Call Me! Page 7

  I’m trying to follow. “You mean like Joe Fagin?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about him?”

  “If you think he’s going to be a problem…”

  I give her an amused look. “What, you’ll set him straight for me?”

  I laugh.

  She laughs.

  Then says, “Not me. My uncle.”

  “What uncle?”

  “Uncle Sal.”

  “Sounds like a quiet, older guy who wears a sweater and runs a deli.”

  She laughs. “Forget it.”

  We’re both glowing from the buzz. I say, “Your best friend is in trouble, but don’t worry?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” she says, “Because I know a guy who knows a guy!”

  “Uncle Sal from the deli?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Gee, I wish I’d known that, Sofe. I could’ve scared the shit out of Joe and Carter. ‘You threatening me? I’m connected. Ever hear the name Uncle Sal?’ And Joe’s face would go white, and he’d say, ‘The deli guy? Oh, shit, Ms. Ripper, not the deli guy!’ But it’s too late because Sal has already called in sick. By sundown he’ll force them to eat an unusually tough cut of pastrami.”

  She chuckles. “You’re too much.”

  I laugh, and say, “So who’s uncle Sal? Really?”

  She looks around, then lowers her voice, and whispers, “Sal Bonadello.”

  “What? The mob boss?”

  “Shhh! Jesus, Dani, lower your voice, will you?”

  I lower my voice. “You’re joking, right?”

  “He’s my uncle.”

  I frown at her. “How long have we been best friends? A year?”

  “More than a year.”

  This time I look around before lowering my voice. “You’re related to a mob boss? How could you not tell me that?”

  “It’s not the sort of information that encourages close friendships.”

  “How close are you?”

  “Me and Sal?”

  I nod.

  “He’s my father’s brother.”

  “Um…your parents are deceased, right? Like mine?”

  “In Italian families, it’s as if no one ever dies. Sal and Marie wanted to take me in. He wanted to take an interest in my career. So I moved here.”

  I push my nose to one side, like a gangster, and try to sound like one. “My niece, Sophie. Got a voice like a songbird. You oughta hire her. Be a shame if your club burned down.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Last time I checked, Alexander’s not an Italian name.”

  “It’s my stage name. My real one’s Sophie Bonadello.”

  I shake my head. “Mafia princess?”

  She shrugs.

  “You could have me whacked?”

  She frowns. “See? This is why I don’t tell you things. Forget I ever brought it up.”

  “You mean Fuhgeddaboudit?”

  She shakes her head, laughing. “You,” she says.

  “What?”

  “You’re something else, you are.”

  I’VE GOT A bedroom at Sophie’s house. This is where I come on Mondays and Tuesdays to get away. It’s how I stay sane. I’ve got clothes in the closet, personal items in the bathroom, got my own sheets and pillows on the bed.

  Sophie’s a singer-songwriter, living in Nashville. But she’s not really a singer. I mean, she’s got a fine, melodic voice, and she sings around town when she can. It’s just that she can’t support herself singing.

  Songwriting’s a different story.

  Sophie’s famous. You might not know her name, but you know her songs. She’s written hits for all the young country stars, and a couple of pop stars as well. She’s won three Grammys, same as Elvis.

  But unlike Elvis, Sophie’s in love with me.

  We’re not lovers.

  Sophie’s made it clear she’s interested. You know, in a relationship. A sexual relationship.

  I’ve never done that. You know, with a woman.

  But I want to.

  It’s just that…I’m married.

  Sophie’s my best friend and confidante. And though she loves me and clearly aches for us to be together, she would never rush me, never push me, never want me to do anything I wasn’t ready to do. So we live together two days a week, and we’ve fashioned a celibate mini-life together, within the framework of our real lives.

  She’s twenty-nine, I’m twenty-four. Except for Ben, Sophie’s the only person on earth who knows what happened to me nine years ago. I’m incredibly fortunate these two wonderful, caring people have found me.

  But Ben found me first.

  I pay the bill despite Sophie’s insistence on taking care of the wine.

  “I still don’t feel right about you spending all this money,” she says.

  “Deal with it.”

  I hand her a birthday card with a long, girly note about what she’s meant to me this year. She reads it and starts crying. Watching her cry makes me cry. We see each other crying and that makes us both laugh. Then I hand her the gift. She opens it, sees the bracelet, and starts crying again.

  “I’ll treasure this,” she says, putting it on.

  I smile, knowing it’s true.

  In a very quiet voice she says, “I love you, Dani. You have no idea how much.”

  “I love you too, Sofe,” I say, using her nickname.

