Authors: Nancy Kelly

Ginny Blue's Boyfriends (27 page)

BOOK: Ginny Blue's Boyfriends

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But was Will the one?

I recalled Holly mouthing “careful,” to me, and her tail-between-her-legs attitude after the missing cream incident. If Will could reduce the Holy Terror to a quivering mass of jelly, I was in deep trouble.

And truthfully, whenever I picked through my brain to my real feelings, I would land on that synapse that said “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” was nothing I ever wanted to experience again. Charlie had cured me of that forever. But Will ... was this the way it was always destined to be? I really needed more field testing with him to be sure. Maybe, in a different venue, with a different set of circumstances and a—my evil mind stepped in here and suggested ‘different partner,’ but I swept right past that to ‘different mood’—maybe then sex with Will could be stimulating and exhilarating and something to damn well think about morning, noon, and night. That’s the way it should be at the beginning of a relationship, right?

“Right,” I said aloud, stepping on the accelerator. The Explorer jumped forward toward San Diego and I chased my doubts away with steely determination.

Time to put thoughts of Will aside and concentrate on Black Mark.

I hadn’t called Mark and warned him of my imminent arrival. I hadn’t wanted to tip my hat, so to speak. Meeting the Ex-Files is stressful enough anyway, for crying out loud ... and probably for both sides, come to think of it. But I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about how THEY felt. I was only concerned with how
I
felt, and with this thoroughly selfish frame of mind, I’d set out for San Diego on this gray November morning, glad that I lied to Don and my mother by telling them I had to work. Mom seemed okay with the working through the weekend thing; she did it all the time herself. Don, too, probably, in his business, but he seemed more perturbed by my flitting away than he had any right to. I had this weird feeling he was actually trying to reconnect with me. I’d done nothing to reveal that I might actually be interested, even less to behave like someone he might want to be with (I’d taken to belching loudly in front of him rather than discreetly hiding behind a few girlish hiccups, and I’d been gratified to see the strain on his face at my distinct lack of couth). I’d also studiously avoided any serious conversation or intimate moment with him. Did this make me more desirable? Possibly. If so, he was a true Rat-Man. I’d known girls who were the ultimate Rat-Women, but not that many men. Don seemed to be one. The more distant and unlovable I became, the better he seemed to like me.

Good ... God.

A worry niggled. How would I ever get rid of him? Maybe I should have told him about Will, or would that have boomeranged on me, as well?

My brain suddenly jumped—in that irritating way it seems wont to do—straight to Jackson Wright. Why, I didn’t want to look at too closely. Maybe it was because Jackson never showed interest in anyone and hence had women fawning all over him. I’d been one of the few who’d remained aloof in high school, although it was out of self-preservation rather than lack of interest. I’d known instinctively that he wouldn’t want anyone who wanted him. Very, very high school. Ridiculous. But true.

But back to Black Mark: my purpose in heading to San Diego. He was the next Ex-File to meet, greet, and delete. I knew where he lived and where he worked. Sometime alcoholic that he was, he’d managed to buy into a restaurant/bar that was more about the drinks than the food. He was one of those types who periodically make a drunken phone call to an ex-lover, only to call the next day and apologize. I’ve had a few of his drunken calls over the years, and I’ve chatted on the phone with him after the requisite “I’m sorry” on several morning-afters. This is how I know more about him than I really want to. He makes a point of keeping ex-girlfriends informed.

So, the key points about Black Mark are: 1) he is currently married; 2) it is a tempestuous relationship at best, and 3) he has one son with said wife, another with the girlfriend before me, and I think there was a child conceived during his high school years who must be a teenager by now. Prolific sire, he is. Stellar Dad, he is not.

But my memory is sharp: Black Mark was one hell of a lover. I ran screaming from Don the Devout straight into the heat of Mark’s incendiary passion. Not that Don was a bad lover; heavens, no. It’s just that Don’s less-than-perfect other traits drove me to the edge of insanity. It’s like some wild, cosmic joke that I’m dealing with both Black Mark and Don the Devout in my life again at the same moment in time.

