Читать книгу Someone Like You - Timothy James Beck - Страница 16

Although Derek’s paychecks were relatively meager in the World of Hunter, he’d earned more in a month than he had during any of his college semesters. He bypassed the mall office of First National Bank, where Hunter had set up an account for him, and went to the mall branch of Indiana State’s credit union. Half an hour later, he emerged with his temporary checks and a new sense of independence. A man on a mission, he resisted the siren calls of Aveda, Guess, and Mars Music as he walked through the mall.

He’d decided what his first major purchase would be after his evening with Christian. It had been so bizarre to actually meet MCI Man for drinks, especially when their conversation was interrupted several times by Christian’s phone. He still wasn’t exactly sure what Christian did for a living, but the phone made him seem industrious and in charge in a way that Derek envied.

Later, when he left Energy Electronics, he was a little disappointed because the battery on his new cell phone had to charge overnight before he could use it. Nonetheless, it was gratifying to know that friends could call him without going through the hotel receptionist. Although the friends were still mostly illusory. He rarely got calls from anyone but his parents. Still, it was his phone, paid for with his money, from his job. And it felt good.

He bought a latte at Brew Moon Café, sitting at one of their bistro tables to people watch. Most of his fellow employees swore they shunned public places on their days off, citing retail-induced agoraphobia. But Derek was tired of spending his nights at the Congreve chatting online to people thousands of miles away. Or endlessly changing television channels. Or waiting for Hunter’s e-mails, which were usually short and only minimally affectionate.

Then again, the apartment seemed really tempting when he saw Natasha Deere emerge from Ann Taylor. Fortunately she didn’t spot him, although he doubted that she’d have acknowledged him. Natasha didn’t really see people unless she had a reason to castigate them.

His boss baffled him. He’d quickly placed her in his mental A-B-C file drawer, for abhorrent, brutal, and cold, among less savory words that began with the same letters. Then out of nowhere, she’d pulled him off the floor a few days before to have “a little chat.” He’d expected to be fired for something he didn’t know he’d done wrong.

Instead, Natasha had said, “Congratulations on your sale to Mr. Mercer’s client.”

“Thanks,” Derek said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Do you know who Christian Mercer is?”

The first man who might tempt me into cheating on my boyfriend, Derek thought of saying, but merely asked, “Someone important?”

“He’s a glorified errand boy for influential people in Terre Haute. Or at least those who like to think they’re influential. Maybe he’ll bring more of them your way. Try not to foul it up.”

Since then, his manager hadn’t seemed quite as frigid, but Derek knew not to get comfortable. He saw the way she treated Erik, who had their department’s highest sales. If Natasha’s lifeless, Prada-clad feet were ever spotted sticking out from under a stack of shipping crates, Erik would be the first suspect. And Derek would have to stand in a long line of people willing to provide him an alibi.

Derek didn’t really care if Christian brought him more customers. He’d rather see Christian, whose attention had reminded Derek that he was still a young man with a healthy libido. A lonely young man, in fact. Which seemed exciting and dangerous, a deadly combination.

He finished his latte and walked to the Congreve, edging his way through the crowd of people who were there for a Midwestern mayors’ conference. Normally he’d scan them for possible stories to entertain his Internet buddies, but his thoughts were consumed by Christian.

Derek had been hesitant to meet MCI Man at the Aurora, right under the noses of Hunter’s employees. He’d chastised himself for succumbing to the alluring contrast of Christian’s dark auburn hair and gray eyes, the way his clothes fit his body as if they’d been custom-tailored, and for some bizarre reason, his fingers, which had struck Derek as artistic and sensual. After Christian removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, Derek had watched the play of the muscles in his forearms and hands when he made notes in his PalmPilot or drummed his fingers on the table.

But it wasn’t Christian’s obvious physical appeal that Derek couldn’t forget. There was something intense about the way Christian sized him up, taking in every detail of his appearance. Maybe Christian was just a label queen, but he’d seemed to want to probe beneath Derek’s clothes and find out who he was. Derek’s fantasies about MCI Man had left him self-conscious about being with the real person. He’d also wanted to avoid any discussion of Hunter, so he’d nervously tried to direct Christian’s attention to other people in the bar.

It had worked, and Christian seemed to be charmed by Derek’s gift for improvising stories about people. But in the cold light of day, Derek wondered why it had been so important to charm Christian. Was he really ready for a fling? A different relationship? Had he given up on a future with Hunter? Would he have followed through if Christian had suggested moving their meeting into the closest available bedroom?

