Pucker Up: (Kiss Talent Agency Series, Book Four)

by Virna DePaul

  “I don’t have to open it,” I say out loud, as if hearing my own voice will convince me. “I don’t have to open it.”

  I can just keep my phone on mute. I can also turn it off. Hell, I’ll just print my boarding pass out at the ticket counter. I don’t need to use my phone. I’ll hail a cab to the airport like it’s 2010. I don’t need my phone for Uber or Lyft. I can raise my thumb like a normal human being. I’ll turn it off and ignore all the texts and emails and instant messages. I’m going to the airport, getting on the plane, and taking off without opening the link to Jenna’s blog. No harm, no nothing. I don’t have to see what it says.

  “I don’t have to open it.”

  I set my phone on my suitcase, pick up my half-finished beer, and walk away. I don’t stop walking until I’ve escaped to the furthest corner of my apartment. I try to focus on the traffic below, the clouds drifting across the skyline. I even watch the guy in the apartment across the street walking around naked even though he knows everyone can see his flabby ass.

  “I don’t have to open it.”

  I step toward the suitcase, but only make it a few feet before retreating back to the corner. The problem is I want to open it. I chuckle to myself, because I tried to rid Jenna of her fear and here I am huddled in a corner with my beer like a child with his blankie. I make it halfway across the room to the suitcase before I groan and stalk right back again.

  Maybe it’s best if I don’t open it. Jenna made up her mind the night she walked away, and I’ve started to heal from that. I have my own path set out before me and I’m happy with it. What is reading her new blog going to bring me, but more pain? What’s the point of ripping open wounds that don’t need to be reopened?

  So, I’ll just walk over to my phone, hold down the button until it asks if I want to turn it off - and turn it off. It’s that simple. I take another sip of beer and then another.

  My eyes wander back to my bare-ass naked neighbor. He waves. His penis waves as he waves. I give him a little nod and half-smile. If he can walk around naked in front of a skyscraper full of floor to ceiling windows, I can walk fifteen feet to a suitcase to turn off a phone. I can do this. It’s just one more hiccup, and then I’m out of here. I’ll finish my beer, grab my suitcase, and then I’m off.

  To start.

  With a deep breath, I finally make the incredible distance to my phone, pick it up, and squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for it to turn off. Turn off, turn off. I peek an eye open, and all I see is the volume indicator showing I have turned the volume up as high as it can go. Damn it. Wrong button. I fumble around for the right button, but I stop.

  I knew it all along. I knew I wasn’t going to turn off the phone. I knew I was going to click on the link. I knew I was going to open the page. I knew I was going to read what Jenna wrote.

  With my phone clutched in a white-knuckle grip, I sink to the floor and press the blue underlined hyperlink. For I second, I regret I have the latest phone with a super fast connection, since I don’t even have the time it would take to load to prepare myself. Suddenly, it’s there. Breathing hard, I read the title of the blog post.

  * * *

  Torch: An Update

  * * *

  My eyes fly across the page.

  * * *

  To start with, this is not a retraction of my earlier post regarding Torch. I stand by everything I said and believe at the time that those words were the truth, even if a slightly drunk version of the truth.

  I recently went back to Torch. Not for the highly anticipated, highly broadcasted redo dinner I ditched. But before that. I’m referencing the time I went to Torch where Chef Lee Bowers and I cooked in the back kitchen. This is a review of that experience.

  Some things from my first post remain accurate still. One, Lee still has the tightest ass in New York City. Two, Lee’s chest is still chiseled by the gods themselves. And three, Lee still smells fucking amazing. Like, all the time. Ladies, I’m serious.

  But many of the other things I criticized in my first blog have since changed, and thus the update. In that kitchen, alone with Lee, I saw a different man than the one I saw the night I made a fool of myself and drunkenly posted a blog online. I don’t think it’s that Lee has changed. No, I think this is who Lee has always been. But I saw a man without a mask. He was stripped of all the pomp and circumstance he usually wore like an Invisibility Cloak (shout out to all fellow Harry Potter nerds). Standing over the stove, I saw a man who loved his craft and wanted to share it with others. I saw a man who took chances and made daring choices, with both his food and his life. And, I saw a man that wanted nothing else than for me to have that same fearlessness.

