The Girl On The Half Shell (35 page)

“Let me go, Alan. I don’t like this,” I whisper, cautious and unsure, but my voice is thick, feverish.

“It’s working very well for me, love,” he says softly, biting my shoulder instead of kissing it. “What part isn’t working for you? I’ll change it.”

My breath quickens. “All of it. If you keep this up, they’re going to start tossing room keys at us.”

I pull back and have a vague awareness that he is letting me. I raise my eyes slowly to his face and wish I hadn’t. His eyes harden and some marginal parameter of my brain warns that I have fucked up big time here.

My heart turns into a confused, frantic pulse as he grabs my arm, steering me through the crowded apartment, mindless of the sharply fixed stares that follow his rapid trek. He pulls me into the bedroom, slams the door, and releases me.

“It was a joke, Chrissie,” he yells harshly clipping each word.

He leans against the door, running a hand through his hair, his eyes cuttingly black.

“If you don’t like my out of bedroom manner,” he starts up again through gritted teeth, “or my public manner or my work manner, deal with it. The world isn’t only about Chrissie! Fucking learn to deal with something for a change. But don’t playact with me and don’t you ever pretend I am nothing to you again. Are we clear? Do you understand?”

I stare up at him. There is no point in trying to understand him, he is just too angry, but I really don’t know what nerve I struck in him and I really never expected to be on the receiving end of anger like this. Oh no, not like this, never like this.

I cross my arms and stare at the floor. “Maybe.”

“Then get the fuck out.”

My face snaps up. I feel shaky inside. My heart stops. How did we get here, a near break-up moment, from this strange, disconnected, angry sort of night we’ve had? Is he breaking up with me and tossing me out in the middle of a party?

I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know what to say. “Do you know where my things are? Someone put them away.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

“So, is that it? You want to leave?”

God, why are we doing this? How did we get here?

And before I know if this is it, if we’re over, my shorts are on the floor and I am propped against the wall, and we are having sex. Really, really rough sex, standing up with me pinned against the door. I wrap myself around him, eagerly meeting the violent thrusts of his body, the aggressive joining of his flesh.

Each thrust against the wall is painful, and I am drowning in the consuming fire of his anger. It is stormy, but it subsides quickly with a ragged climax and the abrupt retreat of his flesh from mine.

My back against wall, I slip to the floor. I sit there breathing hard and staring up at him. And then I realize, when he doesn’t look at me as he jerks his pants in place and smooths his hair with an angry swipe of his hand, that he intends for this to hurt and humiliate me. What did I do to make him angry enough to hurt me?

“You just screwed me like a whore in the middle of a party!” I hiss, wounded and accusing.

His expression doesn’t change. “If you are going to behave like a whore, guys will treat you like a whore.”

“Get out!” I scream.

His clothes are all put back together on him. He is staring down at me. “Your things are in the closet off the bathroom.”

I nod, and just like that Alan leaves. I manage to hold back the tears until I’ve counted to twenty in my head, just to be sure he’s not coming back and won’t see me cry.

My body feels heavy as I pull myself up onto my feet. Shaking, I go into the bathroom, but I feel spacey, disoriented, and uncoordinated. My trembling flesh sinks onto the ledge of the bathtub.

What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just pack up my things and lug them out in the middle of a party where everyone will see me. Raw, bitter, humiliating emotion runs like ice through my veins. What did I do that was so awful that he would screw me at a party then dump me? Scalding tears pour down my cheeks. Frantically, I replay the minutes in my head, but for the love of Jesus there is nothing to explain this—his lashing out at me and ending us.

I curl into a tight ball, rocking, trying to stop my tears. What did I expect? You have only to open a newspaper to get a pretty clear idea of what kind of guy he is. I knew—but I thought he cared about me. Really cared. How could he do this to me? How could he turn in a flash into an asshole that screwed me at a party and tossed me aside?

My gaze darts around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do. I can’t leave. I can’t go back into the party. And I don’t want to stay here, trapped in a bathroom, humiliated and alone.

I hear sounds from the bedroom and my anxious heart betrays me, wishing that it might be Alan returning to apologize to me. Maybe it was just a fight? A big wicked nothing.

