New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

March 29

You know what I both love and hate about New York? Toplessness.

In case you didn’t know, going topless in New York City (for both guys and gals) is a-okay. That’s right—New York is all for equal-opportunity torso ogling. Last week, Marta Duvall and her fiancé Eric Harper, went topless while hanging out (pun intended) on the chilly lawns of Central Park.

Even though I’ve blacked out both Marta and Eric’s nipples in the picture above, I fully support NYC’s topless policy…except for the unavoidable tattoos of regret which are often revealed.

Take the following picture, for example. This is a shot of Eric’s back. As you can see, because of how I’ve enlarged the area and added the helpful red arrows and circles, Eric has a very awkward caricature of his ex-girlfriend (actress Temaya Garrison) on his right shoulder blade. Ironically, in the tattoo, Temaya is also topless.

Perhaps instead of paying for the removal of Temaya’s hooters, Eric is planning on donating the saved money to today’s highlighted charity! All donations received today will go toward “Tit for Tat,” a program that helps breast cancer survivors (with breast reconstruction) by providing expertly tattooed nipples. 

<3 The Socialmedialite

 

 

*Annie*

I was on my fourth glass of champagne when Ronan came back. Granted, I’d had four glasses over the course of an hour and a half, but it was four glasses nevertheless.

I was sitting on the least comfortable chair in the suite, all trussed up and trying not to move for fear I would wrinkle or smudge or flatten something. My afternoon of beauty treatments was…interesting. The entire team had been women. I’d never had a facial or a massage before. Both were actually quite nice, soothing, especially after my frustrated fantasy and bathtub encounter.

The hair and nails and makeup portion, however, was aggravating. I didn’t like being poked, prodded, and painted. Patricia, who I suspected was my fairy godmother, must have noticed my grimace because she was the one to suggest and pour the champagne. It helped.

She was also kind enough to fill the silence with tales from her past. She’d been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall for four years before joining a traveling Broadway company. Her past was colorful and shocking, and she was completely engaging. Her stories, plus the champagne, went a long way toward taking my mind off what had happened earlier.

But Ronan never completely left my mind, how he’d touched me with such gentleness and care yet looked at me with an unforgiving harshness, like I’d betrayed him.

And now I was sitting on the wooden chair at the desk, trying to concentrate on work emails and checking the comments on my blog, all the while trying to ignore the constant throbbing ache between my legs and how I missed his smile.

He entered the suite, and I glanced up, found him wearing a tux that looked custom cut for his frame. I swallowed a mouthful of lust. He didn’t look at me as he entered. Instead, he strolled to the bedroom, opened and closed a few drawers, and then reemerged. His attention was on his watch.

“We have to go,” he said, opening the closet in the entryway and pulling out my coat and an umbrella. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, all set.” I was proud that I sounded so completely normal because I didn’t feel normal. I felt jumbled and unsteady and saturated with self-doubt.

“Okay, then let’s go.” He glanced at me and indicated the door with a tilt of his head. I felt something bend and then snap painfully behind my ribs as his eyes met mine. His were flat, disinterested.

He looked distracted.

He’d never looked at me that way before. Never. I was anyone and everyone. I didn’t matter.

I nodded, tearing my eyes from his and closing the programs on my computer, hiding the shaking of my hand by gripping the mouse tighter.

I was being stupid.

We weren’t together.

How many times of my pushing him away did I think it would take before he’d stop pursuing me? This was what I wanted.

I closed my laptop and stood carefully in the stilettos. Patricia had helped me practice walking once she realized I was a high-heel novice. I felt almost proficient, except for the fact that my stomach was a mass of tangled unhappiness knots. I didn’t want to see the ambivalence in his eyes, so I kept mine averted—to the floor, to my bag on the table by the door, to my coat as I took it from him and shrugged it on.

I lifted my hair out from the collar and preceded him out the door without further instruction or discussion. I felt him behind me, heard his steps echo mine as we neared the elevator. Silence and melancholy were my companions on the ride down.

As we neared the lobby, Ronan fit his hand in mine and pulled me closer. I glanced at our joined hands then at his profile. He was watching the display count down the floors. He almost looked nervous.

“There will be photographers in the lobby and on the street. Stay close, okay?”

I nodded and actively held his hand rather than passively allowing my hand to be held.

He misinterpreted the tightness of my grip and slid his eyes to mine; they flickered over my face. “Don’t worry—they won’t get close this time. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know.” I gave him a little smile, nodded again. “I trust you.”

His gaze hardened, and he flinched; it was almost imperceptible, but I saw it.

