The Refrain (The Bridge Series) (5 page)

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Adam Ford
8/22/03
Re: Sushi Fridays

I
BOUGHT A
cactus. It’s a flowering cactus, but an idiot’s plant regardless. The nursery’s low-maintenance sales pitch appealed to my inadequacies, but I was also intrigued by the condescension in its appearance. The cactus is a prickly and tough little bastard, but completely soft and vulnerable inside.

I deposit it on the window ledge and sit at my desk to read over an email from Diane. I’m hoping she can share some insight on the green object idling in my window, waiting for my attention.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Help Diane Greenthumbs

Adam,

So nice to hear from you! How is Roberta working out? As far as your new roomie, cacti are delicate but extremely hardy. Don’t neglect her, but don’t overcompensate because of your fear . . . let her live and she will amaze you.

Love,
Nanny Diane Greenthumbs

She? I scroll through the contacts on my Blackberry and stop when I see her name. I’ve looked at her number over a dozen times the past week, resisting the nagging urge to call her. I left a message with her roommate, cryptic, but I know Chloe understood,
if
she even got it. But this is the first time a woman hasn’t returned my call and I actually give a shit. I pick up my phone and begin to dial when the intercom screeches.

“Mr. Ford?” Roberta’s voice is especially demonic today.

“Yes, Roberta?” I release the button and smile.
Chloe’s dimple
.

“Mr. Shaw would like to see you in his office at your convenience.”

Shit. No way. My focus has been a little off this week, but seriously?
Chloe’s smile.
I’m the firm’s golden boy after winning the Delgado case.

“Please let him know I’ll be up at three.” I unplug my intercom and spin around in my chair a few times making myself dizzy, but it’s the most effective way to find concentration.
Chloe’s laugh
. It’s decided, I’m calling her.

Once my head stops spinning, I dial her number and count the rings . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .

“Hello?”

I’m actually smiling at the computer screen. “Hey, Chloe?”

“Yep. Who’s this?”

“Adam,” I say steadily.

“Ah, Adam Ford. You were extremely close to being filed away as an
oh well.
Lucky for you, I’m all out of files.” Chloe’s voice is firm, yet playful.

“And lucky for you, I enjoy sarcasm. Come out with me tonight.” I can picture her full lips creeping into a smile, warm and sexy.

“Are you sure? There’s a
Little House
marathon from eight to midnight and I would hate for you to miss it.”

“Then I will pick you up at midnight.”

The undeniable playful rhythm to our dialogue is comfortable and genuine. I could talk with her for hours – rather, I could have sex with her for hours and then talk forever.

In a dramatic voice she says, “Adam, I’m a lady. Midnight is reserved for booty calls. Can you pick me up around nine? Fifteen Worth Street, apartment 5G.” I scribble down her address and fold it into my pocket.

“I will pick you up at nine and subsequently return you to your home at midnight for my booty call.”

“Unless you’re into the group thing, sex at my place is not an option. I share a bedroom with Natalie and she could pop in at any moment. See you later, lo-ver.” Chloe sings the last word before hanging up the phone.

I plug in my intercom and it immediately screeches. “Mr. Ford?”

“Yes Roberta?” I sigh.

“Mr. Shaw would like to see you now.” I glance at the clock but it’s only twelve-thirty. Shit. Whatever it is, it can’t wait.

“Okay, let him know I’m on my way.” I straighten my tie and button my cuffs.
Chloe’s eyes
. I shut off my computer and put on my jacket.
Chloe’s voice
. I shove my Blackberry into my pocket and remove the Post-it with the address.
Chloe’s ass
. I place her address back in my pocket and smile at my cactus.
Chloe
.

Shaw’s bowtie is purple with tiny Labradors and dog bones. I should be nervous sitting in his office on a Friday with two other named partners, but honestly, the man looks like Orville Redenbacher.

“Adam, we’re quite impressed with what you’ve accomplished in such a short amount of time. Franco Delgado has brought all of his business to our firm – even asked for you specifically to be on his retainer.” Shaw chuckles, amused and astonished.

Awesome, like I want to be a legal whore to that man.

“Thank you, sir.” I smile genuinely, thinking of the conversation Chloe and I had about Swatch phones.

“Yes, well, the problem is we can’t have an associate deal with such large billings. Too much of a financial risk for the firm.” Shaw laughs and his belly rolls.

“I understand.” Thank god.

Shaw narrows his beady eyes and leans forward. “That’s why we’re offering you the title of Junior Partner.”

Davis, the oddest of the three, complete with an afro of fuzzy yellow hair and the mannerisms of a serial killer, hovers over me to study my reaction. He reminds me of that mellow painter, Bob Ross . . . but that type of guy is always a masochist underneath the sweater vests, and I tend to stay as far away from Davis as possible.

