Talk Dirty to Me Page 2

  He stops pacing to glance at the rain falling on Central Park down below, and I hear him take a ragged breath. A sound of disappointment and frustration. “So, are you going to tell me the story or just sit there?”

  Pressing my lips, I look down at the abrasion on my hand. I’m not thinking of Tommy anymore. I’m thinking of Tania and how she was crying and begging me not to tell anyone about Tommy trying to take advantage of her in the back room at the nightclub. As a famous actress, she was distraught and humiliated, worried that the story might get out in the press. And she was terrified of what Harry, her boyfriend and my Yankees teammate, would do to Tommy if he found out. Against my better judgement, I promised I wouldn’t tell a soul what happened. As she shook like a leaf right in front of me, my outrage built to explosive levels. After that, I left her to go find Tommy and fuck him up better than Harry ever would. As far as the world knows, I beat the shit out of America’s kid brother for no good reason.

  But Tommy knows why. He knows exactly what he did.

  Too bad my agent doesn’t.

  “So you ain’t gonna tell me,” Stanley says, still glancing out the window.

  “It’s not my story to tell.”

  “Alright then.” Turning around, he points his right finger at me, the same one he’s used in chants of “We’re #1” at games. “You are going into anger management. You will complete the course. You will do press about the course. That’s step one. Got it?”

  My eyes meet his and I shudder some under his hot gaze. I nod. “No problem.”

  Running his hands through what’s left of his gray hair, he sits on his desk and just stares at me shaking his head. I am a good two heads taller than Stanley and have at least a hundred pounds on him, but right now he’s the bigger man. He would have handled the Tommy thing differently. He would have found a way to do something without a punch.

  “Are you still my agent?” I ask. My heart is working up the nerve to burst. He nods, but it doesn’t calm me down. “Are you still my…friend?”

  Folding his arms across his chest, he looks out at Central Park again. “Go home. Don’t leave your house. Stay out of public. Stay off social media. No nightclubs. No fights. No nothing.”

  “Come on, Stan…”

  He turns his gaze back to me and I look away. “Do you want to lose millions of dollars?”

  “No.”

  “Then do what I say. Go home. I’ll have more details later this afternoon.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m five.” I clench the arms of the chair and tighten my jaw.

  I hear him take a breath. “Then don’t act like you are.”

  Back at my cabin in the wilds of New Jersey, I pour myself a whiskey and ease myself down on my couch. That’s when all the anger hits like a ball of fire to my soul. Goddamn Tommy Pizza. Anger management? Public apology? I should be publicly thanked for punching that punk. And please, like the Yankees are going to dismiss their star player for decking a Mets guy.

  Stanley has banned me from leaving my place, so a nightclub is off the table. But I’m itching for a fix right now. Fine. I’ll order in. When the whiskey hits me, I reach for my little black book of pussy. Yeah, I’m old fashioned that way. I hate cell phones and refuse to own one. I thumb through. Who haven’t I had in a while?

  Distance is a key factor, of course. It would be stupid to call a girl in California while I’m sitting here in my cabin in Vernon, NJ.

  Kristen, no. She scratches like a cat.

  Elise? No, got married to some NBA guy. Nyla too, actually.

  Rekita is crazier than Mary, but not as batshit insane as Celeste. Still, you should really only stick your dick in crazy a max of one time, two if it’s a holiday.

  Michelle. Taylor. Gia. All cheerleaders. Ah, I’m over that fetish. Maria was just OK and Molly was fifty shades too wild.

  I throw my head back and laugh when I see Amber’s name. We were the It Couple for a year. We were both on the Sports Illustrated cover, me holding a bat and her holding her boobs. Our relationship worked for a while mostly because she’s really bendy—she was a gymnast before she was a model. Then she started to pressure me to get married. I balked, telling her I had to think about it, and what did she go and do? Banged one of my Yankee bros. I dumped her and she’s got the nerve to still be pissed about me breaking her heart.

  I grab a pen and cross off her name until she’s nothing but a black blob on the page.

  But then I see ‘Heidi’ and get excited just reading her name. Yeah. Blonde. Belgiumnese or whatever they call themselves. She’s got an accent and English is like, her tenth language or something, but that’s great because I am not in the mood to talk. I made a couple of other notes besides blonde in the book.

