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Authors: Nancy Kelly

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My cell phone chirped. Jill again. She said, “We’re meeting at the Standard for drinks around six.”
“Okay.” No need to check my calendar. I was determinedly free. Mentally reminding myself to leave Nate a note, I said, “I’ll try to catch Kristl on her cell, too.”
“Good.” She hung up.
When Jill said “we,” she meant herself, Daphne, CeeCee, and me. Kristl was someone they’d met and knew of, and if I wanted to bring her along, no problem, but she’s my friend and therefore one tier outside of our group. Once in a while Jill brings Ian along, the
fucking
asshole. Why he wants to come has always been a mystery to me, but now that a marriage proposal is on the line, maybe that mystery’s solved. When “Jill-Ian” are together, no matter how pissed they are at each other, they’re just
sooooo
together. With a proposal on the table, I feared things might worsen.
Putting that aside, I changed into a short, black skirt and a sleeveless top with a plunging neckline. Not that I have a huge chest to show off; it’s just one of my better outfits. I gave another critical glance at my hair. Sometimes I doll it up with blond streaks. It was probably time for another appointment, I thought, though I shudder at the cost of a trip to the salon. Grabbing my keys, I headed for the door.
My hand on the knob, I suddenly heard the metallic jingle of a key inserted in the lock. I stepped back just as Nate the Nearly Normal swung open the door and stepped across the threshold. To my surprise he was accompanied by a girl at least fifteen years younger than his thirty-five years. My first impression was that she was just out of puberty.
“Ginny!” Nate said in surprise, though why it should surprise him to find me home didn’t make much sense. It was four o’clock. Cocktail hour, for sure.
“Hey,” I said, gazing pointedly at his little friend.
She smoothed her cap of jet-black hair and smiled shyly, her lashes fluttering.
“This is ... Tara.” He closed the door gently. “She works in the office.”
“Great.”
We all stood there.
Nate finally seemed to notice the way I was dressed. “Going out?”
“I’m meeting the girls at the Standard.”
“Were you going to leave me a note?”
“Of course,” I lied. I’d already forgotten.
Nate looked past me, his expression tired. “No, you weren’t,” he said. “That’s why I came home early. To pack.”
“To pack?”
“I’m moving in with Tara for a while. Don’t fake surprise, Ginny. I know you don’t want me here any more. I’ve already talked to the leasing agent. Surprise, surprise. My name isn’t even on the lease.”
“I always meant to put it there.” My head was reeling.
“I know.” His tone was short. “We both meant to do a lot of things. You were here first. You stay.”
I couldn’t catch my breath. There was no faking involved, no matter what Nate thought.
He peered closely at me. “This is what you want, right?”
Well, yeah ... yeah ... I’m pretty sure ... yeah ...
We stood there for a moment more, then Nate and Tara headed upstairs to the bedrooms. I heard drawers opening and murmured conversation as they apparently gathered his belongings. Numbness settled over me. This was too fast. I
didn’t
want him to leave. Not like this.
And I was suddenly furious. I wanted to kick Nate in the balls and drag Tara around the hardwood floor by her hair.
I did neither. Gritting my teeth I slammed out of the door.
I headed to the Standard and my friends.
Chapter
2
T
he Standard Hotel on Sunset is the best. A large, coffin-shaped glass case sits behind the reception desk where a girl in a bathing suit or something skimpy or sexy reposes, reading a book or half-sleeping, or something. It’s the human equivalent to a terrarium. Sometimes there’s a guy inside. Tossed around the lobby are pieces of contemporary furniture of the strange-looking, brightly colored and comfortably foamy type. The rug is thick and whitish, reminiscent of Walt Disney’s
The Shaggy Dog
. Globe chairs of hard, clear plastic hang from thick silver chains. There are two bars. The one on the west side is generally quiet but full and opens to the pool area which, before midnight, is available for anyone to wander by. In the northeast corner is the second bar, which doubles as a coffee shop during the day and therefore has an actual door accessing it from the main lobby. Go in the morning and you can order breakfast at one of the booths, but a look toward the bar and you’ll encounter your friends Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, and Jack Daniels. I’ve never asked for a highball with my omelet, but the day may come.
I was early, so I grabbed a place to sit by the pool and settled in to wait in the surprisingly hot, late-October evening air. Traffic had been light for rush hour, which normally puts a smile on my face, but tonight my mood was still dark. Nate’s defection hurt; there was no escaping that fact. My anger had deflated like a leaky balloon and now I felt dispirited. I could scarcely concentrate on my surroundings because of the churning in my gut.
Spying Jill and Daphne arriving together, I tried to pull myself out of my funk as I walked to meet them. We turned as one toward the breakfast-bar—a term which has new meaning at The Standard—and seated ourselves in one of the booths. CeeCee wasn’t here yet, which was typical. CeeCee moved to her own time.
I said, by way of greeting, “Check out the booze. If it’s got a guy’s name on it, it starts with a letter J.”