When he let himself into the apartment and plugged in his cell phone to charge it, it occurred to him that the closest available bedroom would have been Hunter’s. Which was too far outside the realm of decent behavior for Derek to even contemplate. It was time to make some changes.

He moved his things from Hunter’s room into the suite’s other bedroom, then checked his e-mail. There was nothing from Hunter, so he threw himself on the sofa to watch television. Two hours, one dinner, one fantasy about Hunter, and two fantasies about Christian later, he was climbing the walls. He dug through the slips of paper and cards he’d piled on his dresser until he found Vienna’s number. She and Davii were probably inundated with things to do on a Friday night, but he figured he’d give it a shot.

When no one answered at the apartment, he tried Davii’s cell phone. After getting voice mail, he left a message suggesting that they meet him at the Aurora if they got home early enough. Since the chance of seeing them was slim, he might as well drink close to home.

Sheree Sheridan was in the middle of a set when Derek settled himself at the bar with a martini. Hearing her mourn the man that got away in her husky voice hit a little too close to his heart, so he focused on the way she looked, something he never tired of.

Having seen the telltale lines around her eyes and mouth, Derek knew Sheree had to be fiftyish, but to him, she was timeless. Her hair, blonde courtesy of a hairdresser, was teased and pulled into a loose knot, with wisps falling artfully down the back of her neck and around her face, softening her features. She was in stage makeup—heavy on the foundation, false eyelashes, lots of contouring and shading—and he thought she looked fabulous. The blue sequins of her dress caught the light and shot beams into the room, casting glamour on the crowd that always filled the bar on Friday nights, a mixture of locals and hotel guests.

Everything about her—whiskey voice, glittering costumes, fading beauty—bespoke a world-weary attitude. And then her eyes registered. No woman of her years and experience should have eyes that still looked dreamy and hopeful. From the first time he saw her and listened to her sing, Derek had adored her.

He still remembered that night. He and Hunter had gone into Terre Haute for dinner, a rarity in itself. When they’d returned to the hotel, some sad song was drifting through the lobby like smoke, and Hunter had suggested they stop in and listen to Sheree. Later, in bed, Hunter had been unusually expansive. Derek didn’t know if it was Sheree’s singing or the numerous cocktails that loosened Hunter’s tongue, but he listened, spellbound, to the story in their dark bedroom.

“That woman,” Hunter said, “is the closest thing to a conscience Randolph Congreve ever had.”

Apparently, it was one of the family’s open secrets that Sheree was Hunter’s father’s mistress. The girls weren’t supposed to know about her, but the boys had occasionally seen her in their father’s company at symphony performances, the opera, and the ballet. Any time his sons were bold enough to speak to their father and Sheree, she always knew them by name without being introduced, and could even converse knowledgeably about their hobbies and interests. Sheree was the only proof that their father knew what his sons did with their time. Somebody had to have told her.

“Sheree is all heart,” Hunter said. “Way too good for the old man.”

“So what’s she doing here?” Derek finally thought to ask.

“Maybe he got tired of her. Maybe she’s getting too old, so he found a younger version. Although she’s one of a kind. Or maybe he’s just too old and tired himself to continue to maintain a mistress. Who knows?”

The subject never came up again, but many times when Hunter was out of town, Derek spent his nights in the piano bar watching Sheree cast her spell on the crowd. He rarely saw her during the day, although she, too, had an apartment at the Congreve. Sometimes he’d spot one of the bellhops walking her Italian greyhound, or catch a glimpse of her getting into a hotel courtesy car. He didn’t really want to see her outside the bar, preferring that she remain a mysterious, sultry creature of the night.

He automatically joined in the applause when she finished her set. After being stopped by a few of the patrons, she came to the bar, where the bartender handed over her usual glass of sparkling water with a twist of lemon.

“Hi, Buddy,” she said to Derek, giving him one of her languorous smiles. She always made it sound like his name, although he knew that she was fully aware of who he was.

“Hi, Sheree,” Derek said, smiling back as she slid onto the stool next to his. “You sound great, as always.”

“Honey, it’s the songs. I haven’t sounded great since God was a boy, but thank you for saying so. You look a little gloomy. Is that the songs, too? You came in during the sad set.”

