Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

I’ll never. Drink. Again.

My head feels like there’s a rave party inside, the DJ is smashed, and everybody is wearing heels.

I wipe my eyes wearily and reach for the water bottle, taking a long sip before the pieces of last night’s puzzle fall into place. When they do, horror surges through my veins, like ropes of pain chaining me to watch a slow-motion replay of the train wreck that was my last night’s behavior.

He admitted to having a foursome and to participating in endless one-night stands.

I ran like a little idiot because he admitted to fooling around with other women while single.

I asked him to kiss me.

I hiccupped like a moron.

He rejected me.

I sneezed on his face.

He took me home and ran for his life.

I sneezed on his face!

Then I remember him taking care of me—the sweet way he tucked me in, the ibuprofen, the kiss—and that makes me feel even worse.

I bury my head under my pillow and burrow deeper into my sheets. If only I could disappear beneath my covers and pop back out with someone else’s life (preferably Jenna Dewan Tatum’s), all would be well. There is no point crying. I have an early class today and I promised Nana Marty I’d drop by and congratulate her about the wedding. I have no time for self-pity.

Reluctantly, I peel myself from my bed and sit up, holding my head in my hands so it won’t explode all over the carpet (but only because that would ruin Izzy’s chances of getting her deposit back). I see my cell phone on my nightstand beeping with light and check it.

Two missed calls from Shane.

One from Mom.

One text from an unknown number.

You owe me that date.

I don’t recognize the number, but I sure as hell recognize the commanding tone. I want to punch myself in the face for the woozy sensation swelling in my stomach, but I can’t help it. He actually took the time and effort to take my number and save his on my phone under the contact Ty Wilder. Even after my little drunken scene.

I type back too fast and too eagerly for my own good. You owe me that interview.

A moment later, I receive his reply. I said I’d give it to you if we had a date. That wasn’t a date. It was an open invitation for rape. At best.

Ignoring his criticism, I text, I need your interview. The assistant to the XWL president has already sent me some quotes. You’re the only person I have left. Stop being a diva.

What are you doing tonight?

Just hangin’. I hit send and then add, With my grandma.

Sounds wild. I’ll pick you up from her place.

So you can tell me more about your sexual conquests? No thanks.

You asked. And I’ve already told you, you’re different. I’m waiting for granny’s address.

Keep waiting, I type and immediately erase. You can keep asking me on dates. We’ll never be a couple. Erasing again and puffing out air aloud, I finally write, Don’t be late.

Oh, Blaire, you stupid little girl, Heart reprimands.

Why am I going on a second date with this guy? His ego is the last thing I need right now. Then again, I must admit he was nothing but sweet to me.

My fingers move on the screen again. Hey, thanks for being a gentleman. I hit the send button before I can change my mind,

Don’t get used to it. Next time I won’t be.

***

Shane and I are basking in the sun on our favorite red bench, drinking coffee.

He steals another sideways glance at me, messing with his phone and avoiding looking at me directly. He wears an “I Hate Being Bipolar. It’s Awesome!” tee. I know I look like a hungover mess because my hair is wild and my eyes are bloodshot, but he doesn’t ask what I was up to last night, and I don’t bring the subject up either.

“Who are you texting?” I eye him suspiciously, taking a long sip from my double-shot espesso.

“No one.”

“Hi, Bullshit, I’m Blaire. Nice to meet you.” I smirk at him.

He looks embarrassed, pulling his hoodie all the way down his nose so I can’t see his face.

“Shane Panty-Creamer Kinney! Tell me who you’re texting right freaking now.” My smirk widens. Maybe he’s got a new dip. Maybe it’s serious. Maybe I’m out of the doghouse.

He looks around. “I’m not texting anyone, I’m looking into reporting a crime. Someone slashed my tires and keyed my Mustang. And they did a hella good job.”

“Shit.” I jump up from the bench to face him. “You should definitely file a report. Show me what they did.”

“Slashed tires, remember,” he declares gravely. “I had to take the bus.” His voice hints at something more serious, like I have stage 4 cancer or World War III is coming.

“You still lived to tell the tale.” I pat his arm. “Instead of throwing a pity party, you can just go to the police.”

"I think it’s the MMA guy."