“However, you still have a lot to prove and being the youngest partner comes with its own set of problems,” Davis interjects. “Everyone is going to hate you, Adam.” He adds with joy.

“Thank you for the opportunity, I look forward to new enemies,” I say flatly. All three men laugh as Mr. Jenkins punches me in the arm.

“Sure, sure, I like your bravado, Adam. To make this seamless, however, you will remain in your current office and continue with your prior caseload. We liked that psychology voodoo you used on the jury selection and should we require your assistance, you jump. The raise is tiny, say 5%?” I should shake my head and accept whatever bullshit is being spat at me, but the raise and attention just mean I have to do more work.

“That would be fine, thank you.” I answer, daydreaming of Chloe’s plump lips and velvet tongue working my shaft.

“You’ll have your own secretary starting on Monday, please make her feel welcome. Poor girl thinks she’s getting demoted.” Jenkins chuckles.

And the heavens open for the choir of angels to sing, Hallelujah – my own secretary.

“That’ll be fine. Thank you again for this opportunity.” I stand quickly and extend my hand in gratitude. I can’t stay in this office a moment longer with all these rampant sexual images of Chloe invading my mind. The men seem pleased with my appreciative acceptance and politely escort me to the elevator, talking about golf and titty bars. No joke.

When I reach Roberta’s desk, I sit on the very edge and smile at her. She’s on the phone taking a message for another attorney and giving me an evil stare. She fumbles through her desk drawer in search for a pen, distracted by my menacing arrival.

“May I help you, Mr. Ford?” She grumbles as she places the phone down and adjusts her ugly sweater.

“Yes you can. Today is a special day and I would like sushi for lunch. Hatsuhana on Fifth will be fine. A spicy yellowtail, a salmon sashimi and a
large
Mountain Dew.”

I tap my hand on her desk and give her a goofy grin, attempting to warm her frigid soul. Roberta has no time to respond before I head to my office with and close the door. I wait while she makes the phone call and discovers that Hatsuhana doesn’t deliver. Fuck, I’m an asshole! But starting Monday, I won’t have to deal with the nun ever again.

I whistle Pantera’s
Cowboys From Hell
while sitting at my desk. I’m focused – a new clarity about the promising future that lies ahead of me – this feels good.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Adam Ford
8/22/03
Re: The snow globes

T
HE ELEVATOR’S LAST
inspection was stamped on September 10, 2001. I can’t decide what’s creepier: the fact that it legally needed an inspection a year ago, or the haunting memory of the day before the world changed. Actually, both thoughts are pretty fucked up and first thing Monday, I’m putting in a call to the Department of Buildings.

The elevator opens and I exhale in relief – in the future, I’m taking the stairs. I spot a black door with a tiny gold heart painted around the peephole. Of course it’s Chloe’s . . . she puts her mark on everything.

The door swings open to reveal a damp Chloe patting her hair with a towel and wearing a – not a robe, why can’t I think of the name? It’s like a cotton floral sheet that grandmas and trailer trash like to wear. A dressing gown, maybe.

“Adam!” Chloe grabs my arm and pulls me inside.

Wow, her apartment is cool. My initial perception of a woman outside her home is always confirmed by the furnishings inside her home. Like with Fiona, she’s all business and tends to overcompensate for her shortcomings – resulting in expensive décor with very little character. But Chloe’s apartment is a collection of her favorite things, like a rummage sale into her psyche.

There’s a small orange sofa, a painted bench used as a coffee table and stacks of magazines everywhere. And a huge fucking television that would put mine to shame – size matters to Chloe. The kitchen is a typical Manhattan galley with open cabinetry housing mostly liquor bottles and cereal. Against a brick wall, a shiny white table with two painted blue chairs is dwarfed by an oversized painting of a green olive.

“Nice painting. Olives are so reflective of a capitalistic society, don’t you agree?” I smile at her but she rolls her eyes.

“My friend Jamie painted that for me! Inside joke, but the moral is, someone at some point decided to shove a pickled pepper in an olive – and that image always makes me smile.” Chloe takes my hand and pulls me closer.

I place my other hand on her waist and run my lips over her open mouth, never actually making contact. “Get dressed. I made reservations for a jazz club in Harlem.”

I had twenty different ideas floating around all day, all of which were lame and unChloe. I hate dating and I refuse to fabricate romance. If life were up to me, I would line up potential partners in a jury room and pick the winner after a rowdy game of
rock, paper, scissors
.

