Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  Count me in.

  Chapter Ten

  “You’re not coming,” Suzy told Meyer.

  It was Friday night, forty minutes before she was due to meet John. She was standing before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, assessing her wardrobe choices. Jeans, kitten heels, a black camisole under a green cardigan, dressed up with a long strand of malachite beads. Perhaps a touch fancier than was appropriate for the dive bar where they were meeting, but she only knew where the night was starting, not where it might end. It never hurt to be prepared.

  Meyer was draped across her bed—unlike the Parkses’ bed, it was a mess of unkempt covers and jettisoned clothes, and not because sex had just happened. Mrs. Parks was a far better homemaker than Suzy could dream of being.

  An ancient copy of Allure was spread out before Meyer. “Ple-e-ease?” he groaned, flipping a page. “I’m so bored.”

  “Get on Grindr. Find your own date. Lindsay is the boringest person in the world, remember?”

  “Miss Lindsay the forty-year-old spinster librarian was, yes. John Lindsay, the forty-year-old he-virgin best-selling mystery novelist is fascinating. I want to see him with my own eyes. And smell him. And shake his lily-white, unsullied hand.”

  Ditto, but still. “No way. He’s mine. He’ll clam up if you crash our night. I’m lucky he’s even agreed to meet with just me.”

  “Get him drunk and take his moldy old virginity.”

  “I don’t even know that he is a virgin.”

  “Not for long, at any rate.” He flipped another page, held a perfume ad to his nose and grimaced.

  “This isn’t a date,” she said, even as she fussed with her hair. “It’s a drink.”

  “You’d fuck him if the opportunity arose.”

  “I’d kiss him,” she allowed. “I’m human. But I’m also monogamous, remember?”

  “This is an exceptional scenario and you know it. All the hall passes.”

  “You know, there is absolutely zero reason that you can’t be fucking around with guys, this year—making out and sucking dick and any other depraved thing that doesn’t negate our fluid bond. But you don’t, because of some willful adherence to the concept or the challenge of our agreement. And if you, the hugest man-whore I’ve ever met, can manage that, then I promise you, so can I.”

  “Feelings, Suze.” His gaze scanned the horoscopes. “Feelings trump all. I have no feelings, therefore my promise is watertight. You, my darling, are a liability. It’s not your twat that worries me. It’s your troublesome, idiot heart.”

  “You do so have feelings. When your cat dies you’re going to be positively suicidal.”

  “Ferdinand will never die. Fuck you.”

  She laughed. “I’m off—I want to be early. Will I find you passed out on my bed when I return in thirty minutes to five hours?”

  He sat up with a grunt and swung his legs to the floor. “No, no, I’ll leave with you.”

  “Grindr after all?”

  “Nah, I need a break. Give it a couple weeks until the faces start looking fresh again.”

  “What’ll you get up to?” she asked as she shut off her bedroom light.

  He followed her down the hall to the kitchen. “Home, I think. Book. Tea. Evening with my cat.”

  “Now who’s the forty-year-old librarian?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  She locked up and they hiked down the steps, through the house’s front door and out to the sidewalk. “Night.” She stood on her tiptoes, exchanged cheek kisses with him—a gesture so engrained they did it without thought, normally. Tonight, however, she felt acutely aware of their farcical romance.

  “Night. Have fun. Text me.”

  “Love to Ferdinand.”

  “Says the woman who just wished him dead.”

  “That is outrageous hyperbole.”

  “Details. Anyway, be good. Or don’t. Just tell me all about it, either way.”

  They headed in opposite directions, Suzy making her way south to the Mansions on Fifth. The hotel was a stately, stone affair plunked between less ostentatious apartments and homes. It wasn’t until her heels were clicking up the granite steps to the entrance that her jitters finally kicked in. By the time she stepped inside the lobby, those nerves were ringing like a gong.

  She’d come early, imagining John’s social anxiety wouldn’t be helped much if he had to stand around in an unfamiliar environment, waiting for her. She sat on a couch before a lavish flower arrangement and pulled out her phone.

