Spur of the Moment (13 page)

22

Bruising Pinky Fingers on the D
ELETE
Key

C
helsey didn't have to work at the club on Monday, so she spent the day at Spur of the Moment, using the computer in the office to work on a skit. Well, that had been her plan, but for the last three hours, all she'd done was type sentences and then delete them. The screen remained obstinately, unimaginatively blank for the better part of the time she'd attempted to labor. She had hit the delete key so many times, she was worried she'd bruised her pinky finger.

First she thought she'd try something making fun of how movie producers are infamous for mangling writer's art into junk. Then she realized she was stealing directly from the movie
The Majestic
with Jim Carrey. D
ELETE
!

That was it. Her only idea. And she'd stolen it.

She could not think of a single thing that was even remotely funny. She knew that getting back to writing was hard when she hadn't been doing it regularly. Once she got into the groove and forced herself to write on a regular basis, it would get a lot easier and the ideas would come flowing out.

This was too damn hard. Telling people how to get the most out of their workouts was so much easier. And she had actually thought she wanted to do this for a living, writing for HBO, Sarah Jessica Parker or no Sarah Jessica Parker? She must have been insane.

Chelsey took another gulp of Diet Red Stallion for energy, wrote down a bunch of nouns and verbs on slips of paper, put them into a bowl, and pulled two out at random. What she got was “Mom” and “Drunk.”

Instantly, a smile came to her face. She remembered the last time she'd gone out for drinks with a mom. The woman was thirty and had two kids under the age of eight, and she'd hired Chelsey to help her lose the weight from her last pregnancy. The woman, Jennifer, loved motherhood and being a mom, but she'd revealed to Chelsey that it had been
forever
since she'd had a night on the town. She'd pounded back the beers and when eleven o'clock rolled around (Chelsey had a seven
A.M.
session with a client) and Chelsey suggested they get going, Jennifer looked like a kid who had been told Santa wouldn't be coming this year. Whereas Chelsey went out constantly and this was no big deal to her, Jennifer clearly wanted to milk her girls' night out for all it was worth. Drawing on this memory, Chelsey began to type.

(Gang gets back to the conversation they were having)

Chelsey snickered at the image.
God, I'm hysterical! I'm probably the funniest woman in America!

Chelsey literally patted herself on the back. Ah yes,
this
was why she'd wanted to be a sitcom writer.

23

Fire

C
helsey had never felt such overpowering lust toward anyone before. Usually, she was too busy tallying up information about a guy to make a pragmatic decision about whether they should date. Did he have the same political beliefs as her? Did he want kids? Had he cheated on girlfriends in the past? Had he stayed at one job for a decent length of time, or was he always job-hopping, never satisfied with what he had? Did he smoke? Do drugs? Did he make her laugh? Did she make him laugh? Was she attracted to him?

Even if he met all her criteria, so often when they'd go out it would turn out that he was a terrible kisser or miserable in bed, or he decided he didn't like her or he wanted to get back with an ex. Or there was always that ethereal, can't-put-your-finger-on-it
get
factor: Did you
get
each other? Some things couldn't be fixed or compromised. They were the immutable laws of lust, love, and desire.

With Rob, she didn't worry about anything. From the moment he'd told her he'd enjoyed the show, she'd wanted to tear his clothes off. He was one of the hottest guys on the entire planet as far as she could tell. So as far as being attracted to him, that was a no-brainer. And as for his kissing talents and ability in bed, he scored a perfect ten. What was weird, though, was how everything Chelsey learned about him made her like him even more. And he wasn't shy about letting her know how great he thought she was. He called when he said he'd call, and he always said things like, “God, I always have so much fun when I'm with you.” Or, “Man, it's so great to see you. I've missed you so much.” Yet Chelsey didn't feel smothered. She didn't feel like he was some desperate, lonely sap who would date anyone just to avoid another Saturday night at home alone.

It had been hard starting a relationship when she was busy almost every night of the week, but they saw each other as much as they could. Chelsey worked her schedule out at Spur of the Moment so that her days off coincided with when he was off work. Then, breaking tradition, she would skip the show altogether and go out to dinner with Rob, or he would cook for her, or she would order Chinese for them.