I peek through the open bathroom door. The wives and girlfriends, all but Linda, are huddled around the table where the newspapers magically appear each morning, and it’s covered with white powder, and one of them is using a credit card to line it.

Shit, now I’m trapped in a bathroom while the wives snort coke.

I hear my name mixed in the chatter of the room.

“Who does she think she is that she doesn’t think she needs to talk to us?”

“Talk to us? She doesn’t think she needs to talk to Manny. She ignored him the entire night.”

“Who is she? I’ve never seen her before, not anywhere, and out of nowhere she’s just here.”

“Where do you think he found her?”

“She reminds me of that girl. Remember that girl he dragged around with him on tour in ’86? The one who took it all too seriously and didn’t know Manny was just messing with her. All sweet and small town cute.”

They all laugh.

“I think she is cute. In an understated way. Her clothes are awful and she really needs to do something about those eyebrows. But she’s cute.”

The bedroom door opens. Linda enters the room and sinks down among the circle.

“OK, Linda. What gives? Is the little princess living with him? And where the hell has Manny been for six months?”

Linda snorts a line. Then I hear the snort sound of fingers to nostril to clear the powder from the nasal passage. She wets her fingers, snorts it in again, and then dabs her finger and rubs it on her gums.

“I like her.” That’s all Linda says.

“Well, I don’t. Such a bitch. Where does she get off thinking she is so superior?”

Linda stares at them all. “Don’t mess with her. This girl matters.”

This girl? I shake my hands to shake the icky feeling away.
This girl
. That’s what I am.
This girl
. Just another girl, just the girl of the moment, and not even the girl of the moment any longer because Alan dumped me.

“Christ, Linda. He makes them all feel like they matter.”

Linda arches a brow. “No, I didn’t say he makes her feel like she matters. I’m saying she does matter. And we’ve got enough fucking drama and enough problems without you messing with her. Leave her alone.”

“I don’t know. Everything feels so bizarre. Stranger than usual since Manny came back with her, which is strange enough.”

“Does anyone know what happened?”

Linda says nothing. Not one piece of what she knows falls on the table. “He’s just went into Rehab. Why do you all make such a drama about everything?”

“Rehab certainly hasn’t helped with his anger issue. Did anyone else hear that he broke Vince Carroll’s arm for drugging her?”

Linda rolls her eyes. “If you are going to get your gossip from the tabloids, no one will ever take you seriously, Bianca.”

Bianca looks up at Linda. “Ryan told me Manny almost put Ian through a wall just for talking to her and then admitted he broke Vince’s arm for drugging her. I don’t think the Rehab shit helped much with his anger issues.”

Linda is now like a laser-guided missile. “Manny has been with Ryan and Ian?”

“You didn’t know?” Bianca asks. “He’s recording a solo album with the little princess. Manny didn’t tell you? Len doesn’t know?”

Linda says nothing. She stares. She shrugs. I can feel how upset she is, but she is loyal. Always loyal.

Linda stares them all down. “Shut the fuck up! I mean it. No more gossip. No more chatter. Nothing. And if you fuck with her you are fucking with me.”

The door slams behind Linda. The girls stare at each other.

“God, what’s up with her these days?” Bianca asks.

“These days? It’s every day. Len fucks everything that moves and she goes ballistic on us.”

Another line snorted. The door opens and the wives all look up at once, as Kenny Jones saunters in.

“What’s up with the hen house? You all look guilty. What are you cackling about now?”

Kenny sinks to the floor and pulls his girlfriend back against him. He takes the rolled hundred, does a quick line, and then cleans his airways.

Bianca says, “The little princess. Ian says Manny is recording a solo album with her. That he’s quitting the band.”

Kenny leans back against the bed, laughing so hard that his face reddens and tears sparkle in his eyes. “Where the fuck do you get this shit? The girl is nothing. Just something to do. She’s just some bird he picked up at The Blue Light. Her friend was a crazy ass bitch. He fucked her in the bathroom at the club. You know how Manny is. Fuck ’em and on to the next one.”

Bianca fixes intense eyes on Kenny. “How do you know for sure Ian is wrong?”

Kenny does another line and stands up. “Because he fucked her and dumped her thirty minutes ago.”

