Card Sharks (3 page)

Full of righteous indignation, she turned to the person on her other side, who started a conversation about the size of her bladder. Within two seconds she turned back, feeling somewhat defeated. Peter turned back at the same time, apparently having discovered that Mrs. Peachtree over there on his other side, glamorous as she was in her Chanel, was fond of tossing out the odd racist comment now and then.

He smiled at her, a somewhat wan rendition. Bijoux smiled back but her heart wasn't in it.

Grasping at straws, Bijoux asked a little lamely, “Do you write for a particular paper?”

“Freelance features. Newspapers, magazines . . .”

“Oh. Do you choose your topics, then?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I get a call.”

“Oh. That sounds like a nice job.” Bijoux felt numb. It must have shown.

“Do you go to a lot of these?” he asked.

“Quite a few. Several times a week.”

“Do you . . . work outside the home?”

“After a couple of hundred ‘high teas' and twice that number of themed luncheons, it begins to feel like work,” she joked.

“Huh.”

This wasn't going well. Normally the men she chatted with at these events understood what it meant to be a lady who lunched. And they certainly understood what it meant to be a
lady who needed to meet a man; otherwise she wouldn't be able to afford lunch. Dating outside of this social sphere required explanations that sounded bizarre to the ear when actually articulated. One really couldn't express that what one did all day was attend social events in hopes of meeting a husband, without sounding ridiculous. Time to change the subject. “So are you planning to write this event up?”

Peter held up his camera and took a shot of well-dressed socialites schmoozing between tables, then stared at what he'd just shot, shrugged, and put his camera away.

“Mmm. Maybe. The whole poker craze is intriguing and it would make a good story, but this isn't quite the angle I was looking for.” He craned his neck, looking around over the crowd. “What kind of games have we got at this thing?”

“Society casinos tend to be along the lines of roulette and craps, if that helps,” Bijoux said.

“Maybe there's a cigar and poker room.”

“Oh, boy.”

Peter grinned, looking a little guilty. “It's a guy thing.”

“So that's where you've all been,” Bijoux teased.

“What you mean?”

“None of my girlfriends can find a decent guy to save our lives. We've been wondering where you've all gone. Apparently, you're all playing poker, and that would confirm what we females have been suspecting. All of the eligible men are too busy bonding out there with each other instead of with us.”

“If that's really true,” Peter said, “consider this. Poker is a money sport. There could be a lot of rich, eligible men out there wishing some of the girls would come play poker with them.” Suddenly, he cocked his head. “Now that's not a bad angle.”

Bijoux cocked her head in the same direction. “You know, that's
not
a bad angle.”

“Either way, the boys will eventually be back. Poker's just kind of the ‘it' thing of the moment. It'll pass.”

“It better pass soon or by the time you guys are done playing games, us girls will already have left the state for better odds elsewhere.”

“Then maybe you should play, too.”

“Maybe I should just move to Las Vegas. Of course, one of my friends . . . did you ever meet Donny Fazzuli? Well, he's got a home poker party thing going on. That would be a shorter drive,” she joked.

“Donny Fazzuli. I don't know if I've actually ever met him. I remember the name Donny. He was dating that friend of yours.”

“Marianne.”

Peter's smile widened. “I remember Marianne. Brunette. Long legs. And if my memory serves right, blue bikini.”

Bijoux's jaw dropped. “When did you meet her?”

“I'm not sure I've ever officially met her.”

Bijoux sat back in her chair and finally relaxed a little. Maybe he didn't think she was fake. Maybe she felt fake and was just doing a little knee-jerk projecting. “I probably talked about both of them at those little cocktail hours our families used to have. I guess I figured you must have met everyone by now . . . but it's been a really long time.”

“I'm sure you did. Of course, there was also that suntanning incident in your backyard.”

Bijoux started to laugh. “What suntanning incident? I don't remember a suntanning incident.”

