Who the fuck are you?”
A total stranger is on the floor in front of me. He groans and rolls over.
I’m sitting, but everything is spinning. I don’t remember getting here. I force my eyes to focus. I know this place. This is my place. Still, there are questions.
Why is the bed wet? Did I piss myself? And how the fuck did I get here?
But most of all, who is this dude on my floor?
No, not piss. Just sweat. Booze sweat. Like a police outline, only a wet one. Good. But there was something else. Something important.
“Fuck!” I yell.
The asshole wakes up. His eyes flutter. “Hey, man.” He rolls over again and starts snoring.
I hate mornings like these. Afternoons? I grab for my phone: 3:42. Shit-balls-piss-ass-Jesus-on-a-fucking-crutch-I-hate-my-life. I’ve got forty minutes, and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna make it.
Too bad that isn’t a fucking option. I’m brushing my teeth with one hand, splashing water in my pits with the other. Desy’s on speaker.
“There’s someone on my floor!” I say. “And I’ve never fucking seen him!”
A peal of laughter. Peal. I’d never heard one before Desy. I thought it was cute last night. I thought she was, too.
That was before the part I don’t remember.
“Should we brunch, muffin? I know a fabulous place—”
“Are you kidding? I’m late. But what the fuck happened?”
“M.C., sweetheart. I do find your blackout episodes endearing.” I’m inside the walk-in closet now, still dripping. I’m digging through the dirty laundry. When does the maid come? I thought this place was full-service.
Though it’s pretty great, I gotta admit. Massive Tribeca loft with multiroom sound system and sick view of Manhattan. Concrete and steel with a chrome makeover. A real panty-dropper.
Which is why I haven’t told my girlfriend about it. She thought I was living in the dorms like the other freshmen. First year, it’s required.
But I don’t do required. And I’m not living in some shitty dorm. Especially one with my last name on it.
Lucky my girlfriend wouldn’t go near a dorm. She’d be afraid of catching something.
I find the least wrinkled khakis available. “It wasn’t a blackout,” I tell her. “I remember . . . most of it.”
Besides, sometimes I don’t want anyone here. Don’t want strangers touching my shit, sitting on my sofa. If I’m going to hook up, there are always other options. This crib is all mine.
Except last night, I guess. How fucked-up had I been?
“But seriously, Des, who is the fucktard on my floor?”
She laughs. Again. I wish she’d stop. I’m busted up and late and some dickhead is on my rug and might have ass-raped me in my sleep for all I know. I don’t have the time for Desdemona Goldberg.
“Does he have brownish hair?” she says. Finally.
“Tall?”
“I guess.”
“Ironic facial hair?”
“What the fuck does that mean, Desy?”
“Muttonchops? A goatee? A flavor savor? Don’t you know anything, silly boy? That and vests are all the rage in Brooklyn.”
“What the fuck do I know about Brooklyn? I don’t do Brooklyn.”
“You did last night. We took a taxi to Williamsburg right after the Sexpot.”
“A taxi? You gotta be kidding me. And what the fuck is Sexpot?” I finish buckling my belt. Shit, I missed two loops. I pull it out and start from scratch.
Desy sighs. “If you don’t remember, that’s devastating. The beauty-salon bar? You sat under a hair dryer, M.C.! Is this ringing a bell?”
“You’re making that shit up.”
“Silly! You adored every minute! Totes bonded with Helga!”
“Helga?”
“The Russian drag queen who gave you a manicure, sweetcheeks!”
I look down. “What is this gay shit on my hands?”
“Homophobia is so nineties, M.C. But isn’t it presh? Lollipop Sprinkle. And the glittery finish? C’est magnifique!”
“How do I get this shit off?”
“Polish remover! But why would you want to take it off? It’s so glam rock! Besides, you were the one who wanted a manicure. Practically begged them to fit you in—”
“Of course! Forty dollars. And you tipped a hundred!”
“Seriously? What a fucking scam! A whore would have been cheaper. And a better use of my money.”
Silence. Even scarier than the laughing. Then screaming. “Is that how you see me, too, M.C.? Another hundred-dollar whore?”
Shit. I pressed the crazy button.
“You know that isn’t what I meant—”
“You sure couldn’t get enough last night! Why the fuck am I wasting my time on you? You snort all my coke at Marquee, then go on and on. All your plans for me. The tour, the record dropping. Blah blah blah. Is everything you say utter bullshit?”
“Wait, Desy—”
“I can’t believe I let you touch my pussy! My pussy is sacred, you asshole!”
No way. Wait. Just a second.
The unisex bathroom. Track lighting. Auto-fogging stalls.
Red walls. Desy. Pushed up against one of them.
I’m the one who pushed her.
It’s all coming back. Only problem? Now I don’t want it to.
She’s still shrieking. I turn down the volume on my phone. That whacked-out bipolar bitch. She must have forgot her trazodone again. Or just didn’t take it. Does it on purpose. Says it makes her more interesting.