Tonight, Rob had the evening off and Chelsey had taken it off to celebrate her birthday. Rob told her he'd made reservations at a special restaurant, and that they absolutely had to wait to have sex until after dinner. They'd had a pesky little habit of tearing each other's clothes off the moment they saw each other, and then missing the movie they'd planned to see or arriving appallingly late to the club where they were going to meet friends.

“We can restrain ourselves,” Chelsey said. “Or maybe you can just come a little early.”

“I can't. I have to help my friend Tim move, and I don't think we'll get done before five or six.”

“We're adults. We can be strong.”

 

 

I
t was 6:35 when Rob arrived at her house. “That's not fair,” he said when she opened the door to let him in. “You can't dress like that and expect me to be able to keep my hands off you.”

She was wearing a super short, super tight black dress and her black sandals with the wedge heels. She wore her curly hair long, exuberant with volume and highlights.

Rob pressed Chelsey against the wall, kissed her hard, parted her legs with his knee, and reached under her dress in a quick flash of movement that left her breathless.

They had sex right there against the wall, and there was something so sexy about Rob and their lust she came in two minutes flat and he followed not long after.

Chelsey struggled to catch her breath. She straightened out her dress. “Oh my,” she breathed. “We are so efficient. We won't even be late for dinner.”

“Sorry about that, I'll make it up to you later.”

“Oh honey, there is nothing to be sorry about.”

They got to the restaurant and ordered a bottle of wine. After they'd ordered, Rob said, “I have a present for you.”

“Yeah!” Chelsey clapped her hands.

“Let me guess, you were a cheerleader in high school.”

“No, actually a jock. Volleyball, basketball, and track.”

“So you're into sports.”

“I'm into playing them more than watching them, except for pro basketball. But that's only because I'm from Chicago and Michael Jordan is the best athlete in the world.”

“What? He's not even close.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jim Thorpe?”

“Who's Jim Thorpe?”

“Please tell me you're kidding.” She shrugged helplessly. “Didn't they teach you anything in school? Like how the greatest athlete in the world was an Indian?”

“Um, I studied kinesiology. I learned about how the human body works?” She was woefully ignorant. She vowed to go to the bookstore the next day and buy every book there was about Indians. “What was so great about him?” she asked.

“Let's see, he won both the pentathlon and decathlon events in the 1912 Olympics. That same year, he led his Carlisle Indian School team to the national collegiate championship, scoring 25 touchdowns and 198 points.”

“No way, that's not possible.”

“Then he played six years of Major League Baseball and at the same time he led a pro football team to championships three years running.”

“He played pro football and pro baseball?”

“Yep.”

“But Jordan played both basketball and baseball.”

“And sucked at baseball and never won any Olympic gold medals.”

“True. Okay fine, you win.”

Rob had the steak, Chelsey had the halibut with steamed veggies. After the waiter brought their meals, Chelsey said, “You make me feel like I'm really stupid.”

“I make you feel stupid?”

“No, that didn't come out right. I feel uneducated about a lot of things.”

“Not knowing about a football player isn't a big deal.”

“If you want to know about working out and eating right, I'm your woman.” She took a bite of her dinner. “So where's that present you were telling me about?”

He reached under his chair and retrieved the small box that he'd stowed there. “Happy twenty-eighth birthday,” he said, handing her the box and the card.

She opened the card first. On the front were dozens and dozens of hearts in different colors, but in the center there was a large blank place in the shape of a heart. Inside it read, “You've stolen my heart. It's all yours. Love, Rob.” She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from squealing with delight. She didn't need any gift; she would cherish this card forever. But of course she unwrapped the gift anyway. It was a necklace with a tear-shaped dreamcatcher pendant. It had turquoise and antique silver fluted beads. Turquoise was so in this season! And the ethnic thing had been hot for a while now. She loved it!

“I love it!” She slipped it over her head. The pendant fell just between her breasts. Very hot.

“The dreamcatcher will filter out all the bad dreams and allow only good thoughts to enter your mind. The feather signifies air and how vital it is to life.”

“Thank you.”

When they got home she led him into the bedroom and sat him on the bed. She stood in front of him, then turned so her back faced him as she slowly undid the zipper down the back of her dress, watching him over her shoulder. Slowly, she slid out of her dress. Wearing just heels and her thong underwear, she walked up to him, stood authoritatively in front of him with her legs shoulder-width apart. He bit his lip to stifle a moan as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt while sucking gently on his neck.

