The Ballad (The Bridge Series)
Page 8
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December 2007
Times Square in the middle of December is absolutely the last place I would want to have a family dinner, but there is a method to my madness. Mom and Dad arrived yesterday to spend the week enjoying the holiday festivities and to spoil their only grandchild while Adam and I move into our new house. We’ve spent the entire day together shopping on Fifth, ice skating in Bryant Park and sharing hot chocolate in Central Park, totally touristy but surprisingly fun. But tonight, well there’s a little birthday surprise lurking in the seedy shadows of Eighth Avenue and all this old-fashioned family fun is simply a diversion of what’s to come. Mom knows the details of my plan and she’s been quite enthusiastic about her role. She even managed to convince Dad and Adam that she just had to eat at the Applebee’s in Times Square because her friend Ruth told her they had the best window view and super moist ribs. Ha! Well played, Mom.
After waiting an hour to be seated at our table, we’re finally squeezed into a tiny booth littered with filth and stickiness. “Eileen, there has to be ten thousand restaurants near our hotel and you choose the one you won’t even step foot in back home?” Dad appears puzzled but Mom is known to be capricious and zany and he learned long ago it’s easiest to just let her be.
“Martin, have you even looked at this tantalizing menu? They have onion rings and pomegranate martinis!” Adam points to the colorful selections and sarcastically smiles at Dad from across the table. “There’s even an eggnog dessert . . .” Adam puts his arm around my shoulders and I play along with the Applebee’s charade.
After two courses of fried funk and antioxidant-filled martinis, Adam and I say goodnight to Mom, Dad and baby Will and head off into the bustling streets of Midtown. The sidewalks are packed with window shoppers and excited tourists preparing for St. Nick. The delicious smell of roasted chestnuts permeates the chilly night, but every New Yorker knows that yummy smell is deceiving. When we pass the second subway entrance on our way to Eighth Avenue, Adam’s cool composure vanishes. I link my arm inside his and smile in satisfaction.
“Chloe, where are we going?” Adam questions me like I’m Lucille Ball planning to invade the Tropicana. I need us to get two more blocks or the gig is up.
“We’re going to need some furniture for the new house so I thought we could do a little window shopping at Pottery Barn.” Shit, not very smart since the store is in the opposite direction. We keep walking and I can make out the flashing lights of our final destination. I hurry our pace and then stop abruptly under the neon sign that reads Cherry Bomb with two cherries resembling areolas. Besides the neon indicator of sex, the rest of the club is dark and dingy and unassuming.
“What is this? Chloe . . . really?” Adam is flushed, no, Adam is totally blushing! I pull him to the door and kick it three times with my booted heel.
“Adam, happy thirtieth birthday! I love you and before you get mad at my silly attempt to surprise you, just know that I did a lot of research. Men your age want three things: sex from a stripper, a threesome with hot girls and a tray of tacos delivered to him by a gorgeous woman. Let’s go see what the night has in store for us!” The door opens and a huge, muscular goon ushers us through a narrow dark hall. Adam’s face is priceless. It’s a cross between boyish excitement and utter embarrassment. I’m not naïve, I know Adam’s been to strip clubs and a few top secret bachelor parties in Vegas, but this quasi-naughty moment between us is exhilarating.
“Surprise!” Sixty of our closest friends chant and cheer nearly giving me a heart attack but Adam just laughs with unshakable composure.
“Wow, babe. Good one!” Adam kisses me lovingly while grabbing my ass covertly then disappears into the group of party guests to politely mingle.
Pulling off such an event required a little charm and a lot of negotiating. There was no way I could afford to rent the Cherry Bomb for a private party, so it’s more like a private reservation. Business will go on as usual as three lovely ladies work the poles, expecting to be noticed and tipped handsomely. The manager would not allow me to pay for alcohol in advance, so there will be no open bar and the bartenders expect to be tipped handsomely. In return, I was allowed a catered Tex-Mex buffet, a fancy cigar bar, a sexy Mrs. Claus and three arcade games for other visual stimulation. The club has been transformed into the idyllic fantasy of your typical thirty-year old male or that of a teenager with severe ADHD.
