At Last (23 page)

“In the back.” Liz pulled the cabin door shut and gulped the last of her drink before setting the glass on the porch. “What about your luggage?”

Susan was already around the back of the house. It took a few beats for her to realize what she was looking at, but when she did, she squealed in delight, crammed herself behind the wheel and cranked the engine, eliciting the full throttled roar of twin cams. Susan sped out from behind the house, digging up her parents’ lawn as she rocketed the 1968 Barracuda Fastback out to where Liz stood, and skidded to a stop, making even more grass fly.

Susan gunned the motor and took in the interior of the car while Liz trooped over and swung her ass into the passenger side.

“Where the hell did you get this beauty?”

“An artist friend of mine. It’s one of six different muscle cars he’s bought from proceeds I garnered him selling his egregiously overpriced oil paintings.”

“What’s he paint?” Susan gunned the engine again and honked the horn. It was
Call to Post
, the theme to horse racing.

“He’s really good at painting naked men, but what sells most are his paintings of street gutters.”

Susan turned and stared at Liz. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish I was, but they sell like hotcakes.”

Susan gripped the steering wheel and gunned the motor one more time. “Fasten your seat belt.”

Liz already had shades on, her hair protected by a
Thelma and Louise
style scarf, and her seat belt securely fastened. And a flask of--no doubt--more martinis.

“Jesus, you really are a lush!”

“Oh please, I know how you drive. I’m going to need some liquid pain-killer-slash-nerve-pills. Besides, if I were a man you’d be calling me a freaking boy scout for being so well prepared, not a lush.”

“Fine,” Susan said as she took off down the dirt road that led to an even bigger dirt road, and to a single lane pot-holed thoroughfare, and then to a two lane interstate. “You’re an alcoholic boy scout. Do they have a badge for that?”

“Well, there should be!” Liz leaned back into the centrifugal force the speeding Barracuda was creating as it roared down the road. And the car stopped, sending both Susan and Liz hard into their seat belts.

“The gala,” Susan said breathlessly. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Liz cackled as she kicked her heels off and snuggled back into the fine leather upholstery of the bucket seat. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I already sent Lance out for a gown--something simple and elegant, more virgin than vamp.” She turned and her red, red lips grinned solicitously at Susan. “After all, you already tried the vamp routine on him.”

Susan shook her head. “You sent Lance?”

Liz’s dazzling red lips turned into a hard line. “He has dual degrees in art history and fashion design. He reads W, Cosmo and Vogue...and he’s gay, for God’s sake. He’s more a woman than either of us!”

Susan gulped, turned away from Liz, and slowly started driving down the lane again. “I’m sure I’ll love anything he picks for me.”

~*~

Lance was waiting for Liz and Susan at Liz’s apartment. He ushered Susan back to the bathroom and ordered her to shower, immediately. When she emerged from the bathroom, he had reinforcements. A woman with tiny hands and perfect olive skin started on her fingernails. A tall man with a goatee and long black hair tied back in a ponytail trimmed her dead ends off with quick precision, blew her hair dry and started straight ironing it into submission. And a pretty blond boy, no more than twenty years old, started in on Susan’s face, brushes light as feathers as he magically erased the two zits she’d been cultivating on her two-week hiatus.

Lance and the three beauty artisans stripped Susan from her robe, clad her in some of her sexy underwear, then pulled out a garment bag. “You are going to love this!” Lance announced as he ripped down the zipper.

~*~

Liz sat in her living room, watching a hockey game on ESPN. She didn’t care who won, she just wanted to see some violence, and her favorite violence wouldn’t be on for another hour and a half. Ultimate Cage Fighting where men in tight shorts start off kickboxing, and end up grappling and beating each other to a pulp. It was better than gay porn--same positions, just none of the silly camera angles or bad dialogue.

Liz noticed the door to her bedroom was opening, and she leaned to look around her big screen TV. There stood Susan, looking truly stunning in a sky-blue strapless silk sheath, knee length, that hugged her body like the proverbial glove.

She also seemed to be glowing, her face radiant and natural-looking, her blond hair swept back from her face, flowing down her back.

“You look like a goddess.” Liz got up and walked around her friend with appraising eyes.

“I feel like Miss America.”

“Oh, please. You look way better than one of those bleach-blond hussies. Your blond is natural.”

Susan giggled.

“Just one last touch,” Liz said, stepping over to the couch and grabbing her purse.

“Well, I don’t think anything else is going to fit in here,” Susan said as she ran her hand down the side of her dress.

Both women froze and looked at each other, each looking like they had bad tastes in their mouths.

“If you start quoting
Pretty Woman
, so help me I’ll just lock you in my bathroom and forget the whole thing. I’d rather see you shackled to my toilet than have you start regurgitating lines from that movie again. How many guys freshman year heard, ‘Just in case I forget...’--dramatic pause--‘I had a really nice time.’” She shuddered. “Vomit!”

Susan rolled her eyes. “Just hope you didn’t get me some overpriced necklace, or you’ll be Richard Gear.”

“Nope, no necklace. But what does any young woman need when she’s going off to a ball?”

“Sensible shoes.” Susan looked down at the three-inch Gucci mules she had on her feet. “They’re gorgeous, but I’ll be hobbled by morning.”

“Oh please! By morning you’ll be in a soft cushy bed with your feet up in the air. You probably won’t have to stand for a week if I know Kevin.”

Susan’s face blushed a bright red. She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand.

“Back to the subject at hand. What a girl needs most when going to a ball is...” Liz held out a fancy gilt lettered envelope. “An invitation.”