"Which one?"

"Wilder," he says, touching his cheeks absent-mindedly, as if he’s contemplating this. "I think I saw his Hummer after my car alarm went off."

I’m tempted to say this could be any Hummer, but Ty’s car is pretty unique, with the skulls, flames and all the other atrocities.

"Why would Ty do that to you?"

Shane shakes his head. "No clue. I know he had some beef with my roomie Josh, but that was a long time ago. Maybe he thought my Mustang was his."

I put my hands on his shoulders and look into his eyes. “Hey, buddy, trust me, it’s probably some punk kids. Where you live in Oakland, you should be thankful it’s just your tires they butchered. I’ll give you a ride back home today.”

This rewards me with a tight smile. It’s not much, but I’ll take it. I hate seeing Shane so down. It’s unlike him.

"Oh, and good news. Izzy said she’d be thrilled to help you out." I bend the truth just a tad, babbling on. "She asked exactly what you need and promised she’ll get you everything you ask for."

"Really?" He eyes me suspiciously, his nose wrinkling to disguise his gut-punched reaction.

I go out of my way to look enthusiastic, but I’m not exactly known for my convincing poker face. "Yeah. Whatever you need! Let me know and she’ll pass it through me."

Shane offers me a knowing smile and we make our way back into the university building. "Of course you will. By the way, you never answered my text message."

What text message? Oh, shit.

I hurriedly tug my phone out of my pocket and scroll to my incoming messages. For some weird reason, the text under Shane’s name looks like I’ve already opened it. It says, Don’t make me hurt you, B. You’ll regret the day.

I remember the last text I sent him. It was a futile threat saying I’d stage an intervention for him and Izzy, forcing them back in the same room to work out their issues.

Comprehension strikes me like a bolt of lightning. Did Ty see the text while I was snoring my way to Drunksville? He may have even interpreted this as some kind of a threat. But why slash Shane’s tires? The only thing Ty seems interested in is his job.

And now me.

Why me?

A teeny, tiny part of me now wants to find out.

***

I make a stop at the apartment to freshen up or, to put bluntly, attempt a makeover that transforms me from something that looks like it didn’t crawled out of a sewer in a sci-fi film. Calling a truce in this war between Brain and Hormones, I’ve decided not to jump to any conclusions regarding Shane’s vandalized car until I have the chance to run it by Ty.

I change my clothes and spray on enough perfume to stun a herd of buffalos. After which, I try three different lipsticks and apply my signature thick eyeliner. I shove a pack of mint gum into my jeans’ pocket and head out. First stop: visiting Nana Marty. Final destination: date redemption with Ty Wilder.

For the interview, of course. Just for the interview.

Nana Marty lives in a high-end senior home in Oakland. It looks like a glitzy hotel inside and out. Martha Rosenbloom isn’t just badass, she’s purely lethal. She arrived in this country not long after World War II, straight to Ellis Island and told the officer her name was Miriam. He changed it to Martha and gave her candy: That’s why she always told Izzy and me to “always take candy from strangers. It’s yummy and sweet. Just make sure your parents are around when you do.”

Nana Marty has a reputation for not giving a fuck about what people think. At eighteen, she headed west from her New York home and landed in San Francisco, where she bagged herself a job at Fisherman’s Wharf selling spices and herbs. She knew every single sailor that passed by her store (in more than one way, if you ask me) and refused to settle down with any of them. Her behavior was unheard of. A single, young woman working and paying her way to independence. But she didn’t want to get married. Until she met Grandpa Graham, that is.

Graham wasn’t Jewish or a sailor. Actually, he was well off, coming from a family of liquor importers. Marty and Graham fell in love, but his parents weren’t happy about her being uneducated, poor as hell and Jewish. Graham went ahead and married her anyway. Gran got pregnant with twins—my mother and her brother, Graham Junior—soon after. She continued working until the last day of her pregnancy and when the twins turned three, she and Graham managed to buy her store together.

Graham died seven years later of a heart attack.

Marty arranged the most beautiful funeral, held her chin up when she met his family, and got back to work the following day. She never asked for a penny from them, or from anyone else. Over the years, she had boyfriends here and there, but no one could fill a dead man’s shoes. Especially when that dead man gave up his good life and fortune to be with you. Marty never forgot this.