“Chloe!” My cousin Natalie is shuffling toward me with gold heels and an extremely tight red dress. Her chest is spilling out the top and highlighted by layers of gold jewelry dangling between her breasts. We’re the same age, come from the same LeGrange gene pool with the same Canadian upbringing but are a breathing example of nature versus nurture. During our first summer together in Manhattan she had dated five guys before I even talked to one. She’s smart and creative and has a degree from UConn in Public Relations but works as an assistant to a corporate party planner. Natalie also suffers from chronic dating disorder and loves being single. Needless to say we’ve drifted apart since the baby so it’s especially nice to enjoy the party with my identical cousin.
“Nat! Come give me a hug, ya tart!” We embrace and laugh as she inevitably pinches the fat on my waist.
“Chloe, you should come to Equinox with me. The only baby weight men find acceptable is a few extra helpings in the ta-tas. Now, how did you find this shithole? Great party, though!” Natalie is a snarkier version of me, but I love her.
“So Nat, did ya bring a date?” I inquire.
“Ha! Why would I bring a date to an attorney function? Who’s available, or better yet, who’s available tonight?” She scans the room waving to our friend Anthony and zoning in on one of Adam’s partners, Chris Something. I basically know all the partners by first name and accompanying gossip. I smile and wave Chris Something over to meet my fabulous cousin and pray he’s not the Chris Something that’s adopting a baby with his life partner!
“Hey there Chris! Enjoying the party?” I plant the seed as Natalie prepares to lay the trap.
“Yes ma’am, it’s like an adult frat party.” He smiles charmingly at Natalie, completely ignoring me. And good news, it’s the Chris Something from Austin, not the Chris Something adopting a baby. My work here is done.
I take a plate from the buffet line and make a couple of tacos, pay nine dollars at the bar for a Bud Light and say a few hellos to the semi-familiar guests. Adam is chatting with a couple of the firm’s attorneys and openly watching the strippers. I interrupt their conversation of trial evidence and some Latin words by clearing my throat.
“Hey babe! I brought you some tacos.” I extend my arms and wink at Adam as he takes the plate and the warm beer and winks back at me. He’s watching my ass as I walk away so I stop to put a few bucks in the sequin panties of Lady Dynamite just because he’s looking. Poor girl, working the stage like it’s her ticket to Broadway.
After a rousing game of Pac-Man and a poor attempt at rolling my own cigar, I ask the manager to turn off the music for a few minutes. He’s probably thinking about the amount of money he will lose in those precious few moments but gruntingly agrees. I carry a corded microphone from the DJ booth to the stage area and sit on the uncontaminated edge.
“Gentleman and ladies, thank you for participating in this freak show of a party! We can all agree that surprising Adam Ford is only possible with an elaborate plan and an intricate web of lies so thank you for helping me dishonor my husband. I have one more little surprise for my birthday boy . . .” There’s a lot of whistling and table pounding and I notice the group of guys seated stage left on gynecology row that are not my party guests but regular patrons. Gross. Adam is pushed forward by some of his friends and takes a seat right in front of me, smiling happily. He’s proud of me no matter where I sing.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.” I sing it with passion, not sexy like Marilyn Monroe, but definitely raspy and hot. “Happy birthday, dear Adam. Happy Birthday to you!”
“Now that was a threesome!” he says cheerfully.
I truly didn’t set out to be the “cool wife” that gives her husband a birthday party at a strip club, but that moniker is destined to stick with me for years. After all our guests leave, we settle the bill with the manager and Adam politely gives his card to Vixen because she’s expecting some sort of lawsuit from her former manager . . . we finally get on the F train back to Brooklyn. I gaze at our reflection in the window and think about the first time we took the subway to what was then just Adam’s apartment. We’ve always had an unspoken form of foreplay, feeding off of each other’s intense passion and that same sense of powerful silence surges through my body at this very moment. We safely arrive in Brooklyn Heights and ascend the uneven icy steps, pinky-to-pinky, to spend one of our last nights in our first home together.
