Still In Love With Her

by Z. L. Arkadie

  Francesca recoils as Delta fills the indentations and sniffs two lines of white powder. “You’re a fucking junkie?”

  “No,” he says as though he’s not sure.

  “The fuck you’re not. No way am I getting involved with a junkie.”

  Monroe and I are shocked. We would’ve never guessed Francesca has such an aversion to blow. I figure it’s a common practice in the thespian culture.

  “Hey, I can attest that he only does it when he parties,” Monroe says.

  “How often does he party?” Francesca’s English accent isn’t very strong, since she was born and raised in Connecticut, but it’s pronounced enough to make her sound condescending. When Monroe doesn’t answer, Francesca says, “Right… I want to improve my image, not flush it down the loo.”

  I raise a hand to halt Monroe from saying whatever she was going to say. “You have a valid point,” I say to Francesca.

  “Don’t call me a fucking junkie!” Delta says.

  “But coke up your nose is so nineteen-seventy done,” I say. “Marijuana is legal in two U.S. states, and it doesn’t bake your brain the same way other narcotics do.” I focus on Francesca. “What if he replaced one with the other?”

  “I can handle my shit,” Delta says, sniffing and wiping his nose.

  “For now, you can,” I say before Monroe can respond. “See that’s the thing about ‘junkies.’ You have it under control until one day it controls you. I know you feel invincible and shit, but you’re a fucking human being. Just like me.” I point at the twins. “Just like them. You will fall. How far is up to you. So if you want me to change your fucking image, then you’re going to do what I say next… rehab.”

  Monroe is speechless. We’re very different in that I’m ready to walk. For so many reasons, I want Delta to get over himself and follow the program. We cannot begin to change his image if he’s calling the shots and telling us what he will and won’t do. I’ve gotten to him. I can tell because I’ve never seen him look so angry.

  “Then it’s a fucking negative,” he says. “I’m not going to fucking rehab.”

  I down the drink in the glass. The contents are so strong that it stings my brain. My eyes water and my nose burns, but I show no signs of that. I stand up, and my head is spinning. “We’ll annul the contract,” I say to Monroe.

  “Where are you going?” Francesca asks.

  “Back to the hotel. I’m wasting my time here.” I feel the air dancing on my skin.

  Delta has gone from frowning to smirking. “Sit your ass down, Maggie. I’ll give you one stint in rehab. I pick the place.” He turns to Francesca. “How does that sound?”

  She points her chin at me. “Throw in a night with her, and you have a deal.”

  “There will be no nights with me. Tell her, Delta.” The look on my face dares her to object.

  Delta turns the corners of his mouth down and shakes his head. “She’s asexual.”

  Francesca studies me intensely. “He goes to rehab in Newport. It’s where I went.” She lifts two fingers. “Two years sober.”

  I blink slowly. “Then we have a deal?”

  Delta whispers something to Francesca, and they grin at me.

  “I’m in,” Francesca says.

  The room is spinning. Delta and Francesca engage in a slobbery kiss to seal the deal. My head is spiraling up a vortex, and I’m flooded by happy feelings. We’re signing our second client, I’ve resolved my issues with Robert, and I’m ready to…

  Francesca takes my hand. “I want to dance!”

  I’m ready to dance! I’m splitting the crowd. I can’t feel my feet hit the floor. Perhaps I’m walking on air. Disco lights spray my face. Vince is my partner. His smile is made of diamonds, and his eyes are like emeralds.

  I beam. “You’re here.”

  He’s shirtless. I rest my cheek on his chest. His skin feels like velvet.

  “Didn’t I promise that I’d never leave you?” he says.

  “Yes, you did, and I always believed you.”

  We shuffle to a slow, rhythmic, sexy song. Our eyes are fastened on each other. His hands are like vines caressing my waist. They grow up to my breasts and down to my hips. I close my eyes as the vines sweep around my thighs and my clit. I fall into him. Wetness and warmth covers my nipples. I moan.

  “Vince…” I sigh.

