Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (95 page)

“Yeah, he hasn’t said
anything to me yet, but it’s probably not going to be long. I’ve been putting
out my
resumé
, but I haven’t heard back on any—”

“Musicians use
resumés
?” she asks.

“Everyone does,” I
answer.

“You know,” she says with
a knowing look, “I’ve seen your guitar, but I’ve never heard you play.”

“I like to save that
for…” I start but don’t know how to finish.

At this point, I’m just
lying about my job because I’ve been lying about my job.

“Whatever,” she says.
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”

She has a lot more faith
than I do.

“You look like you were
really worried to tell me that,” she says.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I was.
Still am, actually.”

“We’ll figure it out, all
right?” she says.

She holds her arms out.

I don’t know, maybe I
should take the hug now and maybe when she sobers up she’ll be less likely to
get pissed that I waited a month to tell her that I was going to be losing my
job in about a month.

The logic is blurry at
best, but it’s worth a shot.

I bend down and put my
arms around her. She embraces me and it actually feels pretty great.

I can’t really remember
the last time a woman, drunk or sober, showed me affection just to make me feel
better about things.

Her head starts to pull
back and her grip loosens around me, so I start to pull away, but her face
turns toward mine. Leila’s eyes are closed and I can feel her hot breath
against my cheek.

When her eyes open, she’s
looking into mine in a way I’ve never experienced. It’s like she’s actually
seeing me for the first time, really seeing me and she’s not put off. She’s not
scared or disappointed.

She pulls back a little
further and our lips are almost touching when I hear the sound behind me.

“Dane? Have you seen my
panties? I can’t find them anywhere.”

“Well,” Leila says,
pulling away entirely and patting me on the cheek. “I don’t see anything in
your eye. You’re good to go.”

“Thanks,” I mutter; my
eyes still intent on Leila.

“Aren’t you going to
introduce us?” Wrigley asks.

I turn and Wrigley’s
standing there in the doorway to my bedroom, naked from the waist down.

“I’m not feeling so
well,” Leila says, getting up, her eyes on the ground. “It’s nice to meet you,”
she adds as she passes Wrigley and makes her way into her own room.

“Too bad,” Wrigley says.
“She looked like she was ready to go.”

What the fuck just
happened?

Chapter Nine

Cold
Turkey

Leila

I don’t think I’m going
to be drinking again any time soon. At least, that is, as long as Dane is still
living here.

It’s funny, but I never
thought I’d be longing for that temporary amnesia I had after that night in the
club with Mike. Given what happened, or almost happened, between Dane and me
last night, I don’t think alcohol is the best idea.

Today’s the first day
I’ve called in sick in my life.

It’s well into the
afternoon, and I’m scared to leave my room. I can’t face Dane right now. Not
after that.

There’s a problem,
though.

I’ve had to pee for about
the last hour, and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to lie in
here and avoid reality.

Usually, this is one of
those times when I would give Mike a call and suckle from the teat of his
folksy wisdom. Yeah, that’s what he insists on calling it when I go to him for
advice.

I’d much rather just act
like nothing ever happened in the first place.

Maybe that’s my in.

I get up and open the
door.

Dane is in the kitchen,
eating a sandwich, and I pretend that I don’t see him as I walk across the
living room to the bathroom.

“Good morning,” he says,
his mouth full and losing crumbs.

“Hey,” I answer, not
looking over or slowing my pace.

A few minutes later, I’m
on the inside of the locked bathroom, and I’m having that dilemma again. He
acknowledged my presence, so he’s going to want to talk to me when I come out
of here.

Maybe I can just stay in
here.

I mean there’s running
water to drink—from the sink, mind you. I’m not an animal. Well, no more than
anyone else.

If I’d remembered to grab
my phone, I could order pizza and Chinese food and have them come up the fire
escape and deliver my sustenance through the smallish bathroom window. Yeah,
I’m sure they won’t go for it at first, but I’m an excellent tipper. A pizza
box wouldn’t fit through the window, but I can always have the guy pass it
through piece by piece.

I could make a bed out of
towels and have Mike run any personal errands that may arise.

Sure, I’ll run out of
money pretty fast as I won’t really be able to work, but maybe I can have Mike
bring over a laptop and try my hand at stay-at-home customer service.