  Here a little early, she texted. But don’t rush on my account.

  His answer came almost immediately. Be right down.

  She blew out a long breath, tucked her phone in her purse and found her palm damp. She wiped her hand on her jeans. Smoothed her hair. Ran her tongue over her teeth in search of rogue spinach, though she hadn’t even eaten any spinach today. Blew out another breath. Fussed with her necklace, worried a bit of dried skin along her fingernail—

  “Suzy?”

  And there he was, before her. John Lindsay, in the flesh.

  She stood. He offered a hand and she shook it, and they both laughed a little, as though in lieu of greetings.

  “This feels weird,” she said, still shaking. “Can we hug?”

  “Sure.”

  That was awkward too, if only because Suzy was barely five-three and John was tall—not as tall as Meyer, but six feet or so. He wasn’t as slender as Meyer, either. A little broader in the shoulders and hips, but by no means a heavy man. Quite average, Suzy thought as she stepped back, with excellent posture that lent him an extra inch. That took her by surprise. Being so shy, she’d expected a man whose stance diminished him somewhat. He also dressed differently than she’d expected. Better than she’d expected, frankly, in a gray wool trench that fit well enough to be tailored, and crisp, slim-legged black slacks, polished leather dress shoes that were creased from frequent wear, but boasted fine tooling details.

  She gave him a blatant up-and-down. “You’re overdressed for a dive, but you look great.” And not just his clothes. He was even more handsome in person.

  “You too.” His eyes made a brief, more polite inventory of her clothes or body.

  “Nice hotel,” she said, glancing around the welcoming lobby. “I went to a wedding reception here once, but I didn’t stay over. What’s your room like?”

  “Quite nice. Claw-foot tub,” he added brightly.

  “Oooh.”

  “My publisher’s putting me up. They booked me a suite, which is silly, as it’s only two nights. If it were my dime, I’d have stayed at the Motel 6. All I really need is Wi-Fi and some tea bags. Though I’m not complaining. It’s lovely.”

  “I’m sure the bar’s nice, too, but our shit hole awaits. Shall we?” She offered her arm and he linked it with his, looking shy but smiling all the same. They headed out into the cool night.

  “It’s not far,” she said, and their arms slipped free as they made their way down the steps. “Here in Shadyside, only about a half mile. Le Mardi Gras. They still allow smoking.”

  “Perfect. Well, not for me, but for Jacob. If it’s not too cold out for you, would you mind if we walked? It’d be nice to get a feel for the city, and stretch after the train ride.”

  “Absolutely. I walked here, and I think these shoes have another mile or so in them.” She waved an arm to the north. “Right this way, best-selling novelist.”

  “If your feet change their minds, the cab’s on me. Well, on my publisher, technically.”

  “Fancy, fancy.”

  “Publishing’s not exactly in its heyday, but some perks still exist. You, um, you look very nice.”

  “Thanks.” She cast him an extra glance. “You too. You have great dress sense.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but I can claim absolutely zero credit.” />
  “Stylist?” she asked.

  “Nearly. Once my books began to take off, I was assigned a publicist, and she gently suggested I might want to quit dressing like a homeless math teacher.”

  Suzy snorted and punched the button for the WALK sign at the curb. “Ouch.”

  “Ouch, but accurate. Anyway, she gave me the names of some outrageously priced stores, and after a very stiff drink, I forced myself to go shopping. Though when I say shopping, I really just let the saleswomen dress me.”

  “They did an excellent job.”

  “I have to agree. I hate choosing clothes. It’s worth the price to hand the task over to someone who’s got taste and knows how to use a tape measure. And everything I own is gray, blue, black or tan, so my odds of clashing are low.”

  “What about your glasses?” Suzy asked. “Are those your publicist’s doing as well?”

  He nodded. “I’d had my old ones since college. Gold wire rim with tortoise shell accents. Very nineties.”

  “Vintage, we call that.”

  “Only if you’re mispronouncing ‘hideous,’” he said, and looked her way just long enough to smile in the streetlight, a little glimmer of his old shyness in the gesture and the glance.

