“To answer your first question, I hire men.”
“You… What?”
My chest expands with irritation. I have no tolerance for this kind of judgment, and I’ll be disappointed, though not terribly surprised, if Nick heaps it on me like some hypocritical puritan.
“You heard me. I hire men to fuck me. Escorts if you want to be coy, but I don’t.”
“But you’re…” He looks surprised, as though he can’t imagine why someone like me would pay someone to have sex. But I don’t think he’s really thought this through. I mean, I’m an attractive woman, and I’m sure given a few nights at bars or clubs or wherever people are finding hook-ups now that I could find someone willing to get it on with me. It’s not that I don’t think I’m pretty or personable enough to get laid in a more conventional way, but that would require me leaving the house, so no-go. And if I actually wanted a boyfriend? Oh, jeez, let us count the ways in which I’m not exactly the world’s most eligible bachelorette.
“I’m what? A shut-in who literally hasn’t left my property for years? Yes, I can see how you’d think I’d be quite the catch.”
“Do people really care that much?”
Oh, the laugh that shoots out of me is more like a squawk. “Do people really care that I’m a severely agoraphobic hermit with massive anxiety issues? Uh, yes. It comes up. And makes it, as you’ve pointed out, difficult to meet people. So, yes, mostly I mail-order my sex. And hey, at least I know how much it costs.”
Jake is not inexpensive, but frankly he’s worth it. He’s kind, generous, a good lay, he respects my issues, and I genuinely like him. What’s not good about that?
Nick considers the situation, and my stomach churns as he does. Just because I know I’d be better off without him if he’s an asshat about this doesn’t mean I want to experience him being a dickwad. But as ever, Nick is an easygoing delight and shrugs.
“Yeah, okay. I get it.”
And then he grins.
I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop—always waiting, because it always does—but Nick… Apparently he genuinely does not care that I was Lauren Dempsey, aside from thinking it’s sort of cool. Nor does he think it’s a big deal that I get my sex the way I get my food: delivered to my doorstep. And that’s it. Truly. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that there isn’t another shoe. Because as far as I can tell, Nick wears shoes as little as possible, clothes not much more frequently, and can’t keep a thought in his head for shit. It’s pleasing, soothing, as is, strangely, the mischievous look on his face.
“If this whole music thing doesn’t pan out, think I could make it as an escort? I mean, you have to admit, I’ve got some moves…”
9
Dempsey
* * *
Oona takes a sip of her tea before plucking another macaron from the plate. It’s a good thing we don’t like the same flavors, otherwise sometimes I think there would be a fist fight. She always brings me treats when she visits. Which isn’t necessary since I can get essentially anything delivered to my doorstep, but it’s a nice gesture nonetheless.
She’s brought Fillmore, who is snoozing on the dog bed I got for Fiona. The little Schipperke looks absolutely ridiculous on the big pink poof, and he seems too quiet and too dignified, all curled up and not making a sound, whereas Fiona would be sprawled all over the place with her stubby little legs in the air, snoring like an animate chainsaw. It is fine, though, totally fine, that Nick is on tour right now and I’ll see him sporadically when he flies back for a couple of days at a time but otherwise… No, I don’t miss him. At all.
“Earth to Dempsey.”
“Hmm?”
Oona takes a nibble of her crisp cookie and lets her eyes roll back in her head. She favors the delicate flavors of rose, earl grey tea, and Madagascar vanilla, whereas I’m all about the bright and bold ones. Give me the lemon and the Colombian coffee and the raspberry. I think the only flavor we agree is divine is the sweet almond. Yes, we have strong feelings about macarons, okay?
“You’ve been awfully quiet and kind of distracted. Am I keeping you from important client business?”
Yes, right, because in the past, work is the only thing that could keep me distracted from one of Oona’s visits. Which is possibly sad, but I’m sure my clients appreciate my dedication.
“No. Everyone’s on track, nothing to fret about.”
It’s possible my voice is too falsely bright. I am not known for being chipper.
