Rush Me

by Allison Parr

  “Are you kidding? Wouldn’t that be a little—much?”

  Eva clicked her tongue. “Did you look at that website? Tickets start at five-hundred dollars. Tables start at five-thousand. I am pretty sure this is the perfect occasion to wear a fancy dress.” She sighed, putting the white one back. “I’m so jealous.”

  “Maybe I can get you into another event,” I said impulsively. “If, you know, I don’t get kicked out for being a poser at this one.”

  “If a linebacker is taking you as his date, you are not a poser. Here.” She swung a red dress at me. “Try this on.”

  “Not as his date.” I shimmied into the gown. “I just didn’t feel comfortable showing up by myself.”

  It took another hour to settle on a dress, a dark emerald, off-the-shoulder sheath that pooled on the floor when I was barefoot. Christine added heels and dangling earrings she’d worn in a production of Thoroughly Modern Millie to my haul.

  The next day, Eva brought her friend Mattie to our apartment. I sat in our wobbly fold out chair while Mattie wound her hands through my hair, tugging and twisting and pinning. The apartment smelled like cooked hair and foaming salon gel. “This is ridiculous. Who cares this much about appearances? Why am I spending so much time on this? For God’s sake, I shaved my legs. I hate shaving my legs. Who am I shaving them for? For society? Why am I wearing the torturous, deforming device known as heels?”

  “Shut up. You can be a feminist and still like looking pretty.”

  I slid further down in my seat, crossing my arms and feeling grumpy. Then I perked up. “You think I look pretty?”

  Eva took three steps left into the kitchenette and poured a drink. “You are so bipolar.”

  She was right. I had the sudden urge to argue about society’s definition of pretty.

  Mattie did my makeup as well, smudging my skin with concealers and powders, working on my eyes and lips with tiny brushes and pencils. I’d been alarmed at the idea of letting a theatre girl fix me up. “Light,” I kept saying. “Like there’s no makeup at all.”

  Even patient Mattie finally got tired of me. “Rachael, I do wedding cosmetics, too. Don’t worry. You’ll look just fine.”

  When Mattie let me up, I wobbled over to the warped mirror. And Mattie was right. They were both right. They’d played fairy godmother with immaculate taste, artfully tucking and piling my curls on top of my head, coaxing strands to frame my face. Bronze highlights shone, and my murky irises looked more green than brown. The cosmetics smoothed and toned my skin, wiped away a few fading pimples, and made my lips plump and glossy. “My God, Mattie. You’re a miracle worker.”

  She smiled and pulled a beer from the fridge. “All it takes is a little time and effort. I keep telling people. It’s not like actresses and heiresses are naturally beautiful, and regular people aren’t. We’re all the same.”

  Eva shook her head. “You are hot, Rachael.”

  I snuck another look in the mirror, and started to grin. “Thanks.”

  Our buzzer went off, and the three of us started. “I’m here!” Abe called. “It’s Abe!”

  Eva scooted in front of the mirror and fluffed her short hair. “Make him come up.”

  “To our tiny place?” I looked with dismay at the carnage of bobby pins and takeout containers. “Really?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”

  I pressed the buzzer. “Come on up.”

  When he entered, he stopped in his tracks. “Wow.” He took me in in an extremely gratifying manner. “You look amazing.”

  I felt a little giddy. “Thank you, Abraham. You look quite dashing, yourself.” He wore a proper suit and tie, his curly hair brushed into place. I stepped over and gave him a little hug of greeting. Unlike my high school and college friends, he wrapped his arms around me in a very delicate manner. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was more aware of his own strength, or because I currently looked particularly breakable. “This is my roommate, Eva, and our friend Mattie.”

  He charmed them with jokes about Brooklyn apartments and the proper appreciation for their acting credentials. When we left, both girls were beaming.

  Abe held the passenger door open for me when we reached his car, and then chuckled as we pulled into traffic. “You know, Ryan is going to kill me when he sees us together.”

  I thought about saying, “Now, why would he do that?” and then decided that qualified as coy. “Yeah. It’s a possibility.”

