Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Page 11
He shook his head. “CeeCee’s station manager is a client. I kind of got in the middle of it without meaning to. I did talk to Richter, though. That’s why I’m qualified in calling him an asshole.”
“Well, he likes to grab asses.”
“Specifically CeeCee’s. He’s got a thing for her.”
I thought again how CeeCee seemed interested in him as well. My revulsion must have showed because Jackson asked, “What?”
“I’m worried there might be a reciprocal ‘thing’ going.”
Jackson didn’t immediately answer. I could tell he was holding out on me. It was my turn to ask, “What?”
“My client. The station manager. He’s got a thing for CeeCee, too. It’s a real mess. I told CeeCee she might be better off quitting.”
“No way! She loves that job.”
“She’s got two men interested in her. One of them wants her job.”
“And her ass,” I pointed out.
“They both want that, Ginny. It’s unfortunate, because she really hasn’t asked for any of this.”
I looked over at the partiers. CeeCee was making her way through her gifts. Mr. Mane was nursing his anger in a corner away from the crowd. CeeCee shot him a look but I could tell she was turned off by his little-boy behavior.
I was stung by how much information had passed between Jackson and CeeCee. “You’re really in the know, aren’t you?”
“In this case.”
“Do you know who that guy is?” I inclined my head toward Mr. Mane.
He shook his head.
The evening wore on. I stayed near Jackson, but that was about the extent of our conversation. Sean had somehow managed to get stuck beside a gay couple on one side and Jill on the other. His voice had grown louder and louder with his consumption of alcohol but no one was listening. I thought I should rescue him, as technically he was my date. He finally managed to extricate himself from his chair and I helped him get around the chairs that stood in his way. He half-tripped, then finally got clear. Instantly he slung an arm over my shoulder, his beer teetering somewhere above my right breast. I kept a wary eye on it, expecting it to drop to the floor and drench me on its way down.
He managed to hang onto it until jostled by one of the other drunks. I jumped away and avoided most of the beer spill. CeeCee opened the last of her gifts: some kind of rude sex-shop item, which turned out to be licorice crotchless panties. Yep. Love that kind of good taste in gifts. Turned out it was from Mr. Mane. What a guy.
At the end of the evening I watched as Jackson kissed CeeCee goodbye on the cheek. He scared a smile out of her. It was all very big-brotherly but it depressed me nonetheless. I was definitely going to have to take this up with Dr. Dick.
Jill caught me looking and I shrugged. She left it alone. We all headed outside with Sean totally drunk and stumbling after me. He gave my shoe a flat tire before dropping like a stone into the passenger seat. As I righted my shoe, Jill climbed in the back.
“Nice,” she remarked as Sean’s chin dropped to his chest and he passed out.
At Jill’s place I determined I could not let Sean get behind the wheel of his own car. Although he’d roused himself out of my car, he couldn’t seem to insert key into keyhole of his car. Looking at him, weaving slightly on his feet and giving me a shit-eating grin, I sighed and piled him back into the Explorer. I was taking a guy home with me, but it was the last thing I wanted to do.
I told Jill goodbye and that if she wanted help smoking her weed, I was going to have to take a rain check. “You wouldn’t smoke it anyway,” she said on a sigh. “And truthfully, I just want to go to bed.” Her cell phone rang and she examined the caller ID. “It’s Ian,” she said, sounding suddenly tense.
“Call me and tell me about it,” I said. She nodded, clicking on the receiver and said a tentative, “Hello?” sounding very unlike herself as she walked toward her front door.
I climbed in the driver’s seat and Sean roused himself enough to mumble, “Thanks for driving” in between a spate of hiccups.
“I’m taking you to my place. You can have the couch.”
“It was a good party. Thanks for invit—inviting me.” He finished this off with a huge belch, laughed, threw me a drunken, partially sheepish look and sank against the headrest. “Nice upholstery,” he added dreamily and promptly passed out again.
