by Susan Ward
I close my eyes against the bright light in the room. I need to get a grip. Slow things down. My life is out of control. I know that.
I look at the girl. Nothing underscores that grim reality better than my endless series of mornings after with anonymous bed partners. I don’t know what it is about the women today. They are so enticing and yet leave you so unsatisfied. They are like fucking heroin: the first hit incredible then every other trip without pleasure.
Every woman I go to bed with these days seems to know how to fuck, but none of them know how to make love. They are energetic instead of passionate, flexible instead of tender, full of fast-shifting positions and empty of intimacy. They try to impress me with their vast and creative knowledge on how to have sex. I haven’t met a woman in a long time who can impress me with her mind.
I drag myself out of bed and pour a scotch. I debate whether I should wake her and get it over with, or fortify myself before dealing with her and sending her on her way.
Christ, this shit is getting old.
I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I step in and stand there without moving, head leaned back against the tile as the dual streams hit me. Crap, I feel like shit.
Instead of washing, I stare at the phone mounted on the steam-covered tile. After twelve months on tour I’m finally back in the States.
Should I call Chrissie?
It could go either way. She could hang up on me or I could suffer one of those horrid interludes, her being gracious, me being an asshole, both of us wishing I hadn’t bothered to call.
I shut off the shower, deciding not to call her. I dress for an excursion on my bike. I need a long road trip on my Harley. I need to get lost for a while. Get away from everything. Everyone. Stop doing crazy shit every day.
I sink down on my bed. I call my assistant and tell her to clear my calendar for the next month. She starts to bellow why that isn’t possible. I hang up. I call the garage and order them to get my bike ready.
I walk toward the door and remember the girl in my sheets. I can’t just cut out on her, whoever she is.
I stop beside the bed, reach out a hand and shake her body. “You need to get dressed and get the hell out of here, love. If you’re a whore, I’d like to pay you first. If you’re a nice girl, leave me your number.”
She sits up in bed, pulling the blankets with her to cover her naked flesh. Morning-after modesty, another farce since the pile of used rubbers leaves no doubt what we did last night.
Those pouting red lips smile. Yep, Boston bred. The girl isn’t ruffled by any of this.
“I’ll bill you,” she says smoothly. “Though it is often considered a blurry difference, I’m not a whore. I’m your attorney. One of your divorce attorneys. I brought the finalized settlement contracts, and though you missed our meeting, I waited ten hours in this apartment for you to return to sign them since your ex-wife has an irritating proclivity to change her mind. I thought it best we jump on the offer and settle it fast since you didn’t have a pre-nuptial agreement.
“When I tried to explain, you jumped on me. I thought what the hell, it’s been a slow day and I’m earning five hundred bucks an hour for this. Why shouldn’t my job have an occasional perk? You have been interesting. I’ve never been laid by a man who holds an infinity band while he fucks me. I think it’s better I don’t tell you the things you mumbled. I’ll only warn you that you should be relieved that it’s covered under attorney/client privilege since my meter ticks until you sign those documents.
“The contracts are on the dresser. Please sign them so I can shower, dress and go. It’s Saturday, in case you don’t know what day it is, and I play racquetball at six. That I didn’t expect you to know. It was a subtle attempt to speed you up in the signing.”
Oh fuck. I stare at her, then I start to laugh. The humor surprises me, but then my attorney is charming and quick on her feet and very beautiful.
I go to the dresser. I start reading the contracts. “Thank you for not boring me with whatever I mumbled and thank you for promising to bill me so it’s privileged. You can, however, bore me by letting me know how much this is costing me.”
Panties and bra in place, my attorney scrambles from my bed, gathers her clothes and then snatches the signed contracts from my hand.
“Me, I cost you seventy-two hundred for this meeting. Your ex-wife cost you one-hundred-sixteen million, two hundred-twenty-seven thousand, a combination of cash, future cash, and an interesting assortment of personal property. You did, however, manage to retain the Malibu house that, against my advice, you battled her over, the bill from me five-hundred thousand over the value of it.”
