Reality TV Bites (5 page)

“No, no. He lives in Florida. Palm Beach.”

“Oh.” There's royalty living in Palm Beach, and I never even knew it. How…unromantic. I should say no, but Nicolo is more than good. Not only has he apologized about the short notice, he throws more royalty into the deal. “Well, how could I miss the chance to meet—?”

“Sixte.”

“Right. But it's not a date. It's a professional outing.”

He inclines his head. Smiling, I give him my address and cell number, and he promises his driver will arrive by nine. Then he kisses my hand, all the way to the fingertips, and says something that sounds like silk feels.

“Was that Italian?”

“Sì.”

“What did it mean?”

“Until tomorrow.”

And then he's gone.

“He didn't even drink his beer.” Dave walks up and leans on the wall beside me, invading my corner with his broad shoulders and annoying height. I'm five-eight, so he must be at least six feet.

“I guess you'll have to drink it,” I say, scanning the patio for Rory.

“I don't want a Heineken. You drink it.” He hands the beer mug to me, but I wave it away.

“Can't. I'm leaving. Where's Rory?”

He points to a picnic table, and I spot Rory and Hunter sitting together. They're completely oblivious to everything around them, locked deep in conversation. Sometimes I wonder what the two of them have to talk about. I mean, she's a
Star Wars
sci-fi junkie and he's an ex-jock marketing exec. And somehow they're still perfect for each other.

“What are they talking about?”

Dave shrugs. “You know them. It could be anything from intergalactic warfare to organic pet food.”

“Pet food?”

“Hunter wants to get a dog, but Rory doesn't want him to feed it dead animals.”

I smile. “Yeah, she gave me the same lecture when I got Booboo Kitty.”

Dave shakes his head and drinks the Heineken anyway. “I still can't believe you named your cat…what you did.”

“Why? I'd end up calling her that anyway. Besides, she looks like a Booboo Kitty.”

“She looks like a mutant feather pillow,” he says not quite softly enough.

“Good thing she'll never have to see you again. I wish I was so lucky,” I mutter.

I head over to Rory and Hunter. I have to skirt around thirty or so slack-jawed guys, awed by the Laker Girls' halftime show. Sometimes I miss learning those routines with the other girls. It can be such a rush when you get it right.

“Rory, it's nine-fifteen. Are you ready?”

“Aw, you have to go already? It's only halftime,” Hunter says.

“
The Iron Chef
won't wait,” Rory says and stands. “Besides, now you can watch the Laker Girls instead of pretending to listen to the genealogical breakdown of Luke Skywalker's family tree.”

Hunter puts a hand on his chest as if wounded. “But I
am
interested in Luke Skywalker's family tree. All those crazy Skywalkers.”

“Bye, Hunter,” I say and pull on Rory's arm until she detaches her lips from his.

“Did you drive?” I ask as we leave the bar and breathe sports-free air for the first time in several hours.

“No, Hunter did.”

“Okay, we'll take my car.”

Rory skids to a stop. “Allison, if we take your car you have to promise not to drive like you're trying to beat the
Millennium Falcon
at the Kessel Run.”

“Oh-kaay.” We round the corner, and I deactivate the alarm on my BMW Z4 parked on the street. Of course Hunter and Dave would choose a place without valet.

“Allison, that means don't speed.”

“Rory, I never speed.” I climb into the car, and Rory reluctantly follows. “It just
feels
faster when I have the top down. You know, physics and all that.” I start the engine, press the button to lower the top, and we're off.

“Allison!” Rory screams over the wind and my Benny Goodman CD. “I took physics, and I'm not buying it. Creator! Watch out for the pedestrians!”

Ten minutes later, pretty good time to get all the way to Old Town where Rory lives, I say, “Rory, we're here. You can open your eyes.”

“I am never driving with you again.”

“You always say that.” I pull into the empty parking spot next to her car, and follow her into the apartment building singing “Flat Foot Floogee.” By the time we get to her apartment, Rory's singing, too. She never stays angry for long.

