No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (6 page)

People were dancing and swaying to the beat. My voice rose to a wail, and I began to bump and gyrate like I never had before. The crowd was reeling and so was I. I had no idea I was such an exhibitionist! By the end of the song the entire club was on its feet, whooping and shouting out the lyrics. The last note sounded and Kenny and I collapsed in each other’s arms. We took our bows as the crowd roared their approval. The whole thing was entirely thrilling.

After a few minutes the noise died down and I slowly began to focus on the crowd below me. Franny and Eddie stood arm in arm, talking animatedly to some guy standing next to them. Eddie slapped him on the back and then did one of those fake boxing moves that guys do. The guy dodged and laughed. Then he reached around Eddie to kiss Franny on the cheek. And when he did, my heart fell right out of that tube top and onto the floor.

He was more beautiful than I’d remembered. More rugged. Sadder, older, leaner. He looked up and our eyes locked onto each other. A slow smile spread across his face, and I felt a familiar “rush” somewhere just below my belly.
Fuck. This can’t be happening.
How long had he been there, watching me?

“Oh, God,” I groaned, inwardly. During “Natural Woman” I’d bent down to adjust the mic and my left boob popped out of the tube top. I was so drunk it took a full minute to realize I was paddling with one oar out of the water. No
wonder
the man was smiling! I flushed with embarrassment and glanced away.

Then an idea occurred to me. A wild, hopeful idea. Maybe this wasn’t happening at all. Maybe this was one of those recurring dreams, where you show up at high school naked, and to make matters worse, you have a term test only you haven’t been to class all year. I pinched myself to test my theory. Ow!
Fuck.

“Okay,” I thought, taking a deep breath. “This is not exactly the reunion I’d hoped for, but hell, I’m a professional. I’m trained to handle any situation with grace and composure. I can salvage this.” Meeting his gaze once again, I pushed my sopping wet bangs off my face and returned the smile.

“Bobby. How good to see you.” I took a step forward and promptly fell off the edge of the stage, knocking myself out.

Shit. My head hurt. I opened my eyes and found five pair staring back at me.

“I’m fine.” I tried to sit up but everyone was crowded around.

“Should I get a doctor?” I recognized Janine’s voice through the ringing in my ears. “Larry Mitchell’s here. Maybe he should look at her.” Larry Mitchell is a veterinarian.

“Here, let me do it. I’m trained in emergency procedure.” Bobby whipped out a tiny flashlight from his key chain and leaned over me. His smoky blue eyes peered intently into mine. “Brandy, can you sit up?”

“Of course I can sit up.” Ow.

“Here, look into the light.”

“Guys, this is so unnecessary. Really, I’m fine.”

Bobby flashed me another smile. “Humor me.” I sat stock still while he gently prodded my forehead with his fingers. A lump was beginning to form over my right eye. I guess I should have been concerned about a possible concussion, but I was too busy enjoying the feel of his hands on my face to worry about a little thing like brain damage. He leaned in closer. I could feel his breath, warm on my neck, and I shivered. I closed my eyes and let the sensations wash over me.

“Um, Brandy?”

“Hmm?”

“Could you open your eyes? I want to see if your pupils are dilated.”

My eyes flew open. Oh my God. There I was practically having an orgasm, and all the poor guy wanted to do was check for vital signs. I felt like a colossal idiot.

I pushed Bobby’s hand away and sat up.
Shit. Double shit!
Mindy Rebowitz was striding towards us, her husband, Terrence, in tow.

“Are you alright?” she asked with exaggerated concern. “When I saw you fall off the stage, I thought, ‘that poor girl. How will she ever live it down?’”

Concussion or no concussion I struggled to my feet and planted my hands squarely on Mindy’s shoulders. “Live
this
down, why don’t ya?” I gave her a solid shove and she landed on her big, post partum ass. I half expected Terrence to spring to her rescue, but he just stood there trying not to crack up.

“Bobby,” Mindy screamed. “She attacked me! You saw it happen.” She looked from Fran, to Paul, to Janine, to John. “You’re all witnesses. I want her arrested!” Fran, Paul, Janine and John all started mumbling at once about having something important to take care of and scurried off in different directions.

