You Can Have Manhattan

by P. Dangelico

  “How long are you in town?”

  Miller Smith had an I.Q. of 148 and a gift for reading people. He was wasting his life away as my assistant and I often told him so. Despite the sordid stories I’d told him about Scott over the years, he knew Scott was not someone to be trifled with.

  “Only a few days. My husband needs to get back to work.”

  One word was all it took to magically transform Scott’s aggression into dispassionate acceptance. Without further remark, his attention retuned to me.

  “Your clothes are distracting my men. That’s dangerous for them. Don’t wear those”––he stabbed an index finger at my tights––“around here again.”

  Ignoring his behavior was the only way to go. Any sign that he was affecting me would only encourage more of it. “We’re going into town. I need to buy a pull-out couch. I was hoping you could help us pick it up?” Nothing. I got nothing but a flat stare from him. “Perhaps…at some point?”

  He smirked. “If you’re looking for a beast of burden, look elsewhere, babydoll. I’m a rough ride and you’ll end up black and blue.”

  If it had come from anyone else, I would’ve laughed. But this was Scott. He may have been serious. “So you fully admit that you’re a jackass?”

  “Nice meeting you,” he said to Miller. Then he marched past us, up the steps, and disappeared into the office. I glanced over at my one and only ally in this cluster of a situation.

  “Isn’t he dreamy?”

  “You should definitely let him go down on you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sydney

  For the next two days Miller and I worked non-stop. Essentially, I had to take the two secretaries, two phones, countless files, a laptop and a desktop, fax, printers and scanners I had at my disposal 24/7 in my Manhattan office and condense it all into a mini home office built on an unreliable thrift store table that was more appropriate for hobby jam-making than serving as the satellite office of a Fortune 500 company. Regardless, we did it. We also purchased new linens, pots, pans, and the infamous pull-out couch––which I had delivered for obvious reasons.

  Something had to be done about the living situation, however. I couldn’t continue to sleep in the living room indefinitely. Problem was, I hadn’t been able to pin down Scott long enough to discuss anything with him. The last time I had mentioned it he shrugged it off.

  “This is where I live,” he’d said. End of conversation.

  It was like trying to reason with one of the bison I’d seen roaming the property.

  On Miller’s last day in town, we decided to hit the Handle Bar at the Four Seasons for lunch. I walked in, glanced around, and what I found might as well have slapped me across the face.

  Scott was sitting at the bar dressed in dark jeans and a navy sports jacket with a white dress shirt underneath. The only time I ever saw him in something other than flannel and worn Levi’s was when he went out at night doing God knows what with God knows whom. But that wasn’t even the worst part. That wasn’t what made a deep sense of disappointment settle low in my gut.

  He was smiling broadly at the bartender, an attractive woman with a waterfall of black hair and a heart-shaped face. It was a genuine smile that reached his eyes, making them wrinkle at the sides, and put his dimples on full display. It was a smile I recognized because it was the same one he’d given me right before he’d kissed me in the coat room at his sister’s wedding.

  Coming to stand next to me, Miller glanced around. “Syd, what’s…” His voice petered out when his gaze tracked mine across the room to the bar. Without a word, I made a sharp right, walking in the opposite direction to the hostess stand, and Miller followed. We were seated in direct line of sight of the bar, and for the rest of the meal a dark cloud settled over us.

  “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Miller finally broke the stalemate. We’d both done our best to not discuss the elephant in the room, the one sitting at the bar laughing it up with the sexy bartender. Because she was. She was everything I wasn’t: cheerful, sexy, uninhibited.

  Miller glanced over his shoulder, at my new husband who looked like he was enjoying himself going by the looks of his shoulders shaking with laughter. “No job is worth being humiliated by an overbearing fuckboy.”

  One look at my friend and I knew there was no getting out of this discussion. And a lie was not going to cut it here. Miller was too perceptive.

  “The company line or the real answer?” When Miller didn’t speak, I exhaled and continued, “Remember what it was like for you before you met Paul?”