“Nice touch, Mr. Ford. Come to my room with me.” Chloe slides her hand into the waist of my jeans and leads me to her bedroom.

She mentioned that she shared a room with her cousin and I was expecting an IKEA showroom with clothes thrown everywhere, but yet again, I was wrong. The room is small, but neatly organized and functional. Twin iron beds are positioned to form an ‘L’ and they’re covered in modern bedding – with an appropriate number of pillows. A yellow, lacquered side table is positioned to the left of one bed and the other bed is flanked against a small white dresser topped with a collection of snow globes. On the wall opposite the window, clothing racks act as a closet with boxes of shoes stacked on the floor, so many fucking shoes. There’s a large blue bookcase filled with paperbacks, Koosh balls and an extensive record collection. Everything appears to be purchased on a whim and nothing matches, but it’s a colorful tapestry of who she is.

“So, it’s not quite
Sex in the City
, but Nat and I survive.” She moves a stray hanger from a navy wingback chair near the bookcase. “Here, sit and relax. I had to work the bar for a few hours, kissing ass in prep for my upcoming gigs, and I hate the smell of smoke in my hair, so I took a shower, but I’m a really quick dresser, promise . . .” Chloe rummages through the rack of clothes, pausing to evaluate a piece of clothing with each incomplete thought.

I pick up a few of her Koosh balls and attempt to juggle. When they eventually fall, I perform some of my hacky sack moves – to no avail. “Your record collection is pretty impressive. Can we play your favorite?” I look back at her and she’s laughing.

Chloe places a very sexy red dress on the bed and then slithers next to me. Her expression is sexy and sensual, yet slightly dorky. Now that’s a woman – sex just oozes from her, she can’t control it.

“I don’t have a record player, silly. For me, these albums are more about the story rather than the music.”

“What kind of stories?” I place the Koosh balls back on the shelf and pull out a record sleeve from the middle of the second row. It’s a decent copy of Johnny Cash’s
Man in Black
. “Okay, so this one, what’s the story?”

Smiling shyly, she says, “Why Adam Ford, you picked my very first record.” Chloe glides her hand along the surface of the album and bumps her hip against mine. “I was eleven and saved my allowance to buy a cassette, Debbie Gibson probably. So Dad took me to a local music store and I instinctively headed straight to a row of vintage vinyl. Those square covers were so much more authentic than the cellophane plastic of the latest hits, ya know?” Chloe takes a section of her hair and twists it around her finger, deep in nostalgic thought. “I spent twenty minutes thumbing through all the classics, wondering where they’d been and who owned them. People making love, people fighting, parties, drugs, depression . . . I mean, think about all the stories from one record!”

I turn to face her – so close our bodies touch. “Tell me about Johnny Cash.”

She rubs her index finger over the price tag like it’s a piece of braille blindly leading me into her soul. “The price was twenty-five dollars and I only had twelve. But look at it!” I don’t. My eyes are locked on hers. “The cover is almost entirely one color, no flash, no gimmick, it’s like Johnny was daring you
not
to listen.” She taps the record and laughs. “My dad bought it and let me keep my money. He said he would’ve paid a million dollars to bond with his only daughter over the Man in Black.”

“And you have a story for every single record?” I ask, placing Johnny Cash back into his designated slot.

“I’m sure of it. But now you’re part of the story, Adam.” She pulls a record from the top shelf and brings it between us. I kiss her, taking her cheeks in my hands and savoring the anticipation – Chloe can’t take it, she wants to look at the record. She breaks our kiss and holds up a copy of the greatest parodist of the ’80s, Weird Al Yankovic.

“Awesome. It couldn’t be something relevant like The Replacements?” I smirk.

“Right? I love The Replacements.” She beams. “But now, Weird Al has a new story with
this
moment – and I can guarantee it’s better than the original.” She kisses the album and places it back on the shelf.

“Chloe, in the bar that night, what made you look at me?” She takes my hand and leads me to the bed by the window.

“Adam Ford, are you suggesting that fate has a prominent role in the universe?” She sits on her bed with her legs crisscrossed – flashing her absence of panties. Damn, that’s hot.

Chloe pulls me to the bed with her as I answer, “Fate? Not fate – but I do believe there’s a purpose to every action, a plan for every outcome.” I sit across from her and lean against the foot of the bed, absorbing her beautiful features and smiling uncontrollably.

“Ah, a purpose.” She nods slowly. “Well, it was your watch.” Chloe taps the face of the silver watch my dad left me. “That night when I was a stand-in for Natalie’s blind date, I saw a flicker of light in your direction. It wasn’t like the universe was in control – I get distracted by shiny things. And what about you, Mr. I Have a Purpose . . . what made you smile at me?” She purses her lips and narrows her gaze, expecting me to lie with some cheesy line, but I’m always honest.