Adam slams the door to our first floor apartment and pins me underneath him, panting rapidly as he removes his coat. I feel the pressure of his weight pressing me against the door as he takes my arms and restrains my wrists above my head. He buries his face in the contour of my neck licking and biting the exposed skin while his knee thrusts between my legs. He abruptly stops, releases my hands and stares at me with the heat of a thousand fires. Adam backs away and sits casually in the tobacco-stained leather chair, waiting for my next move.
I take my time removing my coat and letting it drop to the floor. Casually, I saunter toward Adam as he turns on the floor lamp next to the chair to watch my body. I reach down to unzip my short black boots, keeping my head up and fixated on his face. As I step out of my boots, Adam rests his arm on the side of the chair, bringing his hand to his face as if he’s appraising my movements. I focus my concentration on his sexy mouth and start with the bottom button of my red silk shirt, slowly unfastening each tiny button until I get to the top. I sensually stroke my collarbone with one finger before removing my shirt and letting it drop to the floor. Adam shifts in his chair and nods for me to continue. I unbutton my black velvet pants taking my time with the zipper and shimmy them to my ankles. I step out of my pants and take two more steps toward Adam, resting my hands on my hips. I slowly move my hand up my body to play with the strap of my black lace bra, allowing my finger to wander across my chest. I arch my back to reach my bra hooks but spontaneously decide to lower my hands to my waist and seductively remove my black lace panties. They fall to my ankles as I slide my hand across my pelvis, inching my fingers toward the hairline. Adam’s eyes grow dark and lustful, but he doesn’t flinch or relinquish his control. I, on the other hand, am starting to breathe heavier and can see my chest rise and fall to the beat of my wanting desire. I reach behind me again to unfasten my bra and let it linger loosely at my waist before dropping to the floor. I take one step closer to Adam but he holds up his hand, motioning for me to stop. He puts his arms in his lap and studies me from top to bottom, taking time to visually explore every curve of my body.
I’ve been standing naked in front of him for fifteen minutes; I know the amount of time because I’ve heard three songs play in my head. My knees are ready to buckle and my chest is about to explode, but like any good foreplay, patience is everything. Adam finally stands, his body so close to me I can feel the soft cashmere of his sweater tickling my breasts. He raises his hand to my face and cups my cheek, delicately pressing his thumb against my parted lips. His hand trails down to my neck and squeezes gently in response to my head being tilted back in pleasure. Adam’s hand advances to my tits and he strokes my firm nipple with his thumb, occasionally nipping me between his fingers. He runs his index finger down the curve of my side forcing the hairs on my body to quiver in anticipation. I close my eyes briefly, an effort to break eye contact with my sexual tormentor and to delay my increasing need. Adam’s finger trails along the curve of my hip then spider-walks across my pelvic bone to ultimately rest his large palm on the crease of my swollen pink lips. I can’t take much more of this agonizingly slow progression; I need to feel him throbbing inside of me, now. Oh god, just do it already.
His long middle finger hooks deep inside me and I dissolve. Damn he’s disciplined! He must find humor in my concession because he’s smiling like a confident victor waiting for his prize. I coyly smile back, then grab his face and kiss him. His arms squeeze my waist and I forcefully push him, stumbling back awkwardly onto the leather chair. I pull his sweater over his head, kiss his cheek, lick his chest, unbuckle his pants, free his engorged flesh, turn off the lamp, slide on top and ride him into the cold, dark, quiet December night.
We spend Sunday packing and lounging around with newspapers and croissants, savoring our first baby-free weekend. But bright and early Monday morning, Adam and I are frantically loading the last few boxes into the U-Haul, cursing at each other for planning our move in the middle of December. Every so often, there’s a pre-Christmas snow shower and according to the forecast, we have about thirty minutes to get our shit to Cobble Hill. We do one last sweep through our apartment and I find my Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits CD wedged underneath the radiator, twenty bucks and my rainbow guitar pick where the dresser used to be and three pacifiers melted in the base of the dishwasher . . . yep, that about sums us up. Before we close the door one last time, I grab a pencil from my bag and write in the tiniest font as possible close to the base of the door, Adam & Chloe.
“Chloe, what is that?” Adam glances at me from the driver’s seat as I’m opening a bag of beef jerky.
