Night of the Living Deb (2 page)

“Grab my head,” he demanded in Brooklynese that didn’t go at all with his striking Asian features.

Instead of issuing a protest, as a good twenty-firstcentury feminist would, I did as he asked, not sure of any way out of this except through it. And maybe I’d have a good story to tell my grandchildren someday besides.
You want to hear about the night your meemaw had a fling with a Chippendales’ dancer?

With impossible ease he lifted me, as I clung to his head and hooked my feet at the ankles, my legs around his neck.

He shimmied and gyrated, oblivious to the fact that my fingers clutched his hair and the back of his skull. I was upside down, the blood rushing to my face, heating my cheeks.

The world swirled around me, and I giggled hysterically, feeling like a complete idiot . . . and enjoying myself in spite of it all.

Until Allie’s two bucks’ worth was up, and he lowered me to the chair. Like a spineless jellyfish, I slid against the metal frame, and my dark-haired, um, friend slithered his slick body up against me so that his scent filled my nose.

He finished me off with a kiss on the forehead.

Poof.

He was gone.

Slimed by his sweat, still breathing hard, I couldn’t move for a full minute after.

It was Allie who finally dragged me to my feet, though my knees felt strangely wobbly.

“Girl, that was crazier than any Six Flags ride I’ve ever seen,” said Brian’s smiling ex, slinging an arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze.

For a fleeting instant, I almost liked her.

“Thank God they don’t allow pictures,” was all I could come up with, and I meant it. “That’s one Kodak moment that should rest in peace.”

“Ah, but that would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?”

My stomach did a fast nosedive, not liking her tone in the least. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Which is when Allie produced her cell phone, flipped it open, and stuck the tiny screen in my face. I squinted and saw a miniversion of someone who looked very much like me, dangling from the neck of a hard-bodied Chippie. I was moving—
he
was moving—it was a video, for crud’s sake.

“Oh, no,” I breathed.

“Oh, yes.” Allie grinned broadly. “Can’t wait to see Brian’s face when I download this baby and shoot him a copy.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Of course I would.”

“But—”

She cut me off before I could come up with another lame appeal.

“Sweetie, I’m a defense attorney. I eat nails for breakfast.

This”—she tapped her cell—“is too delicious for words.”

Then I remembered why I didn’t like her.

It was simple, really.

Allie Price was a Grade-A bitch.

Chapter 2

It was just past midnight when I got back to my condo in North Dallas, far away from shrieking women, blinding lasers, and gyrating Chippies; not to mention the bride-to-be from Pittsburgh

who’d had one too many vodkatinis and who, I sorely hoped, would puke all over the hand-stitched leather interior of Allie Price’s brand-new BMW Roadster.

I pulled my Jeep Wrangler into an open slot in front of my building, half expecting to spot Brian’s red Acura, to catch him sprawled on my porch steps, working off a beer buzz and waiting for me to get home.

But no such luck.

He’d said not to expect him tonight unless he called first; that he’d probably head back to his apartment after he dropped off Matty. He didn’t like waking me with knocks on the door after midnight (which also woke up nosy neighbors), and we hadn’t yet reached the “exchanging keys” point—my call, as I’d been independent for far too long and fiercely protected my privacy.

Still, I’d assured him that he was more than welcome to come by at any time, so long as I was awake enough to hear him rapping.

The fact was that I missed him.

I hadn’t gotten to see Malone very much lately. He’d been working so hard on some big case or another. I could never keep track, and he didn’t go into detail about them besides, or maybe it was that I didn’t ask. He probably spent more time with that damn Allie than with me, though I tried not to think about it like that.

Maybe I didn’t feel all warm and fuzzy toward his exgirlfriend, but I’d gotten over being jealous of her months ago. Okay, weeks. Um, days?

All right, I was still working on it.

One thing I did know and appreciate was that he wasn’t anywhere near her at the moment. They couldn’t have had their heads bent over papers full of legalese back at the firm, because I’d been with Allie watching half-naked men dance for our viewing pleasure; because of her, I smelled like cheap cologne and sweaty Chippendale. As sure as shooting, I’d pay for it, too.