“I don't remember which summer it was, but I'm pretty sure it involved me discovering the usefulness of the telephoto lens,” he said with a cocky grin. “Don't worry. Neither of you is somewhere on the cover of an
L.A. Girls Gone Crazy
video.”

“There's comfort.” Bijoux socked him in the arm. “You sleazeball!”

He pretended to defend himself from her attack, shielding himself and laughing. “I was a teenager. I was—”

“Disgusting and wrong.”

“I was disgusting and wrong,” he agreed gleefully, not looking the least bit sorry. “And unfortunately for me—or perhaps lucky for my reputation—none of you girls turned over. But at that age, the sight of an unclasped bikini top, even if it was just the back, was photo-worthy.”

“Men,” Bijoux said, exaggerating the syllable.

“You know, I'm thinking of anchoring in L.A. for a while. We really should all get together. Maybe do that poker party.”

“Oh! Well . . .” She looked at Peter and thought about him for Marianne. And then she thought about the possibility that he might know some of those rich, eligible men to invite. And besides, he was practically family in that neighborhood-holiday-cocktail-party sort of way. “That sounds great.”

“Perfect.” He stood up and gave her his arm. “Well, then. Roulette? Craps? What's it going to be?”

Bijoux took his arm and he led her toward the gaming tables. “Which game has the best odds of winning?” she asked. “There's nothing I hate more than running out of cash.”

9:56
A
.
M
.

“H
ey, Marianne. It's Donny. Wanna fuck?”

Marianne snorted and held the phone down with her chin while she rummaged through her desk for a blue pencil. “Maybe some other time.”

“I thought you liked it when I talked dirty.”

She shook her head. “You're missing context, tone, and delivery.”

“What's a fuck buddy if you don't fuck?”

“A buddy.” Marianne found what she was looking for and stuck the pencil into the electric sharpener.

“How about a back massage? I could give you a back massage.”

“There's no such thing as a back massage. It's not-so-clever man code for ‘if I get you to take your shirt off, we're only approximately three garments away from having sex.' ”

There was silence on the other end of the line as apparently Donny had to think about that one. “What idiot gave you the secret decoder?” Then, “Did you meet someone again whom you plan to sleep with, so you can't sleep with me until
you realize that that relationship is likewise doomed and decide that you might as well be sleeping with me again?”

He meant to be funny but Marianne didn't miss the catch in his voice. “Um, no. How about we meet for lunch?”

“Great! If it's getting stale, I could bring something new to—”

“I literally meant that I'd like to have lunch with you. As friends. There was no sexual innuendo there.”

“Friends,” he grumbled. “Friends, friends, friends. Friends with benefits, and I'm not getting any benefits . . . but I'll have lunch with you anyway. I have something for you.”

“Stop buying me things,” Marianne said. “It's too sweet and it makes me sad.”

“I like buying you things. It makes me happy.”

Marianne studied the perfect point of her pencil and sighed. “Noon, Humboldt Bar and Grill?”

“Great. Later.”
Click
.

11:56
A
.
M
.

Donny Fazzuli looked much better than his name implied. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive-tinged skin that tanned to perfection. He wore loose Italian shirts and linen pants or jeans, and with his dark sunglasses on or off, either way there was something so completely male about him that he still had the power to knock Marianne backward on days when she was feeling receptive. He could fix things and plan things and pull things off. He could cook things and clean things and make you feel like the center of the universe.

If he were so inclined.

The biggest problem between Donny and Marianne was that he hadn't been particularly inclined toward much of anything for a while, there, except for watching television and
drinking beer. And Marianne was too much of a doer to be okay with that for long.

