City Chicks

Chapter 4

Four

“Go out?” Eyes glued to a two-page spread of candy colored T-shirts, I kept my voice as detached and reasonable as possible. Fairly difficult considering my near heart attack of just moments ago.

“Yeah,” he explained enthusiastically, “some of the cast and crew are going to the Red Hook. Wanna come?”

My heart started pumping again and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

The Red Hook Brewery, an ancient institution in this part of Brooklyn, was just around the corner from the studio. I had a feeling many Friday nights would begin at their famous two dollar Happy Hour.

Beer wasn’t really my thing—more like Mojitos or Mint Juleps—fine, I’d never actually had a Mint Julep, but as a Southern woman I felt honor bound to list that as a favorite—but a night out sounded like a good idea.

“Sure. I have a few more calls to make first.”

“Great,” Chris said as he jumped up from the chair. “Swing by my dressing room when you’re ready. We can head over early and get a good table.”

Just to get one last tease in, I called out, “Which room was that again?”

He turned in the doorway, lifting his sweater once again as he backed out into the hall. Patting his stomach, he returned, “Just follow the sound of the washboard.”

With a wink and a grin he was gone.

And I collapsed in a heap of hormones onto my desk.

I needed therapy. The kind they advertised, thinly veiled as a “dating service,” in the back pages of the Village Voice along with pictures of bondage equipment and remote controlled massagers. I’d never thought four months was too long to go without, but considering the recent direction of my thoughts my situation was obviously desperate.

Because only a desperate woman would knowingly lust after a physiologically unavailable man.

The phone rang, saving me from dragging out the phone book and looking up escort services.

“Hi Bethany,” the extra-cheery voice on the other end of the line said, “it’s Kit.”

“Hey Kit, is something wrong?”

“No,” she denied immediately, “of course not. I’m calling to give you a report.”

“Great.”

In the week since Kit had taken over running the day-to-day at Walk-In Closet, she had turned the store upside-down. In a good way.

The first day she had called to see if she could rearrange the displays. Just a little. When I stopped in to check on things that night, she had swapped sides with the men’s and women’s collections, giving the men’s wear more floor space and setting it closer to the register. A logical choice considering all the upcoming free advertising for that side.

The new layout put the women’s wear on the side with the tri-fold full-length mirror. A definite plus.

The second day she had called to see if she could sort the stock in the back room. Just a little. When I stopped by, I found the piles of boxes in the back room organized into neat, navigable rows, categorized, and clearly labeled.

She even found a missing box of cuff links that represented nearly $5,000 worth of merchandise.

When she called the third day I answered with, “Do whatever you want, Kit. You’re a genius.”

I should have hired her two years ago. Walk-In Closet would probably be a nation-wide chain by now.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m listening.”

She ran through a quick accounting of the week’s sales, the shipments that had come in, and the stock we needed to order. But when she finished her review, I sensed some hesitation. Like she hadn’t really said everything she wanted to say.

“And that’s it, I guess ...” she concluded.

“Is there something else?”

“Well, no,” she said—I could almost hear her sucking on her lip. “Not really.”

“Please, Kit. If there’s a problem just tell me about it—”

“No, no,” she interrupted. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just ...”

“Yes?”

She hesitated again, as if steeling her courage. “I think you should hire another sales associate.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “You’re quitting already? I thought you liked working—”

“No! Of course I’m not quitting,” she hurried to reassure me. “I just think that if you hire another salesperson, so the shop can be open more hours, it would be worth the investment.”

More than a little relieved, I considered her suggestion. At the moment, the shop was open Tuesday through Friday from ten until six and Saturday from ten until two. That way it hit the prize-hunting housewives, the just-off-from-work executives, and the weekend wanderers.

Granted, it was less than forty hours a week, but that was mainly because when the shop first opened I had maintained a part-time job until things took off. And when they did, I never bothered to change it.

