EPILOGUE
“Aidan, how did you arrange this?” Clarissa asked as we headed through the entrance of the Uffizi gallery.
“If there was one thing I learned last time I was in Italy, it was that one can get anything for the right sum of money.”
“You paid someone to give us free rein of the museum?”
“I certainly did,” I said, feeling pleased with myself. It hadn’t exactly been that easy. In fact, I’d had to line the quality leather wallets of six people. But it was worth it. The exuberance bouncing off Clarissa’s big eyes was definitely worth it.
“I didn’t want men to hear my favorite girl oohing and aahing as if she were being entered by a hungry cock.”
Clarissa giggled and slapped my arm. “You’re a sex maniac, Aidan.”
“Around you I am.”
“In any case, I don’t ooh and aah when I’m looking at art. Do I?”
I smiled. “You do, Clarissa. I’ve heard it over and over again. It’s the most perfect sound on this planet. I recall you doing it the first night at the Gala event. Remember that, when I could hardly talk around you? I’m sure you thought I was stupid.”
“You didn’t appear stupid, Aidan. You just looked smoking hot, so much so, I babbled.”
I laughed. “It was sexy, intelligent babble. That much I do remember.” I stopped walking and turned to face her. “In truth, I remember every delicious second of it. I remember every moment I’ve spent with you, Clarissa. I often replay it in slow motion. Especially that first night on the yacht.”
“Me too, Aidan,” she said with a gentle smile.
Holding hands, we continued on, and within two steps, Clarissa was indeed oohing and aahing. It was music to my ears. I loved the reddening of her cheeks and girlish excitement that overtook Clarissa whenever she was surrounded by art.
I stood there, smiling, indulging in her beauty. She just grew more beautiful each day.
As we strolled along the ancient marble floor, the only sound, other than our footsteps, reverberating off the walls was Clarissa’s sighs, leaving me to wonder if anybody had, in its four hundred fifty years, ever fucked in the Uffizi.
Mm…
There was always a first time for everything, I thought as I watched Clarissa’s delightful butt swaying before me after I’d taken a step back to watch, as I always did.
Sensing my ogling, Clarissa turned and giggled. “Aidan, you should be looking at the art.”
“I am looking at the art.” I raised my brows.
Yes, life was great, greater than I could have imagined. Especially after I’d gotten a call from Detective Hudson, telling me that a new commissioner had been appointed to the LAPD, and that Jonathon Mansfield had been tried and convicted for the murder of Chris Wilde.
The story had it that he’d sent in one of his men to inject Chris with the lethal dose that killed him. He tried to plead that he was protecting his daughter from slander. He also made up some half-cocked story that Chris had raped Jessica.
Jessica didn’t get away either, much to my relief. She’d been convicted for kidnapping Clarissa. And although they couldn’t pin the hit job on her, I was assured that the FBI were getting closer to finding out the dead hitman’s contracts and who’d ordered them.
Clarissa pointed to a statue of Eros and Psyche. “It’s magnificent. Enfolding lovers.”
I opened my arms. “Just like us, my love. Come here and enfold me.”
THE END
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PROLOGUE
Blood dripped down the well-worn book, all over Oscar Wilde’s reflective face. Heavy as a brick, it trembled in my hand.
As I looked down in horror at the volume that had been in my family for two generations, my grip gave way. A heavy thud vibrated through the floor, just like my husband’s head had, a moment earlier.
My father gifted me that same book when I was thirteen. At the time, he joked that it might come in handy as a weapon one day.
How incredibly prophetic that turned out to be!
What my father forgot to mention was to stay away from abusive, drunken husbands.
So why was I thinking of that as my husband lay at my blood-splattered feet?
CHAPTER ONE
BONITA
My head was in a spin, not because I was running late for my twin, Bella, but because I couldn’t think straight. I looked into a window of a shoe-shop where eager to please sale’s assistants bent down helping customers try on footwear. Bright, cheery faces everywhere as they went about their normal lives.
God, how I wanted to be one of them. My life was anything but normal. At least, not in an interesting way, but in a weird, wish-I’d-never-done-that sort of way.
Having just left the police station, I’m sure I looked a sight in my rumpled loose blouse that looked as if I’d slept in it.
With head to the ground, I hurried along and darted out of the way when a bunch of folks poured out of the coffee house clasping paper-cups.
Peering through the window, I scanned over the crowded café and saw my sister chatting on her cell phone. A big smile painted her bright red, fleshy lips. Lips that we shared, along with other facial features, for we were almost identical in every way, except for our hairstyle, clothes and nature. While Bella was wild just like our surname, I was. . . Well, I couldn’t really work out what I was.