  “Mmm,” he said, nodding. “There was a hole in my life.”

  “I’ve always felt that way…always.” Nervously, I splayed my hands on the table top, an old trick I’d often used to keep from fidgeting. “I don’t know how to feel any other way and I guess I wanted to try.”

  Reaching across the table, he squeezed my hand which had been lying as flat and motionless as my face. “You can do a lot better than that asshole.”

  I glanced up and caught Scott watching us from over his shoulder. He tipped his beer bottle at me and turned back around. He didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was.

  “I could do a lot worse too.”

  Scott

  I rolled down the window of the shitty Ford I kept for the ranch hands. God did I miss my brand-new Ram 1500. I missed my house too. And I sure as fuck missed my mattress. Time to face the fact that I might’ve been torturing myself more than I’d inflicted any pain on her. Lack of heat or hot water hadn’t sent her packing. Neither had the sleeping arrangements. Or my demeanor, for that matter. She was winning, I had to grudgingly admit to myself. Sydney Evans was made of tougher stuff than I was. Sydney Blackstone, I meant. Damn, that still sounded strange.

  A storm was approaching and not just the metaphorical kind. The air had bite to it and was as crisp as the gunmetal gray, late afternoon sky.

  I felt bad. I shouldn’t. I argued with myself that I owed her nothing. Zero. Zilch. And yet I couldn’t help feeling a nagging sense of shame for getting caught having a good time with Misty.

  A meeting with one of my biggest clients had run overtime. Last winter we lost a couple thousand head of cattle to the bitter freeze and I was forced to raise prices. The client had to be finessed. After the meeting, I swung into the Handle Bar for a quick bite to eat, and Misty happened to be working the lunch shift. Pure coincidence. She never worked lunch. And even though there was absolutely nothing going on between us––nor would there ever be again––it still felt somewhat…wrong.

  But, hey, more than likely Sydney didn’t give two shits whom I kept company with. She’d even offered to draw up a pro bono NDA as I recall. Meditating on that seriously pissed me off. Who would’ve ever thought that the idea of an open marriage would piss me off? Not me. That’s life, I guess. You never stop learning.

  It turns out I was a lot more conventional than I thought I was, the blame resting entirely on my parents’ shoulders. I didn’t agree with them on much, but their marriage was something to be admired. They were a team, partners-in-crime, loyal to each other above all and anyone else. Even their children. I was a married man now and whether that was by choice or not didn’t factor. I felt married down to the marrow of my bones. The thought of cheating on my wife turned my stomach. The thought of her cheating on me made me want to break things, specifically the other guy’s skull.

  In the distance, a flash of color caught my eye. The image sharpened into a familiar pair of red running tights and my foot fell heavier on the accelerator, an unfamiliar proprietary feeling rising up. Go figure.

  I pulled a U-turn when I passed her and coasted alongside, the pickup keeping pace as she jogged with her earbuds in. Rolling the window down, I waited a bit, determined she was going to purposely ignore me, and decided I didn’t like being ignored. “Can you please turn down the music?”

  No answer. She refused to acknowledge my presence. Nor did her brisk jog break rhythm. I
nteresting. Maybe she wasn’t as down with my extracurricular activities as she’d suggested. Warmth spread in my chest.

  “What are you doing?” I tried again.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  Yep, she was mad. Satisfaction joined the warmth. My mood improved markedly. “Trying to become lunch meat for any of the black or grizzly bears that routinely step out of the park. There are still a few around that haven’t gone to bed yet.”

  Sydney stopped cold in her tracks and pulled her earbuds out, and I hit the brakes on the rust bucket Ford. She wiped the sweat beaded on her brow with the sleeve of her black jacket and tilted her head as she inspected my face.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, babydoll. I am not. And as much as I don’t want to be married, I want to be a widower even less.” All this with a straight face. Her already flushed face turned beet red.

  “Would you stop calling me that––sweet nuts!”