  Abe laughed. “I’m going to run in the opposite direction.”

  “And leave me all by myself?”

  He gave me a wide-eyed, overly innocent look. “No. I’ll be leaving you with Ryan.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Museum of American Culture held its Children’s Society Gala every year, and its attendees cut a wide swath through the rich and elite of New York. Old Manhattan money rubbed shoulders with young Hollywood actors, Wall Street tycoons, and a smattering of local athletes. Artwork by the children of the five boroughs hung between Old Master paintings, and a silent auction raised additional money for the twenty thousand homeless children in the city.

  The Museum was located in the high nineties of the Upper East Side, and while the miniature columns and entablature were much smaller than the Met’s, it still put me in mind of the grander buildings. The area would have felt private and peaceful, if the traffic hadn’t morphed into taxis and sports cars.

  “Who’s going to be here?” I asked a little nervously as the car slowed.

  “Oh, I dunno. A couple movie stars. A couple business moguls. It’s pretty classy.”

  “How were you able to get me in in such short order?”

  He grinned. “You think they were gonna tell me no? When I’m a Mike? Hell no.”

  Confused, I tried to parse through his words, wondering if he’d just compared himself to ginger Mike. “You’re like Mike?”

  “No, I am a Mike.”

  “Wait—is that a nickname?”

  He laughed. “No, it’s my position.” When I stayed silent, he tilted his head. “You know, middle linebacker?” He adopted a deep, sports announcer voice. “Quarterback of the defense?” He sighed good-naturedly at my blank face. “You thought I was talking about Irish.”

  “You guys have too many nicknames.” Then, unable to help myself, I asked, “Does Ryan have a nickname?”

  Abe grinned. “’Course he does. The General.”

  I tilted my head, Dispatch instantly streaming through my head on auto-repeat, where it would stay firmly lodged for the next hour. There was a decorated general with a heart of gold... “Where’d that come from?”

  “The way he fires off commands. And since he studied military history, of course.”

  Shock spread through me. “He did what?”

  “Military history,” Abe repeated, pulling the car over to the side. “At Michigan. Didn’t you know that?”

  I stared after him for a second as he climbed out of the car and handed a uniformed valet his keys, then pushed my door open and came around to his side. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “You know, I would have opened your door.”

  Amusement rolled over my surprise and I smirked. “It’s true. It’s been scientifically proven that wearing dresses weakens women’s arms.”

  “East Coasters,” he grumbled, spoiling it by grinning at me. “All right, smile for the cameras.”

  “What cameras?”

  The cameras, it turned out, were everywhere. Paparazzi loitered about in jeans and dresses, holding cameras with protruding lenses, and backed by a couple of news vans. Did news channels cover charity auctions? Maybe I should get a TV, one of these years. The Daily Show probably didn’t cover everything I ought to know about current affairs.

  “This is a little weird,” I said out of the side of my mouth as we stepped up the stairs. I lifted my dress, pretending I was in ballet class.

  “You’re telling me. I’m from San Diego. I like to wear shorts year
round.”

  “Mr. Krasner! A picture.”

  “Blargh.” I swallowed a smile, reminded he was twenty-one. He rolled his impressive shoulders back. “Let’s do this.”

  The photographer who’d beckoned tried to place me and had no luck. “Who are you?”

  Well, why not. “Rachael Hamilton.”

  He shrugged. “All righ’. Let’s get one together and one apart, yeah?”

  One meant more like one of us, and fifty of Abe. More paparazzi loped over when it became clear Abe was standing still, and after one glace at my awkward stance they dismissed me. I glanced around at the other well-dressed attendees, noting their hands propped on hips, slightly angled legs and bent knees, and heads held high. I was ridiculously glad I’d worn the formal green dress.

  “Good, that’s over.” Abe tucked my arm in his. I smiled, and we left the cameras for the museum. Inside the wide, high ceilinged entrance, impeccably dressed gala attendees snaked up a marble staircase and into the museum proper.

  “It’s the receiving line.” Abe pulled at his tie. “And then we’ll be in, and we can just wander.”