It was one of those swanky cafes in lower Manhattan, Bella’s neighborhood. Naturally, it had to always be in her own borough.
Though I still lived in Brooklyn, where the two of us were raised, Bella wouldn’t be seen dead there. Her words. She’d visit Brooklyn only for business, that is when hired by one of her clients.
I can’t say I blamed Bella for hating our old borough. There were some pretty dark memories back there. Our mother left us when we were one. Having run away to Hollywood to become an actress, she never really made it. Bit parts mainly, or so I heard on the grapevine years later.
We were brought up by our father, his sister, our Aunt Helen, and her husband, Simon.
Obsessed with Bella, Uncle Simon, a b-grade actor, began grooming her, and when she was fifteen the two of them began a clandestine affair, that is until Bella fell pregnant before her seventeenth birthday. She lost the baby a few months later.
That’s when I became a tomboy. I still recall the long blonde waves laying at my feet on the bathroom floor, after I cut my hair short. In a bid to hide my curves, I chose loose-fitting clothes. It worked. Not only did it repel my sleazy uncle, but also the boys at school.
Then, I fell for my husband, Brendan Childe. The same man that I’d only just picked up from the hospital, a week earlier. The same man that woke up out of a coma, smiling so sweetly, that I scratched my head wondering what had happened to the controlling, aggressive man whom I’d married.
I entered the busy café. As usual, several customers briefly paused to gawk at me. Whether it was my sea-green and blue streaked blonde bob, or the bright hand-painted blouse that I’d bought at a Brooklyn street market, I couldn’t tell. But I definitely seemed out of place amongst the collection of designer outfits.
Bella glanced up at me and pointed to the seat in typical bossy fashion. She’d always been that way with me. Born a few minutes before me, it justified, in her mind at least, her blood right to call the shots.
Being a soft touch, I let her become the mother I’d never had.
Offering me a quick wink, Bella purred into her cell phone with that breathy, girlish voice she adopted when talking to clients.
My sister worked as an escort. And while I detested her line of work, it had nevertheless made her a lot of money.
We’d inherited Wild Thing, a bar from our father when he died, but Bella held no interest. I probably should have walked away from it. But I needed a focus. And besides, I liked the regulars, many of whom had been friends of my late father, and so were to me like family.
“Yes, sweetie, at one then.” She closed the call. Her almond-shaped, green eyes studied me. “You look terrible, Bonnie.”
“Don’t start, Bel. I’ve had a shit day. No, let me rephrase that, I’ve had a shit life,” I said, slumping into a chair.
Bella touched my hand. “It hasn’t been all that bad, Bonnie. You just married the wrong guy, that’s all. You’re only twenty-two, sweetie.”
I was about to respond when a waiter came by, and asked, “What will it be?”
“A latte, a double, thanks,” I said.
“Do you want breakfast? You look like you could do with something to eat. But then, in that loose-fitting tent you’re wearing I can’t really see what’s happening to that killer body of yours.”
“Killer body of ours, you mean? The one that earns you squillions,” I retorted with a hint of sarcasm.
“Let’s not go there again, sis, I’m bored with this conversation. I am what I am. I love men. I love cocks. And I love myself.”
“You make it sound like a mission statement. You’re not still seeing that fucking life-coach, are you?” I asked.
“I am. He happens to be a good client, with a nice big, packed lunch. . .” She wiggled her eyebrows and chuckled.
And there we were again. One minute with my sex-addicted sister and she was on about big cocks. “Let me guess, he’s got wisdom by the bucketload.”
She sniffed. “Oh Bonnie, why are you so cynical? Life’s great.” She held my focus with that big punch-the-air smile.
Noticing my sad expression, she touched my hand. “I’m sorry, Bon. I should be more sensitive. Have you seen him?”
I sighed. “Uh-huh.”
Bella waited for the waiter to place my coffee down.
“So how is the asshole?”
I exhaled a sharp breath. “The asshole is not Brendan.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I walked into his room, I discovered a guy there by his bedside stroking his arm,” I said. My unaffected tone hid the shock that I’d initially experienced.
It wasn’t so much the shock of discovering my husband was gay, but that finally I understood why our marriage had been so heart-breakingly loveless.
Bella had just taken a sip when an exclamation issued out of her lips and coffee spilled onto her red-stained lips. “What?”
“Just that.” I sighed. “He’s gay.”
“Gay? But how do you know? That could have been a close friend.”
“When Brendan returned home from hospital I left him alone while I went out.”
Her head shook. “I can’t believe you even let him back into the apartment.”
