L.A. Woman (14 page)

“Looks like you’ve got a busy night,” the bartender said with a snigger. “Still want just one straw?”

She glanced down at the bowl o’ alcohol in front of her…and suddenly it hit her. Her opening line.

She turned to her left. “I don’t suppose you’d want to share it with me?”

Then she looked at who she was offering the invitation to, and gaped.

It was the cute Latino’s distinctively less-cute friend. He was fuzzy all over, it seemed, and he didn’t do the relook. He was all eyes, as if he were trying to stare at every part of her at once. His bushy eyebrows danced. “Love to,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were…my friend,” she said, feeling lame, and glancing back at Martika.

The guy was there. Her target was sitting on the chair she had only recently vacated, whispering something in Martika’s ear. Martika simply gave him a Mona Lisa smile before sauntering over to the bar. Sarah noticed that every set of male eyes was riveted to her walk.

“Need help with that?” Martika said, throwing a twenty on the bar. She grabbed some change and left a tip, then took the drink and walked back with her sensual grace over to the table. Sarah followed her, feeling ridiculous.

“Sarah, I’d like you to meet Rinaldo.” Martika’s smile was like Martha bloody Stewart, for God’s sake.

“Nice to meet you,” Sarah muttered. Rinaldo nodded in response before turning his attention back to Martika.

“Rinaldo, this really is a girl’s night,” Martika said pointedly, looking at Sarah, then looking at his seat.

He got up, but then leaned over. “Can I call you sometime?”

Martika smiled. “Got a pen?”

Within minutes, Rinaldo was back at the bar with Fuzzy Guy, Martika’s cell phone number in his pocket, no longer doing the bored relook but sending smoldering glances over at their table.

“How did you do that?” Sarah said, taking sips from the huge martini glass.

Martika shrugged, grabbing the straw and taking a sip herself. “This may take a little while. I’ve never had to train anybody. Although I will say two things. One, don’t ever walk behind a guy, or try to be subtle. Men are like old computers. You want
them to do
anything,
you’ve got to be painfully direct and relatively simple. Just trust me on this.”

“Then why didn’t you just say, ‘Hi, whatever your name is…why don’t we go back to my place and fuck?’ instead of the whole brush-off thing?”

Martika smiled. “I have used something similar to good effect. But the main reason to avoid it is, men are funny. They like to think they’re the hunters, that they made the move. Ridiculous, but there it is.”

“So that was all about him doing the pursuit thing?”

“Don’t make it sound so Mars-Venus,” Martika said disparagingly. “I don’t think men retreat to caves, and if they did I certainly wouldn’t wait for them. I know what I want, I know how to get it. EOS.”

“EOS?”

“End of Story.” Martika grinned.

“So. What was the second piece of advice you had for me?” Sarah asked.

Martika took another sip of the drink, and gagged slightly. “Rule two—don’t order one of these fucking things again. They’re awful. It looks like 2000 Flushes.”

Sarah had made a chain of two hundred and eighty-five paper clips before she realized with a certain horrid fascination that she was reaching clinical, perhaps certifiable, boredom.

She’d been at the job for a month now, and all she’d really done was exchange nervous greetings with her employer, Richard “call-me-Richard” Peerson. She’d spent the first week piecing together a calendar from his scraps of e-mails and letters and cocktail napkins, saying what he had to do on various dates. He had an inordinate fondness for Post-it notes in a variety of colors—they made up the bulk of her information. Then there was his handwriting. She’d found one piece of paper on which he’d scrawled and then written more legibly, apparently for whoever came before her. She was using it as a sort of Rosetta Stone, and now could cipher what he was trying to communi
cate. By week two, she’d been given the suspicious okay to buy an attractive leather organizer (he insisted on burgundy, since “plain black was so
blah
”) and she’d managed to transcribe what she found into efficient to-do lists and monthly overviews. Richard had blanched just looking at it, so she simply told him each morning what he needed to do, while he handed her occasional scraps of paper where he’d jotted what it was he’d promised someone he
would
do, or letters from his publisher telling him when things
were
due.

That usually took about half an hour. She tried to make it longer by punctuating each little task with a sip of coffee or something.

