The Album: Book One

by Pullo, Ashley

  I whistle Pantera’s Cowboys From Hell while sitting at my desk. I’m focused – a new clarity about the promising future that lies ahead of me – this feels good.

  Adam Ford

  8/22/03

  Re: The snow globes

  THE ELEVATOR’S LAST inspection was stamped on September 10, 2001. I can’t decide what’s creepier: the fact that it legally needed an inspection a year ago, or the haunting memory of the day before the world changed. Actually, both thoughts are pretty fucked up and first thing Monday, I’m putting in a call to the Department of Buildings.

  The elevator opens and I exhale in relief – in the future, I’m taking the stairs. I spot a black door with a tiny gold heart painted around the peephole. Of course it’s Chloe’s . . . she puts her mark on everything.

  The door swings open to reveal a damp Chloe patting her hair with a towel and wearing a – not a robe, why can’t I think of the name? It’s like a cotton floral sheet that grandmas and trailer trash like to wear. A dressing gown, maybe.

  “Adam!” Chloe grabs my arm and pulls me inside.

  Wow, her apartment is cool. My initial perception of a woman outside her home is always confirmed by the furnishings inside her home. Like with Fiona, she’s all business and tends to overcompensate for her shortcomings – resulting in expensive décor with very little character. But Chloe’s apartment is a collection of her favorite things, like a rummage sale into her psyche.

  There’s a small orange sofa, a painted bench used as a coffee table and stacks of magazines everywhere. And a huge fucking television that would put mine to shame – size matters to Chloe. The kitchen is a typical Manhattan galley with open cabinetry housing mostly liquor bottles and cereal. Against a brick wall, a shiny white table with two painted blue chairs is dwarfed by an oversized painting of a green olive.

  “Nice painting. Olives are so reflective of a capitalistic society, don’t you agree?” I smile at her but she rolls her eyes.

  “My friend Jamie painted that for me! Inside joke, but the moral is, someone at some point decided to cram a pickled pepper in an olive – and that image always makes me smile.” Chloe takes my hand and pulls me closer.

  I place my other hand on her waist and run my lips over her open mouth, never actually making contact. “Get dressed. I made reservations for a jazz club in Harlem.”

  I had twenty different ideas floating around all day, all of which were lame and unChloe. I hate dating and I refuse to fabricate romance. If life were up to me, I would line up potential partners in a jury room and pick the winner after a rowdy game of rock, paper, scissors.

  “Nice touch, Mr. Ford. Come to my room with me.” Chloe slides her hand into the waist of my jeans and leads me to her bedroom.

  She mentioned that she shared a room with her cousin and I was expecting an IKEA showroom with clothes thrown everywhere, but yet again, I was wrong. The room is small, but neatly organized and functional. Twin iron beds are positioned to form an ‘L’ and they’re covered in modern bedding – with an appropriate number of pillows. A yellow, lacquered side table is positioned to the left of one bed and the other bed is flanked against a small white dresser topped with a collection of snow globes. On the wall opposite the window, clothing racks act as a closet with boxes of shoes stacked on the floor, so many fucking shoes. There’s a large blue bookcase filled with paperbacks, Koosh balls and an extensive record collection. Everything appears to be purchased on a whim and nothing matches, but it’s a colorful tapestry of who she is.

  “So, it’s not quite Sex in the City, but Nat and I survive.” She moves a stray hanger from a navy wingback chair near the bookcase. “Here, sit and relax. I had to work the bar for a few hours, kissing ass in prep for my upcoming gigs, and I hate the smell of smoke in my hair, so I took a shower, but I’m a really quick dresser, promise . . .” Chloe rummages through the rack of clothes, pausing to evaluate a piece of clothing with each incomplete thought.

  I pick up a few of her Koosh balls and attempt to juggle. When they eventually fall, I perform some of my hacky sack moves – to no avail. “Your record collection is pretty impressive. Can we play your favorite?” I look back at her and she’s laughing.

  Chloe places a very sexy red dress on the bed and then slithers next to me. Her expression is brazen and sensual, yet slightly dorky. Now that’s a woman – sex just oozes from her, she can’t control it.

  “I don’t have a record player, silly. For me, these albums are more about the story rather than the music.”

