Power Play (6 page)

“I barely know him.”

“Well, get to know him.” Gloria pushed open the ladies' room door and separated from Monica, teetering toward the bank of mirrors and pulling a lipstick out of her purse. “I'm surprised your good friend and mentor,
Monty
, isn't here,” she said in a venomous voice, applying color to her mouth that looked like spilled blood. Gloria hated Monty; they had acted together for years, and she thought he was a pretentious ass. Monica always suspected they had some sort of sexual liaison that ended badly.

“I think he and James had some kind of falling-out years ago,” said Monica.

“I'm not surprised,” said Gloria. “Well, if you see him, tell him I hope he ends up with Alzheimer's and covered in shingles.”

“Will do.”

A new guilt swept over Monica. She hadn't visited Monty in a while. She made a mental note to pop in and see him on Sunday, the one day she let herself relax.

“Chesty starts next week,” Gloria noted.

“I know,” said Monica, slipping into one of the stalls to pee. She heard the bathroom door open. Seconds later, a woman's head appeared beneath the stall door. “What the hell—?!” Monica shrieked, covering herself up.

“Miss Geary, I'm your biggest fan,” the woman said breathlessly, trying to crawl forward.

On the other side of the door, Monica heard Gloria inhale sharply. “Dear
God
!”

Monica stared down at the woman in horror. “Do you mind?!”

The woman seemed surprised by her request. “Oh, sorry.” The woman slid back out on her belly.

Shaking, Monica yanked her panties and stockings back up and smoothed her dress back down. How the hell did this lunatic get into the Met?! How did she even know Monica was
here
? She knew she had some hard-core and flaky fans—like the one who sent her cookies that were supposed to look like her, or the one in the process of having plastic surgery to look like Monica—but this took the cake. There was no way Monica was coming out of the stall. No way.

“Can I have your autograph?” the woman asked.

“Not right now.”

“I have a pen and a picture of you,” the woman persisted.

Monica leaned her head against the stall door.
Jesus help me. Well, this is what you wanted, right?
she chided herself.
To be prominent in the public eye?
Not like this, though. Not while she was trying to
pee
.

“Fine,” Monica said wearily. “Hand them to me under the stall.”

“Okay,” said the fan, sounding disappointed.

Monica bent down and snatched the Sharpie and picture of herself from the fan's pudgy hands. It was a glossy black-and-white photo, the standard studio PR pic.

“What's your name?” Monica asked.

“Judy.”

That was what she wanted to write. What she did write was, “
To Judy, All Best, Monica Geary.
” She passed it back out to Judy.

“Wow, thanks,” said Judy.

“Young lady,” Monica heard Gloria say sternly. “Do not ever, ever do this to anyone you're a fan of again. Do you hear me? It is rude, and it gives all fans a bad reputation. Now go, before I notify security of this breach.” Monica could picture her pointing to the door dramatically.

Monica waited until she heard the bathroom door swing shut, then ventured out of the stall. Gloria was wide-eyed, her hand clutching her crepey throat. “Horrifying,” Gloria whispered. “Are you all right?”

“A little shaken up, but fine.” She looked at herself in the mirror. The color had drained from her face, making her look like the world's only blonde Kabuki actor. “I feel like leaving.”

“So go,” Gloria urged. “Things will be winding up soon, anyway. Take your blond-haired, blue-eyed stud home and let him
calm
you.”

Monica flashed back to the dream she'd had about Eric.
Shut up and fuck me.
Heat wound through her. She wished she could be that woman, the uninhibited one in her dreams. But she wasn't. Not only was she not big on one-night stands, but she could also be a little uptight when it came to sex, perhaps even a wee bit puritanical. She attributed it to her WASP upbringing. She'd never seen her parents so much as hold hands, and when she was small and her mother decided to have the big Sex Talk with her, her mother couldn't even use the word
vagina
. She referred to it as “your flower,” then made a disgusted face before handing her a book about reproduction and fleeing. Later that day, Monica had confusedly peered between her legs, expecting to see a daisy or a rose growing there. The thought was extremely alarming. At any rate, she'd been left with the vague impression there was something dirty about sex, an impression she'd never really managed to shake, which sometimes impaired her pleasure. Except in her dreams.