Now, she was drinking whole cups between entering Post-it notes in the organizer, and she was still finished with her to-do list by nine-fifteen.

The “office” she was set up in was very attractive—heavy wood desk, modern PC with a nineteen-inch screen and a DVD-ROM (she supposed she could watch movies, but that seemed way too blatant), and a sleek black phone that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. There were tall bookshelves on one side of the room, filled with varying volumes of fiction and reference material. There were matching file cabinets made of wood and a credenza—all empty, so far as she could tell. Richard had tossed all the previous assistant’s disturbingly color-coded files in a box and stowed them in the cellar, apparently. A corkboard was set up on one wall, also denuded. The large window behind her showed his backyard and kidney-shaped, black-bottomed pool.

The other eye-catching piece of décor was a large circular mirror, framed in brushed bronze. She could watch herself as she methodically fed her caffeine habit, as she was now.

She stared at the mirror, looking at herself. Just like a cigarette ad:
You’ve come a long way, baby.
Her hair was now methodically kept up by Joey, her makeup was a tasteful blend of Lorac, Stila and Urban Decay, her clothes were the best she could afford from Fred Segal, Bebe and some funky boutiques
Pink recommended. She looked great, not to be immodest. She felt sure it couldn’t be that.

She grimaced at herself in the mirror, with her “Gash” raspberry-colored lipstick, making a grotesque pout. Well, she was striking out in the male department, granted, but at least she was looking good while doing it. Even Martika couldn’t find fault with that argument.

The thing was, she wasn’t quite sure what she was doing wrong.

She tried an experimental come-on smile, watching her own reflection. “Hi there,” she whispered. “My name’s…no. I’m Sarah.
I’m
Sarah. No, no, that sounds stupid. Hmm…I’m
Sarah.
Sah-rah. S’rah.”

She wished she didn’t sound like a Powerpuff Girl.

She got up, standing in front of the mirror. It’s not like Richard knew she was alive. She walked past him if she were going out to lunch, or if she was going home. Otherwise, she barely heard the clacking of his keyboard, and he wandered away often. Standing in front of the mirror, she got a look at her torso as well as her face. She crossed her arms, tilting her head.

“I’m Sarah. Come here often?” She listened to it out loud.
Way
too cheesy. “I’m Sarah.” She smiled. Okay,
yawn.
“This is Sarah. And you are?” She laughed. She sounded like Martika on helium. This would never work!

She crossed her eyes. “Hi, my name is Sarah, and I am flirtatiously challenged. Would you like to give a donation to the RHF…the Romantically Handicapped Fund? Otherwise, you can volunteer to be a pal and take out someone like myself and make her drab but well-dressed life a little more exciting.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh,
blaeugh.
I must be losing my mind.”

“But it’s been entertaining.”

That would be Richard’s voice. Sarah peeked out behind her fingers, feeling the blush heating the palm of her hands. Slowly, she dropped her hands from her face.

“Um, hi,” she muttered. “How long have you been there?”

He was staring at her like she had grown another head—but he had a small smile, nonetheless.

“Boy. Was that as embarrassing for you as it was for me?” Sarah said, with a weak half-laugh.

“Actually, I thought the last one was the best one. At the very least it hasn’t been tried before. You might want to work on your pitch, though.”

She wondered if jumping out the window might improve matters.

“You know,” he said, “you
are
well dressed. And you’re a pretty girl.” He sent her a quick, startled look. “Not in any harassing way, of course.”

“Of course,” Sarah assured him.

“But you really
could
work on your presentation,” he offered, almost shyly.

Sarah stared at him.
Because this job just can’t get any weirder.
Well, she’d been trailing after Martika to no avail. Possibly her eccentric multimillionaire boss might have some pointers. “What would you suggest?”

He frowned, causing his snowy-white eyebrows to knit together with concentration. “Well, for one thing, you might want to work on your voice.”

Sarah groaned. “I know. I sound like a Disney character.”

“The problem is, you sound like Minnie Mouse…only Minnie trying to do an impression of Tallulah Bankhead. Work with your strengths, dear.”

“You mean, sound young?”

