Know Her, Love Her: Daisy & Belmont, Book ONE (7 page)

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Stacy asked.
 

He threw up his hands. “‘Your girl is lovely’? That’s it? That’s all she could say?”
 

“That line’s a classic,” Stacy said.

“But all she had to say was, ‘Hubbell, I want you,’ and he would’ve given up that other woman in a heartbeat. She just had to say something.”

“Then maybe you should’ve written the script. I didn’t know you were this sentimental about movies,” she said.
 

Belmont shifted to sit on the side of the bed. “I’m not. But I don’t get why that’s considered a masterpiece?”

“Because it’s Barbara Streisand and Robert Redford.”

He bent over to put on his shoes.

“Are you leaving?” Stacy asked.

“I’m tired.”

 
“What’s going on between us, Jack? I’m ready to know.”

He sighed despairingly. Finally, the time had come. “Let’s not do this now.”

“Then when? Tomorrow? Because you clearly want me to get the hell out of Dodge.”

“You’re the one who said you had to go to Tokyo.”

“I said that because you were being a jerk!”

Belmont studied her angry face. He wished Daisy would fight that hard for him. When he’d walked out on her, he hoped she would run after him. He wanted her to tell him to stay until she figured shit out. He knew Daisy had no idea what her problem was, but he knew. She was void. Daisy probably didn’t know that he’d read her book multiple times. Each time, he came to the same conclusion. He shouldn’t have to compete with the deceased, especially her brother.
 

“We’ll have breakfast in the morning. How about that?” he said.

Stacy stood on her knees. “Why don’t you spend the night here and we’ll order room service in the morning?”

“You know I’m still married, right?”

She laughed. “I didn’t think that was a concern of yours.”

“Daisy is always going to be a concern of mine.”

She grunted, rolled her eyes, and flopped on the bed.
 

Belmont grabbed his jacket. “Breakfast in the morning,” he said and got the hell out of there.

It was late when he walked out of the hotel lobby and made a series of right turns until he ended up on Grand Avenue. He stepped over fresh vomit as he passed a half-empty parking lot. It was chilly, but his brisk pace helped him work up a sweat. The Chicago skyline boxed him in, changing constantly to give him different angles of the same skyscrapers. He crossed under a bridge and admired the concrete, steel beams, and multidirectional lanes of traffic. Mankind’s inventions momentarily took his mind off of that lousy movie.
 

Maybe Daisy didn’t know that nothing came easy to him, not even her. The first time he saw her inside the Day Harbor Café, it hadn’t been easy to muster up the courage to say something to her. The day before on the docks, she had walked by him as though he didn’t exist, which rarely happened to him. But when she passed him, everything about her felt right. So the next day, when she happened to show up at the café, Belmont figured he couldn’t go wrong by inviting her to his birthday party. But hell, she left the card he gave her on the table! When he saw her again in the grocery store, he knew that he had nothing to do with them meeting. Fate did.
 

He made a right on Dearborn and continued north. For some strange reason, the rustic brownstones made him think of Daisy. They were just the sorts of homes that turned her head. He made a left on Elm, hoping Fate would continue working her magic and make him collide into Daisy. When that didn’t happen, he turned up Clark Street. A kid was barfing into a sidewalk garden while his friends stood around laughing.
 

Belmont had never been that stupid and young. He’d never equated being inebriated with having a good time. He was his own unique brand of stupid ass in his early twenties. He’d probably had a bit of Hubbell in him back then. He’d been good-looking all his life. Where he came from girls threw themselves at him, and guys respected him for it. He would give Daisy one point for that. He had benefitted from his good looks. He’d subconsciously despised it, so he jumped at the chance to be different.
 

Belmont was seventeen when he left home. He’d spent a year at Chicago University, but he believed his destiny was in Los Angeles, so he transferred to USC in L.A. He wanted to be free of his father’s money, and he convinced himself he could be the next Brad Pitt. If looks were all it took, then he surely could’ve been the next major heartthrob.

