Talk Dirty to Me Read online

  Maybe Mark has too.

  I half laugh as I exit the building and walk down 72nd Street. First time I have done the walk of shame without actually doing anything shameful. This is so much worse, since I don’t even have any good memories to tide me over.

  I summon Uber and stamp my foot in frustration. Dammit. I wish Mark wasn’t such a Luddite. Who the hell doesn’t own a cell phone?

  At first, I thought his refusal to use one was charming in an old school way, but now it’s just annoying. I’m upset I won’t be screwing him tonight, but I’m sure he has a good reason for skipping out on me.

  Raincheck, I guess. I glance down at my red dress with a sigh, and promise her that next time, she’ll wind up on his floor.

  When get home, I open the door to Geo reorganizing her collection of 60’s vinyl. The Beatles, The Stones, The Mamas and The Papas are spread all over the floor with her on her knees over them.

  Shit. Geo only organizes things when she’s really pissed.

  I pray it’s boy trouble, but then she looks up at me with a glare and I realize it’s definitely my fault. She says two words. “Frightened. Rabbit.”

  Double shit.

  “I’m sorry, Geo. I can talk to them tomorrow, I—” but she holds up her hand to silence me.

  I watch her stack her records into no discernable order, one by one. The only sound is LP slapping on LP and her mouse-like squeaks of rage.

  “Monday,” I promise. “This time I swear.”

  She stands up with the stack of records clutched to her NOW tee. She holds up a finger to silence me and squeezes her eyes shut. “There is no tomorrow,” she says. “Tomorrow was yesterday and every day last week.”

  I’m not sure what hippie protest song that comes from, but she seems satisfied with it. She storms to her room and slams the door.

  I head down the hall and tap gently on her door, pressing my forehead to it. “Geo,” I coo. “Geo, please.”

  Then I hear the angry sounds of the Sex Pistols blaring in her room. Dammit. She’s really mad if she’s playing punk. Better let her cool off.

  I go to my own room and close the door. Frustrated by the evening, I eye my power vibrator and figure I’ll give a whirl. Unfortunately, I forget that I shouldn’t power it on unless most of the lights in the house are off. The second I switch in on, the lights go out and Johnny Rotten stops wailing.

  “For fuck’s sake, Rose!” I hear through the wall.

  I stare at Thor’s hammer in my hand, now useless thanks to the fuse I just blew, and sigh. Just my damn luck.

  The next morning I find Geo sitting at the kitchen table nibbling on granola. “Still upset?” I ask, sitting down next to her.

  She fingers her hippie kibble and pouts. “I just feel like you don’t care about the podcast anymore.”

  “I do.” I touch her arm. “It’s just that things have been so…”

  “Crazy. I know. But things are always crazy…”

  Taking my hand off her, I lean back in my seat. “I’m sorry.” I sigh. “I really am.” I take out my phone to pull up the contact I have for Frightened Rabbit’s manager. “It’s Saturday, but I’m going to call their people right now, right in front of you. I just need to Google their tour dates real quick to see where—”

  “Wait!” She grabs my arm and cups my phone against her cheek. “You need to stay off the internet.”

  “Uh, why? Are we protesting something?”

  She shakes her blonde, thin dreads. “I am seriously mad and disappointed with you right now. But…I don’t want to hurt you. So I would rather you hear it from me instead of Google. Because, even though I am so so mad at you, I love you with all my heart.”

  “Wait, what are you talking about?”

  She squeezes my hand and looks deep into my eyes. What I see in her gaze is pity. Dread pools in my stomach, but no amount of worry can prepare me for her next sentence. “Mark Carrington just got back together with that Amber model.”

  I feel like a red hot knife has been thrust into my chest. It takes me a minute to find my voice, during which Geo just keeps squeezing my hand, until I lose feeling in my fingers. “Great,” I spit, when I finally find my tongue again. “Fine. Awesome. Who even cares.” Convincing, Rose.

  “What happened last night?”

  I look at her and can’t believe how she can be so supportive after I screwed her over so much recently. I should back off. Handle this on my own. It’s not fair to pile all my shit on her after dicking her around. But I need to talk to someone, so I spill it.

