Dirty Diana by January James
Chapter Five
“Not Ted’s Bar,” Carlos wagged a finger in my face as he stepped into my apartment.
“I can’t think of anywhere else to go,” I whined, watching him march across to my cocktail cabinet—a loose description seeing as it housed more bills and dead plants than actual cocktail ingredients—and slam down a bottle of sauvignon blanc.
“Attaboy,” he clipped, swiping away a small pile of decaying leaves.
“I’m a girl if you hadn’t noticed,” I replied. “And what are you looking for?”
“Attaboy is a bar. What are you, a senior? Bottle opener.”
I reached into one of the drawers of my tiny Manhattan kitchenette and handed him a corkscrew.
“Never heard of it.”
“That’s because you haven’t ventured further than East Sixth Street since you were a talent scout. And that was, what, three years ago? Consider this a well-needed education.”
“I thought it was my birthday, not school,” I huffed. “And I’m not a senior, but I am now a whole year older. You should be nicer to me.”
“I brought wine. That was nice.” Carlos popped the cork and poured two large glasses of wine, handing one to me and nodding his instruction to drink it with some urgency.
I took a large mouthful, realizing it was actually delicious and Carlos must have bought a posh one—i.e. spent a small fortune. “Fine,” I said. “If I nominate you Teacher of the Year, will you be a little nicer?” I took another mouthful of wine.
“There’s a limit to how nice I can be, you know. A) You’re my boss, and B) You don’t have a dick.”
Thankfully I managed to spit the wine back into my glass. Carlos would have had something to say if it had hit the floor and gone to waste.
“You’re incorrigible,” I smiled.
“That’s why you love me.” He leaned forward and gave me a huge kiss on the lips. It was the first I’d had in a while. Even the last man I fucked had managed to refrain from planting his lips on mine. I shuddered, wishing I could forget the whole jack rabbit incident. Three days had passed since my evening at Decadence, but I still felt the shame and embarrassment acutely. I could never tell anyone about it, not even my closest friends. It was mortification of the highest caliber. I was grateful when a knock at the door relieved me of my own thoughts.
“Darling! Happy birthday!” Sheridan wrapped her arms around my neck, clinking two bottles behind my head. “I know I only saw you about an hour ago but, happy birthday honey!”
“Thanks babe,” I said, closing the door behind her.
“What’s that?” Carlos asked, his face contorted into a grimacing point, like a mouse whose cheese had been laced with arsenic.
“Carrot juice,” Sheridan replied, defiantly.
“Is there some sort of champagne mixer I don’t know about?” He said, spotting the other bottle in her hand and narrowing his eyes. “Carrot Royale? Hareperol Spritz?”
Sheridan pushed him, playfully. “I’m trying to be healthy. I spotted about three new lines on my forehead today. I need to overdose on vitamin C. What are you drinking?”
“Wine,” Carlos and I both answered in unison.
“Wine doesn’t make you younger,” she said, glaring at us both.
“Neither does carrot juice,” we both said at the same time.
Sheridan’s eyes moved accusingly between the two of us, as we each brought the glasses of delicious grape elixir to our lips.
“Ugh.” She plonked both bottles down on the cabinet and grabbed another glass. “You win. Wine it is.”
* * *
Two hours later,we arrived at Attaboy and settled into one of the booths.
“I can’t believe you’ve dragged us out to Brooklyn,” Sheridan moaned.
“And I can’t believe you’ve never been to this bar before,” he shot back. “You’re the marketing VP of a hip and happening indie label—you should be acquainted with all the hot bars, most of which are here, in my very own neighborhood, of course.”
He paused to order us a round of cocktails that, if we were left to our own devices, we’d never have been able to pronounce the names of.
“Don’t worry,” Carlos said, noticing the alarm etched across Sheridan’s face. “They’re made with pineapple and mango. Plenty of vitamin C.”
She smiled back at him, sarcastically. “How do you do it then, Carlos?” She leaned across the table towards him. “How do you stay so slim and young-looking? I need your secrets.”
“Well,” he began. “I don’t exercise, for a start.”