Nanny Marty always tells me I’m a lot like her. Independent, stubborn and fundamentally batshit crazy. Izzy, on the other hand, is Graham through and through. A happy-go-lucky, well-mannered person. I always like visiting Nanna, and today, I’m especially eager to hear all the gossip. I take the train to Oakland, knowing Ty is going to pick me up when I’m done. I bring a banana bread with me, freshly baked from The Sweetest Affair.

I walk into the senior housing complex and glance around, struggling to believe Simon is among the sleepy crowd. I pass through the sage-green hallways until I reach her door and knock twice, trying to ignore the stale scent of mothballs, microwaved food and baby powder.

Old-people scent.

Gran opens the door wearing a pair of leather pants, matching black boots and a leopard top. Bleached hair, red lips—this woman is more of a pin-up girl than most of my twenty-something classmates.

“Hello, rascal. Oh, look at you, all dressed up and ready to impress. Who’s the lucky boy?”

Nana Marty sure knows the drill.

She grabs me by my collar and pulls me into her apartment. Nana has a stylish condo, with floor to ceiling windows and abstract paintings hung throughout. The more it looks like someone threw up on the canvas, the more likely she’ll hang it on her wall.

She pours us warm cider and munches on the banana bread straight from the tin foil. Signaling me to sit down with her red manicured fingernail, she clip-clops back and forth while opening a bottle of red wine to spike the cider.

“Is Simon here? I’d hate to barge in on something…” I bite back a smirk and take a sip of my alcoholic cider. It doesn’t escape me that earlier today I promised to never drink again. But it’s a whole different ball game now that I need to engage in yet another "date" with Tyler.

“He’s at his place. We need our space or we go mad. You know your old gran.”

I do, actually, since I’m much the same. I don’t do needy, barely handle relationships, and even though I gave up my V-card when I was seventeen to my first serious boyfriend, it was mostly to get it out of the way and move on with my life as an adult.

“So getting married, huh?” I ask.

She slides a piece of banana bread onto a small plate for me, chuckling to herself. “What can I say? He’s too sexy to say no to.”

“Gross, Nana.”

“Trust me, it’s good news that your libido doesn’t die before you do.” She pats my forearm with her spotted, blue-veined hand, before sharing the story of her and Simon.

Simon arrived at the complex about a month ago. Reluctant would be an understatement to describe how he felt about changing his zip code. His sons forced him into moving here after he set his house on fire for the third time in two years when he hosted a romantic night with one of his lovers. (Yup. One of his lovers!) No longer willing to put up with his antics, his three sons pulled their widowed father by the ear and threw him into a retirement home.

Considering Simon spent his days on gambling, fine dining and working out, he soon found that he was bored out of his mind with the activities his senior building had to offer.

First, he tried his luck playing cards with all the oldies, spiking their tea with whiskey when they weren’t looking and cheating his way into winning, until he convinced them to play for money. Management found out and banned him from playing, so he switched to working out.

Next, he got caught trying to bench press the weight of an elephant, so management revoked his gym privileges too.

The incidents just kept piling up like firewood. Everything Simon did made everyone cringe, until one day his neighbor Ruth saw him in the hallway and offered some advice. “You should really meet Marty. You two will either burn the place down or move in together and leave us in peace.”

Figuring he’d already done enough burning for one lifetime, Simon opted for option number two. He knocked on my grandmother’s door the very same day. He brought peanuts, beer and classic movies. When she opened the door and wordlessly ushered him in, he knew that she knew, too, that this was fate.

Soon, they started spending every other day together, playing cards (for cash!) and working out (military style!). When every other day became every single day, Simon went down on one knee and said, “Marty, I have no idea how much longer we’ll live, but as long as we’re still kicking, I want to make an honest woman outta you. Let’s get married, move out of this shithole and show the world what we’re made of.”

Nana Marty said yes.

A tear rolls down my cheek when she finishes her story.

“Holy Moses, Blaire, stop being such a wuss.” She knocks down the rest of her spiked drink in one long gulp.

“I’m not crying because of the ending,” I sniff. “I’m just a tad emotional.”