I clutch her chin a little roughly and give her a hard kiss. “You, love, were a bargain.”
I leave her, half dressed and staring at me from my bathroom doorway. That sounded theatrical even to me. Chrissie would have given me such shit over those theatrics, but the girl seemed to be expecting something like that so I played along.
Chapter 6
I reach Nevada four days later and check into an unspectacular hotel off the Vegas strip.
I kick the door closed, and drop my helmet and pack onto a chair. It’s a hideous room. What a nightmare. But it’s better than one of the upscale casinos. The clerk at the front desk stared at me, blank. It would be impossible to go into the trendier scene and not have someone recognize me.
I’ve managed to stay out of contact with the world for four days. It’s better to keep it that way.
I pull my cellphone from my pocket and stretch out on the bed. The standard array of bullshit voice messages. I scroll through them. Brian. Fucker.
I hit the callback button¸ and remember the quote he gave Jesse for my biography.
Ring. Ring. Answer.
“Fuck you, Brian.”
A pause.
“Where are you?” he asks, a little worried, more exasperated, and blowing past my anger without even a nibble.
Fine. I’ll let it go. For now.
“Vegas. I needed to get away. Disappear for a while.”
“Manny, leave Chrissie alone,” Brian advises sternly.
Fuck. How dare he talk to me that way? Sometimes he forgets who works for whom. But I respect him for that, it’s what I’d say to me, and it’s right that Chrissie wins with him over me since Brian manages us both. But still, it pisses me off.
I rake a hand through my hair. Why does he assume that my abrupt change of schedule has something to do with Chrissie? I’m just traveling. Staying out of the mix for a while. I don’t even know where I’m going.
“What’s the matter with you, Brian? I’m in Nevada. Taking some downtime.”
“Don’t go to California. Hasn’t Chrissie been through enough? Don’t trash her life like you’ve been trashing yours.” There’s a ragged exhale of breath through the receiver and a long pause. “You’re not going to like where this leaves you. This scene ain’t going to be the one you hope for. I’m pleading with you as your friend. Let the past go. Leave Chrissie alone. Don’t see her.”
He sounds worried. Shit, what a ridiculous lecture.
“I’m in Nevada,” I repeat moronically.
“Have you looked at the papers recently? Have you watched the news?”
I tense. Fuck. I sit up. Alarmed. “No. Is there a reason I should?”
He exhales loudly again. “Shyla. She’s in the hospital. She overdosed on pills two days ago. It was a suicide attempt. It’s all over the fucking news. I don’t know how you missed it. The buzz is she tried to kill herself because of you. Left a note that said that and a whole bunch of other shit I’ve been working the phone for days to keep out of print.”
My reaction to the news bulletin—a prick of pity, followed by a flood of anger—isn’t probably an appropriate response in any way. I cringe. No wonder Brian wants me to stay clear of Chrissie.
God, is this the type of man I’ve become? A man who suffers only this vacant, fast-shifting reaction to finding out tha
t Shyla had nearly died two days ago.
“Send her some flowers from me,” I say. “Make it a vulgar display. Shyla loves vulgar.”
“It would be better if you went back to New York. Went to see her yourself. It wouldn’t hurt your image.”
Fuck that.
“I’m done with that farce, Brian. It won’t do my image or Shyla any good for me to visit her so don’t ask again. Tell her I’m relieved she’s going to recover.”
I rub my brow and try to contain the emotion pulsing through me.
“Christ, what the hell is wrong with the woman, Brian? I just signed over one hundred sixteen million. Why would any woman want to fuck that up because they are pissed off at me?”
I click off the phone without saying goodbye. The call leaves me with ragged tension to go along with the eye-burning road fatigue I had when I checked into the hotel.