  That night we do what we always do before going to bed. Put on the most outrageous pajama tops and bottoms we can find, and hang out in her den and talk and laugh for hours.

  My house in Cincinnati has one upstairs bedroom, Sophie’s house in Nashville has two. Both have master bedrooms on the first floor. But on Mondays and Tuesdays, Sophie sleeps in the vacant upstairs bedroom to be closer to me.

  I love that about her.

  When we’re all talked out we walk up the stairs together like we always do, and hug each other goodnight. Over the months we’ve been together the hugs have gotten longer and more intimate, though nothing sexual has taken place.

  Yet.

  But during these moments when we’re in each other’s arms, and our bodies are touching, and I close my eyes and feel her heartbeat, I get flushed, off-balance, and almost completely out of control.

  Almost.

  Could I ever be truly satisfied and fulfilled being in a long-term relationship with a woman?

  I honestly don’t know.

  Could Sophie?

  She doesn’t know either, but she thinks so.

  “You’re too pretty to be with a man,” she once said. “We need you on our team.”

  “Your team?” I laughed. “You’re barely on the team yourself!”

  So yes, we’ve talked about it, but the bottom line is we’re both newbies. Sophie’s had seven sexual experiences in her life and only two of them were women.

  “Every night we hug vertically,” she says. “Just once I’d like us to hug horizontally.”

  I laugh. “You always say that.”

  “And yet you never take me up on it.”

  “I don’t trust myself.”

  She pulls back and grins. “You’ve never said that before!”

  “Guess you’re wearing me down.”

  “My evil plan is working?”

  “Seems to be.”

  She pretends to do a little cheer. Then says, “Yay!”

  She kisses my cheek.

  I kiss hers and say, “Happy birthday, Sofe.”

  “At the risk of sounding like Joe Fagin,” she says, “This is the best birthday ever!”

  We laugh.

  “I’ll leave my door open tonight,” she says. “In case you change your mind.”

  I laugh. “You always say that, too.”

  TUESDAY EVENING

  BEN AND I are standing in the bar at Johnny Prime, Cincinnati’s legendary steakhouse, awaiting the entrance of his overachieving college roommate, Roy Burroughs. Ben has warned me Roy is not only charming, but a force of nature, and I need
to realize he’s a complete and total player.

  “He’s going to be all over you,” he warns.

  “I’d find that terribly rude.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Thinks he can get anyone he wants.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Ben laughs. “He’s brutally handsome. Or was, at least. In any case, I’m counting on you not to fall in love with him.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Good. Because that would sort of destroy the whole concept of me having something the great Roy Burroughs could never get.”

  “Tell me again about that.”

  “When Roy sees us together his face is going to drop! The last thought in his head when he leaves tonight will be me holding you. It’ll be like I’m the one standing in the end zone instead of him, spiking the ball after scoring the winning touchdown. He’ll see you, and I won’t have to say a word. He’ll know I finally beat him at something. Seriously, Dani, I can’t thank you enough.”

  I give him a look.

  “What?” he says.

  “I hope you can come up with a better way to express the sentiment. Because right now you’re making me feel like a dirty old football.”

  Ben winks. “Coming from a guy, that’s a hell of a compliment. Except for the old part.”

  “And the dirty part.”

  He winks again. “That’s up for debate.”

  Ben’s in the best mood tonight! I hope it goes the way he wants, but honestly, how could it? I mean, he’s got such high expectations. Do things ever turn out great when you’re trying to show someone else up?

  “Ben?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know you think I’m beautiful,” I say, “But what if Roy shows up with someone who’s truly gorgeous? Someone who makes me look like dog meat?”

  “First of all, there’s no such woman, because you’re spectacular. Second, it’s not just your looks, it’s the whole package. Your personality, your charm, your intelligence. You’re sweet, kind, and classy. What I’m saying, looks can be bought. The rest is you. I’ve given up sex, warmth, and intimacy…and two nights every week just to be able to live with you!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “I know you meant that as a compliment, but the last part came across a little bitter. Not that I don’t deserve it.”

  He thinks about what he said. “I get that. I’m sorry.”

  “You have every right to feel that way. I just hate that I’ve done this to you.”

  “Done what?” a voice says from behind us.

  We turn, and it’s not Roy Burroughs’s jaw that drops.

  It’s mine.

  ROY BURROUGHS IS in a wheelchair.

  And he’s not nearly as good-looking as Ben led me to believe.