Did I really fuck her? I guess I really care about this record label. Took one for the team. She’s hot, but you get a side of hot mess right along with it.
I look at the clock: 4:10. Already texted for a ride. Now I gotta get outta here. Volume up again. Desy still shrieking.
“—don’t need you or your bullshit wannabe label. My father knows everyone! Producers. Real ones. You can just go fuck yourself up the—”
“Desy!” I shout. “Shut up! Just for a second!”
“I don’t take orders, M.C. Especially from you!”
This time, I use my sexy voice. The I’ll-be-your-daddy-and-give-you-a-spanking-you’ll-like-it one. “I just want to tell you something, okay? Something important.”
Silence. Always works on the crazy bitches. “What?” she squeaks.
Charm, thick as peanut butter. “I think . . . you are completely adorable.”
Silence. Peal.
“Only thing—I gotta make my appointment. I hate it, though. It’ll hurt me, not hearing your voice. I love your voice, you know that? So . . . can I see you soon?”
“Maybe.” All sweetness. Hooked and reeled.
“Good. Just let me ask you something. Baby, will you tell me who the guy on my floor is?”
“Jermaine. He’s an electro-funk DJ.”
“Electro-funk? That’s the lamest thing I ever heard of.”
“You loved him last night.” She giggles. “Said he really got you. Said he could be your long-lost brother.”
“Well now, I need him to get the fuck out of my place. Thanks, Desy. You and me, soon. Bye, babe.”
“Too-da-loo!” Dial tone. Merciful silence.
Wallet, check. Sunglasses, check. One quick glance in the mirror. Pretty good. I can work this.
A few quick breaths, a couple of bounces. Punch the air in front of me like a badass. I’m Muhammad Ali, I’m Mike-fucking-Tyson.
You can do this, man. You can do anything. You, M.C., are the motherfucking shit.
After I’ve half-dragged/half-carried the half-asleep douche bag down two hallways and in and out of the elevator, I deposit him on the Hudson Street sidewalk. Immediately, I jump in the waiting Benz.
“Call me,” he says, just as my door is slamming.
I take off the sunglasses, check the time. Thank fuck for tinted windows.
Four twenty-six. I just might make it.
The privacy partition rolls down.
“Tough night?” Rodney’s grinning.
“You know it. Can you get me there in time?”
“Maybe, depends on traffic. We’ll have to make that Tower pickup—”
“Tower pickup? Oh, yeah. Fuck.”
The Hollywood douche. I forgot. “Okay, Rod. Do your best. But can you make a pit stop at the Duane Reade? I need some nail-polish remover.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Don’t even ask,” I say with a smile.
“We’ll hit up the one on Broadway, Mr. Crawford.”
“Fuck. How many times I have to tell you? Mr. Crawford is my father. Just call me Miller.”
“That’s your father, too.”
“I know. Sucks, doesn’t it?”
He smiles again. Partition rolls up.
I send a text to Annalise, sigh, and lean back into the leather.
I got it under control. Just like always.
We pull over on Fifth Avenue. Trump Tower. I scan the front of the building. Just the doorman bullshitting with a ratty dude in cargoes. A fucking white kid with dreads. Probably his dealer.
“Where is he?” I mutter. “She said he’d be right here. Waiting.”
“You know what this guy looks like?” asks Rodney.
“No idea. Just his name. Phillip something.” I check out the area. Always liked this place. Makes no apologies. “Just look for the Hollywhore. He’ll be all tan and shiny.”
A minute passes. Nothing. Just the doorman and the kid laughing.
“Want me to go inside?” asks Rodney.
“Nah, I’ll do it.” I reach for the handle.
I made a promise long ago: I won’t be that guy. The kind who orders staff to do petty bullshit. Sure, there are emergencies. Scoring coke for an after-hours, buying last-minute condoms. As for the rest? I can get my own double latte, thanks. And I can find this Ryan Seacrest wannabe Annalise wants carted to the Hamptons.
I open the car door and groan. The sunlight jumps my ass. I think I singed my eyelashes. “Fuck,” I say, reaching for my vintage snakeskin Cazal616s—same as Diddy. “I just had them in my hand.” I dig in the seats, check the floorboards. “This blows anyway. What am I, a carpool service? And where the fuck is that Hollywood douche bag?”
“Hey.”
I turn. Guy with the cargo pants. Great.
He smiles at me. Rumpled Polo, beat-up loafers. Dude’s got West Side hoodrat written all over him. Prep school expulsion, I’d put money on it. Little poser peddling shit cut with aspirin and powdered sugar. I’d never score from a guy like this.
I’ve grown up a lot since high school.
“Thanks, man. But I don’t want any.”
“Want any what?” A lopsided grin. Got one of those trust-me, I’m-your-buddy faces.
“I said I’m fine, man.” This time I’m serious.
Not a flicker. Just stands there, smiling. At least he’s blocking the sunlight.
“Seriously, dude, I’m looking for someone, okay?”
“I know. The Hollywood Douche Bag.” He shrugs, extends his hand. “Phillip. You found him.”