Power Play (28 page)

Jimmy patted her shoulder. “I wouldn't worry if I were you. According to ratings, you're still the main draw for this show. Just keep doing what you're doing. Eventually, unless he's a complete asshole, Christian will back down. And no, you were not phoning it in, and everyone else knew it.”

Monica blew a big sigh of relief. “Good.”

“One word of advice, though: when he criticizes you, just take it.”

“But—”

“Listen to me on this, Monica. Just nod your head yes to whatever he says and then do your job. You challenge him, he's going to keep busting your ass.”

“All right,” Monica reluctantly agreed. But that didn't mean she'd be happy about it, especially since Chesty would love every minute of Monica being called on the carpet. Still, she was a professional. She'd do what she had to do.

 

Question:
What's the difference between a stalker and me?
Eric pondered as he waited for Monica to get home from work.
Answer: the doorman doesn't let a stalker sit inside in the lobby.
Gene, the weeknight doorman at Monica's building, knew Eric on sight. Gene also knew that they'd broken up, which is why, two days earlier, he'd been sympathetic when Eric asked for his help in slipping his poem under Monica's door. Gene, too, was suffering from a broken heart and longed to get his woman back. He told Eric he admired his determination, and that it inspired him.

Eric had been going nuts, not hearing from Monica after he'd sent her his love poem. It was a great poem, in his opinion. Much better than that stuff in greeting cards. If what he'd written didn't prove he could do some top-notch wooing, he didn't know what would. He'd been up a whole night working on it.

A troubling thought crossed his mind: maybe it had been slipped under the wrong door, and that was why she didn't respond. “Are you sure you slipped it under Monica's door?” he asked Gene.

Gene scowled at him. “I'm not an idiot, you know. She got it.”

“Okay, okay, just checking.”

Eric settled back in his chair, absently tapping a thumb against his thigh. The Blades were leaving tomorrow for a four-day road trip down to Florida. Eric was hopeful that getting away from Met Gar might actually revive his play; Christ knows it couldn't get any worse. Ty wouldn't even deign to yell at him. Instead, all he got was glares. Michael Dante yelled, though. Right up in his face. In front of everyone. Normally it would have pissed Eric off, being treated like that, but in this case, he deserved it, which only made it worse. Met Gar brass were keeping a close eye on him, too, regretting their investment, probably. If he didn't turn things around, he was sure they'd try to get rid of him. He couldn't bear to think about it.

“Hey, Gene.”

At the sound of Monica's voice, Eric looked up. She looked tired but gorgeous as usual. She didn't see him until he stood. Once again, his fantasies were dashed. He'd been imagining that when she saw him, she'd walk to him silently and slip her arms around him, no words needed. Instead she looked annoyed.

“Why did you let him in?” she asked Gene sharply.

Gene suddenly became tongue-tied. “I—I—uh—”

“Are you the one he persuaded to put that letter under my door?”

Gene nodded dumbly.
Please don't hurt me,
his eyes begged.

Monica clucked her tongue. “You could get in big trouble for that, you know.”

Gene's gaze turned imploring.

“Don't worry,” said Monica with a frown. “I won't say anything to management. But if it happens again . . .”

“Oh, it won't, Miss Geary, I swear.”

“All right, then.”

She turned and walked toward Eric like she was in no hurry to get there. There was no warmth in her eyes at all. Only irritation. She's acting, thought Eric. Doesn't want to show how happy she is to see me. Wants me to grovel. I can deal with that.

“Hey,” said Eric.

“I was wondering: Did you get my poem?”

“Yes.”

Yes. So she knew how much he loved her. He'd put it down on paper, proof that meant more than saying it, a record that could be kept forever.

“And—?”

“And I got it.”

Eric took a deep breath. “Did you read it?”

“Of course.”

Monica kept glancing distractedly toward the elevators, as if they were a limited mode of transportation whose onetime arrival she might miss.
She's totally playing it cool,
he assured himself.
Don't give up.

