at twelve, in the inner sanctum of one of the world’s largest comic conventions at twenty-five, in the corner of a hotel bar in real time—when I started to draw, I was transported into the page.

  • • •

  “Holy shitballs, it’s crowded in here,” griped Pixie, shifting in her metal folding chair. The two of us, pencilist and colorist for the fledgling Dreamer Deceiver line, were relegated to the end of a table so far down the row, it felt like another zip code from the rest of the Marvel creators, but I was in my element. This was the heart and soul of the New York Comic Con; everyone and anyone in comics was in this very place: Artists’ Alley. Over two hundred tables were crammed into the narrow upstairs area of the Javits Center and the room was abuzz with industry, press, and fans.

  We were rolling into the last day of the convention, and the novelty was wearing off for Pixie. She had been thrilled to learn of our table’s proximity to some of the hottest names in the business, but quickly realized their fan lines were forced to form a tight seal that eclipsed any space or business we’d hoped to have in front of our table.

  “I’m really tired of staring at ass,” she complained. “I’m gonna go find a Monster or a Red Bull. You want anything?”

  “I’m all good, thanks.”

  The nonstop barrage of people bustling by with their totes crammed full of free swag was a bit overwhelming, but I found it easy to shut out simply by doing what I loved to do. The atmosphere buzzed with potential and creativity, and I had spent the weekend drawing, inking, and chatting with fellow artists. I loved the intimate feel of the Alley and had barely strayed onto the main floor except to say hi to friends at the big Marvel booth.

  Each day of the convention had had a slightly different feel to it. Friday had the jumpiness of first-date jitters, opening early to industry and press. Saturday carried an exhausting, sold-out rock star exhilaration; and now I was settling into a full-blown affair with Sunday, luxurious as lounging and lingering with a new lover in bed. A few eager fans of the line we were working on had come and gone earlier in the day. I had happily signed and sold a few sketches and had given my card to a handful of people interested in commissioning. Pixie had spent most of the day texting her boyfriend, coloring a few pieces I put in front of her, and making rude commentary on the backsides in our direct line of vision.

  I crossed my legs under the skirted table and leaned over to lavish attention on my newest creation.

  “Hey. Big fan.”

  Hands dropped a comic in its bag and board on the table in front of me. It was the first Dreamer Deceiver comic I had ever worked on, its cover as familiar to me as my own face.

  And the hands were familiar as well, down to the blisters-turned-calluses on the lowest pads of each index finger.

  Drummer’s hands.

  I glanced up from the sketch I was working on and saw the line of asses had parted like the Red Sea. Allen was standing at my table.

  He looked rock-god amazing, legs splayed in expensive dark wash jeans, with a full head of blond locks touch-me tousled. Beneath his perfectly broken-in leather jacket, the pearly white buttons of his black western-style shirt glistened. Shades covered eyes that I knew were a piercing blue.

  How the hell he had found me, out of the fifty thousand people milling through the place, I’ll never know. He didn’t wear an attendee badge or a press badge or anything to indicate he hadn’t just magically descended from the sky.

  Allen pushed his shades up on top of his head. “Sign, please?”

  I stared up at him for a long minute, before letting my shaking hands move on autopilot, slipping the comic from its polypropylene.

  “You’re a hard woman to track down, you know?”

  Yeah, right. Look who’s talking. “I’m not the one who changes cell phone numbers every couple of months,” I countered.

  His guilty smirk turned into a sexy grin.

  Pixie was back, sliding in behind me. “Freakin’ madhouse out there. I did catch a glimpse of Chewbacca, Peter what’s-his-name. Hey.” She nodded at our “fan” before plopping herself down.

  “Mayhew,” Allen and I said in unison.

  “That’s it, thanks. Yeah, he’s, like, at every convention and will be until the end of time. I really want to see—” She suddenly did a double take. “Holy fuckballs,” she whispered.

  Pixie and I had worked together long enough for her to know that the guy standing in front of us was the same guy from the cover of the Rolling Stone magazine that I had tacked to the wall of my cubicle, behind my monitor and next to the autographed photo of Stan Lee. It was just about as famous as the naked cover of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, with the trio from Three on a Match all holding fire in their hands. Even though Pixie didn’t know half our history, she knew me well enough to judge when I needed privacy.

  “I’m gonna—uhhh, go find a Monster or a Red Bull,” she said, delving into a weird déjà vu, smile pasted to her face. “You guys want anything?”

  “No, thanks,” we said in unison.

  I signed Allen’s comic with trembling hands, feeling his eyes on me the entire time.

  “So what are you in town for?” I asked, my attempt at casual coming across as woodenly formal.

  “Recording our new album. Over on Fifty-seventh Street.” He extended a hand to me, like it was a Couples Only skate at our local roller rink. “Now, come on out from behind that table and let me get a look at you, girl.”

  I hooked my fingers into his and practically twirled out in front of him.

  “Check you out, Wonder Woman. At your Comic Con debut. And those boots, va-va-voom!”

  “Bought them with my first Marvel paycheck,” I said proudly, feeling like a badass superhero myself. I’m sure Allen’s first record label advance afforded him a Porsche out in La-La Land, but I was perfectly happy strutting around town in my va-va-voom boots.

  “You must be th
e talk of the island back home in those,” he said, baiting me. I knew he was fishing for info, confirmation that I had taken the catalyst completely around the circle.

  “This island is home now. Forty-seventh and Ninth Avenue.”

  “Making Hell’s Kitchen even hotter,” he said with a smile. Obviously he approved.

  “Find anything good?” I asked, gesturing to the large brown paper bag under his arm.

  With a smile, he unsheathed his bounty. “Vintage talking Batman alarm clock. In the box. Wanna come over to my hotel to make sure it works?” he asked slyly.

  “What about Gwyneth? Or Giselle? Or whatever the hell her name is?”

  “It’s Geska. She’s Danish.”

  Of course she was. “I bet she’s sweet.”

  “Yeah. I guess she is.”

  I wished he had used the past tense to let me know she was stale and that he had kicked her to the curb like a day-old doughnut. Instead, he shrugged. “She’s around. We’re not really together together. You know how it is. As long as there are rock stars in the world, there are always going to be models and actresses who want to be seen with us. We could be hideous monsters with six eyes and it wouldn’t matter.”

  “Funny you should say that, since that’s how I’ve been drawing you lately.” I held up the Dreamer Deceiver sketch I had been working on, which happened to feature just such a creature, busting through a steel door. Allen gave me that adoring, “you’re such a smartass” look that I so missed, I so craved, all these years.

  “Can you write 1603 there?”

  He pointed down to the page, where my monster had crumpled the door of Dreamer’s secret hideout like it was a piece of aluminum foil. I reached for a fine-tip and added a number plate to what was left of the door, customizing it to his specifications.

  “That’s the number of my hotel room over at the Meridien,” he supplied. “In case you change your mind about coming over to test-drive my clock.”

  “You wouldn’t dare take it out of the box, now, would you?” Shameless, Laney. Shameless. And juvenile. Look where flirting got you last time.