I frowned at his reaction to my words and blurted, “Ronan, I am so sorry.”

He glared at me until the doors opened, his jaw ticking as he withdrew inside himself, and I heard him mutter as we left the elevator, “So am I.”

***

He was right.

There were photographers in the lobby and on the street. Everyone knew my name and called to me. It was disconcerting, but he shielded me with his body until we were in the limo. We sat on the two sides of the bench, Ronan putting the length of the back seat between us.

He spent the entire time on his phone, his knee bobbing up and down in an uncharacteristic display of nerves, and I stared out the window, thinking about the irony of the situation. The first time we’d gone out to lunch together—which felt like a lifetime ago but was really just over month—he’d scolded me for checking my phone.

When we arrived at the event, there were even more photographers. But this bunch was more professional and obviously present to document the comings and goings of the sporting elite.

Ronan exited first then held his hand out to help me from the car. He then tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow and led me to the red carpet.

Once we were clear of the limo—flashes going off in every direction—Ronan leaned down and whispered in my ear, “If you can manage a smile, that would be great. Also, we’re about to meet a few of my mates. You’ll want to look them in the eye as you shake their hands, say hello—you know, talk to people. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re a stuck-up American bitch.”

I glanced at him as he retreated, and he held my gaze, smiling at me like he’d just said something charming and expected me either to laugh or blush.

His words were nasty, mean, unlike him. He seemed…off.

And again, the irony of the situation struck me. Ronan was giving me advice on how to behave, what to do, what to say. This was the real world, his world of beautiful people and fame. My world was the virtual world of avatars and words. My currency wasn’t traded in this forum. Nevertheless, his words were condescending and unnecessary, and his aim was perfect.

I smiled at him, as big and brilliant as I could manage. Then I punched him in the shoulder with all my might, hoping it looked like a love tap.

His grin doubled, and he laughed, though it sounded a bit sinister. “Ouch, darling. Trying to hurt me?”

“Of course not.” I shook my head in a playful manner, my smile plastered on my face. “I would never assume hurting you was within my power.”

I didn’t know why I said it, but I felt a surge of bitter satisfaction when his grin waned and fiery anger flashed behind his eyes. Hopefully the photographers mistook it for passion.

I tore my gaze from his and smiled at the flashing bulbs. I smiled at the attendants who met us and showed us where to stand. I smiled as Ronan was interviewed—both at Ronan and the interviewers. I smiled as he skirted questions about our relationship and told everyone I was here as his friend with practiced smoothness. I smiled as we entered the event.

And I smiled as I was introduced to his mates.

My cheeks hurt like a bitch, and yet I still smiled.

Strangely, I found the smiling helped. It helped a lot. It felt like a mask for me to hide behind. No one expected me to actually speak, only to smile and nod and drink champagne and look pretty and laugh at the appropriate times. It was the opposite of my comfort zone—behind the computer, sharing my thoughts with the world and being valued for what I did and wrote, not what I looked like—and yet…and yet it was fine.

I was fine.

I’d been so twisted up about Ronan and my feelings for him that I’d forgotten to obsess about the event, or freak out about the plunging neckline and high hem of my dress, or wallow in my social phobia. Now that I was here, surrounded by the conversation of strangers and on the arm of the man I’d stupidly fallen in love with, it was my fake-as-fuck smile that won the day.

No one noticed.

After another glass of champagne, I stopped noticing, too.

Well, that’s almost the truth. I stopped noticing until I felt Ronan’s hand grip mine like a vise and his body turn rigid next to mine.

We were approaching our table near the front, and he was moving through the crowd; I was indulging myself by watching him move. He was so graceful, adroit. Being next to him made me feel more graceful. I’d managed to keep from tripping over my own feet all night, which was a huge achievement in and of itself.

So when Ronan stopped suddenly and I collided against him, I figured my luck was up. But he moved quickly, his strong arm slipping around my waist, keeping me upright. He turned toward me, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were frustrated and unfocused; he was glaring at some inconsequential spot beyond my head.

“Shite,” he breathed through clenched teeth. “I was hoping they wouldn’t come.”

Unthinkingly, I placed my hand over his chest and searched his expression for a clue. “Who? Who is it?”

His gaze sliced to mine. “My grandparents.”

I frowned, not understanding why this was upsetting news for ten seconds. Then I realized he was referring to the Fitzpatricks, the family who’d never claimed him as their grandson, the family who thought of him and his sister and his mother as a stain on their good name. I finally understood why he’d been acting so anxious. I thought it was because of me, because I’d angered him. Maybe my rejection earlier had contributed to his foul mood, but the Fitzpatricks and the possibility of their presence at the ceremony was the root cause. Turning my head just slightly, I caught sight of the elderly couple, arm in arm, both well-dressed and silver-haired, graciously mingling with their peers. They were the picture of old money.

