Have Kids, Then We'll Talk

The girls didn't spend the night at my place, and I rarely spend the night alone. And so I wake up in a bed that is not mine, smelling like men's cologne, Bvlgari's Jasmin Noir, the original edition, tobacco and fucking cognac. Any sort of alcohol I can handle, but cognac... I do not wish to know what I’d been up to last night.

Never mind, had I been sober, I still wouldn't have slept alone. It's just one of those pesky little habits of mine which I, by the way, have quite a few. I can't sleep in an empty bed when I'm under the influence of pretty much anything. And I'm always... You get the point.

Not slutty, just very much mentally unstable.

Although my mind doesn’t have much recollection of the night’s past events, my body feels their aftermath and I think that temporary alcohol-induced amnesia might be very convenient at this point. Judging by the fact that my whereabouts look pretty luxurious at least I know that I didn’t let some random bum bed me last night which would’ve, actually, been better. The last thing I need is another appearance on the holy page six under some snob’s arm whose name I can’t remember.

Beep. Beeeeep. Beep.

The whole bed vibrates along with my sidekick and I shuffle to my side, cringing into the white hotel pillow. The remnants of my lipstick leave their red imprint on the pristine white and it collides with my eyes like a huge red strobe as I open them slowly, afraid of becoming aware of my current situation too quickly. There is only so much I can handle in the mornings.

The clock on my sidekick reads 2 pm.

Afternoons.

Call me when you get this. I’m worried. You okay? -Aiden

A dull pain, usually associated with Aiden, clenches its hot, searing fingers around my stomach and I close my eyes for a little while again. It’s so much easier when I’m knocked unconscious. Everything, coping with horrendous mistakes included.

Peachy.

I reply, close the damned contraption and hurl it on the floor. It bounces off the puffy carpet softly, not causing nearly enough damage as it should have had it been up to me.

Some people call this type of behavior passive aggressive, but I call it healthy. It would be much worse for his health if I’d just punched Aiden in his man-slut, ignorant face. Of course I was okay dammit. Why shouldn’t I be? Not like his horny ass cared last night anyway.

What am I saying?

I’m having a mini breakdown, aren’t I?

Bits and pieces of last night start surfacing slowly (the worst timing, right?) and whirl around my conscious mind in a flashy, neon lit, loud whirlpool of images and sounds. People and faces fly by, none of them really important, none of the images really worthwhile and different from the millions of others I’ve created before.

Yet a couple of moments stick out, pricking like thorns.

Aiden left with some hussy again. Not that I actually give a fucking damn. He can do whoever he feels like, it’s not like I have a say in those things. But if I did… you have a damned bad taste, Aiden.

But that is not what has me so worked up that I have to sit up in the four-poster bed so abruptly that the brightly-lit room starts spinning wildly out of control.

Jared’s lips.

Jared’s lips on mine.

The only thing that makes last night different from any other night out. And it’s not the kissing part. I grew tired of that simple expression of affection a long time ago. It is Jared. It is the fact that it made me run away and cower in the restrooms, made me sit on the posh red marble countertop along with the bottles of Advil and Evian water and count all the brands of moisturizers present and pop a fistful of the Advil pills in my mouth and wash them down with the flask from my purse. Which surprise, surprise, contained dad’s old cognac. How masochistic can I actually get?

I kick back the silky covers and squirm my way out of bed grumpily, searching for my clothes. I pull my dress down from where it hung on the mirror and scour the entire room for my underwear. Well, my undies, I chose not to wear a bra with the sleek little Channel number I had on. Of course it looks like shit now, all crumpled and tired much like myself. Guess I’m going commando.

The red Manolo's are easy to find, their leathery shine grabbing my attention from their place under the armchair. I retrieve my sunglasses from the hallway floor, plant them on my nose and run my fingers through my hair, frowning, disgruntled at the fact that my hair seems to be permanently tangled.

I stare at the mirror, absorbing my bewildered expression and disheveled looks. I should probably start eating more and smoking less, I take a mental note as I notice my ribs poking out through the dress unflatteringly. The only thing still looking perky and healthy are my boobs of course, what else?

A simple sheet of white paper stands on the table in the center of the suite, leaning against my red purse, thereby catching my attention.

Lovely to see you again, C.
A.L.

Of course I called him. Jared kissed me and of-fucking-course I opted for calling Mr. You’re-Still-Underage-But-What-The-Hell. Of course I didn’t stick around long enough for Jared to find me and recreate the inevitable love scene from some old black and white movie. Of course I fucked up.

I don’t even know what I want.

Well, actually, I want to get out of here and cheer myself up with a full treatment at Estee Lauder’s Red Room, all the plucking, massaging and exfoliating I can handle. Perhaps s good rub would get the stench of cigarettes and that disgusting cologne out of my pores. And my memory. I want to forget last night ever happened. Everything except that kiss. I’ll have to linger on it some more, analyze it to discover what exactly went wrong inside my rotten brains.

And so I make a little deal with myself: Whoever asks how last night went, I’ll lie. As far as everyone else is concerned – I got a party call from those two artists that are in fact brothers posing as gay lovers (don’t you just adore New York) and spent the night drinking and smoking in some obscure gallery in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. That definitely sounds like something I’d do if I were ever in the mood for ditching a good party. And last night… boy was I ever.

But as far as I am concerned, there is no way of escaping the truth. I totally chickened out last night. I wonder what Jay might be thinking about me now. Other than the few people I hang out with, Jay is probably the only other person in the world who doesn’t think I am a complete, total and utter 24-hour party girl and an all around slut. Which I totally am not. There are only six notches carved into the side of my bed (but I’ve never kept a close count), which, by the standards of the crowd I hang around with, is actually quite a decent little number.

