Monsters (7 page)

He picks his paper back up, refolds it to a different page. “Honestly, honey, with you looking like that, it would not be hard to arrange.”

“Wow. Isn't that the highest compliment? ‘I bet there's someone willing to fuck you.' You've made my day.”

“Jason's going to love you, actually, which might work in our favor.” He sort of gives me this nod like,
That would be great.
“I don't
know if it'll really help your sleeping problem because he is married. Third wife though, so who knows?”

“You are such an asshole,” I say, and I stand up and walk to the other side of the island, which is actually closer to where he is, but I can't figure out another direction to move.

“I'm kidding. Jesus. I forgot how uptight you are.” He stands up and walks toward me with his arms kind of raised like he wants to give me a hug, and I take a step back.

“Oh, come on, Stacey. Lighten up. I'm just giving you shit.” He reaches me and throws his arms around me and slides his head right down next to mine. “You really need to learn to relax. No wonder you can't sleep.”

•   •   •

Tommy is leaning against the wall by the front window watching for Jason, who's about fifteen minutes late.

“Lunch is ready to go whenever you want it,” Daniel says to Tommy.

“Perfect,” Tommy says. “Sounds great.” It actually sounds like Tommy's not paying much attention.

“Also, I was checking your calendar, and it looks like you have a reservation tonight. Dinner plans. What do you want to do about that?”

Tommy knocks his head back against the wall. “Shit. I forgot. You're gonna have to call Hannah. Tell her not tonight. Maybe some night next week.”

“Great,” Daniel says, and he makes a face at me. “That's gonna be a fun call.” He rolls his eyes.

I laugh. “Are you really so important you can't break your own dates? That's kind of shitty.”

Daniel nods. “Isn't it? He doesn't like to ‘make his own arrangements,'” he says, making these dramatic air quotes.

“Daniel knows my schedule better than I do. I don't need to talk to her, and she doesn't need my number.”

“Wow. You really are a dick.”

Daniel nods. “This is what I'm trying to tell you. He is un-fucking-believable.”

“Okay, hold on, it's not that I don't want her to be able to reach me, but I don't need my number getting out. If she wants to talk to me, she can just call Daniel.”

“And I can tell her he's ‘not really available right now,'” Daniel says, punctuating with his fingers again.

“Exactly,” Tommy says.

It's horrible, but I laugh. “God, you're an asshole.”

He shrugs. “But I sleep like a baby.”

“No. I bet you do because in my experience babies sleep like assholes who interrupt everyone with their random, selfish demands for more tit.”

Daniel laughs, and Tommy just smiles. “That was pretty good, Stace. I'm gonna let that one slide.” He turns to Daniel. “Keep the reservation. I'll take Stacey.”

“I don't want to go to dinner with you.”

“Shut up. It's a nice place,” he says. “You'll like it.” He looks out the window again. “Jason's here.”

•   •   •

Jason is awfully cute but a little short. I know he's in his mid-forties, but he could pass for my age easily. He has this curly brown hair and a
sweet baby face and this one great dimple on just the left side. When he shakes my hand, he smiles really wide, and it makes me smile too.

“So you are Stacey,” he says, leaning his arm against the bar. Tommy is fixing us something to drink. “I have to admit, I didn't know what to expect.” He makes an apologetic face. “Your book is a little scary, you know.” He laughs.

He doesn't seem to think I'm scary though. His eyes keep dropping to my chest, but I pretend I don't notice. I don't actually mind.

“Jason, I know you're having scotch. Stacey?”

“No. No scotch. Maybe vodka.”

“Tommy tells me you live in Omaha,” Jason says. “You don't strike me as all that Nebraskan.”

I put my hand up to take the drink that Tommy holds out, but I keep my eyes on Jason. “Really? You can't picture me out with the tractors and cows?” I raise my eyebrow.

“Not really.” He laughs. “Should we have a seat?”

He motions to the couch. He sits on one end, and I sit on the other, but I turn sideways, sit on my hip, so my knees are pointing toward him. I lean my arm against the back of the couch. I take a drink. The vodka is nice and cold. The vodka is great.

“So tell me about yourself,” Jason says.

I smile. “There's not much to tell.”

He reaches over, picks a copy of my book up off the table. “So where did all this come from?”

