Picture Perfect (15 page)

After the last word leaves her lips, Justine closes the book and removes her glasses. She lowers her eyes, as if in prayer, and a reverent silence permeates the small space. Finally, she lifts her gaze to the audience, which responds with a delicate clapping that slowly intensifies like a thunder storm growing nearer and nearer. The sound of all those individuals so moved by her work gives me goose bumps, and the phrase,
like a woman’s heart accepting full sunlight after

everything she grieved about disappears,
swirls in my mind.

Suddenly, moisture gathers in the corners of my eyes and a tightness grips the back of my throat. I use the edge of my cookie-smudged napkin to dab the tears away before anyone can notice, but a powerful sob racks my chest, and I am overcome with an inexplicable grief. I weave quickly through the still applauding crowd to a hidden space behind a row of musty books where I can stifle my bewildering weepiness. But it persists, and, soon, my vision is a watery blur of greys and blues and browns. My napkin, soaked through, is useless by now.

A masculine hand belonging, I presume, to Lucas offers me a handkerchief, and I gratefully accept it. But once my tears are dried and my sight restored, and I discover who the bearer really is, I nearly faint.

“I said I was I coming for you,” Jack says with a sort of Luke Skywalker-esque naive persistence. “And I never break a promise.”

Chapter 11

“Jack?” I croak, not sure if I’m hallucinating or if the tall, tuxedoed and disarmingly dashing man standing before me really is the motorcycle-riding, leather jacket-wearing, tantrum-throwing actor who walked out of my office in a disappointed huff three days ago.

“The one and only,” he says, taking the handkerchief he’d loaned me only seconds before and neatly folding it over in his hands. He carefully brushes the soft fabric lightly against my cheek, and I marvel at how remarkably tender he can be while still managing to thoroughly irritate the hell out of me.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, shoving his hand away.

“I’ve always wanted to aid a damsel in distress.”

“I’m not in distress, and I certainly wouldn’t need your help if I was.”

“I beg to differ, madam. If ever a lady needed my help, it’s you.” He holds up the handkerchief. “And I have the proof right here.”

I swipe it out of his hands and dab under my eyes. “I’m absolutely fine. I was just moved by Justine’s poem. It happens, you know. She’s very talented.”

“I have no doubt about that. But I don’t think one little poem is cause enough for all these waterworks, seeing how you’re the only one crying in the joint.”

“I’m sure I’m not,” I say, as another wave of despair threatens to wash over me. What in the hell has triggered this unstoppable crying jag? It’s so not like me!

Jack swivels his head around, taking in the room full of people. “No, I think you are. And I also think you could use more than just a hankie to sop up those tears. A hug or two might actually be called for.”

Jack opens his arms, waiting for me to lean into him, but I give him a look that says I’m nowhere near huggable just now.

“Come on, Lauren. Don’t pretend you don’t want this?”

I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him.

“Hug it out. You know you want to.”

“Jack,” I say, “I’m really not in the mood for your antics right now.”

“Antics?” He drops his arms. “Offering you a hug is antics? You’re in more trouble than I thought.”

And before I can put up my hands in protest, Jack wraps his arms around me. He holds me close to him as he rocks gently from side to side, shushing me like a mother would a crying child. I spend a good ten seconds wriggling beneath his arms, trying to free myself from his ridiculous mothering, but then I relax into him. I don’t know if it’s because I’m too weary to fight him any longer, or because I really do just need a big old bear hug. Either way, when he senses my muscles ease, he loosens his grip and gently strokes my back. I pull away just enough to look up at him, and that’s when his lips come down on mine.

Soft and silky, his kiss is a light caress that reminds me just how little love I’ve had over the past several months. And in no time, I’m pressing harder against him, dragging my nails across his back and biting at his lip, sucking on his tongue and generally acting like an un-chaperoned teen, drunk on lust and wine coolers.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, his voice thick.

“Yeah.”

Within seconds, we don our coats and step out into the crackingly cold night. He chases after a taxi, and once inside, our lips lock and hands rove. He peels himself away long enough to give the driver an address, but before the cabbie can even nod in agreement, his mouth is back in make-out mode, and his fingers are sneaking up my dress.  

