The Thrill of It Read online

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely.” Then she lowered her voice. “We’re going on the Ferris Wheel. Go back and see him.”

  Butterflies filled my belly. But she’d given the go-ahead. She’d encouraged me. This had to be the way the world worked.

  When my mom and Pierre were up in the sky, I returned to the carnival guy. He leaned against the Guess Your Age sign, searching for his next customer. I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “You were right,” I whispered near his ear.

  His lips curled up. “You really are sixteen.”

  “I really am sixteen.”

  “Me too,” he said. “Good thing I didn’t give her a bear.”

  “Good thing,” I echoed back.

  He licked his lips slightly, tasting what I imagined was the salty heat on them from a muggy summer night. Then I gestured with my eyes to the nearby whack-a-mole and toss-the-ring games. Behind the games was a little hideaway spot, a private corner of the carnival world. There, against the dirty once-white concrete wall I reached out to him, my hand linking through his, bringing him closer to me. I lifted my other hand to his face, brushing my fingertips against his cheek.

  I’d never kissed, I’d never been kissed, but somehow I was a natural. I was all instinct.

  Later, when we were home, my mom asked me how it went.

  I told her everything. Because, that’s what we did. That’s normal, right? She squealed and clapped. “Your first kiss!”

  Then she gave me kissing tips for the next time. A lesson in seduction from my mother.

  Chapter Seven

  Harley

  I sink into my pillow, practicing deep, calming breaths.

  Reciting mantras Joanne taught me at SLAA.

  This too shall pass.

  The three-second rule.

  Let the past be the past.

  I lie flat and picture calm waters. Blue seas. Shining sun. A warm breeze. The beach I want to run off to. The ocean I want to carry me away from New York. The sand between my toes. Everything is peaceful in the world. My life is serene. Each day flows into the next and I go through life with a smile, a nod and a feeling of good will towards humankind.

  There are no sirens, no email demands, no mothers who set you up, no fathers who leave you, no boys who run away from you when you throw yourself at them.

  But that life is a lie. A pathetic, bald-faced fabrication and I don’t believe me for a second. There is no peace, there is no serenity, there is no happiness in love, and it’s as if someone or something cranked me up a notch, turned the timer on a once-dormant, now-ticking bomb inside me. I try to ignore the noise and the sound and the tightness in my body.

  I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. Classes are nearly over, I have no more homework, I have no summer plans, I need something to do. I kick the sheets around a few times, flip on my back, then my stomach, even toss off the bedspread. I feel itchy, antsy. I clench and unclench my hands. I glance at my phone. It’s alive, calling out to me, whispering sweet nothings. Touch me. Put your fingers on me. Use me to deal.

  I can’t deal by going back. I want to deal by going back.

  I can’t. I want. I won’t. I want.

  Like enemies in tug of war, the two sides of me pull, they yank, they jerk.

  I close my eyes, trying to push away the flashing images of my messages, of Cam, of going back, back, back. They’re like bumper cars knocking, clanging.

  I flip over and bang my fist into the pillow.

  I can’t believe I did that to Trey. I can’t believe I jumped him like that when I know he wants to be good. When he’s trying so hard to heal. He’s not like me. He’s better, he’s healthier, he’s closer to moving on.

  Trey doesn’t want to be a recidivist. He doesn’t want to slide back into the old skin.

  And I was the call girl. The temptress. The little vixen school girl who uses charms and wiles to get what she wants.

  I smash my hand once more into the pillow.

  That’s who I am though. Why fight it. Why fight Layla?

  I grab my phone, open my messages, read it again.

  Missing things? Missing me? That can be fixed in an instant, sweetheart. Tomorrow night. Bliss Bar. 7 p.m. Be there.

  I run my finger across the note, gasping for breath. My mind is drowning in a sea, crashing upside down under the waves. I let them carry me, toss me back into the waters. Before I even think about it for more than a fleeting second — because I don’t think at times like this, I act, I do, I operate on impulse — I reply.

  Can’t wait.

  Trey

  The second I flop down onto my Michele’s couch, I blurt it out. “We fooled around last night.”

  She doesn’t raise an eyebrow or give me a haughty look. She simply waits for me to say more. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and she’s decked out in standard shrink garb. Gray pants, a white blouse, pearl earrings. I don’t know much about her. It’s not as if we talk about her or her family or why she became a shrink. All I know is she specializes in this kind of stuff. In my kind of problem. She was on the list of recommended shrinks from SLAA.

  I heave a sigh. “It was at the coffee shop. We went into the back, and one thing led to another.”

  “Stop right there.” She holds up her hand, then points her index finger. “That’s not how the world works. One thing doesn’t lead to another. There are actions and choices. Now, you know I don’t judge you for any of them. But by the same token, if you want to have an honest discussion here, let’s not say one thing led to another. Take responsibility for your actions, Trey.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Fine. She kissed me. I kissed her back,” I say in a huff. “Okay? That better?”

  She nods. “And how do you feel about it?”

  “I fucking want her like crazy.” I roll my eyes, pushing my hands in my hair. “Like that’s a surprise? But it will never happen.”

  “Why? And what is it? Is it sex you want? Or a relationship with Harley?”

