Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (96 page)

Shock adequately
describes the look on his face.

“I mean, you’ve got to be
running late,” I say.

“Right,” he says.

With that, I just give up
and turn toward my own door. I open it and close it with myself on the other
side, imagining a utopian scenario when I’d just done that after spending a
much more reasonable amount of time in the bathroom, not bothering to say a
word or even look at him once.

Ah, the joy of fantasy.

*
                   
*
                   
*

Call it masochism, call
it stupidity, call it an insatiable craving for confit de canard, but I’ve been
at this table in
l’Iris
for over an hour and I think
Mike is starting to tire of just sitting here.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“What?” I ask.

“You’ve hardly talked to
me at all,” Mike says. “You just keep looking around the restaurant. Are we on
a stakeout or something?”

His expression turns
serious.

“Are you a spy?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Are you a cop? If you’re
a cop, you have to tell me. It’s the law.”

“I’m not a cop and that’s
not a law anywhere. Do you have any idea how many morons have walked right into
a sting because they thought cops weren’t allowed to lie? How do you think they
get confessions?”

“So,” he says, “
if
cops can lie about being cops, then you’re saying you
actually
are
a cop.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake…”

He smiles.

“Why are we really here?”

“I told you about the
confit de canard. It
was
delicious
wasn’t it?”

“Leila, I swear to god,
you’ve got to stop calling it that,” he says. “Just call it candied duck.
You’re not French.”

“Whatever,” I tell him,
dismissively waving my hand.

“See?” he says
incredulously.

“What?” I ask, sipping my
virgin tequila sunrise. Without the tequila, do I just call it a sunrise?

“Why are we really here?
It’s not for the duck.”

“Canard,” I say, not
deigning to dignify him any more by actually looking at him while I’m talking.

“Leila.”

“Fine,” I tell him. “I
heard Dane on the phone making a date to come to
this
restaurant.”

“So what?”

“I just want to know if
he’s two-timing what’s-her-name.”

“Wrigley,” Mike says.
“Why do you care?”

“Mike,” I start.

I don’t know where to go
from there.

“Yes?”

“How are things at work?”

“Skillful,” he says.
“Things at work are fine. Why are we spying on your roommate?”

“I just want to know,” I
tell him. “Isn’t that enough? I’ve lived with the guy for over a month, and I
really don’t know anything about him other than the fact that he’s not really a
musician.”

“How do you know that?”

“Have you ever met a
musician who doesn’t subject you to their dreadful caterwauling on a daily
basis?”

“Come to think of it,” he
says, smiling, “I don’t think I have.”

“I’ve never heard him
play or sing. I want to know what’s going on. He told me last night that he’s
losing his job, whatever that actually is—besides, if he was making $120,000 a
year as a musician, wouldn’t I have heard of him?”

“I don’t think you’re the
musical aesthete you think you are,” Mike says.

“Whatever. Just help me
keep an eye out.”

With the wicked smile
that climbs up Mike’s face, I know I’ve made a mistake asking the favor.

“Don’t embarrass me,” I
tell him.

“From the sound of it,
you don’t really need my help in that area.”

“What are you doing?” I
ask him.

What he’s doing is
holding up his spoon and using it as a crude mirror to look over his shoulder
at the people behind him.

“I’m helping you spy on
your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,”
I snap.

Mike just smiles that
adolescent smile of his and I’m starting to regret inviting him along.

Our waiter, a man with
very little patience and a thick English accent, approaches.

“Will you be requiring
anything else this evening?” he asks.

“I have a question,” Mike
says, alternating eyes as he continues to pretend like he’s doing something
useful with the spoon in his hand.

The waiter lets out a
sigh. This isn’t Mike’s first question of the evening.

“Yes?” the waiter asks.

“Why a French
restaurant?” Mike asks.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Mike, leave the man
alone,” I say, trying to get my oldest and dearest friend to stop being a
jackass.

“Well,” Mike starts, “you
have quite the British accent.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter answers.

“So, why work in a
French
restaurant? Aren’t there any good
English restaurants in the city?”

“Will you be requiring
anything else this evening, madam?” the waiter asks, doing his best to ignore
Mike’s idiocy.