“It’s his apartment. He paid for it,” I said, picking up my cup of coffee. “Anyway, to cut a long story short, I caught Brendan on the sofa, his arm around the same guy who’d visited him at hospital.”
“Shit. What did Brendan do?”
“He introduced me to Rick, and then told me that they’d been together for a year. It was like he’d admitted to buying the wrong loaf of bread. That’s how cool he was about it.”
“That’s about right. Brendan was always selfish and uncaring,” said Bella.
I knitted my fingers. “Unlike before, with that deep, aggressive tone he always used on me, his voice was soft and gentle. He actually apologized for everything.”
“That doesn’t wipe the slate clean, though. He fucking attacked you. All those months of abuse. The bruises. The control. He’s an asshole. You shouldn’t have let him in.”
“He had nowhere to go,” I said.
“What about his parents? Why isn’t he there? Or, more specifically, why the fuck isn’t he locked up for trying to strangle you?”
For twins, we were counter opposite. While Bella was outspoken and boisterous, I hid in the background. Growing up, I was the awkward one. The kid that got bullied, the kid that wore her jumper inside out, the kid that spent more time with an imaginary friend than a real one.
Instead of owning my individuality, I married Brendan so that I could be ‘normal’. Something I craved, given that my family life was anything but.
I shook my head. “It’s complicated, Bel. It’s been odd in general. We haven’t really spoken much, except that Brendan keeps apologizing for attacking me, even though he insists he had no recollection of what happened.”
“Yeah, right. Good excuse, strangle the wife, then plead memory loss.”
Suddenly the older couple at the next table stopped eating and looked up at us.
I leaned in. “Keep it down.”
“But, shit, Bon, I mean. . .” She paused to reflect. “Oh, my God. That explains everything.”
Studying the swirls in my coffee, I nodded slowly.
“That’s why he hasn’t fucked you. Properly, I mean.”
“Keep it down, will you. You’re embarrassing me.”
Bella shook her head in disbelief. “And to think, you hit him over the head with Oscar Wilde’s brick of a book in order to save yourself.” Her shocked expression soon melted away into a smile which grew as she erupted into laughter.
She cackled in that uninhibited, contagious way, taking me with her. We couldn’t stop. The more her face contorted with little screechy comments trying to poke through, the more I laughed. Convulsing, I had to hold onto my tummy, while my twin wiped away her tears.
Despite the dramatic turn of events, I needed a good release— the type that only a good laugh or cry delivered, and hell, I’d done lots of the latter.
“That’s so fucking surreal,” she said in a high-pitched voice.
“Isn’t it?” I said.
“All that fucking bullshit about not wanting to have sex before marriage and then when you married... Ick.” She scrunched her face. “The ass is one place I won’t let anyone into. I’ve had a few clients try.”
“Too much information.” I shifted uncomfortably thinking of the horrible way my marriage was consummated, which meant that I was still a virgin at the age of twenty-two.
“Are you going to move out? You can’t keep living with him. I’ll get you a nice little apartment, Bon.” She tapped my hand and nodded her head reassuringly. “You should still take what’s yours though, and that’s half of everything. I’ll pay for the lawyer.”
“No need.” I replayed the nail-biting moment Brendan sat down after I picked him up from the hospital. And with his dark eyes glistening with sincere regret— an emotion I’d never seen in the former, hard-faced version— Brendan offered to move out that same day.
“We spoke about that. He’s arranging the divorce papers as we speak. I’m getting the apartment. He insisted.”
“Shit. That doesn’t sound like the tight-assed, control-freak.”
“I know. I’m telling you, he’s changed. From the moment he opened his eyes in hospital he spoke with a gentle, considerate voice. He’s been really nice to me and keeps apologizing all the time. The police just wanted me as a formality since Brendan’s not pressing charges.”
Bella sat up. “They saw those bruises around your neck, where he tried to strangle you, I hope? Did you tell them it was self-defense?”
“Yes, I made a full statement. They know everything. It’s over. I don’t want to dredge up the past and Brendan’s drunken violence. Thanks for the offer of the apartment. But I like the idea of staying. It’s close to the bar.”
“But what about bad memories?”
I shrugged and a faint smile filled my face.
Bella stared at me for a moment. Her lips curled into a cheeky smile.
“The only thing that saddens me about the breakup, you’ll no longer be Bonita Wild-Childe.”
I laughed. “Oh, Bel, that was never going to happen. That was your idea.”
“You can’t blame me. Fancy a Wild marrying a Childe. Anyway, I’m just over the moon that you’re leaving that prick. Even if he has turned into a generous fag.”