Monica pinched some color back into her face and squared her shoulders. She would say her good-byes, apologize to Eric Mitchell, and call it a night. No more bathroom stalls for her tonight. She'd pee when she got home.

 

How do you confess to someone that you've used them? Is it right to do it in the back of a limo idling outside your apartment building? Do you call them the next day to avoid doing it face-to-face and endure being called every nasty name under the sun, all of which you deserved? Neither option seemed palatable to Monica, which left inviting Eric up to her apartment for a coffee, and facing the drubbing she had coming to her.

“Would you like to come in for a ni—coffee?” Shit, she'd almost said
nightcap
. Did people even
say
nightcap anymore? They did on
W and F
, which is why she almost slipped. Characters were always inviting each other in for nightcaps, where one of them would pour brandy from a cut crystal decanter sitting on a brass drink trolley. Monica had never met anyone in her life that had a drink trolley. She needed to talk to the exec producer about this. It was one of the anachronisms that helped make daytime a butt of jokes.

Eric's eyes flickered with intrigue as he accepted her offer. Maybe this was a mistake. She still had her mace with her in case Mr. Hyde reemerged.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked Eric in the elevator as it rose twenty-seven stories up into the sky.

“It was weird,” said Eric, loosening his bow tie.

“Because Chim Chim couldn't sign his name the way you expected?”

Eric ignored the barb. “Because you're all so phony with each other.”

Monica blinked. “Excuse me?”

“All that air kissing and ‘Darling, you look stunning,' and ‘Isn't so-and-so wonderful,' and ‘Yes, we must to get together. 'And then the minute someone turns their back, you're all whispering about how their ass looks enormous and did he have work done and whom did she blow to get that movie part. It's kind of sickening.”

“As sickening as you crawling up the ass of everyone at the table, telling them how much you love their characters?” Monica snapped.

“I do!”

“You were being just as disingenuous as anyone else. I heard you tell Gloria she didn't look a day over fifty.”

“I was trying to be nice! I was trying to be a good date!”

Monica gritted her teeth. “Escort.”

“You said
date
when you introduced me,” Eric maintained stubbornly.

The elevator doors slid open. “If I'd said
escort
, it would have sounded like I was paying you.”

Eric touched her cheek. “I can think of ways for you to pay me.”

Monica jerked away from him. “Jesus,” she hissed, storming to her apartment and throwing open the door. Bad idea, having him up here. Bad, bad idea. Christ, she wished she
did
have a drink trolley. She'd drink the brandy straight out of the decanter.

Eric followed, closing the door behind him. “I was just trying to be a good date,” he repeated. He regarded her coolly. “You're not the only one who can act, you know.”

Monica whirled to face him. “Really? So which one is the real Eric Mitchell? The self-absorbed egomaniac who thinks women should fall at his feet, or the fluid, conversant charmer in the tuxedo who seemed oh so interested in everyone else?” His face fell, a trace of mortification in his eyes. A new wave of guilt washed over Monica. “I'm sorry,” she said with a sigh, tossing her bag onto the couch. “I'm tired and a little cranky.” Even so, the question she'd just posed was a valid one.

“Apology accepted,” said Eric, looking impressed as he gazed around the apartment. “This place is huge.”

“Ten years of
W and F
provides a very nice paycheck.” Visitors tended to be most impressed with the size, but it was how it was decorated that always made Monica proudest: English cottage style, with lots of dried flowers, stripped pine, baskets, and brass. Her home was her oasis, and she wanted it plain and homey, her own little piece of the Cotswolds on the Upper East Side. “What kind of coffee would you like?”

