Retail Therapy (15 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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Just bad for me.
27
Hailey
“C
an we go?” I called impatiently through the screen door, then paced some more on the wooden porch. I usually don't worry about being on time, but I was supposed to meet Antonio at the East Hampton club in twenty minutes, and I had no idea how far it was or if the guys would ever finish getting ready.
I was nervous.
And what if I was late?
What if he left?
What if he thought I stood him up?
“What's with the ants in your pants, girl?” Alana stepped out on the porch, her dark skin gleaming against a ruby red bustier that she wore over a loose print skirt. She slipped into a short-cut jacket and checked her watch. “Oh, shit! You've got to meet Antonio! Why didn't you say something?”
“I didn't want to rush everyone.” My right hand flew to my mouth, and I tugged it down before I could nibble on the tips of my nails. Bad, Hailey! Down, girl, down!
Alana opened the screen door and cupped her hands to her face. “Trevor! Xavier! Cut the primping and get your sorry asses down here or you're driving yourselves.” The door bounced against her bottom, and she stepped away to let it shut. “Marcella is just finishing up with her sister.” Once again, she shouted inside, “Marcella!”
Our red-headed friend appeared, waving her hands to shut up Alana, her headset clipped on like a switchboard operator. “Would you just listen to me, because I am telling you that you got to sit him up and let him digest or it's gonna burn like a motherfucker. Babies can't just eat lying down and go to sleep. Did you even try to burp him?”
She nodded and sighed as the answer seemed to come through. “I know. I know you're trying, honey. You can only do your best, but in the future, don't give him his bottle lying down. You wouldn't eat chicken fricasee in bed, would you?”
I turned to Alana as Marcella headed out to the car. “Marcella has a baby?”
“It's her nephew, but her sister's a nervous wreck ... a young mother, and the baby has colic.”
Climbing in the car, I eavesdropped on Marcella's advice and marveled at how the woman exuded calm and control. Maybe I should have asked her about my choice of wardrobe tonight. I was wearing tapered jeans with a Hugo Boss tailored shirt—gray with white pinstripes and three-quarter sleeves. The daring part about it was that I wore nothing underneath it and it was unbuttoned to the bottom of my rib cage. The gray was severe and serious, my hair was wild and loose, and the amount of skin and cleavage revealed was daring and so seductive that I had felt a sting of embarrassment when I first faced the mirror.
I'd thought about changing, even went back to my suitcase, but I wanted to do this. I wanted to try a sexier look. This was my chance with Antonio Lopez, and if I didn't give a clear message now, he wouldn't be waiting around for a PS.
By the time X turned on to Main Street in East Hampton, I was a nervous wreck, a knee-wiggling, lip-biting wreck. “We're late,” I said. “He's already been there for ten minutes.”
“Who's been there?” Trevor turned around from the passenger seat. “Who's been where?”
“Antonio,” I said. “Are we almost there?”
“It's just up ahead,” Xavier said. “But who knew all these people would be out here partying before the season has even started.”
“Antonio who?” Trevor asked. “What's happening?”
“Antonio Lopez, you dillhole,” Alana snapped. “She was supposed to meet him ten minutes ago, and she would've been on time if you two would've paid attention.”
Trevor held up his hands. “I didn't know! Antonio Lopez ... mmm-mmm. The hot Latin lover. Is he really that hot in person?” he asked me.
“Hotter,” I said.
“What about on the show? You think he's gonna find the serial killer terrorizing Indigo Hills? Or is he next on the killer's list?”
“She doesn't know that!” Alana snapped. “Would you get us to the club already?”
“I have to give you credit, Trevor,” I told him. “I can tell you've been watching our show. Catching up on the serial killer plot.”
“Yeah, well, there's nothing else to do while I'm waiting around for Mama to update her records on that goddamned clipboard.”
The car lurched to a stop and Xavier hit the horn. “Goddamn! Did you see that? He stole my spot!”
“Just park,” I said desperately.
“There's nowhere to go. The lot's packed to the gills.”
“Then pull up by the door. Now!” Alana demanded.
X spun the car round to the door of the club.
Marcella was the first out of the backseat. “Don't worry, honey,” she told me, “it's better to be late and make an entrance.”
I was such a bundle of nerves, I began to wonder why I was here. “Why am I doing this? Antonio is out of my league.”
