I sludge around the perimeter of the wrestling ring, moving as fast as the thick pudding allows. “Dave!” I cry when Tanya starts to come after me. “Dave, get me out of here.”
“Fight, Red! Kill her!”
Okay, forget Dave. New plan. I reach Tanya’s corner, and pause to look for another escape. Unfortunately, Jim is there, grinning up at me. I think I was doing better with Dave, especially when Jim reaches through the ropes and gives me a push.
I scream, falling back into the pool of pudding. A giant butterscotch wave fans out on either side of me. I struggle to my knees, shaking pudding off like a wet dog.
“Red, you okay?” Dave says, and I swear I hear a chuckle in his tone. He is so dead. I turn to glare at him, and he yells, “Watch out. Duck!”
Tanya is coming for me, but I can’t stand in time to avoid her. I’m saved only because she slips and flops into the pudding. Unfortunately the brownish-orange wave from Tanya’s fall throws me off-balance, and I go down again, this time with a gurgle. I come up for air, gagging at the thought of nonhomogenized pudding in my mouth, but I don’t have the time to contemplate the disease or food poisoning scenarios because Tanya’s crawling straight for me. She tries to snatch my shirt, and I flop away.
Tanya grabs my ankle, but I kick back and slip out of her grasp. “Dave!”
“Hold her down!” Dave’s voice rings out over the roar of the crowd, who are cheering and catcalling now because Tanya and I are covered with pudding. “Kick her ass, Red.”
“You kick her ass! I want ou-owwww!”
Tanya grabs my shirt and hauls me back. I flail, then she flails, and we fall backward. I land on top of her, and when I get my breath back, I scramble up. She grabs my leg, and I try to wriggle out of her grasp, kicking her in the jaw.
She stares up at me, tears smarting in her eyes.
“Oh, my God! Are you okay?” I lean down and put a hand on her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Dave yells. “Take her out.”
“Shut up! She’s hurt. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Tanya’s eyes narrow. “You bitch!” she yells and lunges for me. We go down in a splash of butterscotch yellow.
“I said I was sorry,” I mumble before she grabs my hair and slams me facedown in the pudding again. Okay, that’s it. Between layers of brownish-orange, I see red.
Tanya must die.
Mustering what must be superhuman strength, I push Tanya off me and manage to pull free of the sinking morass. I suck in gallons of butterscotch-tasting air, then cough as pudding goes down my windpipe. But this time I ignore the discomfort and hunch over, looking for my foe. When I spot her, I give a little growl and lunge. Tanya’s so surprised, she doesn’t move fast enough, and I put her in a choke hold and dunk her head in pudding.
She struggles to get out, but Gray has taught me well. No one escapes this hold. From far away, I hear a voice calling my name, and then my arms are pried free of Tanya’s neck and a towel is thrust into my hands, then another, and when I wipe away the caramel-colored goop, I look into Dave’s smiling eyes. They’re sort of a dark butterscotch color. “You won,” he says. “Don’t kill her.”
“I’m going to kill you.” I start swinging, and he jumps back.
“Hey, I said you won. Here”—he thrusts his beer in my face—“drink this.”
I take it and down the rest of the bottle, grateful to taste something, anything but butterscotch. Even something as disgusting as beer.
Three or four guys are standing around us, mouths hanging open. Hopefully they’re impressed with my beer-guzzling capability, not sickened by my pudding-covered exterior.
The majority of the Bait Shop’s patrons did not witness my chugfest. They’re still over by the ring, watching Tanya get back on her feet. Or maybe they’re excited because her top’s down around her waist. She doesn’t seem to notice. They clear a path for her as she stomps over to me. She looks horrible, smeared with orangey-yellow slime, globs of it hanging from her nose and hair.
God, if I look half that bad, I’m killing myself. Wait. I’m killing Dave.
“Looks like you’re going to have to kiss my feet,” I say.
She sneers. “You kiss my ass first.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“Screw the deal.” Tanya pushes me back, and I prepare to smack her, but Dave grabs my arm. Finally, I say, “You want me to kiss your ass? Fine. Turn around.”
Tanya smiles triumphantly, turns, and waggles her butt in my face. It’s such a large target. Layers of flesh hang out on either side of her shorts’ frayed hem, jiggling as she wiggles, butterscotch pudding dripping from the fat.