“You’re absolutely right. I’ll take care of it as soon as I have time. Maybe early next week—”

“I can take care of it for you,” she offered. “It’s no problem, really. And I have a few friends at Parsons who might be interested in some part-time hours.” Then, as if she felt she’d overstepped her bounds, added, “If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“Actually, it’s a relief.” Glancing at the piles of catalogs on my desk and thinking of the wardrobe I still had to pull together by Friday, I might not have had time until next March. “Kit, you’re the best thing that ever happened to Walk-In Closet.”

I could almost hear her beaming through the phone.

“And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to—” She stopped short, like she was going to say something and then changed her mind. “Me. To me.”

“Then it’s a perfect arrangement.”

I signed off, saying I’d be in tomorrow for the Saturday shift. Kit couldn’t work every day of the week.

Chris popped his head back in my office as I hung up the phone. “Com’on Lange,” he whined. “Let’s go before the place is packed.”

“Okay, okay,” I relented.

Grabbing my purse, I gave one last longing glance at the mile-long To Do list before heading out the door.

“Finally.” As I passed him, he reached out and pinched my waist. “Maybe you won’t have to sit on my lap after all.”

My cheeks burned.

If only that were a reward and not a punishment.

“I used to dress up my sister’s dolls,” Bryce explained in answer to a question about how he got involved in fashion. “She had the best-dressed Barbies in Flushing.”

We—the entire cast, two cameramen, an electrician, a sound guy, and I—sat at a trio of tables pushed into one long surface in the back corner of the brewery. It was not lost on me that I was the only female in attendance.

From my seat at the head of the table, I could see everyone clearly. Chris and Bryce sat to my direct left and right, with Danial and Adam beyond them. Evan sat next to Danial—furthest from me without being drawn into the cluster of techies at the far end.

Emboldened by a strong Mojito—I’d been overwhelmingly relieved to discover they served more than beer—I watched Evan dubiously. Not that my gaydar was known for its reliability, but even expecting him to look gay he just ... didn’t.

Dressed in a white button-down and khakis, he could pass for any of a dozen investments bankers in the brewery, just off work and throwing back a few to relax. He didn’t have on eyeliner. Didn’t add a lisp to every other word. Didn’t even bat his eyes at the cute waiter who brought our drinks—whom Bryce made a production of flirting with.

My conviction deepened. Evan was not gay.

This was a scam. He was pulling one over on me, the cast and crew, and—if the show took off—all of America. This was about more than my embarrassing dating record. This was about justice.

I was the only one who knew the truth firsthand and I couldn’t let him get away with it. It was up to me to uncover evidence of his lies.

A woman in a miniskirt, ass barely concealed from view, walked by and—I swore—his gaze followed her across the room. No one else noticed. But I saw him checking her out.

Gotcha.

Now I had to prove it to the world.

“Whaddya say, Beth?”

At Chris’s question, I tore my studious gaze away from Evan the liar. “I’m sorry. What?”

“I was saying maybe we could all wear matching sequined tux jackets, like Liberace.”

“Oh. Well, I— I mean— Um—”

“It was a joke.” Chris turned and looked at the rest of the cast. “We really need to lighten her up.”

“We can start with highlights,” Adam chimed in. “I’m dying to get my hands on those virgin locks.”

“They’re about the only virgin thing at this table.” Bryce downed the remains of his scotch and soda before signaling the waiter for another. His eyes drifted to the far end of the table. “Or maybe not.”

The sound guy responded by throwing an ice cube at Bryce, who in turn pulled open the first three buttons of his bright striped shirt and shouted, “Come on, baby. Do it again.”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, the sound guy went back to his conversation about why wireless body mics were the greatest invention since celluloid.

I watched as Evan’s face turned several shades of crimson. He abruptly pushed back from the table.

“Hey guys, sorry to cut it short,” he explained as he shrugged into his leather jacket. “Just remembered something I gotta do. Catch you later.”

Without further fanfare he practically ran from the building.

My gaze narrowed. What was that all about?