  “What kind of stories?” I place the Koosh balls back on the shelf and pull out a record sleeve from the middle of the second row. It’s a decent copy of Johnny Cash’s Man in Black. “Okay, so this one, what’s the story?”

  Smiling shyly, she says, “Why Adam Ford, you picked my very first record.” Chloe glides her hand along the surface of the album and bumps her hip against mine. “I was eleven and saved my allowance to buy a cassette, Debbie Gibson probably. So Dad took me to a local music store and I instinctively headed straight to a row of vintage vinyl. Those square covers were so much more authentic than the cellophane plastic of the latest hits, ya know?” Chloe takes a section of her hair and twists it around her finger, deep in nostalgic thought. “I spent twenty minutes thumbing through all the classics, wondering where they’d been and who owned them. People making love, people fighting, parties, drugs, depression . . . I mean, think about all the tales from one record!”

  I turn to face her – so close our bodies touch. “Tell me about Johnny Cash.”

  She rubs her index finger over the price tag like it’s a piece of braille blindly leading me into her soul. “The price was twenty-five dollars and I only had twelve. But look at it!” I don’t. My eyes are locked on hers. “The cover is almost entirely one color, no flash, no gimmick, it’s like Johnny was daring you not to listen.” She taps the record and laughs. “My dad bought it and let me keep my money. He said he would’ve paid a million dollars to bond with his only daughter over the Man in Black.”

  “And you have a story for every single record?” I ask, placing Johnny Cash back into his designated slot.

  “I’m sure of it. But now you’re part of the story, Adam.” She pulls a record from the top shelf and brings it between us. I kiss her, taking her cheeks in my hands and forcing the anticipation – Chloe can’t take it, she wants to look at the record. She breaks our kiss and holds up a copy of the greatest parodist of the ’80s, Weird Al Yankovic.

  “Awesome. It couldn’t be something relevant like The Replacements?” I smirk.

  “Right? I love The Replacements.” She beams. “But now, Weird Al has a new story with this moment – and I can guarantee it’s better than the original.” She kisses the album and places it back on the shelf.

  “Chloe, in the bar that night, what made you look at me?” She takes my hand and leads me to the bed by the window.

  “Adam Ford, are you suggesting that fate has a prominent role in the universe?” She sits on her bed with her legs crisscrossed – flashing her absence of panties. Damn, that’s hot.

  Chloe pulls me to the bed with her as I answer, “Fate? Not fate – but I do believe there’s a purpose to every action, a plan for every outcome.” I sit across from her and lean against the foot of the bed, absorbing her beautiful features and smiling uncontrollably.

  “Ah, a purpose.” She nods slowly. “Well, it was your watch.” Chloe taps the face of the silver watch my dad left me. “That night when I was a stand-in for Natalie’s blind date, I saw a flicker of light in your direction. It wasn’t like the universe was in control – I get distracted by shiny things. And what about you, Mr. I Have a Purpose . . . what made you smile at me?” She purses her lips and narrows her gaze, expecting me to lie with some cheesy line, but I’m always honest.

  “Your tits. Is that your guitar?” I nod in the direction of her guitar resting on a stand. “Play for me.”

  She smiles mischievously and grabs her guitar. Chlo
e places the leather strap over her shoulder, takes a dramatic breath and starts to strum. “This one’s for you, dear Adam.”

  She plays roughly, not at all how I would imagine her performing. Chloe begins the familiar lyrics, angry and catatonic . . .

  Ah, now I get it – there’s only one artist that can make a guy grab his balls in pain. Chloe is playing Alanis’s You Oughta Know, the theme song for every grungy feminist of 1995 and the quickest way to get a guy to walk right out the door. I respond flatly, not giving her the satisfaction of being clever. “Hilarious – and what if I told you that song actually turns me on, a raging female that needs a good fuck?”

  She stops playing and laughs. “Jerk! Ma femme Alanis only speaks the truth.” Chloe leans over her guitar to run her hand up my leg, stopping right at my swelling boner.

  I smile. She winks.

  “Now, play me your favorite song.” She tilts her head and stares intently at my lips, but then she lowers her head to look at her guitar. “Please, Chloe,” I repeat.