MADD and the LA police were lucky I was around to drive Sean, I decided as we pulled into the bunker—my name for my underground parking. Schematic Man was still bent over in supreme pain, but my brain had moved ahead to bed, rest and a chance to bury my head under the covers and hide from the world for a few hours. I didn’t want to examine too closely why I felt the need for this burrowing. Jackson Wright was the only answer and I just didn’t want him to matter this much.
Fifteen minutes later I had thrown a pillow and blanket on the couch and pointed out Sean’s bed to him as he stood head down, in a walking coma. Then I opened the sliding door and stepped onto my postage-stamp sized patio. I’ve got a great view of the street and the noise level is loud enough to make me certain I’m deaf sometimes. Several large pine trees block the worst of the view but they drop these long, deadly brown needles all over the place, covering my concrete patio. It’s hell being outdoor gardening-challenged.
But it was a beautiful evening. I stood in the cool breeze with my face turned skyward, eyes closed. I felt weary beyond my years and the realization totally depressed me. It’s not often that I spend much time with dark inward thoughts, but I can be as down as anybody now and again. However, as soon as I reach my own depths—which I have to admit are fairly shallow anyway—I tend to bounce back fast. I was almost waiting for this to happen when I sensed Sean coming up behind me. My first thought was impatience, especially when his arms circled my waist from behind, but then he pressed his forehead to my back, just below my nape, and there was something so intimate and almost forlorn about it that part of me responded in spite of myself. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry. It felt like I might. A moment later, sexual desire awoke, stretched, and lifted its interested head. Nate had been gone for several weeks now, and I couldn’t recall the last time I’d actually wanted sex with him before that. It felt, suddenly, like I was on the brink of something I desperately wanted. It was invigorating and scary.
“Whoa. My head’s killin’ me,” Sean mumbled, still bent against me as if in prayer.
“Don’t talk,” I said.
“Okay.”
We stayed like that a few tense moments longer. Sean, picking up something on his masculine radar, sensed my shift in mood. He might be barely into adulthood, but he had all the necessary antennae to appreciate female emotions, apparently. I concentrated on his masculinity, as well. My thoughts touched on taut muscles, thickly lashed blue eyes, and a sensual mouth, even though I wasn’t looking at him. Truth to tell, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you exactly what color Sean’s eyes were or what shape his lips were or anything else. I was suddenly looking at a fantasy man, my inner vision narrowed as if through a funnel toward him and something just out of reach. I didn’t want Sean to do anything lest he somehow destroy this tension-filled moment. But suddenly Sean did move, and it was to slide his hands beneath my shirt and under my bra to cup my breasts.
With an effort I pictured “fantasy man” doing the same thing. I imagined him ripping off my shirt and raining a scorching line of kisses down my shoulders. No, make that a hot, wet tongue. I would have moaned with desire but then it all went to hell when Sean started panting and humping against my buttocks.
“Oh, baby ... oh, baby ... oh, baby ...”
“Sean.”
“Oh, baby ... c’mon ...”
“Sean—”
“Shhhh ... .” His hands, which began massaging my breasts so hard I wondered if he’d been a mammogram operator in a previous life, suddenly dropped to my jeans, ripping down the zipper and snap in one quick move. I was momentarily diverted, impressed at his efficiency. B
ut then he was grinding against my buttocks again, my cheeks now only encased in a pair of flimsy black underpants, my favorites, as a matter of fact. (I know they’re often referred to as ‘panties’ but there’s something so pornographic about that word I struggle with it. Which is interesting when I realize I have no trouble saying, thinking, and hearing ‘fuck.’ Some day I’ll have to take this issue to Dr. Dick.)
“Sean,” I said again, twisting in his arms. I was worried he might suddenly lose control and spray sperm before either of us was truly ready.
He took the moment to rip off his own jeans and boxers and his penis just popped out, strong, straight, and eager. The cartoon sound boing went through my mind. I half chuckled. A difficult move on my part, as Sean’s mouth and tongue were all over me while his fingers pulled down my underpants and Mr. Happy took up residence between my thighs: ready, willing, and able for complete entry.