He shook his head and said, “The sad set is my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” she said. “I wonder why a broken heart is always more interesting than a light one?” He’d been staring toward the stage, but that made him turn a startled look her way. “Feeling lonely and abandoned?” she asked.

“A little,” he admitted. “Sort of like I’ve overstayed my welcome. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if he’s tired of me.”

“Depends,” she said with another slow smile. “Can you sing?”

He caught her meaning and returned an equally wistful smile, saying, “If only I could.”

She placed one beautifully manicured hand on his arm and said, “There’s more than one way to make music, Buddy. You just need to find your voice.”

Wondering if she’d noticed him the night he’d met Christian in the bar, Derek decided it might be prudent to change the subject and said, “Let’s play the guessing game.”

Sometimes, if she was in the mood, she’d join him in picking out people from the crowd and making up stories about them. Although his own tales were improbably outrageous, he was willing to bet hers were almost always accurate. Not much got past Sheree.

“Okay. But you pick,” she said.

He looked at the crowd, spotted a face he’d seen in the newspaper, and said, “The woman with the curls.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” she said. “I know who she is.”

He shrugged and said, “Tell me anyway.”

“Emily-Anne Barrister. The people she’s with are from out of town. Maybe business associates of her husband. Or from one of the conglomerates that keep trying to buy him out. It’ll never happen. Cort’s got ink in his veins; he’ll die owning those newspapers.”

“Which one is he?” Derek asked.

“The stocky one with the unlit cigar. His doctor told him no more smoking, but he can’t give them up, so he just doesn’t light up. Cort thinks Emily-Anne hung the moon, but she’s a troubled soul. They never had the children they’d hoped for. And these days, many of their friends are on their second or third trophy wives. Emily-Anne’s solution is surgery. She’s got so much plastic in her, they should stamp ‘Mattel’ on her ass.” Derek let out a bark of laughter, and Sheree shook her head. “It’s sad, really. When a man falls in love with who you are, why keep trying to be someone else?”

He met her eyes again, wondering if she was trying to convey advice.

“Your public awaits,” the bartender said.

Sheree patted Derek’s arm again and said, “Goodnight, Buddy.”

“Goodnight, Sheree.”

After Sheree took her spot next to the piano and began singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” Derek saw Davii enter the Aurora. He was dressed in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt with Keith Haring drawings dancing over his chest. Derek waved to him and watched as Davii’s face lit up before he walked toward the bar.

“I’ll have what I’m having,” Davii said to the bartender as he commandeered the stool next to Derek’s. “A cosmopolitan,” he clarified.

“Where’s Vienna?” Derek asked. “I assumed you two were out together.”

“I checked my vulva at the door,” Davii quipped. Derek winced, which made Davii laugh. “She and I were at Asteroid Arcade when you called. I was in the middle of defending my high score on Ms. Pac-Man; otherwise I would’ve answered. Vienna was complaining about a headache or something, so she went home. Ah, sweet nectar of the gods. Thank you.”

When Davii reached for his wallet, Derek said, “It’s on me. Thanks for coming out tonight. I needed company.”

“Tonight? I came out long before tonight.” Davii sipped at his drink before picking it up. “I was a young lad of twelve in Muncie when reality hit me.”

“Reality or puberty?” Derek asked.

“A little of both, actually. I was getting a haircut when I realized my barber was a hot stud. I had fantasies about locking the door and letting him have his way with me. But of course, fantasies rarely become reality. He was a married father of three and also went to our church.” Davii gulped at his drink, then continued. “Cut to the mall, six years later, when I finally acted on my feelings and picked up some guy at Pluto. It wasn’t great, but it was good to finally feel like I was…myself, I suppose. Does that make any sense?”

“Completely,” Derek replied, thinking about how he’d felt the same way when he was in college. “Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

“I guess it would depend on—hey! How do you keep doing this to me? I came here fully intending to get to know more about you. Whenever we get together, you somehow get me talking about myself. You hardly ever talk about yourself,” Davii complained good-naturedly. He playfully tapped Derek’s knee and prodded, “Go ahead. Talk about you.”

“You want me to open up?” Derek asked.

Davii looked over the rim of his glass and arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. Open up for me, baby.”

“I don’t open up for just anyone,” Derek said, matching Davii’s suggestive tone.

“We’ll see about that,” Davii said. Neither one of them went any further, so Davii added, “I’ll just sit here and sip quietly until you’re more forthcoming. I can hold out all night if I have to.”

“Check!” Derek exclaimed.