“No, I think that will be
all,” I tell him. “I do apologize for my companion. He doesn’t get out much in
proper society.”

“I will have you know,”
Mike butts in, “that I have
personally
attended many a silent auctions where I have placed bids alongside many of New
York’s cultural elite.”

I’m starting to wonder if
our food came to the table clean.

“Yes,” the waiter says,
“well. If there’s nothing else.”

I take one more look
around.

The waiter’s going to
kick us out if we don’t leave soon and Dane is nowhere to be found.

“Actually,” I start, “if
you don’t mind, I’d like to compliment the chef. I’ve only had confit de canard
like that once before in my life.”

“Very good, madam,” the
waiter says. “Perhaps your friend can fetch your coats while I take you back.”

He glares at Mike, and
I’m having a little trouble keeping a straight face. I get up from the table
and lead the waiter away before someone throws a punch.

When we get to the
kitchen, the waiter asks me to wait outside. He’s not in there for five seconds
before I can hear the chef yelling at him.

The waiter comes out,
saying, “The chef will see you now, but I’d make it quick.”

I just kind of stand
there for a minute.

On the other side of the
door is the most talented chef I’ve ever come across since my father died, and
I really don’t know if I can deal with him screaming at me. Things have been
tense enough in my life.

Oh well, here I go.

The room is hot, busy.
People are talking over each other, somehow keeping everything straight in the
process.

It reminds me of my dad’s
kitchen.

“Will you fucking look at
this? It’s supposed to be
braised
,
not reduced to soggy shit!”

“Dane?”

“What?” he shouts.

He turns around and, once
he sees me standing in his kitchen, the murderous expression falls from his
face.

“Leila,” he says. “What
the fuck are you doing here?”

I don’t have a good
answer for him.

“I could ask you the same
thing,” I respond.

“I, uh…”

“Chef?” the man standing
to the left of him says.

“What the fuck do you
want, Cannon? I’m talking to someone here.”

The man goes back to his
work without another word.

“So, you’re a chef.”

“Yeah,” he says, “about
that—”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me
that? Wait, is this the job you’re getting—”

“Hey guys, I’m taking a
break,” Dane interrupts.

“Chef, we’re in the
middle of dinner service.”

“Shut the fuck up, Cannon,”
he says and walks over to me. “Yeah, we should probably have this conversation
outside.”

A minute later, we’re
standing out back and he’s lighting up a cigarette.

“I didn’t know you
smoked,” I tell him.

“I wasn’t trying to hide
the fact that I’m a chef from you, it’s just—”

“Just what?” I ask. “Oh,
let me guess: You’ve got it in your head that if you were a professional
musician, I would be that much more inclined to sleep with you?”

“No,” he says. “It’s not
that at all. It’s just that, well, people kind of treat a person differently if
they know he’s a chef.”

“What do you mean?” I
ask.

This whole situation is
surreal and only growing stranger.

“It’s really not
important,” he says. “But yeah, this is the job that I’m going to be losing.”

“After hearing the way
you talk to your people, I can see why.”

“Oh, that’s just Cannon.
He’s only ever useful if you’re flat out abusive to him. That doesn’t matter,
though. Listen, I’m sorry that I—”

“I came back to
compliment you on the confit de canard,” I tell him. “Did you make that?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve
been kind of dreading making that dish ever since you interrogated me about
it.”

“I didn’t interrogate—”

“You kind of did, Leila,
but that’s not the point.”

“What
is
the point?” I ask. “Why are we even
out here?”

“Other than the fact that
you were about to announce to the grunts that I’m getting fired?” he asks.

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t
know why I lied to you—well, the truth is that I didn’t want you asking me to
make you French cuisine every day. I get enough of that at work, I assure you.
When I come home—”

“Dane?”

“I don’t know why I
kept
lying.”

“Yeah, it was pretty
stupid,” I tell him. “It’s not really a big deal, though.”

He takes a drag and looks
off in the distance.

“My dad was a chef, did I
tell you that?”

“Yeah,” he says, “when
you were interrogating me.”

“I wasn’t—” I take a
breath. “You’re talented,” I tell him. “I’m actually pretty impressed right
now.”

