Sex, Lies and the Dirty

by Nik Richie

  “No, I run The Dirty.”

  She sips her drink, shrugs cluelessly. “What’s that?”

  “I’m a blogger…Nik Richie,” I tell her, pausing to see if the name rings a bell, but none of this is registering and it’s pissing me off a little. I ask, “How do you know Lonnie?”

  “How everybody knows him,” she rolls her eyes. “Through Geisha House.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of you.”

  “I’m Shayne Lamas—I’m on a show called Leave It to Lamas55,” and she says this much in the same way I did when I rattled off my credentials: like I should know this already. “My father is Lorenzo Lamas,” she tacks on.

  “Okay, name-dropper…relax for a second.”

  “I’m totally relaxed, buddy,” she says half-mockingly. “So what are you doing here? In Vegas,” she flutters her empty hand in the air. It’s like she doesn’t really care what my answer is but she’ll talk to me just until Lonnie gets back, so I get a little smug.

  “Well, I’m actually hosting Tao this weekend,” but I say this flatly—not like I’m bragging or anything. Shayne takes a sip of her drink, thinking about what I’ve just said to her.

  “So…you’re a blogger, and you’re out here in Vegas…hosting events?” she recaps. Her face sours a little, and she says, “I don’t know. Sounds like kind of a loser thing to be doing if you ask me.”

  She calls me a loser. Not teasing or poking fun. She genuinely means it. For the first time in two years, someone is calling me a loser to my face and treating me like I’m just some random dude. Then, to top things off, Shayne loses control of her drink and spills it on me. Jack and Diet soak into the Venetian robe and Shayne blushes, apologizing profusely, so I take advantage of the situation and offer to buy her another drink.

  Like a goddamn gentleman, I say, “Let me get you another one.”

  “But I spilled it on you. I don’t need your money.”

  “Look, it’s not about money. I was trying to be nice is all.”

  I’m thinking, What a fucking bitch!

  And Shayne, it’s obvious something along the lines of This guy’s an arrogant prick is going through her head.

  It’s the worst ten minutes of conversation I’ve ever had with someone in a very long time. We have no connection, no chemistry. In fact, the whole first impression is a bust—a pissing match of who’s more famous, who has more notoriety. You’d never look at the two of us and think we’d be married in the next 24 hours.

  I’m walking Shayne over to a cheerleading competition that’s going on inside the hotel, limping a little bit because the gash on my leg is still on fire. Bum leg or not, there’s no way I’m letting this girl call me a loser and walk away scot-free. Nobody does that. Nobody. Certainly not some chick who thinks she can name-drop me into submission, so in a way, Lonnie’s plan worked. He got my mind off things. Shayne got my mind off things, I should say, and that puts me in a hard situation: making the choice between going home and getting better…or chasing. Chasing this girl.

  “My sister—she’s thirteen,” Shayne says, “and we’re all here to see her cheer but my stepmom was annoying the hell out of me, so I left.”

  “What was she doing?”

  “Drinking,” she says, giving me a look to see if I’m passing any sort of judgment. I don’t bother mentioning that I almost got alcohol poisoning last night or how I got the gash on my leg. Shayne says she’s thinking about going back to L.A. in a tired voice. We walk through the hotel, but now I’m not thinking about how to one-up her or anything like that.

  I’m trying to figure out how to get her to stay.

  Back in my hotel room, I’m putting the plan into action: book a flight, pack up, and check into rehab. I’ve texted Scooby to let him know I’m taking off, and am currently looking into Promises to see what their guidelines are on Internet usage. Ultimately, that will determine whether or not the site goes on hiatus or if I continue to run things from the clinic. Of course, posting about drunks and cokeheads might be frowned upon. There’s also the issue of what kind of program I actually need. Intensive Outpatient Treatment doesn’t require any sort of check-in, but since I’m surrounded by all the wrong people, the kind of people who expect me to lead the party, perhaps that kind of freedom would be a bad thing.

