Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series) (5 page)

I shook my head ‘no’. “I usually sign for the next week on Saturdays.”

She nodded. “I have an idea. Would you mind a roommate?”

“No, I guess not,” I shrugged, confused. Surely she wasn’t suggesting…

She turned on her heel and I got the notion I was supposed to follow her, so I did.

I quickly caught up to her and she led us into a lounge where Rebecca sat on a bright yellow leather sofa. She had small headphones on her head and a small device that looked like it was playing a cassette tape, with the word WALKMAN scrawled on the front of it, sitting on her lap. The music was blaring so loudly through the ridiculously small headphones that I could hear it from the doorway. I recognized the song as being one of ABBA’s. Jenny and her friend, Suzie, used to listen to those records all the time.

Frannie walked up to Rebecca and pulled the headphones off her head. “Would you consider him?”

Consider me for what?
She
was the roommate?

“Of course you’d bring a guy,” Rebecca shot back to Frannie.

Rebecca cocked an eyebrow and looked me up and down. I looked her over as well. She was beautiful. Her skin was bright and smooth. Her eyes were an interesting light brown, and almost clear, except for a trace of the redness and puffiness from crying. They reminded me of a necklace that Jenny used to wear. She said it was amber or something like that. Rebecca’s blonde hair was sleek and pulled back into a long pony-tail now.

She stood and I swallowed hard. This was so bizarre. I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone and that Rod Sterling was going to pop out of the hallway.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said calmly.

I had no idea what was happening. I looked from Frannie to Rebecca and back to Frannie. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here—”

“Apparently I need a babysitter, or excuse me, a roommate,” Rebecca interrupted herself rolling her eyes at Frannie. “Do you have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?” she asked.

I almost fell over. A
boyfriend?
Was she serious? Rebecca sat tapping her foot at me waiting for an answer. “Right now I’m single. But girls, all the way, man.”

“Forget it.” Rebecca said and took her seat back on the yellow leather sofa and slipped her headphones back on.

Frannie turned to me and said, “Can you give us a minute? There’s a kitchen across the hall. Help yourself to whatever you want.”

“Uh, sure.” I backed out of the room and went in search of the kitchen. I was starving, so it was a good thing. And I wasn’t going to have to pay for it, which was even better. But the kitchen was a major disappointment. The fridge only had fruits and veggies and some
Sweet & Low Yogurt
. Even the drinks were girly. Pink cans of TaB cola, uh – no thank you.
Boyfriend.
Is that what I’m going to have to put up with if I do this modeling thing? Pussy food and people thinking I was some homo?

I swallowed my pride and grabbed a couple of carrot sticks and sat in a chair wondering if any of this made sense. I was supposed to be a fourth generation rancher and here I was sitting as a model after a runway show in New York City. I had been getting my picture taken by a guy who clearly digs other guys. I’m eating fucking carrot sticks, and considering drinking a can of TaB.

Just then Rebecca walked into the kitchen and stood in front of me. “Fine you can move in.”

“What if I don’t want to move in?” I shot back. I glanced behind her and saw Frannie looking at me. She placed her hands in front of her like she was praying I would say yes.
What in the hell was going on here?

“Look. It’s free. It’s clean. I’m clean. You better be.”

Frannie nodded her head at me.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Park Avenue. You in, or what?”

“Are you serious? I have to get my truck and my stuff.”

“My building doesn’t have parking. You’ll have to get rid of your truck.

“I’m
not
getting rid of my truck.”

“Aw, fuck! Are you for real?” she groaned.

I didn’t know how to answer that. For starters, nothing felt real right now. I’d just done my first real modeling gig, a fucking runway show, and now I was talking to a super-model. One loaded with attitude. Attitude I used to have in Colorado. I stood, my face set. I was not backing down. I’d had enough of this shit.

“Fine, if you want to throw away fifty bucks or more a day parking your precious
truck
, that’s your business. But my building doesn’t have parking.” She turned to a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a small note pad and pencil. She started writing furiously on it. “Here’s my address and phone number—in case you get lost. See you tomorrow,” she said, thrusting the piece of paper at me.

Frannie stood at the door, silently clapping her hands and looking as happy as Jim Lange making a connection on
The Dating Game.

Really? Two steps forward, one step back. I finally get a modeling gig, and an opportunity at a nicer place to live than the roach motel, but a girl roommate? One who didn’t want me around? Me? Jack Stevens? Even this small town boy has standards.

“I have to think about it,” I said in my most grown up voice, taking the piece of paper.

G
reat. I’m being backed into a corner and given some punk kid to be my babysitter.
Jack Stevens.
Even his name wreaks country bumpkin. Bet he hasn’t even graduated high school. Some dropout wanna-be. I’m twenty-fucking-five years old! Not that I look a day over nineteen. I’m a successful supermodel. My face has been on Cosmopolitan and Vogue magazine covers and billboards in Times Square.

And now, because Dan walked out on me this morning, and with my
history
, the powers that be are putting me between a rock and hard place. Forcing me to have a roommate. Or I’ll have to find another agency. Bet they’ll turn this pretty boy into their own personal narc. I don’t need one. Just because the love of my life has left doesn’t mean I’m going to fall apart and run to the dealer on the next corner. I may run to the liquor store, but that’s it.

