by J. J. Murray
Lauren stepped around Phil and allowed Patrick to use her suitcases to plow ahead through the boisterous crowd of photographers, none of whom stayed in Patrick’s path for very long.
“What other ways?” Phil yelled behind her.
Patrick used the suitcases to bang through the entrance doors, and they were momentarily alone on the sidewalk.
Lauren frowned at the mounds of drifted snow in the street. “Patrick?”
“Yes, Lauren?”
“We’re not going to get a cab today, are we?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Photographers spilled out of the hotel.
“Miss Short! Miss Short!”
“Where are you going?”
“Is this your bodyguard?”
“Does Chazz know about this guy?”
“Why are you going to Brooklyn?”
Lauren sighed. “How far is it to the bus station?” she whispered.
“About a mile,” Patrick said.
“How are we doing for time?” Lauren asked.
“If we hustle,” Patrick said, “we’ll make it.”
Lauren looked at Patrick, who had his duffel bag and her smallest bag looped around his neck, her medium suitcase under his right arm, and the handle of her large suitcase in his right hand. “I can carry one or two of those.”
“I’m good,” Patrick said. He smiled. “I need a good workout after all the sleep I got.” He winked and held out his free hand.
Lauren took it. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” “Let’s,” Patrick said, and they waded out into the snow.
“Miss Short! Miss Short!”
“Where are you going?”
“Brooklyn is in the other direction, Lauren!”
“Where’d you get those boots, Miss Short?”
They left photographers scrambling behind them and crossed Fourth Street through heavy snow and nonexistent traffic.
“Do you think they’ll follow us?” Patrick asked.
“They’ll probably try,” Lauren said.
They hiked down Clark Avenue, past Busch Stadium and the police station, and then cut through Triangle Park to the bus terminal as photographers in four-wheel-drive SUVs tried to catch up with them on the side streets.
When they arrived at the Greyhound ticket counter, Lauren looked down at her jeans. I’m soaked almost to my hips! Lovely weather in St. Louis this time of year. I wonder how St. Louis will look when winter actually begins.
“Two tickets to Brooklyn on the next bus going east,” Patrick said.
“Are you two together?” the woman asked.
Obviously! “Yes,” Lauren said.
The woman smiled. “Hey, you’re Lauren Short.”
All day and all night. Hmm. Last night with Patrick, I was someone else entirely at times. “Please tell me you have two seats beside each other.”
“We do,” the woman said. “On the next bus. That bus won’t leave until noon.”
And we’ll be surrounded by media monsters until then, Lauren thought. That won’t work.
“Do you have two seats available for that bus?” Patrick pointed at a bus idling outside.
“Yes,” the woman said. “One in front, one in back. They’re the last two.”
“We’ll take them,” Patrick said. He paid the woman in cash.
“But we won’t be able to sit together,” Lauren whispered.
Patrick smiled. “I think we will.”
He collected their tickets, took Lauren’s hand, and moved quickly toward the bus. After dropping off her luggage and his duffel bag to be loaded onto the bus, he let Lauren precede him inside. He pointed at an empty seat beside a heavyset man wearing a puffy ski jacket and pulled Lauren to him.
“Hi,” Patrick said. “We have just gotten engaged, but our seats are far apart. Would it be possible for you to take a different seat so we can sit together?”
The man looked up at Patrick. “You want me to move?” The man looked at Lauren. “Hey, you’re that actress. What’s your name? Lauren something?”
“Lauren Short,” Lauren said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The man looked at Patrick. “You’re engaged to her?”
Patrick nodded. “As of last night.”
“Uh-huh,” the man said. “Well, I might move my seat if I could get an autograph first.”
Lauren signed the back of her ticket. She handed it to the man.
The man smiled and stood. “Thank you.”
Lauren said, “No. Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“I’m on only until Indianapolis,” the man said, handing Lauren his ticket. “Where are you two going?”
“Brooklyn,” Patrick said.
The man moved into the aisle. “The Big Apple’s getting pounded right now. Good luck getting there.”