Acquiring an agent had been easy. He had no headshots or previous acting experience, but he did have the gift of persuasion. His agent’s name was Francis Lineman, and she was nothing like the women where he came from. Francis wasn’t polite, and she distrusted charm, but Belmont knew how to make her feel less like a hard-ass. She didn’t drop him from her client list even after she received warnings from male producers never to send him back to their auditions. Certain female producers requested him continuously. They came on to him, and he succumbed to their objectification. Not because he wanted the parts, but because he loved taking their hard shells and turning them into jelly.
 

Lorena Sheimann, a TV producer, had been the one to tell him to stop making a mockery out of acting and put his talents to better use. She knew he had just bought a couple of properties in the Hollywood Hills and that he was interested in commercial real estate. Lorena told him the way into a man’s wallet was through an ambitious woman who wanted to be pounded by someone like him while married to someone like her husband.

“You’ll always have your daddy’s money, but if you’re going solo, then they’ll get you there just as fast as you can get them off,” Lorena said.
 

He’d moved to Vegas to start his corporation and to service those powerful women. They were interesting, so making love to them was easy. Their husbands never suspected a thing. They couldn’t believe someone like him would have sex with their wives, especially when the husbands were chasing tail that was twenty to thirty years younger than them. Those women came through for him in many ways, and sometimes, they still did. But seven years later, after he’d acquired his first set of beachfront high-rises off South Beach, the sex without love had started to erode his soul, and he knew it was time to give it up.
 

Did he regret being their gigolo? No. Was any of it ever easy? Hell no.

He trudged up Wells Street and gazed at the vodka bottle on the billboard along the side of a building. Seeing it made him want a nice stiff glass of whisky, so he plopped down on a stool inside an Irish pub. Girls giggled. Guys laughed. He was out of place in his Armani suit, even if he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket.
 

“Shit,” he muttered once he realized he’d put his cell phone into his breast pocket.

That was when Belmont saw that Daisy had returned his calls. She’d even left a message. He hadn’t planned on tossing back his drink the way he did. It had been a long time since he’d had whisky, and it went straight to his head. It was too noisy inside to listen to the message, so he shot off the stool.

“Hi, I’m Lacey,” a girl said, blocking his path to the door.

He frowned at the girl. She had that look that made leaving Chicago when he was seventeen easy. When she stepped out of her house and into the bar, she did it with the intention of enticing the opposite sex. Her goal was to attract, fuck abundantly, six months later pressure him for a ring, and the rest became the shit that used to give him nightmares.

“Nice to meet you, Lacey. You can have the stool. I’m leaving.” Belmont walked around her and out into the night. He pulled up the message.

“Hi… Sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. I guess you’re busy.” She took a long pause. “I don’t know. Okay. Bye.”
 

The sound of Daisy’s voice made his chest tight and his dick hard. Belmont gritted his teeth and roared at the sky. He dialed her back. The call rang over and over. He didn’t leave a message. If he didn’t need his cell phone, he would’ve crushed it under his foot.

“Hey, are you okay?”
 

It was that girl, Lacey. Belmont glared at her. She wasn’t what he wanted to take the edge off.
 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He stomped down to Chicago Avenue toward his hotel. Pretty soon, he would knock on Stacy’s door.

Missed Messages

I huff and shove my phone into my purse, trying to make room for it. I could kick myself for leaving Belmont such a dumb voice message. I just didn’t know what to say other than ask if he was with
her
. Since he didn’t answer, I couldn’t keep myself from assuming the worst.
 

I’d spent a long day in the conference room, determining where and how to shoot the first episodes of
The Lone Traveler
. There was a lot of back and forth regarding parts of New England as opposed to the Blue Coast. After being impressively guided in the right direction by Dexter—who made us realize that the show is not just a travelogue, it’s about seeking and finding happiness—we decided on Provence, the South of France, and a trek from the Sonoma Valley to San Francisco. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to dial up my contacts to let them know I’m coming and bringing a camera crew with me.
 

Tonight, I’ve accompanied Dexter and the others to karaoke, which is something I’ve never done. After a girl skipped on stage and belted out a very bad rendition of “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, I excused myself from the table. I went outside to finally listen to the messages Belmont had left. In every single one, he simply asked me to call him so that we could talk. They all concluded with, “I miss you.”
 