“Relax, Mindy,” Terrence said, extending a hand to his prone wife. “You’ve been begging for it all evening.” Wow, Terrence grew
cajones
while I’ve been gone. Very impressive. He winked at me and dragged Mindy away, leaving just Bobby and me.

“Alone at last,” Bobby joked.

“Where’s your wife?” I blurted out. What is
wrong
with me? Emotion flickered across Bobby’s face, but I was too slow to read it.
Anger? Sadness?
“I’m sorry. That was rude. I-I just thought she’d be here.”

“She’s out of town.” All signs of joking were gone.

“Oh. Well, that would explain why she’s not here.” I caught an almost imperceptible sigh before he answered.

“Yeah, I guess it would.”

“So, I hear congratulations are in order—I mean, on your wife and baby.”

“Thanks.”

I nodded my head as if he’d just said something quite remarkable. We stood there for a moment, silently appraising each other. I wondered if he’d noticed my weight loss. I wondered if he liked it. I wondered if he was happy in his marriage, how long it took to get a Mexican divorce and if he asked me to come home with him tonight, what my answer would be. I wondered if Jesus was judging my musings and finding me wanting as a Christian. Maybe the Jews are less judgmental. Hah!

The sound of his voice stirred me out of my reverie. “So, how have you been?” he asked.

Lonely, frustrated.
I gave a quick scan over that all too familiar body.
Horny.

“Great! I have a job I adore, tons of friends; the weather in L.A. is to die for. What’s not to love about my life?”
Who is this woman, and why doesn’t she SHUT UH-UP!

“I’m happy for you, Brandy.” He cut me that old familiar grin, and for a brief moment I felt a pang so deep I couldn’t breathe. I struggled to regain my composure.

“Well, what about you?” I asked ho-hoing like some demented Santa on crack. “Lots of changes in your life, I hear.”

“You could say that.”

Oh Christ, I’m not ready for the “I’m deliriously happy with my wife and child” speech. I just prayed he didn’t whip out the family photos.

I waited a beat. When he didn’t elaborate, I quickly went in search of another topic. I looked down at my shoes, adjusted my top and cleared my throat a few times. When I looked up again, he was still there. This was just too weird. How could we be so awkward with each other? There was a time when we knew everything there was to know about one another. We shared it all—our hopes, our dreams, our fears, our first orgasms involving another person. Well, at least
I
did. Is this really the same guy who used to eat Chinese food, naked, off my stomach? This really sucks!

It had taken me four years to screw up the courage to face him again. I’d dreamed about this moment since I’d first gotten on the plane. I was going to knock his socks off with my ravishing beauty, my daring wit and my newfound sophistication. I’d make him sorry he’d ever left me. My fantasies definitely did not include long, uncomfortable silences, and a yearning to rip his clothes off and pin him to the floor in a mad, passionate embrace.
He
was supposed to feel that way about
me
.

The silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. And then, just when it seemed like it couldn’t get any worse, it did. In spades.

The band had left the stage and a D.J. had taken over and was playing audience requests. Bobby was gearing up to make a polite exit and I was trying to beat him to it. And that’s when we heard it—the unmistakable strains of “Bobby’s Girl.”

“I wanna be Bobby’s girl, I wanna be Bobby’s girl, that’s the most important thing to me.”

My hands flew up to my face. “I didn’t—”

“Neither did I—”

“This is so—”

“Who would—”

The answer came to us, simultaneously.
“Mindy!”
We stood there, paralyzed, as those dopey lyrics ran on and on. Somewhere in the background, someone snickered.

“Ah, listen, Brandy. I’ve got to go. It was good seeing you.”

“You too, Bobby.” I extended my hand to shake his, and he reached around for a hug but stopped midway when he realized I wasn’t planning on full body contact. Then I felt bad because he looked embarrassed, so I tried to make it look like I was planning to hug him all along. I reached out and we bumped heads awkwardly, and we ended up in a half-assed embrace, which I made worse by over compensating with a friendly goodbye kiss on his cheek. Only he moved, and I ended up grazing his neck instead. How pathetic is that!

The gang took a taxi home because we were all too drunk to drive. Fran tried to grill me about Bobby, but I pretended to fall asleep, complete with fake snoring. I wasn’t about to pour my heart out in front of Eddie and the cab driver. The cabbie turned out to be a hell of a nice guy from Saudi Arabia. He and Janine exchanged phone numbers.