“I’m willing to bet that whoever it is that’s giving you tips right now is a real freelance dominatrix-type.”

Sarah thought of Martika. “That’s pretty darned close.”

“Well, that’s not you. I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just mean that you’re not the type.”

Sarah sighed. “So I should just be somebody’s wife?”

“Good God, no!” Richard said, aghast. Sarah laughed at his vehemence. “No. I was thinking perhaps of going for innocence mixed with mischief—white to her black, as it were. With your
hair, face and voice—well, I’m no expert, but I’d say you’ll want to wear a lot more pastels.”

Sarah frowned. “I like them, but thought maybe not. They make me look so young.”

“That’s a plus,” Richard said, laughing. “Younger the better. I’d say border on schoolgirl. You can be like…oh, what’s her name? Alicia Silverstone. Shorter hair, of course, but that sort of vixen-y…what’s the word? Right. Womanchild.”

Womanchild.
All one word, Sarah thought, grimacing. Yuck.

He put his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “Yes, I know, it puts feminism back into the Dark Ages.” He made a little smirk. “But then, as I recall, so does hunting for men by practicing in front of a mirror.”

Sarah couldn’t help it. She scowled at him.

“You’re a lot more fun than Ms. Honeywell,” Richard commented. “Have you had lunch?”

Sarah glanced at her watch. “Um, it’s ten in the morning.”

“Oh.” Richard blinked for a moment. “Then I’ll take that as a no. How about brunch?”

Sarah found herself accepting a “bruncheon” date with her boss. Rather than the usual introductory meal with an employer—which normally involved minor dissing about the previous occupant of your position, a brief diagram of the politics in the office (who to avoid/who to suck up to) and some vaguely probing business questions (“where do you see yourself in five years?”)—Richard went straight for the gusto. She found herself telling him about Benjamin and why she’d moved down to Los Angeles.

“Why, that absolute prick!” Richard said, shocking her into dropping some of her Juevos Rancheros on the tabletop.

“Funny how often that comes up,” Sarah replied.

When they got back to the office, they’d managed to kill three hours by having a leisurely meal and by window-shopping on Third Street. He even stopped by Borders and bought her a few copies of his book. Sarah felt better than she had since she started this whole “assignment.”

“I’ve got to write this afternoon,” Richard said apologetically, as he walked her back to her desk.

“I’m sorry if I took up a lot of your time.”

“No, no, not at all! This recharges my batteries,” he said with a negligent wave of his hand. “Do I have anything else to do today?”

Sarah flipped open the organizer. “Um…nope.”

“Great. Why don’t you enjoy the rest of the afternoon?”

Sarah blinked. “Really?”

“Really! Get some of those clothes we talked about, take a bubble bath.” He grinned. “Practice in front of your mirror at home.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. She gauged him correctly—he laughed with delight. “All right then, I’m out of here. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Oh, no stress,” he said with a laugh. “Come in whenever.” He wandered back down the hallway.

Sarah gathered up her things, but before she could leave she heard the pounding of Richard’s feet on the hallway floor. “Sarah! Wait a minute!”

She glanced over at him, puffing like a chimney. He’d run to catch up with her. “Yes?”

He handed her what looked like a club postcard-thing, an advertisment, but on closer inspection it was an invitation—and a swanky one at that, with gold foil and the whole nine yards. It said:

ANAIS.COM

“What’s this?” Sarah asked.

Richard shrugged. “It’s this…well, it’s this magazine that’s about sex. Very tasteful, of course,” he assured her. “In fact, it’s very intellectual. Covers all sorts of walks of life. Anyway, they’re an offshoot of my publisher, and I got to know the editor over a piece they were doing on…well, it doesn’t really matter now. But their parties are
legendary.
This is going to be some
place in Santa Monica, I think, or somewhere. You can bring your friends,” he said.

Sarah looked at the card. “Well, I could certainly use a good party,” she said.
Martika would approve of that.

Richard beamed.

“T
his isn’t a party,” Sarah muttered as best she could in Martika’s ear. “This is an
orgy.
”

“Yeah, that’s what I like about it,” Martika replied.