  Boobs. Wears short skirts. Shy. Likes sushi. Wait. Sushi? Was I making a crude girl-on-girl joke? Ha ha. Maybe Belgiumnese blonde Heidi will bring a friend.

  I punch the number on my landline phone and she answers on the third ring.

  “Hallo?” she says in that hot accent. My dick just got a little hard.

  “Hey, it’s Mark. Come to my place. I’ll send a car. You can bring a friend if you’d like.”

  There’s silence and then finally, “Mark who?”

  I sigh. Models. “Mark Carrington. Yankees baseball player.” There’s more silence. “We met at…” but then I realize I don’t remember. “That thing…”

  “Ah, yes,” she coos. “Go Yankees!”

  “So, give me your address and I’ll send a car. You want to bring a friend?”

  “Ja.”

  Of course she does. Fish in a barrel.

  After I send a car service to the Upper West Side, I pour another whiskey and suck it back as I check my email. Stanley sent details of my punishment and absolution plan. Fantastic. Most of it is ho hum, basic PR shit. Three games and a fine. Worth it.

  My anger management sessions start tomorrow, but at least the life coach therapist person is coming out to Vernon instead of me going to his office in the city. Guy’s name is Todd Murphy and I won’t be the first athlete with anger issues he’s treated. I guess that’s his biz. I’ll go through the motions to keep Stanley happy, but I ain’t gonna mine the oceans of my past with this stranger no matter how many letters he has after his name.

  I take a couple of pulls off my whiskey and then refill my glass.

  Rest of my schedule shows an I’m sorry press conference, where I have to deliver the apology Stanley wrote for me with feeling. Stanley has some theater guy he’s sending over to direct me as I memorize it. Like I don’t already know where to sigh, where to frown, where to put a dramatic pause and fake that I actually give a fuck about Tommy Pizza.

  Last on the schedule, I have to do some bullshit appearance at the Prudential Center in Newark with Tommy to show that we kissed and made up. The Yankees and Mets want to milk it for all it’s worth, I guess. Like they care. Some corporate face-saving thing most likely.

  Then my eyes stop on the last item on the list. Temporary radio gig. Morning sports talk show on a local station until spring training starts. Six weeks? Radio? I can’t even imagine. The description just says programming is TBA. Alright, then. Fuck it. I know enough about baseball that I can fumble my way through that, I figure.

  There’s one last note at the end of Stanley’s email. My eyes blink at the wording.

  If you don’t do this radio gig for the next six weeks, and do it well, I will drop you as a client and our relationship is finished.

  Now that fucking stings. Stanley has been my agent since I started my career in the minors. I never for a second thought he would really drop me. He negotiated my deal with the Yankees. He’s the one that lines up my endorsements. He helped me find this cabin and my loft in the city. He hooked me up with a good accountant and a stylist. He’s the one who helped me break up with Amber and squashed that shit about my mom so the press didn’t get a hold of it.

  He taught me to tie a tie.

  Now he’s threatening to
fuck me over. And all for some radio show gig?

  An uneasy lump forms in my throat. I swallow it down, but it feels like I swallowed fire and it’s spreading through my body to my arms and legs and fingers and toes. I get off the couch and pace my living room, but it just pushes the fire through my veins faster and hotter.

  Unfuckingbelievable. He’s made millions off me and now acts like I’m nothing? Who the hell does he think he is…

  My heart is beating too fast and my chest tightens.

  I feel the whiskey tumbler in my hand and throw it against the fireplace. As it shatters in a million pieces, my anger splinters too. I turn over the couch and throw a potted plant at the TV. Blind with rage, my angry hands grab everything in reach and hurl and toss whatever I can across the room. I kick holes in the wall and rip apart a pillow until it snows feathers. I do this until I am physically worn out and collapse in a chair, my heart booming in my ears.

  Then the landline rings. Maybe it’s Stanley. He’s caving. He’s calling to apologize, afraid he’s hurt my feelings.

  “Hello, Stanley.” I sound like I have asthma.