“Don’t be rude. They’re not fags, they’re gays, or homosexuals.”
“Yeah, all right. Anyway, I hate him, even if he’s now joined the ranks of a protected minority.” Her voice rang with irony. “And he’s fucked you around. He should have owned his homosexuality, and not wasted your time.”
“I’m not surprised. His parents are seriously religious in that ‘thou shalt have sex with a woman, and only a woman, once you’re married’ way. And hell, can you imagine if they ever discovered he was gay?”
Bella exploded into a giggle. “Then we’ll have to tell them, somehow. I know, I’ll have him followed and when he’s at a toilet block or under a bridge having his cock sucked, I’ll get a snap and send it to them.”
I winced at Bella’s coarseness. “You better not.”
“Why are you defending that asshole? I mean you’re still a virgin. Not to mention the violence.”
Again, the couple next to us stopped talking and gaped over at us.
“Bella, keep it down will you,” I whispered. “And in any case, I’m still young. And when it comes down to it, you’ve had enough sex for the two us. No, actually,”— I gulped— “not the two of us, but the whole of Brooklyn.”
Bella laughed. “Tell me, are you still going to that counseling group?”
I shook my head. “I feel better, really.” I slowly stood up. “Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
“Call me,” said Bella.
“I will.”
Bella got up and hugged me. She kissed me on the cheek. “I love you, sis.”
My lips trembled into a smile.
As I headed to Wild Thing, I recalled Bella, after meeting Brendan for the first time, describing him as having creepy eyes.
I just saw someone who was kind and funny. It also helped that he was easy on the eye in a tall, buffed and rugged way. A great catch all in all, I thought, thinking as any inexperienced twenty-year-old would.
Despite having a loving father, I lacked routine. Often, I’d come home and find a rehearsal taking place, my father being a theatre director. Or I’d be up late at Wild Thing, or a theatre off Broadway, helping with costumes and sets. Although some saw this as a colorful existence, I craved normality which Brendan epitomized. He was the school champion of everything, from sport to debating. A Mr. Confident, who, for some reason, attached himself to me.
For someone who lacked ambition and direction, the arrangement suited me well. The marriage enabled me to run Wild Thing and to indulge in reading.
By convincing myself that I was happy, I simply brushed aside any festering self-loathing for being undesired and untouched.
The first two months of marriage went smoothly enough, but then Brendan started drinking heavily. Sometimes on the weekends he didn’t even come home. When I questioned him after seeing his thick dark hair all tousled, his breath reeking of liquor, and god knows what else, he pushed me against the wall and spat venomous abuse.
To deal with the pain I buried my head in books.
I opened the door to Wild Thing and turned on the lights. It was late morning and the older patrons would soon trundle in for their midday tipple.
Although Bella thought I was crazy to take on the bar, I couldn’t bear to see it go, I was too sentimental like that. And despite the bar being riddled with debt, for me it was emotionally priceless.
I turned on the lights and greeted my late father’s friends. Amongst the black and white photos of famous writers sat a framed image of Oscar Wilde. Oddly, it was the same photo as the one on the bloodstained dust cover of the book that I’d begged the police officer to return to me after they’d used it for forensic purposes. It wasn’t just Oscar’s gentle-eyed image, but that the book had become a powerful, if not morbid reminder of a chapter in my life that had closed.
Hanging on the wall alongside Oscar, Shakespeare, and Chekhov, were images of Hemingway, Orwell, Burroughs, Kerouac and Lord Byron, all placed incongruously amongst classic Hollywood starlets and actors.
While other kids kicked balls around the yet to become fashionable streets of Brooklyn, I played in and around the bar. It was the only time I had with my father, who, despite loving us, was married to the theatre.
The faces on the wall were like family. They would never leave the bar if I had it my way.
My favorite was Marlon Brando, gritty and defiant, on his motorcycle wearing a cap and leathers and looking sexy as sin.
The regulars that shuffled in during the day had been coming to Wild Thing since they were able to drink. In the evenings, it was mainly young, fashionable, indescribable types, looking for a place that was different and hid them from the glare of normality.
Clinging to wall like sodden memories was the stench of alcohol. No matter how much I scrubbed it remained stubbornly ingrained. Still, it was strangely comforting. Smells were like that— a type of sensory photo-album conjuring up memories.
The creaking door roused me, as Mel bounced in, looking luminous and bathed in daylight. The sun shone on her hair, highlighting red streaks.
“Hey Mel.” I greeted my friend who’d I recently hired.
Tough as nails, Mel didn’t take any shit. One needed that backup in a Brooklyn bar.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not. I just got here myself,” I said, shrugging out of my coat.