When I got home I walked straight upstairs to the bedroom. I didn’t bother to wash my face or change my clothes. I just turned on the bathroom light, threw back the covers on the bed, snuggled under the blankets and cried myself to sleep.

N
ote to self: I am not a Waring Blender and therefore, should not act like one.

I woke up with the Mother of all hangovers. Mixing Tequila, single malt and club soda seemed like a festive idea last night, but in the clear light of day it just seemed really, really wrong. I turned my head carefully, lest it fall off and roll under the bed.

The clock said “six thirty a.m.” Oh my God. I’d been asleep for less than four hours, and Johnny was picking me up in thirty minutes. Whatever possessed me to agree to an early morning trip to the Jersey shore? I picked up the phone and dialed his number.

“You’re not crapping out on me.”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Who else would it be?”

“I’m tired.” I whined.

“You can sleep in the car.”

“But, I don’t feel well. I could end up getting sick all over the Beemer.” That made him pause, but he was back in the race before I’d taken my first victory lap.

“So, you’ll hang your head out the window. We’re driving downwind. No backsplash.”

“Eeww!”

“You’re the one who brought it up in the first place, Sunshine.” I flipped him the bird.

“You just gave me the finger,” he huffed, indignantly.

“No, I didn’t.”
How did he know?

“Look, it’s a long drive, and you promised to come with me.”

“I didn’t exactly promise,” I sulked. “Oh, alright. Give me an extra fifteen minutes to hop in the shower.”

“That’s my girl,” John said, significantly cheered. “Just take some hair of the dog and you’ll be fine.”

“Screw ‘hair of the dog.’ Bring me chocolate.”

I swore to myself that I would not look in the mirror, but morbid curiosity got the better of me. I tiptoed into the bathroom and sneaked up on my reflection. Eeek!

Turning on the shower full blast, I peeled off last night’s outfit and jumped in. Five pounds of ruined make-up slid off my face and down the drain. I washed my hair twice, removing all traces of Janine’s hairspray. Then I climbed out and toweled off and spent the remaining five minutes trying to blow dry my hair into some sort of style. It refused, and rather than get into a big fight with it, I let it hang straight to my shoulders, per usual. My hair is so impossible to style they almost considered making me wear a wig at work. But the producer, a very sweet kid of twenty-two, said he thought it looked sexy. At twenty-two, everything looks sexy.

I had just climbed into my jean jacket when a horn tooted outside. I grabbed my bag and my keys and headed out the door.

My parents’ neighbor, Mrs. Gentile, glared at me from her front porch as she bent down to collect her newspaper. She and my mother have had a running feud for the past twenty-odd years. It all started when my mother bought a ten foot inflatable Santa one Christmas, to put out on the lawn. Mrs. Gentile said it dwarfed her manger and was an affront to Baby Jesus. My mother tried to reason with her, citing the fact that my father, being Jewish, wanted to join in the festivities with a non-denominational, yet universally recognized symbol of joy and generosity. Mrs. Gentile called my mother’s explanation a “heathen crock of shit” and stuck to her guns, literally.

At three o’clock in the morning, shots rang out in our normally peaceful neighborhood. The police arrived ten minutes later, to find Santa dead on the lawn. No charges were pressed, but the incident put a damper on neighborly relations that to this day have yet to be repaired. Every year at Christmas, my mother makes a big show of dragging out the ten foot Santa, complete with a huge bandage strapped over his heart. It causes Mrs. Gentile no end of grief.

We headed toward the bridge. Traffic was light this time of morning. Most of the older people in the neighborhood were home, puttering around the house and garden, while the younger ones were still in bed, recuperating from their Friday night out on the town. I yawned a big yawn, wishing I were one of the ones still in bed.

“Here,” Johnny said, sweeping a hand over the console. “I figured you’d need this.” He handed me a large double shot mocha, which I gratefully accepted. I took my first sip and breathed a satisfied sigh.

“You’re a good man, John Marchiano.”

“That’s not what you were saying thirty minutes ago.”

“Thirty minutes ago I was undernourished. Now, I am thoroughly content and all is right with the world.”