I give Dave a sidelong glance, then look pointedly in the direction of the restaurant—our exit. He follows my gaze and looks back, frowning. I give him a naughty smile, and the furrow between his brows deepens, he tenses, and then he shakes his head, mouthing, No. I give him a little wave, turn back to Tanya, and, planting my hands flat on her behind, send her sailing over a table, knocking two guys over and spilling a tray of beers.
Chaos erupts, most of the bar’s patrons cursing me, but I don’t wait for them to make good on their promises. Instead I scramble into a run, tipping a table and a pitcher of beer in the process. Dave grabs my hand as I pass him, and we fly through the door into the restaurant. Dave knocks into a waiter holding a tray of food, and the nachos and burgers topple over.
“Sorry!” I yell as we race up the stairs. I can hear Tanya and the rest of the people from the deck behind us, but I don’t turn. Dave and I reach the entry hall, shove the door open, and leap into the parking lot. “Where are you?” I scream.
“There!” He points to the Hummer, near the back of the parking lot, and we run for it.
We separate as we near the tank, Dave heading for the driver’s side and me for the passenger’s. Dave fumbles for his remote, and the alarm beeps. I reach the tank a second before he makes it around to his side, then I pull open the door and freeze.
Leather and new-car smell. Shit. I’m covered in pudding. I already ruined his Land Rover’s interior after the Gatorade Incident. I can’t ruin the tank, too.
Dave pulls open the door on his side, and yells, “Get in!”
“But your leather!” I hear the Bait Shop’s door open, and I glance over my shoulder as Tanya and Jim burst through. They pause, scanning the lot for us.
“I don’t give a shit. Get in!” Dave yells as he starts the Hummer.
“Wait.” I grab Rory’s T-shirt and haul it over my head. The underwear I borrowed is wet from pudding that seeped through, but I use the T-shirt to wipe off my arms, then throw it down. Tanya’s seen us now, and she’s running toward the Hummer.
“Get in!” Dave yells.
I pull Rory’s shorts over my hips, not bothering to unbutton them, trying to wipe pudding from my legs as best I can. I toss the shorts on the gravel with the T-shirt, then climb onto the Hummer’s running board. From the corner of my eye, I see Tanya slip on the gravel in the lot and go down about two yards away. That’s all the motivation Dave needs, because he hits the gas as I’m still crawling in.
We peel out of the parking lot and, spurred by the adrenaline racing through my system, I lower my window, lean out, and scream, “You lost!” And then I do something slightly immature.
I moon them.
Dave turns the Hummer sharply, leaving the Bait Shop and the pudding wrestling friends and fans in our dust.
I duck back into the Hummer and glance at Dave. “Well, that was fun. What now?”
“Custard wrestling?”
“I was thinking mousse. It’s smoother.”
He looks at me, shakes his head, and we both burst out laughing. He’s laughing so hard that he has to pull over, and it takes a few minutes to get it under control. Finally, between chuckles, Dave says, “I can’t believe you pushed her.”
“Why not?” I say. “She deserved it. I won.”
“You’re a trip, Red. Remind me not to play Monopoly with you.”
“I don’t think board games are your main concern right now. What the hell was all that ‘Kick her ass’ and ‘Take her out’ shit?” I sock his shoulder. Hard.
“Ow.”
“Ow? Ow is having your hair pulled out while your face is buried in pudding.” I hit him again, but he catches my fist before I make contact and hauls me across the seat. He’s not laughing now. In fact, he’s got that same scary-serious look he had on his face in Rory’s bedroom.
It’s amazing to me that Dave is looking at me like this. But no matter how many times he sees me at my worst—dripping with blue Gatorade, drunk, covered in pudding—he always makes me feel beautiful, like he sees past the exterior and into the real me.
“You know my favorite part?” he asks, face close to mine, breath tickling my cheek.
I shake my head, feeling my insides wobble.
“When you did the striptease in the parking lot.” He glances down, and I’m suddenly very aware that all I’m wearing are a blue cotton bra and Rory’s bikinis with a picture of a chicken and the words “CHICKS RULE.”
“It wasn’t a striptease. I didn’t want to ruin your leather.”
“You can’t imagine how much I appreciate that.” He leans forward and, too late, I realize he’s going to kiss me. I’m so surprised I don’t even kiss him back.
He licks his lips. “You taste like butterscotch.”
“But it’s unhomogenized butterscotch. Who knows where it’s been?”
“It’s been on you,” he says.
His hand cups my jaw, and seeing that look in his eyes again, I say, “Wait. I’m dirty.”
“I like you dirty.”