“Not at all?” I asked, genuinely surprised. Everyone I knew in Manhattan exercised. Often at a swanky gym. At 5am. Every morning. Except me.
“God no,” he replied, looking authentically disgusted. “My sex life provides me with all the exercise I need.”
Sheridan looked at me with undisguised envy. “I hate him sometimes.”
“What do you mean?” Carlos fired at her. “Haven’t you got back in the saddle after Mr. Italy?”
Sheridan smiled with relief as a waiter placed three iced glasses filled with colorful, and no doubt lethal, liquid on the table. “Yes, I am back in the saddle, darling,” she replied, with a sarcastic note. “I just haven’t found a horse I’d like to mount on a regular basis.”
I squeezed her hand sympathetically. We all knew how much of an ass Mattio Russo, aka Mr. Italy, had been to Sheridan, but she’d kept going back for more, regardless of how many times he lied, cheated and behaved appallingly. She swore she was only in it for the sex, but once she finally did call it a day, she couldn’t climb out of her bathrobe for two weeks.
She looked at me with innocent, appealing eyes. “I’m worried he’s spoiled my expectations forever.”
We’d all heard how hugely he was hung, how athletic he was in the bedroom, how relentless he was in the pursuit of her pleasure. But he was still an ass at the end of the day.
I nodded, not really knowing what to say. Ass or not, Mr. Italy had given my forty-eight year old friend more sex than I’d seen in a lifetime, let alone the last four years.
“What about you?” Sheridan said, ignoring Carlos’ shaking head.
“Don’t bother asking Miss Chastity over there. The only four posts that get any action from her are those she scrolls through on Phoenix Music’s Instagram feed.”
I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh. His observation was entirely true, except for the one hideous experience I’d had only days ago at the secret sex club. But I was determined it would remain exactly that: a secret. A secret I wished with all my heart I could forget. But despite my days being filled with back-to-back meetings, repeated calls from Cherry Tatum and her pathetically inept manager, and demands for the latest figures from the suits on the top floor, my nights had become tormentingly empty—a wasteland. Barren, but for one signpost pointing to a lone black door and the man who stood behind it.
As it turned out, I hadn’t needed to resurrect my vibrator. Not when I had the memory of his touch, his fingertips, his black eyes beneath the drape, his gaze behind the lens. As much as I’d tried to put him out of my mind, the man from the club would not stay away. He loomed in my thoughts, in my dreams, my fantasies. It had been four days and the promise of an encounter had not yet come to fruition. At the very least, I was safe, and my secret was too.
“He’s right,” I said, smacking my lips. “Especially when I still have these issues going on with Cherry. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with my next dental appointment, let alone an actual living, breathing man.”
“Well,” Carlos said. “You’ve started to put your foot down with Cherry. I think that’s a great start. Once the other acts see you not taking any more of her shit, they may stop acting up too.”
“They’re not all bad…” I argued.
“But they’re not all great, either. They could be doing a lot more to earn their keep. Honestly, I think some of these young musicians expect platinum records and Grammy awards to grow on trees.”
“Second that,” Sheridan added.
“Do you have a plan?” Carlos asked. They’d made suggestions until they were both blue in the face but I hadn’t been ready to admit to my failings, let alone face them.
“I don’t know. I want to end her contract, get her out, but she brings in money. Not a lot, that’s for sure, but she brings it in. The board will kill me if I put a dent in that. I need to find a way to compensate for any losses.”
“What about Ayda?” Carlos asked. “Her next single is going to be huge. Everyone’s saying so.”
“But she’s so new,” I replied, shaking my head despondently. “The board won’t take me seriously if I suggest I can reap everything I lose by sacking Cherry and replacing the loss with a brand new, unproven act.”
I took a long sip of cocktail, still feeling helpless but at least a little fuzzier.
“But,” I added, looking between the two of them, “I need to be less afraid of the consequences of standing up to her, and stop meeting her ridiculous demands. I’m refining her contract at the moment, making it crystal clear she will be in breach of contract if she kicks off in public or if she refuses to do a gig. I was way too soft in the early days; I had too much sympathy for these small indie acts. But I’ve come to understand they want this as much as, if not more than me. But they can’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter; they have to work and they have to be fair.
