by Tara Brent
There was only one thing I could think of to say. “Oh, pish posh.”
Chapter 8: The Big Push
This is just nuts.
Cici is on the phone with my Mom. They are both cackling with laughter, shrieking, crying, and squealing at each other. I no longer exist, apparently. Which is cool. It’s been like thirty years for them. More. I’m sure they have a lot to catch up on. It’s so sweet. I’m even a little teared up myself.
After about ten minutes, it occurs to them they don’t need to be doing their BFF reunion on the phone. They decide to meet up, in thirty minutes. In the bar of the U.S. Grant Hotel, downtown. Of course. A couple of drinks, then they’ll start cruising (and boozing, no doubt) in the limo. Tracking down roach coaches all over the county. Oh, well. At least they’ll have a designated driver.
“Why don’t you come too,” Cici says to me.
“I think you two can be more... private? I mean, you have a lot to catch up on. And I’ll bet you can be a little less discreet if I’m listening.”
“Oh, pish posh.”
“That’s what I mean. I kept thinking how weird it is that you say that. My Mom says it all the time. And I’ve never heard anyone else use that... expression.”
Cici giggles, and almost blushes. “There’s quite a story behind that, actually. A very funny one.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Oh, my dear. I don’t think so. It’s very... colorful.”
“Is there skinny-dipping involved.”
“Darling, that was a nursery rhyme compared to the ‘pish posh’ tale. Take my word for it. You’ll sleep better not knowing.”
My phone rings; Jimmy. I start to say I will call him back, but Cici says “No, go ahead. I’m out the door. You’re welcome to do your work calls right here.” And she is click-clacking off on her high heels. FMPs, I will note. Roach Coaches beware.
And she’s off.
Jimmy says there’s a little glitch with the brilliant caterer in T.J. A minor scrape with CBP last year. “Don’t worry, though,” Jimmy says. “I happen to know an immigration lawyer who can work miracles.”
“We don’t need him.” I start to fill him in on Cici and Mom, the long lost Pom Pom gang of two.
“Oh My Sweet Tap Dancing Jesus! That is the most precious thing I’ve ever heard!”
“I’m still kind of in shock.”
“But am I missing something?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not seeing how this ties into our catering problem.” So I tell him about Cici’s idea. “You’re not serious.”
“But she is. And you know my Mom. Queen of the rolling burrito wagons.”
“This is insane!”
“No shit.”
“No, no. I mean it’s fucking brilliant!”
“Oh, come on. It’s going to make us into a joke.”
“It’s going to make us the hottest event planner in California.”
“Well, yes, when they come with the torches and pitchforks, and set our warehouse on fire.”
“God, Kira. This is... pure ‘you’. Don’t you see?”
Not sure what that means... but he’s got a point. I did think of this before Cici even mentioned it, but I wasn’t serious. “Pure ‘me’? How do you mean?”
“What do you think makes you stand out?”
“That I’m four inches taller than you.”
“Three. Liar.”
“Three if you’re wearing platform shoes, and I’m in bare feet.”
“People love you because you can do the impossible. No matter what fuck up comes along, you say ‘Abra Cadabra’ and pull a rabbit out of your hat. That’s what got you this job in the first place. Isn’t it?”
Again, he has got a point. An image of myself, half naked and soaking wet, staring at Blake Okoye’s bod, flashes unbidden through my memory banks.
“Just think about the publicity. Millionaires and billionaires, dripping in diamonds and Rolex, chowing down on twenty different kinds of Ethnic delicacies. Jesus, think of the pictures Otto Stein can get. It will be Andy Worhol does the Royal Wedding, girl! Talk about going viral? This is going to explode!”
“Or blow up in our face.”
“Trust me, pumpkin. Just leave the gossip to me. This will go through the roof, and turn left.”
He keeps talking, but all of a sudden I don’t hear another word. Because I happen to glance back at the pool outside. He’s getting out. He’s wearing Speedos. There is a big fluffy towel rubbing all over his incredibly toned body. I no longer care about being an event planner. My only ambition in life is to become that towel.
