Something About You (Just Me & You) (6 page)

“Sabrina,” Carlton said with a contained smile. “Good
morning.”

It was the wrong thing to say.
All wrong.
After
Sabrina took a comp day, the typical Carlton Hayes salutation was, “Welcome
back to Monday, bee-yotch!” Or he’d eschew greetings entirely and rib her with
a snarky comment about her hair.

“Good morning, Carlton. Moira,” she responded cautiously.
She placed the remaining cup of latte on her desk and slung the messenger bag
from her shoulder. “Since when do we tune in to early-morning talk shows in
this office?”

It was bad enough that Gage “Fitz” Fitzgerald had murdered
the peace of her morning drive. Now he’d encroached on her professional space
as well? 

“Everyone listens to ‘Fitz and Giggles’ now,” Moira Espinoza
piped up. “I’m a feminist, and even I think they’re hilarious.” A tall,
big-boned girl with a thick nimbus of untidy brown hair, the legislative aid
served as the perfect foil for Carlton’s Greek god beauty. She wore her
customary uniform: white T-shirt, denim skirt and ancient Birkenstock sandals
with one strap duct taped to the side.

Sabrina looked at her shrewdly. “
Everyone
?”

“Well, a lot of people,” Moira pointed out weakly. “Theo
called to say he’d be in late, and we had some time to kill. So we started
listening to that Fitz guy on the radio to pass the time and — Sabrina,
what happened this weekend?”

“Drop it, Mo,” Carlton warned on the heels of her disjointed
ramble. “Sabrina’s personal life is none of our beeswax.”

Only now it was. One Gage Fitzgerald had definitely seen to
that. Sabrina wondered if Theo listened to KCAP. She sank into her chair, laced
her fingers together and placed her hands in front of her. Time for a Theo
maneuver.

“Here’s the abbreviated version. I’ve made some unfortunate
decisions in my personal life lately, and that includes the one I made this
weekend. You could even say they were ‘stupid.’ As of today, I’m through being
stupid. The two of you will speak of this to no one. Not Theo, not other
staffers, not your best friends or your mothers. Now.” She slapped her palms on
her desk, ignoring the shock on her colleagues’ faces. “Where’s Violetta?”

The best way to proceed was to behave as though this
nightmare of a morning were behind her.

“Ah, bad news,” Carlton hedged. “She quit.”

“You’re joking,” Sabrina said with disbelief. “D’you mean to
tell me that I take one day off to help plan my best friend’s wedding, and the
anchor of this office just up and quits?”

“Theo wanted to cut Violetta’s hours,” Carlton explained.
“He wants to put more of the budget into making the office ‘green’ — or
giving it the appearance thereof.” He glared at the stack of boxes piled in the
corner of the Think Tank labeled “Austin Sustainables.”

The spendy biodegradable plates, cups and utensils hadn’t
been a big hit in the office due to their propensity to disintegrate mid-meal.
Theo Ward, materials vendor to elite construction companies and niche
contractors, made every attempt to appear a friend to the environment under the
watchful eye of his constituents and the press. This time, he’d literally put
his money where his mouth was.

“Oh, god,” Sabrina groaned. “What else?”

Carlton and Moira exchanged furtive looks.

“Jillian’s pregnant,” Moira blurted.

Sabrina’s hand paused en route to the coffee cup. “She can’t
be. It’s an odd year.”

During their marriage, Theo and Jillian Ward had managed to
produce a little Ward every other year like clockwork during each legislative
interim for a sum total of four girls. And now counting.

“How did that happen?” Sabrina wondered aloud.

“‘Whoops,’ would be a good guess,” Carlton said. “Now Jill
wants Theo to pony up the quality family time he’s been promising her. Which
means, of course, that he’ll be spending even more time here at the office.”

“Lucky us,” Sabrina murmured into her coffee cup. Still
stunned by the news and its implications, Violetta’s departure was temporarily
forgotten. 

“What are we going to do without a receptionist?” Moira
asked plaintively. “I am not pulling copier duty. I have chemical
sensitivities.”

“And I refuse to go on Theo’s takeout runs,” Carlton added.
“His
puerco borracho
will stink up my car.”

Sabrina stopped them both with a calm hand. “I’ll talk to
Theo and make him see the error of his ways.”

But she read the doubt all over her coworkers’ faces. She
excused herself and sought refuge in the ladies’ room, where she put the
finishing touches on her makeup: bone-colored eye shadow, mascara and a dab of
sheer lipstick. Her hands shook from irritation and too much caffeine.

