Something's Come Up Read online

  by

  Michelle Pace &

  Andrea Randall

  Copyright 2013 Michelle Pace & Andrea Randall

  We’d like to dedicate this book to each other. Why? Because we’re amazing.

  Andrea, you are the Waldorf to my Statler. ~Michelle

  Michelle, you are the Christina to my Meredith. ~Andrea

  Pace Turner, Megalomaniac Extraordinaire

  Humility is best served during victories, never during sex. There’s no time to be humble when the finest girl in the club is screaming your name as she’s bent over your kitchen counter. Or on your couch. Or in your shower.

  No. The best course of action right there is to give her tight ass a firm spank and tell her to scream your name louder. In reality, she should be screaming her thanks, because I can feel with my best body part what I’m doing to her insides, but my name suffices during breathless submission.

  If I ever choose to get serious and settle down, as my mother likes to say, a club in Boston won’t be the place for such hunting. I’ll scour the alumni message boards and check out the scores of monthly gatherings held either in Boston or New York. New York might be best. I think a marriage bed separated by about four hours might keep me from suffocating.

  Tonight, though, was a little different. I was in my apartment at The W Hotel in Boston, entertaining a gorgeous woman.

  “This view… Wow.” Kym (with a y) twisted a skinny braid around her finger. “It’s incredible.”

  There’s no way she was born with Kym. She was born in the ‘80s. It was Kim. I shook my head while I mixed our martinis. If she didn’t like her name, she could have used her middle name, like I do. The fact that she tried to “hip” her own name said more about her than anything that came out of her gorgeous mouth could have.

  “Thank you. I like it.” I approached her, balancing two glasses in my hands as I reached for the remote to my BOSE sound system and turned up Louis Armstrong.

  Kym skimmed her fingers down mine as she took her drink, biting her lip. We both knew where the night was going to end up. She had her reputation and I had mine. This was our third date, which I was pretty sure was a record for both of us.

  I still liked that she went through the motions. They looked hot on her. She was so much more refined than one of my club conquests. Her mixed Indian and African-American genetics gave her a delicious cinnamon hue that had me staring at her long enough at the company Memorial Day picnic to know she’d be my next mark. Kym was an attorney for the medical research company my father worked for. He’d brought me along to court me back to the field I’d abandoned when I left medical school for Columbia Law. All I left dinner with was Kym’s number.

  “So,” she whispered, “where is this party?”

  “Barnstable. The Cape. We won’t have to stay long. It’s my brother’s girlfriend’s best friend’s engagement party.”

  That was an annoying mouthful.

  Kym’s lip curled up like she’d just swallowed a fly. “Are you serious?”

  Strike one, snobbery. Class and being a bitch rarely fit in the same box. If she wanted to have an attitude, it had to be unrelenting and grounded in fact.

  “Monica was friends with my brother in college, too. We all hung out my senior year.”

  “Oh,” her eyes lit with revelation, “is your brother dating that hippie white girl again?”

  Strike two. Everything she just said.

  I shook my head in confusion. “How’d you— What?”

  “My mom mentioned her.”

  “Why?”

  “I asked her to set me up with Adrian, but she said he was taken.”

  Strike three.

  Sex is not at a premium for me. I can get it at a moment’s notice by loosening my tie, unbuttoning the top of my Armani shirt, and sitting at the bar.

  Any bar.

  Anywhere.

  Kym was a sure thing, though. The way her eyes always started just below my belt and worked their way up my body told me we both had the same end desire even though she was playing on my competitive nature with my little brother. Not usually a bright move, but I couldn’t escort her out. Not when that purple skirt of hers was so short I wouldn’t have to move much fabric to get to where I needed to go.

  Kym’s sarcastic laugh turned my irritation into curiosity.

  “I’m just messing with you, Pace. Why in God’s name would I ask about Adrian when you’re perpetually unattached?”

  “Ah,” I smiled as I wrapped my hand around the curve of her waist, “well played, Counselor.” I took the glass from her hand and set both of them down on the table next to me.

