“He probably won’t even come. This kind of thing doesn’t seem to be his thing.”
“Does he have a problem with what we do?” Esmerelda says, resting one hand on her hip, ready to pounce.
“He doesn’t even know what we do,” I say, wrinkling my brow. “At least I don’t think so.”
“For a rebound it doesn’t matter,” Rose says. “In fact, it may make him all the more keen on the idea.”
“He’s Catholic. Didn’t even take a peek while I was in nothing but a robe and a slip.”
They all give me dead stares.
“It was nothing like that!” I say, laughing. “He just, helped me bring the case of champagne up this morning. Why would I get dressed just for that?”
“That just means he’s a gentleman?” Antoinette says in a hopeful tone.
“Or dead,” Rose points out.
“Or gay, I knew it!” Esmerelda says, throwing her head back. “We’re cursed to be surrounded by—”
“He’s not gay,” I interrupt with a laugh. “He’s just—I’ve always compared him to Clark Kent. Glasses, dark hair, serious, a little awkward even.”
“Aww,” Antoinette gushes.
“Yes, but is he Superman underneath?” Rose asks with a grin.
I can’t help the smile that returns to my face.
I’m sure if I was as pale as Rose, my cheeks would be as red as her hair. All caused by that mental vision of him bending to pick up my champagne, the muscles of his back and shoulders visible even through his coat.
“I guess that answers that,” Esmerelda says with a laugh. “Just how well do you know this neighbor?”
I roll my eyes and sit up straighter. “Like I said, it’s not like that. Maybe a little teasing and flirting, but certainly nothing that amounts to cheating. Besides, Francis has always liked that about me, encouraged it even. He enjoys the fact that other men want me.”
“Almost like a fancy car, or expensive watch!” Rose says in a hyperbolically thrilled voice.
“At least Francis accepts me for who I am.”
“Well, that’s one thing to celebrate!” Antoinette interjects, raising her glass with hopeful cheer.
“Thank you, Antoinette,” I say in a deliberate voice. “And on that happy note, I’m going to crank up the tunes so we can get this party started.”
I rise up and turn up the music which has been playing softly in the background while we chatted. The current song is “Crazy in Love,” by Beyoncé, so naturally, that gets the other Girls up from their perches to dance.
I grab a pink cupcake to enjoy as I watch them.
After all, it’s not like I have a wedding dress to fit into anytime soon.
Chapter Nine
Giuseppe
It was another late night.
After a week of radio silence from Doug regarding Congressman Bowen, he finally called me back into the office to confirm that we officially had him as a paying client. With billable time in play—the source of funds worryingly ambiguous—he apparently felt it was the perfect excuse to steal several hours from my already busy workday.
Thus, the last thing I’m interested in is the music that hits me as soon as I step foot off the elevator when I get home.
“Disco?” I mutter to myself as I hesitantly step out.
I’d completely forgotten about Honey’s party. The sound of something straight out of Saturday Night Fever is here to remind me.
Donna Summer, I’m sure of it… “I Feel Love,” as the lyrics help me decipher.
Like I needed another reason not to go to the thing.
I notice the pink sticky note on my door as I approach, and exhale with exasperation. I don’t even need to read it to know who wrote it. Sure enough, the flowery script is a message that can only be from my lovely neighbor:
Come on over anytime, Neighbor. Champagne’s on me.
Love, Honey
It’s accompanied by a kiss made in lipstick only a few shades darker than the paper.
I snatch it off the door with a sigh and insert my key into the lock to open it. I’m irked to note that the music is still audible even after closing the door.
That’s the thing about these apartments, the walls are amazingly soundproof. I never hear a peep from the people on either side of me, nor from up above or below. But the doors are less reliable, especially when you live directly across from party central. In fact, I’m probably the only one in the building who can hear anything, as muffled as it is.
It’s only a little after nine o’clock, and I’m under no illusions that this party will be ending any time before midnight.
I slap the sticky note onto the kitchen counter and stare at it.
It’s ridiculous.
My brow wrinkles as a whiff of something reaches my nose, and I lean in closer. Either Honey must have sprayed it with that flowery scent of hers or it’s just an effect of the paper having been in her general vicinity.
I should throw it away.
But I leave it.
The music suddenly shifts, now playing something that has a Latin rhythm, slow and sensual.
Despite myself, I find it appealing, standing in place long enough to listen for a bit.
I quickly snap out of it, realizing that what I should be doing is going to bed.
Though, it wouldn’t hurt to walk across the hall if only to tell my neighbor to turn the music down a little.
I shrug out of my overcoat, hanging it up on the hooks by the door.
I don’t know if the party is formal or not, but I can’t be bothered to change just to walk six feet across the hall and request some peace and quiet.
When I knock on Honey’s door I make sure it’s loud enough to rise above the music and chatter. It takes a moment. Just when I’m about to knock again, the door suddenly flies open.
I’m left temporarily paralyzed, speechless…breathless.
Honey greets me with that same smile that perks up my mornings.
