Bicoastal Babe (5 page)

“Um, right. I could’ve sworn that you said twenty-five.”

“I said forty-five. Clean out your ears, city slicker.” He smiles a mouthful of cheap tin. “Welcome home.”

Asshole.

A
s I step out of the taxi onto the curb, I am engulfed in the scent of sewage and rotten garbage. A manhole in the street is spewing up hot, stinky steam that makes me wonder what exactly is taking place below the Manhattan earth. In the near distance, tires squeal and car horns blare, cutting through the hot stickiness of the July night.

I look around the busy street and feel my heart start to pound. My senses are stirring with alertness. I realize that I am in the most vibrant, alive place on Earth, and I want to start running free through the streets, holding my arms open to capture every second of the exhilaration.

But three heavy suitcases make that kind of impossible. So I look around to find my apartment. The street is lined with brownstone buildings, and every one of them looks the same. I lug my bags two buildings down, then up the stairs to the door. SAVAGE/MILLER: 502. There is an apartment in New York with my name on the buzzer panel. This is no dream. I am really here, and New York City is really waiting for me.

Once inside, I realize that there is no elevator and that 502 is the top floor, which means five flights of stairs, with three suitcases, on the hottest night of the summer. Not a problem. I’ll just run up and get Jen to come down and help me.

As I begin the climb, a door opens and my first New York neighbor walks into the hallway with her little dog. She’s probably around fiftyish, but her scowl adds years to her face.

“Oh, hello,” I say with a smile.

“What’s this?” she barks back.

“I’m moving in here. I’m Lindsey.” I offer her my hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

She ignores the hand. “Those your bags?”

“Oh, yes, I’m going to have my roommate come down and help me.”

“You can’t leave them there.”

“Well, it’ll only be for a few minutes.”

“Are you crazy?” she yaps. “You can’t leave them there!”

I don’t understand. But I’m too hot and delirious to argue. So I begin to drag the suitcases up the stairs as the old bat stands there, watching and scowling at me.

When I reach the top, pouring sweat and panting like a dog, my exhilaration has turned to piss. Jen had better be ready and waiting with an ice-cold glass of lemonade, or better, an ice-cold glass of wine.

I turn the key and shove open the door. The apartment is dark, but as I push my stuff in, I hear muffled noises from across the room. I fumble for a switch and flip on the light, when suddenly a piercing scream hits me like a dagger.

“Fuck!
Goddammit, Lindsey! SHUT THE DOOR!”

My eyes adjust to see Jen and some guy, buck naked, screwing on a futon beneath the window. I gasp.

“Who’s that?” I hear the guy ask. Jen jumps up, grabbing a pillow to cover her body as I stand frozen, my mouth to the floor. “Lindsey! DO YOU MIND!?!”

“I…uh…I’m sorry…” I stumble over my suitcases back into the hallway and pull the door behind me.

Okay. This was not part of the plan. Very bad timing indeed. So much for the lemonade. I sit down on the step, squishing in my own sweat, and heave a heavy sigh.

But wait a minute. Jen knew what time I was coming in. Why would she do this? It’s not my fault she put herself in that position. And for her to scream at me like that? And how long does she expect me to sit out here, anyway?

I’m just about to barge back in when Jen comes out in a bathrobe. Even with her hair a mess, she still looks totally hip. I can see a tattoo peeking out of the robe on her shoulder. I’ve always dreamed of getting a tattoo, but I’ve never had the nerve.

“Look, Lindsey. I need you to give me a few minutes to wrap this up, okay?”

I’m at a loss for words, torn between head and heart. My head says, “You’re already making enemies with the one person you desperately need right now. So let it go.” And my heart says, “Get your pixie bitch ass out of my way, because honey, I am
home.”

Naturally, I go with the head.

“How long?” I squeak like a nervous mouse.

“Forty-five minutes. An hour, tops. Okay?”

I nod. If I speak, I’m either going to burst into tears or punch her in the face.

She looks down at my suitcases. “Here, I’ll even bring these in, okay?” What a trooper.

She drags the bags in and shuts the door.

•   •   •

Back outside, I sit on the brownstone steps to contemplate my options. If I had more energy I’d be furious. But New York in July is hot as blazes, and I’m too tired and thirsty to feel any real emotion.

