Eye Candy (7 page)

13

Do you like to dance?”

“Yeah. I go to clubs sometimes,” I said. “You know. Downtown.”

She let go of her coffee cup and reached across the table to touch my hand. “We could go dancing tonight.”

“No, not tonight.”

Her smile faded but her eyes were still lit up. She brushed back her long hair. It was dark brown with blond streaks in it. She put her hand over mine. “It's still early. How come you don't want to go dancing tonight?”

“I strained my back,” I said.

“How?”

I snickered. “I don't want to say.”

She got my meaning. She laughed. “Poor boy. I could rub it for you. I used to do massage. I'm licensed and everything.”

This was starting to get interesting.

I took a real chance with this one. Her photo was so dark and out-of-focus in her ad, I thought maybe she was ugly or something. I mean, why put such a bad picture in your ad unless you're trying to hide something?

But her name was Chloe, and I'm a sucker for French names like that. At least, I think it's French. Her ad said she liked to cook, and dance, and stay out all night and be really evil, if provoked.

I remembered her ad word for word.

“Five Things You'll Find in My Bedroom: ‘Happiness with four exclamation points.' ”

That's pretty clever, don't you think? I mean, it got my attention.

“Music That Gets Me in the Mood: ‘Music.' ”

That's all it said. Just
“Music.”
Ha ha. Chloe knew how to write good copy. I was getting a woody just reading her ad.

So I decided to overlook the bad photo and take a chance. She didn't turn out too bad. I mean, she's no beauty. Her face is kinda long and rectangular. And even with the blond streaks, her hair is bad news.

But she has nice eyes, very warm and inviting. And lovely, pale white skin, like a swan, and smooth as baby skin. I wanted to touch it. I could barely keep my hands away. All through dinner, I kept staring at her throat— the smooth skin just glowed.

I don't think she noticed my stare. She kept talking and laughing and reaching over to touch my hand. Yeah, she talks too much. But she has a soft, sort of whispery voice, so I didn't mind it. No matter what the fuck she's yammering about, she whispers it like she's telling you intimate secrets.

What was she talking about?

I wasn't really listening. Something about her sister. She has an audition for one of the ballet companies in town. Chloe is really jealous because she always dreamed of being a ballerina, too. But the sister has all the talent.

Maybe I should get the sister's phone number. Ha ha.

I like the little, skinny dancers who walk with their backs so straight and their toes out. Sometimes I see the ballet dancers walking in groups near Lincoln Center, probably going to class or something, and I get so hot just watching their little asses and thinking about them in their tights. And out of their tights.

I listened to what Chloe was saying about her sister. And I tried to picture the sister, a hot little thing with really powerful legs from all those ballet workouts, powerful legs that would be so good in bed. Stamina, that's what she'd have, the sister. You couldn't wear her out, I'll bet.

And I really did want to get the sister's number. I'm sure
she
didn't have to put an ad on a Web site to get guys. But how can you ask?

Besides, Chloe wasn't bad, whispering like that and touching my hand all the time, like she just couldn't wait to get to my bod.

What else did we talk about? The stock market, believe it or not.

She said she got some stocks as a present when she graduated from college. And at first, they went way up, but she didn't sell them, and now they're way down, but maybe starting to go back up, and she doesn't know what to do.

Who gives a shit?

That's what I wanted to say. But, of course, I smiled and pretended to listen, all the while staring at that beautiful, shimmery skin, that long, fine neck like a swan. Yeah, a swan. She reminded me of a fine, delicate swan. Until she stood up, that is. But that didn't happen until after dinner.

“What do you do?” she asked me, sliding a french fry into her mouth. She didn't wear lipstick or anything. Her lips were nearly as pale as her skin.

Maybe she was hoping I was a stockbroker. Then we could spend the rest of the goddamn night talking about her fucking stocks.

Okay, okay. I get a little tense when women go on and on about things I'm not into. And did she really want me—a total stranger—to tell her what she should do about her stocks?

Maybe she was just making conversation. That's what I told myself and it helped calm me down. After all, she was really sexy. I watched her sliding those french fries between her lips, and I started to feel something.

The night had a lot of promise. I like to think that every time. I know I don't sound it, but I'm a real optimist.

“So answer the question.” She grinned at me. “What do you do?”

“Promotions,” I said, thinking quickly. “I'm promotion director for a PR firm.” Did that make any sense? I hoped so. It sounded good to me.

She tossed back her head, as if I'd said something funny.

I stared at her long, smooth neck. I wanted to sink my teeth into her throat. Like a vampire. Like a fucking vampire.

Vampires exist, you know. And maybe I'm one of them. Maybe that's what I need. To bite deep into Chloe's soft, white throat and drink. Maybe that's what I need to satisfy myself.

Nothing else works. I admit that.

Maybe that's why . . . maybe that's why . . . maybe that's why . . . what?