Alana spun around and grabbed me by the arms. “Get a grip, girl! There's a gorgeous specimen of man waiting in there, and he wants you. Now get your butt in there and grab his ass before some other sister does it for you!”
She really didn't leave me much choice. With a deep breath, I flicked my hair back over one shoulder and pushed through the door.
The dance floor was dark, lit mostly by a revolving disco ball, and the dance music boomed with that throbbing beat that guaranteed a headache within the hour. What was I doing here? I'm so bad at clubs—especially disco-type places where it's all about body language and not at all about real language. If I had to dance my way into a relationship, I'd still be sleeping in my little twin bed back in Wisconsin.
I searched the crowd—a succession of very young faces, most devoid of the artistry of plastic surgery.
“Looks like frat night,” Alana said. “I guess most of the colleges are out already.”
Someone banged into me, and I fell against a table. “Where is he?” Panic. “He's not here.”
“It's early, and it's a big place. Marcella went to look in the other room. We'll find him.”
Not tonight, I thought. It was silly of me to think this could work, that Antonio might actually ...
And there he was, cutting through the crowd, his eyes locked on me. Behind him, Marcella waved and pointed. Found him! She was beaming.
I nearly choked on my own breath. He was smiling at me with such an amazing look, like I was the most precious gem he'd ever seen.
“Hilly! You made it. I'm so happy you're here. Would you like to dance?” As he spoke he took me by the hand, pulled me close, and kissed me once on both cheeks.
“Not just yet,” I managed to say.
“Good. I have a table in the other room, a little more quiet. Would your friends like to join us?”
I snapped out of the spell to look for them. Alana was already talking and strutting with some guy on the dance floor. Marcella stood near the door with Trevor and X, but when I caught her attention she mouthed “bye-bye” and waved.
“We can hook up with them later,” I told Antonio, who slid one arm over my shoulders and ushered me up the steps and past the bar.
In the attached room, dark wood tables and tall booths were the haven for people who wanted to talk. I could barely take in the people or the atmosphere in the glow of Antonio. His touch lit my nerve endings, his killer smile was blinding. And as we crossed the room, I just knew that everyone was watching us ... eyes on us, Antonio and his girl. The couple. Antonio Lopez and Hailey Starrett.
Hailey Starrett-Lopez. Hailey Lopez? No ... Hailey Starrett-Lopez.
And there in the corner was a dark booth, our spot. He gestured for me to slide in, then he sat beside me, dropping his hand on my knee with a natural, easy warmth.
“Is sherry OK?” he asked. “It's a personal favorite. The best ones are made in my country, but I find that so few Americans appreciate its lush, sweet qualities.”
I told him that sherry was fine. His hand remained on my thigh as we talked, and I found myself wishing it would slip lower, travel down to the inseam, grab a handful of thigh. I was surprised at myself, having such a case of ants in my pants, but I wanted to be with Antonio in the worst way, and part of me just wanted to have that initiation over so that we could move on to the less jittery, more chummy stage of the relationship.
We chatted about the show: the camera crew, the writers, the new caterer in craft services. Antonio told me a little about his background in Argentina, about the early days when he modeled for shaving-cream ads. He talked about nosy photographers, adding that the Hamptons were a hot spot for pesky media. But more than anything, he loved his fans. Soap opera fans were so loyal, so loving, so devoted.
I made up a story about being the child of reclusive artists in the Midwest. I figured that the pertinent facts were true; he didn't need to know that my parents' “art” was blackberry jam.
When the conversation hit a quiet spot, he turned to me and dropped his head to my shoulder. “Oh, Hilly,” he said in a tone that squeezed my heart like a sponge. “I have a confession to make.” He lifted his head so that his smoky eyes met mine.
My heart thudded hard, rising up to my throat. “What's that?” I nearly wept.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. “I want to have you.” With that, he reached a hand right into my blouse and cupped one breast.
I nearly choked at the sensation of his warm palm, so quick and intimate, pulling me into a dark, delicious passion. His lips pressed against mine, nipping lightly as his hand tested the fullness of my breast. Sighing, I dropped a hand to his jeans and loved the bulge I felt there. Oh, yes, he did want me. I was tickled. I'd never made love to a celebrity before, and somehow, his fame made each sensation that much more titillating.
