eight
Repeated rinses in the Gladstones bathroom and a roll of paper towels later, I emerged ready to face whatever was coming, and I knew there would be no mercy shown.
Jack’s face lit up when he saw me. “Nice do, Sheridan,” he said jokingly.
I had attempted to dry it with the hand blower, resulting in sticky strands radiating outward from my mortified face.
“Keep your fucking mouth shut, or I will kick you next time I’m wearing pointy shoes,” I said, noticing how the waitstaff was struggling not to laugh. Obviously, Jack had clued them in to what had happened with the seagull. And I knew then that he would never let this go.
I had started walking toward the parking lot when I heard one of the waiters say, “Miss? You forgot your doggy bag!”
Don’t forget your leftover coconut shrimp. You’ll want that tonight at about midnight.
Never one to pass on food, I turned back around—and noticed that it was wrapped not in the traditional aluminum swan shape but in the shape of a mother-loving seagull.
Blast it.
The entire staff started laughing aloud while Jack laughed harder. I sweetly smiled and took my shrimp, then informed him where he could stick his seagull. He shook his head and walked with me out to the car; he was heading toward the driver’s side when I stopped him.
“Oh, no, fucko. Driving privileges are revoked. Keys, please.” I motioned with my hand as he withdrew them from his pocket.
“Oh, come on, Sheridan. That was hilarious! You’ll tell that story for the rest of your life. That was pure comedy. You can’t write shit like that!” He pleaded with me, handing me my keys and sinking into the passenger seat. “I can’t believe you’re pouting. You know bloody well if this happened to someone else, you’d be in hysterics on the floor.”
“Listen, Johnny Bite-Down.” I turned to him. “While I admit it would be slightly funny if it was someone else, it wasn’t. It was me. And until I have showered or removed my head from my body, or both, let’s not discuss it.” I peeled out of the parking lot and headed back toward Sunset.
We were both quiet for a moment, then I added, “Well, maybe it’s more than slightly funny. But now I am gross and defiled. I feel violated.”
“Hell, if it’s defilement and violation you want, I can think of a few things—wait, what did you call me? Johnny Bite-Down?” He turned to look at me.
“Please, like you don’t know how hot it makes you look! You with your biting down on your lower lip, and your accent and your curly hair. You look like you’re gonna throw me up against the wall and make me scream your name!” I shouted, all the adrenaline from the day pumping through me and flying out of my mouth.
Too much, too much! Man down, man down!
He sat there looking stunned at my outburst. I fumbled with the stereo, trying to plug my iPod back in, while I chanced another look at him. He looked confused now but was smiling.
“That might have been the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he stated.
“Well, I say hot things when I have poo hair,” I replied with a smile, trying to defuse the situation. I was still struggling with my iPod.
“Can I help you with that?” he asked.
“I can’t get this into the little hole,” I answered.
“That’s what she said,” we said at the same time, then stared at each other.
“You might be the most perfect girl I have ever met!” He looked at me in amazement.
“Perfection will cost you, pretty boy,” I said brightly as I sped back into the city.
He selected a song, and we danced in our seats the rest of the way home.
When we got back to Holly’s office I turned into the garage.
“Aren’t you glad we took your car?” he asked, nodding toward his car. The old MG looked like it was held together with string.
“Well, I suppose. Although, other than the seagull poo, this was a great day. Whose car we took wouldn’t have changed that,” I replied, allowing myself a small moment of honesty.
He turned his entire body toward me. “It was a great day. I’m so glad we did this . . . no jokes. It was great.”
The structured walls of our banter were coming down, and the deafening roar of pheromones was beginning to seep through. You can’t fight chemistry.
“So, you have a date with your gay, if I heard Holly correctly?” he asked.
I shook my head for a moment, trying to remember. “Oh, my gay! Yes, we’re going out dancing with Nick. You remember him from the other night, right? He’s head of your West Hollywood fan base. You know you’re hot when you cross over into that crowd,” I said teasingly.
“Yes, that’s what I hear.” He laughed.
We were quiet for a moment. I was thinking of that kiss and whether I had the right to ask for another one. I needed another hit of Hamilton. I didn’t want him to go, and he didn’t seem to want to, either. However, I knew I needed to get home and get ready for tonight.
“Call me tomorrow?” I asked tentatively. His fingers came up to brush my cheek, and I leaned into his hand without knowing I would do it, until I did.
“You can count on that, Grace,” he answered, his fingers sweeping softly over my lips.
I kissed his fingertips lightly and then smiled. “Okay, now get out of my car, Johnny Bite-Down,” I joked.