“Thanks,” he says,
blowing out another drag. “I don’t smoke, by the way,” he adds. “I just figured
that maybe I wouldn’t have to hold my breath when I kiss… I can’t even say it.”

“Say what?” I ask.

“Wrigley,” he says with a
shudder.

“Oh yeah, your bottoms-up
chick.”

And I’ve just blown my
cover. Maybe he’ll let it slide.

“You
do
remember what happened last night,” he says.

Maybe not.

“Bits and pieces,” I
cover.

For a while, nothing else
happens.

He doesn’t know what to
say but, then again, neither do I.

“So,” he says, flicking
his cigarette into the back alley, “I should probably get back in there.”

“Yeah,” I respond, “I
should probably make sure Mike and the waiter haven’t gone to blows.”

“Mike?” he asks.

“He’s a friend,” I tell
him. “I never mentioned him?”

“No,” he says distantly.

There’s some more awkward
silence; as if we didn’t have enough of that in our recent relationship.

“Well, I should—”

“Yeah, me too.”

He opens the door and
holds it for me.

“Thanks,” I say. “By the
way…”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously, the food
tonight was excellent.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I do
my best.”

“Yeah, well…”

I don’t finish the
sentence. I just walk away.

When I find Mike, he’s
standing at the door, making faces every time our waiter turns his direction.
For such a good friend and genuine guy, Mike is kind of an idiot sometimes.

“Ready to go?” he asks as
I approach.

“Yep,” I answer.

I debate whether to tell
him about Dane, but decide against it. That sick, tingling sensation I had
permeating my body last night is back and this time, I can’t just blame it on
the alcohol.

Chapter Ten

That
Sinking Feeling

Dane

So, it’s been a couple of
weeks since Leila found out what I really do. Our conversation behind the
restaurant was innocuous enough, but it was the last real conversation that
we’ve had.

Now, I’ll come into the
room, we’ll say “Hey,” to each other and that’s about it.

She’s avoiding me,
although I can’t imagine why.

In the grand scheme of
things, my not telling her about my real job is an annoyance, and I can see how
it would be somewhat disrespectful, but it’s really not that big a deal. It’s
not like we’re close friends or anything.

Then again, I’m starting
to get the feeling that it’s something else entirely that’s bothering her.

The good news is that I
haven’t been fired yet. The bad news is that Jim’s been avoiding me, too.

Oh well.

Right now, I’m sitting in
the parking lot of Yankee Stadium, receiving a nice, relaxing blowjob from
Wrigley. I made a joke to her that we were at the wrong field, but she didn’t
get it.

At this point, I don’t
know if I could really go back to normal sex.

It’s something I fought
at first, right up until we got up to the roof of her building. Now, I’m just
as much an exhibitionist as she is. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I
still don’t like actually getting caught.

It happens more than
you’d think.

I come and, within five
flat seconds, Wrigley is asking, “What time’s the game?”

“I think it already
started,” I answer. “Then again, the cheering crowd might have just been a
psychosomatic thing.”

“What do you mean?”

She’s a demon in the
sack, but she has a real problem with nuance. Given our present location, I was
tempted to ask her for a hand-job, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have gotten
that, either.

“Never mind,” I tell her.

I might feel like I was
using her if she didn’t make it so abundantly clear on such a frequent basis
that the moment feelings are exchanged, she’s changing her phone number and
moving to a different apartment.

“Take me to dinner,” she
tells me.

“Where do you want to
go?”

“I heard about this
French place called
l’Iris
—”

“Don’t eat there,” I
interrupt. “It’s fucking filthy.”

“How would you know?” she
asks, poking me in the ribs.

“I’m the chef there,” I
tell her. “Seriously, you have no idea what they do in the kitchen when I’m not
around.”

Hey, at least I’m over my
fear of telling women what I do.

“I didn’t know you’re a
chef,” she says.

“Yeah, actually I—”

“Where would you like to
eat, then?” she interrupts.

Apparently, women aren’t
nearly as crazy when it comes to the whole chef thing as I thought.

“I really don’t care,” I
tell her.