“Beef jerky?” I answer him defensively because it’s totally normal to have a road trip snack for a ten block trip.
The hired movers left hours before us to build beds and move all the heavy furniture. Adam and I stayed behind packing up the things I didn’t particularly want strangers touching, like under garments, my awesome record collection and the private things I keep in the bedside table. We pull up to our new home and the movers are waiting for us on the stoop, smoking cigarettes and drinking Red Bull. Surely they can’t be finished.
“Hey yo . . . welcome home Mistah Ford. We set the bedrooms up likes ya asked, king bed on the third flo-wah and bebe’s room on the second flo-wah. We arranged ya’s living and dining room, but we can change it before we’s go.” Pauly, the boss with the thickest Brooklyn accent imaginable finishes his wise guy declaration then stomps out his cigarette and scratches his balls. I mean really, does he not see me here shivering in the cold?
“Fellas, I’m sure it’s fine and we’re very impressed by your prompt service,” Adam addresses the crew like part of his legal staff. Pauly nudges one of the younger boys toward the U-Haul and the other really skinny kid, like so skinny there’s no way he carried a king sleigh bed to the third floor, walks lethargically to the truck. We go inside with Pauly to pay our bill as the young movers carry in all our boxes and suitcases from the U-Haul.
Holy shit! At first glance I’m wondering where the rest of our stuff is but then I realize it’s all here, taking up very little space. Our living room and dining room look dramatically sparse, like one of those fancy boutiques that sells two items. The younger movers run upstairs to piss the pot, their words not mine, while Adam pays and tips Pauly & Sons for their wonderful job. When the movers leave, Adam follows behind them to return the U-haul before the snow starts and I contemplate if I should unpack boxes, clean the bathroom or sit at the piano in my newly decorated funktastical parlor.
Our Cobble Hill brownstone was the former residence of Mrs. Sylvia Rosen, her late husband Saul and their four adult children. She lived here for fifty-five years before having a stroke and being forced to move to a nursing h
ome. She and her family did a great job preserving the character of the Gothic Revival row house and besides a couple of crappy remodels in the sixties; most of the architectural moldings and windows are original to the house. When Adam and I first toured the house, I immediately fell in love with the French doors in the entryway and being a very fickle woman, immediately fell out of love with the dated kitchen and bathrooms. The idea of remodeling several rooms and the exorbitant costs involved to make modern adjustments was almost the deciding factor to pass . . . but then I saw the parlor! Our agent went on and on about the history of the parlor and the beautiful light that radiates during the afternoon but all I could concentrate on was the ancient, upright piano resting elegantly against the beige wall. I remember feeling Adam’s hand on my back and him asking if I liked the house and I merely nodded like a stupid puppet. I could definitely live with some crusty old bathrooms as long as this room was mine. He told our agent we were prepared to make an offer as long as the piano stayed. Mrs. Rosen’s family quickly accepted our generous offer and happily handed over their five-hundred-pound unmovable treasure.
Since the house was vacant at our closing in September, we were able to make a few minor adjustments before our scheduled move-in date. We replaced the kitchen countertops with an industrial concrete, had the cabinets refinished and painted a mossy green and upgraded the Harvest Gold appliances to stainless steel. Will’s room was repainted in a soft green and some of the stairs needed minor repairs and then Adam and I collectively agreed that we wouldn’t do any more work to the house until we “lived” in it.
But I couldn’t get that parlor out of my head. That poor piano sitting helplessly in the beige desert of dullness, begging for some attention. I arranged for a piano doctor to meet me while Adam was at work in hopes to tune its dying moans and repair its stuck pedal. It was on that day, the rebirth of my Baldwin that I came across a blue velvet loveseat in some trendy furniture store near Boerum Hill. The idea of having a couch with modern lines and lavish texture represented my funky music parlor perfectly and I had to buy it. I also had to buy a clear acrylic bench for the piano . . . and a red lacquered floor mirror. But when the furniture was placed in the room, those boring beige walls sucked the life out of my fantastical vision and it was then decided that the walls would need to be painted immediately, or better yet, wallpapered with gold stripes!