His face fell. “You will be the death of me, Sheridan. I can already tell.” He sighed, unfolding his long legs to get out.
“Yes, but it will be a good death. I’ll be gentle. You won’t even know I’m coming.”
He turned back and grinned. “That’s what she said.”
Perfection.
“Oh, and Grace?” he said, walking toward his car. He stopped when he reached it and leaned back against the door. “I will definitely know when you’re coming. And so will you,” he said, biting down on that lower lip.
Fucking perfection.
I found my chin somewhere in my lap and attempted to drive home. I ran two stop signs and almost hit a Pomeranian.
When I arrived at Holly’s house it was almost six, and I wanted to make us some dinner before going out for our ass-shakery. She had a fantastic kitchen, with a professional range and Sub-Zero fridge. I indulged my inner chef whenever possible.
Since Holly wasn’t home yet I put two glasses in the freezer to chill for cocktails, then paced between the pantry and the fridge, taking out everything I needed. Opening a can of San Marzano tomatoes, I drained them in a colander and then put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Then I rinsed off some fresh spinach and dumped it into the salad spinner to dry while I sliced and grilled some good Italian bread, rubbing it with garlic for crostini.
When Holly walked in, I was frantically chopping onions on the cutting board with tears streaming down my face.
“Grace, it’s fine. Don’t get all choked up. I’m home now,” she stated dramatically.
“Funny, Holls, funny. Cocktail?” I asked, gesturing toward the fridge.
“Are you offering or asking me to make one?” she asked, already on her way.
“Asking, obviously. Extra dirty please,” I replied as she grabbed the vodka and olives.
“Something smells good—what the hell happened to your hair?” she inquired, stopping to take a closer look. I hadn’t had time to shower yet, and my hair was still in orbit from the beach/poo incident.
“You don’t want to know, but I’ll tell you later.” I sighed, thinking about the heaven that had been happening right before the shit hit the fan.
Are you technically a fan? Hi-yo! Bah-dum-bum.
“Never mind, I’ll let it remain a mystery,” she replied, sitting down across from me at the counter. “So, how is the British invasion going? Has he invaded your hoo-ha yet?”
Sweet lord.
“How long have you been waiting to use that one?” I asked, staring at her.
“Just since this afternoon, I swear,” she said. “Things went well, though, I take it?”
“Yeah, it was good. And no hoo-ha has been invaded.” I gestured with my knife, pointing it at her.
“Really? You’re losing your touch, missy.”
“If I may remind you, Slutty Slutterson, I only met him a few days ago. That’s hardly enough time to let anyone invade anything,” I scolded her, dropping the pasta in the pot with a big handful of kosher salt. Giada would have been proud.
“And if I may remind you of a certain night in New York City—New Year’s Eve, I believe it was . . . ,” she said, scolding me back.
“No, you may not remind me. That was a long time ago.”
“Really, Grace, in a bathroom at the Marriott Marquis . . . for shame.” She shook her finger at me.
“Enough! You wanna go? You wanna go?” I said. “Graduation? Nicholas Rabinowitz . . . and his girlfriend?”
That shut her up fast.
“Truce?” she huffed, eyeing me warily.
“Truce,” I said in agreement, offering her my olive.
“Olive juice,” she said.
“Olive juice, too, ya little fruitcake,” I said, adding oil to the pan and lightly browning some garlic.
“Hmm, so no invasion yet. But how did the afternoon go?” she asked, stealing a tomato out of the bowl.
“Hey, you’ll spoil your dinner! And today was . . . wow,” I said, closing my eyes briefly.
“That good, huh? Where did you go?” she asked, taking the opportunity to grab another tomato, as I noticed when my eyes opened again.
“We drove Sunset all the way to the beach and then had lunch at Gladstones. I saw that, by the way,” I said, chiding her for her tomato thievery.
“And then what happened?” She leaned forward on her stool.
“Then we walked on the beach and we talked and laughed and lay on the sand, andthenhekissedmeandaseagullshitonmyhead.” I rushed through the last part, holding my breath to see which admission would get the loudest scream.
I was surprised when I heard, “He kissed you! Fuck me, Grace, you just made out on a freaking beach with Super-Sexy Scientist Guy!” She launched herself across the cooktop and hugged me, coming dangerously close to lighting herself on fire.
“Hey, hey, watch yourself! Be careful, please. I want to go dancing tonight, not to the burn unit!” I shouted, untangling her arms from around my neck and scooting her safely back across to her side of the counter. “He’s not Joshua. He’s Jack. And he’s damn fine,” I said, pressing my lips together, trying not to scream myself. “And we didn’t technically make out. We kissed.”
