Wallbanger (5 page)

Chapter Four

T
HE
N
EXT
F
EW
N
IGHTS
were blissfully quiet. No thumping, no spanking, no meowing, and no giggling. Admittedly Clive was a little forlorn from time to time, but everything else around the apartment was great. I met some of my neighbors, including Euan and Antonio who lived downstairs. I hadn’t heard or seen Simon since that last night with the Giggler, and while I was grateful for the nights of perfect sleep, I was curious about where he’d disappeared to. Euan and Antonio were only too glad to fill me in.

“Darling, wait until you see our dear Simon. What a specimen that boy is!” Euan exclaimed. Antonio had caught me in the hall on my way home and had a cocktail in my hand within seconds.

“Oh my, yes. He is exquisite! If only I were a few years younger,” Antonio crooned, fanning himself as Euan looked over his Bloody Mary at him.

“If you were a few years younger you’d what? Please. You’d never have been in Simon’s league. He is filet, while—face it, love—you and I are tube steaks.”

“You would know,” Antonio cackled, sucking pointedly on his celery stalk.

“Gentleman, please. Tell me about this guy. I admit, after the show he put on last week, I’m a little intrigued about the man behind the wall banging.”

I’d broken down and told them about Simon’s late-night antics after realizing that unless I dished the dirt, they would not reciprocate. They clung to every word like fat kids at a buffet. I told them about the ladies he made the sweet love to, and they filled in a few more blanks.

Simon was a freelance photographer who traveled all over the world. They guessed he was currently on assignment, which explained my quality sleep. Simon worked on projects for The Discovery Channel, The Cousteau Society,
National Geographic
—all the bigwigs. He’d won awards for his work and even spent some time covering the war in Iraq a few years ago. He always left his car behind when he was traveling: an old, beat-up, black Range Rover Discovery, like the kind you’d find in the African bush. The kind people drove before the yuppies got a hold of them.

Between what Euan and Antonio told me, the car, the job, and the international house of orgasms from the other side of the wall, I was beginning to piece together a profile of this man, who I still had yet to see. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more and more intrigued by the day.

Late one afternoon, after dropping off some tile samples at the Nicholsons, I decided to walk home. The fog had burned off, revealing the city, and it was a nice evening for a stroll. As I rounded the corner to my apartment, I noticed the Range Rover was absent from its usual place behind the building. Which meant it was out and about.

Simon was back in San Francisco.

Although I braced myself for another round of wall banging, the next few days were uneventful. I worked, I walked, I Clived. I went out with my girls, I made a great zucchini bread in my now well-broken-in KitchenAid, and I spent time researching my vacation.

Each year, I took a week and vacationed somewhere totally alone. Somewhere exciting, and I never went to the same place twice. One year I spent a week hiking in Yosemite. One year I went zip-lining through a rain forest canopy at an ecolodge in Costa Rica. Another year I spent a week scuba diving off the coast of Belize. And this year…I wasn’t sure where I was going to go. Going to Europe was becoming prohibitively expensive in this economy, so that was out. I was considering Peru, as I’d always wanted to see Machu Picchu. I had plenty of time, but often half the fun was deciding where I wanted to spend my vacation.

I also spent an inordinate amount of time at my peephole. Yes, it’s true. Whenever I heard a door close, I actually ran to my door. Clive looked on with a smirk. He knew exactly what I was up to. Why he was judging me, however, I will never know, as his ears perked up every time he heard noises coming up the stairs. He was still pining for his Purina.

I still hadn’t actually
seen
Simon. One day I got to the peephole in time to see him going into his apartment, but all I caught was a black T-shirt and a mess of dark hair. And even that could’ve been dark blond—hard to tell in the muted hallway light. I needed brighter lighting for better sleuthing.

Another time I saw the Range Rover pulling away from the curb as I came around the corner on my way home from work. It was going to pass right by! Just as I was about to get the first peek at him, actually
see
the man behind the myth, I tripped and went ass over applecart on the sidewalk. Luckily Euan spotted me and helped me, my bruised ego, and my bruised bum off the concrete and inside for some Bactine with a whiskey chaser.

But all remained quiet at night. I knew Simon was home, and I could hear him occasionally: a chair leg moving across the floor, a quiet laugh or two. But no harem, and therefore no wallbanging.

However, we did sleep together most nights. He played Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller on his side of the wall, and I lay in bed on my side, listening shamelessly. My grandpa used to play his old records at nighttime, and the pop and crackle of a needle on vinyl was comforting as I fell asleep, Clive curled up at my side. I’ll say this for Simon: he had good taste in music.

But this calm and quiet was too good to last, and all hell broke loose again a few nights later.

First, I was treated to another round of Spanx. She had once again been a very bad girl and certainly deserved the resounding spanking she received—a spanking that lasted almost half an hour and ended with calls of, “That’s it! Right there. God, yes, right there!” before the actual walls began to shake. I’d lain awake that night, rolling my eyes and growing more and more frustrated.

The next morning, from my post at the peephole, I saw Spanx leaving and got my first really good look at her. Pink-faced and glowing, she was a soft, round little bit of a girl with curvy hips and thighs, and packing some serious junk in the trunk. She was short—really short—and a little plump. She had to stand on tiptoes as she kissed Simon goodbye, and I missed seeing him because I watched her walk away. I marveled at his taste in women. She was the total opposite of what I’d seen of Purina, who looked like a model.