  “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a very good publicist,” Suzy concluded. “Is she single?”

  “I have no idea. But she’s far too young for me, and far too energetic. She’s absolutely terrifying.”

  Suzy laughed.

  “She makes me feel like a fat old cat locked in a pen with a Chihuahua, every time we’re in the same room together. However, she does get the job done, there’s no doubting that.”

  No doubt at all. Though John wouldn’t actually be hard to dress. He had that classic face, and a well-proportioned frame. A stylist’s dream client.

  “Hair?” she asked.

  “That hasn’t changed. I’ve gone to the same barber since I was in high school. When I was seventeen I told him I wanted Robert Mitchum’s haircut from Pursued, and I’ve never looked back.”

  “Well, good instinct. It’s a great look for you.”

  They chatted for a few blocks about old movies, until a neon sign appeared down the street.

  “There it is,” Suzy said, pointing. “Le Mardi Gras.”

  “Swanky.”

  “Not too swanky, I hope. Meyer promised it’s a dive.”

  They reached the entrance to the little brick building and John held the door open. Suzy had passed this place dozens of times but never been inside before. At first glance it had a welcoming feel, even dimly lit and with the scent of cigarettes dominating the atmosphere.

  “I’ll grab our drinks if you want to snag a table,” she said, looking around. It was Friday, a little busy, but not standing-room-only by any means. “What can I get you?”

  “No, no, let me. You sourced the bar—which looks perfect, by the way—plus, this is deductible.”

  “Ring-a-ding-ding.”

  “So let me ask you, what do you drink? Pinot grigio?”

  “Normally yes, but when in Rome . . .” She eyed the taps and bottles. “What does Jacob Russo drink?”

  “Scotch.”

  “Yikes, never mind.”

  He laughed.

  “Whiskey’s always been like an abusive boyfriend to me—one-way ticket to waking up with a mysterious bruise and low self-esteem.”

  “Pinot it is?”

  “Correct.”

  He turned to head to the bar. Suzy took her seat, watching him. He placed their order and removed his coat while he waited, draping it over his arm. She’d expected a collared shirt, but it looked like an upscale thermal, if there was such a thing. Deep blue, some lightweight knit. She admired the shape of his back and his shoulder blades as he fished out a wallet and paid, then quickly looked away when he turned back, drinks in hand.

  He set her wine before her and a tumbler of Scotch for himself, and took a seat. His eyes flashed nervously as he smiled and held up his drink, inviting a toast.

  “To dive bars?” she offered, clinking her glass to his.

  “Works for me.”

  They drank, set their glasses down in perfect unison.

  “May I molest your sleeve?” she asked, eyeing it.

  “Sure.”

  She rolled a bit of the knit between her fingers. “Damn, that’s soft. Is that cashmere?”

  “Merino, I think.”

  She leaned back in her seat, curiosity sated. “So,” she said.

  “So.”

  She smiled at him. “This is weird. In a cool way.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh yes. Weird because a couple weeks ago I thought you were a woman. Weird because you’ve seen me naked.” And seen her fuck, and suck cock, and come who could say how many times, and directed her in those acts. “And weird that you even live in Pennsylvania, and that you’re famous—”

  “The lost Kardashian,” he joked.

  “And just weird that here we are, in a random bar. Face-to-face.” Surprisingly handsome face.

  “It is weird,” he agreed, gaze dropping to the table between them. He turned his glass slowly atop its cardboard coaster, and she studied his long, distinguished fingers until he met her eyes once more. “But a nice sort of weird. Delightful and bizarre. And terrifying, if I’m honest, but not regrettably so.”

  “I promise I have zero interest in blackmailing you.”

  His smile turned sly. “Ditto, future Dr. Suzy Parks.”

  “Park. Though let’s be honest, you do have more to lose.” She lowered her voice. “You’ll be the first public figure to claim his sexual indiscretions were for research and actually mean it.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Your enterprise is really quite upscale, and who really cares what some bachelor fiction writer does at the end of the day?”