They’d been joking around about my hair and a general lack of virginity and— Wait. That had to be it. The topic of s*x had reminded him of our relationship and he’d had to bolt before they all found out he was really hetero.

“I have to go, too,” I announced. Grabbing my purse, I quickly made my excuse. “Gotta check on the shop. Bye.”

I was halfway back to the studio—and my waiting car—when Chris caught up with me.

“Hey, what was that all about?”

I tried to brush him off lightly. “I just have to go, alright. I’ll see you Monday.”

But he wasn’t so easily deterred. “I know you don’t have to check on the shop,” he continued as he fell in step beside me. “Kit went home half an hour ago.”

“Right. Well. Still need to do, um, inventory.”

“Bethany, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, I just—” Stopping to look into his clear blue eyes I couldn’t keep up the lie. But I couldn’t tell him the truth, either. “I just have to go. Now. Okay?”

His gaze searched my face for a moment, as if weighing my plea. My skin heated under his scrutiny. What a time for my hormones to kick in; when I’m on the trail of a hetero pretending to be gay and fleeing from a gay guy for whom I’d drop my drawers in a heartbeat.

“Okay,” he agreed, his face softening as if deciding to allow me my secrets.

“I’m sorry,” I felt compelled to say as I started backwards, covering the last few feet to my bright blue VW Beetle.

“No problem.” He smiled brightly, though I could tell he still felt slighted. “Catch ya later.”

Seconds later I was in my car and circling the area looking for Evan. I finally spotted him descending into the Carroll Street subway station. Diving my car to the curb, I threw it into park and hurried to follow him down the steps.

Reaching the platform level as he pushed through the turnstile, I whipped out my MetroCard, only realizing as the train pulled into the station that Evan was catching the Brooklyn bound F train. Away from his Manhattan apartment.

Head hung in thought—or, I hoped, shame—Evan stepped through the shiny silver doors and dropped into a plastic seat. Deciding not to risk being seen, I stepped on board the next car, watching him through the connecting doors.

The cars were half full of long-houred executives and about-to-party twenty-somethings. At each stop, there were fewer execs and more partiers.

When the train pulled into the 15th Street/Prospect Park station, Evan rose. I followed him off the train, remaining a good twenty feet behind him at all times. At street level, he turned left and headed down the residential street.

Memory hit me in a flash. His mother lived in Park Slope. I watched him hurry up the steps of a white, clapboard house and open the front door. Even from half a block away I heard him call out, “Mom, I’m home.”

Lord, I felt like a fool.

Certain I’d been tracking him to a secret tryst with his female love, logic had fallen by the wayside.

That didn’t mean I was wrong though.

Evan Riley was not gay, and if I had to follow him home every night I would prove it. To myself, if no one else. I needed to know the truth. I couldn’t pinpoint why it felt so critical, but I couldn’t let him get away with the deception. I couldn’t live with the doubt of forever wondering… what if I was wrong. I couldn’t live with that fifth and fatal flaw on my dating history.

Slinking back into the subway, I only hoped I didn’t make such a fool of myself every time.

Beep. I looked down at the turnstile card reader. Swiping my card through again, I got another beep in return. Great, I’d wasted the last of my MetroCard on a fruitless enterprise. What else could go wro—

That’s when I felt the tug. A brief pull against my left shoulder. And whoosh, my purse was gone.

Before I could react, the little punk had hopped the turnstile and slipped through the closing doors of the train.

“Hey!” I shouted futilely at the departing train, pushing against the stubborn turnstile.

Shrinking back, I stared at the empty MetroCard in my hand, as if it was to blame. “Drat.”

I started to throw it to the ground, but remembered that it might have something just under the two dollar fare left on the strip. It was all I had left. “Drat, drat.”

“Miss,” a static-y voice called across the station lobby. “Hey Miss, you need some help?”

Thank the Lord for the MTA.

“Yes,” I declared, moving over to the dirt-stained window of the teller booth, a bright smile pasted on my face to hide the tears pooling beneath the surface. “That punk stole my purse.”