“Well, what did you think?” he pressed. His eyes momentarily flicked to Gene, who scowled at him then looked away.

Monica pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I think . . . you put a lot of effort into it.”

“A lot of effort.” Eric felt a small scratch of temper beginning beneath his skin. “How about ‘I poured my guts into it for you'? Did you even
hear
what I was saying?”

“Eric, I really need to get upstairs. I'm in a lot of scenes tomorrow, so I have a lot of lines to learn.”

Eric chuckled. “I know what you're doing here, Monica. It's very obvious to me.”

“What's that?”

“You're kicking me in the teeth, the way I kicked you. Okay, that's fair. I'll play along for as long as you want. We both know how to ‘play.' ”

Monica sighed, looking at him with pity. “You're really not getting this, are you? I appreciate the effort you took to write your poem, but it doesn't make any difference. Real or fake, we're done. Okay?”

Eric shook his head obstinately. “Nope. Not buying it.”

“Here, maybe if I put it in the form of a poem, you'll understand. ‘Roses are red / Violets are blue / There's no one on earth / I hate more than you.' Get it now?”

Eric shook his head again. “Nice try, but you forget: I know you, Monica. I know you still want me, but you just want me to twist in the wind. Totally understandable. But I already told you: if I can win the Cup, I can win you back, and I'm not giving up until I do.”

Monica shrugged. “Fine. Waste your time. That's your choice.”

“You better be ready, Monica. My next woo is going to blow you away.”

“Woo is a verb, Eric. Not a noun.”

“Doesn't matter. Just wait and see. By the time I'm done, you're going to be sad about all the time we wasted being apart.”

Eric started to saunter away. “I will—for now.”

God, she was stubborn, he thought as he left. Feisty—at least with him, which was so damn sexy. What would she do if he turned around, grabbed her, and crushed her into his arms, kissing her just the way he knew she loved to be kissed? Probably slug him.
No
, he told himself.
Keep it slow, keep it steady.
Tenacity was what would win her back. Tenacity and his undying love. Feeling not the slightest bit discouraged, he began walking home.

 

“I can't believe she didn't go for the love letter.”

“I know.”

Eric tried not to sound too down as he hit the Mute button on the TV in his hotel room. The team was in Miami; having just finished their morning practice, they had nothing to do all day but hang around and watch TV. Naturally, they were tuned in to
W and F
, a tradition on the road. But Eric found he was having a hard time watching Monica. Every time she appeared on the screen, he felt like a sharp stick was poking at his insides. All the self-confidence he'd felt as he'd strolled out of her building two nights before was gone, replaced by depression. What if she really didn't want him? What if, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't win her?

Ulfie and Thad were watching with Eric and Jason. Both of them were now convinced Eric had to get back with Monica to revive not just his own level of play, but the entire team's luck. The whole team was talking about him and Monica.

“You sent her a love letter?” said Ulf, chugging some bottled water.

“Yeah. And it didn't work.”

“I sent a girl a love letter once,” Ulf revealed.

“And—?”

“She chased me with a bat.”

“What the hell did you say to her?” Jason asked.

“I think the letter itself was nice. But I addressed it to the wrong woman.”

“Bright,” said Eric.

“Okay, we have to move to plan B,” said Jason. Eric could tell his brother was enjoying trying to solve the Monica problem. Eric would never tell the douche bag this, but he was feeling really close to Jace lately. Maybe he'd kick his ass later, just to show his affection.

“Perfume,” said Jason. “The more expensive the better.”

“You can't buy a woman perfume,” said Eric. “What if you pick out something she hates?”

Jason tugged at his lower lip. “True.”

“Boys, boys, turn up the sound on the TV!” Ulfie said excitedly. “I think Grayson is going to tell Roxie that he's gotta be faithful to Paige now that they're married.”

