Naomi & Bradley, It All Comes Down… (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 1)

by Angela Conrad

  I know him on paper, client Darren Broderick, near billionaire, high roller, divorced, no children, owns a real estate development company, a NYC apartment flipper, travels abroad frequently. In person, I’ve gotten him coffee, emailed him the changes in his stock account, sat beside him during meetings at my firm. Ate lunch with him and Carl several times. We’ve barely exchanged a conversation that’s lasted over a minute, until now.

  “We’ll talk about all the details later. I’ll explain your duties, and I’ll also handle Swartz. He’ll no longer be a problem. Naomi, your old job, and foreign boyfriend are gone; it’s time for you to make another kind of life. Now, get up, take a shower. I’ll order up breakfast.”

  Darren is good at giving orders. He’s used to being obeyed and I jump from the bed, wanting some distance and time to think.

  His shower is wonderful, marble, and large as a walk-in closet, with too many jets to count, topped by a rain showerhead that soothes and refreshes me. I step out and use a few of his products, all sporting imported labels. I uncap his cologne and take a deep smell. Divine.

  He’s laid out yesterdays’ black skirt and white blouse for me. And my red underwear. I wore my skimpiest set on Friday in defiance of Bradley’s desertion. Darren indeed got an eyeful. My insecurities rush in and a stupid female part of me wonders what Darren thought of me naked. How did I compare to the hoard of previous women who have graced his black satin sheets?

  Why did I care?

  I join a now richly dressed Darren for breakfast. He explains how the first floor of this building houses a famous restaurant that caters to all the building’s tenants. He impresses me with the fact that the chef had his own TV show for a time, and is famous for his quail. When he starts listing the desserts, I only half listen as I examine his penthouse. It must be half of the entire top floor. Expansive glass walls on three sides allow sunshine to stream across the hardwood flooring like fairy beams. It’s everything my loft is not, rich with character, loaded with original oil paintings in every color and size, built-in rows of old books, an endless display of cases filled with brass and copper puzzles and African statues, and area rugs from the Middle East. I try not to gawk, or gasp, or drool, but this place is a beautiful palace in the sky.

  My God, it makes my Tribeca loft look like a commercial business rental, because that’s how it’s furnished. Mother’s stark white and chrome. Soulless like she was. Cold and now empty of anyone but me.

  The contrast is striking. I would live here in a second. I wonder if Darren and I share similar tastes, opinions, and preferences. Everything Darren owns was chosen with a delicate hand, while my place has my mother’s heavy, social-climbing fingerprints smudged over everything.

  “You look sad Naomi, but I’m going to change that. I’ll give you this weekend to process the changes that are about to happen in your life. Monumental changes.”

  I smile and nod, not sure how to act, so out of my element I hardly know what to do or say. It’s very unlike me. What are we now exactly?

  Is he my old client?

  My new client?

  My new boss?

  A bed partner?

  A love interest or an almost one-night stand?

  What’s my new position to be?

  With my heart broken by the loss of Bradley, I barely feel like living at all. The idea of starting a bold new career, learning new job skills, changing all my old patterns, screwing another man, it’s too overwhelming. The delicious catered breakfast sticks in my throat. I remember yesterday’s seafood platter and cringe. This morning’s offering is foreign too. Belgium waffles, tea, jams and jellies, fruit cups, and creams. I’ve never had any of it before for breakfast. It underscores the vast culinary differences between Darren and myself.

  He calls downstairs for a town car to take me home. I argue a little, offer just to catch a cab, but it’s snowing and bitter outside, so I give in when he refuses to compromise.

  Darren offers to go with me but I shake my head no and smile.

  “You’ve been way too kind already. I need some time and I’m sure you have more important things to do on a Saturday than babysit me.”

  Darren helps me slip on my heavy wool coat, letting his hands linger for a moment on my shoulders. He dips his chin and leans in, breathing deeply.

  “Umm, you smell like me.”