It’s so frigging easy for me to veer off the subject.

JAY. CHARLIE. KISS. CHICKEN. Ugh.

What expression will take over his honey colored eyes once he sees me?

I’ve been so caught up in the chaos that is my mind that I haven’t even noticed the looks I’ve been given for walking down the street without my coat, with frizzy sex hair and what must have been a totally drugged up expression only half hidden by my huge sunglasses. God, how I hate hangovers, everything always seems too bright and too loud, just too fucking much. And mornings after. Though this morning I had not been subjected to a torturous session of forced post-coital cuddling which I, unlike so many clingy women, despise.

I lumber into my apartment building, mutter a hello to the doorman and practically stick my head in my purse, fishing for my keys, probably looking like a 29 cent hooker by now. And just as I wrap my fingers around the lithe silver keychain Quinn got me several birthdays ago, I bump against something hard and warm wearing a very manly scarf.

“Do you mind?” I half whine and half growl at the klutz.

The manly scarf shakes with half-suppressed chuckles and the red lips my eyes zoom in on twist into a smirk which can only be Aiden’s.

“On the contrary, I don’t.”

He pauses and then swats to help me gather my scattered stuff into my miniscule purse. “Do it again,” he sniggers and hands me my phone and lipstick, straightening up again.

“Aiden, of course, who else would be a dick so early in the, erm, afternoon,” I retort dryly and sigh, smirking back involuntarily.

“Leave me alone, I had a rough night.”

His face scrunches up in an almost cute manner (if you ignore the fact that it’s Aiden I’m talking about) and he yawns tiredly. I roll my eyes at him and say something about how I’m not even touching him while in my mind I adds a “yet” to the ending of that statement and, feeling all funky in my stomach, cringe at my disgusting lack of self control. Tune out your hormones, Chaz, not the best timing.

“So, which one of those blonde bimbos did you bed last night?” I ask nonchalantly, “I hope it was the one with the good ass, she was actually hot for a change.”

His eyes glimmer in the light when it ghosts over his face as someone pushes the door open and directs the sunrays to his chiseled features. He looks different in some way I have yet to determine. Plus, he looks offended by my question which makes me feel good in a way only insulting Aiden can.

“She wasn’t a blonde and she wasn’t a bimbo,” he squeezes out through his teeth and I giggle, trying to hide the fact that this sudden urge to defend his last night’s lay’s honor doesn’t really phase me as much as it definitely does. “Which one of those daddy-look-alikes did you please in some random hotel room?”

Asshole. Not only did I do that though, I made out with your brother too. It was an eventful night, I must admit. Any thoughts?

“Not that you need to know but I spent the rest of the night with those Bleu gay lovers-slash-brothers at some gallery in Brooklyn so shaddup. I was in no hotel room and I haven’t gotten any. Happy?”

“Yeah.”

He pulls up his pants and I laugh, backing up to have a seat because, as pretty as those Manolo's are, they hurt like a bitch after walking eight blocks home. Now those are some boots that weren’t made for walkin’.

“Oh how very alpha-male of you. Anyway… if she wasn’t a blonde and a bimbo was he a blonde and a bimbo?”

“Her name is Addie Ross. She’s a brunette and a prude.”

“So you haven’t gotten inside those Hello Kitty panties just yet, eh?”

He smiles that smile that has dimples appear in his cheeks.

“You know I never end the night holding hands.”

Of course I know. You occasionally hold my ass, too, you pervert.

“Yeah, you hug toilet bowls too!” I exclaim and pat his head. “Kudos, Aiden!”

I try not to flinch away as he backs off and removes my hand from where I placed it on his chest. The material of his green cashmere sweater feels warm and fuzzy under my hand and for a moment I feel compelled to rest my head against it. But just for a moment.

“I did seal the deal with the Ross spawn, and have a date with Ms. Ross tomorrow evening.”

He’s taking her out? He’s actually going to spend money on some random preteen? This is much more serious than I originally thought. If Aiden is spending money, he spends it either on me or Dan. This is a fucking first. And I’m still puzzled by the fact that I actually care. Ten minutes ago all I ever wanted was a shower and a day of pampering. Now, for reasons unknown, I want to take Aiden’s head and bang it against the wall.

I set up a full blown wide grin. I so will not let him relish in my something-that-looks-and-feels-like-jealousy-but-so-isn’t. I know exactly what this is. Another little mind game of his. And I’m not falling for it.

“Oh, Aiden is looooove!” I giggle obnoxiously and pinch his cheek, coming up with a brilliant plan.

“Mind if I take her out for lunch?” I bat my eyelashes and try to look as innocent as I can muster in a ruined black Channel that keeps riding up my thighs.

“Absolutely not, it’s still too early and I want her all for myself,” he smiles and sizes me up and down. So fucking not fair. But like his saying no every stopped me before. I’m having fun today, for sure. I wonder whether my face turned green already. I am absolutely appalled with how he keeps making me feel.

“Whatever you say, Aiden. You’re gonna get bored of her soon enough anyway,” I murmur into my chin and tug on my split ends.

“She’s not a toy to me, Charlie,” he says suddenly, with serious eyes, that playful glint actually gone from them for the first time in years. “I won’t put her up on some shelf with all the others and leave her to collect dust. She’s sweet, I like her,” he sighs and stands up.

“I should get going.”

“Yeah, me too,” I reply a bit too quickly and stand up, walking past him and planting a rushed, platonic peck on his cheek before I can stop myself. His hand smacks against my ass and I jump a little, pissed off and yet glad in a way I will never ever understand.

“Asshole.”

“Oh, you love it.”

“You only wish.”