“I'm fine, actually. No coffee for me.”

“I don't want any, either, to tell the truth.”

Eric's gaze was unnervingly direct. “So why am I here?”

Now that the moment of truth had arrived, Monica wished she'd opted for the coward's way out back in the limo. Telling the truth could easily undo the PR coup of the past evening. What was to stop him running to the paper and telling them that Monica Geary had used him? Nothing. But she was willing to take the risk. She didn't want to be the type of person who used someone else that way.

She sat down on the couch. “Why don't you sit—at that end,” she added hastily, pointing to the opposite end of the sofa. Eric complied. “I'm not really sure how to say this.”

Eric raised a hand. “Don't worry,” he said kindly. “I know what you're going to say.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He radiated self-confidence.

Monica steeled herself. “What, then?”

“That you're totally into me.”

“Actually, I'm not. I'm totally
not
into you. In fact, I think you're an egomaniacal jerk who may very well have a personality disorder. This whole evening was Theresa Dante's idea. I need to up my profile in the public eye, and she told me you'd be the perfect escort for me, since you're the hottest thing on skates or something. We even discussed my stringing you along to keep the public tantalized.” Her cheeks were burning. “But it's a crappy thing to do, and I—I won't do it. So I'm telling you the truth. I'm sorry for using you, Eric.”

She made herself continue to look at his expressionless face, waiting for the inevitable storm of curse words to come. “Wow,” he said, sounding awed. “You're a total bitch.”

Ashamed, Monica looked down at her hands. “I know.”

“But this is a great idea.”

Monica slowly raised her head. “What?”

“Here's the lowdown, okay? I'm new to the Blades. Yeah, I'm a great player—that's universally agreed upon—and yeah, I'm totally hot, but I kind of got off on the wrong foot with my teammates.”

“Alienated them by being a jackass?” Monica murmured sweetly.

“Something like that,” Eric muttered. “Anyway, I have to prove myself on the ice, obviously. But I also need to do something to prove I'm not a dick off the ice, that I'm kinda cool. The guys all love you, Monica.”

Monica felt a warm glow inside.

“They were totally impressed I did a cameo on the show, and even though they all thought I was bullshitting them about being your date tonight, the proof will be in tomorrow's paper.”

“What are you getting at?” Monica asked warily.

“We commence a mutually beneficial relationship.”

“You're kidding, right?” This was the last thing Monica expected to hear.

“It'll help each of us get what we want, right? This could even help me out with Blades fans, who are kind of gunning for me, too, since the team traded one of their most beloved players for me.”

Monica nodded her head, impressed. “You must be good at what you do.”

“Babe, I'm good at a lot of things.”

“Oh, God. Look.” Monica pointed a warning finger at him. “If we're going to be spending time together, you cannot say icky things like that. Got it?”

Eric looked mildly wounded. “But what if it's true?”

“Then keep it to yourself. I don't care if you have the biggest package east of the Rockies; (A) I'm not interested, and (B) it makes me want to stick a fork in your eye. So save your breath.”

Eric frowned. “Fine,” he said, his expression reflective as he gave a stretch. “How do we do this?”

“By constantly being in the public eye, doing couple type things. Dinner, stuff like that.” Monica gave a small frown. “I suppose I could go to a hockey game sometime, meet your teammates. And you could visit the set.”

“Sounds great.” Eric stood, stifling a yawn. “So, we've got a deal?”

“Deal,” Monica said, rising.

“Can we at least seal it with a—”

“Handshake?”
Monica cut in, glaring at him.

Eric rolled his eyes. “Fine.” Eric extended his hand, and Monica took it. His hands were big and strong, the grip firm. She pulled away as soon as politely possible. “I'd love to stay and talk, but believe it or not, I've got practice tomorrow. My coach is a bit of a fanatic.”

“Should we set up our next rendezvous?”

Eric shrugged. “Sure. What do you want to do?”