“Your tits. Is that your guitar?” I nod in the direction of her guitar resting on a stand. “Play for me.”

She smiles mischievously and grabs her guitar. Chloe places the leather strap over her shoulder, takes a dramatic breath and starts to strum. “This one’s for you, dear Adam.”

She plays roughly, not at all how I would imagine her performing. Chloe begins the familiar lyrics, angry and catatonic . . .

Ah, now I get it – there’s only one artist that can make a guy grab his balls in pain. Chloe is playing Alanis’s
You
Oughta Know,
the theme song for every grungy feminist of 1995 and the quickest way to get a guy to walk right out the door. I respond flatly, not giving her the satisfaction of being clever.
“
Hilarious – and what if I told you that song actually turns me on, a raging female that needs a good fuck?”

She stops playing and laughs. “Jerk! Ma femme Alanis only speaks the truth.” Chloe leans over her guitar to run her hand up my leg, stopping right at my swelling boner.

I smile. She winks.

“Now, play me your favorite song.” She tilts her head and stares intently at my lips, but then she lowers her head to look at her guitar. “Please, Chloe.”

“Okay, but I never play this for people. Don’t laugh.” She closes her eyes and strums a simple melody. Her voice pours from her lips like a really good gin – smooth yet raw. It’s obvious that everything about Chloe is a paradox to me. But it’s when she sings the lower notes, from the belly of her soul, that I actually feel high. Every word from her mouth is relevant and meaningful, and I want nothing more than to be the song coming from her lips.

“The lovers, the dreamers . . .” She stops abruptly, placing the guitar in her lap while biting the inside of her lip.

Chloe’s embarrassed, so I finish for her. “And me.”

She smiles in agreement then places her guitar back in the stand. “You have my permission to tell all the tabloids what a pathetic sap I am – ya know, when I’m famous.”

“You’re amazing, Chloe. And
when
you’re famous, promise you won’t leave me for some skinny, tattooed Pixies poser.” I joke, rubbing her leg.

“Deal. And promise me, that if I’m panhandling in the subway with my guitar and a coffee can for change, you’ll tell me to stop. Seriously, I just want to be mildly famous.”

“What’s your definition of mildly famous, just so I can say
I knew you when?”

Chloe scratches her head and scrunches her nose. She smiles and says, “I don’t know! Famous is figurative I guess . . . but I do want a personalized guitar strap and at least three groupies – and I want to feel proud.”

I stretch out my legs and lick my lips. “Kiss me.”

Chloe crawls toward me with her mouth parted as I place my hand on her cheek. She’s flushed, and I enjoy the fire beneath her soft skin. I take her bottom lip between mine and suck. Her tongue flicks my top lip as she straddles me. Dry-humping has never had this kind of effect on me, but this is more like emotional transference. I kiss her, deep and forceful while my hands molest her body.

Chloe shifts her weight to her ass and pulls me down to the bed with her. I push up and hover on top of her, our breathing syncing into heaving gasps. I’m so fucking hard, and I want to ram her into that dainty, little headboard – but I will patiently wait for her to submit.

“Adam.”

That’s all I need to hear.

I push myself off the bed and stare down at the goddess of cotton floral. My rock hard erection is painful against my jeans and my self-control left the moment I walked into her apartment. I quietly open the top drawer to her yellow nightstand. It’s a horrible habit, but I do need a condom.

The drawer of Chloe LeGrange: purple vibrator, three Trojans, Vick’s Vaporub, Ricola lozenges, a worn copy of
Catcher in the Rye
and an orange plastic container.

“Wait! Adam, no I’ll get it.” Chloe sits up excitedly, nearly knocking off the small lamp. “Please don’t look in there.”

Amused by her sudden discomfort, I say, “Chloe, it’s okay, I’ve seen a vibrator before.”

“What? No, I don’t give a shit about that. I just don’t want you to see my mouth guard.” She snatches the orange container and hurls it across the room. “You may proceed with the sex.” She positions herself like a pinup girl of the ’50s and lifts her gown slowly, teasing me with a view of her bare pussy and soft curves. But as usual, I’m more distracted by her radiant smile.

“Is there a time limit before your roommate shows up? Because I plan to fuck you thrice . . .” What the hell did I just say? I laugh a little too excitedly as I place the three condoms on the table.

“Nat’s not coming home – we have all night!”

Chloe seductively lifts the cotton gown over head and tosses it on the floor. Her nakedness only reinforces what I’m beginning to understand – I’m standing above the goddess of my dreams, and she was wearing a muumuu.