“Want a coffee?” Mel stepped behind the bar and turned on the coffee machine.
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
I met Mel at a counseling group. She wore masculine clothes and had lots of tattoos. That’s why she’d joined the group in the first place. Being gay in a conservative family had made her a nervous wreck.
At the time, we shared that in common, given that I too was a nervous wreck.
It was one big mixed up world. Suddenly I didn’t feel so weird with my green and blue hair and unusual choice of wardrobe. In fact, it was my boyish appearance that had attracted Mel in the first place. Assuming I was gay, she tried to hit on me. But after I told her that I’d originally camouflaged my femininity to ward off sexual advances from a sleazy uncle, she shook her head in disgust, and embraced me as a buddy.
Since Mel started at Wild Thing, I’d grown to love her as a friend. She was the type of person who would drop everything to help. And as it was, since she’d started working there, everything changed for the better.
Within one month of Mel behind the bar, money trickled in from gay poetry readings, open-mic nights, and weird and wonderful indie bands who attracted a following of equally weird and wonderful patrons.
Rubbing her hands together, Mel said, “I feel great. I saw my parents last night and told them that I was gay.”
“Shit. That’s major, well done. Are they okay?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It will take some time, I think.”
“At least, you have a family. I’ve only got my sex-maniac twin sister.”
She tilted her head, as if to say I was adorable. I felt more like a freak.
“Come here, give me a hug. Then I’m going to hang up the velvet drapes on the stage. I had them washed.”
After I’d soaked up her warmth, I pushed out of Mel’s arms and said, “You call that a stage? It’s more a platform of sorts.”
“People perform there. Speaking of which, we have the poetry reading tonight and there’s sweet little Brooke, who’ll be reading.” She nodded with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Mm… I can smell love,” I sang.
I sipped on my third coffee for the day, and for the first
time in months, I felt lighter. A bubbling of motivation, the like of which I’d rarely experienced, gained strength. Maybe that creative writing course that floated amongst the nebulae in my mind would one day materialize.
CHAPTER TWO
CURTIS
“How was it?” Seb asked. His dark impelling eyes had that searching look that inspired openness.
I exhaled slowly. “It was hard.”
“In what way?”
We were seated in the park across from the children’s shelter where I’d just performed my first stint teaching kids whose parents had either passed away or were half-dead on drugs and booze.
“There were a dozen children. Some of them just sat there and stared at me with wide, frightened eyes, while others ran amok.” I rubbed my prickly scalp. I’d gone for a buzz cut for some reason. When I returned, after a year in Montauk, I got the barber to go all the way— not bald, but close.
My Italian friend regarded me with that scrutinizing stare of his. “Why are you doing this, Curtis? I mean you’re a monster guitarist. I wish I had your talent.”
I turned and stared squarely at his handsome face. “I wish I had your grounding, Seb.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, that helps. You need a plan for these kids, you know what I mean?”
I stared down at my fingers. “I was totally unprepared. I just wanted to meet them. Anyway, I’m going to buy some small hand-drums and shakers for tomorrow. I’ll get them jamming. We’ll sit on four/four timing for a while. There’s a piano in there, but it’s seriously out of tune. I’ll have to call a tuner. Can’t have them listening to dissonant sounds. Not unwillingly, at least.” I chuckled.
Seb laughed. “What, you’re not going to expose them to John Cage or Schoenberg?”
I chuckled at his reference to our time at the Juilliard, where we were made to listen to and examine modernist composers.
We both sat on the park bench soaking up the sun, as people ambled along talking to their cells, while dogs made us laugh as they went about sniffing each other narrowly avoiding the lunchtime joggers. It was something we did regularly, watching people going about their lives while we discussed music, women, life, and shared the odd laugh.
Seb looked down at his watch. “I’ve got to go, man. I’ve got a rehearsal.”
“The Rodrigo piece?”
“Yeah. What an opportunity.”
I patted Seb’s well-manicured hand, which was not due to vanity, but like all classical guitarists, his nails were long. “You’ll carve it. You’re a brilliant guitarist, man, the best.”
“Coming from someone who could have been a world player, Curtis, that’s nice.”
Seb’s six-foot, buffed frame stood before me. He looked more like an underwear model than a classical guitarist, especially with that wave of black hair perfectly stacked above his chiselled permanently tanned face. “Hey, tomorrow my house, yeah? Mom’s cooking pasta forno.”
I tapped my tummy. Seb’s mom was an amazing cook in the Sicilian school of pasta making.
“I’ll be there.”