  Sweet nuts? A chuckle broke out of me. Somebody had finally lost her cool and it was about damn time. A genuine grin split my face. It must’ve disoriented her because hers went blank for a moment, but only for a moment because almost immediately she shook the stars out of her eyes and a killer glare took its place. “Stop what you’re doing at once.”

  “What am I doing?” My grin automatically grew bigger.

  “Your mental warfare is not going to work with me.”

  “I have no idea––”

  “One minute you’re on your period––the next you’re trying to charm me with a pair of dimples and those damn eyelashes.”

  This had me legitimately confused. The fuck did eyelashes have to do with anything? “Again, I don’t––”

  “So unfair!” Her arms flailed as she paced in circles.

  This was too much fun. Even more than I’d hoped for and vowed to redouble my efforts to make her lose her cool more often. I was trying to sort out why she took issue with my eyelashes when she started ranting again.

  “I’ve worked my ass off my entire life for this and I won’t allow you to spoil it for me!” She was really steaming now. The new Mrs. Blackstone went savage when she was angry. “I’m not one of your groupies, Scott. I’m not a clown! I’m a first-rate negotiator and a damn good lawyer!”

  A clown? The last thing I would ever consider Sydney was a clown. Reminding me she was a bloodsucking lawyer, however, did put a dent in my amusement.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Apparently, I have to!” She stopped pacing, stared. “You know what, I’m done being patient with you.”

  As I watched her take off down the road at a hard run, her blonde ponytail swinging back and forth, a feeling of helplessness wiped away my amusement. She might very well be the next CEO of Blackstone, but out here I was the expert. It was my job to keep her safe and I’d be damned if she was going to get herself hurt on my watch. It needed to be made crystal clear to her that I was in charge, and I was just the guy to do it. Jumping back in the truck, I tore down the street and cut her off.

  “Go away, Scott.” A moment later she was in my arms. “Have you lost your––ahhhh!! Put me down!” Hauling her over my shoulder like a sack of feed, I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and gingerly placed her on the bench seat.

  “I wasn’t kidding.” I wedged my body between the passenger door and the open road to block her escape while she glared at me. “If something happens to you out here, no one is coming to the rescue.” And I meant it. Mother Nature was fierce and had to be respected. A cavalier attitude out here could get you killed.

  She straightened in her seat and stared out the windshield, face smooth, the subtle tightness of her jaw the only indication of her temper tantrum. “Take me back to the cabin please.”

  She was back to doing her favorite impersonation of an ice sculpture. So be it. I slammed her door shut and climbed behind the wheel of the pickup. I was in the right. I knew I was, and yet I couldn’t shake this feeling that once again I was being framed as the bad guy. Still, amends needed to be made for my behavior lately.

  “Don’t run at dusk. Bears are more active then, and with the warm spell we’re having, more are hibernating late. Late morning is safer. Don’t run without your phone, keep the music on low volume, and have bear spray with you at all times.”

  I reached over her legs, popped open the glove compartment, and my arm inadvertently brushed the top of Sydney’s thigh. She exhaled sharply and moved her legs aside. Not fast enough for me to miss the reaction though. Briefly, I entertained the possibility that she wasn’t as immune to me as she’d led me to believe.

  “You’re crowding me.”

  Maybe not. Wishful thinking. The ice princess was about as likely to be sexually attracted to me as I was to Bigfoot Jojo––one of the ranch hands. Jojo was called Bigfoot not for his size but rather his abundance of body hair. So yeah, zero chance.

  “Misty’s just a friend,” I began. It was the best I could do considering I’d never had a wife before…or a girlfriend in nearly two decades. She started humming a vaguely familiar song. “What song is that?”

  “Send In The Clowns and don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You sure were enjoying yourself.”

  “Sometimes I enjoy the company of the women I’ve slept with––past tense.”