I laugh. “I have no idea. I couldn't tell you how it all works.” I pull my bottom lip in with my teeth, but not in a nervous way. I'm doing this on purpose. Jason smiles.

Tommy crosses the room and sits in the chair across from us. He
leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and looks at Jason. “So, what are your thoughts?”

“Well”—he turns to Tommy—“I've read the script, and I like it. I do. I think it has potential.”

“But?”

Jason tosses his hands up. “I don't know. There's some fucked-up shit in this thing, no offense.” He reaches across the couch like he means to pat my hand, but there's a lot of space between us. He doesn't even come close.

“I think,” I say, “you're focusing on the wrong things.”

Jason looks back at me. I swirl the vodka in my glass, watch the ice spin and settle.

“The story isn't about the things that happen. It's about the people they happen to. All of this violence that sort of builds up around them, that isn't the story, Jason.” When I say his name, I look back at him. I look him in the eye. “It's just the lens through which we discover these characters, who they are, what makes them, what tears them down.”

Jason takes a breath, he raises his eyebrows, he looks at my breasts. I lean and stretch my arm to set my glass on the table, and when I sit up, I may shift my shoulders back a bit.

“Okay, keep talking,” Jason says, and I do. I talk about the characters and the book and the script. I talk about Tommy, how much I trust him with this, how much I'm willing to trust Jason because Tommy says I should
.
Tommy is watching me too, but I only look at Jason. Jason I can handle. Jason I've got.

•   •   •

By the time Jason leaves, he and Tommy have a handshake deal that they've sealed with yet another round of drinks. In the foyer, Jason
kisses my cheek a little sloppily, and his hand slides a bit lower on my back than his third wife would probably like.

When Tommy closes the door behind Jason, he leans his head against it for a moment, lets his hand rest on the door frame. “Oh shit,” he whispers. “We've got him. We've fucking got him.” He turns around, and he's smiling. Not just a smile really, more like a grin. “And you.” He walks toward me, grabs me by the shoulders. “Jesus, who are you? Why have I never met this Stacey before? I have to hang out with boring, uptight, pissed-off-all-the-time Stacey, and he gets fun, sexy Stacey. That's kind of bullshit.”

“Fuck you,” I say, shoving him backwards and turning toward the living room.

“See? There's my girl. There's the Stacey I know.”

I drop down on the couch, lay my head back, close my eyes, but I feel him sit in the spot where Jason had been. I hear his feet thunk onto the table.

“You look beat. Go lay down,” he says, and he sets his hand on my leg, so he must be sitting closer than I'd thought. “We've got hours before dinner. Go get some sleep.”

•   •   •

When I open my eyes, the light from the window has faded. It's seven forty-five, and we're supposed to be leaving at eight. I didn't bother to set an alarm because I can never sleep. Except today, which is brilliant.

I'd at least had the good sense to take my clothes off and lay them over a chair in the corner so they wouldn't get wrinkled. I slip them back on, walk into the bathroom to touch up my eyes, my lips, pull my fingers through my hair. I shake it out and let it fall around my
shoulders.
This is not about Tommy,
I think because of course it isn't. I just like to make a good impression.

•   •   •

Tommy must have spent the rest of the afternoon not drinking because he drives, which is not what I expected. There is something about sitting in the passenger seat of a man's car that feels a little exhilarating, a little dangerous, and because the man who's driving is Tommy, I try to look out the window a lot.

“You really were great today,” he says. He pulls to a stop at a light and reaches over, grabs my hand. “And what you said about trusting me with this meant a lot.” He tugs on my hand like he wants me to look at him. “I promise I'm not going to fuck it up.”

They seat us at a table near the back, and as we walk through, there are lots of people not looking at us, conspicuously so. There's a lot of quickly lowered eyes, deliberate not-staring. I feel a little dizzy, like I might trip.

It's a circular booth, and while Tommy sits at an angle from me, he's close enough that our knees are almost touching. There's a bottle of wine open to breathe on the table. I'm guessing Daniel called earlier to set it up.

Tommy must come here a lot because the waiter is totally relaxed with him, and Tommy orders for both of us without even looking at the menu. When the waiter steps away, I take a sip of my wine, look around. The place is packed, and I can tell by the way people are sitting, holding themselves so carefully, barely turning their heads, that everyone has noticed Tommy. On the far side of the room, one couple is openly gaping, which is unsettling, but at least it's honest.