The Anais.com party was being held in this storefront-type place with tinted windows, somewhere out in Venice, by a bunch of warehouses. The line to get in had been ridiculous, and people without invitations were being turned away. Sarah had brought the usual crew with her—Martika, Taylor, Luis, Pink, and even Kit. Everyone but Kit was dressed to kill. Martika was wearing an iridescent halter top and a minuscule black skirt with her traditional platforms. Pink was wearing a sixties-inspired A-line and white go-go boots. Taylor was wearing a metallic blue tight T-shirt and black pants. Luis reversed the combo, wearing a tight black T and blue pants. Sarah herself had taken both Richard and Pink’s advice, and gone with a fragile baby-blue, baby-doll dress, and had clips in her hair and sparkles on, along with high stacked Mary Janes.

Kit…well, Kit was wearing jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt. Sarah fervently hoped that there wasn’t a dress code.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to worry about a dress code. From what she could see, people weren’t wearing much of anything. There were two makeshift “bars” set up on either side of the room, both mobbed. The bartenders, all male for the most
part, were wearing DKNY tidy-whities that left little if nothing to the imagination. The party was sponsored by Bacardi, so everything they mixed was a brilliant, milky neon color, and the smell of rum was pervasive. There were women wandering around in G-strings, high heels and bikini tops. There were also men and women dancing, scantily clad, on raised platforms and in a few cages.

“Hell of a party!” Taylor said, staring at a man who was wearing only a jockstrap, talking to a man looking disarmingly out of place in a three-piece suit…until you noticed that he’d opened his fly, and his penis was hanging out like an elephant’s trunk. Okay, a little elephant. “I think I saw…that’s Moby!”

“This is one of the coolest parties I’ve ever been to,” Pink said, with awe. “Somebody just handed me a party pack, and it’s a compact with some Ecstasy in it.”

Sarah blinked. She would pretend she didn’t hear that.

“So…looking for a target, huh?” Martika said with a smile.

Sarah let herself smile back just as devilishly. “You know, I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?” Kit asked.

Sarah frowned. “Private conversation, Kit.”

He grinned. “Then you shouldn’t be yelling,” he hollered over the DJ’s frenetic mix.

She rolled her eyes, and leaned her head toward Martika, deliberately ignoring Kit. “I think I’m going to take somebody home tonight,” she said, taking a deep breath.

“That’s my girl!” Tika’s smile was broad. “Who?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” Sarah said, scanning the crowd. “But I’ll let you know.”

She “circulated” with Martika and Pink, while Taylor, Luis and Kit fought the crowd to get drinks. There were plenty of good-looking people in the crowd, although sexuality was frankly always a question. There were only what Martika would consider low-grade celebs here…that kid from a canceled sitcom, several B-list types. Pink thought she spotted some higher grade people, but they seemed to be in what worked as a “pri
vate” room. Even the hot parties had three degrees of separation, Sarah noted. Everyone who was left was either frantically trying to have sex with each other (in some cases literally…there was an interesting tableau going on in one of the cages) or staring to see if they knew anyone—or were being recognized by anyone.

“I got hit on by a bartender,” Taylor announced with enthusiasm. “Here are your drinks. Sarah, I have to hand it to you—this is a coup, for our little group.”

Sarah smiled self-deprecatingly as Martika rolled her eyes. “I just got the invite from my boss…that’s just knowing somebody, not doing anything.”

“Girlie-girl, you’re going to discover you know
quite
a few people,” Taylor said expansively, almost spilling his drink on Martika. “And that’s going to come in damned handy one of these days, you mark my
…oh my God.
”

Sarah noticed Martika’s mouth dropping open, and Sarah turned to see what had caught their attention. And felt her eyes widen. She didn’t want to blink and miss a fraction of a second of the vision before her.

He was six-two, and wearing a snug tank top that accentuated rather than covered his well-chiseled torso. His skin was a dark tanned color, and somehow glistening. His hair was a deep brown-black, softly curling. His dark eyes could have pierced Kevlar.

“Fuck me, that’s
Raoul,
” Taylor muttered to them. They had all leaned together, staring like schoolgirls.

“Raoul the underwear model?” Martika said, her gaze never swerving from his chest.