  I kept my voice low. “Do you do things like this a lot?”

  “Me? Nah. You know I was only drafted this year, right?”

  “Drafted?”

  “First round,” he said proudly, and on seeing my expression, rolled his eyes. “I keep forgetting how out of it you are. The NFL Draft? Every April?”

  “Sorry. But I can probably tell you about a lot of the artwork inside.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  The couple in front of us turned around as soon as we paused our sotto-voiced conversation. “Abe Krasner, right?” the actor who played the hot dad in Driving Cars said. The woman smiling beside him also looked familiar. “Man, that blitz in the beginning of the third against the Raiders was great, and I don’t even like the Leopards. What’s a good California boy like you doing in a mean state like this?”

  Abe smiled his good-California-boy smile. “Thanks. It’s the weather. It just calls to me.”

  The Californian trio laughed.

  “This is Rachael Hamilton.” Abe flipped his hand my way. Hot Dad reached out for a handshake, introducing himself by his actual name of Andrew Young, while the woman’s was Lisa Chu. We talked with the two of them the entire way up the stairs, along with the older philanthropist couple behind us, who also wanted to compliment Abe’s blitz. I resisted asking him what a blitz was until we had been greeted by the charity’s committee and entered the museum, saying goodbye to our new friends. “I don’t get it. Are we back in 1944? Is London under attack?”

  Abe laughed so hard he ended up leaning against the hallway’s wall, framed by two Baroque paintings. “You kill me. A blitz is when there’re more defensive players than the offense accounted for, and it’s usually a linebacker or defensive back who crosses the scrimmage line...” He trailed back into laughter at my expression. “Okay.” He pulled a straight face. “Let’s do this in one sentence. It’s basically when the defense rushes the other team’s quarterback. Make sense?”

  Not really. “Rushes him and does what?”

  He started laughing again. “I give up. Let’s go find you Ryan, and then I am going to find me a hot girl who can talk about football.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Abe. You have your priorities in order.”

  Teasing and prodding, we entered the next gallery room. A small sigh of happiness escaped as I took in the giant, sweeping masterpieces hung on each wall. Olive green fields rolled under rose-colored clouds. Young lovers and gypsy camps roamed through the bucolic scenes held up in intricate stained walnut frames. Across from me, a boy shepherd watched over his flock under an orange-tinged sky.

  The room’s centerpiece, a seven-tiered fountain, obscured the flock. Bubbly champagne frothed downward as waiters reached out to catch the golden ambrosia. They circulated through the room with their balanced platters, passing by women in long gowns and men in black jackets. Murmured voices were underlain by the slightest whisper of classical music. Precious stones winked in earrings and cuff links, and guests appraised each other from behind their champagne flutes. A young woman in a red dress tossed a flirtatious glance at a young man on an older lady’s arm, while two men huddled together in the shadows, trading secrets over empty glasses. People touched and parted, a dance of consequence, as everyone tried to break into circles higher than their own.

  Across from me, one man stood utterly motionless.

  I stopped, breath stilling in my lungs, unable to blink. Abe’s jokes, the low chatter, even the music faded away.

  The tailored tuxedo stretched, elegant and stark, across his shoulders. He didn’t look any stranger in it than he had in his dinner dress or his uniform. The dim lighting highlighted the gold of his hair, the sharp angles of his face, his strong square jaw. His eyes, the only color against the unrelenting black and white, were pools of sky.

  His lips fell open as though they needed to drink in more air. He blinked, and I blinked, and then he crossed the floor without breaking my gaze, gracefully lifting two champagne flutes from a waiter’s plate. He stopped a step away from me. “Rachael. Abe.”

  “And I’m outta here,” Abe said. I barely noticed him take off.

  “Hello, Ryan.” I resisted the urge to smooth my hands over the front of my dress, as though I could sweep away my butterflies.

  Only now did his eyes leave mine, blazing a long, slow study over my body, trailing up my legs, lingering where the silk hugged my hips, drawing tightly over my breasts. I sucked in a breath, the back of my neck quivering. His gaze danced up my throat and settled on my face, and he slowly, slowly smiled. “You look beautiful.” He handed me a glass. Our fingers touched, and I almost dropped it.

