“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, dude,” he said.
We retreated to our separate corners of the firehouse, and I spent an hour on the treadmill in my basement gym. I hoped to burn off the sickly feeling that I’d been carrying since Tiel walked out on Friday night.
It didn’t work, and I was too irritable to wander around the house much longer.
My workshop held no appeal either, and after a shower, I headed to Alibi at The Liberty Hotel.
The converted jail was one of my favorite preservation projects of late. Not only was it the coolest fucking idea I’d ever heard—unfortunately, it hadn’t been my idea—but it was the best spot to see the most fascinating people.
Actresses in town shooting the latest movie, athletes showing off their championship swagger, bankers and CEOs who needed to talk about how much they’re worth, the few remaining old Boston socialites.
And me.
I didn’t have any Hollywood producers in my phone book, but I folded right in each time. It helped that I knew the architects who worked on The Liberty’s restoration and could speak fluently about the process of transforming it from a decommissioned jail to high-end hotel.
Everyone loved that shit.
I was self-aware enough to acknowledge that seeing and being seen offered a degree of validation that I craved. Any kid who was systematically relegated to humiliating daily taunts or dismissed by pretty girls would relish an evening spent chatting with the Celtics’ point guard.
To the best of my knowledge, none of the dickheads I knew from school enjoyed anything like this.
Mondays were slow nights, and I watched a group of guys who seemed to be reciting scenes fromSwingerswhile I nursed my drink. Women approached, and some were bold enough to sit beside me and attempt a conversation. It should have been enough to pull me out of my head tonight, but it wasn’t.
My funk, my gorge, my black hole . . . whatever it was, I was falling further.
Most women moved on when I didn’t reciprocate their interest, but one didn’t get the hint. I could have excused myself; I did have an early meeting back at the Turlan property.
Instead, she rattled on about her work (ignored that part), her friends (bitches—all of them—but she’d find one for a threesome if I wanted), her Twitter followers (quite a few, apparently), and I just wanted her to shut the fuck up.
It got as far as letting her pull my cock out in the coat check room before my skin was crawling, and it wasn’t from an impending anxiety attack.
Isn’t that why you’re willing to accept quick, emotionless sex from women who expect nothing from you? Isn’t it your way of repossessing some youthful irresponsibility?
It was Tiel. I couldn’t stomach the idea of anyone else touching me.
Without a word, I zipped up and all but ran home.
Once my front door was closed behind me, I dropped to the ground and pulled out my phone. It wasn’t drunkenness or depression. The polished concrete just seemed like the best spot to hate myself.
I scrolled through my texts and missed calls, hoping I’d see something from Tiel. There was nothing, and though I didn’t know what time it was, it felt like the right time to call her. This needed fixing, and if she tore my beating heart out of my chest and sliced it like pastrami, at least I wouldn’t have to live with the regret of not trying.
I started thinking about how to explain what happened on Friday when I realized she was talking to me.
“Sam, I can hear you breathing. If this is a butt dial at one in the morning, I’m going to be epically pissed. You know I have studio time at six every Tuesday.”
“You’re fun,” I laughed. “You’re my Sunshine.”
“You’re drunk.”
Was I? No. Not as much as I should be. “Quite hardly,” I said. “You really are fun, Tiel. I enjoy your company.”
“Uh-huh.”
“When are we going out again?” I heard her yawn and glanced to my watch. Itwasafter one in the morning. “We can go to another filthy music house if that’s what you want, but I think you’d like The Liberty. You’d find it adequately strange.”
“Sam,” she sighed. It was a long, elaborate sound, and it landed somewhere between annoyed and fire-breathing. “Do you remember Friday night?”
“I do,” I said slowly. “I think I might have been an asshole.”