So I did as he asked, and he didn’t answer. I wish I still smoked. I just want to grip the cigarette between my fingers and tremble as if I’m nervous. I get this funny feeling in the pit of my stomach as I gaze up Chicago Avenue. It feels like déjà vu. Foot traffic is heavy with lots of couples dressed up for a night on the town and people in their twenties hanging in packs. There’s very little digression from these two sects of the population. I miss L.A. No, I miss Martha’s Vineyard. My cigarette craving subsides, and I go back inside to rejoin the group.
 

The team is comprised of seven people, including Dexter and myself. Kristin, the beautifully pale Midwest type, is the other producer. She has been pleasant in an insincere manner. I can tell she wishes I would go back to wherever I came from. Damien, Emma, Braden, and Kate are associate producers. We’re sitting in a horseshoe-shaped booth with a square table in the center.
 

“I told him he has two months to ask me to move in with him or else,” Kristin yells over a horrible rendition of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.”
 

“Or else what?” Kelly says.

“I don’t know. I just hope it works!”

“It will.” Kelly’s tone sounds hopeful and rehearsed.

I half regret coming out. There’s a lot of work to be done. The executives want the shooting schedule and script for the first two shows by next Friday, and I can’t understand why these people want to waste precious hours listening to horrendous renditions of famous songs. We should all be working, especially since the sun is soon to rise in France. Dexter and the others are laughing and singing along. They have a high tolerance for the spirits. I try not to look bored.
 

Dexter smiles at me before he comes over and sits beside me. “Having fun?”
 

I want to say yes, but instead I say, “I’m sort of worried about finishing that shooting schedule and script by the deadline. Aren’t you?”

I’m confused about why he’s chuckling, and it must show in my expression.

“All work, huh?” he asks.

I snort cynically. “Not lately.”

“Is that so?” Now that he’s gotten me to admit something personal, he’s like a dog with a bone. “You said you’re still married to the billionaire?”

I thought the girls weren’t paying attention, but they seem to have heard that.

“Yes,” I say and shrink into my seat.

Dexter nods. He looks as if he wants to know more.

“How long have you been married?” Emma asks.
 

I think she’s Emma. I get her mixed up with Kate. They’re both frail with fine light brown hair.
 

I really don’t want to answer. “Almost two years.”
 

“You were married to Belmont Lord, right?” Kristin asks.

I caught her phrasing—very tricky. “He’s my husband.”
 

“Oh,” she says.
 

“Do you like ‘Staying Alive’?” Dexter asks me.

“Sorry?”

“The song. ‘Staying Alive.’” He takes my hand. “One song, and then I’ll walk you home.”

I shake my head. “I don’t sing”—cheesy karaoke in cheesy bars.
 

The girls’ eyes bob between Dexter and me. They’re intrigued. He tugs me out of my seat, and now that I’m standing, I fear there’s no backing out.
Great
. I get to sing my own bad rendition of a classic.
 

I feel as though I’m walking the line between reality and a bad dream. I’ve never done anything like this. I’m a voyeur, not a participant. Dexter helps me onto the stage before he shuffles over to tell the operator what song to play. I look out over the sea of curious gazes. I feel naked. I want to race out of here, and I’m on the verge of doing that when Dexter shuffles back. Standing behind me, he puts the microphone in front of my face.

The music starts. The words roll. Dexter is singing in my ear. I keep my eyes on the words, singing them with a severe lack of enthusiasm. Some people find this fun, but I don’t. I’m eager for the words to stop and the music to end. Finally the place erupts with whistles, claps, and hoots. My skin runs hot.
 

“Another!” a drunk guy slurs.

My eyes expand in horror as a new song starts. I’ve heard the song before—it’s by that Disney kid gone bad who always sticks out her tongue—but I’ve only heard it once or twice. Dexter wraps his arms around me and starts singing. I’m shocked by the liberty he’s taken. Thank God his knob isn’t stiff.