But this vision of pink is nothing like the usual. Her dress is spectacular, and she looks spectacular in it. Even I can tell it must have cost a fortune, but whatever she paid for it, it was worth it.
“Ohh girl, it’s about time we had some sausage at this party! Especially meat that looks this tasty.”
That rudely snaps me out of my hypnosis and my eyes (reluctantly) tear away from Honey to find…yet another surprise.
Despite the over-the-top makeup, the person standing next to her is obviously a man. He (she?) is dressed in a skintight, hot pink, sequined gown, and platform stilettos that have him towering over everyone, even me. The massive wig of tiny black curls adds a few inches to that.
“You quit that now, Jheri,” Honey scolds with a laugh, slapping him on the arm. “You’re going to scare him away. This is the neighbor I was telling you about.”
The man (Jerry?) turns to give Honey an accusatory look. “Don’t tell me your ass has been worried about no Francis when you had this right here not six feet away—complete with his own bed.”
That creates a quick but colorful snapshot of Honey in my bed.
The name “Francis” erases it before it can have an unfortunate physical effect on me.
Who the hell is Francis?
“If you’re going to be debauched in front of my guests I’m forbidding you from door duty,” Honey warns her friend.
“Jerry” purses his lips and rolls his eyes. Then he holds out one large hand toward me, like some socialite. “I’m Jheri Gurl, Miss Gurl if you’re nasty.” He winks and titters.
“Jheri, this is Jesse Castiglione,” Honey says, enunciating my last name enough for me to divert my attention to her. Usually when someone takes pains to pronounce it in such a way, it’s meant to be an insult. The way it falls from her tongue makes it seem like she’s bestowing a prestigious title. “Jesse, this is Jheri Gurl, otherwise known as Jerome Maples.”
“Oooh, and he’s Italian to boot! How’d you know that was my favorite flavor?”
“Listen, I just came over to—”
“Get that glass of champagne I owe you,” Honey finishes, slinking one arm around mine and leading me in. As though reading my original intention, she continues on so I can’t get a word in edgewise. “I honestly didn’t think you’d come, but I’m glad you did. I always think it’s nice to have a good mix of people at these things. It opens up the dialogue. It reminds me of the Paris salons from long ago. And let me tell you, Jesse, ironically enough, you may be the most interesting one here tonight. Don’t let Jheri scare you, he’s really a gem. He just likes attention is all.”
Once again the scene inside her apartment surprises me. This time I’m less impressed than last time.
I feel like I’ve stepped foot into a circus.
In one tent I see a handful of drag queens. In another are people my mother would refer to as “arty,” in a tone that imparted exactly what she thought of such people.
Then there are women who are each stunning in their own way. There’s something about the three of them that shines brighter than the rest of the attendees—Honey excepted, of course. It’s as though their aim is deliberately to seduce. I can’t deny that even my eye is drawn to each of them, though I can’t put my finger on why.
The blonde, who looks like a perfect doll in a billowy, light blue ballgown.
There’s a redhead who looks like Jessica Rabbit in a green dress instead of red.
And the Latina who is the center of attention at the moment.
“That’s ‘Historia De Un Amor’ playing. Esmerelda’s song of course,” Honey says, following my gaze.
The gorgeous woman with dark hair and a backless, black lace dress that could easily cast a spell on a man has managed to capture every eye in the place. She snakes her body along to the sensual melody like a combination snake and charmer in one, leaving everyone mesmerized.
“Isn’t she divine?”
Honey’s voice snaps me back to attention, my gaze darting back to her, where it gets even more lost.
If Esmerelda is “divine” then Honey is a goddess. I think of all the flies that meet their doom in that thick, luscious ooze, only to die happy, and sense maybe the name is less ridiculous than I originally thought.
I’m annoyed to find that she has already poured a glass of champagne for me while I was lost in a state of disorientation. I’m even more pissed to find that the glass is a pink, frilly coupe with gold trim. It makes me feel like I somehow got lost and wandered into a debutant ball.
I should have known coming here was a bad idea.
“I suppose one glass won’t hurt,” I mutter as I take it.
Honey hums a little laugh as she arches one eyebrow. “A dangerous assumption.”
Something about that triggers a fierce and hot sensation in me, enough to make me think it is indeed a dangerous assumption.
“You arrived just in time for my first show of the evening,” she says with a wicked smile. It’s enough to have my blood surging again.
Damn, what this woman could do to a man.
A man who didn’t have his eye firmly on the prize.
“But first, I have to introduce you.”
Before I can protest, she dances past me and heads to the sound system to lower the music now that the song has come to an end.
“Attention, Attention!” she sings out, raising her hand rippling her fingers in the air. “I’d like to introduce y’all to a dear friend of mine, who just happens to live right across the hall from yours truly.”
I feel my brow furrow at how suggestive that sounds.
“This is Jesse Castiglione,” she says, waving her hand my way like a damn spokesmodel presenting a new car. “You have him to thank for the champagne you’re drinking. Without this one swooping in to save the day, lil ole me would have had to carry the entire case up all by myself.”
