She shoved it into my chest, so I grabbed it.
“Come on, Shannon. Let’s get shit-faced and tell dirty stories,” she said. She actually said this to me. I perked back to life when she loudly clinked my glass with hers like it was the clash of the titans.
Well, it was, sort of.
We both drank, and I was good at not spitting it back into her face, but wanted to. For lots of reasons I wanted to.
She added the warning I knew was coming. “And if you print a word of this, I’ll sue your ass to the next century, I’ll sue your parents, your siblings and your children. Then I’ll sleep with your husband and make him fall in love with me so I won’t sue him.”
She really said that. She. Did.
Rebecca was magnificent if she was anything. Except she was a total witch, not a bitch like I heard Marco said she was. She was red meat to a vegetarian. A cat with claw extensions to a tiny helpless mouse.
I was that mouse.
I knew I wouldn’t survive the night.
Chapter 9
Marco
There were times when it was necessary to keep my wits about me, and there were times when it was necessary to get drunk. I knew I was even more dangerous when I got drunk, so I wanted to do it alone.
I ordered up some of Ollie’s best Scotch and warded off his suggestion for the grape juice, orange liqueur and cherries or whatever the hell it was that turned the drink into a Midnight in Manhattan. I was going to have the zombie apocalypse Manhattan with dried fruit and fish skeletons as stir sticks. I was having my own midnight in the garden of Marco Gambini’s future, and it sucked big time. I didn’t want anything diluting the drunk I was determined to accomplish tonight.
By drink number two, I was on my way.
Then I had a hankering for steak. And all of a sudden, I wanted a new car, new clothes. I even wanted to set fire to my apartment at the Towers I hadn’t even gotten properly dirty in yet. I shaved every day, trimmed my beard carefully with my expensive beard shaver, taken a shower at least twice daily, carefully put away my dirty clothes and laid out the clothes I was going to wear the next day.
I felt the need for the Old Marco Gambini to come out and play, that old crusty guy who didn’t mind letting his beard grow wild and wore the same sweats and t-shirt for more than three days. I was hungry for lots of things, but steak would be first. Then I’d like to settle in and finish Ollie’s bottle and watch porn. Maybe stumble into a bar at six in the morning or throw croissants at runners passing by while I sat outside on a park bench and tell them they were at least an hour late or ran too slow. I’d run if challenged. Even in my wingtips I’d beat them. In my suit and tie I’d beat them. I might hurdle park benches and sit with the bums and drink out of brown paper bags.
It was that kind of a shitty night and it wouldn’t be over until the sun came up and I could make the next day a shitty one too.
But first that steak. Then I got a great idea. Fuck the bank who turned me down. Fuck the woman who screwed half of SEAL Team 3 in the old days, even though everyone told me she didn’t. Fuck the flabby banker at East Coast who was probably screwing his secretary in the broom closet. Maybe I should go rescue her from that flabby fuck. I’d love to ring her chimes and bring her with me to Barbados where we’d lay naked on the beach and screw all day long.
But first I had to have steak. And my idea needed birthing. I dialed my Bentley dealer.
“Tony?”
“Holy crap, Marco, don’t you know it’s past midnight? Shit, it’s one AM.”
“I know it. You have any Bentleys you haven’t sold yet, a convertible?”
“Yeah,” he yawned and mumbled into the phone.
“Can’t hear you, Tony. I gotta have a Bentley.”
“Sure. Sure, I got a red one, real pretty. Palomino interior, a real—”
“Wrap it up, put on your clothes and drive it to Boston.”
“When, you mean now?”
“Yup. I’ll give you an extra twenty-five thousand dollars if you get it here before the sun comes up.”
“Oh God, Marco. Is this going to be one of those conversations you won’t remember?”
“I’m writing it down. One. Red. Bentley. Convertible.”
“Comes with a warning.”
“What’s that?”
“You gotta drive it sober, Marco. You’ll love that thing, but you’ll wrap it around the first telephone pole you come across if you don’t do it sober. And it’s a babe magnet. You better hope not to go monogamous for at least two years. About the time it needs new tires, then you can trade it in, like all the others.”
“Sold! I’ll take it.”
“Don’t you want to know what it costs?”
“You think I’m worried you’ll overcharge me and lose a good customer?”
“No, but don’t you—”
“I’m using a credit card. Bring your machine when you come.”
“No, I can’t do that, Marco. You know it doesn’t work like that. I’ll take a check. Even an IOU will do, coming from you.”
“Fine. Have it your way. Am I convincing you to sell me that red convertible?”
“Yes. You made the sale, Marco. I’ll get it there as fast as is humanly possible. Will you be awake?”
“I will. I promise. If not, you can wake me.”
“No harem, Marco. I’m not waking you up in a middle of pink little asses.”
“Have I ever asked you to do that?”
“No, but just hearing your state of mind, I’m wondering…”
“Shut up. You’re wasting time. You know where I live because you got me into this prison.”
“So now it’s my fault, is it?”
“Sort of.”
“You’re in a rather self-destructive mode. Are you sure you can afford this machine of mine?”
“I can. My credit is at least that good. Ask me to buy another 747 and the answer will be no.”
“You need a woman, Marco, not a car.”
“Nope. Already tried that.”
“I mean a real woman, not a banshee.”
I poured my fourth tumbler and remembered the smooth ass of the lady I pleasured a week ago. I wanted more of that. I wanted to stay in bed with her, or in the back seat of the Bentley for a couple of lost days. I so needed just a couple of lost days…
And the lady lived in the Tampa area, which gave me another booze-filled brilliant idea. I was liking the images coming at me fast and furious…
“Are you still there, Marco?”
“Which would be faster, bringing the car to Tampa or to Boston?”
“Shit, Tampa’s a thirteen-hour drive. I could make it to Boston in about six if I break the speed limit the whole way.”
“Change of plans. Have the car delivered to the Oceanis Resort in Belleaire Beach. That’s right outside of Tampa. Can you have it there tomorrow? I’ll wire the funds in the morning.”
“If you wake up, you mean.”
“I’ll be awake. I’m going to fly to Tampa tonight if I can.”
“Why Tampa?”
“Something I forgot to do.”
“Okay. I’ll email all the information to Frank, as usual.”