“How did you even get started in all of this?” I say.

Tommy looks at me over his glass. When he sets it down he says, “You mean like all of it, all of it? I don't know. I just caught a break.”

“No, I mean, what made you want to try?”

“Oh,” he says, and he takes another drink. He looks like he's deciding whether to answer me. “I guess I was running away.”

I keep my eyes on him like I'm waiting for the rest.

“Really?” he says, and he kind of laughs. “All right. Fine. I had a fucked-up family. My dad was mean and drunk and usually broke. I never did very well in school, and frankly, I didn't have any other options, so it was either this or who knows.” He holds my gaze for a minute. “So anyway, I got out here, and I looked like me, which didn't hurt,” but he says this in a tone like he's deliberately being an ass. “And you know, I'd been playing roles my whole life, trying to dodge all the shit. I guess it all just clicked.”

“Huh,” I say. “Interesting.” I hold my glass on the table, twist the stem through my fingers.

“You sound like a shrink.”

“No, it is,” I say. “It's interesting. And you know, that's kind of what I do, think about what shapes us, where we end up. It's kind of my thing.” I smile.

“Maybe your next book should be about me.”

“Mmm. I don't know. I don't really write smut.”

“Right.” He laughs. “But think of all the research opportunities.”

“Oh my god, yes. So many opportunities.” I nod. “Like syphilis.”

“Ha!” He shakes his head. “People don't get syphilis anymore.”

“No,” I say. “I'm pretty sure they do.”

•   •   •

When we get back to the house, Tommy opens a bottle of red wine and pours us each a glass.

“I don't know,” I say. “It's late. I have to fly tomorrow.”

“Who cares? It's not like you're gonna sleep.”

He leans against the bar, holds the glass out to me and waits. And of course, I take it. It's like I have no self-restraint. I take a taste, but then I set the glass on the bar. I wrap my left hand around my right arm and try to stretch out my shoulder, roll it around in the socket.

“All tense again?” he says.

“I'm always tense,” I say, and I frown at him. “I'm uptight. Remember?”

He steps toward me and puts his hands on my shoulders, rubs his thumbs along my neck. He works his fingers along my collarbone, up the top of my spine. He's standing close enough that his breath rustles my hair. He holds my neck in his palms and tips my head upward with his thumbs, catches my mouth with his lips.

“I think you should go to bed with me,” he says, his lips still against mine.

Actually, this sounds like a terrible idea, but again I have no self-restraint, so I say, “Okay,” and he laughs. He says, “Wow, Stace, you're really blowing me away with the enthusiasm.”

“Never mind, then.” I brace my fingers against his stomach and start to pull away, but he catches the back of my head, winds his arm around my waist, tightens his grip. “Honey, I'm just teasing you,” he says. He slides his hand up under my shirt, traces the edge of my rib cage with his fingers, and he coaxes my mouth open with his teeth. And then he pulls away and grabs my hand. “You want to bring your wine?” he says.

“Not really,” I say, and he says, “Good.”

He pulls me through the house to the master, which is in the back, past the study, and there are even more of his stacks of books, and there's one book lying open on the middle of the bed, and it's mine. It's not
Monsters
though. It's my first book, and I don't even know what to think of that, but Tommy just moves it off to the side table and sits down on the bed. He pulls me to stand in front of him, and he catches my legs between his knees, works his hands under my shirt, and rubs his palms along my waist. He slides his hands up, lifting my shirt over my arms, dropping it on the floor behind me, slips his fingers under the straps of my bra, rubs his knuckles along them. He presses his mouth into the space between my breasts, moves slowly up my neck and to my mouth, pulling me down onto him. I move my knees up onto the bed on either side of him, and he grabs me tight around the waist, holding me up. “You doing okay?” he says into the side of my neck, and I nod. He lifts me by the hips, rolls me over onto my back, grabs his shirt by the collar and tugs it off. He leans into me, pressing his skin against my skin, and I let my head fall back, let him bury his face in my neck. His fingers are working at the waistline of my pants, which are loose enough not to unfasten. When he pulls hard enough, they just slip off. And he kisses me again, catches my knee with his hand and lets his fingers trail all the way along my thigh, and when he slides his finger inside me, I catch his lip with my teeth. “Oh, baby,” he says, “you don't feel uptight anymore.”