They'd met after he'd stumbled out of her neighbor's apartment after waking up drunk on the floor. She'd tried to sneak out of the house to grab the paper before anyone saw her, while wearing a sexy elf costume (long story). Donny saw her. She saw Donny. And though they just couldn't seem to make the resulting relationship stick, they could never find it in them to say good-bye, either.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Donny said, pulling out his chair and sitting back like a bronzed sun god, long legs crossed over each other. He adjusted his sunglasses. “I'm glad you got a table outside . . . so, I bought you a present.” He passed Marianne the shopping bag. “I was waiting for Valentine's Day, but . . . whatever.” He shrugged, the subtext being something along the lines of who the hell knew if they were going to be together on Valentine's Day.

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out.”

Marianne reached into the bag, fished around in a bunch of tissue paper, and started to pull the contents out when she caught a glimpse. “Oh!”

His smile widened.

“My coworkers eat lunch here,” she hissed. But of course, she was mostly pleased.

“One little French maid's costume couldn't possibly derail you from the career track you're hurtling along.”

Marianne stuck her face down in the bag. “It is little, isn't it?” She giggled. “But it looks expensive. You really shouldn't have.”

He shrugged. “I figured you probably didn't have anyone buying you bawdy gifts in inappropriate settings at the moment. And besides, I'm an optimist; I think I'm going to get that promotion.”

Marianne gave another glance around her to make sure no
one she knew was watching. “You find out today? They'd better give it to you. You totally deserve it.”

He took a sip of water, nonchalant as usual about this stuff. In contrast to her totally obsessive vigilance regarding her own career, Marianne found Donny's come-what-may attitude a bit disturbing. Especially because she knew that he was probably the one who had the right attitude. “It'll be fine, either way. But I'll call you tonight and give you the verdict.”

“You'd better. And thanks for the present, even though I still don't really know what it's for.”

“Consider it a thank-you for all that nagging. I think it might have done me some good.”

Marianne snorted. “I didn't do anything.”

“Well, now that you have that,” Donny said, pointing to the shopping bag, “you can.”

7:56
P
.
M
.

“Hey, Marianne. It's Donny.”

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Just having dinner. You?”

“Same. Burrito.”

“Chicken enchilada,” he said, with his mouth presumably full of the very same. “I heard back about the promotion.” There was a little pause as Donny swallowed on the other end of the line. “I got it. Can you believe it?”

Marianne shrieked. “Oh, my God! I'm so happy for you. I mean, you're crazy, but obviously . . . yay!”

“I know. I don't believe it either. This town, the more arrogant, the more obnoxious, the more confident, the more they believe. I should've been fired. I didn't even shave for the interview.”

“Did you interview with a woman?”

“No.”

“Gay man?”

“No.”

“Damn. I'm impressed.”

“Thanks, Mare. Hey, the game's started. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“ 'Kay. Congrats again. Bye.”

It clicked on the other end. Marianne hung up. How about that. Good for him. Of course, every time something really great happened to Donny, Marianne couldn't help feeling a pang. A kind of jealous pang that when they were together—the whole damn time they'd been together—Donny hadn't had anything great happen to him except her. Was that a horrible thing to think? Was it? She wasn't the only one. There were lots of successful women who had given up on their men due to the ambition disconnect.

She'd reached the point where she just knew she couldn't be happy going to work knowing that her guy was sitting at home in a black leather jacket drinking a beer and laughing his ass off at
Aqua Teen Hunger Force.
Was that so wrong? Yes, yes, there were other things. So many other things. She wasn't any bargain either. And Donny got fed up with what he called her self-obsession and her constant nagging for him to do something with himself. Fair enough. But Marianne was still a bit bitter, because on the other hand he'd always said how much she inspired him. How she was sort of his muse. But he never got off the couch and proved it—until they'd broken up.

It had something to do with their breaking up that had been a catalyst for his sudden ambition and subsequent climb up the ladder in industry. If she thought about it, Donny's swagger was perfect for the Hollywood game. But they didn't know him like she knew him. She knew all his flaws, his insecurities, his habits, and the fact that even on the days when he wore an Armani suit to a meeting, underneath it there was a sometimes goofy guy who liked fast motorcycles, cartoons . . . and tax accountants.