  “No, no, no…” Monroe’s voice fills my head. “Not like this.”

  The sensations dissolve. I’m sitting, and the world is moving in slow motion. Where did Vince go? The spotlight illuminates a single glass of wine.

  “Open your eyes, Mags!” Monroe says.

  It’s time to toast to success. Liquid warms my throat. The dark-haired twins grind on each other. A head bobs against Delta’s lap. It’s the man with the slick hair. Delta is panting, his eyes are hooded, and he’s staring at me. A Marilyn Monroe lookalike plays with the hem of her dress as she changes poses.

  “Are you okay?” Monroe asks me.

  I grin and signal with my fingers that I’m “A-OK.” I close my eyes. I open them.

  Delta is reciting a scene from Romeo and Juliet. He slides his thumb across my lip. “Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks?”

  “Suck, Maggie,” he says.

  I suck his thumb. He grunts then sucks his thumb after me.

  Francesca leaps in front of him. She pretends to swallow poison. “O true apothecary,” she yells as if she’s playing a scene in a rock drama. “Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss, I die.”

  Her face moves toward mine. Teeth nibble on my lower lip, and a tongue sinks into my mouth.

  “Back off,” Monroe says. “Not when she’s like this.”

  I close my eyes. When I open them, Francesca and four other men are singing in Italian.

  “C’é un concerto,” the good-looking guy in the red silk shirt says.

  “I want to see!” I say.

  “We can go then,” Monroe says.

  “Andiamo!” he shouts.

  My arms and legs are buoyant. I’m dancing, surrounded by a sea of crying, singing, moving bodies. It’s raining. The sounds are bold. The man’s voice is passionate. My heart swells with love.

  “I love you, Vince!” Ti amo, mio amore… Solo te. Solo me. I sway with my hands over my head. My limbs are as light as feather. “I do!”

  I’m seized from behind. Something wet and soft slides up the side of my neck. My breasts are groped.

  “Hands off!” Monroe shouts.

  I shut my eyes. I open them. The space is constricted and dim. I’m sitting on a leather reclining chair. Marilyn Monroe is riding the cock of one of the Italian singers. The twins are entangled with Francesca. The man with the slicked-back hair is blowing Delta.

  “Are you sure she doesn’t need a doctor?” Aiden asks.

  “Drink this, Mags,” Monroe says.

  I must’ve swallowed whatever Monroe gave me because liquid slides down my throat and satisfies my stomach. I can’t move my arms or legs, and my eyes won’t stay open.

  I scramble to sit up on the king-size bed. I look down at myself. “What the hell…”

  I’m wearing a blue leather minidress. The last I remember, we drank to Francesca signing on with us. Where am I, and when did I put on this dress? My head feels funny. My nausea passes.

  “Shit.” I slip my fingers up and down my slit. No stickiness, dampness, or soreness. No sex. I sigh with relief.

  I make a feeble attempt to call for Monroe. My throat is too dry to compete with the blaring music. I stand up too fast, and dizziness makes me sit. I try again, this time much slower. That’s better.

  “Cell phone.” I look around the room for my purse or anything else I can recognize. My suitcase is against the wall, so I rush over to unzip it. My purse is on top of my other things. I search through it and find my phone, but it’s out of power. “Shit. Monroe, where the fuck are we!”

  The floor is shifting. I’m not on solid ground. I climb a short flight of steps, which l
ands me on the deck of a yacht. Sun stabs my eyes. I squint as the achy feeling in my head settles. The atmosphere is too bright for London. The sea is aqua and holds clusters of coral reefs. Trees blossom on an island in the not-so-far distance.

  “Am I…”

  “You’re up from the dead?” Monroe says.

  I grab my head and spin around. Monroe is standing in the doorway I just walked out of. She’s wearing a tiny white lace bikini, and her hair is messy. She looks as though she’s had a lot of sex.

  I point at the grassy islands around us. “Are we in Australia?”

  “I knew you were as high the Milky Way. You don’t remember a thing, do you?”

  “Not if we’re in Australia.”