“That will make her happy. She thinks you should be an actor. Mom’s always going on about how handsome you are.”
I laughed as I recalled both Seb’s mother pinching me on the cheek and carrying on about how tall, strong and good-looking I was. It was nice. I liked it, in spite of my red face.
“Zio Iano will be there tomorrow night. You should taste the wine he’s come up with this year.”
“Oh fuck, not that pink stuff.”
Seb nodded with a growing smirk. “You bet. It’s fucking fire water.”
Laughing, I shook my head, thinking of all the times we drank his uncle’s wine.
Seb hugged me and he was off.
I watched him move away with a relaxed stride. He was a charismatic Italian to be sure. The girls at Juilliard had gone mad for him. And Seb loved women! When he wasn’t talking about music, he was always on about some pretty girl.
I’d had my share of admirers, too. But I’d changed. The days of treating sex as a game was over, especially after Irina, a girl that had not only robbed me, but had hurt my pride, or was that my ego?
It was going to take more than a pretty face and helplessness to draw me in again. I’d always been a sucker for fragile women. Maybe it was some caveman instinct to protect and save. Irina definitely needed saving, only she was so fucked up I couldn’t compete with the big brutish drug dealers she preferred.
I must have been nuts to think I could cure her of a drug habit that had taken a grip of her soul. She wanted to be beaten around, telling me that her father had shown his love that way. No fucking way, I was no woman beater.
Feeling restless, I stood at the gate to my new home. As I studied the tree-lined street a sign with the words ‘Wild Thing’ caught my eye. Scratching my prickly five-o’clock-shadow, I decided I needed a coffee or something stronger, like a beer, just to take the edge of things before tussling with all the unpacked boxes filling the hallway.
When it came to procrastination, I was king.
As I gazed at the sign, the title intrigued me. Maybe Wild Thing was some seedy joint frequented by masked men and women with whips, I thought with a silent chuckle. And considering the only thing I needed to do was visit a music shop, a beer had my name on it.
I’d committed to a morning class, five days a week. As I puffed out a long breath, I questioned whether I’d overstretched myself. But then, what else would I do, busk?
That’s what I’d been doing in Greenwich Village for years. I was kind of over it, especially after what happened with my ex Irina.
I pushed on the squeaky door and stepped into Wild Thing. The bar certainly had a time-traveling feel about it and was so moody one forgot it was daytime.
There were black and white images of mostly serious men wearing period clothes and cravats. Some wore smirks and pierced me with their judgmental stares. They sat next to famous actors, who I did recognize given my mother’s love for classic Hollywood.
I paused at a picture of the famous vampire actor, Bella Lugosi and those black menacing eyes, I could almost see the blood dripping from his mouth. My focus shifted from a bare-chested, gladiatorial Kirk Douglas brimming with steely determination, to Grace Kelly and her dreamy sensual bedroom gaze, before settling on Jane Fonda in a body-hugging, cock-swelling rubber suit. My favorite by far, however, was the larger than life frame of Marlon Brando, with that ‘don’t fuck with me’ glint in his eyes. Now that was one cool looking dude I thought to myself.
I had a weakness for motorbikes. I’d left mine back in Montauk, only because my mother made me swear not to ride it in the city. I’d had a fall once and that was enough for her to worry. As I stared at Brando on his bike I felt a surge of inspiration. I’m not sure why. Maybe, because, like Brando in that cool film, I too was a misfit.
CHAPTER THREE
BONNIE
A noisy creak from the swinging door roused me. I lifted my head up from the book on my lap. Light flooded in, as I left Oscar Wilde’s strange world for a moment.
Our first customer for the day entered. He had black scrolled tattoos wrapped around his large, muscular biceps. Pausing, he stood before the wall of images and placed his weight on one leg. His hip jutted out as if he, too, like the subject before him, didn’t give a shit about anything. As he regarded Marlon Brando I imagined he was either a biker or in the army.
Having bent down to collect some fresh coasters, I stood up and found him towering over me, which wasn’t hard given that I was only five-foot-four. He must have been at least six-foot-two because I had to lift my head up to meet his eyes.
As I took in his handsome face, I leaned against the bar because my knees weakened.
Making it back to bar attendant reality, I had to work overtime to pull my eyes away from those deep blue pools of his.
Ten seconds stretched forever. His eyes ploughed into mine. Not one of those friendly social glances one received from strangers, but intrusive, as if he wanted to know me, to read my thoughts.
I swallowed deeply. “What can I get you?”
“A beer, thanks,” he replied with such a deep, sexy husk I wished he’d ordered a complicated cocktail.
