by Ashley Pullo
He raises his head and sneers. “She’s probably the one that stole it. It’s like another world underground, you gotta be a dick down there.”
“Oh, I figured that out after my third attempt at squeezing through a closing subway door. I tackled some bastard in a top hat though,” I say proudly.
Adam dips his head and cocks his eyebrows. “You mean a Hasidic Jew?” Laughing, he asks, “You drink gin?”
“Can I drink during lunch?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
I study his facial expression through the layers of smoke. “Is this a test?”
“Do you want it to be?” He challenges.
A waiter approaches our table with a platter of raw meat. “Good afternoon, gentleman. Would you like to choose your steak?”
Holy shit, this gets weirder by the minute.
Adam points to a NY strip and nods. “Medium – and a Hendrick’s and tonic – Chris?”
“I’ll have the strip, medium. And a Tanqueray with lime,” I add.
“Very good. I’ll have your drinks out shortly.” The waiter returns to the bar as Adam pulls out his Blackberry. Smiling, he reads the screen and taps away at the keys.
“Any advice for the job?” I ask.
“Not really. Don’t piss anyone off, especially the paralegals – you need them.” He shoves the phone back in his pocket and glares at me. “So Chris, what brought you to New York?”
I get the feeling this guy doesn’t really care why I’m here. He’s watching me – evaluating me. I stare blankly and say, “Broadway.”
MY ALARM BUZZES at 6:00 a.m. I lie in bed and gaze upon my pink bedroom – which is surprisingly rather soothing. It’s more like a rosy flesh or Silly Putty, but the bathroom is a fucking wallpapered bouquet of estrogen.
I’m dressed and in my building’s lobby by seven. Declan opens the door for me as I run after a taxi. “Fuck – wait,” I yell at the cab.
“Mr. Brooks, would you like me to hail you a cab?” Declan calls after me.
“Is there some sort of secret?”
“Yep, they teach us in doorman college. I’m messin’ with ya – here, watch.” Declan steps to the edge of the curb and extends his hand out onto the street. Like magic, a yellow car appears and stops. “See, nothing to it. Have a good day, Mr. Brooks.” That’s why he makes six figures.
The taxi ride takes exactly twenty-four minutes to get to my building. I pay the cabbie and then race into the corner Starbucks. I buy two cappuccinos, a muffin and a newspaper, and then slosh through the melting snow to JS&D.
Tammy notices me right away and waves me over. “I hope one of those coffees is for me.”
“Tammy, of course it’s for you. How’s your morning?” I ask, handing her the cappuccino.
“Thank you, sugar. And look what I’ve got for you!” she exclaims.
“Is that my ID? I could kiss you.” Not really, but she seems to like the idea.
Tammy hands me the clip-on ID and winks. Great, now I’m going to have to stop by her desk and chat every morning.
“Christopher, you realize it’s only eight – ain’t nobody on your floor right now!”
“I know, but I’ll just head on up and get some stuff organized. Thanks Tammy – you’re my goddess of security.” She giggles and shoos me away.
Tammy’s right – ain’t nobody at work yet. The lights are on but it’s quiet and creepy. I walk past the conference rooms and through the kitchenette. I stop by my secretary’s desk and place the muffin near her phone and then use my key to unlock my office. My desk is already piled with stacks of folders and a box of files. Might as well get started . . .
Around ten thirty, my intercom interrupts me from my stack of new client files.
“Mr. Brooks?”
I hold down the flashing button and answer. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Mr. Ford would like to see you in his office.”
“Oh? Okay, thanks Roberta.”
Technically, Adam is my boss, but he’s not the type that gets high on power. We also have a lot in common – like sarcasm and gin. I put on my suit jacket, minimize my computer screen and close my door behind me.
Grinning, I ask, “Roberta, did you find your blueberry muffin?”
“I did. Thank you,” she says flatly.
“You’re welcome.” I tip my head but she looks away at her computer screen.
As I make my way two doors down to Adam’s office, I spot a gorgeous redhead chewing on a pen. Holy shit, Adam’s secretary is hot – and friendly.