As the man moved to the back, Lauren sat in the window seat, and Patrick took the seat beside her.
“Piece of cake,” Patrick said. He put his lips to her ear.
“Do you think he would have moved if you weren’t the famous Lauren Short?”
“No,” Lauren said. “I do have some value.”
“You’re priceless,” Patrick said, kissing her cheek.
Lauren looked at her ring. “So is this ring.” She picked up his hand and kissed it, intertwining her fingers with his. “I have to get you one just like it.”
The bus pulled out onto Fifteenth Street, photographers capturing the moment.
“Wow,” Lauren said. “They’re taking pictures of a Greyhound bus.”
“They must be snow blind,” Patrick said.
“Promise to hold my hand,” Lauren said. “I rode my mama’s bus, but not for very long.”
“I can’t hold your hand the entire time,” Patrick whispered. “My hand might . . . travel.”
“Where?” Lauren whispered.
“To your leg,” Patrick whispered.
Not now. My leg is sopping wet from the snow. “Anywhere else?”
“I suppose you could help my hand travel wherever you wanted it to go,” Patrick whispered.
“I’ll probably sit on your hand all the way there,” Lauren whispered.
“I don’t think you’ve ever been shy about sex,” Patrick whispered.
“I was,” Lauren said, “but you bring out the hoochie in me.” She sighed contentedly. “And that is not a bad thing at all.”
Patrick smiled. “Have I said, ‘I love you,’ today?”
“No,” Lauren said.
“I love you,” Patrick said. He kissed her lips. “Sorry I had to drag you through the snow.”
“I love you, too, and I wish we were back at the hotel,” she whispered. She looked at the bus’s windshield wipers as they streaked the glass. “We’d be in front of that window right now. . . .”
“What would we be doing?” Patrick whispered.
“Having an incredible adventure,” Lauren whispered. She squeezed his hand. “But this is an adventure, too, and I’m glad I’m sharing it with you. What’s our first stop?”
“Indianapolis in six hours,” Patrick said. “In this weather, maybe longer.”
I am so hungry! “Could we get something to eat when we get there?”
“I know a place,” Patrick said, “where we can eat until we burst.”
I hope to God my jeans dry by the time we get there, Lauren thought. If they’re wet when I burst, I might drown some people.
48
During the eighty-minute layover in Indianapolis, Lauren and Patrick inhaled a dozen sliders, two large chili cheese fries, an order of ranch-flavored chicken rings, and two large Barq’s root beers at a White Castle less than a block from the bus terminal. They returned to the bus through a scattering of flurries and a troop of Indianapolis photographers and reporters while eating fudge-dipped brownies on a stick.
“Why are you so hungry, Lauren?”
“Were those free-range chickens you ate? Do you know? Do you care?”
“Lauren, aren’t
you worried about your figure?”
“Did Chazz allow you to eat like this?”
“Should you be eating so much when there are so many starving children in the world?”
“What would Michelle Obama say about your lunch?”
Michelle Obama? Patrick wondered. Why would the president’s wife even care?
They slept until they reached Columbus, Ohio, three hours later. While the other passengers disembarked there to stretch their legs, Patrick and Lauren stayed on the bus, snuggling as best as they could while photographers lurked in the terminal.
“I want to get married soon,” Lauren said.
I’m afraid to ask this. “How soon is soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
I knew she’d say that. “How about after Christmas?”
Lauren pouted. “That’s four weeks away.”
“That will give us time to get to know each other better, right?”
Lauren sighed. “I know all I need to know about you. You’re kind, giving, forgiving, and romantic. You’re everything I want in a man and more. You make me feel sexy, and I know our bodies were meant to be connected repeatedly.”
“So we’re sexually compatible, huh?” Patrick asked.
“Oh yes,” she said. “We are emotionally, mentally, and sexually compatible—in that order. If I could, I’d marry you right now. But I need to get you a proper ring first.” She smiled at her ring. “I love this ring. I am never taking it off.”