  It’s all a bit disconcerting but I have to do this. I almost died twice. If I keep this up, if I continue to play this Nik Richie role of partying and fucking and doing whatever I want, it’ll go too far and my luck will run out. Next time my friends throw me into bed after a wild bender, I might not wake up.

  I’m in the middle of my whole research process when I get a text from a random number: What time is dinner?

  Actually, maybe it’s not that random at all.

  A couple of hours ago I met Shayne’s stepmom, Shauna Sand 56, and her sister, Victoria. We were introduced. Both of them kind of gave me the who’s this guy look because I was wearing a stained bathrobe and (unbeknownst to me) a backwards fedora. They were standoffish, and Shauna, as Shayne has mentioned earlier, was drunk and acting a bit belligerent. Slurring. Off-balance. Occasionally, Shayne would have this look on her face like she couldn’t have been more embarrassed. I felt bad for her, but it wasn’t my place to say anything so I kept quiet.

  We left the competition together shortly after, and Shayne asked what I was doing in an offhanded sort of way. She was making conversation, not trying to see more of me or anything like that.

  I told her, “I’m doing that celebrity appearance at Tao tonight. You should come out,” tacking this on like an afterthought. Not how I meant it. Honestly, I really wanted her to go.

  “I don’t think I’m doing anything,” she said. “I might go home.”

  “No, come out,” I press a little bit harder, but still keeping it casual. “How about you come out, you can be my dinner date, and then you can check out Tao with me? It’ll be fun.”

  Shayne wasn’t into it, though, so in a last-ditch effort, I gave her my number and said that if she changes her mind, to shoot me a text. In no way did I actually expect her to do it.

  So her getting hold of me to find out what time dinner is—it’s not so much random as it is completely unexpected. I’m a little confused because it’s clear that Shayne doesn’t like me, but here she is texting me, wanting to know what time she should be ready for dinner. Then another text comes in that reads: My step-mom and I aren’t getting along…really don’t want to be around her right now.

  Out of all the people in Vegas, this girl, this apparent celebrity, contacts the guy she’s known for a total of a few bad hours. Right in the middle of a personal crisis, Shayne is fucking with my plans. My recovery. The little angel on my shoulder is telling me to leave Vegas, get well, get my life back together. The devil reminds me that this is a girl that Lonnie Moore hooked me up with, and Lonnie Moore doesn’t hook you up with good girls. Lonnie gives you girls to fuck and throw away, so this Shayne Lamas chick is a red flag. She should be, but before I even know I’m doing it I reply back to her. Meet me in front of Tao at nine, I tell her.

  No way is she fucking going to show, I’m thinking.

  Why would she? It’s been a disaster so far. Her wanting to see me again doesn’t make any sense, but I want to be prepared anyway. On the off chance that’s she not fucking with me, I need to have all my ducks in a row.

  I text Strauss: I got a girl that I want to bring to dinner. I LIKE HER.

  No bullshit. I fire it off in all caps and everything like I’m fifteen years old.

  Strauss says: No problem.

  Immediately, I text Shayne again: You gotta come now because we’re having dinner with the owner.

  I’m being Nik Richie again: showing off, acting like a big shot, but it’s different this time. I don’t want to impress her for those same temporary reasons I do with other girls. I’m showing her that I’ve got resources, things worth sharing. I can be a provider.

  Scooby and JV are hitting me up about d
inner, too. Those twenty-five girls from ASU got some sort of package deal where they spend the weekend with us, so now my guys are trying to get the details on where their table is and all that. I cut them off. No replies. They can figure shit out for themselves for once. I’m going on a date. A real date. Haven’t gone out with a girl like this since high school. These bottle rats and fame-chasers—I ask the ones that I like to come out to dinner with me but they never do it. They’re all about the photo op and sitting in the best section at some nightclub. They avoid genuine connection, and now that I have a chance at one with Shayne, I’m protecting it.

  I don’t want her to see that part of my life yet.

  For the first time in years, I don’t want to be Nik Richie.

  Outside of Tao, around nine, I’m waiting for Shayne to meet me when Scooby comes up asking me what’s going on.