  See, I’ve been hiding, too. This blog, the internet, this anonymity has been my mask. I’ve been too afraid to throw it off and reveal me. Not the manufactured, polished, glossy me. But me.

  So, I may regret this. This may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. And, yes, I’ve had a glass or four of wine. But I don’t want to live my life in fear. I don’t want to be brave only behind this mask I’ve created for myself. So, I’m going to type out the next sentence and leap, for once in my life:

  My name is Jenna Harrison and I love Lee Bowers.

  * * *

  The phone slips from my fingers.

  Chapter 21

  Jenna

  * * *

  After everything I’ve been through, I don’t think I’ll have any fingernails left. I’ve never been a biter, but pacing around my apartment all morning and now into the afternoon, I’ve suddenly developed an affinity for it.

  At first, I tried some yoga. Stretched across my rug in the living room, I tried to hold downward dog to calm my mind. But, my toes kept bouncing, and with my palms pressed against the floor, I wasn’t able to bite my nails, but I did chew my lip. Tree pose was no good, because my leg shook far too much to hold me up, despite supporting myself against the wall. Child’s pose, pigeon pose, cobra, dolphin, and whatever other animals I could think of. None of them helped still the anxious twitching in my fingers or calm the thoughts stampeding around my head.

  I almost stopped the blog post from going live. I came this close to canceling the schedule, deleting the words I typed, and calling in sick from work to crawl under the covers. I ended up calling in sick anyway, but I did let it go live. I forced myself to sit on my hands on the couch until my computer notified me that it was done. My words, more importantly my name, were up for all to see. No going back. It was done, and I couldn’t undo it.

  Strangely enough, I didn’t want to.

  But that didn’t stop me from biting at my nails as I waited for … well, I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for. Some silly part of me expected Lee to coming storming through the door like at the end of some cheesy chick flick. He’d sweep me up in his arms and kiss me and carry me to the bedroom and we’d have amazing, mind blowing sex as the screen faded to black. We’d still be banging long after the theater emptied, the teenage employees half-assed picking up the popcorn, and the next crowd meandering in for another showing.

  I’m halfway through biting my thumbnail right down to the quick, but my door still hasn’t burst open and Lee still hasn’t swept me off my feet. That’s not going to happen. At that point, I realize I have no clue if Lee even saw it. If I were him, I wouldn’t even keep reading my silly blog. Why in the hell would he? That would be insane.

  So, I steel my nerves and decide to be a little proactive. Baby steps. Posting the blog was a big giant fucking moon leap, but still. I open up the blog again and go to the instant messenger. My last conversation with Lee is still there. I ignore it and type a few lines and flip the screen away from me to resume my nervous nail-biting.

  Hey Lee, I’m sorry. You were right. I was scared. I hope you can forgive me. Jenna.

  Minutes later, something beeps and I lunge for my computer screen, but there’s nothing on the instant messenger. I scramble around for my phone, but find it without any new notificat
ions flashing on the screen. For God’s sake, the beeping is just my microwave.

  I sigh and plod over to my kitchen to retrieve the cup of warm herbal tea. I’m thinking it may help with the nerves. Or at the very least it’ll be something to hold so I can’t bite my fucking nails.

  I try watching some soaps. I even put on the Spanish ones to catch up on some language skills. Those only provide an hour or so of distraction, before I’m looking again at my computer and phone and even staring out my window as if I expect Lee to come strolling out of a cab.

  Maybe he’s at work. That’s why he isn’t responding. It is, in fact, a weekday so I guess it would be reasonable Lee is hunched over a pot in the kitchen. Rather than scrolling through the internet waiting for his ex – if you can even call me that – to post a tell-all blog and confess her love. I hope that is the reason.