“If we had a wedding at St. Agnes,” Patrick said, “do you think your mama would attend?”
“Is St. Agnes a Catholic Church?” Lauren asked.
“Yes.”
“She won’t attend,” Lauren said. “She’s strictly a full gospel Baptist. What about your family?”
“I have none to speak of or to,” Patrick said. “Your mama really wouldn’t come to her own daughter’s wedding?”
“The almost breast is still a stopper for her,” Lauren said. “Even after fourteen years.”
“Oh.” He let his hand drift to her stomach. “It’s still a stopper for me, too.”
“Careful,” Lauren said. “I ate a lot of grease.”
Patrick rubbed her stomach. “Maybe you’re still hungry.”
Lauren closed her eyes. “I’m more sleepy than hungry,” she whispered. “Somebody kept me up all night.”
“You kept me up all night,” Patrick said.
“I did,” she said, yawning slightly. “My head’s not too heavy on your shoulder, is it?”
“No.” He stroked her hair. “Sweet dreams, Lauren.”
“Kiss me,” she said.
He kissed her.
“Now, don’t wake me until we get to Brooklyn. . . .”
Lauren slept through stops in Zanesville, Ohio, and Wheeling, West Virginia, and hardly stirred as they pulled into Pittsburgh. Passengers occasionally snapped pictures of them with their cell phones, but they left them alone for the most part.
And that’s a blessing, Patrick thought. She is really worn out. I wish the media circling the bus and shouting ridiculous questions were as kind as these people have been. He ducked as one photographer leaped up beside their window and took several rapid-fire pictures. I don’t know how she can sleep through all this. I also don’t know how she can want to marry me so quickly. I know I’m ready, but I’m not really ready. I want her to be happy, but will she be happy with what I have to offer once we get to Brooklyn?
While they waited out the two-hour layover in Pittsburgh, Patrick laid Lauren’s black coat over her chest and legs. A moment later, he felt her hand crawling across his thigh and into his pocket, her fingers tapping at the tip of his penis.
I will never get any sleep as long as I’m with this woman.
He moved his hand into her lap and found her jeans already unzipped. He found her clitoris with his middle finger and made slow circles.
Lauren opened one eye. “I’ll try not to scream.”
He felt himself growing. “I wish I had a hole in my pocket.”
“There will be one soon,” Lauren whispered. “My nails are sharp.”
Patrick sat back as she ripped a hole in his pocket. “I’m glad you have small hands,” he whispered.
Lauren gripped his penis tightly and began to pant. “You’re so big,” she whispered. “You’re gonna make me come. . . .”
Patrick felt Lauren’s left hand press down on his.
Lauren’s mouth opened wide. “Oh, damn. Oh, damn. Oh, damn . . .”
I may never sleep again.
No sleep till Brooklyn.
Or in Brooklyn either.
I will be the world’s happiest insomniac.
49
As the bus caught up to the back edge of the storm and the snow thickened west of Philadelphia, Lauren woke while Patrick snored softly beside her. She turned on her phone, ignored a dozen messages from Todd, and checked the time—4:45 a.m.
She’ll be awake. Pamela Jane Jimmerson is always up before the sun.
Lauren called her mother.
“Hello?”
Okay. Talk fast. “Mama, I’m engaged to Patrick Alan Esposito, and we are getting married very soon,” she said quickly.
Lauren didn’t hear a click.
“I just wanted you to know,” Lauren said.
She still didn’t hear a click.
“Are you still there?” Lauren asked.
“Yes,” Pamela said.
It’s a miracle! She spoke! “I hoped you’d be awake,” Lauren said.
“I wasn’t,” Pamela said. “It’s Saturday. I don’t normally work on Saturday, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” Lauren said. I have lost an entire day on this bus. “Sorry.”
“I saw a picture of Patrick online,” Pamela said. “He was kind of blurry.”
“Since when do you go online?” Lauren asked.
“I’ve been going online for a long time,” Pamela said.