  “You need to leave me alone right now,” I say. It’s about the nicest way I can snub him. Then I see Shayne approaching—totally fucking gorgeous: Gucci scarf and top, YSL shoes, a model, a perfect ten. Every guy in the lobby is craning their neck to check her out, but she’s looking straight ahead. At me. Only me. Scooby can tell we’re zeroing in on each other, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on here, but he can’t know yet. It’s important that I keep Shayne as far away from certain parts of my world until the time is right.

  We meet in the middle.

  I say, “Thank you so much for coming. I honestly didn’t think you were going to show.”

  She smiles, reassures me, “Of course I came. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, we didn’t exactly have the best conversation.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. The past is the past.”

  And in a moment when I’m trying to fix myself, my life, those words click:

  The past is the past.

  The past is the past.

  The past is the past.

  I take her hand, folding it into mine, and we walk as a couple into the restaurant.

  It’s Strauss, his date, myself and Shayne, and we’re sitting at “the owner’s table” which is located in the corner of the restaurant. Private. Away from the crowds.

  Strauss leans in slightly, toward Shayne, and says, “You look really familiar. Are you Shayne Lamas?”

  “Yes,” she says, and then Shayne gives me this look like, See? People know me.

  I let her have the win. I’m happy. I’m on a date with a bombshell, having dinner with the owner of the restaurant. Finally, I get to do little things like pulling out a chair and making sure a person is comfortable, not getting wasted. We’re talking like adults, not yelling over some DJ’s house set. It’s civilized. Grown-up. It’s the thing Nik Richie has been missing out on.

  Then I see JV walking toward our table: skater shoes, ball cap, probably stoned out of his mind. It’s embarrassing on more than a few levels.

  “Hey boss, where are we sitting?” he asks.

  “I have no idea, JV,” and then I shoot him this look that I’m hoping, praying he’s got enough sense to interpret: go…get the fuck away…don’t talk to me—don’t even look at me.

  He turns and goes back the way he came.

  “Who was that?” Shayne asks.

  “Oh, he works for me. He’s a good kid.”

  What I don’t say is that JV is a friend of mine, that he’s one of the few people that I trust, but I can always revisit that later. As far as I’m concerned, it’s probably best that Shayne knows as little about what I do and whom I associate myself with for the time being. I’m being selfish with this moment, and Scooby and JV are just going to have to deal with that.

  Shayne excuses herself to use the restroom, and as soon as she’s out of earshot is when I ask Strauss, “Okay man, who is she?”

  “She’s a celebrity, man,” he says. “Seriously, how do you not know who you’re dating?”

  “What has she done?”

  “The Bachelor57…she won it.”

  “Must have missed it.” Adding, “She doesn’t really know much about me either.”

  Strauss smirks, “And I get the feeling you’re okay with that for some reason.” He motions to what’s going on across the restaurant: JV, Scooby, and twenty-five ASU girls being seated at a long banquet table. Scooby and I make eye contact, but I turn quickly turn away from him and my old life.

  Dinner was nothing short of wonderful, although a bit stressful as I essentially had to hide the fact that I was supposed to be at that table of twenty-five college girls. I’m also noticing that as Shayne and I spend more time together, the personal questions regarding who I am and what I do are on a steep incline. We’re past the point of trying to outdo the other person. Shayne wants to know me. She wants to get acquainted, but I’m resistant for fear that she might not like what I tell her.

  So when Shayne asks me, “What’s The Dirty?” I say, “It’s just a website.” No frills. Short and to the point.

  For the first time, I’m downplaying the thing I was once so proud to be associated with. I’m afraid that unlike every other girl, Shayne might be turned off to the whole idea of it.

  She says, “Well, I’ll have to check it out.”

  I say, “Nah, it’s no big deal. Really.”

  For the entire night, I run from Nik Richie for the sake of Shayne. I ditch JV and Scooby and all those girls, running off to Tao. Just Shayne and myself. At the club, I get a different table from the one I was scheduled to be at. Something private. I introduce Shayne to the management and a few other people. Affluent people like Brandon Rocque and Mathew Glazier. She doesn’t know the connection, only that they’re all happy to see me and they’re important, apparently. DJ Vice is spinning, and I leave Shayne briefly under the premise that I’m just saying a quick hello. Vice shakes my hand, and I tell him I really need his help tonight.

