Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (69 page)

I
can’t say that it’s ever really worked for me, but maybe I’m just not getting
drunk enough.

“Hey
there, cutie,” Irene, Alec’s wife coos drunkenly as she stands in line for the
keg. She leans against me with what I can only assume is supposed to be a hug
and says, “I’m going to do a keg stand in a second. Would you like to hold my
legs? You’re the only one I trust.”

“How
did you know I was coming over here?” I ask.

“What?”

“Well,”
I tell her, “if you were already planning on doing a keg stand and I’m the only
one you trust to hold your legs—you know what? Never mind,” I tell her as she
attempts to stand up straight, but only managing what I can only describe as
stumbling without moving her feet.

“You’re
so good to me,” Irene says, taking a long drink from her plastic cup.

“Hey,
I’m actually glad you’re here,” I start, but she thinks that’s the whole
thought.

“Oh,”
she says, putting her arm around me again, “I’m really glad that you’re here,
too. I’ve always liked you, you know. I don’t know what Alec tells you that
makes it so seldom that we see each other places,” she slurs, “but I like it
when you’re around with us here.”

“Thanks,”
I smile, “but I was wondering if I could get your advice on something.”

“Anything
you need,
Errc
,” she answers, spitting as she talks.

“You
know your friend, the one whose sister you gave my number to?” I ask.

“Yeah,”
Irene says. “Her name is Jessica. She’s a very
prerrty
girl.” Irene leans toward me and, putting her hand to one side of her mouth,
she says, “I think the two of you would make
beautiffful
babies together, mmm hmm.”

She
nods agreement with her own statement.

“…thanks,”
I tell her. “Well, I actually know her from somewhere else, only she doesn’t
know that I’m the one that’s been texting her and that husband of yours—”

“Alec!”
Irene shouts and, while my little outburst earlier went largely unnoticed,
Irene and her famous set of pipes bring everyone’s attention to our attention.

Alec
makes his way over and Irene immediately slaps him across the face.

“What
did you do?”

“Jesus!”
Alec exclaims. “What was that for?”

“
Errerric
here says that you did something, now what
wasssit
?” she asks. “
J’accuse
!”

“Oh
god,” Alec moans. “Don’t tell me we’re back to that again.”

“What
did you do?” Irene asks.

“I
told Miss Davis—”

“Miss
Davis?” Irene interrupts. “Is that some sort of
sexxx
thing? Have you been
stickin
’ it in other people,
‘
cause
you know my rule about
that.”

“I
know,” Alec says, “only if you’re there. But no, we’ve never done anything.
Miss Davis, Jessica, she’s the one we were doing that store remodel for and
Eric’s concerned that she’s not going to take him seriously.”

“That’s
not really my concern—”

“Oh,
Errerriac’s
a good man,” Irene says. She turns in the
direction of the greatest amount of people and loudly announces, “This right
herrre’s
a
gooood
man!”

“I
really appreciate that,” I tell her quietly, “but what we’re trying to tell you
is that she doesn’t know that I’m the guy who’s been texting with her, and I
don’t know if it would be such a good idea if she did now that your husband—”

“I’m
sorry I slapped you,” Irene interrupts, rubbing her husband’s face.

At
this point, I no longer have any impression that Irene’s going to be able to
give me any usable advice here. All I can hope for now is that I can somehow
convince her that telling Jessica who I am is a bad idea.

“Just
tell her how you feel,” Irene says. “I bet she’d be thrilled to know it’s you.”

“Well,
we’ve kind of had some problems in the past,” I tell Irene. “Things are getting
better, but—”

“Do
you want me to talk to
herrr
for you?” Irene asks.
“I’ll totally talk you up—I know! I’ll just tell her that you’ve got a huge
dick. Women love that. You have a huge dick, don’t you
Errkrr
?”

“I
really don’t know how to answer that question,” I say, looking to Alec for
guidance.

He
has none to offer.

“Jessica!”
Irene shouts.

“Don’t,”
I tell Irene. “I really don’t think that particular line of communication is
going to do me any favors.”

“Oh,
you’d be surprised,” Irene says.

I’m
furiously trying to think of some way to convince Irene not to drunkenly
announce to Jessica anything about what I’ve got in my pants. Don’t get me
wrong, I’m quite comfortable with what I’m packing, but it’s really not my idea
of small talk.

“Hey
Irene!” Jessica says and gives her a hug. “This is a great party.”

“Isn’t
it?” Irene asks. “I hear that you know my friend Eric, here.”

Oh
god.

“You
know,” Irene continues, “there’s something about Eric that I think you should—”

“Keg’s
free!” I interrupt and praise whatever deity made Irene an alcoholic because
she turns on her heel, quickly hands Alec her cup of beer and, without
prompting of any kind, two guys that I’ve never met in my life lift her into
position over the keg.

Irene
drinks like a champ for ten solid seconds and when she’s the right kind of
vertical again, she lifts her arms above her head and lets out a loud, “Woo!”
to the cheers of the partygoers.

“Damn,
girl,” Jessica says. “You’ve got an iron gullet.”

“
Yerr
dammn
skippity
I do,” Irene says. The smile drains from her face quickly, though, and Alec
grabs his wife’s hand.

“Come
on, sweetheart,” he says, “let’s get you to the bathroom.”

“Do
you think she’s going to be okay?” Jessica laughs.

“Yeah,
I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I tell her. “In the years that I’ve known the two of
them, I’ve never even heard of Irene throwing up. If anything, they’re probably
headed upstairs to—so, cool party, huh?” I ask.

