Forsaken (27 page)

“I thought you didn’t like to dance.”

“Look, do you want to dance or not?”

“Sure.”

I was definitely feeling the bourbon now. “First, shake my hand.”

“What?”

I held out my hand. “Shake.”

He grabbed my hand firmly enough, but his palm was so warm and moist that I wanted to head straight for the soap dispenser.

“What was that all about?”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s dance.” I grabbed the sleeve of his polo and dragged him up the stairs to the dance floor.

He apparently had seen
Pulp Fiction
in addition to
The Motorcycle Diaries.
He thought he had a twist thing going on. One song was all I could take. We went back
to the bar, and I downed another bourbon. Despite my contempt for him, he was starting to look cuter.

“Read any good books lately?” I asked it primarily to torment him.

“I don’t read much. No time.”

Now
there
was a real shocker. “What keeps you so busy?”

“You know, work, working out.”

“Sales?”

“How did you know that? You’re some sort of fortune teller or something, right?” He laughed. He had good teeth.

Bourbon always did help me to see positives.

“You caught me. I’m a for-tul-tel . . .” I slowed down and forced myself to focus on the words. “A for-tune tel-ler.”

He waved at the bartender to get me another bourbon, then he moved so close to me that his cheek was touching my hair. “Since you’re a fortune teller, maybe you can tell me what’s going to happen with you and me tonight.” He lowered his voice. “This place is pretty loud. If you wanted to, we could get out of here.”

I looked at my watch. The numbers swam a bit, but I got them in focus. Almost eleven. “I’ll be right back. Bathroom break.” Before I left, I poked him in the chest with my finger. “I’m going to call you Robby Boy, how ’bout that?” I can’t recall his response, but I’m certain by that time he didn’t care what I called him, as long as I was good and drunk.

I grabbed my purse and headed toward the
Women
sign on the far side of the bar. When I got to the bathroom, it occurred to me that Simon must be sitting at home waiting for me to call. I also realized that I had many important things to say to him—things I’d somehow left unsaid up to that point in our relationship. I pulled my phone out of my purse and pushed the speed dial for his house. The low battery message blinked. I put the phone to my ear and got nothing. I stuck it back in my purse.

Leaving the bathroom, I practically sideswiped a curvy purple pay phone that looked like something out of
The Jetsons
. I pulled out my cell phone. The screen still worked. I hit the speed dial again for Simon’s number. Then I swiped my credit card through the pay phone and dialed the number that I got from my cell phone screen. It required about five attempts before I could induce a ring on the other end.

By that time the bourbon was slugging me hard. So much so, I must have pulled the wrong speed-dial number. Michael Harrison answered the phone. Who knows what I said before I realized I was talking to him and not Simon. And why he was at his office at 11 p.m. on a weekend is a question that only he can answer. In fact, he probably did answer it, but I don’t remember. In any event I must have made it clear to him that a surfer was about to take me back to his apartment, and that with the help of quite a few bourbons I was feeling pretty okay about it.

Michael has subsequently assured me that he tried hard to talk me out of leaving the bar. Failing that, he
managed to get me to tell him where I was. The next thing I remember is staggering out of Purple, Robby Boy in tow, heading down McKinney Avenue toward his place. Or mine. I’m not sure which.

We hadn’t gotten fifty feet before Michael pulled up to the curb, the lights flashing on his unmarked car. He blocked an entire lane of traffic on one of the busiest streets in Dallas (which, I recall, made a big impression on me at the time). He jumped out and stepped in front of Robby Boy, who immediately puffed out his chest. Michael flashed his badge. There was no trouble after that. Michael got me into his car, and I somehow convinced him that I simply had to talk to Simon. He called ahead to Simon’s house and took me there.

I have thanked Michael several times for what he did for me that night. Each time I thanked him, I was more embarrassed than the time before, which is probably a good sign with respect to the direction my life has taken. What conclusions he drew about me and my request to go to Simon’s house, I don’t know. We’ve never discussed it. But at least he cared enough to take the time to leave his office and save me from Robby Boy—or save Robby Boy from me. I’ve put him on my very short list of good guys. I do know that he drove me to Simon’s house and walked me to the door. Then he left without so much as a thank you (at the time) from me.

There are only a couple of things I remember about Simon that night. First—and this irritated the heck out of me—he kept putting a finger to his lips and shushing me until he could get me into his car to drive me back to my
apartment. He didn’t want Kacey to see me in that condition. I’m so grateful for that now. Second, despite the fact that I was sloppy drunk, he was kind to me. He later told me that he concluded that I had a problem more chronic than a single night of too many bourbons.

There is really nothing else to tell about that evening, because there is not a single other thing that I remember. The next afternoon, though, Simon came back to my apartment and had a talk with me.

That part I remember well.

WHEN THE DOORMAN CALLED and told me Simon Mason was downstairs to see me, I debated whether to let him in. First, I had a nuclear hangover and my mouth tasted as if I’d been licking ash trays. Second, I remembered that Michael had dropped me off at Simon’s house the night before, and I didn’t remember how I got home, so I was reasonably certain that Simon had seen a side of me with which he was not likely to have been impressed. Third, I was still in bed, and I looked like . . . well, I didn’t look good. On the other hand, I’d only been gone from his house for a few days, and as uncomfortable as this was likely to be, I missed him. I told the doorman to buzz him up.