  Fuck. I shouldn’t have said it. Not like that, anyway. Like I was trying to stick it to her. I knew it was wrong the moment the words left my lips, and yet I was incapable of controlling myself around her. The colder and more controlled she became the more I lost it.

  Grabbing the spray can, I handed it to her. “Don’t get eaten.”

  Why did that sound lewd?

  This woman had a knack for throwing me off my game. I hardly recognized myself these days. When I left New York, I vowed to make changes, to be a better person. A better man. And yet lately I was routinely acting like a dick. I glanced sideways at my wife. With any luck, she hadn’t noticed, probably didn’t care either. She was in it for a job.

  Slamming the glove box shut, I made a U-turn onto the deserted road.

  “What made you like this, Scott? You were never bitter before.”

  I kept my eyes on the road ahead. There went that theory.

  Sydney

  “What the hell is this?”

  I glanced up from the Greek yogurt I was eating on the couch, my furry compadres seated next to me, and innocently tilted my head as I inspected the framed painting Scott was holding up. Tugging my rainbow-colored knitted trapper hat lower, I sighed. If it wasn’t for the hat and fingerless gloves Miller had sent me as a wedding gift (cheeky bastard) my teeth would’ve been chattering.

  “I asked you a question. What happened to my bedroom?”

  Revenge decorating. It’s a thing. Look it up.

  Basically, I was fed up and not going to take it anymore. He’d humiliated me not once (with the scene at the Handle Bar) but twice (by picking me up like I was one of his chattels and throwing me in the truck). Enough was enough. His nightly escapades. The cold. The solitude. I was close to cracking. Something had to be done. And so I did it. He wanted to get under my skin? I could get under his skin too. His skin would become my favorite thing to wear and I didn’t mean it in a dirty way.

  “I thought I’d spruce up the place a little.” I licked the spoon. A lot of eyelash batting.

  To call his expression bewildered would be doing the look on his face a disservice. For a moment there, I thought his head was going to explode. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from out-and-out guffawing.

  Thank you, Amazon Prime.

  “You thought hanging these hideous paintings of clowns in my bedroom would qualify as ‘sprucing up the place’? Are you trying to give me nightmares?”

  My eyes fell on his bare chest, his jeans hanging low. Sigh. His body was playing tricks on my body. Despite the cold, I gushed like broken pipes. I needed t
o feel the touch of another human body, stat. Before I really lost it.

  “Well?”

  He’d waltzed in a little after 1 a.m. and did a double-take when he saw me sitting on the couch––wide awake. I’d made it a point to wait up because I had to see his reaction for myself.

  “You don’t like them? They’re originals…painted by orphaned children in Chile.”

  Lie. They were embellished prints from China. They were butt ugly and spooky as shit. I think one of the clowns may have had fangs.

  “Have you seen the movie It, Sydney? Because I have. No, I don’t like them. I don’t like clowns.”

  “Couldafooledme.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I’m sorry. I thought the room looked a little…drab and needed a little, you know, joy.”

  His eyes narrowed. He strode back into his bedroom and returned with all three paintings stuffed under his pits. Then he went to the front door, opened it, and pitched each one out into the deep dark of night. The front door slammed shut.

  “You shouldn’t litter. That’s like…environmentalism for beginners, dude.”

  “Don’t do any more sprucing!” Back into his bedroom he went.

  “It’s my house too!”

  He strode back out, holding a silver picture frame. His color high, his jaw pulsing. “Why is there a picture of a donkey on my nightstand?”

  “I thought you’d like it.” I shrugged––innocently. “You like horses…and cows.”

  He blinked, walked to the trash can in the kitchen, slammed his bare foot on the pedal. The top popped up and he dropped the frame in. Back into his bedroom he went. The door slammed shut. I fell asleep with a smile on my face that night. A few days later, things escalated.

  Chapter Nine

  Sydney

  “This is bullshit!”

  Romeo barked and climbed onto the couch next to me. My eyes veered off the contract on the MacBook Air I’d been staring at for the last half hour, and onto my furry friend.