  Surprisingly, he pulls me back against him and kisses my neck. He brushes my long, blond hair off my neck and kisses me again harder, leaving a mark on my skin, as if branding me his.

  The ride back to my loft is quiet. I hear and see nothing, my mind as confused and scrambled as an omelet.

  As I enter my loft, I notice Bradley’s black coat draped over the sofa. I look around in surprise and see him standing in my kitchen, drinking coffee out of his favorite orange cup, and frowning.

  My heart leaps and I think, he’s back!

  Bradley still loves me and he’s come home!

  Chapter Ten

  Nothing left to lose

  BRADLEY

  Saturday, February 6th

  I go inside and make a pot of coffee, try to figure out what to do. Naomi’s a smart lady, but she’s also hot as tar beach. I can’t discount the idea that something has happened to her. What if the last things between us were terrible words and hurt feelings? If I really step back and stop being such a guy for once, I can see how she might have misread what was going on with Molly. I guess I never realized she was so insecure. I thought that was my department. Sipping and thinking, I wander around the kitchen, open the fridge, close it up, open the pantry, stare at the pastas. The coffee is excellent; Naomi doesn’t do grocery store java. I close up the pantry, turn around, and almost drop my mug. Naomi.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to read her face. She looks tired, like she’s been through the wringer. That asshole boss of hers again. Probably had her working all night. Even tired and a little wrinkled, she looks gorgeous. For a second, I think about jumping her bones. It’s been a while. I try a smile.

  “What are you doing here?” Her tone is more exhausted than angry, but still enough to wipe that grin off my face.

  “I-uh-came to get, um, my stuff?” Why am I so nervous?

  She looks me up and down and a slight smile crosses her face, and then disappears like the sun in a tornado sky. “So, get it. Then get out. I’m going to change.” The problem is that she has to go right by me to get to her closet and I’m not budging. “Excuse me; I need to get by you.” I cross my arms.

  “Go ahead. Who’s stopping you?”

  She frowns, darts left, I follow. She darts right. Me too. Then she tries to do the fake out right, left, left thing, but I’m too quick and she ends up running right into me. I can’t help myself. I bury my nose into her hair, needing the freesia and cedar. Hold up, this is not her scent, I think. I pull back like I’ve stuck my nose in a beehive and then I see it. She has a hickey.

  “What’s the matter with you?” She asks, pulling her hair over the mark. “You look like you’ve seen a zombie.” She stares at me, waiting.

  I decide to play it cool, get some intel so I know what or who I’m dealing with. “New perfume?” I ask.

  “I, uh, stayed in the hotel where I had a work thing last night because I didn’t feel like, um, catching a cab, and, and the company expensed it anyway.”

  She’s blushing like crazy. Hmmm. I reach over and pull her hair aside before she can stop me. “You better tell your ‘work thing’ he shouldn’t leave marks where they are so obvious.” I pull her hair a little harder than I should, then drop it and walk over to my luggage.

  She stands there, silent, just looking at the couch. I wish she would say something. At this point, I’d even take a lame excuse like it was a hair straightener accident or a vampire bat. I make a big show of putting on my coat, like I’m lead model on the Burberry runway, and stoop down to pick up my two bags. Still, she says nothing. When I turn around, tears glisten on her cheeks in the harsh midday sun streaming through
the skylight. She opens her mouth and manages to creak out two words:

  “I’m sorry.”

  My heart drops into my stomach. I drop the damn bags. I need to leave, to be outside. If I stay here one second longer, I’ll suffocate. The next thing I know, I’m standing on the street, watching the midday traffic stream by. I have no suitcases, no home, no Naomi, and nothing left to lose.

  Chapter Eleven

  Everything’s lost

  NAOMI

  Saturday, February 6th

  He’s gone.

  Bradley left, just like that?

  Was that our talk?

  Him, fighting to get me back?

  No explanation about Molly?

  Bradley was here only to pick up his things, and I’m not one of them, not anymore.

