Reunion Girls (11 page)

He shrugged. "You wouldn't understand. It's a guy thing."

"Oh, really?" Babe let out a tinkling little laugh that filled the air with ridicule. "Are you sure it's not a homoerotic thing?"

Jake stiffened. There was an instantaneous angry glint in his eyes. She was pushing his buttons.

"Maybe you should talk to a therapist," Babe went on silkily. "It could be a latent homosexual obsession that's manifesting itself in animosity. I don't know. I'm just a girl throwing out a theory."

His right hand skated around her hip and across to her inner thigh, stopping just short of its intended target.

Babe took in a little breath. She felt a hot anticipation.

"If there was an ounce of gay in me, I'd need more than two fingers in a crowded restaurant to make you come." His hand journeyed up. It was right there . . . at her opening.

Babe remembered their first frenzied weeks together. She had snapped his photo with Joe Scarborough at a MSNBC anniversary party. They met for a drink a few days later and caught up on their post-college lives and their mutual hatred for guess who. The wild sex started that night. In the days that followed he asked her not to wear underwear. No matter where they were—a restaurant, a bar, a taxi—he would find a way to bring her to climax. And two fingers and two minutes was all that it took.

Jake kissed her roughly, pushing his thick tongue into her mouth and pulling back just as she started to respond.

Babe moaned out loud as he trapped her lower lip between his teeth, nipping playfully, as those two magic fingers dipped into her very core.

"I know you pictured yourself in that girl's place," Jake whispered.

Babe glared at him. She knew her eyes were mere slits.

"Walking down the aisle to the wedding march..."

She attempted to push him away, but Jake was as solid as a brick wall. "He told me that I could do better than you," Babe hissed.

"Oh, yeah?" Jake taunted her, his fingers still doing their work. "Why haven't you, then?"

Babe's emotions were at the boiling point. She wanted him to throw her out and tell her never to come back. She wanted him to push her onto the bed and ravish her. The bastard repulsed her emotionally but enslaved her physically. Desperately, she lashed out against the carnal longing. "He still thinks you're a nobody, Jake. You can make a fool of yourself on that little TV show that doesn't even register a full ratings point." She laughed in his face. "You might as well be on cable access. And you can write your stupid book, the one you had to pose half-naked on the cover for to get anybody's attention." She jabbed at his chest with her index finger. "But no matter what you do, you'll always be a poor, scrappy nobody in the eyes of Dean Paul Lockhart and everybody like him. You'll always be a joke."

Jake's eyes flashed with such fury that Babe experienced a nanosecond of fear that he might strike her. But then he gave her a hint of a secret smile and angled his fingers up to the spot that drove her crazy every time. Suddenly, he withdrew, tossed off his towel, and brought her hand down to his hardness. "Is this a joke to you?"

The sigh of pleasure that came next was involuntary. In that moment, Babe wanted Jake so badly that it felt like a psychotic compulsion. She peeled the T-shirt off her body, slid onto the bed, and opened her legs.

"I didn't think so," Jake said. And then he mounted her with passionate aggression.

A half hour later, Babe was searching for her bra and itching to get out of the grungy apartment when her cellular rang. She followed the noise and found the phone underneath a stack of cover flats for Jake's new book. The number on the ID screen didn't look familiar. "Hello?"

"Babe, it's Lara. Have I caught you at a bad time?"

"I'm at Jake's place, so I'm not sure how to answer that. Part of me wants to say yes."

Lara hesitated. "I'm sorry. I'll—"

"No, it's fine," Babe assured her. "Jake's not here. He just left for the studio. I'm trying to find my clothes and what's left of my dignity."

"Have you heard about Dean Paul?"

Babe laughed. "Shit, that's all I've heard. Jake's having a field day with it."

"He didn't mention a single word about it yesterday," Lara remarked crisply. "And now he's in Greece. I just heard from one of the
Hollywood Live
producers that he's going to be covering all my events."

Babe found a bra. An expensive one in a size not her own. She threw it down. "Son of a bitch," she muttered.

"What?" Lara asked.

"Where are you?" Babe countered.

"In SoHo. Why?"

"Meet me for a drink. We'll hash all of this out. I like the bar at the St. Regis. It's classy. Nobody will hit on us. Are you game?"