  Monroe shakes her head. “Delta had the waiter mix you a cocktail. I’ve never seen you have such a good time. I got a kick out of it.”

  I frown as she chuckles. “How the hell did I get into this dress?”

  “You wanted to wear it to the concert.”

  I get a flash of a sea of people clapping their hands above their heads to a quick beat. “I think I remember.”

  “Marco Santi.”

  “The Italian singer?”

  “We were invited backstage to meet him.” She grins. “And you hugged him and kept repeating, ‘Ti amo, Vince.’” She chuckles.

  I gasp, embarrassed.

  “Don’t worry. I explained your situation to him.”

  I’m mortified. “What did you say?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mags. He understood. He even kissed you on the forehead and said that he loves you too.”

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  “Believe me, I tried to shut you down plenty, but you refused to sleep it off. You were going with the flow. But I kept an eye on you. I also kept Delta and Francesca from fucking you.”

  I shake my head. “Wait? What day is it?”

  “It’s Friday.”

  I slap my hand over my mouth and gasp. “I have to be in New Orleans by tomorrow evening! I need to catch the first flight out of here!”

  “We’re almost done here.”

  Her nonchalance annoys me. “What are we doing in Australia in the first fucking place?”

  She points. “Because of them.”

  My glare follows her finger. Delta is on the bow of the yacht, rolling around with Francesca, who’s topless.

  Monroe points in the opposite direction. “Dash is on that yacht taking pictures. By ten a.m., people will know that Delta Foster and Francesca Bell are in a hot and heavy relationship.”

  I sigh gravely. “And you arranged all of this while I was out of it?” I feel as though I’ve dropped the ball.

  “Mags, we’re a team. I had your back.”

  “But we’re going to have to get this shit under control. I let myself be dragged down a fucking rabbit hole. I’m never doing that again.”

  “Get a grip, Mags—”

  “No! I’m not getting a fucking grip. And you know what? The fact that you know what my pussy feels like and my tits taste like still doesn’t sit well with me. I mean…” I look up to stop my tears from falling. “Damn it, where’s Vince? I want Vince.”

  She grunts and rolls her eyes. “Goddamn it, I knew it. You’re looking for excuses to walk.”

  “I’m not finding excuses. It’s just this, on top of you masturbating me and sucking my tits, and then me fucking Robert... I’m losing control. How long have we been friends? Too long to count, and you’ve never done anything like that before.”

  Monroe wipes my tears with her thumbs. “Calm down, Mags. You’ve known me to do plenty of stupid shit.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you would go there, then hell yes, I’d go there.”

  “You know me well enough to know that I would never go there, especially with you. You’re like my sister, Roe.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s just…” She walks over to the rail and gazes over the aqua sea. “Sometimes I think that if I could wrap myself in your skin, I’d be perfect.”

  I shake my head and join her. “Is that your roundabout way of saying that eating my pussy would neutralize your envy?”

  “Always getting straight to the point.”

  “That’s what sorority girls do to make themselves feel less insecure about the airhead clone they’re jealous of.” A wave of nausea grips me, and I clutch my stomach. “Grow the fuck up, please.”

  “I think I’ve just aged five years after that.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are. Maybe we should get a contract drawn up. If I don’t grow the fuck up, then you can toss my ass overboard.”

  I almost dry heave. “We don’t need a contract. Just do it.”

  Monroe takes my elbow. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I will be. I just need to get back to Vince, or I’m going to lose it.”

  “I knew you were going to say that. Our flight leaves in an hour.”

  “Thank you. By the way, did I see you snort cocaine?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, but don’t worry. That was me taking one for our team.”

  I look at her askew. “I don’t need you taking one for the team. Leave that shit alone.”

  “If you’re worried I’ll get addicted, then don’t. I hate bumping that shit. I just did it so Delta wouldn’t feel awkward.”

  “He should feel awkward!”

  “Maggie…”

  I bend over to clutch my cramping stomach. “I’m going to make sure his stint in rehab works.”