  “He stood me up last night. And she was at the party; I saw them talking briefly…” I shake it off. No. No way is he back with her. It doesn’t make sense. “What are you basing this on? A picture? A piece of gossip?”

  Geo shakes her head. “Just, trust me, it’s legit.”

  No way. I make a grab for my phone. Geo fights me, but I’m motivated, so I win in the end. It doesn’t take me more than a second to Google it. It’s the first hit when you type in Amber and Mark, without even their last names.

  She tweeted this morning. Then the news sites ran with it.

  I stare at the screen. It’s a picture of them at the event last night. Her in that couture dress. Him in the black suit he was paid to wear. They aren’t touching, I tell myself. It’s not like he has his arm around her or anything. But the text, the text that Amber wrote herself, is clear:

  #TogetherAgain #ThisTimeForever

  “Oh,” I mumble, reading the tweet over and over as the pieces start to fit together in my mind: the way Mark disappeared from the event last night without a word, then getting stood up in the lobby of his high rise apartment afterward, the pitying expression of the doorman as he asked me to leave, and the way Mark has been completely unreachable on his land line phones ever since. And given Mark’s playboy ways and his track record with women…it all makes perfect sense. There’s no point being in denial about it.

  This is just like high school all over again. I’m just the casual hookup that Mark keeps hidden from the world until he finds someone hotter.

  “Well.” I rise from the table and walk over and look out the window at nothing in particular. “I guess I still can’t compete with a cheerleader.”

  “A cheerleader?”

  I turn back to Geo, who’s watching me with her eyebrows scrunched, and shrug. “Supermodel. Cheerleader. It’s all the same, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, not really…”

  I pull up the Frightened Rabbit’s contact info and call their manager. Time to shift my priorities back to where they need to be. “Hello?” says an English voice says after the third ring.

  “Simon Carlyle?”

  “Speaking…”

  I clear my throat and sit up straight in my chair. “Rose Taylor. I produce a podcast here in the New York City Metro area…”

  15

  Mark

  Beverly White is a tough Jersey broad who doesn’t suffer fools or mince words. The second she sees me in the ER waiting room, she narrows her brown eyes and pokes my chest with her long fingernail. “Get the fuck outta here,” she hisses through her tears. It’s 4 in the morning. She was in Myrtle Beach and must have gone through hell to get here after she got the call about her husband’s massive coronary.

  I want to plead my case, but I know that now is not the time. I shoot Bill, Stanley’s assistant, a sad look and he nods as he gently nudges me out into the hall. “Go,” he whispers. “I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”

  I hear Bev’s harsh words behind me as I make my way down the hall and I almost trip over my own grief. “That kid is the reason,” she yells. “It’s all his fault. Been giving Stan hell for years.”

  I don’t feel the heat of anger, just the downward pull of a sadness and guilt cocktail that’s making me feel sick to my stomach. Lost in swirling thoughts, the taxi ride is a blur.

  Stanley has been the closest thing to a father that I’ve ever had. For the last five years, he’s always
gone above and beyond our professional relationship, treating me like his own kid, pulling favors for me, helping me through hard times in my personal life.

  He could die tonight. And Bev is right, it would be all my fault.

  My apartment is cold and dark, but the mood doesn’t change even after I turn on all the lights. I am suddenly aware I’m starving and open the fridge to see what I have.

  A whole lot of nothing. But that’s fine. Nothing would fill the emptiness inside me right now anyway.

  I lean back on my couch and try out one of my therapist’s breathing exercises. All I can think about is Stanley’s face as he collapsed. The strain in his forehead as I carried him outside, somehow dodging the paps that swarmed everywhere. He wouldn’t let me call an ambulance until we were far enough away from the building that the reporters wouldn’t see. What if those few minutes make all the difference? What if he would’ve been better off if I’d called an ambulance sooner, ignored his wishes?

  I’m deep in that spiral of thought when I notice the long strand of honey colored hair hanging on the sleeve of my Armani jacket.

  Rose.