  I swallowed, and then raised the flute to my lips and swallowed again, the sweet liquid bubbling against my tongue, fizzing down my throat, joining the dancing butterflies. A bead of champagne pearled on my lip, and I slowly slipped out my tongue, melting it away.

  This time, Ryan swallowed, gaze fixing on my lips.

  “I wasn’t sure you were coming,” he finally said.

  “I couldn’t tell if you wanted me here.”

  It surprised me when he flushed and ducked his head. “I did. I do. I just—I don’t know.” He met my gaze, his bright and unflinching, a lake in August, sky at dawn, and my heart went pitter-patter. “Is this a game?”

  Shocked, I shook my head. “No. No, not at all.”

  He let out a breath. Behind him, the guests moved slowly, a blurred sea of wool and silk, black and jewel tones. Ryan stood out, the one note of reality in the wash of strangers. “Because I don’t think I could deal with that.”

  “Why would it be a game?”

  If he hadn’t mangled the sound so badly, it would have been a laugh. “Because I never know where I stand with you. Because each time I make a move you turn it down. And then the one time I do nothing, you kiss me, and now I don’t know what you want.”

  Say nothing, that little voice whispered, huddled safe behind its thick walls, scared of the hurt outside. Say you want to be friends.

  Shut up, I told the voice, raising my chin. My voice came out huskier than I’d intended. “I want you.”

  The light in his eyes made heat unfurl in my belly, and the smile on his face was as soft and bright as the painted clouds. “Good.” His hands slid around my waist, warm and steady and firm. He drew me closer and I could feel his heat, feel my body respond like he was my lodestone and this was my course and nothing could stop us, not now that I’d finally switched that flip and said yes. My lips parted, small breaths slipping in and out, and I wanted his, curved gently, on mine. His eyes lidded and I sighed, my hands sliding up his chest, and then someone knocked Ryan to the side and we stumbled and broke apart.

  “Hey.” Ryan glared at Mike.

  Mike just grinned unrepentantly. “Just thought I’d remind you guys that this is a public room at a childrens’
charity event and you’re causing a scene.” And then he left.

  I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly while Ryan stared murderously after his teammate. “Oh. He’s right. We shouldn’t make out in the middle of the room. Think of the children.”

  “There are no children here.”

  “Really?” I stared at his lips again. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “I think they show up later. There’s a concert. They sing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why are we talking about children?” Ryan raked a hand through his hair, the strands glittering in the pale light. I wondered why they all did that. I had copper highlights in my hair, but only a few strands, while his entire head looked like Rumpelstiltskin’s craft. My fingers ached to touch it. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Good idea.” I leaned into him, and then I pulled back, shaking myself. “No. Charity. Children.”

  “We’ll come back,” Ryan said, utterly unconvincingly, and then he laughed softly at my patent disbelief. “I’ll make a winning bid before we leave.”

  “Okay.” I was too dizzy to protest anymore. My hand slipped into his larger one, warm and safe, and we walked toward the closest auction piece, a quilt made by children from Queens. Ryan picked up the pen, signed away the equivalent of six months of student loans, and then we turned to go.

  “Hey, aren’t you Ryan Carter?”

  For a moment, we stared blankly at the couple before us. It took that long to remember there were other people in our world, old rich folk who wanted to talk. After the blankness cleared the lust away, I wanted to impale them with my fiercest glare, but Ryan had already changed over from my Ryan to theirs, to the charming quarterback with a ready smile and a firm handshake. “Yes,” he said, and his hand withdrew from mine to shake theirs.

  In the minute introductions took, a small, eager crowd gathered around Ryan, and our chance to escape slipped away. Maybe we’d been spared those first minutes because we’d stood too close and spoken too softly, but now the fans had flocked and I could only stand at his side, smiling and wishing my pulse would slow and that I could stop picturing Ryan sliding his hands under my dress and pressing his mouth down on mine.