Anticipating that Purina was soon up on the roster, the following night I gave Clive a sock full of catnip and a bowlful of tuna. My hope was to get him wasted and passed out before the action started. The treats had the opposite effect. My boy was ready to party down when the first strains of Purina came shrieking through the walls about one fifteen in the morning.

If Clive could have put on a mini smoking jacket, he would have.

He stalked the room, pacing back and forth in front of the wall, playing it cool. When Purina began her meows, though, he couldn’t contain himself. He once again launched toward the wall. He jumped from nightstand to dresser to shelf, scaling pillows and even a lamp to get closer to his beloved. When he realized he would never be able to burrow under the plaster, he serenaded her with some weird kind of kitty Barry White, his yowls matching hers in intensity.

When the walls began to shake, and Simon was bringing it on home, I was amazed they could maintain their control and focus with the racket going on. Clearly, if I could hear them, they must have been able to hear Clive and all his carrying on. Although if I were impaled on the Wallbanger Wondercock, I imagine I could compartmentalize as well…

For now, though, I was impaled on nothing and getting angry. I was tired, I was horny with no release in sight, and my cat had a Q-Tip sticking out of his mouth that looked frighteningly like a tiny cigarette.

After an abbreviated night’s sleep, the next morning I dragged myself to the peephole for another round of HaremWatch. I was rewarded with a brief side profile of Simon as he leaned in to kiss Purina goodbye. It was quick, but it was enough to see the jaw: strong, defined, good. He gave great jaw. The best thing about that day was the jaw sighting. The rest of the day was shit.

First, there was a problem with the general contractor over at the Nicholson house. It seems he was not only taking extremely long lunch breaks, he was actually blazing it up in their attic every day. The whole third floor smelled like a Dead concert.

Then, an entire pallet of tiles for the bathroom floor arrived cracked and chipped. The amount of time needed to reorder and reship would set the entire project back at least two weeks, leaving no possibility of finishing on time. Any time major construction takes place, the project end date is an
estimated
time of completion. However, I had never missed a deadline, and this being such a high-profile job, it made me very warm (not in a good way) to realize there was nothing I could do to speed things up short of flying to Italy and bringing back those tiles my damn self.

After a quick lunch, during which I spilled an entire soda all over the floor and thoroughly embarrassed myself, I headed back toward work and stopped in a store to look at some new hiking boots. I had plans to go hiking over in the Marin headlands this weekend.

As I examined the selection, I felt warm breath in my ear that I instinctively flinched against.

“Hey you,” I heard, and I froze in terror. Flashbacks poured over me, and I saw spots. I felt cold and hot at the same time, and the single most horrifying experience of my life passed through my mind. I turned and saw…

Cory Weinstein. The machine-gun fucker who’d hijacked the O.

“Caroline, lookin’ good in the neighborhood,” he crooned, channeling his inner Tom Jones.

I swallowed back bile and struggled to keep my composure. “Cory, good to see you. How are you?” I managed.

“Can’t complain. Just touring restaurants for the old man. How are you? How’s the decorating business treating you?”

“Design business, and it’s good. In fact, I was just on my way back to work, so if you’ll excuse me,” I sputtered, beginning to push past him.

“Hey, no rush, pretty thing. Have you had lunch? I can get you a discount on some pizza just a few blocks away. How does five percent off sound to you?” he said. If it was possible for a voice to swagger, his did.

“Wow, five percent. As much as that does sweeten the pot, I’m gonna pass.” I chuckled.

“So, Caroline, when can I see you again? That night…damn. It was pretty great, huh?” He winked, and my skin begged me to tear it from my body and throw it at him.

“No. No, Cory. And hell no,” I blurted, the bile rising again. Flashes of in and out and in and out and in and out. My hoohah shrieked in its own defense. Granted, the two of us were not on great terms, but nevertheless I knew how afraid she was of the machine gun. Not on my watch.

“Oh, come on, baby. Let’s make some magic,” he cooed.

He leaned in, and I could tell he’d had sausage recently. “Cory, you should know I’m about to vomit on your shoes, so I’d back up if I were you.”

He blanched and stepped away.

“And for the record, I’d rather staple my head to the wall than make
magic
with you again. You and me and your five-percent discount? Not going to happen. Bye-bye now,” I said through clenched teeth and stalked out of the store.

I stomped back to work, angry and alone. No Italian tiles, no hiking boots, no man, and no O.

I spent the night on the couch in a funk. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t make dinner. I ate leftover Thai from the takeout container and growled back at Clive when he tried to sneak a shrimp. He flounced to the corner and glared at me from under a chair.

I watched Barefoot Contessa, which usually cheered me up. Tonight she made French onion soup and took it to the beach for lunch with her husband, Jeffrey. Normally watching the two of them made me all warm and fuzzy inside. They were so cute. Tonight they made me nauseous.
I
wanted to be sitting on the beach in South Hampton, wrapped in a blanket and eating soup with Jeffrey. Well, not Jeffrey per se, but a Jeffrey equivalent. My own Jeffrey.

Fucking Jeffrey. Fucking Barefoot Contessa. Fucking lonely takeout.

When it was late enough that I could justify going to bed and putting this terrible day behind me, I dragged my sad-sack self back to my bedroom. I went to get my pjs, and realized I hadn’t done any laundry. Dammit. I dug around in my jammies drawer, looking for something, anything. I had plenty of sexy little numbers, from back in the day when O and I were on the same page.