  And who was he to accuse me of doing anything wrong? Wasn’t Bradley too busy to call me, dating teenagers and taking hot models out to lunch, wining and dining his new sex partners? The damn bastard. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to continue to pay his credit card bills.

  Why did I say I was sorry? Wasn’t that his line?

  Every warning my mother ever gave me about men comes back to roost. They line up like black crows on a clothesline.

  Short attention span---bored with one woman---insincere---liars---not to be trusted---you can’t hold one Naomi---not a plain little girl like you.

  The entire flock of forewarnings flash in my head like red flags over a sinking ship.

  Mayday.

  Mayday.

  Going under.

  No one in sight to throw me a life preserver.

  No man.

  No job.

  No family.

  No professional future once Carl Swartz hears about my drunken lunch with Mr. Big Billionaire.

  I rip off my wrinkled black skirt and white blouse and toss them into the trash. I’ll never wear another outfit like that again as long as I live. I change into workout gear and stretch. It’s either that or punch out a window.

  I fight, swinging my fists into the air, imagining Bradley, Carl, my mother, and my cheating father whose philandering warped mother’s brain. I twist and spin, I kick out, and I slap, until my anger is gone and all that’s left is this unimaginable sense of loneliness and loss.

  It’s still not enough. I grab my key, and race out into the hallway, hit the elevator on the run, as the doors are closing, I glance over to see Chase inside with me. He’s leaning against the mirrored wall, watching me.

  “Hi.”

  “Oh hi, I didn’t know you lived on my floor.”

  “Since fall. Going to work out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I look at his tight black jeans, and red sweater and smirk.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re dressed for it.”

  “I’ll just watch you.”

  He winks.

  I’m so not in the mood. Everything hits me at once, an idea, and a suspicion. As the elevator hits the gym floor, I change my stance, turn, and smile.

  “Okay.”

  We enter the gym, go over to that beast of a leg lift machine, and Chase automatically starts to adjust the seat, change the weight setting for me, as if he’s known me for years, instead of a month.

  I smile as he nods to indicate that it’s all set and I hop on, starting my reps.

  “So Chase, when you talked to me for weeks about Molly, your girlfriend, you knew I lived on your floor in this building. You must have known I lived with someone named Bradley too.”

  I try for casual, look out the window, glance at my moving legs.

  “Not at first. But when Molly broke up with me, and confessed to her animalistic affair with a guy named Bradley, she let slip he lived in my building. I put it together. I thought you should know. Bradley was making a fool out of you. I bet they both laughed themselves sick knowing how gullible you were. Molly called you, Naomi the blind.”

  That hurt.

  The pain’s so sharp in my chest, for a second I wonder if Chase has physically struck me.

  I stop moving, my heart is racing, and my throat is tightly closing.

  “Their animalistic affair?” I choke, and struggle to stay calm.

  “Yep. Remember, I told you, Molly’s sexually warped. She likes to try new sleazy things. Dress up, roleplay, kidnapper and victim, customer and whore, master and slave. Molly confessed to me that her new man Bradley could be talked into trying any twisted role she desired. It seems like he’s very talented in the adventurous positions and locking handcuffs in place.”

  I swallow. Was that Bradley? He was easygoing, leadable. But adventurous? Not with me. He’d gotten almost repetitive and boring while making love to me lately. Was that why? Was he saving up all his spicy stuff for Molly? Was I a duty fuck to rush through, just enough effort for me to keep paying all the bills?

  Chase sees how upset I am and he shifts his feet, bends over and opens a drawer of folded towels, takes one out and offers it to me.

  I stop moving my legs. I feel sick. I accept the white towel and I wipe the tears quickly off my face. I’m so upset I didn’t realize I was crying.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure, peachy.”

  Chase blushes, and bites his lip. I wonder if he’s regretting telling me all the seedy details of Bradley and Molly. I wish I’d never heard half of them. In a surprise move, he reaches out and brushes the hair out of my eyes and smiles tenderly at me.

  “Man, does my boss have a crush on you.”

  Chase lets his easy remark slide off his tongue like warm ice cream and I jump and stare at him.