“There’s definitely something going on, then. Is it that guy you’ve been seeing?” She nods in the direction of the dog bed where Fillmore is still sleeping in a most refined manner. “You got a dog bed for his pup, must be serious.”
“It’s…” I want to protest. Serious? With Nick? There is nothing serious about Nick. And as much as I enjoy spending time with him, there’s this niggling part of me that thinks he might flake out on me someday. Not because he’s a bad person who would intentionally ghost someone—although I can’t honestly say I’d be shocked if he got tired of my anxiety and/or my resulting isolation—but because he got distracted by some new shiny. If that’s going to happen, while he’s on tour would be the time. “We’re just having fun.”
“You’re having fun often enough—and with his dog in tow—that you have a dog bed. And don’t think I didn’t notice the food and water bowls on the floor in the kitchen. Does he have a toothbrush upstairs, too?”
What an annoying woman. It’s weird sometimes, talking to Oona about men and sex because she’s kind of like my mom, but way better. Our relationship is this odd swirl of mother-daughter, friends, colleagues, and professional advisor and client. Not that Oona doesn’t trust me to manage my own shit now, but she does check up on my finances every so often, and I’ve stopped being offended by it and just know that’s her way of showing she cares. Bringing me macarons and telling me I should be putting more money into my retirement fund—this is how she says she loves me. Which I get and have perhaps inherited from her.
“He does, in fact, have a toothbrush upstairs. Dental hygiene is very important, and I wouldn’t want him to neglect it because he’s not sleeping at home some nights.”
She doesn’t need to know it’s become many nights. Although sometimes Nick stays with me until I’ve gone to sleep and then goes out carousing with his friends. As long as he’s not getting arrested—again—I can’t say I mind at all.
The look on Oona’s face tells me she doesn’t believe for a second that my extreme concern for dental hygiene is why I allow Nick to keep a toothbrush here. She also gets that mom expression. Oona’s never gotten married and she’s never had children, but the woman is still a mom to her core. Probably why she feels so much guilt over my life. I know she feels like she could’ve done more to protect my interests, but I don’t think she could have. My parents fired her because she wouldn’t go along with their plans for my money, so they found someone who would.
Show business is rough. For grown-ups, too, but for kids… There are so many people who want things from you, who are intent on squeezing everything out of you until it’s like getting blood from a stone. Not to say there aren’t stage parents who do right by their children, but not all of them do and, when they don’t, it’s really frigging ugly. Like life-destroying ugly. Because not only have they probably taken your money and fucked your credit, but they’ve likely also messed up your career. A career that fosters isolation in the first place, and now you’ve got no one to talk to, no one to trust, and the whole fucking world is out to get you, hurt you, humiliate you, take advantage of you. Yeah, it’s not exactly a mystery why I don’t leave my house. And it’s not exactly a mystery as to why Oona’s looking at me all concerned.
“I know you like this boy—”
“He’s twenty-eight; he’s not a boy.”
“Whatever. My point is that I hope you’re being careful.”
“Don’t worry, Ma, we use protection.”
“That is also not my p
oint.”
I know it’s not. Oh, I so know that. Though not getting an STI or knocked up is also good, so I think she could give me a little credit.
Oona huffs at me.
“My point is that you’re special. And from what I’ve seen of this Nick character—”
“He’s not a cartoon, and I’m not exceptional. Nor do I appreciate you treating me like I can’t handle myself. What is so awful about me having a little fun? Grabbing some pleasure wherever I can find it? Nick practically fell in my lap, and he’s probably the best and brightest thing that’s happened to me in the last year. He’s like a breeze going through a sealed-off room. He’s fun and we have a good time together and I just want to enjoy myself. What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, absolutely nothing. I just worry. And besides, you know I think you’re a very capable, very intelligent woman…”
There is so a but coming next. I can feel it breathing down my neck.