Our cab pulls up in front of a modest-looking hotel tucked between historic brownstone homes on a quiet, tree-lined street in Chelsea, and we are deposited on the curb before either of us manages to lose an article of clothing in the backseat. Jack takes my hand and leads me up the steps of the hotel and pulls out a key attached to a neon orange slinky-like plastic bracelet and unlocks the door. I follow him inside the vestibule and through another security door.

I glance around quickly at my surroundings and surmise that this is one of those budget-friendly hotels I’ve often seen featured on episodes of
Law & Order
where naïve tourists wind up with twenty-two caliber bullet holes in their heads.  A long mirror lines the corridor of a dimly lit hall leading to a staircase covered in green carpeting, threadbare from years of use. The place is quiet. Eerily so, as if no one is manning the front desk, which I presume is hidden behind the green velvet curtained doorway to the left of the stairway. I half expect to see a little old woman come rushing out in her nightcap and housecoat, carrying a candle in one hand and an axe in the other. I’m just holding out hope that Jack’s booked the penthouse suite, and the drab decor is really just a rouse to keep the cat burglars away.

Jack ushers me into a tiny elevator and presses the button for the ninth floor. The lift jolts into action, and as we climb to our destination, Jack’s hand slides around my back. He pulls me to him and kisses me, but I’m too concerned about the rickety elevator banging its way up to the ninth floor without snapping a cable and sending us to our deaths to actually reciprocate.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Are you sure this hotel is safe?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll protect you.”

The elevator finally reaches the ninth floor, and Jack slides open the door. He guides me down a well-lit hallway covered in tropical print pineapple wallpaper. The carpet is clean, if a little worn, and when we reach his door, I am pleased to see not one, but two deadbolts on it. He pulls me close to him as he unlocks the room and swiftly maneuvers me inside. As he flips on the light I am even more pleased to see that the room is clean and tidy with matching dark wood furniture reminiscent of British Colonialism. I am, however, somewhat disappointed at the sight of a lone twin bed tucked in the corner. This is not exactly what I was hoping to find, but I can’t say that I’m surprised.

My hot young lover may be one of the fastest rising stars in Hollywood, but he likely isn’t yet raking in the dough like A-list celebrities. Until an actor gets enough screen time to his credit, paydays are fairly few and far between. Picking up bit parts here and there does little more than pay the bills in Tinsel Town. I’m sure his days as a struggling actor are soon behind him, but until he can get a few leading roles in some big box office pictures, he’ll probably need to continue his budget-friendly lifestyle. And that usually means trips to New York City are accompanied by cruddy hotels and kid-sized beds.

Jack turns on a desk lamp and shuts off the overhead light, setting the mood I suppose. He takes my coat and carefully hangs it up in the wardrobe, which is otherwise empty. After removing his own, he slips out of his tuxedo jacket and undoes his tie, dragging it slowly through the collar of his shirt while staring intently at me. I realize this is supposed to turn me on, but I’m so distracted by the low-rent setting that I can’t help but let loose a little giggle at the absurdity of this whole seduction.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I manage through suppressed laughter.

He cocks a brow at me and plants his hands on his hips.

“It’s just…it’s so
college-coed-loses-her-virginity-after-the-winter-formal-then-gets- axed-in-the-shower
, you know?”

Jack takes in his surroundings. “What can I say? I’m on a budget.”

“Oh, I’m not knocking it,” I say quickly to prevent any hurt feelings. “It just has my imagination running a little rampant.”

“I promise nothing bad will happen to you here. Trust me.” 

“I trust you,” I say taking in a breath as he approaches me, slides his hands around my waist, and kisses my neck.

Jack’s erection presses against my pelvis, and I rake my fingers through his wavy hair. Soon, all thoughts of budget hotels and college coeds evaporate as Jack’s hands slip beneath my dress and my lips lock onto his. Pushing and pulling, we make our way to the narrow bed, discarding our clothing on the floor and any fears of axe-wielding grandmas at the door.