“Hi Mr. Brooks – welcome to JS&D,” she announces.
I extend my hand and she smiles. “Chris,” I say.
“I’m Caroline – go in, Adam’s expecting you.”
I open his office door and stand in the doorway. Adam’s behind his desk wearing glasses and scanning over a document. A woman sits in a chair across from him flipping through a magazine. They both look up at me as I clear my throat.
“Chris, come in,” Adam says.
“Am I in trouble?” I quip.
“Are you?” he counters. Adam is smiling genuinely at the woman while motioning for me to sit. “Chris, meet Chloe. Chloe, this is Chris from Austin, the new guy.”
As I take a seat, Chloe turns to face me. “Welcome to New York, Chris from Austin.”
“Uh, thanks.” Chloe’s beautiful – her eyes are captivating and her smile is infectious. I grin goofily as she arches her eyebrows.
“Chris hasn’t had the best time. Were you able to get your ID?” Adam removes his glasses and smirks.
“I did. I was in here by eight,” I answer.
Chloe crosses her legs and taps her foot against Adam’s desk. It’s distracting, but kinda cute. “Do you have a girlfriend, Chris?” she asks.
“Chloe.” Adam warns.
“Ad-am, I’m just asking.”
They share a silent moment before Adam turns his attention back to me. “About work – don’t get pissed, this is pretty normal for new hires, and frankly, you’re lucky you got assigned to me. I’ll be accompanying you on your client meetings this week. Except Parker, that one’s all yours.”
Confused I ask, “The pharmaceuticals guy – what’s wrong with him?”
“Conflict of interest,” he answers, quickly glancing at Chloe.
She nods her head and then moves to Adam’s desk, sitting on the edge and crossing her legs. “Chris, do you like American football?” Her black cowboy boots tap against my knee as she waits for my answer.
“You mean football?” I ask.
“Chloe’s Canadian,” Adam sneers.
“Ah, well I played in high school.”
“Excellent – you should come to my Super Ball party!”
“Super Bowl?” I correct.
Chloe leans forward, laughing. “No, it’s a super ball. Gowns and tuxes required.”
Adam shakes his head and groans. “Don’t mind her. But you should come – they have a huge flat screen.”
“Bring your girlfriend,” Chloe adds.
“I don’t have a girlfriend. Do I really need to wear a tux?”
Chloe’s face lights up with excitement. “Yes! That’d be awesome.”
“Chris, do not wear a tux,” Adam advises.
Chloe smiles and crosses her arms. “So you’ll come?”
“Sure. What can I bring?”
January 31, 2004
CHRISTOPHER WEARS DARK jeans and his favorite cowboy boots as he enters an Italian bistro on 88th Street. He’s ordered Chinese takeout every night since his arrival – each night eating alone in his pink apartment. So tonight, he’s venturing out to see what else Manhattan has to offer.
The restaurant is crowded for a Saturday night, so Chris is seated at the bar – the lonely singles section. The hostess’s hand lingers on Chris’s shoulder as she places a menu in front of him. She smiles brightly and then turns on her heels. Chris watches her walk back to the podium, evaluating her ass and legs. He likes women – conf
ident, sexy women.
And women like Chris.
But as with the case of the sodium-filled Chinese takeout, Christopher Brooks wants something different. Something that challenges his appetite. Something fresh and intriguing.
Maybe even someone.
The bartender approaches Chris and places a cocktail napkin on the bar. “Can I get you a drink,” he offers.
“Sure, a Peroni would be great.” Chris relaxes his shoulders and studies the menu, tapping his finger on some of the chef-created specials.
“Hey, do you mind moving over so my friend can sit?” the woman asks. She’s very pretty and immaculately dressed in a black cocktail dress and expensive jewelry.
Chris raises his head and smiles. Both women are waiting impatiently for him to move.
“Oh yeah, no problem,” Chris answers. He slides over and watches the women settle into their seats.
“Are you alone?” she inquires.
Christopher angles his body toward the women and flashes his signature charming smile. “I’m alone indeed – pathetically about to order dinner.”