  I slid my hands from her hips to her shoulders, watching the rise and fall of her chest quicken the closer my mouth got to her neck. Kym was usually 5’5”, but rocked five inch heels as if they were natural extensions of her legs.

  God, those legs.

  “Won’t we be late?” Her lips pressed into my temple as I leaned in and kissed just below her jaw.

  “Yep,” I answered as my phone rang. “Give me a second. Could be my new client.”

  “Of course.” Kym picked up her drink, finishing half of it as I turned to the kitchen to answer the phone buzzing and ringing in my pocket. That was the other thing about her that made this dating dance we were doing worthwhile—she understood it was always business first.

  I didn’t recognize the number, which was fairly common, given my work in real estate, so blindly answering was second nature. I didn’t earn enough in commissions to buy this place in less than six months by being picky about my working hours.

  “Hello?” At first, all I was greeted with was the sound of loud music and traffic. Someone driving down the highway. I tried again. “Hello?”

  “Hey. What the fuck is the name of that pretentious building you live in, again? The W?”

  Jesus. I took a step back. It had been years since I’d heard that voice.

  Her voice.

  “Yeah,” I chuckled, “that’s it.”

  “Are you busy tonight? I don’t fucking care. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Click.

  Pulling the phone away from my ear, I stared at the number blinking across the screen. It wasn’t an NYC area code, but it was her. I remembered hearing she’d moved back to Chicago some time ago.

  “Is everything okay?” Kym started toward me.

  “Yeah,” I spoke slowly, drawing out each vowel, “something’s…come up. Rain check?”

  Her shoulders fell underneath every insecurity she’d been covering up with that glossy lipstick and short skirt. This wasn’t about her, but there was nothing I’d be able to do to convince her of that except keeping our plans.

  Which was no longer an option.

  “You’ll call me?” Her voice lifted an extra step. She’d clearly heard enough about me for this to be a concern.

  I curved half my mouth into a smile and met her eyes. “Of course I will.”

  I used that line with direct eye contact every time.

  She smiled in obvious relief. “Okay. We’ll talk later.”

  And, it worked…every time.

  As soon as Kym Campbell—yes, the soup family—was safely riding down the private elevator, I called Adrian.

  “Hey, Bro, you on your way?” He was waiting for me in his place, one floor down.

  “Actually, I can’t. I just had to send Kym home. Something’s—”

  “Come up?” He laughed as he cut me off. “Don’t be a dick, dude.”

  “What? It’s not like this is your engagement party.”

  “Wait, you sent Kym home? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Stephanie called.”

  “Brier?” he
spit out far too quickly for my taste.

  “Yeah,” I continued. “Send Josh and Monica my best.”

  Adrian let out a long, slow whistle, followed by a chuckle. “I’d tell you to have fun, but that’s pretty much implied, isn’t it?”

  I hung up and set my iPhone on the island before running my hand over my head, leaving it perched on the back of my neck as I walked over to the stereo. I didn’t feel bad for turning off Louis Armstrong in favor of Jay-Z. Louis wouldn’t care. This was Steph we were talking about. And Jay-Z was a nice guy. He invested wisely in real estate.

  I’d met Stephanie Brier in the fall of 2008. I’d been minding my own business, studying in Diamond library, when Maxine slapped her hand over my book. She’d been my study partner since the beginning of the semester. She was a knockout, and if her last name hadn’t been Kennedy, I’d have gone for her. I didn’t need to get wrapped up in that.

  “Levitate, gorgeous, it’s time to go.”

  “Go where? It’s fucking mid-terms, Max.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Only you would forget about a photo shoot starring you.”

  “Christ.” I sighed and followed her out of the library.

  She was right, as always. I’d forgotten all about it. Some photography students from some nearby art school were in charge of helping to revamp the law school’s webpage. The dean of my J.D./M.B.A. program selected me to be on the cover page for the department. The shoot with me and a few of my peers had been scheduled for this morning, and now I was running late.