  “Okay, but I never play this for people. Don’t laugh.” She closes her eyes and strums a simple melody. Her voice pours from her lips like a really good gin – smooth yet raw. It’s obvious that everything about Chloe is a paradox to me. But it’s when she sings the lower notes, from the belly of her soul, that I actually feel high. Every word from her mouth is relevant and meaningful, and I want nothing more than to be the song coming from her lips.

  “The lovers, the dreamers . . .” She stops abruptly, placing the guitar in her lap while biting the inside of her lip.

  Chloe’s embarrassed, so I finish for her. “And me.”

  She smiles in agreement then places her guitar back in the stand. “You have my permission to tell all the tabloids what a pathetic sap I am – ya know, when I’m famous.”

  “You’re amazing, Chloe. And when you’re famous, promise you won’t leave me for some skinny, tattooed Pixies poser.” I joke, rubbing her leg.

  “Deal. And promise me, that if I’m panhandling in the subway with my guitar and a coffee can for change, you’ll tell me to stop. Seriously, I just want to be mildly famous.”

  “What’s your definition of mildly famous, just so I can say I knew you when?”

  Chloe scratches her head and scrunches her nose. She smiles and says, “I don’t know! Famous is figurative I guess . . . but I do want a personalized guitar strap and at least three groupies – and I want to feel proud.”

  I stretch out my legs and lick my lips. “Kiss me.”

  Chloe crawls toward me with her mouth parted as I place my hand on her cheek. She’s flushed, and I enjoy the fire beneath her soft skin. I take her bottom lip between mine and suck. Her tongue flicks my top lip as she straddles me. Dry-humping has never had this kind of effect on me, but this is more like emotional transference. I kiss her, deep and forceful while my hands molest her body.

  Chloe shifts her weight to her ass and pulls me down to the bed with her. I push up and hover on top of her, our breathing syncing into heaving gasps. I’m so fucking hard, and I want to ram her into that dainty, little headboard – but I will patiently wait for her to submit.

  “Adam.”

  That’s all I need to hear.

  I push myself off the bed and stare down at the goddess of cotton floral. My rock hard erection is painful against my jeans and my self-control left the moment I walked into her apartment. I quietly open the top drawer to her yellow nightstand. It’s a horrible habit, but I do need a condom.

  The drawer of Chloe LeGrange: purple vibrator, three Trojans, Vick’s Vaporub, Ricola lozenges, a worn copy of Catcher in the Rye and an orange plastic container.

  “Wait! Adam, no I’ll get it.” Chloe sits up excitedly, nearly knocking off the small lamp. “Please don’t look in there.”

  Amused by her sudden discomfort, I say, “Chloe, it’s okay, I’ve seen a vibrator before.”

  “What? No, I don’t give a shit about that. I just don’t want you to see my mouth guard.” She snatches the orange container and hurls it across the room. “You may proceed with the sex.” She positions herself like a pinup girl of the ’50s and lifts her gown slowly, teasing me with a view of her naked body and soft curves. But as usual, I’m more distracted by her radiant smile.

  “Is there a time limit before your roommate shows up? Because I plan to fuck you thrice . . .” What the hell did I just say? I laugh a little too excitedly as I place the three condoms on the table.

  “Nat’s not coming home – we have all night!”

  Chloe seductively lifts the cotton gown over head and tosses it on the floor. Her nakedness only reinforces what I’m beginning to understand – I’m standing above the goddess of my dreams, and she was wearing a muumuu.

  Adam Ford

  8/25/03

  Re: Diet Snapple and Mountain Dew

  MONDAYS ARE UNNECESSARILY painful, but I have two things in my favor today: a new secretary will be replacing Roberta the Nun, and visions of naked-Chloe will be dancing in my head.

  Our date, or rather, our weekend, was an awakening. There’s absolutely no formula with Chloe, only a rhythm I have yet to fully understand. And fuck – I’m terrified, but I like it.

  Chloe has sex like she lives her life; impulsive, controlled, rough, gentle and emotionally charged. In fact, she is the first woman to give me a blow job in the middle of sex simply because she wanted my cock in her mouth during one of her favorite songs. That immediate sense of urgency was so fucking hot. Something about the way she smiles at me, the way she moves for me and the compassionate way she touches my stupid scar make me want her more and more. And I crave her unpredictability.