My skin heats, and my heartbeat kicks up a notch.
“Half the time I worry I’m going to mess your hair up.” He leans back and assesses me. “Not too worried about that right now.”
See what I mean? He likes me, not the mask I wear. Me.
Dave leans forward and kisses me, and I kiss him back. I’ve kissed Dave maybe ten times, but except that time at Rory’s, I’ve never really kissed Dave. Kissing Dave always felt like joking around—fun, playful.
I don’t want to play anymore. I’m giving up the role of princess, stuck-up bitch, and fashion maven. Well, maybe not the last one. But I’m sitting on the side of some farm road miles from Chicago, wearing the most unsexy underwear ever, covered with pudding, and Dave still wants to kiss me. This feels real. What did Gray say about me backing away whenever a guy gets too close to the real me? This time I’m not going to hide.
It’s a risk, allowing myself to be so vulnerable. This week I was on national TV consorting with a particularly lewd vibrator, I lost my job over a sex scandal, and most recently I won a pudding wrestling match. I think I can do pretty much anything right now.
And so I let Dave kiss me, and when he starts to pull back, I tug on his hair, pull him close, and kiss him with my whole heart and soul, like I’ve only ever kissed two other men, one when I was fifteen and one I thought I’d marry.
Dave tenses, sensing my shift. There’s a moment of indecision on Dave’s part, and I feel that empty chasm in my belly yawn with fear. Then his arms go around me, and he returns the kiss with equal passion. When I draw back, he stares up at me, and I’m the one who looks away first. So many questions in his eyes, and I don’t know how to answer them right now.
Dave reaches for his shirt, pulls it off, and hands it to me. “Seems like I’m always giving you T-shirts to cover up with.” His voice is ragged and low.
“That’s your job,” I say and pull the T-shirt over my head.
“What’s yours?”
I run a finger lightly over his bare chest. “Taking them off.”
He groans, and I smile before scooting back to my side of the tank. He gives me a long look, puts the tank in gear, and steers us back onto the road.
“If we find a gas station and you take me back to my car, I’ll leave you in peace.”
Dave slips a CD into the player, and “Santeria” by Sublime comes on. “Maybe I don’t want to be left in peace.”
I catch my breath. “But you’re always saying that I’m high-maintenance.”
“You listened.”
“I always listen. Hey”—I point to the road—“there’s a gas station.”
“Yep,” Dave says, but we don’t slow.
“We’re not going to the gas station?”
“By the time we get gas and find your car, it’s going to be dark. We can come back tomorrow.”
I nod. “Okay, that makes sense, but I left my house keys in the car. All I have are credit cards and—oh, no!—I don’t even have those. They’re in the pocket of Rory’s shorts, back in the Bait Shop parking lot.”
“You can call and cancel them at my place.”
I close my mouth and sit very still. I’ve never been to Dave’s place, and I can’t think why he’d take me now unless he intended me to stay the night. And he’s not having me stay the night as an act of charity.
He could take me to Rory’s. I could also crash at Josh’s or Gray’s. But Dave’s taking me home—to his home. I steal a glance at him, then look quickly away. He’s an arm’s length away, and that expanse of bronze bare chest felt really good under my fingers a moment ago. I turn the AC on, feeling a bit too warm all of a sudden.
I take a deep breath of Freon. “So, we’re having a sleepover?” I say.
“Right.”
“Will there be pizza and ice cream?”
He raises a brow.
“Rory and I always order pizza and get ice cream.”
“This isn’t that kind of sleepover.”
This is it. Me and Dave. There’s no question what’s going to happen tonight. The question is what it means. And what I want it to mean. I look out the window, then back at Dave.
“A sleepover without pizza and ice cream sounds kind of serious, and I seem to remember a discussion about me being high-maintenance and you not being a good mechanic.”
He glances at me, then back at the road. “I’m a quick learner,” he says, and then, “You can fill out a service evaluation in the morning.”
I snort. Arrogant man. “Maybe I’m not interested in your services. Maybe you’ve done enough today, getting me involved in that butterscotch pudding fiasco.”
Dave stops for a light, and I notice that we’re getting close to the city again. Thank God.
“Then we order pizza and pick up ice cream.” But he doesn’t sound like he’s too worried we’ll be arguing over toppings and the last slice. He sounds pretty damn sure of himself, in fact.
Twenty minutes later we pull in front of a gorgeous three-flat brick apartment building on West Waveland in Wrigleyville. It’s like practically inside Wrigley Field.
