I AWOKE TO A splitting headache and swollen eyes. When I found more than the strength to just stare up at the ceiling fan, I managed to drink. Pain flooded my heart as it did every morning when I woke up remembering the image burned in my brain of my ex-wife being fucked like a porn star in our kitchen.
Pressing my palms into my eyes, I tried to scrub the memory from my mind. I stumbled over the rug, crashing into my dresser and sank to my knees. Groaning, I pressed my cheek to the floor, seeking the coolness of the hardwood.
Flashes of light and darkness mixed together. My temples throbbed with ache, and the memories from the last few weeks blurred together. After spending a month in my Manhattan loft, avoiding everyone and everything social except some unavoidable work commitments, somehow, I’d been persuaded to attend a party.
My agent scored me an invite to one of the hottest events of the year. The place was packed wall to wall with actors, models, athletes, and musicians. I wanted to avoid the stares, and the hushed whispers about the broken-hearted Grady James, so I tried to stay under the radar. Under the radar consisted of a shared bottle of tequila with a twenty-two-year-old Brazilian swimsuit model, neither a great choice for my health.
I think that chick broke my dick.
Enough time had passed since the divorce decree. Three months to be precise. I should be over Heather by now and enjoying being underneath a hot model riding my cock. I pushed up from the floor and managed to hobble down the stairs. Early light poured in from the windows, although it was still pretty dark. By my guess, it was probably five-thirty. The early morning surfers were undoubtedly gathered on the beach suiting up. I’d join them, but I was too tired.
I don’t even remember how I ended up at my house in the Hamptons, but the one thing I did know was that I hadn’t left this place since I’d arrived. In fact, I wasn’t sure how long I’d been here, but it’s been some time and my dick has healed so that’s a plus. Days were long and slow, nights even longer. It had been weeks since I’d had a full six hours of sleep at night.
After downing half a bottle of water, I plodded to the couch, dropping like a bag of wet cement. Exhaustion hit me like a freight train, and the bottle of water slipped from my grip when I tried to place it on the coffee table. My eyes closed, but I managed to reach out tugging the blanket over my body.
“Mr. Grady, you need to pay me now.”
Camped in front of my television wearing only a pair of old grey sweats, I looked up to see my housekeeper, Thora, standing with her arms folded, tapping her foot against the tile. She was annoyed about something. Bobbing her head like a clucking chicken, her lips were moving but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. All I heard were the sounds of booing coming from the TV. Some bleached blonde, trailer park princess was yelling at her redneck boyfriend . . . husband . . . maybe it was her son. Clearly whacked out of her mind, this broad was the “rode hard and put away wet” kind.
“What is it, Thora?” I said, shoving a hand through my long hair.
“You need to pay me, Mr. Grady. It is Friday . . . payday.”
“Oh . . . okay.”
Friday? Is she fucking serious?
A few years ago, Thora came highly recommended by Mrs. Carrigan, my nosy neighbor. Which for the most part, I appreciated her looking out for me.
Standing up from my couch, I then walked down the hallway to my study. Feeling a little light headed, I stumbled hitting the wall with force. My eyes lifted, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. Jesus! I looked pale as fuck. My skin was ash grey. Apparently, I’d been working on my lumberjack look with this scruffy beard. My eyes were glassy and that was when it hit me, the smell of sweat and old gym shoes. Images of the basketball locker room in high school came to mind. Yep. That horrid smell is me.
Scrubbing my hands down my face, I mumbled, “I need to get my shit together.”
I opened my safe and pulled out a few hundred dollars. I preferred to pay Thora without the logistics of going through my accountant. Balancing my household expenses made me feel like a normal person with a grasp on reality, not the La La Land life.
Reality smacked me in the face, hard. I knew that I couldn’t continue down this path. I needed to pull myself out of this funk and become a functioning member of society again.
“Here you go,” I said with a grin.
She shook her head and walked away. I got the feeling Thora was as disappointed in me as much as I was with myself. The door closed behind her and I sighed with relief.
After a quick shower and shave, I pulled on a freshly washed pair of denim jeans and a grey zip-up hoodie. Grabbing my keys, I hit the road and parked my shiny black Mercedes at my favorite restaurant: an old-school diner that served the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had.
“Grady James, welcome back to The Harbour, sugar,” Nancy, the owner called out to me over the ringing bells. Nancy’s Diner was a local hot spot, and had been around for thirty years. Wiping her hands on her checkered apron she rounded the long counter and greeted me with a warm hug. Her thick, jet black hair smelled of syrup and bacon.
Minimal creases appeared around her eyes, when she smiled, it lit up the entire room. Pulling back from our embrace, her light brown eyes gave me a once over.
“Sugar, you are much too skinny these days. What kind of work they got you doin’ out there in Tinsel Town?”
Her question was as charming as her southern drawl. Shaking my head, I gripped her shoulder and said, “Work is just fine.”
Fine and just fine were the only emotions I could seem to admit openly to feeling. Angry, pissed off, distraught, helpless, overwhelmingly sad and gutted were my true feelings—the total cliché of a broken man. But, as long as my mental faculties were with me I would shove those way the fuck down, because showing them would only get me sent straight to the therapist’s office.
The only healing I needed was the ocean. Surfing or sailing the waves, the ocean was truly the last free place on earth. I think Bogart said something like that.
The diner was barely packed mid-morning on a Friday, a few locals sat at high-top wooden tables and a group of fisherman huddled together in two small booths. The smell of fresh pancakes and apple-cinnamon from the baked goods case made my mouth water. I saddled up to the far end of the counter and Nancy poured me my usual cup of coffee: black with a pinch of sugar in the raw.
Placing the steaming mug in front of me, she said softly, “I was really sorry to hear about your divorce. How you holding up, sugar?”
I put my hand over hers and lied. “I’m doing okay, doll. Thank you for asking.”
“What can I get you to eat?” she asked, pulling her notepad and pen from her apron pocket.
“A short stack with blueberries and a side of maple brown sausage.” Before she turned to walk away I gave her my irresistible smile to further my case in the “I’m just fine, the same Grady James” façade.
“You got it.”
I scanned the diner, sipping my coffee. The place was nearly the same as it was last time I was here, it was a comforting feeling. I practically grew up here.
My father was a writer, and over the years he penned dozens of books and screenplays during our summers spent in The Harbour. He took me to the Polo Club and bought me my first pair of riding boots. I learned to swim, surf and sail all on the waters that surrounded The Harbour. This town held an abundance of fond childhood memories. My parents were so vibrant here I was moved by the nostalgia of it all, giving me cause to buy a place.
“Here you go,” Nancy announced placing the hot plate in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”
Unwrapping my silverware, I shook my head. “No thanks, Nancy.”
I ate my breakfast in comfortable silence, occasionally drumming my fingers to the music piping through the speakers. My phone pinged with a message from my agent.
Jennifer: Don’t forget the casting call today. I’m sending you the information.
Fuckity Fuck. Fuck. I forgot this was today.
Me: Do I really need this job?
Jennifer: I’m not your accountant but, if you’d like to purchase that damn sailboat you keep talking about, yeah, I suggest you attend this callout.
Me: Yes, Boss.