I thought of my legs wrapped around that black-haired Chippie’s neck and imagined Brian viewing it on his PC at the law firm on Monday morning while he dribbled hot coffee on his tie.

Oy.

With a sigh, I stabbed my key in the lock (wishing it were Allie’s black heart), telling myself I didn’t care if Brian saw the minivideo on Blondie’s cell phone. He knew where I’d gone. Heck, he’d practically insisted. So what if things had gotten a tad crazy? Wasn’t that what was supposed to happen on a girls’ night out?

Besides, he couldn’t get on my case when he’d spent the evening at a strip club doing the “boys will be boys”

thing, could he?

All’s fair in love and bachelor parties, right?

I tossed my purse and keys onto the kitchen table, thought about getting something to eat, but nixed the idea.

It was nearly morning—well, technically it
was
morning— and I was out of Häagen-Dazs besides.

So I went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, before donning a worn pair of flannel pajamas.

I plugged in my cell to charge it then cut the lights, lit a caramel-vanilla candle, curled up in a corner of the sofa and dared to check my landline for messages.

As I suspected, I had awaiting me a prolonged monologue from Cissy aka Her Highness of Highland Park née Mother Superior Attitude:

“Andrea, darlin’, please, don’t forget about brunch tomorrow.

Stephen and I have a reservation at the Mansion, and we’re expectin’ you and Mr. Malone to join us. I’ve got a few ideas for your birthday dinner, which I know you asked me not to do, but you’re my only child so forgive me if I want to throw you a little party at my house. I thought we’d have salmon, perhaps, with spinach orzo and a nice chocolate soufflé for dessert. . . .”

Salmon?

Mother knows I detest any food that’s remotely fishy, except when it comes in shells. I do love crab cakes.

As for dessert, I rolled my eyes at the idea of anything but layer cake for my birthday. Chocolate with buttercream frosting, like I’d had when I was a kid. How could you put over thirty candles in a soufflé? Wouldn’t they sink?

“. . . I thought I’d take you shopping at Stanley Korshak for a special outfit, because I know what’s in your closet. . . .”

Oh, boy, Stanley Korshak at the Crescent, where Mother made sure they had my measurements on file in the bridal salon, “just in case.”

“I’ll expect a ring before ten, so I know if you’re both coming, or if it’ll just be you
—
”

I hit Delete, knowing it was too late to call her back now, telling myself to remember to phone in the morning by the anointed time or I’d never hear the last of it.

Yawning, I leaned deeper into the sofa cushions, wishing that I had a good excuse for skipping brunch, as I’d rather stay burrowed beneath the covers and sleep in tomorrow after spending tonight with Allie and the Chippies.

I wagered Brian would be keen on sleeping off his evening, too.

Besides, the Mansion on Turtle Creek was Mother’s turf, not mine. A five-star hotel and restaurant where shirts and shoes (and coats and ties) were required, preferably couture and not off the rack. Though they did have moanworthy pancakes with banana topping, and I tried to focus on that.

As long as I was done by noon, so I could spend the rest of Sunday alone with Brian as opposed to playing “double date” with Cissy and her new boyfriend.

Oh, no,
she
didn’t call him her boyfriend, but I did.

Behind her back.

His name was Stephen Howard, and he was a former IRS agent with a military background. Admittedly, a standup guy, though it was hard to imagine my mother with anyone but Daddy. My father had died a dozen years ago, right before I was set to debut (and had bailed, to Cissy’s everlasting chagrin). Mother’s loyalty to my daddy might give her pause about what to call her new relationship. But Stephen was her beau, just the same. Sent her flowers, took her out to dinner, escorted her to the symphony; even coughed up big bucks for tickets to ritzy charity functions.

If anyone asked me—and they didn’t—I’d say the man was smitten.

Cissy enjoyed his company, I knew that much. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure where my mother stood, and I wasn’t any more certain I wanted to know. As an only child and a daddy’s girl, it was difficult to imagine my sixty-year-old, Chanel-wearing mummy had a love life.

Sometimes it was best to be left in the dark.

As I was—literally—that very moment.