  Of course, it’s been a long time since Ben’s seen Roy. What’s it been, sixteen years? Something like that. A lot can happen to a person’s looks in sixteen years. You hear it all the time from those who go to high school class reunions. Some look the same, but most don’t.

  But that’s not what makes my jaw drop when I meet Roy Burroughs.

  What makes my jaw drop is I know Roy’s a fake. He’s pretending to be confined to a wheelchair. I know this as certainly as I know my real name is Mindy Renee Whittaker.

  That’s right, my current name, Dani Ripper, is as fake as Roy’s wheelchair.

  People use phony names for different reasons. Some do it to deceive people. Others, like me, change their names to create a new life. Wait, maybe these are the same reasons, since they both involve deception.

  I won’t argue the point.

  But I didn’t change my name in order to hurt people, or take advantage of them. I did it to protect myself. I went to court to change my name because I got sick of being stalked by the media. Sick of seeing my filthy, bruised and bloody fifteen-year-old face on TV every time the next young, pretty girl got abducted. Sick of being Mindy Renee Whittaker, “the little girl who got away.” Sick of being the poster child for the precious few who manage to escape their captors. Sick of being contacted by grief-stricken parents clinging to their last ounce of hope.

  I couldn’t give them hope, because I didn’t think any other fifteen-year-old girls would do what I was willing to do in order to escape.

  I know Roy’s faking the wheelchair because I’ve actually met him once before. On that occasion he had full use of his legs. That was four days ago, and he was going by the name Joe Fagin. As he and I look at each other now, only one of us is shocked.

  Me.

  When he gives me a shit-eating grin it becomes crystal clear what really happened last week with Carter Teague. I don’t know if she and Roy are married or engaged, or if she’s some hooker or decoy Roy hired to play the part. What I do know is Roy Burroughs found a way to beat my husband yet again.

  Because Roy Burroughs has seen Ben’s wife completely naked. Not only that, he kissed me, groped me, and felt me up. And now he gets to play a game that ridicules my sweet, innocent husband. Roy’s going to allow Ben to believe he’s finally won.

  If I’m lucky.

  If I’m not lucky, Roy’s going to play Ben for a fool all through dinner, and humiliate him with the truth for dessert.

  BEN’S FACE IS white. He can’t get over the fact Roy’s in a wheelchair. I see him struggling with what to say about it, how to approach the subject. Roy’s grinning at me, sharing the joke. I glare at him until Ben looks at me, at which point I become all smiles.

  “Ben, you’re right!” Roy says. “She’s absolutely stunning!”

  Ben looks at me and beams. “She is, isn’t she.”

  “I’d give a week’s pay to see her naked,” Roy adds, and winks at me.

  “Well, that’s not going to happen,” I say.

  Ben moves closer to me, as if to protect me.

  Roy says, “Trust me, I know Ben’s feelings about that! He’s been raving about you for years! I finally had to come to town and see for myself what all the fuss was about. And now that I’ve seen you in the flesh, I feel I’ve known you forever. Can I call you Honey?”

  A reference to my bush.

  “I told you Roy was a charmer,” Ben says.

  “You did,” I say. Addressing Roy, I add, “Given your history as a charmer, I’d feel more comfortable if you called me Dani, as in Ben’s wife, Dani.”

  Ben looks mildly uncomfortable. “Well, I didn’t mean to imply…”

  Roy interrupts, “No, of course not! No harm done.” He smiles. “Dani’s clearly onto me! Yes, I may be a charmer, but I know true love when I see it.”

  Ben’s face goes from concerned to all smiles. A waitress brings Roy a shot of bourbon, neat. “Keep ’em comin’, Monica,” Roy says, “maybe I’ll give you a car for a tip.”

  “If you do, I’ll give you a ride!” she giggles.

  Roy looks at me and winks. “What do you suppose Monica means by that?”

  We look at her and she giggles again. “Oh dear,” she says.

  “Catch me again when we get a table,” he says.

  “Will do!” Monica says cheerfully, then flits off to find another flirt.

  “They must know you here,” I say.

  “Nah. I ordered the drink when I came in. Gave her a fifty.” He looks at me and says, “Women will do anything for cash.”

  “Some women,” Ben says.

  Roy gives him a smug look. “Well said, Benny Boy.”

  He downs it in a single motion, and Ben and I exchange a look.

  The hostess finds us in the bar and escorts us to our table. A busboy removes a chair so Roy can park his wheelchair in its place. Our waiter introduces himself and sees we have our drinks, so he tells us the specials and hands us menus. We study them a few minutes. When he comes back, we place our orders.

  “What type of work do you do, Roy?” I ask.