“Now, who is he? Is he another actor?”
“No, Mama,” Lauren said. “He’s a workingman. He’s sitting right beside me.”
“Where’s he from?” Pamela asked.
“Brooklyn,” Lauren said.
Patrick opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows.
“My mama,” Lauren mouthed.
“How’d you meet him?” Pamela asked.
“We met online,” Lauren said.
“Really?” Pamela said.
“It’s not like that,” Lauren said.
“It’s not like what?” Pamela said. “All I said was, ‘Really.’ ”
She thinks it’s like that. “Patrick wrote an extremely kind letter to me after I broke it off with Chazz—”
“To hear Chazz tell it,” Pamela interrupted, “he broke it off with you.”
My mama watches TV now, too? “I did the breaking. I broke a window, too.”
“You did?” Pamela said. “By accident?”
“I shattered it,” Lauren said, “and it wasn’t an accident.”
“You were just showing your tail,” Pamela said.
Not as much as Chazz showed me that night. “I was angry.”
“You were still showing your tail,” Pamela said. “Now, what’s this Patrick Espo . . .”
“Esposito,” Lauren said. “Patrick Alan Esposito.”
“What’s he do?” Pamela asked.
“He’s a handyman,” Lauren said. “He does plumbing, electrical, maintenance—you name it. Like Daddy did.”
“Do you love him?” Pamela asked.
“Yes,” Lauren said. “Very much.”
“You loved Chazz, too, right?” Pamela asked.
“I thought I did,” Lauren said. “I know now that I didn’t. I’ve never felt anything like I’m feeling right now with Patrick. Oh, and I’m wearing the most beautiful ring he gave me.”
“Chazz gave you a ring, too,” Pamela said.
“It didn’t mean anything, Mama,” Lauren said. “This ring is for real.”
&nbs
p; “Is he good to you?” Pamela asked.
“Yes, Mama,” Lauren said. “Patrick has been nothing but good to me and for me. Better than I deserve.”
“You aren’t hooking up with him on the rebound, are you?” Pamela asked.
“No, Mama,” Lauren said.
“That’s what they’re saying on the television,” Pamela said.
“Ignore whatever they’re saying about me on TV, Mama,” Lauren said. “You know most of it isn’t true.”
“How would I know?” Pamela said.
Lauren sighed. She’s itching for an argument, and I don’t want to have one. “Patrick is the kind of man I should have been looking for all along.”
“What’s all that noise?” Pamela asked. “I can barely hear you sometimes.”
“We’re on a bus, and we’re . . .” She turned to Patrick. “Where are we?”
Patrick peered through the thickening snow. “We’re coming up on Philadelphia, I think.”
“You’re on a bus,” Pamela said.
“Yes, a Greyhound bus,” Lauren said. “Flights from St. Louis were all canceled, so we took a bus. It’s a long story.”
“Was that his voice?” Pamela asked.
“Yes,” Lauren said.
“He sounds Italian,” Pamela said. “I thought he would be, as blurry as he was.”
“He said one sentence, Mama,” Lauren said.
“And he sounded Italian,” Pamela said. “Is he?”
“Yes,” Lauren said.
“Uh-huh,” Pamela said. “Now, are you really serious about quitting acting?”
“Yes, Mama,” Lauren said. “I’m in love, and I will have no time for acting.”
“Patrick doesn’t want you to do it anymore, does he?” Pamela asked.
“It’s my decision, Mama,” Lauren said. “I’m through.”
“Uh-huh,” Pamela said. “So you’re on a Greyhound bus in Pennsylvania with your Italian fiancé.”
“Right,” Lauren said.
“I need to speak to him,” Pamela said.
“Why?” Lauren asked.
“I need to make sure you’re telling me the truth,” Pamela said.
“I am,” Lauren said.
“I don’t believe it,” Pamela said. “My daughter on a Greyhound bus? That’s crazy. Put him on.”
50
Lauren handed the phone to Patrick. “My mama wants to speak to you.”