He undid the next button on my blouse and lodged his face inside to suck on my nipple. I was afraid someone would notice, but it was dim and we were in the corner and it felt so good, I had to close my eyes and stop worrying. When he'd sucked me to a frenzy there was more kissing, more groping, including an awkward unzip of his pants so I could reciprocate. With his pants open, I felt free to explore the playground, my hand gliding over the smooth, bulbous head, down the shaft.
“That is ...” he sucked his breath in between his teeth, his dark eyes nearly closing, “so good when you touch me there.” He lifted his hips to stab at my hand, and his hard penis seemed to pop out of his pants.
So Antonio had skipped the underwear phase tonight, too. He'd anticipated something like this. Knowing that gave me a boost of confidence. He wanted to make love to me. Antonio Lopez wanted me. That thought alone gave me the tingle of preorgasm.
I felt my muscles squeezing tight for him, wanting him inside me, here and now. Impossible, I know, especially with the news that photographers were lurking about. But the heat coursing through my blood didn't heed common sense, and Antonio didn't seem to care much that his pants were open under the tablecloth.
What can I say—passion is crazy.
“Listen,” I whispered, grabbing him hard. “I want you. But not here.”
He moved his fingers along my inner thigh, up along the zipper, then tugged at my belt buckle. “We have to go,” he said. “Will you come to my place?”
“Yes,” I whispered, confident that I would be saying that word to him time and time again. There would be a lot of yeses in our future.
There were knowing smiles from my friends as Antonio led me around the dance floor to the door. I smiled back, loving that everyone in the club had their eyes glued to us. We were the celebs of the night.
As we stepped out into the parking lot, a man popped out onto the sidewalk and Antonio tugged my hand. “Hilly! Paparazzi!”
I pretended to duck a little, but really I was moving a little closer to Antonio, thrilled to be photographed with him. Who cared if our picture appeared in
Soap Opera Rumors?
We were soap opera stars engaging in a real life love story, and I wasn't at all ashamed of that.
OK, I admit that we had sexual chemistry, but with Antonio it was about more than sex. I was beginning to feel as if his every touch were transforming my life.
This was the stuff soap opera dreams were made of.
28
Alana
I
t takes me about five minutes to rate the crowd at any given event, whether red-carpet or beach party. There's your snubbish faux-punk fashion crowd, the commercial fashion crowd who are still snubbish but much more buttoned-down, the downtown antichic kids who think they'll defy fashion by wearing truckers' hats, the blue-blood debs who have the misfortune of premature aging caused by dry skin and unfaithful men, the television crowd who long to become film people, usually mixed with the film people who protest that television is trash driven by corporate sponsorship. . .
Please!
Add in a few Broadway stars and billionaire entrepreneurs and you've got more egos than even Freud could handle. And the killing part is that most of them don't know how to dress. Sad, isn't it?
Unfortunately, the crowd at the club that night was none of the above. Aside from Antonio, who was now long gone, Marcella and I quickly established that there was not a worthwhile man under the roof. Furthermore, most of the college girls who'd turned out that night looked as if they'd applied their foundation with paint rollers.
Clearly we were not going to make any new best friends, and with Xavier and Trevor ensconced at the bar, engaged in deep “guy” conversation, Marcella and I really had no choice but to dance.
“It's a shame,” I said as Marcella and I moved to the edge of the dance floor. Here I'd worn my popping red bustier and would probably never wear it again, and no one worthwhile had even seen it. “Another wasted night.”
“Didn't I tell you? Don't expect to meet anyone worthwhile out at a club, honey. You've got much better prospects in other places. How about that guy with the boat you met on the beach today?”
“Not my type,” I said. “But sweet.”
“Well, I liked Donovan. Do you know he's worked for Pierre Cardin and Barney's? We're going to have lunch in the City sometime. But someone like Donovan wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. He was going to a private party tonight. A house party. That's the way to go.”
“I need another drink,” I said, heading over to my cousin and X.
“What you need is a good night's sleep. Save yourself for better things, honey. Tomorrow, I'm going to work the beach and get us an invite for a party that's worth our time.”
“It's never worth it,” Trevor sputtered, his eyes bleary. “Never worth the time.”
“Somebody's been hammering at the booze,” Marcella said, sidling up to the bar between Trevor and Xavier.
“Do you think I'm drunk?” Trevor asked. “Because I'm just getting started. Bartender ...” He motioned for another round.