What would Liz Gordon do in this situation? I laugh out loud at the thought. Liz Gordon would never
be
in this situation, not in a million years. She would’ve dragged Jen and her birthday-suitor out by their ears and thrown them into the sewer, then calmly gone back in to mix herself a vodka gimlet.

But of course, I am not Liz Gordon. I have nowhere near the brains, balls, and inner aplomb Liz Gordon has. Which isn’t to say I don’t deserve a drink, though. Or at the very least, a ladies’ room in which to clean up a bit.

I hoist myself from the stairs and try to feel my nightlife radar telling me which way to go. Take a left, it says. All right then. Left it is. I walk a few blocks south until I see Christopher Street.

Whoever said that New York is the city that never sleeps had it right on the money. Even though it’s almost eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night, the sidewalk is crawling with people, most of them wandering from one club to the next, and as I look around, my jeans and T-shirt suddenly feel very out of place. All of the women seem to be dressed in black, ranging from black leather pants to lacy black tops to tiny black skirts and spiky black heels. And no shortage of black eyeliner.

Up ahead, I see a line of people waiting behind a red velvet rope, and two burly bouncers standing at the front. I don’t know what kind of establishment this is, but I do know that I have to pee right now. As I approach the bouncers, I can hear techno music pounding through the door behind them.

“Excuse me. Would it be possible for me to hop into your club for a quick trip to the ladies’ room?”

The bouncers look at each other and burst into laughter.

“No, I’m serious. I’ll even stay for a drink. It’s just me. I won’t take up much room, seeing as you have a line and all.”

They look me up and down. “You on the list?”

“No, but –”

“Then forget it. Move along.”

“But I just want to use your –”

Suddenly the metal door swings open and a group of partiers empties onto the sidewalk. The bouncers turn away from me and I can tell that our conversation is over. Really nice. Thanks a lot.

Five city blocks and three club rejects later, and I am about to squat next to a tree. What is it with these places and their stupid “lists?” I’ve pretty much passed the busy section of this area, and the blocks up ahead look quiet and deserted. I turn down a residential street. I’m about to give up and just go home, when something up ahead catches my eye. In the middle of the block, surrounded by nothing but more brownstones, are lights twinkling onto the sidewalk. As I get nearer, I can hear soft jazz music beckoning me closer. It is a martini & cigar bar, clearly quieter and more civilized, and exactly what I need.

Until I notice the bouncer, tucked away in a nook by the door.

“Hi,” he says. “Are you on the list?”

I heave a heavy sigh. “No, I’m not. But I will buy you a
house
if you let me in there for one drink.”

He smiles. “This is Manhattan. We don’t have houses.” He looks me up and down. “Tough night?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

He thinks it over, then takes pity on me. “Okay, okay. Can I see some ID?”

I love this man. Bless his houseless heart.

“Lindsey Miller,” he murmurs, looking at my Illinois license.

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Wait a minute.” He turns over his clipboard and scans down the page. “I thought that looked familiar. You are on the list.”

“I am? R-really?” I stutter in surprise. “It can’t be me.”

“Well, it says Lindsey Miller. And you’re on it for the next week.”

A slow grin spreads across my face as I realize that Liz Gordon was not kidding around about access to the hot spots. This is amazing! And I was probably on the list at all those clubs that rejected me as well!

“Thank you!” I’m so happy, I kiss the bouncer on the cheek. “What’s the name of this place, anyway?”

“Glimpse.”

Once inside Glimpse, I beeline toward the bathroom. It feels so good to splash cold water on my face, and thank God I have some mini-toiletries and makeup in my purse. I emerge feeling refreshed, relaxed (well, as refreshed and relaxed as one can be after a day like mine), and ready for a nice stiff cocktail before heading back to my new home.

But one look around the bar leaves me feeling totally ridiculous. The men are tall, dark, and handsome. The women are stylish, lithe, and sophisticated. Every person in here is dressed to the nines in formal business attire or casual eveningwear. I, on the other hand, am dressed in my stonewashed jeans and a hot-pink T-shirt, which happens to say PORN PRINCESS in glittery letters. In an Abercrombie & Fitch in a galaxy far, far away, it had looked like a cute idea. Not so much now.