  Stanley’s medical emergency made me forget all about our plans last night. Shit. I grab my land line phone, but eye the time on the microwave and see it’s just past 6 am. Double shit. It’s too early to call her now, on the one day she has off from doing the show.

  I tell myself not to worry. I’m sure she’ll understand when I call later.

  The phone rings in my hand and I almost drop it from shock.

  “Hello,” I bark before the first ring is done.

  “Mark, it’s Bill Bellows.”

  Stan’s assistant. I feel my throat tighten as a million bad thoughts dance in my head. “How is…?” I can’t even finish the sentence.

  “He’s going to be OK. Close call, but he’s past the danger point.”

  I let out a sigh that feels like it has no end, and collapse back into my seat. “Thanks, man.” I say. “Can I come see him tomorrow morning? Before the Radio Marathon?”

  “Tell that son of a bitch to burn in hell!” Bev shouts from the background. She sounds like she has been swallowing chunks of glass.

  Bill sighs into my ear. “I’ll let you know, Mark, OK?”

  “Thank you.”

  Amped and unable to sleep, I drive back to my cabin on empty roads. I stay up all day playing the most melancholy shit in my collection; sultry, mood pieces that keep me in a dark place, but it’s all good. That’s my therapist’s big thing.

  Let yourself feel the emotions. Let yourself be in the moment when the feelings are rushing. Don’t keep things bottled up. With each finger that lands on my eighty eight keys, I feel the tension ease and my mind drift.

  The first time I met Stanley White I was buck naked tangled in the limbs of three hot chicks I picked up in a bowling alley bar just outside of Memphis. Two of the ladies were identical twins, the third was their cousin, but she looked enough like the other two that I figured I would tell the rest of the guys they were triplets anyway. All night I called them Huey, Dewey and Louie while we reinvented the Kama Sutra for a quartet.

  Good times.

  Stanley had come sauntering through my motel door at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning and he must have been loose with the Franklins because the motel manager opened my door for him, no knock or nothing. There I am, spread-eagle naked on the bed, with Huey on my right, Dewey on my left and Louie’s head resting on my stomach. The place was a mess, with pizza boxes and Miller Lite cans everywhere; the aftermath of a victory celebration. I’d just broken a minor league batting record the night before and partied like it was 1999.

  Stanley didn’t bat an eye, just gave me that faint, amused smile that defines him. Standing over the bed in his gray silk suit, he could have been at a board meeting or a funeral. Not a hair out of place on that guy, not an emotion betrayed on his face.

  “I need to talk to you about your future.”

  I was hungover as fuck, my skin was sticky and I smelled like the triplets, but I didn’t blow him off because I knew who he was. Even back then, he was a big deal. And I knew you didn’t send someone like him packing even if you did need a Silkwood shower with bleach and a sandpaper loofa.

  That morning my life changed, and not just in terms of ball playing. Stanley became a part of my life I had no idea I was missing: a guiding light. I am surrounded by Yes men, but he’s the only guy who has the balls to tell me, No, kid.

  I don’t even finish the Beethoven sonata. I dig through my sheet music and pull out some Puccini. Madame Butterfly is his favorite and this piano arrangement is tops. When he gets out of the hospital, I’ll play it for him.

  I wake up on my couch, my body screaming from being twisted like a pretzel and my head pounding from scotch on an empty stomach. Without thinking, I flip on the plasma and see that the maid—bless her Belarussian heart—left it on E! instead of my usual ESPN. As I stand and stretch out my body, I chuckle at the Rhianna thinkpiece one of the talking heads is spewing. Something about how a see-through top is empowering to women. Not that I’m complaining about the view. Though of course, E! blurred out her nips in the photo they provide.

  My coffee maker cost a thousand dollars, but I pour some Dunkin Donuts beans in it as E! details another scandalous story about Taylor Swift and some video she made about another ex-boyfriend. You go girl, get yours. I have to watch E! more, this shit is funny.

  But what I hear next isn’t so funny. Before going into a commercial break, they drop a fuck of a teaser.

  Mark Carrington and supermodel Amber are back together and E! has the exclusive story!

