Dirty Headlines
“I read the Post-it notes,” she said.
“I thought you did a long time ago.” It felt good, knowing she hadn’t. Knowing she hadn’t chosen to ignore me.
She shook her head. “It hurt too much.”
“And now?”
“It still does, but a little less. Also I’m more concerned with your well-being than my own right now. James wants to talk to you.”
I immediately wanted to say I wasn’t interested, but I knew better than to fuck it all up. She was talking to me, after all. I needed to play nice if I wanted a nice girlfriend.
Fuck. Yes. That’s what it was. I wanted Jude to be my girlfriend—not a fake one and not a temporary one.
“I’m pressed for time,” I said instead, wondering if it were still true, now that she and I were on speaking terms again. “But I guess I could squeeze him in tonight if you come with.”
“This is your family and personal business. I don’t think I belong.”
“I don’t think I give a fuck. Wait, this just in…” I pretended to listen to something on an invisible headphone. “I don’t give a fuck. Grab your shit, Chucks.”
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said as I tugged on her hand.
Like hell it didn’t. She wanted to help me, and she’d come all the way to work on a Sunday afternoon to give me something she thought would be useful. It meant everything and more, and I was going to milk the hell out of it.
I made a stop in my office and took the laptop out of the trash can, putting it neatly back on the desk. Jude never asked what it had been doing there in the first place.
She knew.
I’d never been to James Townley’s place, and I’d been content to think I never would. He lived in another penthouse, in another New York ’scraper, and it was amazing how one of the most dazzling architectural cities in the world had managed to be home to so many identical, clinical, and impersonal penthouses.
James opened the door in a robe (douchebag), and said he was glad to see me. When he spotted Jude next to me, he made a face like I’d pissed in his drink.
“Deal with it,” I replied to his nonverbal annoyance, walking into his living room.
His twelve-year-old wife, who was 85% made of plastic, unglued herself from the couch, her heels click-clicking toward their hallway, and then I guessed their bedroom. James went to the kitchen to get us some drinks. I couldn’t figure out why his wife would wear heels at home. I elbowed Judith lightly as we sat down on the same sofa the busty morning show host had vacated a second ago.
“Do you wear shoes indoors?”
Jude’s eyes darted to me, and she frowned immediately. “I don’t even wear underwear and a bra at home. Dad’s lucky if my clothes cover my private parts. I’m a free spirit.”
“I fucking love you,” I blurted, and I nearly choked on the air inside my lungs.
Not that she didn’t know by now, but still.
She grinned. “I think I’m beginning to believe you.”
“Let the record show that I took another job just so you could keep yours at LBC,” I told her before my throat closed. “Being away from you would feel like living without limbs. And I very much enjoy my limbs.”
The look on her face was priceless. It was every fantastic Christmas gift a second after you unwrap it. I was about to dive down and go for the kiss, sealing this shit for good, when James sauntered back in with a tray and something alcoholic on it.
Fucker.
I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see him, so I straightened up on the couch and tried to think about sad things, like global warming and The Big Bang Theory, to take care of my inappropriately engorged cock. James dragged over a settee and sat directly in front of me, leaning forward. The silver tray with the drinks sat between us on the coffee table, but nobody touched it.
“Are you sure you’d like Junior to be here? What I’m about to tell you is very personal.”
“Stop calling her Junior, and yes, she can be here. My life is her life.”
They both stilled in their seats, but I didn’t miss a heartbeat. I had a flight out of JFK to LAX in five hours, and I wasn’t going to be on it. That made me feel eerily calm and happy. Judith was here. Everything was okay.
“Well…” James shook his head, running his hand through his hair.
He was so vain, I wondered if he shaved his balls completely or bleached them to match his fake hair color.
“There’s no right way of saying this. Let me tell you, for the record, that I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while now, but Iris always stopped me. Never Mathias, though, son. I’m not scared of him.”
“Stop calling me so—” I started, but he cut me off.
“But you are,” he said, clearing his throat and blinking rapidly. “You’re my son, Célian, and there’s nothing and no one that can change that. Thirty-three years ago, I walked into the bar across from LBC after a bad job interview…”
No.
No.
Just, no.
I couldn’t listen to this crap. I definitely couldn’t bear hearing how similar it was to my story with Judith so far. I shook my head without even meaning to, and I felt myself standing up, legs on autopilot. I hated my father, but I refused to believe I’d been a fool for thirty-two years. A small, hot hand—a little sweaty, but in a good way—tugged me back down.