This round, they took their time.

Two condoms later, when they were sweaty and thirsty and exhausted, they lay in each other's arms. Though aching for a glass of water, Chelsey didn't move from his embrace.

She traced her finger over the contours of his chest.

“Aren't you scared to go into a burning building?” she asked.

“Nah. We have good protection and are trained not to get hurt.”

“But you could die.”

“Most firefighters who die on the job don't die from fire. They die from car accidents or heart attacks or something.”

“That's very reassuring. Really, you must have been scared once.”

“The only time I ever got really scared was this one time, this was when I was a firefighter in Aspen, I was in this A-frame house. That's where the house has a very steep roof. It's shaped like a triangle. I was on the second floor, and the fire had burned out a lot of the floor, so I was walking just on planks and stuff, trying to get to the fire. I couldn't see anything because there's no light and it's smoky so my flashlight was useless. You always have a partner when you go into a fire, and you're supposed to reach out every few minutes or so and make sure your buddy is there. Well, I reached out, and I couldn't find him. So here I am, I couldn't see a damn thing, I didn't know where my partner was, and I was in this really narrow second floor, walking on planks and shit, and then I got really turned around. I couldn't remember which way the access point was and which way the fire was, and I was running out of oxygen.”

“How long had you been in the building?”

“Not very long, but your air tank—it's supposed to have like thirty minutes, but you go through it in twenty-five minutes if you're sitting still. When you're in a fire, you have to break doors and windows and chop holes in the roof so air can escape and the temperature of the fire drops. When you're chopping up buildings, it's a pretty aerobic activity and you go through a lot of oxygen. You use your air tank in about fifteen minutes. I didn't know where I was and I needed to get the hell out of there.”

“Couldn't you feel the heat of the fire?”

“Firefighters wear all this protective gear, so it's like when you wear an oven mitt—you know what you're touching is hot, but you're protected so you don't really feel it.”

“So how did you get out?”

“I made a lucky guess.”

“You're kidding!”

He shook his head.

“Huh.” It was insanity, this way of making a living of his. “Have you known anybody who died in a fire?” she asked.

“Not personally. But I heard a story about a guy at another station who arrived on the scene and there was a woman crying that there was a baby still in the house. She said the baby was on the second floor on the northwest corner of the house. So the firefighter ran into the house without all of his protective gear on to get the baby. He didn't have his face mask on and he charged upstairs. When he opened the door, there was a backdraft . . .”

“What's a backdraft?”

“Ah, okay, let's see, Firefighting 101: A fire needs three things. Fuel—something to burn like a log or a house or whatever—heat, and oxygen. The fire will continue to burn as long as there is fuel and oxygen around it. But when a house has all the windows and doors closed, the fire will eventually use up all the oxygen and fuel. The flames die down but the fire is still hot enough to burn, and so there is all this pressure building up. So when the firefighter opened that door, he let in a whole bunch of oxygen all at once, and the fire exploded, devouring the oxygen and washing over him like a tidal wave. The fire only blazed like that for a second, but when it rolled over him, it seared his lungs because he wasn't wearing his protective gear, and he was dead like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Oh my god.” Chelsey shook her head. “I can't believe you go into fires. You're so brave.”

“Does it turn you on, all my unadulterated manliness?”

She laughed. “Very much.” She kissed him. “I love you.” The second the words came out of her mouth, she gasped in horror and tried to back-track, talking so fast she tripped over the words. “Ididn'tmeanthatImeanIlikeyoualot.”

He chuckled. “So you don't love me?”

“I don't—I just—I mean—Look, I'm a girl, and everybody knows if the girl says the
L
word first, the guy will go running. We've only been dating for a few weeks. I'm probably just delusional from having so many orgasms. Don't pay attention to anything I say.”

“You can't love somebody after just a few weeks?”

“Of course not. It's crazy.”

“ 'Cuz I really think I love you.”

“What?” Chelsey's stressed expression softened.

“I know it's crazy and we've only known each other a short time, but I've dated a lot of girls in my life and let me tell you, you're really special. I'm crazy about you.”

“Really?” She smiled.

“Really.”