  It wasn’t all sex. We took breaks to discuss the finer things in life, like Canadian beer and Impressionism. We ordered shrimp dumplings around two a.m. and watched The Great Outdoors. By two-thirty, we were out of condoms.

  Chloe stayed in my arms like our first night together, sharing crazy stories about her cousin Natalie and growing up in Canada. She told me about each of the snow globes in her room, starting with Natalie’s cheap plastic NYC dome. We made up commercial jingles about sex toys and laxatives, Chloe laughing hysterically at my terrible voice. All in all, it was the best date we never had . . .

  The elevator opens to my floor and I’m swarmed by two associates drooling and panting.

  “Jesus, Adam. What did you do to land that hot piece of ass?” asks Onion Bagel Scott.

  At first I’m confused by the question, but then I spot a pair of gorgeous legs near my office. She’s gracefully placing things inside a desk five yards from Sister Roberta’s menacing scowl. As a result of one successful case, I’m simultaneously the most hated and envied man in the office.

  “She’s my new secretary, so fuck off,” I say.

  I shove past Onion Bagel and the other nameless prick to introduce myself to the JS&D secretarial jackpot. Roberta glances at me quickly, but then snaps her focus toward her computer screen, avoiding me. Good riddance.

  My new secretary is a buxom red-head with a short skirt and very high heels. I move to the front of her desk and flash a charming smile, but she frowns. How many guys hit on her before I got here? She’s pretty and has some great features, but she’s somewhat ordinary. But I’m a guy, and her legs and ass will do just fine. I extend my hand but she looks away.

  “Hello, I’m Adam Ford,” I say.

  “Oh! Adam, good morning. I’m sorry for being rude it’s just that ten guys have welcomed me in the past twenty minutes.” She smiles seductively and shakes my hand. “I’m Caroline Jenkins and I’m thrilled to work for such a dynamic attorney.” Jenkins . . . Jenkins. As in Jenkins, Davis and Shaw. Shit.

  “It’s very nice to have you on the floor with the bottom-feeding associates, Caroline. Please let me know if anyone gives you a hard time.” I lean in to whisper, “Except Roberta. She scares me so you’re on your own.” I smile warmly and Caroline swoons – it’s really that easy. “Are you ready? We need to go over
my schedule for the next few days. Grab a cup of coffee and meet me in my office.”

  “Oh, I don’t drink coffee! Do you? I mean, should I get you a cup?” Caroline’s face contorts into an awkward grimace and her eyes blink rapidly.

  “No, I’m good.” I take my agenda from her desk and motion for her to follow me. “We can go to my office and get started.”

  Caroline follows closely behind me, nearly tripping against my back. Every eye on the floor is on us, just waiting for one little excuse to start rumors – let them. It wouldn’t be the first time the hot secretary goes after her boss.

  Inside my office, I motion for her to close the door as I hurry to my ringing phone.

  “Oh, should I go outside and answer that?” she asks.

  “No, sit. I got it.” I move to the other side of my desk and answer the phone somewhere around the sixth ring. “Adam Ford.”

  There’s silence so I repeat my greeting. “Adam Ford,” I say, a little perturbed.

  “You’re incredibly sexy when you’re impatient.” Her voice alone makes me hard. I sit in my chair and swivel to face the window as she continues. “So hey, I have your Blackberry and I may have taken some provocative photos of me in the shower . . . with a very, very phallic-shaped loofah.” I smile at my reflection in the window.

  “That’s a company phone and I’m sure the IT guys are grateful.” I tease.

  “Are you serious? Shit.” Her voice is raspy and irritated.

  “Yes, they’re sending around an office email as we speak. Very nice.” She laughs and I imagine her gorgeous lips curling into a smile.

  “Ugh, you’re such a jerk! Do you want to come by later for the phone?”

  “Actually, I need my client list. Can you meet for lunch?”

  “What time?”

  “Come by my office around noon. Look under the contact list for,” I clear my throat and whisper, “Fraggle Rock – that’s the contact for the address.”

  “Oh fantastic – your office. Can we do it on your desk with all the puppets watching?”