Jill considered this as she took a seat opposite me. She wore dark, teal green—a kind of a flowing ensemble that washed out her face but made her look like a butterfly about to take flight. She’s small and dark, with liquid brown eyes and a nice, albeit way too thin, figure. No wonder she gets proposed to, although her pugnacious jaw does have a tendency to put people off from time to time, especially men. Daphne, also brunette, is tinier and rounder, more voluptuous in a long-gone Marilyn Monroe style, and she possesses the whitest teeth, white even by blue-light-zapped southern California standards, in a heart-shaped face. In personality the two of them are as unlike as they can be: Jill’s a bulldog; Daphne’s a peacemaker.
And CeeCee never looks the same twice so you can’t even go there.
I pointed out Jim, Johnny, and Jack.
“And José,” Jill added, gesturing to José Cuervo tequila.
Daphne sighed and said, “I don’t really care, as long as somebody brings me something to drink soon. I’ve had a terrible day.”
No shit,
I thought, but I kept my lips sealed tightly. Though these are my closest friends, I wasn’t ready to spill what had happened with Nate. I couldn’t quite process it yet.
He
left
me
? I was supposed to be the leaver, not the leavee.
“What happened?” I asked Daphne.
“No, no, no,” Jill interrupted, shaking her finger at both of us. “Me first.” She turned to Daphne. “Ian bought me a ring.”
Daphne stared. “An
engagement
ring?”
“Yep. Can you believe it? The
fucking
asshole!”
Dazed, she turned to me for verification. “He bought her a ring?”
I pointed out practically, “I don’t see it.”
“That’s because I’m not wearing it,” Jill snapped. “I can’t wear it. Jesus, Blue. You, of all people, know how I feel.”
“Do I?”
“You can’t stand the idea of getting married, either,” she declared.
“Whoa,” I said. “That’s not exactly true.”
“Yes, it is.” She glared at me.
Jill and I tend to argue a lot. I don’t know why. Astrologers would probably blame it on the fact that we’re both Aries, although I’ve known a lot of other Aries with whom I’ve gotten along famously. They are, in fact, my favorite Zodiac sign, with Aquarians running a close second. Not that I pay much attention to that kind of thing, unless my daily horoscope mentions falling in love with a particular sign. This gives me lots to ponder, especially when I’m chatting up some new prospect—something I was going to have to start doing sooner than expected, I thought glumly. Why, now, did Nate’s bad habits recede into the distance? I should be concentrating on them and working up a judicious anger instead of bemoaning the ending. This was what I’d wanted. It galled me that he’d apparently known it all along.
“I can’t believe you’re engaged,” Daphne murmured to Jill.
“Did I say I was engaged?”
Daphne shrank into her seat, away from Jill, then lifted her brows at me.
“Jill, why don’t you tell us how to feel about your ring?” I suggested. “Then we won’t have to get the answer wrong, which is apparently what you think we’re doing.”
“I don’t know how I want you to feel,” she said tersely.
“Sleep on it,” I suggested. “And get back to us.”
CeeCee entered at that moment. Like me, her true hair color lies somewhere between blond and brown, but she’s currently cropped her hair really, really short and bleached it platinum with hot pink tips. Tonight she looked exotically trendy/punk with ripped jeans, a black tee shirt, and buff arms. She didn’t ask what was happening, just sat down and waited to catch up.
“I’m not engaged,” Jill said after a tense moment. “Ian just bought the ring to annoy me.”
“What ring?” asked CeeCee.
“Maybe you should call his bluff,” I said, waving down a cocktail waiter who finally came to take our order. “I want a stinger.”
The waiter, Latino and smoldering, looked at me askance. Daphne was the one who voiced, “What’s a stinger?” after he’d taken our orders and moved off.
“Not sure. One of those cool drinks from the fifties.”
“What happened to Ketel One vodka martinis?” Jill asked, naming my usual drink.
“I just want something else,” I said.
“It’s got milk and crème de menthe,” CeeCee informed me, glancing around the room.
“The stinger?” I made a face. Crème de menthe? Milk?
“You ordered it,” CeeCee pointed out unnecessarily.
I held my tongue, mainly because she was right. I’m leery of those creamy drinks. I always avoid white Russians or your basic Kahlua and cream. And coupled with crème de menthe ... ? Why had I veered from my usual? What was I trying to prove? I wanted to call the waiter back but he was busy taking another order.
“What am I supposed to do?” Jill demanded. “How do I call his bluff?”
Daphne sighed and looked at me.
“Say yes,” I suggested. At Jill’s look of horror, I added, “Then, what do you want?”
We all waited. Jill opened her mouth and closed it several times. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted, which was as close to winning an argument with her as anything I’ve experienced. Daphne looked at me with awe and even CeeCee seemed impressed.