Marianne peered into the bag once more and pulled the costume out.
Damn.
Donny must have spent a fortune. Her eyes narrowed. . . . Unless it was used. She checked for a tag and saw that it was still attached. Strike that. Donny
must
have spent a fortune. She held it up to her body in front of the mirror. Grinning, she started stripping down so she could try it on.

8:56
P
.
M
.

“Hey, Donny. It's Marianne. Whatcha doing?”

“Watching television.”

“Wanna hang out?”

“ESPN highlights.”

“Oh, shit. Bad timing. Sorry.”

“No problem. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Bye.”
Click.

Marianne drummed her fingertips against the desk and then picked up the phone again and dialed. “Hey, Donny. It's Marianne. Wanna fuck?”

“See you in fifteen.”
Click.

“He'll be here in ten,” Marianne said, flashing a vixenish grin into the mirror.

9:06
P
.
M
.

Marianne opened the door in full French-maid regalia to find Donny standing there with his arms folded against his chest.

He looked her up; he looked her down. “I feel dirty,” he said. “I'm looking for someone who has experience straightening things up.”

Marianne reached through the door, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him inside. He took charge from there. It was nice to have someone else in charge. Donny was extremely good at it.
And by the time they were finished and lying in a mixed-up sea of pillows, comforter, sheets, and each other on the floor next to the bed where they'd landed at the end, she'd almost convinced herself that this latest sexual episode had been a good idea.

Donny ran his forearm across his sweaty forehead, his other arm tossed around Marianne's shoulders. “It's a shame I'm a self-absorbed bastard with no respect for your needs.”

Marianne exhaled slowly to calm her heartbeat. “Yeah. And it's a shame I'm a neurotic bitch with no sense of adventure whatsoever.”

“Yeah. We'd be perfect for each other.” Donny leaned over, kissed Marianne lightly on the lips, then rolled away and stood up.

“You leaving?” Marianne asked. She climbed back into the bed and pulled up the covers. Normally he stayed over and they cuddled.

“Yeah, gotta run. I've got a poker game with the guys.”

Marianne sat straight up in bed. He was denying her post-coital snuggling because of a poker game with “the guys”? How cheap! How demoralizing! How . . . male. Donny grabbed his clothes off the floor and headed for the bathroom. With his hand on the doorknob he suddenly stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Well, we're not committed or anything. . . .”

Marianne blinked at his retreating form. “Nope. We're not committed.”

Donny came out of the bathroom, his hair wet and standing on end from the shower. He came up to the bed and pulled the comforter up to Marianne's chin and gave her a big, loud smooch on the mouth. “See you soon, Mare.”

“See you soon.”

Marianne lay there, listening to the door slam behind him and the distinct percussion of his feet down her apartment stairs. After that, it was completely silent. She'd had a great
time with Donny. They always had a great time in bed. But she suddenly felt icky and distressed. Now that the fun was over and the boy was gone, she just felt wrong.

She got out of bed, straggled into the bathroom, and had a look at herself, makeup ravaged, the remnants of a French maid's costume hanging off her body courtesy of her ex-boyfriend. There was only one thing Marianne could say: “This has got to stop.”

She picked up the phone and called Bijoux.

“Donny already leave?”

“Yes. He came . . . we came . . . and then he left to play poker with the boys. Can you believe it? I'm outraged.”

“Ooh. No cuddling.”

“Apparently he doesn't care.”

“You're not supposed to care either.”

“Yes, but I'm female.”

“I understand.”

“I can't be doing this anymore.” Marianne's voice cracked. “It's not healthy.”

“Have you been crying? Are you okay?” Bijoux asked.

“No and yes. But I feel like I could cry, which can mean only one thing.”

“This has got to stop,” Bijoux said.

“Right. This has got to stop. If I don't make a clean break with Donny I will never really get off my ass and go find my true soul mate . . . or whatever. So, did you get the SportsClub passes? You know Susan Saunders met her husband at a gym.”