I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. After stuffing a glob of toothpaste in my mouth and sucking a mouthful of water from the faucet, I began to multi-task. While swishing the toothpaste around, I used one hand to pull a pair of khaki shorts up beneath the red softball jersey that I’d slept in, while I worked the fingers of my other hand through the tangles in my hair. The shorts eventually came up, but my fingers stopped cold in my hair, which had taken on a texture roughly resembling a trumpet vine. I tried to loosen the thicket on my head by working at the knots with my fingers. This merely teased each wave into something akin to an over-stretched Slinky. By that time I was feeling light-headed and desperately needed to get more blood to my brain. I forgot about the hair and eased down to the floor where I lay on my back and stretched my feet up onto the toilet seat. That’s when the door chime rang.

“Just a minute!” I closed my eyes and followed the sparklers that shot from my retina toward the edges of my eye sockets. The door chimed again. Enough blood had flown back into my head to engage the part of my brain necessary for ambulation, so I rolled over on my side, grabbed the edge of the sink, and pulled myself to my feet.

When I got to the door, I brushed my hands over my softball jersey, as if that would have an impact on a night’s worth of wrinkles. That’s when it occurred to me that I had no idea how I had gotten into the softball jersey in the first place. As I grabbed the doorknob I looked over my shoulder. Through the bedroom door I could see
my cocktail dress from the night before, neatly folded and draped over the arm of the chair next to the night-stand. I couldn’t imagine that I could have done that.

I pulled open the door. “Simon, what a nice surprise.” I sounded like Martha Stewart welcoming a member of the ladies’ club.

“I was in your neighborhood and thought I’d drop in to check on you.”

“That’s so nice. Come on in. The place is kind of a wreck right now.”

He stepped in. “I should have called first.”

I ran a hand through my hair. It dead-ended again at a mammoth tangle. I gave the tangle a tug, which had no effect except to send a shooting pain down my scalp to my ear. Standing in my wrinkled softball shirt with one hand stuck to the top of my head was not the look I was going for. I dropped my arm to my side and resolved not to touch my hair again under any circumstances. “Look, Simon, I want to apologize for last night—”

He held up his hand. “I didn’t come over looking for an apology. I’m just concerned.”

“But I do need to apologize. I shouldn’t have bothered you at home.” My stomach had been tumbling with increasing vigor since I got off the bathroom floor. Suddenly, every part of my mouth’s piping that was capable of emitting saliva opened its valves. I moved my hand toward my lips.

“I’m glad you bothered me.” His eyes followed my hand.

I pulled it away. “You are?”

“Yes, I am.” He cocked his head. “Do you want to sit down? You don’t look so great.”

My stomach heaved. “Excuse me—” I sprinted to the bathroom.

After slamming the door so hard that it popped back open, I tried to flip on the fan as I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet bowl. I hoped that the rattling of the fan motor would mask the sound of my retching, but I missed the switch. There was no going back for a second chance. Simon must have heard every gag, grunt, and gurgle.

I pulled some toilet paper off the roll to wipe my face and chin, and eased to my feet. It was time for another glob of toothpaste. I stood at the sink, swishing and gargling as quietly as possible. I’m not sure why I was so concerned about Simon hearing me gargle, since he’d just heard me eject about a quart of whatever was in my stomach. I suppose, though, that every social recovery has to have a starting point.

It’s difficult to reenter a room with dignity after making loud noises for five minutes with your face in a toilet bowl. Nevertheless, I straightened my softball jersey, held my head high, and walked back into the living room.

Simon was sitting on the couch, flipping through my
People
magazine. He didn’t even look up. “Can I get you anything?”

His nonchalance ticked me off. “No thanks, I’ll live.”

He closed the magazine and looked up at me. “Would you sit down for a minute, please? I’d like to talk to you.”

I knew I was about to get fired. I decided to take it with at least a hint of defiance. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

“Then would you mind standing over here? I don’t want to have to crane my neck.”

As I walked over to stand in front of him, I noticed that I had several dark blotches on the front of my shirt, none of which had been there before I ran into the bathroom—one more pleasant surprise in a nearly perfect day. I crossed my arms over them.

Simon ran his hand over the top of his head and sighed. Before he could speak, I blurted, “I quit.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“You were going to fire me, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Suddenly feeling considerably less defiant, I felt for the chair behind me and sat.

He looked me in the eye. “You’ve got a drinking problem, don’t you?”

I waved a hand in the air. “Where did that come from?” His eyes focused on the stains on my shirt. I crossed my arms again. “Okay, I know I had too much to drink last night. I hadn’t had a drink for a while, and it snuck up on me. That’s a long way from having a drinking problem.”

“Save it, Taylor. I checked on you before I hired you. I heard about your reputation at the Secret Service.”

“Then why did you hire me?”

“I had my reasons.” He rubbed his hands on the legs of his jeans.

That struck me as a strange response, but I was in no position to interrogate him. I glanced at the
People
magazine in his hand.

He smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t really reading it.” He tossed it onto the couch.

I smiled, too, glad for the lightening of the mood, but my stomach was rumbling again.

He lost the smile. “You’ve got a problem. I want to help you. Will you let me?”

“I don’t have a problem. I just got a little tipsy. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?”

“If you were just a little tipsy, tell me what happened after Michael dropped you off at my house.”

I glanced toward the open bedroom door and the neatly folded cocktail dress. “What do you mean? Did something happen?”

“If you don’t remember, wouldn’t you say that’s an indication of a problem?”

I wasn’t ready to allow the discussion to move past the “what happened” part. “Did anything . . .
happen?”

He leaned back on the couch. “No, nothing happened
.
But according to Michael something could have—between you and some bar rat who was out trolling for someone just like you.”

My shoulders sagged. “And what exactly is someone just like me?”