Susan smiled as she took the envelope. Her name was printed in golden type. “It looks like an invitation to a royal wedding. You have a side business in counterfeiting?”

“Nope. I just called up old Francesca and asked for you to be put on the guest list.”

Susan’s jaw dropped. “Francesca actually invited me?”

Liz scoffed. “The woman is practically a criminal mastermind. She knows Kevin will be leaving if you don’t come and claim him, and she wants him to stay and keep working for her.”

Susan hugged herself. “Do you really think he’ll stay for me?”

“Honey, that man would swim the freaking Atlantic Ocean to get to you.” Liz paused and smiled wickedly. “Hell, he’d probably take a swim through my vagina to get to you.”

~*~

Kevin stood on the balcony looking out over all of downtown Chicago. He could see where his opera house would be constructed. He could see the immense tower of steel and glass where Costa Consortium was officed. And he could see the neighborhood where Susan’s apartment building was. Thankfully, he couldn’t make out in the evening light which building was hers.

He set down his untouched glass of champagne. He’d only been holding it to look festive. He was only there, truly, to support Francesca and the project. He knew she wanted to show him off. He hadn’t realized she would be telling everyone who would listen that it had been his design, and solely his. He’d thought she would take some credit. But she just kept introducing him as “the designer of the new Chicago Metropolitan Opera House.”

He’d never faked a smile for so long. His face felt ready to fall off. He loosened his bow tie a bit, probably ruining the effect of Francesca’s perfect tie job.
Oh, well.
He’d dressed up in the monkey suit for her benefit. She couldn’t begrudge him messing it up a little.

His hands gripped the railing of the balcony as his mind flashed back to having Susan in his arms, naked against him, pressing herself hard against his chest. Her breath had been so hot and fast. For a moment he’d almost stopped, worried he was hurting her, but then she’d taken his nipple into her mouth and had bitten, just hard enough to send him over the edge.

And like having a page ripped out of a book, the memory was gone, fluttering off, lost into the wind and night. How many people on balconies, or on the street, had such memories rush through their heads, just to have them torn away in an instant. The street, the sky, they must be littered with them.

Kevin couldn’t wait for the party to be over. The instant it was, he’d hop in a cab with his already packed luggage and head off to the airport. Anywhere would be better than here. Anywhere where he’d never been with Susan, which gave him all destinations in the world except three: Dartmouth College, Cancun, and Chicago.

The world would be his oyster, or some shit like that.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, he’d stop thinking about her? Right?

Ri-ight
.

Okay, lessening his own pain wasn’t quite cutting it when it came to reasons to leave. But what was enough reason was that Susan could not be in the same city with him. She’d been MIA for two whole weeks. Even Liz couldn’t find her. Not that he’d believed her that first week. No, she’d been lying about sending out the hounds and checking under ever stone. But after that first week, Liz’s voice had changed, he wasn’t just calling her, she was calling him, asking questions, checking to see if Susan had contacted him.

She’d mentioned phoning Susan’s mother.

He’d known right then that Liz was desperate to find Susan.

Maybe she’d find her. Maybe she’d talk her into coming back to town. Now that he would be gone she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable, or embarrassed, or whatever it was she’d been feeling. Whatever feeling she’d been having that drove her out of the city, from her home and work and friends.

Maybe he’d ditch the rest of the party, head for the airport early. .

His hand went reflexively to the breast pocket of his tuxedo. He didn’t remember actually putting it there, yet there it was--the ring, in its satin covered little box. How utterly pathetic.

“How long am I gonna carry you around?” he said to the box. He gripped the velvet tight in his fingers and looked out onto the city. One good throw and he’d never find it, never have to hold it or look at it again. It would never burden his pockets again.

“Don’t throw it away.” Francesca strolled onto the balcony and stood beside him, her fierce blue eyes practically glowing in the moonlight. They even outsparkled her beaded gown.

Kevin was tempted to palm the ring and slip it back in his pocket, but Francesca wouldn’t be fooled.

“I keep trying to leave it behind, in my hotel room, but I can’t let it go.”

She took the box from his hand and opened it. The diamond ring flashed and sparkled. She closed it and pressed it back into his palm. “It’s hard to part with something so beautiful.” She stepped around and looked up into Kevin’s eyes. “It’s even harder to give up something we love.”

“Francesca--”

“I’m just telling you not to be too hasty. Things change.”

“Yeah, and not always for the best.” If Asshole Mark had just been a man and married Susan, none of this would’ve happened!

Francesca reached up and patted his cheek with her silky hand; her smile would’ve melted anyone’s heart. “But it can change for the better too. Don’t forget that.” She turned and started gliding away in a practiced sweeping movement, sexy and elegant all at once. She turned back and shot him with a knowing look. “And don’t even think of leaving before the party’s over. I have a little something special planned, and you’ll ruin it for me if you aren’t there.”

Kevin stood there, stunned. She was good. How’d she know he was thinking about leaving early...and man, did she have a master’s degree in guilt or what?

~*~

In her haste to get into the building Susan slipped getting out of the car, turning her ankle.
Damn heels!
She staggered for a few feet before she regained her footing. Her ankle hurt, but she still needed to get to the party. The doorman was young and pretty, and not only held the door but asked if she was all right.

He’d seen her slip.

“I’m fine, thank you. Where to for the Costa Gala?”

“Just take any of the elevators to the top floor, ma’am.” He tilted his hat and looked like John Wayne. He didn’t really. But he made her think of John Wayne. And she thought of
The Quiet Man
, and then of Kevin dragging her across that beach six months ago. How warm and strong his hand had been.