For a bed, I can simply
lay down some towels, making sure to double a couple up for pillows and, with
the towels that are left, I can cover myself. It actually doesn’t sound
half-bad.

My other option is going
out there.

Out there where I’ve got
at least five bosses, though I’ve only ever met four, who each make my life
unbearable in their own special way.

Just outside this door,
I’ve got a roommate that still bugs the hell out of me who I pretty obviously
came onto just before his mostly naked sex-buddy popped her
cooch
out of his room in a pretty literal sense.

I’m in the bathroom for
half an hour.

By now, as I haven’t had
the shower running, I have yet another reason not to go out there. Now, not
only am I the drunk chick who makes inappropriate advances on her womanizing
roommate, but I can only imagine what he thinks I’m doing in here.

There’s a knock on the
door about ten minutes later.

“Hey, you all right in
there?”

“Just taking a bath!” I
call back.

I know that we don’t have
a tub. We have a standup shower.

“Oh,” he says.

It’s an excruciating
amount of time before he says anything else.

“Okay.”

Maybe if I don’t flush
when I come out, he’ll know that I wasn’t in here doing unspeakable things. Of
course, that’ll only work if he’s standing near the door when I do flush.
Otherwise, he’s just going to assume that I did, and when the hell did I become
so damn neurotic?

I flush the toilet.

I have no idea why I
flush the toilet.

Is it better for your
roommate to think that you just spent half an hour in the bathroom doing… that,
or for him to walk in and find an unflushed toilet with pee in it?

Am I the only woman who
thinks about these things?

Oh well, I’m pretty sure
it doesn’t matter anymore, and all I can really do is take a breath and hope
for the best.

When I come out of the
bathroom, I don’t see Dane.

Maybe he’s in his room,
maybe he left. Regardless, I think it’s pretty clear he was out of
flush-hearing-range.

I really need to get out
more.

I’m almost back to my
room when I hear him. I can hear his voice through his door.

At first, I start to
think that his little biscuit is in there with him, but he’s responding to an
inaudible second party.

I press my ear against
the door the moment I hear my name.

“…kind of weird. I mean,
last night, she was coming onto me and today, I don’t even know where to
start.”

Great. This is just
great.

“No, nothing happened. I
mean, Wrigley came out of the room with her
vag
hanging out, but I really think she was going to kiss me.”

Wrigley is a stupid name
for a person.

Of course, given the
entrance, I’d probably think her name was stupid whatever it was.

No, Wrigley is a stupid
name. Last name: That’s fine. First name: I mean, are you joking?

“Yeah, she was drunk.
What does that have to do with anything?”

If I left the city today,
I wonder if I could join up with the Amish. What’s the rule on that? Does
anyone know?

“Yeah, whatever,” he says
on the other side of the door. “I’ll see you in a few hours at
l’Iris
.”

I knew that’s the place
he was talking about. He even pronounced it correctly.

I’m sure he’s going there
to meet up with Wrigley.

Stupid, dumb-named,
crevice-flaunting Wrigley.

Wait.

If he’s off the phone,
what are the chances that he’s about to
—

The door opens and I
almost fall into the room.

“Leila!” he says, jumping
back. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

I’m stuttering. Why am I
stuttering?

“I got a bit lightheaded
on the way back to my room. I drank
way
too much last night.”

I’m trying to look casual
as I lean against the door jamb. I have a feeling that I’m not pulling it off.

“Yeah,” he says. “You
were pretty out of it last night. Actually, I think maybe we should talk about
that.”

“Why?” I ask, having no
recourse left but pure denial. “What happened? I don’t really remember anything
after I got home.”

“You don’t?” he asks.

It’s a plausible story,
Dane. Just go with it,
ya
bastard.

“No. Why? I didn’t try to
drive, did I?”

There is a difference
between playing stupid and being stupid. I’m not sure exactly which I’m doing
right now, but I’m fairly sure it’s somewhere in between the two.

“You don’t have a car,”
he says.

Oh,
just let me off the hook, will you? I’ve done really well pretending like I
don’t hear every tiny, disgusting noise coming out of your room. The least you
can do is just let me act like I never came onto you.