“You really don’t have
tickets to the game?” she asks. “You’re such a cheap fuck.”

“Do you mean that
figuratively or literally?” I ask.

It’s strange, but I think
I’m actually becoming a one-woman man. It’s even stranger that the one woman
I’ve decided to keep coming back to is so vehemently opposed to us forming a
relationship with any kind of attachment other than pure lust.

Dinner, it seems, doesn’t
count as non-sexual.

“Both,” she answers
casually.

“We
can
go to the game if you want,” I tell her.

I bought the tickets on a
whim last night. I really wouldn’t mind something a bit more serious, but I
wanted to get the sex part out of the way before we got into the stadium.
Otherwise, there’s no doubt in my mind that she would spend the whole game
trying to figure out a way for us to do it in the stands and not get arrested.

Come to think of it, I
don’t know that she would have a problem getting arrested while having sex.
Knowing her, it’d probably just be that much more of a turn-on.

“No,” she says, “that’s
okay. I’m a Mets fan anyway.”

The horror.

“I think they’re playing
the Mets, actually.”

“Dane, I should be honest
with you.”

It’s that exact phrase,
said that exact way that gives honesty such a bad rap.

“I hate baseball. I said
I was a Mets fan because I had no idea the two were playing and I really just
wanted to get out of it. I’m actually kind of relieved you just wanted to stop
here for a quick one. We really don’t have to go to the game.”

“Ah,” I say.

I turn the car on and put
it in reverse. As we pull out of the stadium, I’m just wishing I hadn’t spent
the money on the tickets.

“So,” Wrigley says, “have
you talked to your roommate?”

“About what?” I ask.

“You know,” she says.
“Things are getting kind of stale, you know, with your unwillingness to be my
bitch.”

I can’t believe this is
how she really talks.

“I’m not following,” I
tell her.

“Have you had the
conversation? Is she down for a three-way, or am I just flicking the bean to
the complete wrong thing here?”

“I really don’t think
it’s a good idea,” I tell her. “Despite its ramifications to your
bean-flicking, I don’t think that Leila would—”

“Leila?” she asks. “Your
roommate’s name is Leila?”

It’s about here that I
realize Wrigley and I really don’t talk much about anything that doesn’t have
an orgasm at the end of it.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Why?”

“That night on the roof,”
she says. “Are you a complete idiot?”

“What are you talking
about? What about the night on the roof?”

The question’s no more
out of my mouth than its answer is in my brain.

“You called out her name
when you came,” she says. “You’ve got a thing for your roommate.”

“I really don’t—”

“It’s cool,” she says. “I
told you I don’t want any of that relationship torture, but it’s kind of
bullshit that you’re just going to keep her to yourself like that. I bet
she’d
be my bitch. She’s the quiet type.
Actually, I bet she’d end up wanting to make me
her
bitch. I saw the way she looked at me when I popped out of the
room flashing my honeypot.”

“Do you have any idea how
ridiculous you sound when you say shit like that?”

If my tone weren’t so
hostile, I might be able to pass the question off as a joke.

“What the fuck is your
problem?” she fires back. “I’m just talking a little bit of slap and tickle.
I’m not saying I want to steal her from you. I’ve never been with a woman. I’m
curious.”

“You know I find it
really hard to believe there’s anything you haven’t done in that arena.”

“What’s that supposed to
mean?” she asks. “You’re just jealous. You’re a jealous little boy who doesn’t
want to share his plaything.”

“She’s not a plaything,”
I snap. “You know what? Why don’t I just take you home? Tonight’s turning to
shit in a real hurry.”

“You’re telling me,” she
says. “Why don’t you call me when
your
fucking balls
drop?”

“Oh, fuck off,” I tell
her. “Every time I don’t want to go along with your psycho bullshit, you talk
like it’s because I’m not a real man. News flash: It’s because you’re out of
your god damned mind.”

“News flash? What is
this, the seventies?”

“What the hell are you
talking about?”

“Just drop me off here,”
she says. “By the way, it’s bullshit that I can’t smoke in here.”

“It’s a rental car!” I
shout.

“Why would you rent a car
anyway? It’s such a waste of money in the city.”