“But you also have some very real mental health issues that I know you are fully aware of, approach realistically, and deal with the best you can. And part of how you do that is by being incredibly orderly and conscientious. Nick seems like a tornado or some other kind of natural disaster. It’s not his fault he’s like that, and from what you’ve told me about him, I don’t believe he’d hurt you intentionally, but earthquakes and hurricanes and forest fires don’t choose to destroy. They’re not being malicious; they’re just doing what they do.”
“You forgot tsunami,” I mutter, my arms crossed over my chest, and I’ve slouched like I’m getting lectured by a parent or as though I’ve been sent to the principal’s office. Oona’s probably not entirely wrong, but she doesn’t know Nick, and I’m salty that she’s trying to take this away from me. Make one of the few good things I have into something else I should be afraid of. Don’t I do that well enough on my own?
“Okay, okay.” She waves her hands and reaches for the teapot. “You want some more?”
“Yes, please.”
And fuck yes, I’m taking another macaron. I don’t even feel a little bad when I snag the last almond one.
Nick
* * *
We may be on tour, but that is no excuse for missing one of Rowan’s races. Like, no, we can’t be there because we’ve got our own shows, and Zane’s been kinda absent being on the phone and shit with Rowan more often than usual, but I can’t really blame the guy. His girl is in a big race and she gets keyed up and stressed beforehand, and he’s not there to…do whatever it is he does to help her. Probably some sex thing. I don’t need to know.
And then we need to be around Zane because he freaks out whenever she’s competing. Probably because she wiped out pretty good during the last Snow and Ice Games, which is where they met in the first place. It’s kinda cute that he’s so into her and gets all protective and shit, even though Rowan can clearly take care of herself. But you wouldn’t know it with how twitchy Zane gets. Like he is now.
Sitting on the giant California king bed in his hotel room, Zane’s got his guitar in his lap, plucking absent-mindedly while his gaze is glued to the TV, Christian’s got his sticks that he’s softly beating out a rhythm on one of the ginormous pillows, Benji’s got his keytar, and Teague’s the only one not sitting on the bed. Nah, guy’s in what’s supposed to be an oversized chair but it’s like Teague-sized, and he’s typing away on his laptop. Probably setting some shit up for Christian’s side project or networking with other people in the biz or whatever else the guy does now that he’s knee-deep in the other side of what we do.
Me? I’m sitting on the bed, too, but I’ve got a Baby Groot fidget cube in my hands instead of my guitar. Saving my focus for the show later. Doesn’t hurt that Dempsey gave this to me before I left on tour. She knows I like to have shit in my hands to mess with, and I told her about the bowls I keep around my house filled with balls and other crap, but I can’t very well bring those on tour. This thing is perfect, though, because I can shove it in a pocket but it still keeps me occupied. Not, like, forever but long enough to do something like watch Rowan’s race.
She’s up at the end of the field, though, so in the meantime, we do what we usually do and rag on each other.
“Hey, Nicky, gotten arrested lately?”
I take one of the zillion decorative pillows from the headboard and chuck it at Benji’s head. He’s lucky he’s on the other side of the bed and that Christian and Zane are between us, otherwise I’d just fucking tackle him to the ground.
“Nah, man.”
Which is true. I haven’t really gotten into any trouble lately. I mean, not like legal trouble. I run my mouth and say stupid shit all the time, but mostly I’ve been up to my usual antics within the boundaries of Dempsey’s compound.
“So, what have you been up to?” Christian’s nice. He doesn’t even raise his brows and look surprised like the rest of them that I haven’t been out fucking shit up.
The rest of the guys turn to me, and I get kinda huffy. “What? You forgot about me because you’re all too busy being lovestruck a-holes, and now you’re surprised that I can entertain myself?”
They exchange glances, and yeah, that was a juvenile thing to say but really? Can they be surprised? It’s not like “mature” is the first word that comes to mind when they think of me. Obviously.
“Maybe I got a new hobby. Like collecting stamps or some shit.”
It’d be more likely that I got eight new hobbies and had forgotten about all of them, but whatever. And because we’ve been friends since before any of us hit double-digits in the age department, they’re fully aware of that and keep staring at me, also knowing I can’t keep my face shut about anything for more than five seconds.