“Tongue?”
“No tongue . . . not yet.” I waggled my eyebrows at her. She continued to watch me in amazement. I could tell she was beside herself that her best friend was getting some play.
“The thing is, though, I don’t get it. I mean, I’m nine years older than he is,” I grumbled.
Yep, I had done the math.
“So? He clearly doesn’t care about you being an old bag,” she said teasingly.
“No, seriously. He’s cool and all, and we have a good time together. And fuck, there are some powerful sex vibes being thrown back and forth, but come on! He’s going to realize any second that this is crazy.” I stirred the sauce vigorously, finally giving voice to my concerns.
“He seems to like crazy, and you definitely fit that bill. Besides, I don’t know who you think you’re convincing here. I’ve seen some of the guys you were dating before you moved back out here. They were all younger than you,” she said, challenging me.
“That wasn’t dating, that was eight years of sexual frustration exploding and landing on pretty boys.” I smiled, thinking about Trevor, my trainer at the gym.
Mmm, remember when he had you work on your core strength by making you balance on the exercise ball, while his mouth worked on your—
“Grace, the pasta is done,” she said, interrupting my thoughts. “Take it out before it gets soft.”
“That’s what she said,” I muttered, smiling to myself. Maybe I could handle this after all.
“Wait a minute! You just cooked me dinner with bird shit in your hair?”
Oops.
After dinner, I let Holly clean up the kitchen while I went to take a shower. After washing my hair three times in scalding water, I exfoliated myself in all the places that needed exfoliating and was shaving my armpits when I heard Holly come into my bathroom.
I peered through the frosted glass at her. “What the hell? You here for a peep show?”
“I couldn’t wait to show you this. Look what’s on the Internet,” she said, mischief in her voice. I opened the door slightly and looked at her laptop. It was on the TMZ home page.
It was Jack and me at lunch. He was laughing, hand in his hair and leaning toward me. I was glaring at him, pointing with a shrimp.
I remembered this moment. He had just told me I had a bat in the cave.
The caption below the picture said: “New heartthrob Jack Hamilton, caught at the beach with an unidentified redhead. Is this the new lady in his life?”
The next few pictures were of Jack and the two women who had approached him. Those bitches sold his pictures to make a buck!
“Are you kidding me?” I said angrily, rinsing off my razor and attacking my underarm.
Mistake!
“Hey, what did you expect? I told you, he’s getting more and more popular by the day. You should see all the websites devoted to him. This is nothing,” she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket.
“Who are you calling? Shit,” I moaned, shampoo running in my eye.
“Who do you think? It’s time to call the Brit,” she answered.
“Wait, wait! Don’t call him!” I pleaded, trying to stop the flow of blood from my underarm and the flow of bubbles directly into my eyeball. Not my prettiest moment.
“Too late . . . Hi, Jack! It’s Holly. Listen, just had to let you know you’re on TMZ again . . . Yep, I’m looking at it right now. Yep, it’s you and Grace at the beach . . . No, you’re not rolling in the sand, you’re eating lunch. Wait, when were you rolling in the sand? I didn’t hear about that part.” She moved the phone away from her mouth and yelled, “You didn’t tell me about the rolling in the sand, Grace. I’m hurt you skipped over that. All I heard about was the kiss!” She loved her life right now.
Mortified, I slid down the wall of the shower and let the water beat down on me. I was an unidentified redhead with a British addiction. Moreover, my best friend was delighting in it.
“Yeah, she’s right here. She’s in the shower, in fact . . . Oh, Jack! I told Grace the funniest joke about the British invading her hoo—Wait, what? . . . Hold on . . . Grace, Jack would like you to know that he’s seen the pictures, and he thinks you were pointing that shrimp at him far too aggressively . . . No, she isn’t acknowledging you. She’s now banging her head against the shower tiles . . . Oops, now she’s glaring at me . . . she’s turning off the shower, Jack . . . she’s coming toward me . . . she’s naked, Jack . . . and angry . . . she’s naked and angry, Jack . . . you would probably love angry, naked Grace. It’s something to see. She’s hitting me, Jack . . . I think she’s going to take the phone away from—”
Silence.
I stood over Holly, one hand holding the phone and the other over her mouth.
“You will be quiet, starting now,” I stated in a low voice.
She nodded her head, her eyes wide. Then she licked my hand in an attempt to throw me off.
I could hear Jack laughing maniacally over the phone.