My anger continues through the meal I pick at. It builds while watching the news spiced with Shyla’s drama. Brian is right. I shouldn’t go to California.
I reach LA the next day. I made good time across country, but then I didn’t partake of the local diversions when fatigue forced me to stop and book a room for sleep.
As enticing as the women along the way were, they were not enticing enough for me to indulge. I wonder if I’ve finally exhausted whatever is inside me.
I haven’t fucked a woman in five days. Practically a record this year. Maybe I’ve just worn myself out. I can’t even remember all the women I’ve slept with since Chrissie. I don’t remember any details of them when I remember Chrissie in perfect clarity.
But that’s her. Even the most casual moments spent with Chrissie are more fulfilling, more real, and infinitely more worth having. I’ve raged for a year to try not to think of her and the way we felt together the night after Jesse’s funeral. It’s left me only tired. It did nothing to cure me of wanting and loving her.
It’s early afternoon when I ride onto Highway 1 toward Malibu. I haven’t been in the Malibu house for over ten years. Cutting across traffic, I park in my driveway noting that the tabloid reporters are hovering across the street because of Shyla’s recent stupidity.
Tabloids—how do they always know? How did they know I would be coming to Malibu? I didn’t even know for sure where I’d stay after hitting downtown Los Angeles until I pulled into the driveway here.
I punch the code into the electronic door control panel and roll my bike into the garage. I enter the house and move through it toward the kitchen.
I come face-to-face with what must be my latest housekeeper, a pretty young Indian girl I’ve never met. She screams and jumps at the sight of me.
I remove my helmet, pull the Bluetooth out of my ear and drop them into her hands. “Don’t call the cops. I own this place. I’m Alan Manzone.”
She takes in a rapid breath. “Jesus. Of course you are. You scared me to death. No one told me you were arriving today.”
I’m sure they didn’t.
She’s a pretty girl, attractively turned out in a white bikini and sarong. There is sand on her feet, wedged between tiny toes, and her hair pulled tightly into a ponytail shows evidence of perspiration.
“Obviously not.” I look through the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass and find a beach towel on one of my patio loungers, a full pitcher of lemon water on a table, and an open book sitting beside an iPod. “Is there anyone else in my house or are you it?”
She blushes. “I’m here alone. When I was hired I was told absolutely no one ever in the house. Be ready for you at all times and no one in the house.”
I toss my gloves on the counter. “How long have you worked for me?”
She smiles. It is a pretty smile, young and exotic. “A bachelor’s degree and halfway through grad school.” Her voice is just a little impish, a smidge flirty.
I ignore it. I’m not in the mood for this. I just want not to be bothered by anyone.
“What are you studying?” I ask with a deliberate edge to my voice. “Where do you go to school?”
“UCLA. Environmental Economics.”
So the girl is smart as well as pretty. I go to the refrigerator, find it fully stocked and pull out a beer. “I am changing. I am going for a run. Then I’m taking a shower. That should take an hour and a half. I’d like my lunch ready—a salad, some kind of sautéed vegetables and a steak, medium— and then you packed and out of here.”
Her face loses color and her eyes go wide. “You’re not firing me, are you? I’m sorry I was sunbathing. But there is nothing to do. There is no one ever here, Mr. Manzone.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not firing you. Consider it more a paid vacation. Do you have somewhere to stay? If you don’t I can have someone arrange something for you. I prefer to be in the house alone. Didn’t Brian explain that you would never be permitted to stay while I am here? That leaving would be part of the job? I expect you to come, clean and stock the house. But only when I’m gone. Never while I’m here.”
She goes to the sink and makes busywork of washing her hands. “I don’t know. Someone might have. I don’t know a Brian. I don’t recall who hired me, but I’m sure his name wasn’t Brian.”
That makes me laugh. “I don’t know who hired you either, love. So consider us in the same boat.”