The women lean into each other and whisper, consulting overtly in the visual line of Chris. “Buy us some drinks. We’ll keep you company,” the other woman offers.
Christopher waves over the bartender as the other woman leans across her friend to make the introductions. “I’m Karen, and this is Bridget. Do you live around here?”
“I’m Chris, I just moved in down the block.”
The bartender returns with Chris’s beer and a basket of breadsticks. “Can I get you something else?”
“My friends would like to order some drinks,” Chris answers.
CHRIS, KAREN AND Bridget spend the next hour chatting over plates of antipasti and doubles of anything alcoholic. Chris has never charmed two women at once, but he welcomes the challenge. He swiftly moves to the middle of Karen and Bridget – teasing them, flattering them, and unknowingly accepting their business proposition.
Slurring her words, Karen says, “Chris, you’re so sexy with that accent and those boots. Where’re you from?”
“You like ’em? I’d like to see you in my boots,” Chris suggests.
Karen runs her manicured hand up his thigh and exhales into his ear. “That can definitely be arranged.”
Bridget brushes her lips against Chris’ neck and blows into his ear. “What else are you into? We want to make you happy.”
Chris is perplexed – baffled by how easy it is to score two chicks. But he smiles and cockily declares, “Threesome in my pink palace.” He stands arrogantly and places a wad of cash on the bar. The two beers and double G&Ts cause Chris to wobble, but nothing could derail him from the new experiences this amazing city has to offer.
The ladies follow Chris to the coat check. He tips the attendant and then helps them into their coats. Chris feels victorious – two sexy women at his disposal.
“We can walk from here,” he says, taking their hands.
They walk a few blocks, kissing and fondling, when a large man advances from the shadows. Chris is terrified – not because of fear – he’s terrified of his sober realization.
“Fifteen hundred for both,” the shadow growls.
Chris is not about to experience something challenging and refreshing – Chris has his hand on the ass of an escort.
February 1, 2004
“THREE HUNDRED BUCKS.”
“You idiot. You horny dumbfuck.” Matthew cackles into the phone.
Grant was my first choice, but Matthew answered the phone. I told him all about Karen and Bridget and the pimp that was waiting for me. Three hundred dollars seemed like a fair price to call the whole escort-thing a misunderstanding. Shit, if my friends back home ever catch wind of this, I’d never live it down.
“Bro, just don’t tell anyone,” I beg.
“I don’t know Chris – that’s bound to come out at some family function,” he jokes.
“I don’t know Matty – that tranny you were with in Mexico makes an even better story.”
“Oh fuck off! I won’t say anything,” he grumbles.
Laughing, I say, “All right bro, I’m messin’ with ya. Hey, I’m getting on the subway – talk to you later.”
“Stay safe.”
I manage to make my way to TriBeCa in a little under an hour with only a small snafu with the turnstile at Lexington. Note to self: swipe the Metrocard, then push the turnstile. TriBeCa is really hip and exactly how I pictured Manhattan before moving here. Everything appears industrial and clean, but it still has the charm of an old neighborhood.
Chloe’s building is one of the smaller ones with a wide glass entrance. The lobby is just like mine – a couple of sofas, a mail station, a security desk, and a nicely dressed doorman. He points to the elevator and then races to one of the couches, fiddling with a small radio. I take the rackety old elevator to the fifth floor and then knock on the door of 5G.
A guy with curly blond hair opens the door and takes my six-pack of beer. “Hey Chloe, some dude’s here with beer – should we let him in?”
“Is he wearing a tuxedo?” Chloe yells back.
“Nope.”
“What kind of beer?” she asks.
“Moosehead.”
Chloe appears at the door beaming excitedly. “Chris from Austin, you’re here!” She takes my hand and pulls me past the guys standing by the door. “That was Pete. This is Anthony,” she says, pointing to a big guy. “You know Adam – well, as much as Adam will let you,” she jokes.
She drags me to the kitchen and introduces me to a cute girl named Angie and a nerdy guy wearing a tuxedo jacket. “Angie lives next door.” Chloe puts her arm on the shoulder of the guy in the tux and says, “And Dennis is the most amazing boss ever.”