The older man behind the counter smiled sympathetically. “This neighborhood is going downhill fast. Young lady can’t even catch the subway without getting mugged.” He picked up the telephone. “I’ll call up to 7th Avenue. Most times they ditch the purse at the next stop.”

Aldus, as his name tag read, chatted with the attendant at the next station for far longer than necessary in the given situation. But I kept myself from protesting since he was doing me a favor.

“Good news, Miss,” he announced. “Jacqui has your purse. And the patrolman has your mugger.”

I smiled gratefully, thanked Aldus, and headed up the steps to street level.

“Hold on,” he called after me. “Where you going?”

“Oh, my MetroCard is empty,” I explained. It wasn’t too far to the next station. I could make it in my kitten-heeled mules. “I’ll walk.”

“Nonsense.” Aldus waved me toward the gate used by moms with strollers. “You get yourself on the train that’s pulling into station in precisely forty-three seconds.”

“Thank you, Aldus.” I smiled as he buzzed me through, more relieved than I let on at not having to walk. “You’re an angel. If there weren’t bulletproof glass between us, I’d kiss you.”

“If I weren’t happily married, I’d let you.”

By the time the train arrived, I had decided that next time I followed Evan I would have to be more organized. Implement some kind of strategy, a systematic surveillance that commenced every night when we left the studio. I would be in my car, ready, before he walked out the door. My cup holder would be full of coins for the parking meters. I would use every last ounce of my persistence and planning ability to catch him in the proverbial act.

No more spontaneity.

Spontaneous stalking just got me ticketed and mugged.

Three hours, a trip to the police station, and six parking tickets later—thanks to leaving my car in the No Parking Zone in front of the subway entrance—I pulled into the garage around the corner from my building and lowered my head onto the steering wheel. Ten o’clock on a Friday night and I was worn out and looking forward to a long hot bath and the welcoming softness of my featherbed.

But all calming thoughts fled when I pushed open my apartment door and found every light on.

Eighteen years of Daddy’s threats about owning stock in the electric company had taught me to turn everything off before leaving each morning.

Setting my purse—thankfully complete with all the cash and credit cards I’d left the house with that morning—on the side table by the door, I pulled out my cell phone. I had just dialed 9-1 when I heard the twangy strains of bluegrass music filter through the apartment.

I’d never owned a bluegrass album in my life. What kind of thief brought his own music? The only person I even knew who listened to that hillbilly garbage was—

“Hey Bets. What’s shakin’?”

“Randy!” I shrieked and dropped my phone. Heart pounding, I threw a stern glare at the lanky figure emerging from my bedroom. Marching across the apartment, I planted myself in front of him and shoved a finger at his chest. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“These Yanks teach you that language?” he threw back, equally reproachful.

We stared at each other for a ten count—each daring the other to blink—before I gave up and flung myself into his arms.

“Lord, I’ve missed you!”

“If it’ll get you off my neck,” he teased, faking disgust at my embrace, “then I’ll say I missed you, too, sis.”

He gave up the pretense and returned my hug. It had been three years since I last saw him. Three years since that Christmas when Daddy told me that if I wasn’t coming home for good, I shouldn’t come home at all. Three years that had changed this boy into a man.

Then again, three years with Daddy would age anyone. No wonder the boyish softness and the naivety had disappeared.

“Oh, shrimp, you’ve grown so much.” This on top of everything else I’d been through pushed me over the edge. Through welling tears, I chastened, “But you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here? And how did you get in?”

“Your neighbor took pity on me waiting in your hall.”

I needed to have a talk with Mrs. Franklin about the spare key I’d given her for emergencies. Letting in strangers found lurking around the hall did not qualify.

“Randy ...” I warned as I wiped at the tears spilling from my eyes.

His face cracked in a grin that reassured me he was still a boy inside. “I’ve run away from home.”

“Lord, no,” I cried, and I was sure my face fell, “Dad’ll kill me.”