We burst into her apartment, and I flop on the couch while Rory heads for the kitchen. She reemerges with a bottle of wine and a pint of Double Fudge Brownie. Now we're talking. Why would anyone want to sit at hard wooden picnic tables, drink warm beer, and watch sweaty grown men run around chasing a ball? This is much better.

Rory hands me a spoon and flips the TV on, surfing until she finds the right channel.
The Iron Chef
starts in five minutes, so our timing is perfect.

Rory's still humming the song, then she says, “What's a floogee? For that matter, what's a floy, floy or a flou, flou?”

“What's wrong? You don't collar this jive?” I say, digging into the pint. “That's just frisking the whiskers.”

Rory stares at me. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“Grandma Holloway. She'd put on her best drape, truck on down to the gin mills in the Land o' Darkness, and alligator with the hepcats at the Cotton Club. You've heard of Cab Calloway, right? She collared him, Duke Ellington, Cole Porter—all the gates and their killer-dillers.”

“It's almost like speaking Klingon.”

“If you say so. Shh. The show's starting.”

We watch
The Iron Chef,
me staring in total incredulity and Rory laughing her ass off.

“This is the stupidest show I've ever seen,” I say during a commercial break. “Who is that guy in all the ruffles and gloves? And why is he biting that pepper like he's some kind of animal?”

“I don't know,” Rory says around a mouthful of ice cream, “but it's funny. I like the woman. She's always excited about the desserts.”

“She's insane.” I scoop out the last of the ice cream. “How could anyone get excited about a dessert with mushrooms? That's not dessert. Oh, my God. If this is what
Kamikaze Makeover!
's like, I'm doomed.”

There's a loud pounding, and Rory and I jump. “Who is that?”

Rory rolls her eyes. “Probably Hunter. We didn't see each other much this week.” She hands me her ice cream spoon and heads for the door, now vibrating. “Cut it out! I'm coming, you Mynok!”

“Why don't you just move in together already and get it over with?” I say, settling back on the couch. Hunter is going to have to wait until I see whether the Iron Chef or the challenger wins tonight. Poor guys. They both seem really nice.

“We brought bourbon!” a not-so-nice voice bellows. “French, since we know you like them.”

I close my eyes and put my arm over my face. Dave. What the hell is
he
doing here?

“Are you drunk?” Rory asks Hunter when he stumbles in.

“Not really,” he slurs. “Not as drunk as Dan.”

“Who's Dan?” Rory says, helping the wobbly Hunter to the chair across from where I'm sitting on the couch.

“Him.
Dan.
”

“Dave?” Rory says.

“That's what I said.”

Dave plops down next to me. Right next to me. Rory's couch is huge, and Dave has to sit practically on top of me. He holds out a half-empty bottle of bourbon. “I'm not drunk.” And he's probably not. He doesn't look or sound drunk. Hunter's such a lightweight. Even in high school he was a goner if he drank anything stronger than beer.

“Want some? It's like twenty bucks a bottle. French, so I think even Prince Bourbon-Parma would approve.”

I grit my teeth. “His name is Nicolo, and he's not French. He's from Roskilde.”

Dave uncaps the bourbon and drinks it straight. Yuck. “Where the hell is Roskilde?”

“Fuck if I know,” Hunter says, and holds out his hand. Dave, idiot that he is, hands Hunter the bottle. Rory snatches it up.

“I'm going to get you water and an aspirin or you're going to have a hangover tomorrow.”

Hunter smiles at her. “Thanks.”

She ruffles his hair and looks at me and Dave. “Want anything?”

“A gun?”

Rory ignores me and says, “I'll get you a glass of water, too, Dave.” She disappears into the kitchen.

“After all the trouble I went through getting you a sip of Gatorade the other night, how come you don't offer to get me a glass of water?” Dave asks me.

“Because I don't like you.” I grab the arm of the couch and attempt to pull myself out of Dave's trap. He doesn't try to stop me, just runs a finger down my back, following the line of my spine all the way to the waistband of my low-rise jean shorts. I freeze.

“You don't really hate me, do you?” he asks, but his voice is low so Hunter doesn't hear.

I glance at him over my shoulder, a sarcastic remark all ready to go, but his golden eyes look so sincere that I falter. “You weren't even jealous, were you?” I whisper.