I can't even think straight. My brain isn't working. The cogs are jammed or something. Thinking about her throat, about drinking her blood.

Am I crazy?

Am I fucking crazy?

“What do you promote?” Chloe sips her coffee.

“Well . . . right now . . . shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Yeah. We have this shoe client. Very hot right now. Merrell. I'm doing some things with Merrell shoes.”

What made me think of that? I guess because I bought a pair of Merrell shoes yesterday. They're very hip. At least, I bought them in a hip shoe store, one of those little dumpy places in SoHo where the store is about as big as a shoe box, and the sales guy, tattooed and pierced like some kind of primitive species, said they were a good choice.

“I know their shoes,” Chloe says. “I've tried them on.”

Like, hot shit, babe. Could we talk about stocks some more?

I pay the check. She pulls a couple of twenties from her wallet and offers to pay her half. No way. I push her hand away. She seems so grateful.

And what do
you
do, Chloe?

Did I forget to ask? Or did she tell me in that cute, whispery voice and I just forgot to listen?

We're out of the restaurant and facing Union Square Park. A steamy, damp night, a hot wind blowing newspapers and other trash around on the sidewalk. No moon or stars. They're covered by thick, low clouds.

I hold Chloe back as a bicycle delivery boy, tall bags of Chinese food in his basket, roars past. You've got to watch out for these delivery guys. They don't care if they knock you down and injure you for life. I mean, what do they care as long as they get the Chinese food where it's going, nice and hot?

“You saved my life,” she jokes. She holds on to my arm.

That means this date is going to end in her apartment.

Chloe points uptown, toward the top of Union Square Park at Seventeenth Street. “Can we stop at the Barnes & Noble up there? I want to get my sister a book before her audition.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

We cross the street into the park. Union Square has trees and walks with benches along them, but not much grass. It's mostly concrete. It used to be filled with junkies and drug dealers day and night. But they've been chased downtown and replaced by a big farmer's market where you can buy fresh-baked bread and apple cider and farm produce. Very wholesome. At night, even warm nights, the park is pretty empty.

We start to follow the path that leads uptown. Suddenly, Chloe stops and turns to me. “I'm a very direct person,” she says. “I like to cut through the bullshit. You know. Cut to the chase.”

“Me too,” I tell her. Where is she going with this?

“Do you like me?” she asks. “Just answer point-blank. You know. Be honest.”

“Do I like you? Well, yeah. I like you a lot.”

She lets out a sigh and smiles at the same time. “Well, good. Because I like you, too.” She brushes her face against mine, gives me a quick kiss, and takes my hand in both of hers.

Oh, Jesus. Her hands are suddenly cold and wet. Like kitchen sponges that have just finished cleaning the supper dishes.

I feel sick.

And that's when I realize she's taller than me.

I mean, how did that happen? Why didn't I notice it before? I guess because I met her at the restaurant, and she was already sitting down.

I'm really sick now. I'm totally nauseous. She's taller than me
and
holding on to me with those wet octopus hands.

My stomach heaves. I feel all my muscles tightening. My hands clench and unclench. I really can't control them.

I see her long, pale neck glowing under the streetlamp.

I glance around quickly. No one around. The park is empty, like a deserted movie set.

Her throat glows, brighter than the streetlamp. Glows as if sending out an invitation.

I didn't know she was taller than me. I didn't know her hands would be so cold and wet on my skin.

Is this the night I become a vampire? Can I do it? Can I sink my teeth into the beautiful, throbbing, shimmery throat?

No. I'm too frightened.

I raise my hands to the sides of her neck. She smiles at me. What is she expecting? Tenderness?

Can't she see how sick I am? Can't she see me struggling to keep my dinner down? She has fucked up everything. It isn't my fault. I tried, didn't I? I really tried.

I wrap my hands around her neck. I can feel the blood pulsing in her throat. My hands are on their own now. I'm too sick to control them.

She whispers my name.

Whispers my name so sweetly.

I can't take this. How am I supposed to deal with that?

My hands slide off her neck. I spin away from her. The white globes of the streetlamps dance in front of me. The lights leap and bounce in a frantic ballet.

I hear her voice, hear her calling to me.

She sounds far behind me now. Because I am running. Running out of the park. Running into the darting, dancing lights.

I tried so hard.

Why didn't I get her sister's name? And her number?

Chloe's sister would be small, petite, with tiny, dry hands, dry as the powder they put on their ballet slippers.

No, don't be sick on the street. It's over. It's time to start again.

I run all the way to my apartment. People stare at me, but I don't care. I can't wait to get online. I can't wait to see the faces of the girls staring out at me on the screen so expectantly, so sweetly.

“Be cool. Be cool,” I tell myself, breathing hard. I can't control my breathing. My hand shakes the mouse. I scroll down quickly from face to face.

“Be cool. Just be cool.”

But the women . . . they drive me crazy.