“Hi, Jack. Things are under control here now. Can I call you back in a few minutes?” I asked, tightening my grip on Holly’s mouth.
“Are you really naked? Like, all kinds of naked?” he asked in between wheezes.
“All kinds of naked. And wet. That should be enough to tide you over for a few minutes. I’ll call you right back.”
“Jesus, wet? Wait, Sheridan, wait!” I heard him say as I hung up the phone.
“Nice touch with the naked and wet,” Holly mumbled through my hand.
“Yeah, I thought so, too,” I answered, smacking her with my loofah.
A little while later I sat on my bed in my robe, looking at my laptop. I had seen the pictures several times now. I looked sassy. I looked sexy.
You looked gooood.
I did look good. I dialed the phone.
“I can’t believe you hung up on me after giving me that kind of visual. You little cock tease,” he grumbled. His voice was low and thick.
If I could have heard Jack Hamilton say one word for the rest of my life, it would have been cock.
“I had an ass to kick. I saw the pictures. Sorry about that,” I said.
“Why are you apologizing? I should’ve warned you about that. That isn’t the first time this has happened.”
“Yeah, Holly mentioned that things were beginning to get a little crazy for you. You okay with that?” I asked, leaning back onto the pillows.
“It’s not too bad. I mean, meeting people who are fans of the stories is actually cool. It’s weird, though. If they only knew how boring I actually am, they wouldn’t be interested.”
“I don’t think you’re boring. I find you quite . . . stimulating, in fact,” I answered.
“Really? What exactly do you find stimulating?” he inquired.
“Well, right now it’s your voice. That damn accent is driving me crazy,” I breathed into the phone. This had gone from innocent to sexpot fast.
“It’s always the accent that drives you American women crazy. I’d no idea you fancied it, too.”
“Oooh, ‘fancied it.’ Say more like that,” I begged, smiling.
“Like what, Grace?”
“Talk British to me,” I whispered, only half joking.
“Dustbins.”
“More,” I said encouragingly.
“Crumpets.”
“More!” I demanded.
“Knickers.”
If I could have heard Jack Hamilton say a second word for the rest of my life, it would have been knickers.
“Say ‘put another shrimp on the barbie’!” I cried.
“Grace, that’s Australian,” he said chidingly.
“Say it!”
“Fine. Put another shrimp on the barbie. Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“Aaaahhhhhhh!” I screamed into the phone. Holly was passing by my room and rolled her eyes. I grinned at her.
“Are you quite finished now?” he asked.
“Oh, my, yes. That was great. Thank you for that,” I giggled.
“Anything for my unidentified redhead.”
His unidentified redhead? Damn skippy.
“So, what do you have planned for the evening?” I asked.
“I’m going to a club opening, somewhere off Robertson,” he said, not sounding that excited about it.
“Well, be careful. And you’re not allowed to sleep with anyone from any reality show on MTV,” I said.
“Oh, laying claims now, are we?” he said teasingly, making me realize what I had just said.
Too early, Grace.
“Then I want to lay some claims, too,” he said.
Maybe not too early . . .
“None of my claims are getting laid tonight, but go ahead.”
“You’re not allowed to sleep with anyone who has ever watched a reality show on MTV,” he said in a silky voice.
“So is there an after-midnight clause?” I said teasingly.
“Don’t tempt me, Grace, or I’ll comb every club in West Hollywood looking for you, starting at the stroke of midnight,” he said matter-of-factly.
My toes curled. I still needed that second shot of Hamilton. “Heh heh, you said—”
“Stroke. I know, I said stroke. I’m onto you, Sheridan.”
Please, be onto me . . . at least on me.
“Okay, Holly’s wearing a hole in the carpet outside my door. I need to get going. I’ll speak to you soon?” I hated to get off the phone, but I couldn’t take much more of this.
“Yes, I need to meet up with my mates, too. I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t put too much sparkle on your boobies. They look great, by the way. Nice robe.” He chuckled.
“Thanks. I— Wait, how did you know I’m wearing a—”
“Night, Grace,” he whispered.
I sat there. What the fudge?
I heard a snicker and looked toward the door. There was Holly with her camera phone, and on the screen was a picture of me from a few minutes ago. My robe had fallen open just enough that you could see the tops of my girls, to say nothing of how high it was open on my legs.
The worst part was that she had taken it when I was screaming after he said “shrimp on the barbie.” I looked like I was in a porno.
She danced away from my lunge and said, “Never smack me with your loofah again. I know where it’s been.”
Bloody hell.