I fold my arms across my chest and slide into a seat at the bar. “I’ll have a raspberry cosmopolitan, please.”

As the bartender mixes my drink, I sneak looks around the room. I can’t believe this elite set of people, who can’t be older than their early thirties, dressed so elegantly on a Tuesday night.

“Is it always this busy on Tuesday night?” I ask the bartender.

“Lately. Tuesday’s the new Monday.”

“Uh… what did Monday replace?”

“Monday was the new Thursday, until a month or two ago.” Right.

“And does everyone always dress up like this?”

“Only on Tuesdays. Lately. Used to be Wednesdays.” He sets my drink down. “That’ll be eighteen.”

“Eighteen dollars for a drink?”

He nods. When I hesitate, he asks, “Do you still want it?”

I sigh and nod back. Nobody said New York was going to be cheap. I begin to scrounge in my purse for dollars when I feel a business suit brush over my back.

“Johnny, it’s on me.” And a deep voice over my shoulder.

I look up in surprise to see the most strikingly handsome man I’ve ever encountered, actually making his Dior suit look good, instead of the other way around. My mouth drops.

“You look like the little girl lost.” He smiles. “Does your mommy know you’re wandering around New York City?”

I laugh, because he’s not too far off. “Maybe I live here,” I retort in mock defensiveness.

“I doubt it.” He lights up a cigar.

“Why would you think I don’t live here?”

“Because you’re wearing a Kmart T-shirt on Tuesday night at Glimpse.”

“This is
not
Kmart,” I hiss. “And who are you to comment on my clothes?”

“The mysterious guy who just bought you an eighteen-dollar martini.”

He certainly is. And then some. “Well, then, fine. But if you must know, it’s not a martini. It’s a cosmo.”

“How very nine-seasons-ago of you.”

I don’t know what to say. He’s too good-looking. But I have to know.

“Can I ask you something?” I venture. “Of all the women in here, why would you come over and buy
me
a drink?”

“I’ve been here two hours, so I’ve had all the same conversations already. I figured I’d take a break, then resume with them tomorrow night.”

“Sounds like an interesting life. What do you talk about?”

“Stocks, mostly. And funds. You know.”

“Are you a stockbroker? On Wall Street?”

He nods and motions around the room. “We all are.”

“Wow. Do you like it?”

“That’s cute.” He lets out a laugh. “No. Hell no. Fuck no. Nobody likes it. That’s why it pays so much.”

“Hmmm.” How much? I wonder. “So. Only stockbrokers go to this bar?”

“Lately. On Tuesday nights. Used to be Mondays.” He smiles, and I realize that he must’ve heard my dialogue with the bartender. He reaches out his hand.

“Victor Ragsdale.”

As my hand slides into his, I feel an electric jolt. He has the handshake of a king, the confidence of a general.

“Lindsey Miller,” I whisper. Our eyes meet and it feels like time stops in a frozen moment. Everyone else in the bar disappears and–

“Why is your hand wet?”

I yank it back and wipe it on my jeans, instantly turning a deep shade of red. “I’m just a little warm; that’s all,” I mumble.

“Well, Lindsey Miller. I’m glad I met you. You’re delightful.” He takes back my hand and kisses it gently. Then he turns to leave. Damn.

“Thank you for the drink,” I call after him.

He turns and winks. “My pleasure.”

I guess that’s my cue for exit. I can’t keep sitting here at the bar, waiting for him to come back. And it’s after midnight, anyway. Jen should have her mess cleaned up by now.

When I get back to the apartment, I find that I was right. The guy is gone, the lights are out, and Jen is asleep on the futon, sprawled across the sheets wearing only a thong. Gross.

The second I close my eyes, visions of Victor Ragsdale begin dancing in my head. He was so gorgeous, so charming…and he singled me out as interesting. Me. Out of every beautiful, sophisticated woman in New York. Me. Me, me, me!

And not only that, but me has stumbled upon my first discovery in the dazzling world of New York social trends. Liz Gordon is going to be proud when I tell her the exciting news: Tuesday is the new Monday!

“T
uesday is the new Monday?”

Jen pulls back the shower curtain and reaches for a towel. I’m sitting on the toilet seat, excited to hear her praise for my first trend-tracking revelation. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and I’m already on a roll!