“I’ve got the front unit on the middle floor,” he says, “but we all share the roof. Got a perfect view of left field.”
As we climb out of the Hummer—me in Dave’s T-shirt, dried pudding, and nothing else—I say, “I didn’t know this area was so popular.” It’s a Saturday night, and the sidewalks and sports bars are crowded with people, but it’s a very different crowd from the trendy people out and about downtown and in Lincoln Park, my neighborhood.
“Yeah. I’m a walk away from Cubby Bears and Murphy’s Bleachers.”
“Never been.”
Dave slings an arm around my shoulder. “Not your scene, Red. For starters, no pudding wrestling.”
I scowl at him, and he fishes a key out and opens the door to the building. Taking my hand, he leads me up a flight of stairs, then unlocks the door to his apartment.
“This is nice,” I say. “I didn’t think they had cute buildings like this in Wrigleyville.” What’s more, I wouldn’t think Dave would live in one. But he is an ad exec, so it’s not as though he’s living in poverty.
“They renovated this one a year or so ago.”
That becomes increasingly obvious when Dave opens the door. Right away I notice the hardwood floors, the granite countertops, and the adorable bay window. The decor is understated but tasteful—dark wood, dark fabrics, no clutter. The place could use a few personal touches, but it has tons of potential. I step inside, the hardwood floor cool against my bare feet.
Dave shuts the door and tosses his keys in a bowl with loose change and a couple of dollar bills.
“So, do I pass?” he asks with a smile.
I smile back. “I thought your evaluation came in the morning.”
“I better get to work, then. What do you want for dinner?”
I take a moment to answer. If I say pizza and ice cream, then all bets are off. If I leave it up to him, anything or nothing might happen.
I pad to the bay window and look out. “Order whatever’s easiest.”
“Nuh-uh.” He heads for the kitchen and flips on the light. “I’m cooking. Do you like pasta?”
I turn around. “I don’t know. Are we talking Chef Boyardee or Vivo?”
Dave folds his arms over his chest. “This is that high-maintenance thing I was talking about.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Okay, this is how it’s going to play. You go take a shower and get cleaned up, and I’ll make dinner and pour drinks.”
“Fine.” I head toward the hall where I assume his bedroom is. “See how low-maintenance I am?”
“Right. When you get done, I’ll pour you a glass of wine. Alcohol makes you more tolerable.”
“How sweet. Ply me with wine, then take advantage of me.”
“That’s the idea.” He waves down the dark hallway, presumably at the bedroom and bath. “Check in my closet. There might be some girls’ clothes left.”
I raise a brow.
“Not mine.” He shakes his head. “Ex-girlfriend.”
Hmm. I head back to the bedroom, switch on the light, and smile. He’s got a king-size bed with gorgeous wrought-iron head-and footboards. There’s also a very nice armoire in the corner, but I have a feeling it houses the TV, not his clothing. The bed is made, there aren’t any clothes on the floor, and the place even looks dusted.
Is Dave gay?
I step into his large walk-in closet and blink in surprise. His clothes are hung neatly—pants on one side, shirts on the other, suits in the back. Since I’m not too excited about wearing his ex-girlfriend’s clothes, or even trying to wrap my mind around the idea of Dave and an ex-girlfriend, I grab one of his T-shirts and a pair of boxers from a shelf, then head into the bathroom.
Again, I’m impressed. Bright lights, marble floors, really cute pewter towel rods and drawer pulls. And it’s clean, too.
I take a long shower, washing my hair about seven times to get all the pudding out. Dave has some kind of shampoo/ conditioner/hairspray all-in-one brand, which I’m sure is wreaking havoc on my hair. I wrap myself in a thick Egyptian cotton towel, and as I’m drying off, I yell, “Don’t you have any body lotion?”
“Get real,” he calls back.
“Leave-in conditioner?”
“Two words, Red. High-maintenance.”
I laugh, though I do wish he had some lotion because my skin feels dry after all that rolling around in pudding. And I’ve seen more split ends in my hair lately, so leave-in conditioner would be nice.
“Jesus Christ. Dave’s right,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. “I am high-maintenance.”
I slip on Dave’s T-shirt and boxers. As I pull the shirt over my head, I savor its scent. Mmm. Classic eau de Dave. I can’t really describe it. The closest I can get is to say he smells like laundry detergent, soap, and all the things I adore—pine trees, vintage Valentino, French doors opening on a garden in bloom, Frank Sinatra, new cars, and Cole Porter songs.