  Because if it’s not that, then the alternative is that he has read it and he doesn’t care. He isn’t going to reach out to me, because he doesn’t want to. He’s finished with me and thinks I’m just some desperate embarrassing girl who seriously screwed up.

  I’m down to my last pinky nail on my left hand and for the sake of my own sanity, I snatch up my phone and dial Torch’s number that I know by heart. Tony picks up.

  “Hey, Tony, it’s Jenna. I –”

  “Jenna, Jenna my dear, how are you, sweetheart?”

  “I’m great. It’s just that –”

  “Why haven’t I seen you in so long?”

  “I’ve been –”

  “What happened to drinks, my love? I thought we were going to go paint the town red?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Tony. We will, we will, but—”

  “Have you heard of that new place in Brooklyn? Hello?”

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello?”

  “Tony? Can you hear me? Are you breaking up?” This is proving to be more difficult than I thought.

  “Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

  “You keep saying hello.”

  “That’s the name of the restaurant. The one in Brooklyn. Hello.”

  “Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s called Hello? That’s different. What kind of cuisine is it?” Wait, no. I’m distracted. Damn you, delicious new food. “Tony, listen, it’s kind of important that I talk to Lee. Is he there?”

  There’s a pause on the other end, and I assume Tony is searching around the place for Lee.

  “You don’t know, Jenna?”

  “What? Know what?” I stand up.

  “Lee’s sold all his restaurants. He’s sold everything. He’s leaving for Chile today.”

  “Uh …”

  “Oh, lovely, you didn’t know?”

  “No, I. I … um, do you know when he’s leaving?”

  “Five or six, I think. Maybe seven. I don’t know really, though. Could be four.”

  I pull the phone away to look at the time. It’s two. I’m standing there in my pajamas that I never changed out of today, telling myself it’s too late. He’s gone to the airport. He’s gone. But my feet move toward my door, and before I know it I’m slipping on shoes and grabbing my wallet and racing out the door.

  “Jenna? Jenna, you there?”

  I hear Tony’s muffled voice and laugh as I hop around anxiously in front of the elevator.

  “I’m going to go tell Lee I love him, Tony!” I practically shout into the phone. “I’m going to do it!”

  “About damn time, child,” Tony says, laughing.

  I hear him shout it out to whatever staff is present at the restaurant. As the door to the elevator closes right before I lose the signal, I hear clapping and whistling and cheering.

  “House call today,” I tell my doorman as he holds the door for me.

  He eyes me in my pajamas and no makeup and messy bun.

  “It’s a kink,” I laugh before running down the street.

  Thankfully, it’s New York City and cab drivers have seen far crazier people than a single lady in pajamas frantically jumping up and down next to a hot dog vendor. I bounce in the back seat of the cab and the driver doesn’t even attempt to start a conversation. I blurt out Lee’s address without even a polite hello. He merely nods and turns up the radio.

  Lee sold his restaurants. All of them? Did he sell all of them? And why? Why did he do that? Tony said he sold everything. What does that mean? His cars? His clothes? His furniture and XBox and toys? What about his beloved personal kitchenware? Did he sell that, too?

  “He got rid of his mask,” I say, suddenly realizing it myself. “That’s what he did. He got rid of his mask.”

  “What’s that, ma’am?” my cab driver shouts back at me.

  “He got rid of his mask!” I yell over the music. “Just like me. He did it. Can you believe it?”

  I’m grinning from ear to ear. The cab driver nods before checking to see how much further he has to drive me before he can shove me out.

  I roll down the window and take in a big whiff of New York City. It still smells like ass. But the best fucking ass. No, that’s Lee’s ass. His is the best fucking ass. That’s okay New York City, you get second.