“...a food critic I know who will go crazy for this.”
“Mmmm Hmmm,” I mutter. Whatever the fuck he said. My eyes are setting my brain on fire. And then, he looks up. Sees me. He smiles.
“...think about this. For the wine, we can—”
“Bye now.” I mumble, cutting off the call. Adonis beckons me. I float across the room, open the door to the patio (or possibly just pass through it like a ghost) and move toward him.
“I want to apologize,” he says.
For what? I’m unable to imagine what offense Apollo here could possibly commit. Making the other Gods jealous?
“I made a fool of myself. Embarrassed my family. It was really stupid.”
“...stupid?” I manage.
“That cluster fuck in Vegas. It wasn’t what I planned.”
And some of the fog lifts, as I remember Mom playing that horrible video. “No. I bet it wasn’t.”
“I should explain.”
“Why? What’s so unusual about flying your private jet to hook up with a walking wet dream sex symbol?”
“I didn’t go there to hook up with Karen. I went to break up with her.”
“Understandable. With her husband ready go all Evel Knievel on your ass with a baseball bat.”
“That wasn’t the reason.” Why is he taking my hand? Why is he sitting me down on this chaise lounge? He sits opposite me. On a low table. His knees are touching mine.
“What are you...?”
“I asked her to meet me on neutral ground. I didn’t want to go up to L.A., she’s in a goddamn fish bowl there. And she was threatening to come down here.”
“Threatening?”
“Karen’s fun. In small doses, but she is a malignant narcissist.”
“What? A movie star is self-obsessed? That’s hard to believe.”
There it is again, that baritone chuckle. Why is even his laugh sexy? It’s not fair. He says “You are just... I love your sense of humor.”
“It’s my only defense.”
“What I mean about Karen, she wants everything, and gives nothing.”
“Does her husband agree?”
“Those two? A perfect matched set. Everything has to be a drama. It’s all they live for. That, and being worshiped.”
“And you didn’t want to check that box?”
“Sort of. She’s an empty box. Impossible to fill.”
“So you wanted to dump her. Good choice. The field is wide open for you again, with her out of your hair.”
“I’ve seen the field. All of it. I’m done with all that.”
Oh, brother. He is good, I have to hand it to him. I’m surprised he doesn’t start swinging a pocket watch in front of me and telling me I’m getting sleepy. I can’t believe he’s doing this, but he is definitely making a move to seduce me. It is so obvious. It is so irresistible.
My only chance is to get to my feet and get the hell out of here. Either that, or he is going to drop my heart into a wood chipper when he gets done with me. “Blake,” I say as I force myself up and out of that chair. “I’m glad you’ve made your New Year’s Resolution. In June, too. Six months early.”
“Kira. I mean it.”
“You probably do. I swore to God I was going to lose ten pounds by August. So, excuse me. I really ought to get to the gym.”
As I turn to walk away, I feel h
is hands take hold of my shoulders. “Kira, wait,” he says, as he buries his face on the side of my neck. Two simultaneous impulses flood through me. The first one says, “Turn. Kiss. Fuck.”
Oh, God it’s so hard to listen to the second impulse, but I have to.
I turn. As I pivot, I shift my weight to the balls of my feet. Both hands shoot up, slamming him in that beautiful teak chest of his and shoving him back with all my strength.
I don’t know whether pushing him back into the pool shocks him. Or is it the idea that I would turn down the chance to fuck a God that really surprises him? I hear him sputter and cough as he comes back to the surface, but I don’t see it. I am already fast-walking my way out of there.
Chapter 9: The Strip Joint
By the time I get to my car, I can barely see. Not that I’m crying. It has to be this damn salt air making my eyes water. I’m not sure how that fits with the sobbing noise and the hiccups. Must be sun spots. Or Black Magic. I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to find a scrap of my brain and snatch it out of the whirlwind inside my skull. I know I am way to stirred up to drive. Too bad. I leave a black patch of rubber on the beautifully cobbled driveway and roar off.
I manage to get three blocks before I almost get T-boned when I blow through a stop sign. The near miss shocks me. I pull to the side of the road as the other car’s horn rings in my ears.