I laughed aloud, choking in amusement. I couldn’t help myself. Luckily, Sean didn’t suffer from self-confidence issues and he started grinning in the midst of his “lovemaking.” It was with real regret that I pushed him away.
“You know,” I said matter-of-factly. “I wish I could do this with you, but I can’t. Don’t ask me why, because I couldn’t explain it in a month of Sundays.”
“Could you just suck me off, then?” Sean asked.
I looked down at Mr. Happy. Oral sex is something I struggle with. Usually takes a bottle and a half of Chardonnay or more.
“How about a hand job?” I suggested, to which he wrapped my fingers around his shaft and away we went.
Later, sitting beside Sean on the couch, with his head drooped onto my shoulder and his arms around me in a thoroughly sweet, childlike way, I gave myself a stern talking to. I was too old for this stuff, wasn’t I? Where was romance? Did I even care for romance? Why couldn’t I just have sex with Sean? What kind of skewed sense of propriety had steered my decision making tonight?
I made a noise of true annoyance. Sean stirred sleepily and asked on a yawn, “What’s a month of Sundays?”
“Lots of ’em, I guess.”
“Why Sundays? Why not Mondays?”
“Beats me.”
“You wanna smoke a joint? I got some more in my car.”
“Your car’s at Jill’s.”
“Oh.”
Stymied, Sean ended our conversation. He fell asleep within thirty seconds, and as I got to my feet he flopped onto the couch. He was still wearing his shirt and a pair of socks. The boxers and jeans lay in a pile by the sliding glass door. I thought about Kristl coming home, if she even would as she’d been working and/or with Brandon almost exclusively, and decided she might think my life was more interesting than it is if she caught Sean bare-assed on my couch.
I left him where he was, locked the patio door and headed upstairs.
Chapter 7
An impromptu meeting for Waterstone Iced Tea took place at 4 P.M. at our offices. As production manager, I wasn’t always required to sit at the table with all the players: the director, our producer, Holly, the advertising agency producer, the art director, the client, and various and sundry others. This made me happy as a clam as these meetings are notoriously boring from a production point of view; they were more a means to lay out everything in two-year-old’s terms to the client and ad agency. I was glad to be “below the line.” Above the line is top management: well-paid, well-heeded and well-on-their-way-to-ulcers. Below the line are the production manager (me), the production coordinator (Tom), the production assistants (Sean et al.), and other office gofers. We below-liners sat at our desks and rechecked all the to do lists we’d already checked. It’s amazing what can be forgotten or overlooked that may rise up and bite us in the ass later on.
Sean was not around and hadn’t been all week, mainly because we hadn’t needed him. Actual filming started tomorrow and I knew he was slated to be onsite in Venice at six-thirty A.M. I have to admit: I had a certain trepidation about seeing him again. My romantic encounter with him—if you could call it that—had left me feeling faintly embarrassed and ashamed. We’d hardly spoken the morning after as I’d driven him to his car. The kid was just too young for me, in every way. I needed to steer clear of him.
I hurriedly counted out the forty-nine pages of the final production manual we’d assembled for the job; the above-liners needed them in the production meeting tout suite. But my thoughts were traveling down different pathways. Truth to tell, I was kind of down. Running into Jackson at CeeCee’s party hadn’t been the height of my month. Seeing him had put a fine point on the fact that I—and all my friends—couldn’t seem to find a decent man anywhere. Currently Jill and Ian were in serious trouble, Daphne and Leo weren’t even an item, CeeCee seemed particularly hostile toward all males these days, and Kristl ... well, Brandon might actually be her knight in shining armor, but based on her track record, I wasn’t betting on it.
We were all definitely in a dating decline. The dearth of datable men boggled the mind. In fact—
“Ginny!”
I jumped about a foot out of my chair, my heart pounding. The harsh whisper had come from Holly, who was frantically signaling me from the doorway to the meeting room.
“The book’s almost done,” I mouthed, which only earned me more signaling.