“Well, that one definitely deserves a cheers,” announces a man in a perfectly white suit with a pink dress shirt underneath. The combination is a bit too precious for my tastes. The way Honey gives him an adoring smile, makes me hate it even more.
The colorful crowd erupts with cheers.
It makes me long for the privacy and silence of my own apartment. I take a large swallow from my glass, all the better to finish it and leave.
“And since he’s here, I might as well get the show going myself, no?” She bats her eyelashes my way, as she grabs a pair of long, silk gloves to put on. “Strictly appropriate for mixed company of course.”
That gets a laugh out of everyone for some reason.
I’m too busy taking another long sip to try and decrypt any of this.
Honey searches out a song and hits play.
It takes me a moment to place it, only because I had to rewind the musical knowledge in my head a few decades.
“You Can’t Hurry Love,” by the Supremes.
Honey’s back is turned and the way she bounces in place has the champagne flowing a little more leisurely down my throat. The dress certainly does a nice job of highlighting her curves.
The attention is now firmly away from me, and for good reason.
Honey turns around and begins lip-syncing to Diana Ross. Everything from her facial expression to the way she moves her body is enjoyable. When she circulates through the crowd rapt with attention it somehow becomes more provocative.
A fingertip tracing a jawline.
A hip bumped against someone else’s.
An arm thrown around a neck as she leans in to tap her nose against…that man in the white suit.
Then the gloves come off.
Literally.
One lands around the shoulder of the pretty woman in the blue gown.
The other finds its way around my neck as Honey pulls me in close to sing the last words of the song.
While The Supremes warn the audience that love don’t come easy, Honey draws nearer and nearer until we’re only a few inches away from each other.
In that final moment, everything else is forgotten. The champagne in my hand. The absurdity of the crowd I’m surrounded by. Even the tune of the song.
It gets lost in those eyes. The scent of flowers. That dark pink lipstick. The lips it’s painted on suddenly no longer lip-syncing, but still parted just slightly…
The music stops.
The crowd claps and cheers in approval.
Honey blinks.
I clear my throat and pull away, the long satin glove slithering from around my collar.
She spins around, leaving nothing but the smell of flowers and a blur of pink as she bows for the crowd and quickly walks back to join them.
The next song has no show accompanying it, and I use the moment to try and finish my champagne.
Before I can, I’m accosted by the redheaded woman who fascinated me earlier.
“I’m Rose.” She tilts her head to scrutinize me. “I wonder why Honey has never mentioned you before.”
“We aren’t exactly close.”
“And yet here you are,” she muses, taking a casual sip of her champagne. She swallows and her eyes take a leisurely stroll up and down the length of me. “Though I have to say, I could think of worse distractions for our girl.”
Distractions? “I actually came over to ask her to turn the music down.”
“Oh, but the party is just getting started,” she scolds.
“I have to work in the morning.”
Rose laughs. “You’re obviously not in show business then.”
I don’t bother honoring that absurd suggestion with a response.
“If you’re going to strike, now would be the perfect time, while the poor dear’s heart is wounded. I for one approve, and I don’t even know you yet.”
I give Rose a bewildered look. “Honey and I—we…we aren’t…”
She laughs, as though my shock at her suggestion is a minor obstacle to overcome.
My gaze shifts to the woman of the hour as she leans in close to laughingly whisper something to that man in the white suit. The way he carries himself tells me that I probably have nothing to be jealous of…I think?
That’s if I even had a reason to be jealous.
Which I don’t.
I feel an ache come to my forehead as a deep crease of frustration etches itself into it, and I shake that feeling away. I turn back to address Rose. I’m struck silent by the knowing look on her face.
“She is quite the darling isn’t she? That’s why she’s so good at what she does.”
That has my brow smoothing out in curiosity. “What exactly is it that she does?”
“The same thing the rest of us overly dressed chickadees here do.” She pops one hip out and tilts her head back and to the side in the perfect pin-up pose. “Tease!”
I wait for her to expound on that, until I realize that’s all I’m getting.
“What do you mean by—?”
“Oh no you don’t Miss Rose. I know you ain’t stealing my man out from underneath me. I already called dibs.” An instant frown comes to my face as the man (presumably) who answered the door makes a sudden appearance. What was it…Jerry Girl?
“If anyone gets dibs it certainly isn’t you,” Rose says, raising one scolding eyebrow and giving him a bemused smile. “There’s only one girl here who gets to stake her claim.”
I can see what road this is headed down, I know a set up when I see one. The idea of Honey and me is…not even worth considering. What little I do know about the woman has not benefited from this party so far.
It isn’t that she’s not attractive, it’s that she’s like oil to my water. Or perhaps more like strawberry milk to my black coffee. The two just don’t go together.
My eyes instinctively slide to Honey once again, like iron to a magnet. Despite my earlier reassurances, I find a visceral surge of jealousy hit me at the fact that the man in white now has his arm firmly around her waist.
There’s a knock on the door and Rose, being closest, walks the short distance to answer it. Leaving me with “Jerry Girl.”
Tease Page 6