I noticed that Xavier had a pint glass of seltzer with lemon. “Easy on that stuff, pal,” I teased, taking the empty barstool beside him. “You don't want to lose control. Oh, wait, that's right. You're always in control. In control and controlling.”
“I'm driving,” he said.
“In control and in the driver's seat,” I added. “Unlike my cousin, who never misses an opportunity to lose control, whether it's with women, alcohol, or drugs.”
“Don't be a bitch. I'll get you all home. And Trev, just leave him the hell alone. The brother's got some shit to work out.”
“Please! How many times have I heard that one? Poor Trev! He's shooting up and he sold his gramma's jewelry for drug money, but let's not talk about it because poor Trevor has things to work out. Issues.”
“Would you cut it out?” X said quietly.
“Hey!” Trevor piped up, lifting his head. “You talkin' about me?”
“Yes, I am, cuz. But you can go back to sleep. Don't want to wreck your buzz.”
“Fuck that.” Trevor pushed back and teetered off the bar stool. “This party's dead. I'm getting the hell out of here.”
“OK, good night, sweetie!” Marcella called after him. “Safe home and all that.”
“Go ahead,” I told Xavier. “Go on after him. It's your job to save him.”
“He won't get far.” X turned around to watch Trevor weave through the stragglers. “He's got no car keys, and most of the other bars have closed for the night. He's probably just going to the men's room.”
“I'm surprised you're not rushing out to hold it for him,” I said.
Behind X, Marcella mouthed an “ow!” at my words, then turned toward the bar to ask the bartender something.
“Why do you think I'm responsible for Trevor's problems? Am I the reason he's all fucked up? Yeah, you can blame me if you want, but is it really about me?”
“If we knew the source of his suffering, maybe it could be healed,” I said. I knew this wasn't the time or place to discuss Trevor's personal situation, but Xavier had drained his quota of my patience. “The truth is, Trevor coddles his pain. He doesn't want to get better, not really, and if he's not going to champion his own recovery, then we can all beg and cajole and baby him till the day we die, but it's not going to make a bit of difference. So excuse me if I'm not the voice of sympathy, but I've been down this road with Trev a time or two.”
“Oh, have you?” Xavier scowled. “Because honestly, Alana, you are totally clueless about Trevor's world. Step out of your bubble, girl. Maybe you should spend a little less time sitting in judgment and just think,
think
about the personal demons this man is trying to fight.”
“Demons! How can I feel sorry for a man who's got it all but time and again tries to trash it?”
“Honey, I don't know about demons,” Marcella interrupted. “But right now I think there's something bad going down for Trevor.”
We swung around to see. Trevor leaned against the wall and peeled bills out of his wallet as he spoke to someone standing behind a divider.
“Oh, no.” I didn't want to believe it. For all my harsh words, I wanted to believe that Trevor was past the worst of his addiction, that he was just hiding in the legal addictions—sex and alcohol—until he could pull his head up out of the dirt. “Is he buying drugs?”
“Fuck!” Xavier bolted from his barstool and marched to the back of the bar. Marcella and I flew behind him.
“What the fuck you think you're doing?” Xavier slapped a packet out of Trevor's hands and pushed him against the wall.
Trevor's eyes opened wide in shock. “Easy, bro.” He seemed angry, then the fight left him as his head lolled against the wall, his eyes closing.
Xavier spun left and shoved at the other guy, a heavyset white brother with a Santa beard and receding hairline. Bad Santa stepped back, rubbing the shoulder of his leather vest. “Get the hell away from him!” X shouted. “What's your problem?”
“No problem.” Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of trying to bend down over his belly and pick up the packet of coke. “It's cool, OK? Just keep your hands off me.”
“Excuse me?” Marcella pushed between Trevor and X and planted both hands on the dealer's chest. “You think it's cool? You think this is OK? Because let me tell you, pea-head, this is not cool at all. What do you think you're doing selling this crap—and to my friend?”
He tried to edge away. “Lady, look ...”
“Don't give me no crap.” She pummeled his chest. “Do you know what you are? Let me tell you. A waste to society. A monster! Does your mother know you're out dealing drugs?”
Bad Santa shot Xavier and me a desperate look. “Will you take your friend and go?”