Ah, the age-old male
dilemma: do I blow the whole thing up by telling her I was trying to take her
out on something that resembled an actual date, or do I lie and figure out a
way to make up with her so we can keep having sex?

“I wanted tonight to be
special,” I tell her.

What the hell am I doing?
I decided on the lie.

“Special? Giving you a
knob bob in the parking lot of a baseball stadium is your idea of a special
night?”

“I wanted to take you to
the game,” I tell her. “I was trying to take you out on a date.”

“Pull the fucking car
over,” she says.

This isn’t the easiest
task where we are in the Bronx this time of night.

“I told you I didn’t want
any of that,” she says. “You crossed the line, Dane. Let me out!”

“What? You’re going to
catch a cab back to Manhattan right now?” I ask, finally managing to
double-park.

“Don’t call me,” she
says. “Don’t come by. Stay out of my life, you fucking freak.”

With that, she throws her
door open and gets out of the car.

She’s hailing a cab by
lifting her shirt. It works well enough, but the woman is fucking insane.

When she gets in the cab,
she doesn’t get in the back, but the front seat. At least I know she’s getting
home safe as I pull back into my lane and drive off. I just wished I’d spared
myself the glance in the mirror, seeing her head dipping below the dashboard.

A few weeks ago, I would
have told you that Wrigley was the perfect woman for me: no worries about
monogamy, a little crazy, insatiable. Now, though. I don’t know.

There’s got to be
something more to it than that.

I can’t believe that I’ve
actually grown bored of a woman with a sex drive higher than mine.

I know I’m paying by the
mile, but I drive around the city for a while. Most of the time, it’s stoplight
after stoplight, waiting for that shade of green that means I can drive free
for the next couple hundred feet before I have to stop again.

Every once in a while,
though, I hit a few green lights in a row, and I start to let things go. I
start to forget all the nonsense.

It never lasts.

I couldn’t tell you what
brought me here now, but as I’m pulling into the parking lot of
l’Iris
for the very first time in a car driven under my own
power, I know where I’m going. For the first time in a long time, I know where
I’m going.

I’m through the back door
and standing outside Jim’s office before anyone sees me.

That’s going to work to
my benefit.

I knock.

“Come in.”

I open the door.

“Dane,” Jim says. “You’re
not on tonight, are you? I thought Cannon was running the kitchen.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s
running it through a wood chipper,” I tell him, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Okay,” he says and leans
back in his chair. “Why are you here then?”

“Jim, I get that you’ve
got to cut some spending, but you’ve kept me on this long. I know you don’t
want to let me go.”

“Yeah, I told you that—”

“Just let me finish,” I
say.

This is probably the most
respectful I’ve ever been to my boss.

“Okay.”

“Jim, I don’t mean to
sound like a clingy girlfriend or something, but I need to know where this is
going. If you’re going to fire me, fire me now. I’m not just going to sit
around and wait for it to happen. If you’re not going to fire me, well, I have
a few ideas.”

He puts his hands
together, interlocking his fingers.

“I’m listening,” he says.

“First,” I tell him, “we
dump Cannon. I’m sorry Jim, but he’s just nowhere near good enough. Even when I
am there pissing down his neck, he’s only ever half on, and you know that’s not
anywhere near cutting it.”

“Dane, I don’t think
firing Cannon is going to—”

“Next,” I interrupt, “we
promote Wilks to executive chef and demote me—with pay decrease—to sous chef.
He’s going to need me for guidance over the first couple of weeks, but he’s
really one of the most talented guys I’ve ever worked with in this business.
When he came in here, he didn’t know the difference between crème
brûlée
and a ramekin full of baked spunk, but within a
week, he was up to speed. He doesn’t know everything we do just yet, but I know
he can learn and he’s got some fresh ideas that I think will really bring the
customers in and get them talking.”

“I get that you’re trying
to save your own job, but putting one of your underlings up as executive chef
isn’t going to get me to let him go instead of—”

“You won’t want to let
him go,” I tell Jim. “You hire him on as executive chef and cut the pay of the
position by twenty percent. It’s still going to be about double what he’s making,
so I really don’t see him complaining.”