Jason grabbed the remote and turned the sound back on. They all watched, transfixed, as the scene unfolded. Eric made himself watch, because he didn't want to miss it. Monica was amazing, as always. Her begging, her sobbing—by the time she was done, all of them were misty-eyed.

“They are so meant for each other,” said Thad with a sorrowful shake of the head.

“I'm sure they'll get back together eventually,” Ulf assured him.

“After Roxie does time for killing the old man,” Jason put in.

“Guys, could we get back to me?” Eric asked. He knew he sounded kind of petulant, but he really needed help here.

“Sorry, Bro,” said Jason. He lay down on the bed, crossing his feet at the ankles, hands laced behind his head. “Candy is out, you said. Flowers are too cliché. No perfume.”

“What about a singing clown?” Thad suggested.

Eric stared at him.
“What?”

“I've seen them advertised on TV. You hire them, and they go to the person's house and sing a happy love song to them.”

“I'm fuckin' scared of clowns, man,” said Ulf with a shudder. “Seriously.”

“I am not going to try to win Monica back with a
singing clown
.” Eric stole a look at Jason, who rolled his eyes.

“Hey, I was just trying to help,” Thad muttered.

“What won Delilah over?” Eric asked Jason.

“The first time? Took her to the dog show. The second time? Spent the night the Blades won the Cup with her.”

“Pussy,” Ulf snorted. “We all sat there waiting for you and Stanley at Snatcher's, and you never showed.”

“Yet somehow you survived.”

Ulf gave Jason a dirty look.

Eric rubbed his forehead forlornly. “I am so bad at this. I can't believe it. I can't believe I'm bad at something.”

“Oh, spare me,” Jason snorted.

Ulf snapped his fingers. “I've got it.”

“Yeah?” Eric asked eagerly.

“A snake.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Jason.

“No, listen to me,” Ulf pleaded. “Snakes are sexy, right?”

“Only to other snakes!” said Eric.

“Listen. A snake can twine itself around her, reminding her of your tight hugs. And it will make her miss the monster snake in your trousers, eh, Bro?” he finished lewdly.

Eric wished he had a spike to drive through his own head in frustration. Much as he loved these guys, it was time he admitted the painful truth: they were idiots. Well-meaning but dumb as rocks nonetheless. Snakes, clowns—who did they think he was wooing? Jace's suggestions, while sane, were totally lame, too.

Eric lay back, exhausted. “I don't think a snake will work, but thanks for the suggestion, anyway.”

He closed his eyes. He was just falling asleep when an idea came to him, a fantastic idea that would leave Monica no choice but to take him back. He couldn't wait to get back to New York and totally blow her mind.

TWENTY-TWO

A week later, Monica was in her dressing room trying not to spit tacks as she read an interview in
Soap World
where Christian was singing Chesty's praises, when Gloria popped her head in. “Darling? There's a situation outside the studio that pertains to you. I think you might want to nip it in the bud before the law becomes involved.”

Rennie. Monica felt a tightening in her chest. She'd taken out a restraining order. Eric had intimidated him. And now he was back with a deranged vengeance. She was beginning to fear for her life.

Doing her best to cover her fear, she followed Gloria outside. The usual cluster of faithful fans was there, the same faces she'd been seeing for years, rain or shine. She smiled at them warmly until she caught sight of “the situation”: Eric was walking back and forth on the sidewalk, wearing a sandwich board which read, “I love you, Monica. Please take me back.”

What was the expression her British friends used for being rendered speechless? Gobsmacked, that was it. Monica stared at Eric, completely gobsmacked. He winked at her and kept pacing back and forth.

Monica, determined not to lose her cool in front of the fans, walked over to him.

“Are you out of your mind?” she hissed under her breath.

“Yes. With love for you,” said Eric, strolling past her, walking another twenty feet, then turning around again. When he reached her again, she quietly grabbed his sleeve.

“Please stop this. You're making an idiot of yourself.”

“Maybe that's what I need to do.”