Kristl breezed into the bar, looking distracted. Kristl’s a redhead—the dark-haired kind with an overall red hue so popular in Clairol and Nutrisse ads, but Kristl’s color is real. She’s Irish, with tiny little freckles and a mercurial temper that puts Jill’s bullishness to shame. Kristl’s too new to the scene for my friends to have seen this aspect of her personality, which is just as well. I don’t think I could take any more drama right now. Kristl also possesses one of those Barbie-doll type bodies with big boobs and a tiny waist that you’d swear couldn’t be real, but of course, it is. No wonder she’s been married three times. Jill may be adding up the proposals, but Kristl’s taking it to the mat, so to speak.
“Jill’s boyfriend bought her an engagement ring,” I greeted her. “Thought you’d appreciate that.”
Kristl snorted, plunked down in the open seat next to me and said a desultory hello to the table at large, finishing with, “God, I hate men.”
This was so un-Kristl-like that I thought I’d heard wrong. No one else realized the magnitude of the statement. In fact, Daphne took offense.
“I don’t,” she declared. “I want a man. I want a relationship. I’m not afraid to say it, even if it’s unpopular.”
Jill sniffed. “Give me a break.”
“Why do you hate men?” I asked Kristl. From the number of trips she’d made down the aisle you’d think she’d have felt a tad differently.
“Because they’re thick-skulled, limited, and can’t keep their eyes on you when a pretty girl walks through the door even if they try, which they don’t.”
“This isn’t news,” CeeCee drawled.
“Yeah, but it sucks every time it happens,” Kristl observed, burying her nose in her just-arrived drink, a mo-hito—lime, rum, sugar, etcetera. I envied her as my stinger was placed in front of me.
Daphne asked, “Doesn’t anybody want to hear about my bad day?”
The table’s silence was answer enough, though none of us meant to be so obvious. It hurt Daphne’s feelings, however, so she subsided into silence for a while. Kristl, involved in her own world, ignored Daphne and launched into her own tale of woe, “I’ve been seeing this guy for a while. Brandon.”
I nodded. I’d heard her speaking to him on the phone.
“And we’ve been sleeping together. It was more than three dates,” she added as an explanation.
That brought Daphne out of her funk. “You don’t have to sleep with someone just because you’ve been on more than three dates with them.”
“One date’s enough if it’s right,” CeeCee inserted. “Even half a date.”
“But three dates you have to fish or cut bait,” Kristl pointed out. “And Blue, you know how I feel about cutting bait.” My other friends’ eyes swung toward me, and I could read the question marks forming above their heads. I hadn’t really brought them up to speed on Kristl.
“You don’t have to sleep with them ever,” Daphne argued.
“Shut up and let her finish,” Jill ordered.
Daphne straightened. “Well ... sorr–eee ...”
Kristl tried to light up a cigarette and we all stopped her at once. Even though she works in a bar she can’t seem to remember that in California—there is no indoor smoking, period. It’s the law. Kristl’s from Oregon and hasn’t quite woken up yet.
She swore without any real heat, put the cigarette away and picked up the thread of her story. “So, we’ve been having sex for a while, Brandon and I.”
CeeCee asked, “Good sex, bad sex, or okay sex? Most sex is just okay sex. We know that. Don’t feel bad. Go on.”
“It was pretty good sex,” Kristl related. “I was really getting into it. And I started thinking, you know, about marriage ...”
“No,” I stated flatly.
“And I can’t get married again. I mean, the ink’s barely dry on the last divorce settlement.”
“The last?” Jill asked.
“She’s been married
trés
times,” I said, adding, “Get anything good out of that one?”
“No.”
I grunted an acknowledgment. Three marriages and she always got screwed. One could not say Kristl was in it for the money.
“So, to get my head straight, I went right out and tried to meet another guy,” Kristl finished, fiddling with her pack of cigarettes. “Just to be safe.”
Daphne and Jill looked to me for elucidation and CeeCee asked the obvious question, “Safe from what?”
Kristl didn’t immediately explain, so I said, “If she sleeps with a guy, she marries him. She slept with Brandon, ergo she’s worried she might be heading for the aisle again soon.”
“They do have to ask, though,” Jill pointed out, as if Kristl were getting ahead of herself.
“They ask,” I said.
“Wow,” Daphne said, faintly admiring.
CeeCee regarded Kristl with pity. “You’ve only slept with three guys?”
“Oh, there were a few I managed to get away from after a quick night, but not many. Not enough,” Kristl admitted. “Basically, yes. I only count sleeping with three of them, and they’re the ones I married. Only now I really have to count Brandon, so it’s four.”
“You can’t not count times,” Daphne said.
“Oh, yes, you can,” I said. “I don’t count Charlie.”
Jill snorted. “Who would?”
“Why don’t you count him?” Daphne asked.
“Because he was so godawful in bed.” It wasn’t completely the truth but close enough to count.
“Who’s Charlie?” Kristl asked.
“My first relationship of any consequence. Don’t make me think about him. It was my last year of high school.” Though we were from the same area, Kristl and I had attended different high schools and I’d managed to keep some things to myself. Not so with my college friends. They’d squeezed almost every bit of worthwhile, or even mildly interesting, information on my life out of me.
BOOK: Ginny Blue's Boyfriends
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