It was time to get Trevor home, but Marcella wouldn't be silenced. “Do you want to know what I think? I think you should get the hell out of here before I call the cops. Actually, why don't you stay, and I'll get them here right now.” She pulled out her cell phone and punched in some numbers.
“That's not necessary,” the dealer said, edging toward the rest rooms. “No harm done, right?” And he raced down the hall to the exit.
“What an asshole,” Marcella said.
“He wasn't so bad,” Trevor said groggily.
Marcella scowled at him. “Not him, sweetie.
You!”
 
 
Despite my criticisms of Xavier, I was glad to have him around that night. Besides the fact that he was the only one still sober enough to drive, he managed to get Trevor up to bed with no problem and promised to sleep in the same room to keep an eye on him.
Pulling back the old freedom quilt on my bed, I realized I was exhausted. Through my anger, I still loved my cousin, still wanted to help him, though it felt as if my hands were tied.
During the car ride back, he'd leaned on my shoulder and cried real tears, blathering apologies over and over again. He was sorry for being a problem, sorry for messing up. He begged me not to hate him, begged forgiveness.
“Come on, Trev, you know I don't hate you,” I told him repeatedly. “But I can't watch you fuck up again. You've got to make a change.”
And as Xavier drove us down pitch black country roads, Trevor kept promising that he would change, kept promising he was going to straighten up and live right.
“Not for nothing, honey, but he won't remember any of this in the morning,” Marcella told me. “Trevor, shut up and go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow.”
“Not gonna talk, I'm gonna do something! Do something with my life!” he shouted.
It hurt me to see Trev that way, crying and broken.
For the first time, I guess I realized how real his pain was. I couldn't relate. In some ways Xavier was right. I had lived my life in a safe bubble, a bubble that Trevor had popped tonight.
Tonight I had realized that Trevor could not go on this way. If he didn't change his life, this addiction was going to kill him. It seemed so obvious. So why couldn't he act on it?
I didn't want to lose him, but I didn't know how to help him.
I slipped under the quilt and pulled it around my shoulders, hoping to squeeze some familiar comfort out of it. This had used to be my room when Dad first bought the house, and most of the items had remained intact—the old collection of CDs, my four-poster bed with canopy, my quilt, and my stuffed tiger.
I hugged Tigee and went back to the old days, the squirt-gun booth at Adventureland where I'd won Tigee when I was seven or eight. Trevor was there, his ankles popping from the jeans he was always outgrowing. Aunt Nessie let us get soaked on the water ride, then we feasted on corn dogs outside on benches overlooking the Ferris wheel.
“I'm not goin' up there,” Trevor always used to say. The Ferris wheel frightened him. Too high to go when you can't fly.
I guess he'd forgotten that rule.
Turning on my side, I pressed my face against the soft-worn pillow sham and tried to come up with a plan. What could I do for Trev?
He loved his neckties. I would buy him a fabulous tie at the outlets tomorrow. A small gesture, but at least it was something positive.
The outlets ... that was another problem.
After the bill at the club, I was down to a hundred and sixty dollars. (Yes, we should have skipped the last two rounds!) How could I find anything with one hundred and sixty measly dollars?
I noticed a stack of old magazines from my youth on the night stand.
Teen People. Mademoiselle
. Eek! I went to push them off, then saw that they were combined with a stack of junk mail. The cleaning crew had probably just dumped this stuff in here, since it was my old room.
It's amazing, the quality of junk mail these days, the paper stock, the airbrushed art. I picked up one envelope with a photo of a dad building a sandcastle on the beach with his kids.
Build your SUMMER dreams!
the caption said.
What a sweet thought. Vigilant about protecting my hands, I used an emery board to open the envelope and unfolded the letter, a light blue wash set against a border of effervescent royal blue bubbles.
A lot of fine print with boring numbers, but the headlines were appealing.
Make a splash with your new, limited time 0% APR!
Not sure of the difference between APR and April, but whatever.
Your credit is preapproved.
Well, I liked the sound of that.
Hot Days! Cool Cash!
Liked the sound of that even more.
OK, time to read the fine print. What was the catch? The astute shopper knows there's always some snag.
Now's the time to dive in and enjoy all that the warm weather has to offer—especially since your new National Bank of Integrity Viva account gives you easy access to the funds you want. Your new, low 0% Annual Percentage Rate (APR) ...

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