“It must be hard to be very rich and keep track of all you have.” She manages to say that without the slightest note of criticism in her voice. She turns off the water and reaches for a towel. “I love this house. It has good karma. I’ve worked for you five years and this is the first time you’ve come here. Why don’t you ever come here?”
Both the question and her observations irritate me. “Good karma? Christ, what is this—the sixties or just being in California?”
The girl reddens. “How long is my paid vacation for?”
“I don’t know. Make sure you leave your number. I’ll call when I need you back to clean and stock the house.” I am halfway out of the kitchen before I stop. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Aarsi.”
“I’m Manny. Don’t ever call me Mr. Manzone again or you’re fired. I’m Manny.”
That makes her unbend a little. “OK. Manny. You should find everything as you require in your room. They give detailed instructions on everything, but if I’ve somehow missed something you need, let me know. I want to make sure you have everything you need.”
She gazes at me steadily as if to give me a chance to assign my own interpretation to that. So the pretty UCLA graduate student is mercenary enough to make the offer and yet not shrewd enough to read that the offer is unwelcomed.
I wonder what the hell she thinks she’ll accomplish with that. If nothing else it is a bad move to fuck her employer if she wants to keep her job.
I stare at her wondering if I’ve misread the whole thing. She looks like a nice girl. It would be a pleasant thing to be wrong about this. I’m so tired of being disappointed by people and disappointed in myself.
“Don’t worry about me, Aarsi. You’ll find that I’m pretty easy to work for.”
I run for an hour feeling every ache inside my body left by this past year. It is January, slightly overcast, only fifty-five degrees on a Monday or the beach would have been more crowded and the run shorter. It feels good to be out in the open surrounded by practically no one so I run as long as I can until I know it is wise not to push it further.
I pause on the patio to stretch my muscles. I’m loose, relaxed and ready for a shower by the time I go in.
I enter the house, rubbing my face with a towel the girl had left on a deck chair, and find Aarsi stacking her belongings by the front door.
I frown. “You are not taking everything, are you? I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I didn’t intend for you to move out.”
Aarsi shrugs. “It’s no problem. I don’t know what I’ll need since I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Your lunch is almost ready.”
I toss the towel onto a chair. “I’m sorry. I wish
I could tell you how long I’ll be here, but I don’t know.”
“It’s no problem. Really.” She tries to shove books into an overstuffed woven rope bag. She can’t get them all in. Frustrated, she sinks to the floor and stares at them. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you prefer to stay in this house alone? It’s a big house. I could stay out of your way no problem.”
“I’m sure you could.”
She springs to her feet and goes into the kitchen. “I’ll start your steak now. Medium, right?”
“Right.”
I head down the hall to my bedroom, shed my clothes, and toss them into the hamper before I go into my bathroom.
There are fresh towels laid out, soap and shampoo on the shelf in the shower. I turn to see a robe hanging on the hook beside the door.
Everything always without my asking. So many people work for me who do nothing but see that I have everything I want without asking for it. I don’t even know most of their names. It makes me feel completely detached from the human race.
When I enter the kitchen I find my lunch on the table and the girl busy washing the pans. Christ, she won’t even look at me. I watch her for a while as I eat.
“It’s not you. That’s not why I’m asking you to leave.”
She looks over her shoulder, startled. “Did I say something? It’s your house. You can do what you want.”
“I just want to be alone right now.”
“I’m sure it’s very hard for you to find time alone.”
“No, actually it’s not. I’m usually alone.”
“Really? How strange. I sort of thought you’d be surrounded by people all the time.”
“Only when I’m touring. When I’m not on the road I sort of bounce off the walls and try to figure out what to do with myself. It makes me generally unpleasant. Most people can’t tolerate me until two, three months off the road.”
She laughs. “You don’t seem unpleasant at all.”
I take a bite of my steak. “Did you see where I left my phone?”
She dries her hands on a towel, goes from the kitchen and returns with my phone. “You left it on the front entry hall table with your keys.”
