I dropped my lipstick on the bathroom floor rug and had to toss it in the washer. I fluffed up my hair, pushed my boobs down in my minimizing bra and wore my sloggy black slacks under the big shirt that did nothing for my figure. One way to not win the trust and friendship of another woman is to do the “whose boobs are bigger, whose ass is tighter” thing, and reality didn’t have anything to do with it. If she even thought I was prettier than she was, I’d be cooked liver without the onions.
I took a cab over since I knew I’d be drinking. He recognized me immediately.
“You smell as nice as you look Miss Marr.” His wink was genuine and non-threatening.
“Thank you—” I checked the badge swinging from his rear-view mirror—“Carlos. Those modern flat screens have everything. I’ll have to be more careful tomorrow tonight when I come on. Don’t want to overpower the audience with too much perfume.”
We both laughed.
The newly remodeled pink hotel was still pink in the late evening air, enhanced by rose-colored floods and a swarm of Flamingos who graced the lake and waterfall in front of the entrance. I was surprised they didn’t put themselves to bed like chickens.
Inside the lobby, I was greeted by the night desk manager who recognized me and escorted me to the penthouse elevator, pushing the button and then stepping back. I fumbled for a couple of bills from my purse, but he smiled and shook his head, no.
“We’re just happy you’re here this evening, Miss Marr. Mrs. Gambini is expecting you.”
About halfway up the floors I was struck with a sudden sense of impending danger. Just what in the hell had I gotten myself into, I wondered? I felt like a kite that had lost its tether, looking for a safe place to land (which was impossible for a kite). Every story and scenario running through my brain was messed up. It was so bad, that, if she hadn’t greeted me in the hallway outside her suite, I might have pushed the button to go back down and caught a cab to run home. Maybe have a good cry on the beach. Find some of Judie’s Scotch she left the last time she visited. Should I have called her first, just to make sure that if Rebecca murdered me when she found out what I’d done that someone could notify the police? Would I be afflicted by that talking disease that would make me blurt out something like, “He sucked me good, Rebecca. He screwed me so hard I couldn’t sit down for days, and honey, I thought about him every time I crossed my legs and hoped his tongue was buried deep inside me.”
Surely something nasty and venomous would come out of my mouth.
Nothing another nude encounter with him wouldn’t fix. He could even be furious with me, want to beat me up and I’d still sleep with him. Oh, God, I had it bad. And now I was about to jump into the cage of the tiger who, if she ever found out, would surely have me gangraped, tape it and send it to him.
Or worse, have it played on one of those celebrity smut shows for everyone I ever cared about to see.
I bounced to attention, nearly biting my own tongue I was so hot for Marco, when she cooed at me, “Welcome, Rebecca. I’m so glad you could make it!”
I walked behind her into her den, the torture chamber of my imagination. I was looking for the gangster guys who would be standing by with whips and chains and bungee cords. My life would come to a horrible screaming end. And Marco would never see me again as a person. I’d be a corpse he would identify by picture as, “Yes, I slept with her in Boston.”
Such an ignoble way to go. She could even get away with it. Or, perhaps she’d shove me off the balcony. With my fear of heights, it would be the worst way for me to go, turning my lungs inside out with my screams, wetting and pooping in my pants as I made myself deaf just before I splattered my everything all over the concrete edges of that blue glorious pool I’d seen pictures of. I wouldn’t even make it to the beach one more time. I’d be surrounded by lawn chairs, wet towels and empty beer cans.
Rebecca had her hands on her hips and was smiling at me. Could she read my mind? This was worse than I imagined, and I could imagine a lot.
“I’ve seen your work, Shannon. You’re very good with the arms and you have graceful hands,” she said as she winked. Her stare into my soul was way too long for comfort.
“Th-thank you.” It was all I could think of.
Come. On. Shannon. You’re. Not. Twelve.
It was like the day I saw a boy’s penis for the first time because his friends at school had pantsed him. Even his butt cheeks blushed.
Really, Shannon? This the way you’re going to start your big girl pants career?
Rebecca Gambini picked up a tumbler already prepared with a single ice cube, handing it to me with the brown liquid glistening inside the crystal, calling my name and laughing that I couldn’t handle any hard liquor.
She shoved it into my chest, so I grabbed it.
“Come on, Shannon. Let’s get shit-faced and tell dirty stories,” she said. She actually said this to me. I perked back to life when she loudly clinked my glass with hers like it was the clash of the titans.
Well, it was, sort of.
We both drank, and I was good at not spitting it back into her face, but wanted to. For lots of reasons I wanted to.
She added the warning I knew