And what’s stirring my emotions is the fact that I really am like my grandmother. I, too, take a shine to bad boys, apparently. The only difference is, I’m pretty sure my story won’t have a happily ever after. I fight the impulse to wipe my snot with my sleeve.

Nana awards me with the widest smile she can anatomically pull. “Here, pat your eyes before your eyeliner ends up in your mouth.” She hands me a tissue. "Now, tell me all about him.”

It’s funny how I’m able to tell my gran what I can’t imagine uttering in front of my own mother. My mother is the most motherly, don’t-leave-home-without-a-sweater type of person. Mom would judge, then worry, then try and convince me to open an account on JDate.

But still, I tense when I tell Nana that I went on a date with a guy who cage fights for a living and thinks painting your car doors with flames and skulls is acceptable, even if you’re not sixteen anymore. And that despite our disastrous first date, we’re meeting again tonight. But I don’t want to date him. Only, sometimes, I kind of do.

“I think you like him.” Nana Marty leans forward, jabbing my ribcage with her manicured fingernail in accusation.

I nibble on my fingernails. “Maybe I do.”

“Then go get him."

"Oh, no. I can’t. Not now. I have this assignment—"

"Multitask. You’re a woman. We’re good at that."

"And he has this tomcat reputation—"

"He’s single now, isn’t he? And he made it clear he’s interested in you."

"But—"

"No buts. Your mother and father will warm up to the idea eventually. Their other daughter is splashed on magazine covers, wearing nothing but a thong and two seashells to cover her modesty.” Nana chuckles. “They’ll get used to your guy too. Besides, you’ve always been the little rebel. You must feed the reputation. Like me.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

God bless Nana. She really knows how to organize all the shelves in my messy head.

My phone vibrates in my pocket just as I begin to calm down.

It’s a text from Ty. I’m outside. Want me to come up and charm your old granny’s elastic panties off? Or are you coming down?

I smile and show Nana Marty his message. She toots, “Old granny, huh? I’ll eat your boy alive and strangle him with my Elizabeth Passion undies if he dares to come up here.”

A devilish spark makes me type her threat and press send. I watch as my cell screen darkens, and after two minutes of no reply, turn toward my gran.

“Maybe I pushed it a little too far. This is only our second date. Too soon to meet my grandmother.”

“If he’s as tough as he claims, the last thing he’s afraid of is an eighty-two-year-old with a weak pelvic floor.”

A firm rap on the door sends both our heads turning in the direction of the entrance.

Oh my God!

“Open up, Marty Rosenbloom.” Ty’s tone is amused, and I can’t help but feel like someone is tickling the inside of my stomach with a thousand tiny feathers.

Gran slides from her chair, her eyebrows arching in surprise, and opens the door with a smile. “Exactly what I’ve ordered.”

Her smile widens when she takes in the guy standing on her doorstep. She reaches for a handshake, but Ty takes her hand and kisses the back of it with a grin, not breaking their eye contact. He enters the apartment at complete ease, like they’ve known each other for centuries. He’s wearing tight skinny jeans paired with a black tee shirt, his tattoos on full, unapologetic display.

He looks the handsomest I have seen him yet. Something about this style makes him painfully irresistible.

“What are you guys drinking?” He inhales the fruity aroma, leaning toward me and pressing his lips to my ear. “Barbie,” he whispers into it.

I melt into my chair. Wait, am I seriously getting used to this stupid nickname?

“Sweet, alcoholic cider. Care for some?” Nana Marty dangles the nearly empty bottle in front of him.

“No thanks,” he declines politely. “Water would be great. Need any help, ma’am?”

Nana elbows me, doing a onceover of his body. “Chivalry and tattoos. He’s a keeper. Seriously, Tyler, what can I get you?”

“Water,” he repeats. “I’m on a diet.”

Nana sends me a shocked look.

I shrug helplessly. “True story.”

She turns back to him. “But you mustn’t lose any weight. Your body’s perfect! Your butt is the cutest I’ve seen in twenty years, and boy, I’ve seen some cute butts in my lifetime.”

I redden and try not to look completely horrified. What the hell was I thinking? My grandmother is the queen of TMI. This conversation could easily devolve into my obsession with wearing my diapers on top of my head when I was a baby. This is bad. Actually, forgetting your oven is still turned on is bad. Letting your date meet your crazy grandmother is disastrous.