“Wow. I’m guessing he’s famous.”

“Are you kidding?” Martika said, giving Sarah a quick half-hug. “The more important thing is, how can I get him to marry me and support me in the life I’d like to become accustomed to?”

Sarah looked at her. Martika actually looked nervous. Satan was putting on a sweater as they spoke, she felt sure. “So, go
over and talk to him,” Sarah encouraged, surprised at this little role reversal.

“I might.” Martika looked around. “After another drink.”

“After
several
drinks,” Taylor corrected. “Come swim upstream with me for a minute.”

“And get me a bottled water if they have any,” Sarah called after them. Pink was busy dancing with a girl dressed up as a Fem-bot. Luis was sulking and making his way for the door. She didn’t know where Kit was—and frankly, while looking at Raoul, she couldn’t care less.

The guy looked absolutely godlike. He was the personification of a hot-fudge sundae and a sex junket in Cancún. Sinfully good-looking. She wondered what he tasted like.

This isn’t like me!

She dragged herself out of her thoughts as she saw him, staring at her. He smiled. She felt her stomach twist in a nervous knot.

So. What was she supposed to do next?

He made it easier for her by slowly making his way across the floor, which made the knot of nervousness inside her tighten with each step that bridged the gap between them. Finally, he was just a few yards away.

Talk to him. Say something witty.

She forced her muscles to push herself away from the wall. She stood for a second, gathering her courage, and took one step forward.

“Hi!” she heard a voice say brightly, and suddenly the man with the piercing eyes was flanked by the dynamic duo of Taylor and Martika. “You must be Raoul.” Tika shot him her best come-fuck-me smile. Taylor was running a close second—she wondered which Raoul would be susceptible to. Possibly both, she thought, dismayed. She ought to just sit her baby-doll butt right down on a nearby couch and pretend she’d just gotten up to stretch.

He was involved in conversation with them. Martika was doing a lot of smiling, and Taylor was doing more touching and
leaning than was absolutely necessary…then she turned to Sarah and winked confidently.

Sarah frowned at herself. Why should she go run away? Sure, she wanted to get laid tonight…but it wasn’t like she had to with the first guy she talked to. If, as she suspected, Tika wound up taking Raoul back to the apartment later, she’d simply have said hi and could possibly have polite conversation with him tomorrow morning over her grapefruit. Why not?

She walked over to him purposely. She put out a hand, and smiled. “Hi. I’m Sarah.”

He leaned toward her ear. “Sorry?”

“Sarah,” she said in his ear. “My name is Sarah.”

He smiled, and it seemed to be just for her. “Sarah. That’s nice. Homey.” His accent made the words sound like drizzled honey. “My name is
Raoul.
”

“So I’ve heard.” She had to fight her natural instinct to do something ridiculous—kiss him, say, or swoon.

“Great party, isn’t it?” he asked. His teeth were white enough to be dazzling, she noted. She wondered if he did toothpaste ads as well.

“Fantastic,” she heard Martika say. “So how do you know Anais.com?”

Sarah frowned. Martika was gushing. Martika, to her knowledge,
never
gushed.

He shrugged. “They had me on the cover once. And a nude spread. No big deal.”

Martika looked ready to drool on him. Sarah suspected Taylor already had.

“We know Richard Peerson,” Sarah said. “He did a guest article.”

“I’d have come to the party even if I didn’t have a connection with them,” Raoul said blandly. Okay, was he just staring at her, or was Sarah crazy? The way Martika was frowning suggested that she wasn’t. How to handle this?

“Can we get you a drink?” Martika said, starting to steer him toward the crowded bar.

Taylor pulled away. “Have you seen Luis? I’d love him to meet Raoul!”

“I think he was headed for the door,” Sarah volunteered.

“Great.” Taylor frowned. “I sense drama. Dammit.” And he vanished toward the exit.

“I thought you were
soooo
sexy in that Luis Vuitton ad,” Martika gushed. “Hopefully, this line won’t be too long. What would you like?”

“Actually, I’m fine.” In fact, Raoul looked somewhat overwhelmed. “Why don’t we sit down?” He looked at Sarah as he said this.