I felt sad for Ronan and wished I could take his unhappiness away. On a complete whim of instinct, I leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth, cupping his cheek with my hand then smoothing it down to his neck and shoulder.

Then I whispered against his ear, “Ronan, you are worth ten thousand Fitzpatricks and their self-important douchebaggery. Their stupidity is their loss, not yours.”

I gave his shoulder a squeeze of reassurance and then leaned away so I could see his face.

He was smiling at me. It was a small, quizzical smile, like I was maybe a little weird but maybe also a little wonderful.

“You don’t have to say that kind of stuff. No one is around to hear you.”

“I know I don’t have to.” My eyes fell away under his steady stare. I was frustrated by my ingrained instinct to look away.

But soon I bested my innate desire to shrink under the weight of his penetrating gaze. Clearing my throat, I lifted my chin stubbornly and firmed my resolve, meeting his probing eyes with determination. When I continued, I did so because I wanted to bolster Ronan’s confidence with the truth. But also, I wanted to prove that I could be strong for someone, be resilient and a source of courage for someone other than myself.

“But the words are true, Ronan. They needed to be said. You needed to hear them, and I wanted to say them.”

His gaze narrowed, searched mine. “Why?” he pushed.

We were standing very close, but I felt like we were still a great distance apart.

Not having anything to lose, I told him the truth—well, part of the truth. “Because I c-care about you, Ronan. You mean s-something to me.”

He considered me, his eyes no less examining but growing a good deal less aloof and guarded.

Abruptly, he leaned forward and kissed me. He released my hand and scooped me up, moved both his arms around my waist, wrapping me in the strength of rock-solid man.

It was terribly inappropriate for a formal ballroom. I didn’t really notice. But when he finished, I did notice his smile was self-satisfied, charming, and completely genuine.

He administered a quick up-down sweep of my body then sighed. “Holy fuck, you’re gorgeous tonight. I’ve been trying not to think of how satisfying it would be to take you from behind in that dress.”

My mouth opened in shock, and I felt a flaming blush creep up my neck to my cheeks. “Ronan!”

He shrugged as though this were perfectly polite conversation. “I’ve wanted to tell you all night” —he paused just long enough to give me a small peck on my nose and then continued as he turned away and tugged me toward our table— “but I wasn’t sure if you’d punch me in the shoulder again.”

***

“How is your sister, Ro? She still coloring her hair to look like a rainbow?” Bryan Leech, one of Ronan’s teammates, asked this question from the far side of the table. He was one of the only guys present who didn’t bring a date. As such, he was one of the only guys present who didn’t have a woman on his lap.

Everything had gone swimmingly. I was Ronan’s smiling date. He’d ignored his extended family with polite indifference. Then he’d presented the award and done a great job. Everyone wanted to talk to him after dinner. He was a perfect gentleman, introducing me to each new person as his “good friend” from New York. Then, as the evening was winding down, we were waylaid by six of his teammates who insisted on buying us a round of drinks.

This was ridiculous because all the drinks at the event were free.

Ronan didn’t consult me, not even with a glance. I thought for sure he would beg off as he must’ve been exhausted.

But no, he surprised me by accepting the invitation immediately and pulling me along to a table in the corner. It was mostly hidden from the rest of the grand ballroom due to the opportune placement of three tall faux shrubberies. 

Ronan ordered me champagne, water for himself, and was mercilessly teased for his choice in beverage. Just as I was about to claim the seat next to his, he grabbed my hips and placed me on his lap.

And, as such, there I happily sat—just like all the other ladies with their husbands or boyfriends or dates—and my head was lying against Ronan’s shoulder. I was playing with the open bow tie at his neck, trying to tickle him. My playfulness alone was evidence that I’d had far too much to drink. Not to mention Ronan kept giving me these tender looks that made me feel entirely intoxicated.

“My sister is none of your business,” Ronan said, his arm around my waist settling me more firmly against him, his hand on my thigh edging under the hem of my skirt.

So yeah, I was drunk.

Well, I was mostly drunk.

Okay, I wasn’t precisely drunk. But I was too tipsy to care about much other than how lovely Ronan’s arms felt around me.

“I’d like to see what’s at the end of that rainbow,” Bryan called back, eliciting several jeering shouts from those gathered—even some of the women—the comment obviously intended to ruffle Ronan’s feathers.