Sabrina had always believed that the might held by those in
public office should be used for right. But she had long since abandoned any
illusions she had about Theo Ward once she discovered that the social policies
she had designed for him and that he had pretended to enthusiastically embrace —
laws that would benefit women, children, minorities and the economically
disadvantaged populations in Texas — were in fact a carefully constructed
artifice strategically designed to woo voters across enemy party lines.

Moreover, she had also discovered that Theo had no intention
of learning the job he was elected to do. Instead, he had relied on staffers
like her who were younger, smarter and more ambitious to craft his legislation
and put the final coat of polish on his public image.

If only everyone under the Dome knew who runs this show …
 

Who the real brain was behind Theo’s most popular bills. Who
wrote his speeches. Who developed his public-relations strategies, appeased disgruntled
constituents and single-handedly managed his campaign fundraising events. Who
outlined his talking points and even counseled him how to vote. It was her, his
Chief of Staff.

All Theo Ward had to do was show up and turn on the charm.

Sabrina fluffed her bangs with her fingertips and gave the
hasty touch-up job a look of approval. At least she had more important things
to worry about than Gage Fitzgerald.

“
Vamonos!
”

Gage shooed away the trio of colorful banty chickens that
pecked idly around on his front porch. One of the small fowl, a rooster,
refused to be usurped; it dug its claws into a plank and crowed at him
belligerently.

“You’re out of your league, pal,” Gage told the bird. “Wanna
impress your lady friends? Stick to facing off with alpha males your own size.”

The rooster clucked back at him ominously and took several
steps away.

Gage shook his head as he reached down to pick up the daily
paper. He had never lived in a city where neighbors kept livestock
traditionally confined to rural areas. But this was Austin, where anything
went. He had passed through town a couple of times to visit Sebastian, then
whipping his way through joint doctoral degrees in English and philosophy, and
had become enamored with the sleepy college town.

A lot had changed since Sebastian had lived in a dilapidated
garage apartment in the same neighborhood south of the lake where Gage had
recently procured an overpriced sublet. Twenty years ago, River Run had been
the heart of the city’s infamous
weird
. Musicians, writers, painters and
other artsy types dwelled in bungalows hidden away at the end of winding
cul-de-sacs and behind lawns overwhelmed with brushy native flora and an
abundance of untamed ivy. The smell of marijuana and clove cigarettes curled
around each breeze. 

Back then the neighborhood had also been a good argument for
concealed weapons permits. Now River Run was undergoing rapid gentrification.
The main avenue that used to be lined with pawn shops, no-tell motels and
triple-X cinemas now looked like it had been designed by twenty-something
hipsters expressly for singles and couples who were Gage’s age. Men’s and
women’s retro couture boutiques catered to customers who wanted to look like
they’d spent the afternoon pushing through hangers of vintage apparel, and
curio shops sold Moroccan henna lamps, handcrafted beads and
Día de los
muertos
baubles priced out of all common sense.

When the lease on Gage’s sublet expired, his landlord had
showed up on the doorstep with a new one in hand. Gage had taken one look at
the increase in rent printed at the bottom of the first page, and the first
words out of his mouth were, “Hell no.”

Looking distinctly miffed, the landlord, a hipster himself,
had snippily informed him that the house could easily fetch just as much, if not
even more, if it were rented to out-of-towners a few times a year during
Austin’s various film, multimedia and music festivals.

Gage had simply told him, “Good luck with that,” and
proceeded to tear the lease in half.

He wasn’t happy to leave. He felt right at home in the
gentle flux of resident activity on Evaline Street, which was just far enough
away from the main avenue that he had little contact with the weekend throngs
that flocked to their favorite hipster havens. The rambling two-story house, with
its high ceilings, scuffed wooden floors and a ceiling fan in practically every
room, had a well-lived-in feel. It was a bitch to heat on cold days, and the
plumbing was temperamental — features that Gage, having grown up in a
house much like this one, found familiar and even oddly endearing. In the dark
hours of early morning when he shaved, the smell of homemade tortillas wafted
through the window from the string of Mexican cafés on the next street.

And none of the neighbors complained when he worked in the
garage all night long.

Moving into the large River Run house had been like slipping
his feet into an old pair of shoes. Comfortable. Easy.

And now it was completely out of his price range, given that
his personal finances had taken an unexpected hit during the past two years.
The “For Rent” sign staked in the corner of the lawn reminded him that he had
less than a month to find another place to live. Gage told himself that he
wouldn’t have to count his pennies forever; the crisis
would
pass. In
the meantime, he’d have to resort to cheaper digs.  