I
woke up around ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Sleeping in felt great. I stretched and grabbed a smoke. As I lit up, I spotted the scrap of paper with Rebecca’s address that she had given me last night. Park Avenue. Suddenly, I burst out laughing. The theme song for
Green Acres
ran through my head and Eva Gabor, or was it Zsa Zsa? I always got those two confused.
Da-dah Da-dah-dah something about Park Avenue,
I hummed in my head. Man, I sucked at lyrics. Good thing I didn’t come to New York to be a singer.

Right. I’m gonna move in with that arrogant bitch. Not happenin’.
She was so full of herself and she clearly didn’t want me moving in. Why did Frannie think this was a good thing? But looking around the shit hole that I’d been living in for the past three months, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. I’d been ignoring the peeling paint, the thin walls, and the stale stench of the carpeting. I mean, it was pretty much all I could afford, and I didn’t have another choice. But now, another choice was literally handed to me last night.

I finished my smoke, ran all of my laundry, and four hours later checked out of the motel. Fighting the famous New York City traffic and cabs, I found myself parked in a parking lot collecting a ticket from some guy who smelled like the urinals at Folsom Field. I silently prayed that my truck would be okay. My 1973 Ford F-100 was my baby. My brother Jim helped me rebuild the engine, I’d lost my virginity in it, and gotten laid more times than I could count in it. She’d gotten me all the way to New York.

I stuffed the ticket in my back pocket, and pulled out the address Rebecca had given me. I looked at my map, made a couple mental notes then slung my duffle bag over my shoulder and headed in the direction I thought I was supposed to go. It wasn’t until a few blocks later that I realized the numbers were going up, not down, so I turned around and back tracked. Half a mile later, and nearly getting run over by a taxi or two, I finally found her building; a large, dark red awning looming over a heavy-set doorman standing guard.

He looked me up and down, and warily eyed my duffle bag as I walked up. I had half a mind to head back to my truck and go back to Colorado. The snobby attitude of the doorman and the dirty smells of the streets and car exhaust were making me homesick for the sweet smelling air of the Colorado Rockies. But I had a contract now. I had to stay.

I reached for the handle of the door, but was effectively blocked by the uniformed man. “Can I help you?” he asked, bringing me back to New York.

“Um, yeah, I’m here to see Rebecca. I’m moving in.” I started to walk past him to the open the door.

“Sure you are. Look kid, you should move along.”

“No, I swear.” I pulled out the scrap of paper that she’d scrawled her address on. “She gave me her address. This is her building, right?”

He smirked at me. “Don’t make me call the cops, kid.”

“Can you call her or something?”

With a face of stone, he calmly replied, “I don’t even know if she lives here.”

My jaw dropped. He had to be messing with me. She was beautiful. You didn’t miss a girl like that. “Seriously? She’s about my height. Long blonde hair? Gorgeous eyes? She’s a famous model.”

I looked at the paper again and saw her phone number. “Do you have a phone? I’ll call her. You’ll see.”

Without even looking at me, he said, “Pay phone is on the corner.” He jerked his head to the opposite corner where there was a phone booth.

I trudged off, adjusting my bag on my shoulder and digging out a dime to call the number on the scrap of paper. Three minutes later, the doorman was holding the door open for me looking more than a little annoyed.

I got off of the elevator onto the 22nd floor and saw a door wide open, just as Rebecca said she would do. Light and music was flooding into the hallway. Hesitantly, I walked to the door and stepped inside, then closed the door behind me. I leaned back and looked around—stunned.

The song
Hot Stuff
by Donna Summer surrounded me, making me laugh remembering that this very song was playing on the car radio after I had talked to Penny and quit Thompson’s Market. I looked over at the giant speakers that were blaring the tune; a high end stereo system. And right next to that, a huge record collection.
Nice!
Looking around the apartment, it was like something you’d see on a prime time TV drama that Jenny used to watch. Yup, Rebecca was loaded. She was an inspiration. I hoped I’d be able to afford something like this next year on my own.

Everywhere I looked, white, modern furnishings were meticulously placed and everything was as neat as a pin. Low, white, leather sofas with straight lines that looked rather uncomfortable. And the arms of the chairs were wooden, more like end tables attached to the piece of furniture. Funky shaped, white plastic chairs with circles punched in them arranged around a glass dining table. The floor was a thick white carpeting. Silver domes were attached to the wall with light coming out from behind them. This was a far cry from the roach motel, or my parents house with paneling, peeling paint, and wallpaper, furnishings that were broken or worn to within an inch of their useful lives. I decided to slip my boots off and leave them by the door.

Suddenly, Rebecca was walking into the room, and seeing her was almost more shocking than the apartment. She was wearing low slung, loose pants and a lacy, black bra. Nothing else. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel propped up on her head. Presumably, she’d just come out of the shower and had no makeup on, yet was perhaps even more beautiful than when I had seen her both times before. She was sipping on a martini glass as she entered, and dancing to the music.

I was suddenly desperate for a cigarette. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the box, and started to shake one out.

“Nuh-uh. Not in my place you don’t. I’m not a smoker, and if you want to live here, you won’t be one either. Those things will kill you, ya know. Find another vice—a clean one,” she scolded, boring her eyes into the pack of Marlboros in my hand.