“You shut your fucking mouth before I break your jaw.” Ronan laughed as he said these violent words, and so did Bryan and everyone else in our party. They all obviously thought this threat was hilarious.

“Ah, Mother Fitzpatrick, we’ve missed your ugly mug.” Tevan Flynn, another of Ronan’s teammates, raised his beer in Ronan’s direction then added before taking a big gulp, “Here’s to Ronan, ugly as a sheep’s arse, and yet he finally managed to find himself a looker. May she always be blind to your hideousness.”

This was met with a few noises of agreement and chuckles.

“American girls like them ugly,” Bryan called from his spot, still stirring the shit. “It’s the accent they like.”

“That’s a load of crap, Bryan Leech.” Marta Goodwall, a transplant with her husband from Australia, gave him a teasing sneer. “Your voice is like nails on a chalkboard, son. Good thing you have such a pretty face. Listen to old Marta.” She leaned forward and patted Bryan’s hand yet still managed to keep her seat on her husband’s lap. “It’s in your best interest to say as little as possible when women are around. You ruin everything as soon as you open your trap.”

The entire table erupted in uproarious laughter; and Bryan chuckled along with the lot of them, though I noted his cheeks above his red beard were tinged a slight shade of pink. I even giggled a little from my spot, though I dared not laugh too hard. Otherwise, my atrocious guffaw might draw attention.

Meanwhile, Ronan’s chest vibrated against my cheek, and he threw his head back as his laughter filled the air, the sound curling around me. I closed my eyes to savor it and snuggled closer, placing my lips against his neck so I could feel, hear, and taste his delight.

He sucked in a startled breath, and I felt him stiffen which made me stiffen; and I worried that I’d gone too far.

“Sorry,” I whispered, pulling away slightly as I listened to the laughter taper off around us.

But Ronan wasn’t looking at me. He was looking beyond our little gathering, and his grip had tightened possessively on my body. His fingers moved a full two inches up my skirt. I blinked at his steely, stoic expression and then followed the direction of his gaze.

There at the periphery, just behind Marta Goodwall and her husband, David, stood none other than Brona O’Shea and Sean Cassidy—Ronan’s ex-girlfriend and the teammate of Ronan’s she’d cheated with.

A hush fell over our group, and eyes moved back and forth between Sean and Brona, and Ronan and me. Brona was looking at me…sorta. Rather, she was looking at Ronan’s hand where it gripped me immodestly beneath my skirt. Her pale blue eyes were flashing thunderbolts of malice at his hand and my thigh.

I didn’t know quite what to do, so I smiled, hoping the mask I’d abandoned earlier would slip seamlessly back into place.

Sean spoke first. “Hey, room for two more?”

All eyes swung to Ronan. His jaw ticked. I was sad to see that his earlier happiness had evaporated, leaving only disdain and suspicion.

Yet, a part of me—a very big, but as yet very silent, part of me—was pleased to see that Ronan didn’t look at all jealous.

“Of course.” Ronan nodded once, affixing an imitation of a smile to his face; his voice was hard and cold. “Always room for you, Sean.”

I glanced at Sean, found him looking unaffected and placid. He was taller than Ronan by two inches at least and had that rich-boy aura, like he was perpetually bored and plagued by ennui. He was very, very pretty—not handsome but pretty—and I wondered how someone so pretty could play rugby. Wasn’t he afraid of ruining his pretty face and pretty hands and pretty everything?

Brona moved to sit on his lap, and he lifted his hands up to give her space, to steady herself without his assistance, like he didn’t care where she sat just as long as she hurried up. I noticed that her eyes didn’t stray from Ronan’s hand up my skirt until she was settled, and then her glare lifted to mine. I got the distinct impression she wanted to cut me.

Ronan’s arm around my waist shifted to my shoulders, and he pulled me toward him, bringing my ear to his mouth so he could whisper, “You want to leave?”

I turned so that I could see his face and gave him my newly discovered smile mask. “Do you want to leave?”

His eyes darted over me; he seemed to be studying my expression, looking for a hint. He frowned, concern flickering over his features.

At length he said, “You finish your drink, and then we’ll leave. I don’t want those fucks thinking that what they do matters.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your stunning date?” Sean’s cheerful voice cut through our impromptu powwow, bringing our attention back to the table.

Ronan grumbled something under his breath that no one but I could hear; he said three words, and none of them should be repeated.

“What was that?” Sean pressed; he lifted his hand as a waitress approached and pointed to Tevan Flynn’s glass of whiskey. “I’ll have two of those, top shelf. What do you want, Bunny?”