  Wait, shit. He’s leaving. My happiness stalls for a moment. I might be too late. There’s a huge possibility I’ll get to Lee’s apartment, race up the stairs if the elevator takes too long, and knock on his door only to get no answer. At the front desk, they’ll tell me he turned in his keys a half hour ago and he’s gone. I should prepare myself for that eventuality. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

  But I can’t help it. I want to get my hopes up. I’m tired of keeping them locked up under the false impression that I’m keeping them safe. I don’t want to chain up my hopes, lash them down, bury them deeper and deeper and deeper. I want to watch my hopes soar up above these skyscrapers, higher and higher.

  If I crash and burn, I crash and burn.

  Lee will be there. I’ll walk into his apartment and he’ll be there and…

  I tap my finger on the cab seat and try my best to ignore whatever rust colored stain still lingers there. We’re getting close to Lee’s apartment building now. I watch the numbers on the street signs we pass. As the cab driver blares his horn at a group of idiot tourists, I think to myself I should have prepared more.

  That’s who I’ve always been: someone who prepares. I’m the one who prepares and researches and creates Excel spreadsheets and pros and cons lists. I run through multiple drafts and slave over brutal edits and carve and cut until it’s perfect. And then I edit some more. Yes, I’m a preparer.

  And here I am in a cab with no preparation whatsoever. Hell, I’m not even wearing real clothes. Perhaps if I had my suit …

  A ridiculous imagined scenario pops in my head, making me laugh. The cab driver glances at me in his rearview mirror, then shoves the accelerator down even more.

  I’m imagining myself walking into Lee’s apartment building and informing the receptionist that I have an appointment with Mr. Bowers.

  “Mr. Bowers, I have a Miss Harrison for you,” she’d say, leading me in.

  Lee would give me a confused look as I hand him my meticulously detailed report on why I’m sorry and how much he means to me and how I’ve changed because of him. He’d thumb through the seventy-eight-page report, bound and tabbed. He’d watch me with his head cocked as I pull out my numbered note cards and prepared to deliver my polished and tailored speech.

  “Mr. Bowers.” I’d clear my throat. “I’d like to start out by thanking you for agreeing to this meeting this afternoon.”

  “Why are you calling me Mr. Bowers?”

  I’d ignore him. “Over the course of the next forty-seven minutes, I will be presenting numerical and indisputable evidence of how you have made me a better person.”

  “Will there be bathroom breaks?”

  “In your report, you will find an outline provided.”

  “You’re wearing pajamas.”

  “You will see each point is divided into three sub-points with
three sub-sub-points for each sub-point.”

  “Should I be taking notes?”

  Yes, I can see Lee sprawled out on his couch, snoring with his hand over his face as I ramble on and on and on. He’d jostle awake and pretend he’d been listening the whole time when I finally said at the end of exactly forty-seven minutes: “I appreciate your generous attention. I am now open to any and all questions. Thank you again.”

  My cab driver screeches to a jerky halt in front of Lee’s apartment building. I barely have time to swipe my card, take my receipt, and tumble out of the back before he’s peeling out into blaring traffic. He cuts off a pedicab to swerve into the farthest lane, as if he’s afraid I’m going to call him back.

  I greet the doorman who, unlike mine, doesn’t think I’m a hooker. If Lee is here and not yet on his flight, I’ll have to return the favor with his doorman on my way out. At the elevator, I lamely attempt to fix my snarl of hair using my dim reflection in the gold-plating on the doors.

  Of course, I could have prepared. I could have procrastinated doing what I am doing right now as I prepared. I’d convince myself I wasn’t ready yet. Next week, I’d tell myself. And when next week arrived, I’d look at my preparations and think, no, next week is better. I’d then convince myself I meant it. Next week, I’ll open up to Lee in person. And I’d believe myself. I really would.

  But the next week would come and go. The moment I swore would be the moment would come and go. My ‘next weeks’ would be endless.

  That’s all I’ve been doing my whole life, promising next week after next week after next week. Right now is my next week. I’m stepping out of the elevator right now. I’m walking down the hall right now. I’m standing in front of Lee’s door and knocking.

  Right now.

  And I am so fucking unprepared.

  Chapter 22

  Lee