  I hadn’t been dating, because I didn’t have the time, energy, or desire needed to maintain a relationship. My little brother, Adrian, claimed he’d found a no-frills, no-expectations relationship with a girl named Ember. November, actually. Hot as hell, too. No frills it wasn’t, though. I saw that the first time I’d met her. He was ass over head for her, poor guy. I’d figured it was only a matter of time before one of them caved and they got all lovey-dovey.

  Screw that.

  I just needed to get laid on a semi-regular basis.

  All right. Make that regular basis.

  High frequency.

  Before you get all women’s lib on me, there are women out there looking for the exact same thing. Had I known one of them was waiting for me that day, I thought as I reeled myself back to my Boston apartment, I’d have shown up a hell of a lot sooner.

  “Red,” I whispered, resting my forehead against the shelf as the music rose in volume around me. “Shit…”

  She was the closest thing to “the one that got away” that I’d ever had in my life, and she was on her way back to my door.

  Stephanie Brier, Self-Proclaimed Sociopath

  I don’t care what people think.

  This is my credo, my mantra. Now I realize that people flippantly make this statement all the time. We all know the type: big shit-talkers who slink off to cry into their pillows or post on Facebook about how the world is full of “bullies.” But for me, it happens to be true. With the exception of a small group of Homo sapiens that I can count on one hand, I don’t give a single fuck about the opinions and feelings of others. I’m completely unconcerned and contented in my apathy. Maybe oxygen deprivation killed off that part of my brain during my birth or something. I’ll have to ask Dad. Whatever the root cause, it’s the cold hard truth and this character trait somehow actually seems to win me friends, though I rarely keep them for very long.

  And do I care? Hell no! Why should I? People are insufferable, petty little animals that will stab you in the back the moment you turn to order a Salted Caramel Macchiato. Giving a rat’s ass caused me issue after irritating issue for a lot of my childhood. So after my mom died, I quit caring. Gave it up for Lent and never looked back. Mom was the one who’d always encouraged my softer side, and with her gone, what was the point? Let me tell you, I felt liberated.

  How do I manage to function in society, you ask? Fortunately, my doting father is also my boss and he is morally obligated to love me and therefore can’t fire me for insubordination even when some of our overly sensitive clients storm away all pissed off. Working in show business actually allows me to blend seamlessly in with the flock. Our particular population is chock full of sociopaths, so people are rarely shocked by my behavior. In fact, I’m ridiculously successful at what I do. Partially because my mother was a photography legend and I’ve been composing shots since I was big enough to hold a camera. It doesn’t hurt that my father owns the third largest music magazine in North America, The Sound Wave. Yeah. I happen to have a connection or two. Last but certainly not least is my knack to see people as objects, and I can manipulate them as such to get the elusive perfect shot.

  There is one caveat to all of this; I don’t like to be talked about—especially when I’m unable to defend myself. That, my friends, is another story entirely. So in retrospect, getting involved with Kevin Wiley was definitely a world-class fuck up. Sure, he was pleasant to look at—all thick hair, dazzling smile and cleft chin. Charming—not in a clever way (I promise you no one would ever accuse him of that)—but in a “say just the right thing at the right time” kind of way. He’s an actor, so you would think it might have dawned on me that this was a job requirement, not a character attribute. When we first met, Kevin was the “it boy” of the year, one of People magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People, a man whose glittering star was on the rise. I probably don’t have to explain how every aspect of his life was dissected, including any time we spent together. I was used to being on the functional side of the camera, so it disturbed me to have paparazzi yelling my name and camera flashes blinding me at every turn. And they were seriously everywhere, from the red carpet to the gas station bathroom.