“Good on you,” Sheridan said, tapping her glass against mine. “It still amazes me that some acts can’t be bothered to work for the fame. They don’t make ‘em like they used to…”
“If you go on one more time about Tina Turner always being the last to leave the studio,” warned Carlos, “I will confiscate your cocktail.”
Sheridan held up her hands. “Jus’ sayin’.”
She got to her feet and squeezed out of the booth.
“For what it’s worth,” Carlos said, stirring a silver stick around his glass, “I’m proud of you for recognizing that something has to change.”
“I’ve known it a while, Carlos. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to do something about it.”
“Simple,” he answered, with a flourish of his hand. “You’re exhausted, and you haven’t been looking after yourself. You’ve been working like a maniac, then drowning your sorrows in that hovel on Avenue C every night. It isn’t healthy. I don’t know what’s changed in the last week but you’re different. It’s like something’s clicked and you’re not going to take any shit anymore.”
I opened my mouth to protest but he talked over me in classic Carlos style.
“I’m not going to ask who it is but someone’s got under your skin; it’s the only explanation for why you’ve been turning up to the office looking like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada—post makeover.”
“There isn’t anyone,” I managed, finally.
Carlos stared at me, as though he was trying to read behind my eyes. He sighed in defeat.
“Well, if it’s not a somebody, it’s a state of mind. Something must have changed for you to finally face up to this. Look…” he took hold of my hands. “Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s happened. We need more of this Diana Delaney,” he said, nodding his eyes up and down my figure.
“Thanks Carlos. I fully intend for this Diana Delaney to stay,” I replied, silently adding that it would be a Diana Delaney sans sex club secrets and thoughts about forbidden men in dark suits and black face coverings.
Right at that moment, Sheridan reappeared, disguised by three burning sparklers wedged into a fluffy chocolate cake. She unashamedly launched into a loud, off-key rendition of Happy Birthday while I tried unsuccessfully to fold myself in half and slide beneath the table. When the agony of being stared at by every pair of eyes in Manhattan’s hippest bar had subsided, I cut into the cake and heaped portions onto plates for the three of us.
“What took you so long?” Carlos moaned, passing around spoons.
“I went to the ladies room,” Sheridan pouted. “Fresh lippy and all that. You never know who we might run into.”
Carlos eyed us both, curiously.
“Did you know,” he mused, prodding the cake with his spoon. “By the time you reach seventy, you will have swallowed between seventy and a hundred ounces of lipstick?”
I stared back at him. “How would you even know that?”
Sheridan took his word for it, unquestioning. “That explains why I can’t fit into a size ten dress,” she replied, shoveling cake into her mouth.
“I read Cosmo,” Carlos shrugged.
“You read women’s magazines?”
“Business, not pleasure,” he winked, and I couldn’t argue with him. As the label’s Head of Talent, he needed to know what was going on in all things popular culture.
“Well, I’m pleased to hear you’re keeping up with your on-the-job education, Carlos,” I grinned.
My phone buzzed on the table and an unrecognized email address appeared on the screen.
Carlos raised an eyebrow, asking me a million questions without uttering a word. I picked up the phone, shielding the screen from them both, and opened the message. My heart suddenly thrummed.
Your company has been requested by one of our clients for the evening of July fourteenth. A suite has been reserved in House Five at nine p.m. Please arrive promptly.
If you do not wish to accept this invitation, please email the Concierge.
Sincerely, your hosts.
“Is everything ok, Di?” Sheridan asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I nodded, lost for words.
“It’s the mystery man,” Carlos winked.
I felt Sheridan’s confused, uninformed eyes on me.
“There is no mystery man,” I assured her, but a part of me—an unquestionably large, undeniably astute, deafeningly adamant part of me—knew I was lying. I’d been waiting for this. I hadn’t needed my vibrator anymore because this was enough. The anticipation, the unfettered desire, the aching want, for a man I’d performed for once and kissed never.
I was going to have one night. One night with a man I’d felt more chemistry with than any other human being in my life. One night only. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to miss this for the world.