  “She doesn’t want either.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe since you said she kissed you. But that’s not what I asked. I want to know what you want with her. Sex or a relationship?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Neither will happen.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe you’re not ready for a relationship.”

  “Obviously,” I say sarcastically. I hold my hands out wide, stretching across her beige couch. The window is open slightly, and the horns and the honking of midtown traffic bleat in the distance. “Not as if I know how to have one. Not as if I know anything.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is maybe other things should come first with her.”

  “Like?”

  “Like working on being honest with her. Practicing honesty.”

  “I’m not dishonest.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I know,” she says calmly. “But you also know you could take your friendship a step further. And it will be good for your healing if you tell her about your family.”

  My heart skitters at the thought. I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “You can. You want her to know you, right?”

  “I don’t even know how to say it.”

  “You just say it. That’s how you say something that’s hard. You put one foot in front of the other. You take it step by step. You say the words. There is no magic formula. There is no secret sauce. But there are words,” she says emphatically, as if she’s delivering an impassioned speech. As if she’s saying something that matters deeply to her. “And words are all we have. That’s all there really is between people. At the end of the day, we have our actions, and we have our words. And you simply say them.”

  I try them on for size, as if I’m talking about what I did today. Casual, cool, offhand, like we’re walking to the subway and I’m making a random observation. “Oh hey, Harley. I thought you should k
now. One night when I was fifteen, my brother –“ but I choke on the rest of the words.

  Chapter Eight

  Harley

  I touch up my makeup, outline my lips and apply Cam’s favorite color lipstick, then some shimmery gloss. I press my lips together, smacking them lightly, and appraise my appearance. He’ll be pleased, but he’s always been pleased. Fact is, I’m pleased. I like the way I look. My faux school uniform is like a power suit, my armor, a super hero’s costume that makes me feel on top of the world. Short skirt, white blouse, knee-highs and Mary Janes. When I wear this, I make the rules. My phone buzzes as I open my bedroom door. Trey’s calling. I’m supposed to go to the meeting with him.

  I ignore the call.

  Then a text message flashes by. Hey. Hope you’re OK. Sorry about last night. See you in fifteen minutes?

  But I don’t want to go to the meeting.

  I don’t want to be a recovered addict.

  I want to be addicted. I want to take a hit. I want to inhale all this control.

  I turn the phone on silent. I feel a strange mix of guilt and thrill from ignoring Trey for the first time ever. Guilt because I have no lies with him. Thrill because the rush of the game is starting and now I am toying with Trey—something I’ve never done with him. Even last night when I practically attacked him, I was all honesty and guts, laying it on the line for him, letting him know how I felt. Where did it get me? Rejected.

  I look at the phone one more time, scrolling over the missed call, my fingers hovering over his name. I could call him back. I could text him. I could be honest. I could confess. I could stop what I’m going to do. This is like my lifeline. The universe giving me one more way out.

  But I am beyond repair. He deserves more than me.

  I hide the phone at the bottom of my purse.

  Fuck lifelines.

  I sail down the stairs in the apartment building, feeling the rush of anticipation, of flirtation, of sparks about to be ignited. I feel bubbly and alive in a way I haven’t felt in six months. It’s like someone hit a tuning fork against me and I am now vibrating at the perfect frequency again.

  My frequency.

  I hail a cab and though it’s still rush hour, one comes squealing by in a heartbeat. I’ve never had a problem catching taxis. I give the driver the address of Bliss on Sixtieth and Lexington, far enough away that I might as well be in another world.

  Even Miranda isn’t an East Side gal.

  When she had me followed, it was all West side operations.

  The time Miranda confronted me I was walking to my mom’s for dinner and talking to Cam on my cell phone. I’d given him the rundown on one of his top-paying clients, and he was laughing deeply, then lining up another gig for me. I turned south on Central Park West and spotted Miranda marching toward me, her slightly pouchy chin the identifying mark along with her customary skirt that sat high on her waist, a sartorial attempt to mask the few extra pounds. She was chubby then. The next thing I noticed were those laser-like eyes, like an assassin’s zeroed in on a target.

  Me. In her crosshairs.

  I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Cam. The next thing I knew, she’d slapped me, like in the movies, her palm smacking my cheek, my head careening to the right at impact. I dropped the cell phone, the battery spitting itself out onto the sidewalk of New York City.

  “I bet you thought you were going to get away with screwing my husband,” she said.

  “No,” I squeezed out, as I pressed my hand against my stinging cheek. That was true. I didn’t think I’d get away with it. I bent down to grab the phone and she kicked it farther away with her brown leather boot.

  That pissed me off. I looked up at her. “Really? Did you have to do that?”

  She laughed, but the sound was cold and hurt, so much hurt, rage and shame mashed together in her tangled voice as she tried to keep some semblance of control while I scrambled to pick up the phone parts. “That,” she said, hissing out the word, “is nothing compared to what I am going to do next. And you will be wishing for a broken cell phone for months, Harley Coleman. Months. Because you’re more than just a cheater. You’re a whore.”