  “I picked up your…guests.” It’s my driver. “Two young ladies.” I hear them giggling in the background. “I am in Vernon, but the GPS is losing signal. I need directions.”

  My eyes dart around the cabin, surveying the aftermath of my rage. I clench the phone tight in my hand. “Cancel. Take them back home.” I slam the phone down.

  I right the couch and collapse onto it. After I regain my breath, I look at the email again and reread Stanley’s last words.

  If you don’t do this radio gig for the next six weeks, and do it well, I will drop you as a client and our relationship is finished.

  I scroll down to see if there’s a PS, but there’s not. Just the name of the radio station and the producer’s name.

  W-ALT, NORTH JERSEY’S SOURCE FOR ALT ROCK

  General Manager Program Director Producer: Rose Taylor

  I ease back in my seat and breathe.

  Rose Taylor.

  That couldn’t be….but radio show. Alt rock. It has to be her. The Rose Taylor I knew in high school. I only know because I’ve drunkenly Googled her once or twice. She’s all over social media posting about rock shows and new bands. I almost added her on Facebook once, but then canceled the friend request before she accepted.

  My thoughts drift to a nostalgic place. High school. Senior year. Fumbling with her bra strap. Making out with her in the library. Dry humping her in the backseat of my loaner car. And other places. Man, she was upper crust, at least for Lambertville. I always felt like an idiot and a bum around her, but also calm and connected. I smile at the memory of our secret outings. Yeah, we would make out and stuff, but afterward we’d talk until dawn. I’m sure she remembers me. She has to, right?

  Maybe this radio gig won’t be that bad after all.

  I stand and take a deep breath and stretch out my body. I would pour myself another glass of whiskey but the bottle is in pieces on the floor. My piano, however, was the eye of the storm. It always is. Everyone thinks it’s a show piece, bought by a nouveau riche bumpkin to impress the swells. But it’s not. It’s everything.

  I sit down at the bench and crack my fingers over the keyboard. I strike a few chords until something in me clicks. I start with some Debussy and then flow into some Gershwin. I peak with Rachmaninoff, really throwing myself into it, pounding away at the keys as the hours fly past. But when dawn hits, I come down with some Chopin, like a true gentleman.

  3

  Rose

  Bust Up energy drink and Sputnik vodka are subsidiaries of American Beverages, so the natural PR baby when mating these two brands is Crazy Cosmic Cocktail. They’re debuting with—OMG—a fucking laser show at the Prudential Center in Newark. Bust Up’s spokesman, Mr. Mark Carrington, is contractually obligated to attend. And so is the guy he just punched in the face, the Mets’ relief pitcher Tommy Pizza, who also happens to be the face of Sputnik.

  This should be fun.

  Everyone and I mean everyone at W-ALT is buzzing about the Crazy Cosmic Cocktail Laser Show. Becks is already counting the money she’ll make in air time sales and I notice she got her hair and nails did. Night Vixen is a meme-making factory posting funny stuff all over the internet. Even Chris, who hates all things corporate and contrived, is tittering around the station today grinning like Led Zeppelin started touring again.

  “I can’t wait for tonight.” He slides a playlist print-out across my desk. “I mean, what if they fight? My money’s on Mark. You wanna get in on the office pool?”

  “No, thanks.” I force a smile. “Not my thing.”

  Becks is right behind Chris, tapping with fury at her iPad, but she looks up and cocks a penciled eyebrow at me. “Are you sure? I mean, don’t you have the inside scoop since you and Mark Carrington were best buds in high school?” She’s not even bothering to hide her mocking tone today.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t you have some sales calls to make?”

  They leave me in peace to tend to my playlist, payroll and anxiety. I haven’t seen Mark Carrington in the flesh since graduation. Not to say I haven’t thought of him in the last six years. And maybe one time he drifted into my head when I was on the turnpike and I missed my exit.

  Okay, so that was only a couple of months ago….

  What am I going to wear tonight? What do you even wear to a laser show? How should I act when I see him, friendly-professional or neutral-professional?

  Jeez. This is high school all over again.