He never mentioned any
special skill in reading minds, but I’m hoping that the force with which I put
those thoughts through my head is sufficient to communicate my meaning.

He laughs quietly.

“Got
ya
,”
he says. “No, you didn’t do anything too far off the reservation. Although…”

Oh, just kill me.

“It’s kind of silly,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

We may as well get it
over with.

Let the mocking begin.

“You were eating peanut
butter out of the jar with your hands,” he laughs.

All right, I guess no one
has to kill me. Call off the hit.

“Really?” I ask. I
remember the incident, but only vaguely. Pretty much the clearest portion of
the evening involved me trying to—oh my god. I dropped my pants and asked him
if I have a big butt.

“Yeah,” he says. “I had a
hell of a time cleaning it up this morning. Never mind trying to help you clean
your hands. You weren’t very cooperative.”

I laugh. Ah, relief,
sweet relief.

There’s no doubt he
remembers everything, but we’re not talking about it and every synapse in my
brain is focused on the concept that that’s good enough.

“Really?” I ask.

I know I’m just repeating
myself, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what might make him
bring up the impromptu mooning.

“Yeah,” he says. “It was
like trying to herd cats into a bathtub.”

“That’s,” I snort. I’m
pointing now. Why am I pointing? Crap, I still haven’t finished my sentence.
“Hilarious,” I say. “That is hilarious:
hearding
cats
into a bathtub.”

I’m laughing way too
loudly and he’s just standing there looking at me. If I close my mouth, I don’t
know what’s going to happen, so I just continue to make things awkward on my
own terms.

“Yeah,” he says. “Well,
I’ve got to go to work.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Do you
know when your last day is going to be?”

“I thought you didn’t
remember anything from last night.”

I should have just kept
laughing. “What do you mean?” I ask, dumbly. “You told me they were letting you
go a while ago.”

Come
on, Dane, don’t let’s make this worse than it already is. Just keep playing
along. You know it’s the right thing to do.

“Oh,” he says mercifully,
“I guess I forgot that I mentioned it. Actually,” he smiles, “I’ve been really
nervous to talk to you about it. I think that’s why I let it slip last night
while you were drunk.”

“Yeah,” I tell him, “you
already told me. Good memory there, chief.”

Leila,
don’t push it.

“Right back at
ya
,” he says.

The smiles slowly fade
off both our faces and it’s a lot longer than it should be before I realize I’m
still standing in his doorway, not saying anything.

“So, yeah,” he says. “I
should probably get going. Boss doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

“All right,” I say. “Go
get ‘
em
, sport.”

Oh,
what the hell are you doing to me?

“Right,” he says.

Now he’s just standing
there. I thought he said he was leaving.

“Leila?”

“Yeah?” I ask, popping my
lips for some absolutely unknown reason.

“I work outside my room.”

“You’re kind of a weird
guy,” I respond.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re
standing in my doorway.”

“Oh,” I say and move with
all the grace and majesty of a giraffe on a tilt-a-whirl.

To further embarrass
myself, as I seem to be incapable of doing anything else in the world right
now, I give him the “You may pass” gesture, or whatever it’s called, and he
can’t possibly get out of the room quick enough.

“Yeah, well you have a
good night, Leila,” he says. “Maybe dial it back a little on the sauce.”

“You
betcha
!”

Who
am I right now?

He doesn’t say anything
else on his way out.

Maybe that should have
been my strategy: silence.

The door to the apartment
opens and closes, and I’m smacking my forehead with both palms. The action
doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds as my hangover rises from its grave
to punch me right in the prefrontal cortex. So, now I’ve gone from smacking my
forehead to cradling it.

“Are you okay?”

The sound that comes out
of me is some kind of mix between a scream, a squeak and a sneeze.

“I thought you were
gone,” I say.

Good
move. You’re really making it better now.

“I forgot my keys,” he
says.

He’d opened the door,
remembered to grab his keys and closed it.

Great
detective work, Leila. You’re an inspiration.

“Ah,” I say. “I do that
all the time.”

“Really?” he asks. “I
don’t think I’ve ever known you to forget your keys.”

“Will you just grab your
keys and get the hell out of here?” I ask.