  I look up and see a picture of us—me and Amber—at last night’s event. In the photo we’re side-by-side, clearly a selfie from Amber’s camera, though she’s the only one smiling, a huge toothy grin.

  That? Really?

  Fucking lazy journalism.

  Then again, what do you expect from E !, I guess.

  With my piping hot cup of joe in hand, I plop down on the couch and wait out some lady ads to check out this bullshit story. In the process, I learn way more about skin care and healthy gut flora than I ever wanted to know.

  I’m prepared to see a fluff piece, the usual drivel that overthinks a candid shot at a media event, typical tabloid fodder. Then the story starts, and my throat dries up.

  E! News is telling me—and the world—that Amber has been tweeting like crazy about us. As if there is an us. She’s been at it all night apparently, raving about our true love. How we never really broke up, the tabloids made it all up for press, exaggerated one little fight. They have her on the phone—an exclusive—and she’s gushing like Yosemite.

  “He’s wonderful to me. The first man I’ve been with who really takes our relationship seriously; who doesn’t see me as just another pair of legs.”

  Blah. Blah. Blah.

  Normally, I don’t give a fuck about gossip. Normally, the most a rant like this from an ex would make me do is send her a cease and desist letter, maybe coupled with an interview of my own about femme fatales.

  But now I care. Because all I can think about right now is that somewhere out there, Rose is watching this too.

  I reach for the phone to call Stanley. He was right about her. He will know what to do…

  It takes a whole minute of his phone ringing and sending me to voicemail before I remember the reason I’m hungover from whiskey on an empty stomach in the first place.

  Fuck.

  I hit the Starbucks on the 17 and grab Rose’s no frills favorite: a straight up venti black coffee. She’s an uncomplicated gal and I appreciate that.

  Her phone went to voicemail this morning. That happens. I didn’t leave a message.

  I just have to talk to her, I keep thinking, but I am also cursing myself.

  Why do I care? Why do I feel like I owe her an explanation? I don’t. This is my crazy ex to deal with; it has nothing to do with her. And it was my agent slash father figu
re slash mentor slash life coach in the hospital. I don’t have to explain why I missed our hookup for that.

  I know that in my head, but my gut is twisting, so here I am barreling up the 17 at 6 am with adrenaline pumping through my veins and an Ethiopian java splashing on my Corinthian leather. Her opinion matters to me and I don’t know what that means, but the truth is, it’s always mattered to me.

  Even back in the day when we wrote that stupid play and made out in secret. Even when I felt like her dirty little secret, the dumb jock she was too embarrassed to admit she was seeing. Even then, I wanted to impress her, wanted her to think well of me. I still do now, after all this time.

  “She can’t talk to you.” The unfamiliar chick peeking through Rose’s chained apartment door is scowling at me. Her eyes look crazy mad, but I give her a smile anyway.

  I already know how this is going to go down. She’s pissed at me because she’s protecting her friend. I’m sure Rose told her everything. Even if she didn’t, this girl must have seen the tabloids by now. I rack my brains for the girl’s name. Rose mentioned her roommate a few times. Some kind of rock-sounding name. The earth, not the band. Amethyst? Crystal? No, it was earthier, hippier…

  “Geo, right?” I ask, looking deep into her eyes. For a long moment, she says nothing. Shit, I think. Wrong name. Then she breaks the direct eye contact and looks down, but nods, unable to resist a little smile, probably because this celebrity she’s never met knows her name. Score. It’s working.

  “Listen, Geo.” I drop my voice to almost a whisper. “I just need to explain three things to her. That’s all.”

  She puts her eyes back on me, her mouth still a hard line.

  Keeping my voice calm, I lean in. “Last night, a close friend of mine had an emergency.” Her eyes widen slightly with sympathy.

  “Sorry to hear that…”

  “The second thing is that my ex is a liar…” Geo rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to speak. I just know it’s going to be some females unite thing, so I don’t let her get there. “When you are high profile, people make up things about you for the media, and for profit. Even people you once trusted. They put their careers over your life, and they don’t care if they have to throw you under the bus to do it.” I let a little heat seep into my tone, because I know that’s what Amber is doing. As we speak here, she’s probably getting re-signed at Cover Girl.