"I can't drink, Babe. Seriously. Not today. I'm lucky to be alive after last night."

"So nurse a club soda. I'll drink for both of us."

Lara considered the offer for a moment. "Okay. I'll meet you there. What time?"

Babe spotted the strap of her bra peeking out from underneath the bed. "One hour."

"Perfect."

She hung up and finished dressing, taking in the surroundings. Boxing gloves, sweat clothes, and athletic shoes were littered throughout. The pitiful excuse for a kitchen was filthy. Basically, the whole place gave off college jock vibrations.

She scanned the room for stray items. Once more, her eyes fell on the mystery bra. Impulsively, Babe stuffed it into her purse. Ha! Maybe she'd figure out whom it belonged to and return it with a personal note suggesting that the bitch should know a cheap bastard like Jake James wasn't worth nice lingerie.

Babe had just enough time to stop by her own crappy apartment to shower and change clothes. It wouldn't do to show up post-coitus to meet a woman like Lara Ward at a place like the St. Regis. The fact that Lara had sought her out filled Babe with a sense of pride, and she realized how much she really missed her dignified friend. Lara's regal manner had the potential to inspire. A little bit could rub off in positively influential ways. Maybe the rupture between them had been repaired. Last night's reunion had gone a long way toward forgiveness.

Was time the only factor? Babe began to wonder. Or did Lara actually understand why Dean Paul had stayed with Babe at the Biltmore that night instead of driving back to campus to be with her. He was a highly sexual being, and there was obviously a limit to how much Lara's cool sophisticated reserve could satisfy him. Early in the urgent hours of their first coupling, Babe surmised what it must have been like between them—sweet, respectful, properly passionate. Dean Paul didn't kiss Lara like a demon lover. He didn't push her head down when he wanted to feel her mouth around him. He didn't take her vigorously from behind. He didn't plunge his tongue between her legs and inside her ass until she writhed in ecstasy. But with Babe, it had been all of that and more.

Back then she had been stupid, arrogant, and naive, thinking her sexual freedom gave her the upper hand. Keeping him happy in bed was not the secret to keeping him happy in the relationship. It just kept him happy in bed. Part of her felt manipulated, too. It was the reason her resentment toward him—and even Lara, to a lesser degree—had maintained a steady, radioactive hum over the years. Babe had never experienced the tender side of Dean Paul's ardor. It was as if he had continually tested her sexual limits. Would she go that far? And when she did, he seemed both pleased and disappointed. There was no way to win.

Babe pushed away that train of thought the moment she hit the moldy stairwell. Suddenly, it struck her as odd that her tabloid sale hadn't triggered—at the very least—a full day's worth of satisfaction. The two hundred grand was a hefty addition to her savings account. If only the deal had come through a few weeks ago.

That's when Babe had fallen in love with an apartment just hitting the market. It was an amazing art-deco pied-a-terre in a prewar building on Central Park West, with beamed ceilings, an open dining area, two baths, and a remodeled kitchen with all-new appliances. God, it had been everything she wanted. And out of her price range. Of course, it wasn't now. But the unit had sold within a few days of her touring it. That disappointment had cemented her decision to take full advantage of her invitation to Dean Paul's wedding.

But now the rogue photo sales were an addiction. The risk had become a thrill, the easy money a passport to a better life. She didn't want to stop. There was always one more monster get to go after. Why settle for a pied-a-terre when she could keep going and buy a loft or a penthouse? And deep down, Babe knew that it wouldn't end there. More square footage. A better view. A hotter location. A car. A weekend home. The temptations could run on forever.

It was a dirty business, but how else was Babe supposed to get what she wanted? There were no rich parents to hand over the keys to a dream home lock, stock, and walk-in closet. She thought of Lara. Now there was a girl who had it easy. But even Babe had to admit that she had the work ethic of an Olympian.

The event-planning industry could chew up and spit out the lazy and ambivalent. The party circuit kicked into high gear in September and maintained a frantic pace through the holidays. New Year's could be particularly brutal. Babe had heard that it was nothing for event producers to work forty-two hours straight at that time. It cranked up all over again in February and went nonstop through May. Summer months were lighter. That's when all the high-profile types migrated to the Hamptons and other playgrounds for the well-heeled.