I can’t believe what just happened. I don’t believe Blake tried to seduce me. I can’t believe I managed to resist him, but one thing I know for sure. I will never be able to do it again. My mind is still fogging up with the flood of pheromones in my system. I have stopped sobbing, but now I am panting like a horny mare in heat. The lust has seized my loins in a vice grip. Turn around, it whispers. Get back there and fuck your brains out.
My cell is ringing. I am afraid to look at it. Afraid it is him calling. Afraid that it’s not, and never will be again. I let it go to voice mail.
I want to call Jimmy. I want to tell him we have to quit. I will never be able to look at Blake again. Let alone be in the same room. I can’t even imagine. How I would ever get through being at a wedding with him around. How could I watch his brother vowing his love to a beautiful young bride? How could I watch them feed each other wedding cake? See them dance in a blissful embrace as man and wife? How can I endure hearing his mother Cici say again that all Blake needs is the right woman?
Shit. His mother. I can just see Cici and my Mom. Sitting in the back of that stretch limo, washing down Chinese dumplings, or Argentine Empanadas, or a couple Philly cheese steaks, with a crisp chardonnay. Pigging out, as they try to plot a way to put their match-making skills to work.
Which conjures yet another horror. How can I blow off Cici’s dream wedding for her “good” son? If I screw my Mom’s long lost BFF, I will hear about it for the rest of my sad, lonely, miserable life. This is doom, doom, doom.
There is only one thing to do.
I call Jimmy. “Meet me at the Strip Club. Now. I’m buying.”
The Strip Club is not a den of pole-dancing ecdysiasts. It is a steak house in the Gaslamp District, where you chose your own cut of thick, juicy beef. It is a great place, and just what I need. A total pig-out. Worst idea I could have. Totally self-destructive. I swear to myself that I will skip dessert. A pointless lie, but it feels better to think I can do it.
The goddamn waiter (Hello, I’m Kyle, I’ll be serving you today) is so handsome it’s like rubbing my face in a fresh bucket of lust. Jimmy is clairvoyant in his diagnosis – he knows when I am suffering with a ‘wide on’, as he so cleverly jests if he thinks I’m horny. The waiter keeps his sleepy eyes on me as he opens the bottle of Stag’s Leap and pours a splash of the Cab into my glass. I don’t even pretend to sniff or taste. Hell with that charade. I gesture for him to hurry up and pour. I slug down half of my glass before he finishes pouring Jimmy’s.
“Don’t bother to worry about Kyle,” he says, after the waiter leaves.
I realize what he means. “Really? Him?”
“When am I ever wrong about that?”
Never. That famous gay-dar of his is a mortal lock. At least, I’ve never seen him miss the call. No matter how deep a guy goes in the closet, Jimmy will blow the doors off every time. It’s a matter of pride to him.
“God. What am I going to do?”
“You don’t need to ask, do you?”
“We have to drop this job.”
“Oh, yes. Sure. Let’s get right on that.”
“Seriously. We have to.”
“‘We’?”
“I have to.”
“...because...?”
“God, Jimmy. I am not going to fall for that promiscuous, philandering Lothario.”
“Oh, Sweetie. That ship sailed the first night you laid eyes on him.”
“Then I am jumping into a lifeboat before it hits the iceberg.”
“Mmmm Hmmm.”
“I am! I have to.”
“Has that ever worked?”
“It could.”
“How would you know?” Jimmy gives me that flat stare he has perfected. The one that always shames me into facing the truth.
“Well, this time I mean it.”
“I’m sure you do,” he says. “You always mean it.”
“Goddamn you,” I say, too loudly. He waits to respond, letting the silence speak. The truth hangs in the air, right above my head. “What can I do, Jimmy?”
“Fuck him. Sooner the better. Get it over with.”
“He’ll break my heart, I know it.”
“You break your heart on a quarterly basis. Like changing seasons.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“Me? Who said she’d throw herself under the trolley after that fling with that good looking baker?”
“That’s different. I thought I was pregnant, and I spun out of control.”