“Hey, Gage!” a woman’s voice called, interrupting his
reverie.

Speaking of easy …

He paused with the key still in the lock. His next-door
neighbor, Ronnie, traversed the distance between them in an unhurried saunter.
She wore a torn sweatshirt and shorts that revealed an impressive expanse of
brown shoulder and leg. Her pale blond tresses were pulled up in a
tousled-looking updo he suspected she’d painstakingly styled to look as though
she had done it on the fly. The color of her skin and hair was all too typical
of Austin women and reminded him of the Palomino horses he saw in pastures
outside the city limits.

“Back atcha, Ronnie.” He gave her the same friendly smile
that he would any of his female coworkers at KCAP.

Only Ronnie had tacitly made it clear since the day he moved
in that she wanted more than sugar-borrowing privileges. She’d invited him over
for lemonade on the porch. Mike’s Hard Lemonade. No doubt she was a long, cool
drink of it too — with a cherry at the bottom. The perfume she wore
smelled sweet and fruity.

A few years ago, Gage would have gladly lived up to Fitz’s
on-air reputation. He would have drunk with Ronnie all night, bedded her at
dawn then let the cards fall as they may. But if the school of hard knocks had
taught him one lesson, it was that the path of least resistance slid into a
quagmire of complications and misgivings. Women like Ronnie — women with
whom he couldn’t recall the details of a single conversation — were always
the first step in the wrong direction.

“This morning’s show was awesome.” She smiled and braced her
palms on the top of the fence railing that separated their properties. “The
other girls at the salon thought it was hilarious, too.”

“I do aim to please.” Gage noticed that she’d thrust her
breasts forward in a gesture that was meant to appear unobtrusive.

“Sounds like you had a good time at your friend’s wedding,”
Ronnie drawled with a hint of coy. “Although I can’t believe that the maid of
honor turned you down.”

“I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.” Gage kept his
tone light.

One thing that he’d noticed about Texas women was that they
communicated sexual interest almost exclusively through body language and
innuendo. Now Ronnie was shifting her weight from one long leg to another,
subtle movements that connoted a certain expectation. The lemonade stand was
still open for business.

His
business.

“I suppose there’s always hope for the next wedding, huh?”
Ronnie asked.

“From your lips to god’s ears.” Gage crossed his fingers and
broadened his smile. He knew why his show was so popular with his own gender.
He had designed it that way. He had carefully devised the Fitz persona to
appeal to the target demographic: single, frustrated masses of men who
straddled the fence between indiscriminate bed-hopping and settling down for
the long haul. But it still never ceased to amaze him when female listeners
rooted for Fitz to score.

“I noticed you’re not renewing your lease.” Ronnie
mercifully changed the topic and looked at the “For Rent” sign. “Did the
neighborhood wildlife finally get to you?”

Gage briefly glanced at the banty hens, which were now
sunning themselves in an empty birdbath on the front lawn. “No, but writing
very big checks to my landlord did. It’s a great house, but a single guy like
me doesn’t need all this floor space.”

“I guess not,” Ronnie agreed reluctantly. “Did you find a
new place?”

“I have some in mind.” Gage tried not to wince as he thought
of the efficiency apartments he’d walked through on far South Congress Avenue
where the fringe of Austin’s center bumped up against shady-looking bars and
commercial storage facilities. Rental properties too cheap to warrant a
brochure.

“Don’t suppose I’ll see you again, will I?” Ronnie didn’t
bother to hide the disappointment on her face.

“I’m sure I’ll be around.” Gage didn’t want to make false
assurances. “Say, it’s always nice talking to you. But it’s a little past my
bedtime.”

They walked to their respective front porches. She looked
back at him and waved. Gage waved back and smiled. He assumed “Ronnie” was
short for Veronica, but he’d never been curious enough to ask.

Yes, she definitely would have been no conquest, he thought
as he peeled off his age-weathered black leather jacket and tossed it on a
chair along with his keys. Fitz’s popularity had inexplicably taken off back
when Gage was in his mid-twenties working his first gig at a radio station in
Kansas City. Ever since then, he’d had no short supply of female
companionship. 

There had been single women desperate to get married and
those who wanted to live together as a trial run. There were women with jealous
boyfriends, fiancés and even one with an estranged husband she kept under
wraps. Gage touched the bump on his nose thoughtfully. He certainly wouldn’t
forget that one. All of them wanted to capture and tame the free spirit they
assumed was part of his radio personality.