“I’ve been busy, okay?”
“Are…are you going to like AA or something, man?” Papa Teague has set aside his laptop and is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees like he’s a dad in some cheesy-ass after school special. “It’s cool if you are, and you know we’d help you however we can.”
I guess I have been drinking and otherwise getting fucked up way less than usual, but it’s not like a recovery thing. It’s an I-have-better-shit-to-do thing.
“Nah. I just…”
Why do I feel weird about telling my best friends about Dempsey? What am I worried about? I’ve never cared before about talking about who I was fucking. Maybe they would’ve liked it if I kept it more to myself, actually.
But maybe like how Zane is fiercely protective of Rowan, I’m all ready to do some serious Battle Royale shit on Dempsey’s behalf. Like, I don’t care if she doesn’t leave her house, but the guys are gonna think it’s weird. Which I guess it is, but like I told Demps, we’ve all got our own quirks. What’s the big fucking deal?
“I met a girl, okay? We’ve been hanging out, and I like her.”
I’m not even looking at them, just rolling the tiny ball bearing in Baby Groot’s block head, but I know they’re all slack-jawed, bug-eyed staring at me. I know it.
“So do we get to meet this mystery girl sometime?” Zane prods.
“Maybe.” If you come to her house, because she never leaves. But maybe Demps would like that. Especially if I could get Zane to bring Rowan. Yeah, she’d fucking flip to meet Rowan. I’ll think about how to pull that off.
“Why haven’t you introduced us? You embarrassed because we’re such a bunch of losers?”
I shoot Benji a glare. He’s my bestie and I love the guy and he knows that’s not why.
“Nah, but we’re not, like, officially dating or anything.”
“Since when has that stopped you from bringing a girl out?”
Teague has a valid point. It never has. But there’s the whole agoraphobia thing getting in the way of that. Also I really like her and I kinda want to keep her to myself? And maybe if she doesn’t have any other options, she’ll keep liking me the best.
“It hasn’t. I dunno. I’ll figure out a way for you guys to meet, ok
ay? She lives in LA and she doesn’t fly, so it’s not like she can come out to—” Where the fuck are we again? I don’t even know. “Wherever. She’s really great, but there’s some stuff I gotta tell you about her.”
“I don’t mean to be a dick, but can we do it after Rowan’s run? She’s up next and I don’t wanna miss it.”
Of course Zane doesn’t want to miss it, and neither do I. It’s as good a reason as any to whoop and holler and maybe throw some shit. Plus, Rowan’s my girl. She kicks some serious ass, and it’ll give me something to talk to Demps about later because, odds are, she’s watching it, too.
“Yeah, man, of course.”
Zane climbs off the bed to get closer to the TV and to pace. Since I can’t stand to see someone else moving around and be still myself, I get up, too, and when Rowan takes off down the ice, tripping the timer at the top of the track, I yell, “More cowbell!”
Ten minutes later, we’re settling down from losing our minds over Rowan’s win. She’d been kinda cautious after winning the bronze in the SIGs, probably because she got a concussion and those aren’t fun, but it meant she hadn’t been ranked as high. Now, though, she’s definitely got her feet—skates? sled? whatever—underneath her and she killed it. Smoked her competitors by almost a second which is unheard of. But that’s my girl. I bet it was the Cheetos.
Now that we’ve stopped yelling and have cleaned up some of the feathers that went flying during my celebratory pillow fight with Benji, Teague punches me softly on the arm.
“So you gonna tell us more about this girl or what?”
Right. They want to know about Dempsey. And I guess I should tell them…something? But I don’t know exactly what because she freaked when she had to tell me about her agoraphobia, and I basically shrugged. As much as I love these guys and they’re my best friends, they’re not going to be as cool about it. At first. I mean, they definitely will be no matter what I have to do to get them to see it’s not really a big deal and Demps is the greatest. But maybe she wouldn’t want me to tell them? I don’t know.
The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Page 10