My eyes soaked in the dim of the room, so soothing after the assault of laser lights. My ears enjoyed the solitude, too.

I watched the candlelight flicker, casting pale shadows on the walls of my tiny living room. I tipped my head so my gaze fell upon an oil painting I’d hung on the wall above the fireplace, one I’d finished not long ago and had framed. The brilliant slashes of color appeared darker in the absence of a bright light, but I smiled as I studied it through the flickering flame. I thought about an offer made by a friend who had opened a gallery in a newly gentrified area of Oak Cliff, and I considered saying yes, as I’d always wanted to see one of my works on display.

Though I wasn’t inclined to sell.

I spent so much time on the computer these days, designing Web sites for foundling or struggling humanitarian organizations that often couldn’t foot my bill. That’s when my trust fund came in handy, so I could survive and make time for the thing I loved most: my art.

I had experimented over the years, trying to find my own voice, my unique style with pen and ink, and finally brush and canvas.

Resting my chin on my knees, I stared at the abstract some more, at the way the heavy strokes of gold seemed to dance in the wavering candlelight, at how deep the blue seemed, how truly crimson the red. When Brian had asked what I would call the painting, as wild as it was, I laughed

and said,
“Andy’s Brain.”

“I like it,” he’d told me, and I couldn’t tell if he was

teasing or not.

I pulled the throw from the sofa arm and drew it over me, feeling an ache for him and deciding I’d try to stay awake for a while more, see if he called. Closing my eyes, I pictured the boyish face I knew so well, the bright blue eyes behind the wire-rims, the tousled hair that tempted a thorough brushing; though I liked the unruly way it fell onto his brow. It was the only thing about Brian that
was
unruly.

He was so clean-cut, such a straight-arrow, not the kind of guy I was normally attracted to, which, in the past, had translated into mostly unemployed artists-cum-bartenders.

Definitely not lawyers who went to work in suits, collected regular paychecks, and paid their own rent.

So, in an odd way, Brian Malone was a breath of fresh air.

He reminded me so much of my father, the calm he wore like a mantle, the sense that everything would be all right. He had the confident demeanor of a Boy Scout who knew how to start a fire with a stick and wore a face of calm even when trouble simmered below the surface.

The only way I could sense something was wrong was when he started to stammer the least little bit. That spoke volumes.

I was still learning to pick up signals from him.

Malone could be hard to read at times. He didn’t feel the need to talk unless he had something to say. He was a great listener, balanced out my tendency toward yakking with a quiet reserve. But there were moments when I sensed he was holding back from me, keeping things bottled up rather than opening up. Maybe that was a common genetic deficiency in all men—at least, the straight ones—

still, it bothered me, like he didn’t trust me enough to share.

He never spoke of his job much, except to sporadically complain about the hours, or the drudge-work dumped upon him as a junior associate. Once in a blue moon, he’d spill a few details about a case. In the beginning, I’d asked more questions, out of curiosity if nothing else; but I’d stopped doing that, as I didn’t want to pry. If he needed to communicate, I figured that was up to him, right?

It was a tug of war between a Left Brain (him) and a Right Brain (me).

The rational vs. the temperamental.

Analytical vs. emotional.

Honestly, when I mulled over how diametrically opposite we were, it seemed amazing that we’d come together at all, and we wouldn’t have, strangely enough, had Cissy not interfered. Though, lately, she’d been downplaying Brian’s and my relationship, not sure she liked the idea that her unmarried daughter had a boyfriend who stayed overnight without the sanctity of marriage to bind him to me, to ensure he came home at night (like a wedding ring had that much power). Unfortunately, Mother got regular reports on the subject from Penny George, my nosy neighbour and member of Cissy’s Bible study group at Highland Park Presbyterian.

Was there a place in Heaven reserved for tattletales?
I wondered.

Compared to Brian’s reserve, I was an open book. I wore my heart on my sleeve. Said what was on my mind without a pesky internal censor. Whatever Malone didn’t know about me—like my past relationships, which were part of my “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy—wasn’t worth knowing.

My life in a nutshell: prep school grad, debutante dropout, art school not Ivy League, jeans not couture, paint over pearls.