Chloe leans against the counter, dipping a chip in some salsa. “Chris is from Texas,” she says between bites.
And then.
Out of nowhere, as if falling from the sky, a sexy as shit voice rattles the kitchen. “All right, who the fuck brought the Moosehead?”
I turn my head in the direction of the voice and come face to face with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s fucking hot – big lips, big blue eyes and big tits – but it’s her puzzled reaction that intrigues the shit out of me.
“I brought the beer,” I say, moving closer to her.
She breathes slowly, each tiny puff of air hitting the tip of my chin. Her eyes scan my face, searching for something. “Well, yeah – but who are you?” she asks quietly.
There’s only a moment of silence, but time is completely suspended. It’s like this mutual understanding of what we want – a guarantee that we’ll be together – when time starts.
My mouth fights a smile as I answer her. “Chris.”
Chloe approaches us and laughs. “Nat, Chris. Chris, this is my cousin Natalie.”
I wait until Chloe leaves – I wait until Natalie’s ready.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she mouths.
And then, time starts.
I SPENT THE entire first half of the game politely chatting with Dennis. Poor guy actually wore a tuxedo jacket – he also owns a bar, which is fucking cool, but I wasn’t in the mood for his small talk. I was too busy watching Natalie. Natalie laughing at the commercials. Natalie challenging Chloe to a drinking game. Natalie sitting in the lap of the curly blond. Natalie making jokes about Adam. And then finally, watching her as she gave me the slightest smile.
Soon after Janet Jackson accidentally revealed her nipple and Justin Timberlake acted surprised, Natalie walked to the back of the apartment. I waited. I waited some more. But she didn’t return.
“Chloe, where’s the restroom?” I ask casually.
Chloe smiles and points in the direction of the bathroom, but Adam – holy shit – he’s pissed. When I stand, he stands. When I walk, he follows.
Two feet from the bathroom, Adam grabs my arm and says, “Chris, she's not ready.” There’s no shift
of dominance, no machismo reaction – simply an understanding that I will eventually get this girl. “Not now,” he repeats before releasing my arm. I acknowledge him with a nod and then move to the opened door of a bedroom.
Natalie is sitting on her bed thumbing through a magazine. Her hair is pulled to the side and resting on her shoulder. She glances up at me and says, “Hey.”
“Hey.” I step inside the door and close it behind me. “Football not really your thing?”
“I never played,” she deadpans. “Come here, I wanna show you something.”
I walk toward her bed and stop in front of her. Natalie looks sad. Confused.
“Sit,” she suggests, crossing her legs. She didn’t specify where to sit, so I do the right thing and plop down on the floor.
“Well okay then.” She snorts. “So Chris, I need a change. What do you think about a really short haircut?” Natalie holds up the magazine and points to a model with hair shorter than mine.
Our eyes lock – holy shit, I’ve never experienced one of those moments – fading in and out of reality – time going forward and then sputtering back to the present. Natalie tilts her head, her eyes narrowing and her lip quivering ever so slightly. She’s sad again.
“Change is always good. But that haircut is one operation short of a sex change. Please don’t.”
“Yeah, my face is too round anyway,” she replies, tossing the magazine on the floor. Glancing at my feet she asks, “Are you wearing cowboy boots?”
“Yep darlin’, you like?” I ask, beaming from ear to ear.
“Not really,” she says flatly.
I spot a ukulele hiding under her bed and slide it out. “This yours?” I ask, strumming the tiny strings.
“Chloe’s. You play?” Natalie’s foot drops off the bed, swinging closely against my knee.
“Not really.” I lie.
I straighten my legs and strum one of my favorite Bob Marley songs. “No woman, no cry,” I sing quietly. Natalie’s mouth faintly curves into a tiny smile, but her eyes are tired and sad. “Everything’s goin’ be all right – everything’s goin’ be all right,” I sing.
And then she cries. Big tears. Pooling in the creases of her eyes and then dropping dramatically onto her chest. Her lips shudder and her body jerks, gasping for air. She doesn’t hide any of it. She makes no excuses.