  “I’m with Shayne Lamas tonight,” I say, and Vice nods like he knows the name. “I need you to shout her out like a hundred times tonight.”

  Vice smiles, nods, says, “No prob, man. I got ya.”

  Rush back over to Shayne who’s having a drink, smoking a Marlboro Light. Normally, I hate smokers, but I’m okay with her doing it for some reason. DJ Vice gives Shayne a shout-out and her ears perk up.

  “Was that my name he said?”

  “Hmm, maybe,” I smirk, playing cool.

  We drink, hips touching in our little private booth, and I’m sort of glad it’s loud in here because we have to get mouth-to-ear in order to talk. It’s those little things like feeling her breath in my ear or her smell that get me, the way she smiles. DJ Vice gives Shayne another shout-out, and this time she knows she just heard her own name.

  “Nik! Are you doing that?” she laughs.

  “Hey, you’re famous. I can’t help it if you’re getting recognized.”

  We sit there in the club, drinking casually and talking in what looks like whispers to the crowd. It’s a date. We’re a couple. Tonight, Nik Richie is here for one woman, not the twenty-five ASU girls across the club. Not the bottle rats or the fame-chasers. From time to time, I’ll get a text from Scooby or JV as to whether or not I’m going to come over and hang out, but I don’t even bother answering. They can have it all: the girls, the booze, and the special treatment. I don’t care anymore. DJ Vice gives Shayne another shout-out, maybe the thirteenth or fourteenth of the night, and she’s blushing hard enough to see in the almost-dark. She leans in, and I think it’s to say something in my ear but then she kisses me. A little one.

  I say, “That’s not a kiss.”

  She smiles and comes back at me, harder this time, lips sliding over mine. A real kiss. A meaningful one. I can feel it throughout my entire body, in my heart, like I’m a kid that’s doing it for the first time.

  “We should get married,” she says, smiling like it’s a joke but not completely. She laughs, takes a sip of her drink and curls into me.

  I say, “I know. We’re kind of perfect for each other,” but she has no idea how muc
h I’m downplaying it.

  In reality, I’m thinking, I’m done, I’m yours, I want to have babies…get me the fuck off this Dirty train.

  “There’s something I don’t get,” Shayne says. “You’re hosting, but you don’t have any friends here…I mean, is this really your table?”

  I feel like I can be open with her now.

  I say, “I’ll be honest with you—that table with the twenty-five chicks,” and I point so I know Shayne’s looking at the same spectacle I am. “That one’s mine.”

  “That one?” she points too.

  “Yeah, don’t judge me.”

  It’s our little moment of truth, but instead of getting all weirded out or turned off to the idea that I’m some kind of player, she smiles. Shayne kisses me again, because what she sees is that I could be over there with the girls, all those young stupid girls, and yet, I choose to be here with her. I want Shayne, and I’d give it all up to be with her.

  We tried to get married last night.

  One of the big misconceptions about Vegas is that people think it’s so easy to get married, as if you can just drive through some chapel and it’s a done deal. It’s not. We found that out the hard way. We tried, but everything was closed down for the night and getting married is a process with documents and paperwork. It’s not like the movies where you can make a snap decision and it’s over before you know it.

  Regardless, I wake up feeling good—better than I’ve ever felt.

  Shayne is in my arms, curling hard into me like we’re on our honeymoon. We’re in bed. Nude. Warm and comfortable. We made love last night. I took my time with her because I never wanted it to end, still don’t want it to end. Even now. I’d love to just lie here with her body pressed into me, breathing, kissing. Last night I told Lonnie I’d see him before he went back to L.A.

  In the bathroom vanity, I’m looking at myself smiling, smiling like a goddamn happy idiot who’s doing the wrong thing that feels right. I’m thinking, You’re doing it again…you’re chasing…you’re gonna chase this girl and she’s going to hurt you.