I brush my hair and rub it with the towel, leaving the long curls to dry naturally. Too damaging to blow-dry it without any real conditioner. When I pad back to the kitchen, I see that Dave’s put on a fresh T-shirt and gray athletic shorts. He’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot, one eye on it and one watching the basketball game on the portable TV on the counter.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Without looking away from the game, he hands me a glass of red wine.
“What are you making?”
“Penne pasta in vodka sauce.”
I frown and peer over his shoulder. Penne pasta is waiting to be added to a pot of boiling water, and the vodka sauce is simmering away. When I glance up at him, he’s looking at my chest. “You’re wearing my Cubs T-shirt.”
“You’re cooking. Like, really cooking.”
He shrugs. “I’m Italian. My family owns a vineyard and a restaurant in Sonoma, so what do you expect? I pretty much grew up around food and wine.”
I sip the wine. “It’s good.”
“One of our best years, a pinot noir from 1989. You don’t want something too heavy with this.”
The announcer yells, “That’s another foul, and Chicago calls a time-out.” Dave turns back to the TV, but I reach around him and flick it off.
“Hey!”
“We’ve had enough sports today.”
“Is that possible?”
“Very possible. Got any good CDs?”
He points to a shelf. “Over there. Pick what you want.”
I stroll over, frown at his collection of Bruce Springsteen, Pink Floyd, and John Mellencamp. Finally I stumble on a Sinatra CD and the soundtrack to When Harry Met Sally. I put it on, and Dave shakes his head.
“I knew you were going to pick that one. What’s the deal with you and sixty years ago?”
I lean on the counter next to the stove as Dave adds the penne to the boiling water. “I like vintage—music, clothes, dancing.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess because my grandma used to watch old movies and play a lot of big band music. I grew up with it, danced to it. And I like everything couture. If I’m going to wear Gucci and Ferragamo, why not Chanel and Schiaparelli? They’re the best. The originals.”
He transfers the pot of pasta to the sink. “And look at you now. How the mighty have fallen.”
“Dressing up is overrated,” I say.
He laughs, and pulls two plates from a cupboard. “I agree. I liked your outfit in the car.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, taking the plates as he ladles vodka sauce on the pasta. The dining table is covered with papers and memos from Dougall Marketing, so we sit on the floor and eat off the coffee table. I can’t remember the last time I ate a real meal like this. I can’t remember a time when my life felt this genuine. Between the staged “reality” TV shows, and the unreal twist my life has taken in the past few days, I almost don’t know who I am anymore. But with Dave, everything is easy. I don’t have to be a princess. He likes the regular me.
“More?” he asks when I’ve cleaned my plate.
I shake my head. “I’m stuffed.”
“No room for dessert?” He lifts my plate and carries the dishes into the kitchen.
“Hey, Dave,” I say as I follow. “Let me do that. You cooked.”
He turns on the faucet. “I’ll do it. Just relax.”
“But I feel so spoiled.”
He grins. “And that’s new?”
“Shut up.” I hop onto the counter next to the sink and watch him rinse the plates and silverware. “You’re very good at that.”
“What are you good at?” He leans down to grab the dishwasher liquid from under the sink.
“Interior design. But I sort of lost my job.”
He shrugs. “So, get another interior design job.” He finishes with the soap and closes the dishwasher.
“Wish I’d thought of that, Einstein. Problem is that Interiors by M is the best in the area, and after all the glowing press about me lately, I doubt many firms are going to want to hire a designer fired by the best and involved in a public scandal.”
Dave leans against the counter. “So? Start your own firm.”
“I can’t do that.”
He raises a brow. “Why not?”
“I—I—” Hmm. I don’t really know why not. Dave’s waiting for my answer, and since I don’t have one I decide to change the subject. “So, what’s for dessert?”
“What do you want?”
I think for a moment and say, “A cappuccino and tiramisu.”
Dave raises a brow.
“Hey, you ask an open question…” I say defensively.
“My mistake. I might have gelato.”
“That’s what I said. Gelato.”
Dave pulls the freezer open. “I’ve got strawberry gelato. Sound good?”
I nod and he pulls out two spoons, then reaches above me. “Bend down. The bowls are in the cupboard behind your head.”
I lean down, so that my face is inches from his. Dave’s arms are on either side of me, his body between my legs, dangling from the counter. “Dave,” I say.
Our eyes meet.
“I think I’m going to pass on the gelato.”