Unzipped (34 page)

Then there was my love life. Well, actually, there wasn’t.

“He’s probably just busy,” I said.

“He left almost three weeks ago.”

“Well . . .” I began, then, “Three weeks?” It hadn’t seemed like nearly that long since I’d seen the little Woody Allen look-alike. “Really?”

“Seventeen and a half days,” she said.

I winced. She’d been counting the days. A girl has to be pretty loopy to count the days. I tried not to gag. Solberg had rubbed me the wrong way since the first time I’d met him—more than ten years ago at the Warthog where I used to serve drinks. His come-on line had had something to do with his hard drive getting it on with my mother board. The man was lucky he wasn’t singing soprano and drinking his meals through a straw after that little witticism.

“You said it was a really big deal,” I reminded her. “He’s probably just tying up loose ends. That sort of thing.”

“He said he’d call me every day.”

“And you haven’t heard from him?”

“I did at first. He phoned all the time. And e-mailed. Sometimes he’d fax me.” She gave me a watery smile. “Left text messages with little hearts.”

Yuck. “Uh-huh,” I said.

“And then . . . nothing.” She shrugged, then glanced at the desk and shuffled a few papers around. “I think he met someone else.”

I blinked. “Solberg?”

“He was in Las Vegas,” she said, as if that were explanation enough. It wasn’t. She continued as if she were lecturing a retarded Dachshund. “There are more beautiful women per capita in Vegas than in any other city in the world.”

“Uh-huh.”

She scowled a little. Somehow it didn’t manage to create a single wrinkle in her rice-paper complexion. I would hate her if I didn’t love her to distraction. “It’s tough to compete with a hundred topless girls juggling armadillos and breathing fire.”

“Armadillos?” I asked, impressed.

“He’s got a lot going for him, Mac,” she said.

I kept my face perfectly expressionless, waiting for the punch line. It didn’t come. “Have you heard him laugh?” I asked.

She grinned a little, but the expression was pale. “He sounds like a donkey on speed.”

“Whew,” I said. “We are talking about the same guy.”

“I’ve dated a lot since moving out here.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Laney got marriage proposals from guys who hadn’t yet exited the womb.

“But Jeen . . .” She paused. I didn’t like the dreamy look in her eye. “He never once bragged about how many push-ups he could do or how fast he can run the mile.”

“Well, that’s probably because he can’t do—”

She stopped me with a glance. “I don’t even know his astronomical sign.”

“He’s a Scorpio.”

“You know?”

Sadly, yes. He’d told me when he was drunk off his ass, just minutes after the mother board come on, in fact.

“Laney,” I said, taking her hand and trying to think of a nice way to inform her that her boyfriend was a doofus. “I know you like him and everything. But really . . .”

“He’s never tried to get me into bed.”

My mouth opened. Solberg had propositioned me approximately two and a half seconds after I’d served him his first drink. I would like to think that’s because I’m sexier than Elaine, but apparently I wasn’t brain-dead yet, no matter how long it had been since my last cigarette.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“No.”

“Does he call you babe-a-buns?”

“No.”

“Stare at your chest till his eyes water?”

“No.”

“Pretend he stumbled and grab your boobs.”

“No!”

“Wow.”

She nodded. “I thought he really cared about me. But . . .” She laughed a little, seemingly at her own foolishness. “I guess he just wasn’t interested. You know . . . that way.”

I raised a brow. Just one. I reserved two for purple extraterrestrials with wildly groping appendages. “We’re still talking about Solberg, right?”

She scowled.

“Geeky little guy? Has a nose like an albatross?”

Now she just looked sad, which made me kind of ashamed of myself, but really, the whole situation was ridiculous. Solberg would sell his soul for a quick glimpse of an anemic flasher. He’d probably auction off his personal computer to hold hands with a woman of Elaine’s caliber. And she actually liked him. What were the odds?

“Listen, Laney, I’m sorry. But really, you don’t have to worry. Just call him up. Tell him you . . .” I took a deep breath and tried to be brave. “Tell him you miss him.”

“I did call him.”

It was my turn to scowl. Laney generally doesn’t call guys. All she has to do is sing the eeney meany miny mo song and snatch a suitor off her roof. Sometimes literally. “No answer?” I asked.

“No.”

“You leave a message?”

“On his cell and his home phone.” She glanced at the desktop again. “A couple of times.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m afraid the answer is obvious.” She raised her gaze to mine. “Our dear little geek friend is dead.”

“Mac!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Listen, Laney,” I said, squeezing her hand. “You’re being ridiculous. Solberg is wild about you. He probably just got delayed in Vegas.”

“He probably got laid in Vegas.”

I stared. Elaine Butterfield didn’t usually use such trashy language.

“Maybe I should have . . .” She paused. “Do you think I should have slept with him before he left?”

I refrained from telling her that would be a sin of Biblical proportions. There’s a little thing called bestiality. I was sure it would make even Jerry Falwell agree it made homosexuality look like petty theft by comparison.

“Elaine. Relax. I’m sure he’ll be back in a couple days. He’ll bring you tulips and call you snuggle bumpkins and sugar socks and all those other disgusting names he comes up with.”

“Angel eyes,” she said.

“What?”

“He calls me ‘Angel Eyes.’ Because I saved him.”

“From what?” I hated to ask.

“From being a jerk.”

Holy crap. If I had never met this guy I might actually like him. “He’ll be back, Laney.”

She drew a careful breath. “I don’t think so, Mac. I really don’t.”

I laughed. “You’re Brainy Laney Butterfield.”

“I’m trying to be practical about this.”

She gave me a look.

“Butterfeel?” I suggested. “Nutterbutter?”

“I hated the last one most,” she said.

“Yeah.” Middle school had been a challenge. “Simons was a creep of major proportions.”

She nodded distractedly. “He
could
rhyme though. Which is about all you can ask of—”

“A WASP whose brain is bigger than his balls,” I finished for her. It was a direct quote from my brother, Michael. I’ve always been afraid he meant it as an insult.

Elaine only managed a weak smile.

“Listen, Laney.” I sighed. Twelve years at Holy Name Catholic School had taught me a lot of things. Mostly how to sneak boys into the rectory for a little uninterrupted heavy breathing. But I hadn’t known until that moment that I’d learned to be a martyr. “I’m going to find Solberg for you.”

She shook her head, but I hurried on.

“Because I know . . . I’m
positive
he’s just been delayed.”

“Mac, I appreciate your faith in my appeal. Really.” She squeezed my hand. “But not every man thinks I’m God’s answer—”

“Don’t say it,” I warned and backed away. “I don’t want to hear any self-effacing crap coming out of your mouth.”

“I’m not—”

“Quit it,” I warned. “If you say one negative thing about yourself, I’m going to blame it on Solberg. And then . . .” I dipped into my office, grabbed my purse from out of the big bottom drawer and headed for the door. “When I find him, I’m going to kick his skinny little ass into the next solar system.”

“Mac, you can’t blame him just because he doesn’t find me attractive.”

“You shut your dirty little mouth,” I warned her.

“He dumped me.”

I turned toward her with a snap. “He did not dump you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen.” I pulled open the front door. “He might be a stunted little wart, but there’s no reason to think he’s gone totally insane. Well . . .” I corrected myself. “There’s no conclusive evidence that he’s gone totally insane.”

“Chrissy—”

“I’m going to go find him,” I said.

And when I did, I was either going to give him a good sound whack upside the head . . . or a nice Irish wake.

UNZIPPED
A Dell Book / June 2005

Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by Lois Greiman Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN 0-440-33555-8

www.bantamdell.com