I realized they wanted me in the meeting, with or without the preproduction book. Damn it. I was so not ready to suck up and make nice. Steeling myself, I tried on a smile and ran a mental inventory of my wardrobe: jeans, black-ribbed cotton shirt, black boots. Adequate.
They were all seated around the rectangular table as I entered. Everyone greeted me, some even by name. I glanced at the director, a sour-faced man whose thoughts always seemed to be floating somewhere in the ionosphere. He gave me a faint nod. The client, two young Waterstone Iced Tea men, did seem happy to see me. I couldn’t read the agency people, as they appeared to all be jockeying for some kind of political position within their group that I couldn’t immediately identify. I always get the feeling they’re in fear for their jobs. Tough work, advertising. I’d take production any day. I sat down and put an interested expression on my face.
The discussion concerned the talent who had been chosen for their commercial. It was all about heat, the beach, the waves, ice cubes, and sweating glasses of iced tea, which made you “high.” Personally, I thought it was dumb, but production is not to reason why. That’s for the agency.
The storyboards had all been approved and there was nothing really left to do but shoot. My gaze stole toward the plate of cheeses, deli meats, fruit, and crackers artfully arranged in the center of the table. I’d sent one of the PAs out for groceries and we’d put the centerpiece together in short order. Nobody ever ate anything at these meetings, from what I could tell, but food always had to be available and look inviting. If it wasn’t there, production would be seen as skimping and maybe the next job would be awarded to a different company.
The meeting broke up without me saying a word. Truthfully, nobody appeared to have said anything of import. I wasn’t sure why I’d been invited in. Probably just to break the momentary tension. The political infighting that accompanies these jobs is always a mysterious wrangle. When we scraped back our chairs I murmured some polite words and hurried back to my desk.
When I got there I realized the production book was missing. Before I started swearing I politely asked Tom and a couple of others if they’d seen it. No one had. Since the book had taken me hours to compile, I was ready to blow, but then Sean breezed in with the original and five extra copies of it.
He saw my face. “There was a note on it to make five copies,” he explained. “I just thought I’d do it while you were in the meeting.”
“Thanks.” The possibility of losing all my work had elevated my heart rate with real fear and made it difficult for me to be nice. I said stiffly, “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t working today.”
“I’m not. I just came to see you.”
“Six-thirty.”
“Then I’ll see you bright and early,” I said, turning away.
I did manage to catch the hurt look on his face, but I ignored it, mentally flogging myself. I felt like a heel. I wasn’t sure what the hell to do with Sean. I’d really stepped in it this time.
Sean departed and Daphne called, sounding decidedly chipper. She wanted to meet for lunch but when I’m deep into a job it’s like I fall into another dimension. I’m simply unavailable.
But Daphne’s not one to give up. I’d barely walked in my door late that night, my mind still running over the myriad details of getting ready for the shoot—had I forgotten anything? —when she appeared on my doorstep, insistently ringing my bell. I swore succinctly and pungently, then flung open the door. “I can’t. You know I can’t. Whatever it is. I’ve got a huge day ahead of me. After the shoot and post-production, I’m free, but not before.”
“You always say that, and it’s never true. There’s always another job,” Daphne complained, barreling past me into the living room.
“Yeah ... well ...” That was as clever a response as I could come up with.
Surfacing from my own funk, I belatedly realized she was practically bursting with news. I did a mental check of the time—nine-thirty—calculating how many hours of sleep I would actually get if I relented and let her tell me all. With a sigh of annoyance directed solely at myself, I asked, “Okay, what is it?”
“Do you have any wine?”
“No. None. Not a drop. I’m working tomorrow. Early.”
“Okay ...” She hesitated, waiting for me to relinquish the hard-ass attitude. I crossed my arms. I couldn’t afford to. “I just wanted to celebrate because Leo and I are together!”
She uttered this last triumphantly, as if it were a coup beyond coups. I tried to be supportive; I really did. I didn’t call him a Huge Waste of Time. But my answer of, “Well ... that’s ... great” must’ve sounded pretty anemic because Daphne’s face fell.