Chapter Fourteen

I grab from the closet a black cardigan of Alan’s. Someone can deliver my things to Jack’s tomorrow. I leave the bedroom with only my purse, and spot Jesse Harris still at the party.

I cross the room to him, unable to look up as I speak. “Can you walk me home? I would really appreciate it if you’d walk me home. It’s not far and I want to leave here.”

He stops me with a hand on my arm. “Are you OK?”

“I’m OK. But it would be really, really cool if you just walked me home and didn’t ask any questions.”

He nods. He is a nice guy. I wasn’t wrong about that. At least I wasn’t wrong about one thing. Don’t cry, Chrissie. Don’t cry. Not yet.

“Stay right here,” he says in an urgent and soothing sort of way. “I should tell my brother I’m leaving. I’ll be right back. Don’t leave without me.”

I start to shake, realizing I must look more of a mess than I thought. I fight not to look from the entry hall into the party. In a moment, Jesse returns.

The streets are as close to empty as New York ever gets. We walk without talking and I focus on the stench in the air. It is only six blocks to Jack’s apartment. A fast walk. It feels long. Very long, and I’m tired by the time we get there.

The doorman opens the door the minute he sees me.

“Home?” Jesse smiles. “Nice digs.”

I stare at him. “Would you like to come up?” I am on the verge of meltdown and grab his arm. “Please, come up. I don’t want to be alone just yet. Please, I don’t know anyone in New York and I could really use a friend.”

He follows me into the elevator and I take the key and insert it in the panel.

“Penthouse, huh? Nice digs.”

Small talk. Jesse’s just making small talk. Trying to insert normal here, when there is absolutely nothing normal about any of this.

I smile. “It’s my dad’s apartment. I live in California. Remember?”

Jesse gives me a kind smile. “UGG boots. How could I forget?”

Why does it feel like it takes forever to get to the top floor? Chug, chug, chug. Metal can move so slowly sometimes. I don’t want to cry until I’m through the front door.

Too late. Tears. And my body curls into Jesse’s chest. “I hope you are an ethical reporter. I would die. Absolutely die. If any of that makes print. Ever. Please. Never, ever, ever.”

His fingers lift my chin. He has such kind eyes. “Never, ever, ever. I’m a lousy reporter because I’m ethical. My family lights candles in church every week, praying my novel sells. Otherwise, I’m not going to have much of a future as a writer.”

I give a soggy laugh, though it isn’t much of a joke.

Jesse looks disconcerted now. He’s studying me almost as if he’s debating with himself. “But, Chrissie, you need to know. I’m off the record tonight, but I wasn’t the only reporter there.”

Oh shit! What have I done?

Jesse folds me into a comfortable, protective type hug. “Don’t break on me now. It doesn’t matter. Who cares if it does make print? It will all go away in about thirty seconds. My professional opinion. You can bank on it. This will all go away and be nothing.”

I can’t will my legs to carry me out of the foyer, and I stand surrounded by my mother’s priceless collection of glass encased violins. But that’s not all that’s there is in the cabinets. There are family photos. Lots of family photos in between the spruce and ebony, and Jesse is staring at them as if the mysteries of the universe have just been revealed to him.

“Now I know why you look familiar,” Jesse says, his voice quiet and a trifle grim. “You’re Jackson Parker’s daughter. I’m sorry, Chrissie. This is going to be a long night.”

* * *

I curl on a couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping a cup of tea that Jesse made for me and the phone just won’t stop ringing.

Ring. Ring. Ring. I’m afraid to answer it. We let it go to service most of the time. Jesse suggested unplugging it. I don’t know why I won’t let him do that. Why do I want to know Alan is ringing? Why do I need to know it? He humiliated me, he hurt me, he dumped me and he is the cause of this horrid, horrid night that never seems to end.

The sound of the ringing hurts me. It makes me more shaky. It makes me cry. I need to hear the ring, even though every ring isn’t Alan.

If Jesse answers, sometimes it’s Linda, but it is most frequently the press. And I won’t talk to anyone, and Jesse is very good at getting rid of people. He is a born crisis manager.

Jesse answers a call, makes an abrupt response, and hangs it up quickly.

“It’s part of being a nice guy,” he jokes. “Knowing how to deal with a girl’s relationship problems. And I’m a reporter. I definitely know how to handle the press.”