“Until your monthly ‘visitor’ showed up.”
“I really did think he broke my heart.”
“But it was just PMS.”
I refuse to argue about it. Not just because he’s right. Kyle arrives with the steaks. I have my priorities. I cut into the New York strip. It is heaven. Jimmy looks at my steak, and make a face.”
“That thing is still quivering.”
I carve another bite of juicy, blood rare beef. “With a little care, it could have lived,” I say. “Just how I like it.”
“You see my point, then.”
“No. I really don’t.”
“It’s the way you are, kiddo. You love life. Every part of it. Raw and unfiltered. You can pretend to guard yourself, but you end up taking the leap, sooner or later. Because you don’t really fear anything. Certainly not what anyone else thinks. You’re one of the only people I know who really can do whatever you want. You follow your passion, wherever it takes you. Even if it does break your heart. Because you’re not afraid to let it mend. You know it will.”
“And what makes you such an expert?”
“It’s easy to give up on love. I’ve done it hundreds of times, but the bitch just keeps coming back again.”
I suggest we share one dessert. Jimmy scoffs. He’s tried sharing dessert with me before. He’s learned his lesson. We get two desserts.
Chapter 10: Push Comes to Shove
After lunch, I remember the call I let go to voice mail. I should check to see if it really was Blake calling. My stomach would be fluttering if there wasn’t twenty ounces of prime cow holding it down.
Okay. And a big slice of chocolate cake.
However, the call is from Cici and Mom. They are so stuffed they have to stop raiding Roach Coaches until tomorrow. They want me to meet them back at Xanadu at four p.m. I consider bringing Jimmy with me, to keep myself in check. Like that ever worked. Besides, he’s working out travel plans with Otto Stein, who wants to fly first class and he wants to come now, for a little R&R before the big wedding. So, I head back to Coronado, on my own.
But first I have an hour
or so to kill. I kill it by heading home to shower and change clothes. And a generous amount of primping. I smile as I remember how my dad used to tease Mom and us girls over this. “Aren’t you gals done getting all slicked up yet?”
I sure miss you, Pop. To you, I was always beautiful. And you always let me know how proud I made you.
Back in those days, in high school, I had what people called a ‘horsey’ look. Big. Tall. Strong. Heavy in the shoulders, in the arms and legs. I did have a reasonably pretty face. Sometimes. When I wasn’t sporting a bruise or black eye from soccer. Or field hockey. Or water polo.
I didn’t care. I never wanted to be a cheerleader. I wanted to be the one those cheerleaders were cheering for. Being a total jock, I kept my hair short. People who didn’t know me often assumed I was a lesbian. Then again, there were several boys in my class who knew better.
Pop was around until my last year of high school. He’s still around, as far as I’m concerned. I can always find him, deep inside. Whenever something, or some person, gets me feeling blue. A heart attack may have put him in the ground, but his heart still beats inside my own.
I take an extra moment to check out that Curvy Girl in the mirror. I still have the same body I had in high school. How many thirty-one-year-old women can say that? I’m wearing a nice string of pearls. I like them. They draw the eye. And I like it when that eye wanders south, especially when I am wearing a low cut sweater. Like the one I have on. I turn to get a profile look. That is an impressive bust from any angle. Ample enough to give my mid-section a slimmer look, by comparison. The hourglass is half full. And the flair of my hips completes the other half of that hourglass. It doesn’t hurt that my gluts are ‘well developed’. If a man likes a woman with some booty, I have plenty of junk in the trunk and it is solid. Plenty of muscle, with a comfortable padding of ‘subcutaneous lipid layer’. This padding is distributed in an even way that keeps everything in the right proportion.
Over the bridge again, and back into the easy pace of Coronado. I notice how much easier it is to drive when your eyes aren’t overflowing with tears. I’m feeling a tingle of excitement, although I have no idea if Blake is still home. Maybe he’s flying that Gulfstream to Mississippi, to find some virgin debutants to defile, but I’m not going there to see Blake. I’m just there to go over the plans for the catering trucks. This is strictly business. Right. And the décolletage is to impress my own mother. You bet.