  Night Vixen and I do a last minute beauty check outside the velvet rope at the Prudential Center entrance. No, my hair hasn’t been destroyed by the light sprinkle of snow. And yeah, her black lipstick is still perfectly lined. We look super cute in our own way; me in my Basic Bitch chic, her in her vampire prom ensemble. My stomach is tight with nerves, but Night Vixen has this weird calming effect on me. Could be her paranormal hypnotic powers. Or it could be that she’s just got a sincere charm. She always means what she says.

  “You look really pretty,” she purrs and the knot in my belly loosens.

  “You too.” And she does. She’s a hot vampire.

  Doorman dude finds our names on his list and we enter. After checking my coat and sucking in a deep breath, I follow Night Vixen into the arena, where a rainbow of lasers damn near burns out my corneas. The space is alive with loud electronica and beams of light bouncing everywhere and then uniting to form the Bust Up and Sputnik logos flickering in midair.

  After my eyes adjust, I scan the space to see the poor actors/waiters hired to wear silver space suits and hand out cosmic cocktails and some pretty yet unidentifiable bites of fusion food. “Hors d’Orbit,” one of the waiters says, offering me a blob on a toothpick.

  It takes like cream cheese and soap.

  W-ALT personnel are scattered around the room with drinks in their hands. Chris waves from a corner, where I know he’ll hide all night avoiding people. Becks raises her wine glass with a smirk, but I can see she’s already eyeing some corporate types for ad sales.

  Press passes dangle from every other neck, and a scurry of young dressed-to-impress PR chicks dash about with bluetooths tucked in their ears and iPads clutches to their chests. All in impossibly high heels.

  “You gotta admire that!” Night Vixen shouts over the music as one of them passes.

  “Girl’s got some fantastic balancing skills!” I shout back.

  I spot a couple of familiar, famous faces. You know, that guy in that Tarantino thing with all the blood? He’s less bloody tonight, but shorter than I ever expected and he’s talking to that guy who plays a werewolf on TV. Next to me Night Vixen beams with delight at Wolf Boy. I also see a gaggle of young, super skinny models with legs up to their chins. It’s a room full of Amber Wilsons. Almost instantly, I deflate. With their craned necks and darting eyes, I can tell they’re looking for a baller to ball. Mark Carrington won’t even have to open his mouth to get tail t
onight. Ugh.

  Night Vixen and I grab Cosmic Cocktails off the tray of a passing spaceman and take tentative sips. It’s the worst thing I’ve had in my mouth since my roommate Geo tried to make tofu pancakes.

  “Poison.” I grab my throat. The terrible concoction really does taste like arsenic. At least, the way I imagine arsenic would taste. Bittersweet and deadly with fake sugar.

  “I’m grabbing a drink. A real drink,” Night Vixen tells me. Girl has booze ESP. If there is a real bar in here, she will sniff it out. “You want a Tequila Sunrise?”

  I nod. “More tequila less sunrise. Thanks.”

  As Night Vixen skulks off through the forest of supermodels to find us liquid gold, I scan the crowd. So far, no Mark Carrington. I guess he’s going to make some stunning, dramatic entrance. I suddenly feel super conscious of my red dress. I went with sexy instead of laser show comfy, but now I’m drowning in regret. The dress is too short, too red, and too clingy for a body like mine. I feel like Jezebel at the ball. I tug it down. I want to look good, but not like I’m trying to catch his eye.

  Even though I am. Aren’t I?

  Oh, bro. You should kill yourself.

  To this day, those words still sting. Dane Peters said them when Mrs. Singletary announced Mark Carrington and I would be playwriting partners for the entire spring semester senior year. I remember the look on Mark’s face too, the thousand yard stare of annoyance at the potential hit to his popularity.

  I still wince to this day thinking about Mark’s reaction when Dane said that. With an eyeroll and a huff, he turned not just his face, but his entire body away from me. His bros slapped his back and offered words of sympathy like he was going off to war, while the rest of the class tittered. Mortified, I slumped down in my seat and pulled my hair forward to hide my red face.

  The relationship deteriorated from there. Feelings went from delicate tolerance to aggressive hatred in our very first meeting at the library. All we had to do was pick a setting and characters for the theatrical two character / one act masterpiece we’d been assigned. But right from the get-go, I had to shut down his only three ideas, all of which involved MLB players confronting enemy pitchers.