Shit! Why did I say that? I wasn't planning to say that.

Dave doesn't answer right away. He looks like he's thinking about it, then sort of shrugs and says, “Should I be?”

“What does that mean?” I hiss with a glance at Hunter.

“Means what I said.”

“I was kissing him.”

His face darkens. “Yeah, I saw that,” he mutters.

“So, you don't care?”

Shut up, Allison. Shut up
. You
don't care
.

“I don't like it, but you're going to do what you want.”

I glance toward the kitchen to see if Rory's heard the argument, then turn back to Dave. “That's right. I'll do what I want.”

I heave myself up, ready to flounce away, when Dave murmurs, “I will, too.”

I round on him. “You will, what? You're going to
cheat
on me?”

“Can I cheat? Are we together?”

Goddamnit! Why does he always do this to me? I get all confused and turned around when I talk to him. “You know what I mean!” I finally shout.

Hunter cringes. “You're not going to throw anything, are you?”

I ignore him. On the couch, Dave spreads his arms over the back and levels his gaze on me. “Maybe I am drunk, because I'm not following you.”

“Forget it. Why are you even here? You don't like me.”

“Why do you say that?” Dave rests an ankle on his knee,
appearing even more relaxed than ever. Meanwhile, I'm as tight as an arrangement by Count Basie.

“You know why.” I turn away from him, intending to join Rory in the kitchen, but she's standing frozen in the doorway, watching the battle.

“Is all this because I wouldn't sleep with you?”

My jaw drops, and if I were a cartoon, the top of my head would come off and steam would shoot out. Rory's hands fly to her mouth to stifle a gasp and Hunter's lips form an O.

I round on Dave. “Please. I wouldn't sleep with you if—”

“I was the last man on earth. Yeah, I've heard that one before.”

“Then you should know this one, too. Fuck you.” I stomp down Rory's hallway toward the bathroom. I'm perilously close to tears, but no one needs to know that if I can get the door closed before I start crying. I'm almost there when Dave's hand snatches my wrist and he pulls me into Rory's bedroom and shuts the door.

“What are you doing? Get out of the way.” I try to push past him to open the door, but he takes my shoulders and backs me against the wall. Despite the fact that I hate him, I'm breathing hard and the look in his eyes is making me very, very warm.

We stare at each other, then he says, “So you think because I wouldn't sleep with you that means I don't like you?”

“I never said that.” I try to think of some biting remark, but a traitorous tear slips free instead.

Dave catches it with a finger. “Are you crying?”

“No.” I sniffle, and three more tears make their getaway. Dave shakes his head. He must have sisters because he's not freaked out by tears like most guys are.

“Red, have you ever considered that maybe I didn't sleep with you
because
I like you?”

“My name is Allison.”

“Allison,” he murmurs and traces a finger along my cheek.

“That doesn't make any sense. If you liked me—”

“I would have fucked you?” His voice is hard, but his touch is gentle when he runs his hand through my hair to cup the back of my head. “If that was all I wanted from you, I would have taken it. On our first date.”

I snort. “Please.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I shut up. After all, I'm standing here, shoved up against the wall, his arms around me, and his leg parting my thighs. Now isn't the best time to argue the point. “So what
do
you want?” I ask, then shiver at the way his eyes darken to goldenrod.

“I don't know yet.”

I shake my head. “Then just forget the whole thing.”

“I don't think so.”

Jerk. Who is he to tell me when this—nonrelationship relationship—is over? But before I can correct yet another of his misguided assumptions, he pulls me to him and kisses me. Not his usual playful kiss. Not even a nice kiss. This is not the kind of kiss men give women in movies—at least not the kind I watch. This is hot and rough and so electric I feel like I stuck my finger in the light socket.

And then Dave begins to pull back, and I can't let him. I
should
let him, but this kiss is too amazing. So I grab his shirt and pull him closer, and his hands are all over me—in my hair, on my face, cupping my breasts, fitting me to his body. Finally we break apart. I'm panting and Dave's not exactly unruffled. He leans his head over my shoulder, resting on the wall behind me. His hands are snug on my waist and his breath tickles my ear.