Wonder what Dr. Dick would make of that.

Anyway, Mark was great in bed. Pure fact. He made me nuts over sex. Obsessed and out of control. I’d pretty much always enjoyed lovemaking with the right partner. But Mark ... I hate to admit it, but the guy knew how to do things to me that made me claw, and howl, and turned my cheeks red with embarrassment whenever I thought back on our lovemaking. I shocked myself with my abandonment. After a love bout with Mark, I would find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror, cataloguing my flushed face, wild hair, and sparkling eyes. I saw what I’d hitherto only heard about: the “freshly fucked” look. I’m ashamed to say it looked damn good on me.

And then I would look over at Mark, still tangled in the sheets and catch his smile. He had this lazy amusement about him right after sex that only made me want to do it all over again. We spent a lot of our time together in the bedroom. A lot of it.

However.

Mark also had one doozy of a temper. What time was not spent howling between the sheets was spent screaming at each other everywhere else. He made me INSANE!!!

I took up nail biting during the Black Death. Nearly took those nails down to the quick. To this day I fight the compulsion.

So thinking I glanced down at my nails. Nicely trimmed and just over the edge of my fingertips. No polish. I can’t be bothered while on the job. I had a sudden urge to grab onto a nail with my teeth and rip away for all I’m worth. Curbing the impulse took real willpower.

This did not bode well for my upcoming meeting.

There was the chance he wouldn’t be at work or home, I reminded myself hopefully. The last time he’d called me had been nearly a year earlier, anything could have happened since then. But earlier this week I’d phoned the number for his bar—the Pot O’Gold Saloon—and been treated to a recording in his raspy voice that invited all and sundry to come in and enjoy Guinness and Irish stew. On St. Patrick’s Day drinks were on the house until noon. I could just imagine what that meant for the afternoon and evening of that holiday. Hopefully, this revelry was saved for just once a year.

The second to last time Mark had called me he’d been roaring drunk and bound and determined to drive up to Santa Monica right then to see me. I’d managed to convince him otherwise—although he probably depressed the receiver just long enough to get another dial tone for the next ex-girlfriend after he hung up on me. He phoned me two days later, contrite, sober, and full of promises that he definitely would stay sober from now on. These promises were for himself, apparently, as I had no stake in the deal. Bitch that I am, I suggested maybe he should find some other line of work. I explained that owning a bar seemed to create inherent problems for alcoholics. Mark quickly informed me that he was not an alcoholic; he just mistreated alcohol. Though I failed to catch the distinction, I let it pass.

So, now, approaching the city limits of San Diego, I checked my watch to realize that it was only about ten-thirty in the morning. As it wasn’t St. Patrick’s Day, it was a wee bit early to appear at the Pot O’Gold. I was just debating on what to do when my cell phone started singing. Glancing at the Caller ID, I realized it was my home number.

“Mom?” I answered.

“It’s me,” Don said.

I swore silently and pungently to myself. I did not want to talk to Don for any reason.

“What time do you get off today? Do you know yet?”

My lie about working had apparently already taken on a life of its own. “Um ... not sure.”

“Sounds like you’re driving.”

“I am. Had to make a run for stuff.”

“I thought you had PAs for that.”

“Don, was there something specific?” I asked. As ever, a good offense is the best defense.

“I’ve had some time to think while I’ve been down here,” he said, as if he’d just been waiting for me to cue him. “I’ve been working hard a long time, and it’s paid off, financially speaking. I’ve bought several dealerships. It hasn’t been that long ago that I was just trying to buy my first. You remember.”

My mind drifted. I yanked it back with an effort. “Huh?”

“I sold you your Explorer from my first one. Remember? The dealership in Venice? The first one ... before I moved to the Bay Area?”