***

“This is ridiculous,” I say as Jack pulls me up by the hand and into the ornately decorated carriage of a Central Park hansom cab. The park is freshly coated in a thick layer of bright white snow that fell overnight, and Jack insisted that we take a ride through it to experience the glory of a rare sight for Southern Californians: winter.

Equally ridiculous were the twenty-odd messages Justine left on my voicemail after Jack and I fled the bookstore in favor of his twin bed last night. I sent her a post-coital text to ease her mind, but woke to find another three voicemails this morning demanding I tell her exactly what in the hell did I think I was doing staying in some flophouse in Chelsea with a man I barely know. Seriously. Sometimes Justine can be a little over-protective (and somewhat harebrained – did she not remember telling me that she envied Jack’s bad boy demeanor and that I needed to let loose?).

A quick phone call was enough to put her worries to rest, and I assured her that I’d be returning to her apartment this afternoon. And when I told her that Jack wanted to take a ride in a hansom cab, she laughed with the kind of jolly you expect from Father Christmas himself.

“Don’t be a Grinch,” Jack says as I take my seat next to him. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of experience.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here aren’t I?”

The coachman offers us a thick, red and white quilt before taking up the reigns and spurring our horse into action. I yank the blanket up to my neck, grumbling about the frigid temperatures.

“It’s not that bad,” Jack says. “I bet it’s twenty degrees already.”

Sure, for a New Yorker, twenty degrees in February is practically balmy. But for a pampered Angeleno who drags out her wool sweaters when the mercury dips below sixty-eight, it’s downright Antarctic. I nuzzle up next to Jack, who for some reason is actually radiating heat.

“Why are you so damn warm? You wearing thermals or something?”

“I just run hot. When I was a kid, my mom could barely keep clothes on me. She actually worried I would grow up to be a porn star because I spent so much time in my birthday suit.”

I smile, imagining a miniature Jack running around naked at the bowling alley where his mom tends bar.

“But I bet she’s glad you got that role
playing
a porn star. And you might not have if you hadn’t spent your childhood bare-assed all the time. An actor’s gotta be comfortable performing naked. I don’t know how you guys do it. Nudity, kissing, sex.”

“It isn’t real. Besides, there’s nothing romantic about doing a love scene with a sweaty film crew hovering over you, watching every move you make. It’s all a fantasy.”

“This is a fantasy,” I say, poking my arm out from under the quilt just long enough to gesture at the heavily dressed cabby ushering forth the white horse at the front of our carriage.  “You,
we
are a fantasy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s like time stops when I’m with you.”

“So, you’re saying, I stop the world for you?” he says, with a smug smile.

“Uh, no. I’m saying you make me lose myself to your whims. You wanna go for a ride through Central Park in the middle of a blizzard—”

“This is hardly a blizzard.”

“I’m making a point.”

“Go on,” he says, with that same indulgent smile.

“You want to do something, whatever it is, something that I normally would never, ever do, and for some reason, I do it. I just blindly follow you. What’s up with that?”

“You’re just primed for some adventure. Your spirit knows that. It’s your head that usually gets in the way of you doing what you really want.”

“I don’t know about that. I think my spirit would prefer a cozy spot in front of a fireplace right about now.”

“Come here,” he says, and wraps his arms around me, instantly warming my body.

“There’s something wrong with you. No one should be this hot in this weather.”

Jack laughs. “My mother says it’s because I was born in Mexico in the middle of July on top of a volcano.”

“You were?”

“Mexico and the July part are correct. I’m not so sure about the volcano.”

“What was she doing giving birth to you in Mexico?”

“I guess that’s what unwed pregnant teens did in the eighties.” He shrugs. “I’m not really sure why she was in Mexico. She’s never told me the whole story.”

Jack falls silent and his gaze drifts off into the distance. I decide to let the subject go and snuggle deeper into his chest. We ride in silence for another thirty minutes or so, accompanied only by the sound of the horse’s hooves clip-clopping along the plowed path and the occasional yelps of children playing in the snow as we pass. It is strangely discomforting, like watching a Bergman film filled with beautiful scenery and loaded with subtext.