  “What? Who?”

  “Darren Broderick of course. He’s been mooning over you for ages. Ever since that first day at the annual meeting at McMaster Swartz. I hear you walked into the conference room, files in hand, showing off your gorgeous figure in some black, tight suit. You brought him coffee, your eyes met…”

  Chase laughs and I smile.

  His expression is funny and I try to breathe normally. I start moving my legs again.

  “How long have you known Darren?” I toss out casually.

  “All my life.”

  “Really, you mean like neighbors or school friends?”

  “No, like brothers.”

  Well, wasn’t that weird I thought, and didn’t it change just about everything?

  Chapter Twelve

  Manny, part duh

  BRADLEY

  Saturday, February 6th

  I don’t know what made me turn around before leaving our street, but when I did, that creepy, blonde guy from our gym was there in the doorway, just staring at me. Weird. I tried staring him down, but he just half-smiled and went back inside.

  Now I’m back at Manny’s. Funds are kind of tight right now; I haven’t worked in a year. I gave up everything to help Naomi get the apartment in shape and move all her stuff. No biggie, I thought. Then my agency dropped me and a few other guys who just hit the big three-oh, and my savings kind of dried up.

  “Hey Manny,” I yell into his bathroom, “got anything to eat?” He doesn’t answer, so I scrounge around his fridge. I find three jars of hot sauce, a carton of curdled milk, and a case of Coronas. Guess I’m drinking my dinner. What did dad call beer? Oh yeah, liquid bread. He had one with his lunch and several during dinner every day. Used to sneak some to me, but the nannies were too fast for him and always swiped it away before it could hit my mouth. This one makes it in and it goes down smooth and cold.

  “Good idea, bruh,” Manny says, nodding at my beer. “Nothing goes better with Korean food than Mexican beer.

  “You go ahead without me, dude. I’m not hungry.” I lie.

  “I know you ain’t got the money, dude, no worries. We’re going to Kwang’s.”

  “No way,” I answer, “he finally did it?”

  “Yep, just took a couple of years of funneling his money into my bank account and then it was like, later North Korea. So yeah, you ar
e coming with me and you will be drinking.”

  Shit.

  Ten shots of Soju later, I’m digging into some righteous bulgogi and a memory of Naomi cooking Korean food floods into my brain like a coke rush. I can’t get the fork to my mouth. Gotta call her! It’s as though my brain has shut it all down until I speak to her. I’m starving, I want the food, I see the food, but all I hear in my head is, call her call her call her. So I pull out my phone and hit speed dial. No answer. Again, beep, no answer. I try texting: u busy? What’s up? Talk? Call again. And again. Manny gets pissed off and goes to the bar to chat with Kwang.

  Some time around one, about fifty text messages and at least twenty increasingly drunken voice messages later, I come out of my daze to find Manny at the bar, surrounded by a dozen Korean beauties. He’s got a mic and he’s flipping through a catalogue. He waves me over.

  “C’mere, dude, check it out, now, check it out,” he’s really animated, it’s possible there are several chemicals involved. “We’re gonna be singing and these lovely ladies gonna be our back up singers.” He grins at me and winks, but I don’t feel in on the joke. All I can think about is Naomi. Why isn’t she answering? Manny takes the stage with the ladies, already forgetting about me. I duck out; wander the streets around K-town. It’s beyond freezing. The scent of honey-roasted peanuts mingles with the fried meat of the gyro trucks as I cross Broadway. I head over to Herald Square to catch a subway back down to Manny’s. The windows of Macy’s are oozing with romance. I had almost forgotten Valentine’s Day was coming up. Last year at this time, I was planning a majorly romantic get-away to surprise Naomi with. A buddy of mine from the runway circuit owns a house in Oaxaca, right on a private beach. I bought plane tickets, picked her up for our ‘dinner,’ and took her right to the airport instead. It was ten below with the wind chill that night, but the next morning, boom: eighty-five and sunny. We didn’t get dressed for three days.