  Kevin was remarkably easygoing about everything, and his smooth words usually had a calming effect on my agitated nerves. He forbade me to look at the tabloids, claiming it was for my own good. A few months later, when filming on his blockbuster ended, he moved in with me. My dad was furious! Just before we met, Kevin had been front page news for a stint he did in rehab due to his passion for prescription painkillers. You’d think my dad would be a little more open-minded, considering my uncles Mick and Keith had a tradition of shooting whisky with him at the holiday dinner table. Dad always gets a bit crazy when it comes to me and my questionable life choices. Since my mom was killed and my brother ran off and joined the priesthood, he’s focused on two things: the magazine and me. That shit gets old. And even though he thundered at me in his office for a solid hour, I didn’t relent. Not because I was madly in love with Kevin—God no! Can you imagine? But I was almost 24 years old at the time. Plus, I just don’t like being told no.

  For a couple of months we lived a semi-normal life in my hometown, the near paparazzi free city of Chicago. It was all rather serene, honestly. We ate the best pizza and hot dogs in the country, swam naked in the rooftop pool, watched hockey games at the bar down the street, and meandered along the shore of Lake Michigan. It sort of felt too good to be true. And you know the old adage about that.

  Perhaps it was all the time apart that led to our inevitable breakup. That was completely unavoidable, with him in LA 90% of the time and my constant globetrotting. Our penthouse in Chicago was usually occupied by me alone, and even then only about two nights a week. More likely, it was because as self-absorbed as he was, even Kevin could sense that deep down in my tiny black heart, I didn’t even care what he thought.

  That doesn’t mean that I appreciated the surprise of the magazine cover featuring him kissing his latest co-star. I happened upon it as I strolled by a newsstand one sunny morning and nearly stumbled ass over elbows into oncoming traffic. Those TMZ bastards are all sorts of savvy with their telescopic lenses! I mean, what the hell ever happened to quietly screwing your secretary? Seriously! Sometimes I really do think the world is going to the dogs like my grandma used to say. I probably overreacted when I immediately changed my phone number and email address so he couldn’t reach me and then forgot to give my agent
a heads up. Fortunately, I’d had enough foresight to give it to my coworker, Cheyenne, and my assistant, Gerald. They’re the closest thing I have to friends, and therefore they’re the strings that tether me to the world.

  Gerald can be flighty as hell, but Cheyenne has the patience of Job. She must’ve been an evil dictator or mass murderer in a past life to have amassed the karma to be stuck with me. She patiently nodded at all of my angry blubbering the night I confronted Kevin with the lovely picture of him and his little señorita. Since he was on location, I had to do it over Skype. I expected him to at least deny it. Instead, he got that sad puppy dog look that makes me want to stab him repeatedly with a ballpoint pen and said, “I think I need my space for a while, Steph.”

  I’m not gonna lie, I have a temper befitting my red hair. I immediately slammed the laptop shut and spent a solid hour desecrating his beloved Star Wars collection. I intentionally ignored the buzzing of my cell phone while his rare action figure of Han Solo did swan dive off the roof of our high-rise. The rest of the mint condition collection ended up in the swimming pool, still in the precious, pristine boxes. I overnighted his prized autographed poster to him with “Herpes Infested Douche Canoe” scrawled on it in my favorite lipstick, Burnt Raisin. I’m pretty sure I must have blacked out after that, because when I finally came to my senses, I was stabbing at two melting Yoda heads with my fireplace poker.

  Over a week since my homicidal rampage on Darth Vader, Cheyenne finally agreed to share my apartment. This was great because I was never there and her previous apartment was in the ghetto. I had movers come in and take everything of Kevin’s (that I hadn’t destroyed) to a storage garage. Relax, kids—I overnighted the address and the key to his publicist. I went so far as to order the movers to take my mattress to the dump. I’d been sleeping on the couch since that ill-fated Skype session, anyway. I figured I’d have much less chance of catching crabs that way.

  Then, like a cockroach with hair product, Kevin resurfaced. Nearly four months had passed since he’d gone off to “find himself” in between the legs of his Latina lover, and the media was still talking about it. A letter from him arrived first, which I promptly shredded without even opening the envelope. I knew Kevin well enough to know that wouldn’t be the end of it. He had an overdeveloped sense of drama. He’d track me down and soon.