Oh, yes. Did I mention that that’s how I met Don? My car of the time—an old, old Chevy—had crapped out on me and left me stranded on Pico during rush hour. I could barely coax the damn thing over to the side of the road but the anxious drivers were furious with me for delaying them nonetheless. A lot of horns honked. I love LA but never get between a driver and his destination for any reason. Drive-by’s do happen.

I managed to call a tow truck and we’d ended up at a repair service place near Don’s first Jeep dealership. The mechanics at the repair place shook their heads and told me basically that the patient had died. I walked over to Don’s place and saw the Explorer in the used car lot. It was only a year old with low mileage and it was black. I was in love. With the car.

And then there was Don.

Now, I dragged my thoughts back to the present. Don was still waiting for a response. “The Explorer’s still great,” I said. I hadn’t had a problem with it outside of regular maintenance.

Don instantly went into car salesman mode. “I could get you a good deal on a Jeep. You should see the new ones.”

I yawned. “You mean the ones with the round headlights that look like C-3PO?”

“You think they look like C-3PO?”

“You didn’t call me to talk about cars.”

“No ...” He sighed. “You sure as hell don’t make it easy, do you?”

“Make what easy?”

“Anything!” he said, exasperated. “Virginia—Ginny—I’ve been trying to have a few moments alone with you. I think we need to talk.”

“Do we?” I asked, sounding as wearing as I felt. I was pulling into the parking lot of the Pot O’Gold. Surprisingly, there were more than a few cars around. “Talking’s not good, Don. I can’t talk now. I’m busy and I’m not sure where you’re heading with this, but it doesn’t sound good to me.” There. Dr. Dick would be proud. I’d said what was on my mind. Maybe I am frightfully well adjusted. Wouldn’t that just be a joke.

“When you get back tonight, give me a few minutes, okay?” he said. “We’ll talk then.”

“Don—”

He hung up. His words had sounded more like an order than a plea. They fueled my never-far-below-the-surface automatic, knee-jerk fury at anyone in authority.

“Asshole,” I said, clicking off with gusto.

The phone rang in my hand. I glared at the number, but it was Daphne, not a repeat of Don. “Hey, there,” I greeted her cautiously, still fuming over Don’s high-handedness.

“Oh, Blue! I got a commercial! My God! We’re shooting next week. Can you stand it? A real live job. Now, I’ll be able to pay for those new Diesel jeans I bought!”

“That’s great, Daphne,” I said, meaning it. Commercials paid well. “Who’s it for?”

“It’s a pharmaceutical company,” she said, her voice dampening a bit.

“And?”

“It’s for Soft & Soothing.”

“Sounds familiar. Is that some kind of skin cream?”

Daphne cleared her throat. “It’s a vaginal itch remedy.”

“Oh. Fun.”

“But it’s okay. I don’t have to do anything embarrassing, or anything.”

“That’s good,” I said. I’d had a momentary vision of Daphne digging away furiously at her crotch for realism’s sake.

“It’s one of those commercials where I talk to the camera. Y’know, girl-to-girl.”

“Like these are the kind of things we talk about.”

“Yeah.” She laughed.

“Is it national?” I asked, getting back to the important thing: money.

“Yes, it is.” There was a smile in her voice.

“Fantastic.”

“Oh, and Blue? I hope you’re not mad at me about seeing Dr. Dick. He’s really helped me.”

“Oh, forget about it.” I am such a shit sometimes. I really am. She’d picked up on my vibes and now I was acting as if it were all in her head. I overrate myself sometimes. I really do. I’m just not that great.

“I just got the feeling you were kind of upset. If you want me to quit seeing him, I will. We don’t really talk about you, y’know. It wouldn’t be ethical. It’s just afterwards, as I’m leaving I say something about you because you’re my friend. Something nice.”

Now I really felt like a heel.

“Daphne, when I get back, let’s go out for a drink, just you and me,” I said suddenly. Guilt. But I really did want to get together.

“Get back? Where are you?”

BOOK: Ginny Blue's Boyfriends

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