  “I believe you, but first, let’s get you to the bathroom. It’s a good one. You’ll like the toilet, and it won’t try to fuck you either.”

  I elbow her playfully in the ribs, and she laughs as she leads me to the white porcelain throne.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lost in London

  Vincent Adams

  Yesterday, Thursday…

  Vince’s airplane touched down late in the afternoon. London had never been his favorite city. It reminded him of amusement park towns that tried to recapture a time period that was long gone and would never return, except London was the real thing. He could never take the city seriously.

  Vince had two goals. He wanted to find Maggie and get them the hell out of town. He had already tried to call her six times, but the calls went straight to voicemail. Her phone was either unplugged or out of power, and Maggie was far too responsible to let her cell phone fall into either state. That was why his worry was off the charts. Vince made a seventh call after he settled into the black cab he had ordered to usher him around for the day. No one knew how to navigate the city better than the drivers of black cabs, and he hated London traffic more than L.A. and Manhattan combined. So their expertise of evading the insanity was much appreciated.

  Langley had confirmed the hotel Maggie was staying in. It was along the River Thames, and Langley had even managed to get him the room number. Vince frowned when Maggie’s voicemail picked up again. He was beyond frustrated and had to beat back the thought that she was somewhere banging Robert. Vince placed another call.

  “Hello,” Robert said chummily.

  “Have you seen Maggie?” Vince asked rather coldly.

  “I saw her last night.”

  Vince clenched his jaw. “Did you fuck her?”

  “Damn it, Vince, no, I didn’t fuck her. That’s done.”

  Robert’s ego made Vince seethe. “It can’t be done because you never had her to begin with.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t mean it that way. She was signing a new client.”

  Vince sighed with relief. He couldn’t forgive Maggie for sleeping with Robert twice. “Thanks. That’s all.”

  “Hey, Vince?” Robert asked.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, brother. I didn’t meant to… I’m sorry.”

  Vince hesitated. “By the way, I hired Linda Matthews for Maggie’s position.”

  “Oh, her. She’s hot.”

  “She�
��s a solid replacement.”

  “Right,” Robert said.

  Vince ended the call. He and Robert had been friends for far too long to terminate their relationship, but in order for them to move forward, Robert would have to look into his bag of shit and figure out why he did the things he did. Vince thought about the first time they’d met Lena Chance. It was their senior year in college, and Vince and Robert had been selected to attend the Future Business Leaders of the World conference in San Francisco. The first night, there was a mixer, and Lena had accidentally bumped into Vince. Her cascading black hair, which contrasted with her light brown eyes, captivated him instantly.

  She’d smiled and said, “Oh, please excuse me.”

  From that moment on, Vince had wanted to know more about her. They carried on an interesting conversation. She was representing the University of Oxford. She was enjoying San Francisco, and the cloudiness felt like home. She had no boyfriend, but she had a dry sense of humor and a sexy way of flickering her eyebrows after saying the punch line.

  Then Robert had joined them, and before Vince knew it, Lena and Robert had made plans to have dinner alone later that night. The next morning, the two of them were fucking like nymphomaniacs. It was just another example of Robert taking a shot at the woman Vince was interested in. Robert had a ninety percent success rate at winning them over.

  Vince had never stopped Robert from coming on to Maggie because she consistently shut him down, crucifying Robert’s ego. She was the one he couldn’t steal. So when Vince had seen them together on Maggie’s bed, he’d felt defeated. Maggie used to be his champion. He didn’t know what she was to him anymore. But he would be dead and in a coffin before he let Robert win her.

  Vince’s cab dodged down streets. Vince would never get used to riding on the wrong side of the road. It was impractical. All the street signs and stoplights were ass-backward. Man, did he hate London. He was relieved when the car pulled up to his hotel.

  “Here we are, mate,” the driver said.

  “I’ll be back,” Vince said and bolted out of the back seat.

  As instructed, he gave the concierge his name. The concierge was supposed to escort him to the restricted floor where Maggie and Monroe were staying. However, after Vince gave his name, he was informed that the party had checked out in the wee hours of the morning.