14

I like to make lists. They make me feel as if I'm organized. Sometimes I make lists just to kill time. . . . Friends I'd invite to my birthday party if I was having one, clothes I'd like to buy this fall if I could afford them, books I'd like to read . . .

Tommy Foster told me to forget about the threatening phone call, but I couldn't. One night after work, I sat down at the little desk in my room, took out a pad of paper, and started to write a list.

Maybe if I wrote down what I knew about the guys I recently met, something would click. Something would tell me who the caller was.

Also, I knew that if I got it all down on paper, I could stop running it over and over again in my mind. Had I been able to think of anything else? Not much. I think even Saralynn had begun to notice how distracted I was.

Luisa was in her room getting ready for work. I could hear her radio blasting Hot97. Luisa is really into hip-hop and rap—has been ever since she met Dr. Dre at a party.

I admit I went through a short Eminem period, and there's a new Outkast single I really like. But I'd much rather dance to that music than listen to it.

In the livingroom, Ann-Marie was arguing loudly on the phone with Lou. Trouble in paradise? No. It didn't sound like a major battle. Some mix-up in plans.

I closed my bedroom door, settled down at the desk, and forced myself to shut out everything else and concentrate on my list.

First I wrote down the names of the guys in the order I'd met them: Brad, Jack, Shelly, Colin. I left plenty of space under each name. Then I tried to write down everything I remembered—not about their looks, but about their lives and the way they acted. Anything that might help me figure out which one had threatened me.

BRAD FISHER

Took me to a noisy restaurant, then to a comedy club.

Not much conversation.

Smoked a lot, drank a lot of beer, but it didn't seem to affect him.

A real New Yorker, grew up near Coney Island.

Writes for a weekly newspaper; very ambitious.

At comedy club, laughed hardest at jokes that were insulting to women. Laughed and clapped at all the antifemale remarks and put-downs. (IS THIS IMPORTANT? DOES THIS TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT BRAD? OR AM I MAKING TOO MUCH OF IT? EVERYONE ELSE WAS LAUGHING, TOO.)

Grabbed me and forced me to kiss him really hard at end of date. I felt like he was being violent. Or did he slip from the taxi? Maybe just an awkward moment?

Seemed okay till that last moment. Maybe too many beers explains it. (DOES HE DRINK TOO MUCH AND GET VIOLENT? OR AM I TOTALLY WRONG ABOUT THIS?)

JACK SMITH

Boring as hell. Talks mainly about his work, which is also boring as hell. Does this mean he's repressed?

Cheap. Date was a total freebie.

Became emotional, had tears in his eyes over sucky patriotic musical. Further sign of repressed feelings? Does bland exterior hide an unbalanced mind?

Emails every day and phoned four or five times even though I discouraged him. (Only one of the four guys to call so often.)

Ran into me in the Village and pretended it was a coincidence. (Was it really a coincidence? Why did I have a strong feeling he'd been following me?)

SHELLY OLSEN

Seems sweet. Very baby-faced and cute-looking. Haven't been out with him yet. Only met him for a few minutes. (By mistake.)

He's funny. Good sense of humor.

Eager to see me. Eager enough to track down my phone number on the Internet.

Called soon after the threatening phone call. IS THAT A COINCIDENCE?

Seems unlikely he'd say, “Keep saying yes to me,” in a threatening phone message since I hadn't yet said yes to him. SHOULD I CROSS HIM OFF THE LIST?

COLIN O'CONNOR

We hit it off right away. Just seemed to click.

I liked his passion for movies. He could get really stoked just talking about films he liked. DOES THAT MEAN HE GETS OBSESSED ABOUT OTHER THINGS, TOO?

I liked his passion for ME.

Is he obsessed with me??

I couldn't write anything more about Colin. I felt totally mixed up about him, because . . .

Because . . .

I wasn't ready to face what I was thinking—the dread that had kept me awake nights.

I set the pen aside and scanned the list. Lindy, you should have been a psych major.

Well, I did take two psych courses at NYU. I think I got B's in both. I was your solid B student without having to work hard. Even with two majors, I didn't work hard in college. It was easier than Stuyvesant High. I read a lot, got high with Ann-Marie and my other roommates, and worried about my so-called social life.

We all went out a lot. To movies and dance clubs and museums and concerts in the park. There's a lot to do in New York City. It's not like going to college anywhere else. It's the City That Never Sleeps, you know. So we seldom slept.

Yes, yes. Simpler times.

Hey, I'm only twenty-four. How can I be nostalgic
already
?

Twisting a strand of hair around one finger, I held the list up close to the lamp. I read it over one more time, trying to find some clue . . . any clue.

Trying to ignore the one thought I hadn't written on the list. The one thought that kept me shuddering at night, even with the blankets pulled up over my chin.

Colin.

The whispered voice on the tape. The last few times I listened to it, I thought I recognized him. Recognized the voice.

Colin.