Bunny?

My smile mask slipped.

Brona was still tossing kitchen knives at my face as she ordered, “I’ll have champagne, top shelf.”

Sean shifted in his seat, huffed a condescending laugh. “No, Bunny. There’s no such thing as top-shelf champagne.”

She squirmed, her expression turning pale. “She knows what I mean. I want something expensive, the good stuff, yeah?” It was clear that he’d embarrassed her.

The server gave Brona a tight smile and nodded as she backed away. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

Bryan cleared his throat, bringing the attention back to himself. It was obvious that he cared about Ronan and was trying to lighten the mood.

“So where did the nickname Bunny come from? You don’t look like a rabbit, Brona. Do you like carrots?”

Brona opened her mouth to respond, but Sean beat her to it. His tone was dry and droll and perfectly polished as he said, “Oh, that’s because we fuck like rabbits.”

Several of the wives at the table gagged while several others rolled their eyes. No one laughed. Brona looked like she’d just swallowed a tablespoon of vinegar. I almost felt sorry for her.

Marta piped up with a disapproving head shake. “Really? Sean Cassidy, was that entirely necessary? Didn’t your mother raise you with manners?”

He chuckled. Again, his chuckle sounded condescending. “Please accept my apologies if anything I said was untoward.” Then he turned his pretty face back to Ronan. “But I would point out that Ronan here has yet to make introductions, which is also quite rude.”

Again, Ronan muttered those three words. Again, they weren’t quite loud enough to be heard.

“Sorry, what was that?” Sean leaned forward, turning his ear toward us.

Ronan lifted his voice, saying, “I said, ‘Go—’”

But before he could finish and repeat go fuck yourself for a third time, I straightened, blocking Ronan from view.

“I’m Annie Catrel.”

“Ah…the lovely Annie speaks.” Sean grinned, cocking his head to the side, his eyes conducting a slow once-over of my body.

I clenched my teeth and readied myself to fight against the instinct to withdraw, but it never came. I was too angry. This guy was an asshole.

“Yes. I speak. Quite well,” I said flatly.

“Hmm…well, Annie who speaks quite well, what do you do? I mean, other than Ronan?”

I felt Ronan stiffen, ready to pounce. Brona—not at all helping matters—gave a tittering laugh once she caught on to the joke.

“Fucking hell, Cassidy….” Tevan shook his head, throwing his teammate a disapproving glower. “Why do you always have to be such a dick?”

“What? She claims to speak quite well. I’m giving her a chance to prove her speaking abilities.” Then he turned his attention back to me, “Tell us about yourself. Did you graduate, let’s see, what’s it called in the States? High school?”

I nodded. “Yes. I was valedictorian. In case you don’t use that word here, it means I….” I hesitated, not wanting to say top of the class because I felt certain that would be used against me. Therefore, I said, “It means I had the best grades out of all the students in my graduating class.”

“Oh, my, that sounds very important. And you went to university?”

I nodded, absentmindedly stroking Ronan’s hand where it rested on my hip. “I did.”

“And where did you go? What was your area of study?”

“I went to the University of Pennsylvania and majored in statistics.”

Sean blinked, his expression altering by the tiniest fraction. I’d surprised him.

I continued, wanting to clarify, “But that was undergrad. For postgrad I went to Wharton and graduated—again as the class valedictorian—with a master of science in statistics and marketing.”

“A master of science?” Sean’s frown was disbelieving, as was his tone.

I nodded and added, “Yes. Of science. The title of my thesis was Infographics as a Means to Effectively Transfer Knowledge Reducing the Bias of Consumer Interpretation.”

Sean stared at me. In fact, the entire table stared at me. I felt myself wilting under the attention, so I reached for my champagne merely to have something to do. It almost tumbled from my grip, but I saved it at the last minute and finished it in three gulps.

Then Ronan chuckled.

Then Ronan laughed.

Then Ronan laughed so hard he seemed to have trouble drawing breath.

I turned to look at him, confused by his joviality, found his eyes bright with amusement and moving over me with raw tenderness.

“Oh, Annie,” he whispered affectionately, “what am I going to do with you?”

I heard someone release a low whistle, followed by Marta asking from her spot, “Isn’t Wharton one of those hoity-toity schools in the States? Really hard to get into? And you graduated top of the class?” She sounded impressed.

Ronan smiled at me for a beat and then leaned to the side to address the table. “No, no, Marta. They don’t have hoity-toity schools in the States.” He paused, and I realized later it was for effect when he added, “It’s top shelf.”