Jessica
eyes me, saying, “Yeah, I guess. You know, it’s so funny that you should be
here. I had no idea that Irene and Alec were married. The times that I’ve been
around her, she’s never actually mentioned having a husband. In fact, and don’t
tell anybody this, the last time we were at a bar, she picked up this guy,
and—I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she says. “He’s your friend.”

“It’s
all right,” I chuckle. “They’re swingers.”

“Oh,”
Jessica says.

“Yeah,”
I smile. “Not really the kind of mental picture you want to have rattling
around in your brain, is it?”

“Not
really,” Jessica titters.

“So,
who’s your friend?” I ask.

“Oh,
that’s my sister, Kristin,” Jessica answers. “We’re actually supposed to be
meeting someone here.”

“Really?”
I ask. “Who are you looking for? I know most of the people here. I might be
able to help you out.”

“Oh,
I don’t think so,” she says. “It’s not really—I don’t know that I’d—”

“Let
me guess,” I interrupt. “It’s a guy.”

There’s
a strange apology on her face as she says, “Yeah.”

“All
right,” I tell her. “What’s his name? I’ll see if I can help you track him
down.”

“That’s
kind of the problem,” she says.

“Oh,
blind date?” I ask.

All
right, this way’s more fun than just coming clean.

“Something
like that,” she says. “Kristin gave me his number and we’ve kind of been
talking for a while.”

“What
kind of voice does he have?” I ask, really pushing my luck.

“I
don’t know,” she says. “We’ve never actually talked, talked.”

“What
do you mean?” I ask.

“Well,
I don’t know. It’s hard to explain,” she answers.

Really,
it’s just as simple as saying, “We’ve been texting for a few weeks now,” but I
certainly understand how this situation could make that difficult to convey.

“Well,”
I tell her, “your sister must know who he is if she’s the one that gave you his
number.”

“This
is awkward,” Jessica answers. “She got the number from Irene, but Kristin’s
never actually met the guy.”

“Ah,
psycho-stalker type then,” I ask with a smile.

“No,”
she says, “I will have you know that he is—well, I like talking to him, and I
think that’s about as much as you need to know about it.”

I
put my palms up, saying, “It’s all right. I was just joking. I’m sure he has a
relatively low body count.”

“Oh,
shut up,” she says, playfully hitting me on the arm.

“Well,
not knowing his name or anything about him, I really don’t know how much I can
help you,” I tell her.

“I
guess I could try texting him,” she says, “but Alec said he might not make it,
something about bad clams or something.”

“That
kind of sounds like something Alec could have omitted from the conversation,” I
tell her.

Even
though I was relatively certain that it was her, actually knowing it for a fact
and talking to her about myself in the third person has got me wanting to draw
this out as long as possible.

“I’m
going to send him a text,” she says. “If nothing else, at least I can find out
if he’s going to be able to make it tonight.”

She
pulls out her phone, and I’ve really got to get out of here. The jig is up if
she hears my phone go off right after she sends her message.

“Hey,
I’m going to go check on Irene,” I tell her.

“I
thought you—well, it sounded like you were implying that they were—you know
what?” she asks. “Never mind. It’s really none of my business.”

“No,”
I start, “it’s not that—”

She’s
texting at a rate that would be impressive if it weren’t so threatening, so I
just walk off, taking a right turn toward Alec and Irene’s bedroom.

I
get halfway down the hall, but stop as I hear the bed creaking.

It’s
never really made sense to me how she could go from looking like she was about
to refund to the conclusion that sex was what the doctor ordered, but it’s not
really something I spend much time thinking about.

I
pull out my phone and, as I go to turn the notification volume down, the text
comes through.

Unless
Jessica followed me, which I feel pretty safe in saying she didn’t, there’s no
way she could hear the sound.

The
message reads, “Hey, I’m at the party. Just wanted to know if you were still
coming.”

Think,
Eric, think.

I
have a couple of options here. I could send her a text in line with what Alec
had said and start sowing the seeds of distaste for that version of me, but
that doesn’t really seem like the right thing to do.

I
could tell her that I’m on my way to the party, but again I’d run into the
problem of either having to tell her that it’s been me the whole time, or “not
show up” and make her think that I’m a flake, but neither one of those options
really put me in any different a situation than I’m already in.

Finally,
I settle on what seems to be the best version of damage control available to me
at the moment, and I write, “Hey, sorry I’m late. I’ve had a bit of a family
thing and it’s taking me a bit longer to get out of here than I thought.”

There:
no bad clams, no “I’ll be right there,” just a plausible excuse that’s going to
let me tell her that I won’t be able to make it with little to no fallout.

Maybe
that’s the key. Maybe I just need to keep convincing her on both fronts that
I’m a standup guy then, when the moment’s right, I can tell her the truth about
everything and it’ll all come out perfectly.

That’s
exactly what I need to do: Just keep my plans vague enough that I never
actually have to act on any of them and I can just stay here in limbo while I
try to figure out just how much I like this woman.

I
know that I like her, but that’s about all I know at the moment. Well, and that
she constantly looks so good. Every inch of her.

My
phone chimes and I look down.

The
message reads, “Okay. Well, Kristin and I are going to be here for a while, so
just let me know when you’re here and we’ll meet up.”

“All
right,” I write back. “Hopefully I shouldn’t be much longer. I’d hate to miss
the chance to meet you.”

“Hey,
what are you doing?” Jessica asks just as I’m sending the text.

“Waiting
for the bathroom,” I tell her.

She
cocks her head to one side. “It’s upstairs.”