The simple truth was that Gage, although easily tamable, had
been in love with exactly none of them.

He couldn’t pin it down to an exact date. But at some point
in time he got tired of his love life playing out as a long-running
Melrose
Place
mise-
en
-scène. Couldn’t abide seeing one more mascara-streaked
face looking at him with loathing or hearing a choked voice calling him
bastard,
asshole
and other names he — or was it Fitz? — so richly
deserved. Damned if he knew.

Gage emptied the coins from his pockets. His fingers pulled
out the business card Gideon had given him earlier that day. He tapped it
against the bureau top.

“Tara, Tara, Tara,” he muttered to himself. He squinted his
eyes shut, trying to conjure up a face to go with the surgically enhanced bosom
Gideon had described. Instead he saw a pair of pert B-cups modestly covered by
hideous moss green silk. His eyes snapped open.

Maid March had made an impression herself. And he wasn’t
entirely sure why. Sabrina wasn’t that sexy if he judged her by
Playboy
standards held to the all-American girl. Her body was too petite, her frame too
delicate and easy to crush. Physically, she was the very antithesis of the type
of woman who usually turned him on. 

And he couldn’t get her off of his mind. 

Edging closer to the wings of Morpheus, Gage kicked off his
shoes and collapsed on the overstuffed, pea green sofa. His eyes felt gritty
and dry. He looked around at the half-packed moving boxes filled with clothing,
notebooks and a small collection of electronic gadgets. That’s what his life
was all about now. Keeping tabs on his bottom line until the time he no longer
needed to.

Gage thanked heaven for the small mercies. A lot of his
buddies, saddled with families and mortgages, were stuck in one city and hadn’t
been able to pull up roots when they’d been unceremoniously pink-slipped. His
profession was both portable and recession-proof. A radio jock’s salary wasn’t
exactly lucrative, but he’d always gotten by comfortably, thanks to the success
of his on-air alter ego.

Fitz saw to it that he always stayed on his feet and in rare
form.

His success was proof that there were two types of women in
the world. There was the type like Ronnie, who were enthralled by the bad-boy
image Gage had cultivated for his radio personality. The other type was highly
unlikely to be amused by his profession.

Like Sabrina March.

If he had told her what he did for a living when they first
met, their conversation would have ended shortly after the introductions when
she cast a disdainful glare in his direction. Sebastian failed to mention that
the maid of honor was cute as hell when she got tipsy. Or that unlike Ronnie
and his past assortment of palomino blondes, Sabrina had curiously little guile
when it came to seduction. Considering that she regularly mingled with male
legislators, lobbyists and other Chiefs of Staff, all well-endowed in the
self-assurance department, this had surprised him the most. Gage thought of her
sitting there in the sun in that shapeless dress making her port-induced
confessions and blowing her bangs out of those big brown eyes. She didn’t know
it, but she’d all but dared him to bring it on. Then when he’d leaned in to
kiss her, she’d blinked and gulped like a girl on her first date.

Yawning, Gage rose from the comfort of the sofa and headed
toward the kitchen to scrounge up whatever leftovers were in the fridge. A
handwritten schedule attached to the door with an X-Men magnet reminded him
that he needed to put in an appearance at a sponsored event at a popular Sixth
Street bar later that night. He needed to gird his loins with a serious power
sleep before he interacted with the masses of rowdy college co-eds sucking down
margaritas laced with Everclear.

After wolfing down the remnants of a sandwich, he stumbled
to his bedroom and drew the blackout blinds — a requisite for anyone who
worked a reverse schedule. His rumpled tuxedo jacket was still draped over the
bedpost. Some of Sabrina’s perfume had transferred to the collar, and a diffuse
trail of smoke and flowers tantalized his nostrils. 

There would probably be a little hell enough to pay when
Molly and Sebastian got back from Paris. His ears would be burning as the women
had one of their girl-power confabs, during which Sabrina would no doubt tell
Molly that he’d …
what?
Gotten her drunk and kissed her silly? Not
that she’d squeeze too much juice from that particular fruit. Sabrina had been
a willing participant.

She’d kissed him like she’d meant it. Gage couldn’t recall a
single woman who’d ever put that much heart and soul into a first kiss.
Whatever irreconcilable difference put the kibosh on Maid March’s marriage
hadn’t been born in the bedroom, unless she was an incredibly good actress or
her ex-husband couldn’t figure out which end was up.