After managing to extricate myself from his unshifting gaze, I went about pouring a beer.
The glass trembled in my hand, making my face scorch. As I took his money, I made sure I didn’t gaze into his eyes given their pull. Instead, and stupidly, my eyes settled on his lips. Lips that were full and shapely and made me salivate. When his tongue unconsciously caressed his fleshy bottom lip, it seemed so suggestive, a shiver slid up my spine.
He picked up the beer with his large hand and placed the rim to his lips. Even that seemed sexual. Or was that just my imagination running wild again?
“Will that be all,” I asked, desperate to get away.
He nodded, and his gaze once more drew me in.
Mel entered carrying a tray of sandwiches. Unlike me, she was totally unaffected by our sexy customer. She greeted him with a nod, while I returned to my seat and picked up my book as a distraction.
“Can I have one of those?” he asked, pointing to the tray.
Mel said, “We have ham, egg, or veggie burger and salad.”
“I’ll take ham, thanks,” he said with that husky voice that seemed to penetrate me somewhere deep and unvisited.
His gaze returned to me. Or at least I felt it burning on my face, as I opened my book on my lap. I lowered my eyes onto a page of words swimming around.
“Interesting book?”
I looked up at him. “Um… yeah.”
“What are you reading?” He asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Oscar Wilde.”
“Let me see, The Importance of Being Earnest?” When he smiled dimples appeared on his cheeks. I nearly dropped the book.
“Oh, do you read?” I asked, berating myself at how stupid that sounded.
He smiled. “I do know how to read, yes.”
“Oh, no… I mean… I meant do you read books?” I took a deep breath. What was wrong with me? I asked myself. I had gone to putty. Still the fact that he knew about that play and Oscar Wilde made my heart miss a beat. He wasn’t just bad-boy gorgeous.
He cocked his head gently to a side, not in a smug way, but in an adorable, sweet way. “My mother’s a huge fan of Oscar Wilde. She took me to that play when I was young. She has tried to get me to read it over the years, but, well… I’m a little distracted when it comes to reading.”
I nodded slowly. ADHD? I wondered. He could have been an alien from Mars and the deep swelling heat between my legs would still have throbbed.
I quickly buried my head in my book again. Not that I read one word coherently.
After he finished his sandwich and emptied his glass of beer, he said, “Just what I needed. Can I buy you a drink?”
Looking up, I managed a smile even though my lips threatened to quiver. “No, thanks.”
“You don’t drink?”
“Yes, but not until it’s dark, as a rule,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “I don’t normally drink this early, but I’ve had a bit of a morning.”
“Can I get you another?” I asked.
CHAPTER FOUR
CURTIS
I wanted to say yes, keep them coming until I’d drunk enough to ask her out. But I could see she was nervous. I wasn’t normally uneasy around women, but for some reason she made me think twice before speaking.
The barmaid added to the weirdness of the bar. In an exciting way with that blue and green streaked blonde bob that fell over her face. I generally liked long hair to tangle my fingers around, but she was so beautiful that it wouldn’t have mattered what her hair was like.
In many ways my tastes were pretty typical— big tits, long hair and a curvy butt. I had a weakness for that kind of woman, despite Irina being petite and flat-chested. My ex was a ballet dancer, or so she’d told me. She was a great bullshit artist.
I toyed with my beer doing everything to make it last so that I could take in that beautiful face. My pants felt tight around my groin as my eyes traveled from her eyes to her bee-stung, pouty lips which she held together as if pursing them. I couldn’t make out her body because of the loose top and pants she wore, but by the way the blouse tented out I could see she was stacked.
“Maybe another, then, why not?” I said, lifting up my glass.
“Sure,” she said.
Another woman came out and whispered something to her. They laughed, and the masculine-looking chick left again. I wondered if they were girlfriends.
By the way she looked at me with a hint of suggestion, or was that just wishful thinking? I got the vibe that she was into guys.
Placing the beer on the bar, she asked, “Will that be all?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I took a sip.
She went back to her chair.
“I take it you work here each day?” I asked.
She lifted her pretty face up from her book. I felt bad for interrupting her reading, but I needed to know this woman.
She nodded. “I own the bar.”
I sat up. That I didn’t expect. “Really? It’s great in here. I love it. I’ll tell all my friends about it— every single one of them.” I laughed.
Her brow lowered. “Oh?”
“Well, I have more than one, but you know, I have one that I kick around with. The one I trust.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. If you can count your friends on one hand you’re doing well. Isn’t that what they say?”
“Something like that.” Our eyes met again. “I’m Curtis, by the way.”
“I’m Bonnie.”