Sarah started to follow them, then felt a brush at the small of her back, and spun. It was Kit.

“Have you seen Taylor and Luis?”

“I think they went outside,” she said.

“What?”

She stood next to him, leaning up close to his ear. “I said, I think they went outside!”

“Damn. They’re my ride. I hope they’re not fighting.” He looked her over. “If they bail, is it all right if I get a ride with you?”

She thought about her plan to bring someone home. “Um…I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t know what my plans are after this, you know?”

He nudged her back, studying her face. For no good reason, she felt guilty. She jutted her chin up. Not that she had any reason to. She felt sure Kit wasn’t exactly a Boy Scout, either, and if some gorgeous supermodel was eyeing
him,
he’d be more than happy to get a ride home with her.

“You be careful,” he said against her ear, his breath tickling her neck. “Okay?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He stared at her a minute longer, then turned and stalked off.

Sarah went back to Martika and Raoul. Martika, she noticed, looked edgy, just this side of nervous—but she was trying for bored, Sarah could tell. Raoul was staring directly at Sarah.

“Who’s that?” he said, and his eyes were like prison flood-lights, pointing straight at her. “Was that your boyfriend?”

“God, no,” Sarah said, with a laugh. She saw Raoul motion to the couch next to him, where Taylor had been sitting. “Kit’s just a friend.”

“Like I said, it’s a fantastic party.”

He slung an arm casually over the couch back behind her shoulders. Now Tika looked aggressively bored, except for her eyes, which narrowed slightly.

Uh, oh. This isn’t good.

“So, Raoul…” Tika said, leaning forward and showing a good amount of cleavage. “What are you doing later?”

Raoul took a glance, shrugged and turned back to Sarah. “Depends.”

Sarah felt her cheeks warm, and smiled back at him, hoping the invitation was clear. This wasn’t really her area.
But it’s going to be.

He turned to Tika, and Sarah felt momentarily bereft. But just for a moment.

“Would you excuse us?” he said to Tika, and turned back before he could see the look of shock on her face. He was too busy staring at her, Sarah. “Care to dance?”

She didn’t see Tika’s face anymore, only the dark luxury of his eyes. “I’d love to.”

Would you excuse us?

Martika tossed back another Kamikaze. “One more for the floor,” she told Taylor. He rolled his eyes, then went off to do as she requested.

The nerve. The fucking nerve.

She’d raised that ungrateful little slut. She’d taken her from a Fairfield farm girl to a bona fide club fiend, and this was the thanks she got? Sarah
knew
that she was interested. How often did Martika have to say “I want that guy” to make it clear? And there was just a protocol for this sort of thing. If your friend has a crush of some sort, it’s poaching if you trounce her.
Worse, it’s
betrayal
if you waltz off with the guy right in front of her.

I taught her better than this!

It was the indignity of it. Martika had taught Sarah everything she knew about being sexy, about L.A. nightlife. For her to pretend that this was
her
party, that these were
her
friends, and that she was somehow a better lay because she was younger and she had her goddamn hair frosted and was wearing clothes that Martika herself couldn’t fit into when she was that goddamn age anyway…

Martika stopped herself, midtirade.

Okay, that was scary.

Was that what was really bothering her?

Taylor walked up to her. “Have you seen Luis? I’ve been looking all over the damned place for him…”

“I don’t give a shit,” Martika answered.

“What’s gotten into everybody?” Taylor said. “Kit’s vanished, Luis is probably off pouting somewhere. Now, you’re at one of the best parties we’ve
ever
been to, and you’re sitting here looking like Joan Crawford meets the goddamn Grinch. What is going on with you?”

“I’m…Sarah is pissing me off. I almost had Raoul, and she dragged him off to the dance floor.” Revisionist history, granted, but she didn’t feel like going into the whole dirty epiphany. She gunned back the lime-green shot he’d handed to her, putting the glass down on the table in front of her with a loud slap. “But that’s okay. I’ll make up for lost time later.”

She was feeling the buzz from the alcohol, so it took her a minute to realize that Taylor’s face looked sheepish—which, for Taylor, was downright
wrong.

“What? What?” She pinched him, making him wince. “Spill.”