I wanted to embarrass Ty and have him twist uncomfortably until he begged me to come downstairs. Instead, Ty rushed up to her apartment, and now they speak freely about everything. And I mean everything.

“Your ears look awful. Is it because of all the fighting? It looks like they collapsed inwards. Very unattractive.” Nana Marty wrinkles her nose.

“Yeah, it’s a souvenir from my very first XWL win. Vicious headlock, but I managed. The fighter ears definitely bring down my stock. It’s a bitch, for sure. I constantly have to drain fluid from them with a syringe.”

“That’s disgusting, Tyler.” This, from my nana, who has a green, double-headed dildo on her nightstand. My mom still thinks it’s a decorative cactus.

“It’s not for the fainthearted, but neither is the XWL,” he says.

“So when are you fighting the guy?”

“June 13th, in Vegas. Should be an interesting weekend.”

Nana offers me a meaningful look. “Yes, it will, sweetheart. That’s the weekend when I’m getting married to my financé, Simon, in Sausalito. Right, the wedding!" She rushes to a sideboard and comes back with a crisp, creamy envelope. “Blaire, I need you to give this invitation to the Kinneys.”

"Sure thing. I’ll do it this week."

Great.Now please, just don’t mention Shane’s name. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t...

"And make sure to drag Shane with you to the wedding. Your mother said she walked in on you two the other day. I didn’t know you were still in touch. I’ve missed that boy." She shakes her head, her smile nostalgic from all the times she saw us playing in my parents’ yard and watching cartoons together as kids.

I turn my head toward Ty. Flared nostrils, clenched jaw, hands balled into fists, a vein throbbing in his neck.

Not happy.

On a scale of one to in-need-of-therapy, how fucked up is it that it’s kind of turning me on that he is so worried about Shane?

“Hey Ty, let’s wrap this up.” I get up from my seat and tug on his sleeve, feeling the blood humming in my veins as I touch his hand.

"This was nice." Ty offers his devilish smile, but the flash of anger in his eyes begs to differ. I’m worried that he’ll screw with my interview with him again.

“Tyler, come on.” I tug his sleeve again, like a four-year-old.

“I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on going so soon,” Nana says. “He can’t eat or drink alcohol, so your date is going to be challenging to say the least.” She turns to Ty. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He flashes his dimples. “I can see where Blaire got her sass."

“It wasn’t from her mother, that’s for sure.”

I’m now standing in the doorway, huffing. “Ty, I’m not joking. Get over here.”

I can’t take them together anymore. They make me feel like the responsible adult in the room. Me!

Ty finally drags himself to my spot and opens the door for me. His face is still fixed on my grandmother, and she awards him the same attention. These two are a dangerous combo.

“Have fun, you two, and don’t forget to practice safe sex!” she calls over her shoulder, click-clacking her heels back toward her kitchen.

God, no filters with this one.

“Nana!” I roar as I push Ty out the door. I feel the unwanted pull when I touch him.

“What? I don’t want my granddaughter catching STD’s! No offense again, Tyler.”

“None taken again, Marty.” But this time he flinches. Or maybe it’s a tick? Probably just a tick.

When we enter the elevator, I press the down button five times in a row and rest my head on the silver wall, wheezing like a woman who just escaped from a starving grizzly.

Ty stands to the far side of the elevator, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he tries to keep his temper in check. The warmth of my humiliation melds with the burning sensation of my lust for him. I need to keep reminding myself this is for an interview. He has no right being mad at me. I owe him nothing.

“So, is Shane gonna be your wedding date?" he asks casually, stuffing his hands in his pockets and staring at his biker boots.

That’s my chance. That’s my getaway ride.

"Seems so, yeah." I blink twice and look the other way. That’s it, Ty. Give it up. Give me up and let me move on with my miserable, action-free love life.

The elevator is slow, and the silence between us pains me. I regret those last few words as soon as they left my mouth. Tomcat or not, he is single, and I shouldn’t want to hurt him like I do. My mouth falls open and I’m about to speak when the elevator pings and he walks out before I get the chance to say anything.

What the hell is going on with Heart? It’s hurting.