“Bonnie? Is that short for something?”
She nodded. “Bonita.”
“Beautiful. Which is what it means in Spanish, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose that was my father’s intention.”
“It suits you,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said with a tight smile.
“Was your father Spanish?” I asked, in a bid to keep her from reading and leaving me alone with my beer.
“He was from an Irish background.”
“Are you from Brooklyn?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, I grew up here. This was my father’s bar. I inherited it after he died.”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry he passed away. It’s an amazing set up.” I pointed to the wall of frames. “Who are all those people in the pictures? Were they relatives?”
She giggled. Her face lit up so beautifully that I forgave my obvious silly question. “In some ways they may have been, spiritually speaking. They’re all famous writers.” She pointed to each. “There’s Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron, Jack Kerouac, Arthur Miller.”
“They’re great images. I love this place. I get such a good vibe from it. Wild Thing? Did your father name it after that sixties song?”
“That, and our name is Wild.”
“Oh, so you’re Bonita Wild then?”
She tilted her head with a coy smile. “Yeah.”
“It seriously suits you… so, are you?”
“What?”
“Wild.”
“Oh… no, not really. I try to be anything but that.”
Shame, I thought. I’d love to get wild with you. “There’s nothing wrong with being a little wild.”
“I’ve always been more comfortable observing the wild behavior of others.”
I nodded slowly. “Now you’ve got me totally intrigued, Bonita Wild.”
“It’s not that intriguing really.”
“You’re very intriguing. The fact that you’re drop dead beautiful and don’t prance around playing it up. That fascinates me.”
She studied me for a moment with a flicker of a smile. “I’m not into making a display of anything. I like to fit in with the furniture.”
I laughed. “If the furniture was brightly painted you might blend in with that hairdo I think you stand out a bit.”
That worked because she finally dropped her guard and a grin settled on her pretty face. “Are you in the army?”
I rubbed my spiky skull. “Nope.”
“It’s just that with that buzzcut you look like a soldier. Unless….” Her brow puckered as if she’d stumbled on something taboo.
“I haven’t been in jail, if that’s what you mean. I just like my hair like this. It’s easy to care for and because it annoys the shit out of my dad.” I laughed.
“Does he want you to conform?”
I took a sip and nodded. “Yeah, you could say that. He wants me to conform with his idea of what constitutes a successful man.”
She winced slightly at my acid response. “Sounds as if you don’t get on.”
“No, we don’t. My father’s not a good guy, let’s put it that way.” My phone buzzed. It was my mother. I knew that she’d had tests done and I needed to pick up. “Excuse me, I have to take this call.”
She looked up at me with those eyes that were by now twisting my soul around and went back to her book.
I pressed the button. “Hey.”
“Hello, sweetheart,” said my mother, her voice had that overly sweet tone she got when she was trying to gloss over something.
“How did it go?”
“I’m still here. It’s taking forever,” she said.
“Do you need me there? I told you I’d go with you. But you insisted.”
“Yes, sweetheart. It’s all right, really. I don’t want to take up your time.”
“I’m not busy, I can be there soon. I think you need me there.” My mother hated to impose, even on me, her only son. Even when she waited for the results of a biopsy she’d had a week earlier. I insisted on being there, but she pleaded with me to go to the class instead.
“All right then, if you like, only if you let me buy you a drink. We can go to that lovely little place on Fifth Avenue.”
“Text me the address, I’ll jump in a cab. I’ll be there as soon as possible. Okay?”
“Okay, sweetheart. Only if I’m not interrupting something.”
I gazed at Bonnie, who glanced up with a glint of a smile.
“You’re not. I’m glad you called. I’ll be there soon.”
I put the phone in my pocket and looked up at Bonnie again. Oh, how I wanted to ask her out. My heart sank at the thought of doing that. I’d become a pussy where women were concerned. The whole asking out game seemed so forced and filled with what-do-we-do-now tension that I generally stayed out of it. All of my life, it had been the reverse, women asking me out. That I could handle. I sensed that was not Bonnie’s style. She seemed to lack confidence. A quality that made me want to hold and reassure her.
Stop! I screamed at myself silently. I’d only just met her. She probably had a guy or maybe the chick that was hanging around was her girlfriend.
At least, I knew where to find her.
“Hey, I’ve got to go. I’ll be back.” I stared deeply into her eyes, it was my way of saying something important without saying it. “Sooner than you think.” Was the best I could come up with.
She rose. “Yeah, sure. Nice meeting you.” Her beautiful, soulful green eyes entered deeply and then withdrew quickly. She was trying to hide her soul. Too late. I’d already seen it.
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