  “Touché.”

  “You said your partner wouldn’t approve of us meeting,” John said.

  “Let’s not say ‘partner,’ please. I know it’s accurate on multiple levels, but its sounds so wrong if you know us.”

  “Fair enough. Does he know we’re meeting tonight?”

  “Oh yes. He tried to get invited along.”

  His eyes grew round with exaggerated fear. “Thank goodness you said no.”

  She smiled. “Why, exactly? Your instinct is very good, don’t get me wrong. But why?”

  “You intimidate me enough. Mr. Parks scares me to death.”

  “Oh no! He’s a pussycat, really. In fact, he’s home with his cat right now. Why’s he so scary?”

  “Well, ‘scary’ might not be quite the word. But he’s become a sort of symbol of everything I’ll never achieve in the realms of sex and masculinity and, and . . . magnetism, I suppose. You have some magical power to disarm me, but he’d leave me in a twitching puddle on the floor.”

  “All the more reason to meet him. Mr. Parks may be a smooth-talking, top-shelf sex god, but Meyer Cohen is actually a history nerd with three trollies’ worth of baggage and deeply questionable morals.”

  “You said you two dated?”

  She nodded, swallowing a sip of wine. “God knows why.”

  “Surely you have some notion,” he said with a little smirk.

  “Well, fine. Our chemistry’s intense. We enjoy each other as friends. You’d hope those two things together would be all a person needs, but I believe that some people just aren’t meant for monogamy. Not because they’re weak or deficient and therefore incapable of it, but just because it wouldn’t fulfill them the way freedom does.”

  “Which of you are we talking about?” he asked.

  “Meyer for sure, and possibly me as well.”

  “Ah.”

  “We actually got into the camming because we were both missing variety. Looking
back, I have no idea why we were so goddamned determined to try and make it work, the two of us. Probably just because all of our friends thought the idea was a massive joke.”

  John nodded, spoke with a grave earnestness. “All the most lasting relationships grow out of a heartfelt desire to spite one’s loved ones, I’ve read.”

  She laughed. “I know, I know. It was a weird point for both of us. The ends of long academic periods, plus I’d just lost my dad and Meyer was in the middle of his own transitions.” They told you not to go making any major life changes while your sobriety was still new, so naturally Meyer had chosen that exact time to attempt a committed relationship. A desperate ploy to prove to my therapist that I wasn’t a sex addict, he’d told her after their soft breakup, probably in the quiet, intimate minutes before they switched on a camera and fucked for strangers.

  “I feel naive saying it, but it never occurred to me that romance existed without monogamy,” John said.

  “You’re still firmly in the majority, there. I think my generation and the one behind us are starting to bend the norms, thanks to how pervasive the casual dating culture’s become, but still. Most people still bank on marriage, whether it’s their heart’s desire or simply a default expectation they never bothered questioning.”

  “Does that seem quaint to you?”

  “No, it doesn’t. Sometimes I think that’s what I want, myself.”

  “Sometimes?”

  She nodded. “There’s something to be said for stability. Predictability. Partnership. I think in the end you have to do the math, and decide if those things are worth more to you than the excitement and novelty of new lovers and experiences.”

  “Have you done that math?”

  “I’d like to think I have time, still. I just turned thirty-three.” Though some little alarm in her belly did start sounding then, the one wired to her ovaries, those treacherous things. She shoved it to the periphery of her brain, as she always did. There was a special folder for it there, labeled BABIES, with a dusty Post-it attached, reading, “Make decision before menopause if possible.”

  “I can barely imagine my life with one lover in it,” John said.

  “Nothing wrong with that. Sometimes monogamy sounds like a jail sentence to me,” she admitted, “but probably just as often it sounds like a relief. I am not saying I think there’s some magical, singular soul mate floating around out there in the world for each and every one of us, but I do kind of hope maybe I’ll meet somebody who’ll make monogamy feel doable. Or worth it. Because to be honest I think it’d just make life simpler, at a certain point.”