Babe braved the fifteen-minute walk to her apartment. She scrubbed herself free of Jake James, then dressed quickly in snug-fitting jeans and a vintage Billy Squier rock tee, finishing off with a pair of Gucci boots that she'd scored at a sample sale.

The cab ride to the hotel was interminable. All she could do was sit helplessly as the car plodded through bumper-to-bumper traffic, its driver yammering on a cell phone headset in Arabic from pickup to drop-off. She arrived twenty minutes late, and remembering how Lara could be about such things, raced up the steps.

Lara sat at the bar considering a cup of hot tea. Even with a nasty hangover, the girl had most women beat. She looked like a stylish television star ready to sashay onto the
Kelly & Michael
set for a chat.

Babe got the bartender going on two tequila shots to start. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Traffic was murder."

Her drinks turned up in record time.

Lara glanced at them. "Your stomach must be lined with steel."

Babe shrugged. "I've always been able to hold my liquor." She knocked down both in quick succession, feeling a warm burn down her chest, followed by a tingle in her brain.

Meanwhile, Lara sipped demurely on her tea.

"I'm glad you called," Babe said.

Lara smiled faintly in reply. "Finn called me on the way over here. He read Jinx Wiatt's column out loud. A photographer has already sold unauthorized pictures from the wedding. Apparently, there's a hideous one of Aspen with a salmon roll stuffed in her mouth. Can you believe that?"

Babe marveled at how fast gossip could circulate. It was only hours ago that she had uploaded the images. Now it was water-cooler conversation. "That's awful." She signaled the bartender for one more. "I hope someone notifies the new Mrs. Lockhart about this news. I'd hate for her to come home to unexpected humiliation." Babe fought to keep a straight face but couldn't hold it. Then she started to laugh.

Lara caught the bug, covering her mouth. She took in the other patrons with a cautious circular glance, as if they were listening to every word. "We should be ashamed of ourselves. This isn't funny. It's terrible."

"Correction. It's hilarious. And that bitch deserves it."

"But what about Dean Paul?"

"Don't worry about him," Babe assured her. "He can't take an unflattering picture. It's impossible." She was grateful for the arrival of the third shot. All this talk about the photographs was making her nervous. Sending number three down the hatch, she looked at Lara seriously. "Does this
Hollywood Live
business upset you?"

"I'm not happy about it," Lara said matter-of-factly. "Part of the reason I went to the wedding was because I thought it would give me closure. And today I find out that he'll be back in my life with perhaps more regularity than he was at Brown. I knew how to avoid him there. But I can't very well stay away from a Regrets Only event just because he'll be there with a microphone and a camera crew."

"I wouldn't worry," Babe told her. "We both know he won't stick with it very long. It's Dean Paul, remember? He has the attention span of a three-year-old."

Lara managed a wan smile. "I'm not so sure about that. This could be his calling." She sighed. "Sometimes I wish I had handled the breakup differently. Maybe I wouldn't be so paralyzed where he's concerned."

"Have you had a serious relationship since Dean Paul?" Babe asked.

Lara paused a beat and stared into her tea. "Not really. I've dated some men, but nobody who really held my interest." She looked at Babe curiously. "How are things with Jake?"

Babe picked up one of the empty shot glasses. "I'll need three more of these to tackle that. Mind if we skip that subject?"

Lara nodded. "You know, I've watched other girls ritualize their failed relationships. They burn pictures, or they host a back-on-the-market party. Do you think it's too late for me to do that?" She shook her head in disbelief. "And do you want to hear something embarrassing? I still have my Dean Paul scrapbook from college. Every picture. Every letter. Even silly mementos like ticket stubs from concerts and a parking citation we got on our first date in Providence."

Babe could feel the buzz from the tequila, but her mind was still clear. Something Lara had said tripped her into a deep distraction.
Pictures from college.
Babe hadn't thought about those in years. But she still had them. In fact, she could visualize the black archival box on the shelf in her storage closet. Even better, she could visualize the handwritten adhesive label stickered onto the box's cover: D.P. LOCKHART—BROWN U.