  A chill swept through me, as if icicles were breeding on my skin. She’d found out the whole truth. But I had it coming. Whatever she was going to do I would have to bend over and take it. Even though I never screwed her husband.

  And maybe that’s another reason why I am in this cab tonight. Because I have been taking it from her for months. I want to take something for me again.

  The driver makes small talk and I exchange pleasantries with him as I give my breasts a boost so my cleavage peeks out of the top of the lacy bra. He does his best to appear surreptitious as his eyes dart around for a peek. I adjust my knee-high white socks making sure they fit just so.

  “Excuse me for a sec,” I say, but I don’t move out of the way of the rearview mirror. Let him enjoy his job today. Let me be in charge. I undo two buttons on my blouse, making sure my boobs look good.

  The driver breathes hard. I smile into the mirror, knowing I’ve just given him his happy ending for when he gets off work. When he pulls up to Bliss I thank him. He turns around and says, “No, thank you.”

  I press a twenty into his hand and hop out.

  When my heels hit the sidewalk, I am officially in Trey’s territory since he grew up on the upper east side. But I won’t run into him here because he lives downtown now. Besides, I’m not thinking about him, or about the cell phone stuffed at the bottom of my bag, nor the fact that I’m crazy certain he’s called again and texted again. I always answer for him. I’m available all the time for him. I rely on his friendship more than anything.

  He knows all this, and so he’ll know I’m up to something.

  But I don’t care right now.

  Hugo, the muscly dude at the Bliss door knows me well, but still asks for my ID. He hasn’t seen me in six months. I show him the one that says I’m twenty-two.

  “Been a while, Layla,” he says, using the name on my ID.

  “Missed you too, Hugo,” I say with a wink. He blushes, waves me in and gives me a kiss on the cheek as I go by. I blow him one back.

  Then I’m inside. Just as easy as it’s always been.

  Cam’s waiting by the bar, tall and sturdy and five-o-clock-shadow-stubbly, with the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen pinned across his face. He wears pressed black pants and a silk shirt the shade of raspberry. He’s ridiculously tall with wavy, receding brown hair. Gelled, of course. He looks like Vince Vaughn. He talks like Vince Vaughn.

  Just like the day I met him two years ago, thanks to my mom.

  But here’s the best part. She doesn’t know he’s in my back pocket. She doesn’t know one of her sources is now mine. That I set myself up for my new job, my other life, because of someone I met through her. She didn’t intend to hook me up with Cam. She was simply meeting him for a tip on a story, and when she stepped away to answer a call, we got to chatting, and then we got to exchanging numbers, and then I got to know more about him than she ever did.

  I learned something he never told her.

  I learned about his moonlighting job.

  “You and I could go places,” he said to me that day.

  He’s a lawyer and he was one of my mom’s sources on a huge story she broke uncovering the sexting senator. Cam had all sorts of shady clients, but that also meant he knew all sorts of shady things – things she wanted to know to bust the senator. He’d played a role in prosecuting the guy, but yet he also ran a high-class call girl ring on the side.

  Call Cam morally ambiguous. Call him a hypocrite. Call him the best fucking time I ever had.

  “Hey babydoll! You look so fucking beautiful,” he says as I sit on the bar stool next to him. I barely have time to say hello, because he continues, “How could you let me go this long without seeing you? I’ve been starving. I’m like a dying man in a desert and you walk in and I can drink again.”

 
“You’re mixing metaphors. When you’re starving you’re hungry. When you’re in the desert you’re thirsty,” I say playfully, wagging my index finger as I correct him.

  “When it comes to you I’m starving and I’m thirsty,” he says, inching closer, so I can smell his cologne, a cool, forest-y scent that’s both sexy and sleazy at the same time.

  “Looks like you already started.” I tip my forehead to his martini.

  “I couldn’t help myself. I was waiting for you, babydoll.” Then he leans in for a kiss. I turn my face so his lips brush my cheek.

  I loved teasing him then. Turns out it still rocks. It still sends a tingle from my toes to my nose. God, this feels so good. It’s the opposite of being blackmailed. It’s the other side of my mom setting me up with boys.

  It’s my side. My turn. My time.

  “The cheek? Six months and I get the cheek? It’s been a long six months. C’mon, just one kiss for your old man Cam.”

  I shake my head. Cam’s never been about the kissing. Cam’s about the access for me. An entree into a world of power, into my very own war games.

  “How about a drink then?”

  “You don’t remember?” I give Cam a pointed look.

  He leans in to whisper. “Course I do. But you’ve got your ID. And Tom —” Cam nods to the bartender at the other end “— has always believed you were twenty-two, my babydoll.”

  “Cam! I’m not talking about my age. I’m talking about the fact that I don’t drink.”

  He holds up his hands and shrugs. “You changed everything else. How’m I to know you didn’t change that too?”

  “Touché,” I say.

  Drinking has never been my thing. You could surround me with trays of cocktails, with tables full of sexy, little frothy drinks, sugared on the rim, and I wouldn’t even notice them. I wouldn’t even touch them.

  “A Diet Coke for my babydoll, Tom,” Cam says to the bartender, then winks at me.

  “Hey, Layla,” Tom says and I flash him a bright smile. Then to Cam, “You remembered.”