Buy Me a Dream, page 1
Buy Me
a
Dream
by
Peter Butler
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, incidents and events are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Peter Butler
All rights reserved
www.peterbutler.net
Without limiting the rights under copyright, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception being unedited, continuous sections, of less than one hundred words to be used solely for review purposes.
Published by: Peter Butler
www.peterbutler.net
ISBN: 978-0-9924417-4-6
Cover design by Peter Butler.
Also available by
Peter Butler....
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chapter
one
Monday 22nd. (late afternoon)
It had been the day-from-hell and I was doing the only logical thing to deal with it - getting drunk. But even that was going poorly. I was clinging to my third single-malt like it was some kind of life raft, which I guess it was in some respects, but the heat from my hand was rapidly melting the one remaining ice-cube, diluting its numbing power. I was alone by choice, sitting on a barstool at the bar of the Okay Corral. Upmarket? Yes, if you judge that by the prices they charge. Cheesy? Absolutely, the name alone is a clue. The bar is located in an expensive part of L.A. and it apparently specializes in catering for professional losers, judging by my observations of my fellow drinkers. I fitted in perfectly; expensive suit, tailored shirt, silk tie, five-hundred-dollar shoes, neat, recently trimmed hair, and the afterglow of a ten-hour old splash of overpriced eau-de-SomethingFrench lingering on my cheeks.
Kudos to the owners of this place for changing the spelling of O.K; the depth of their creativity is inspiring. I had never been here before and that was the very reason I had chosen this bar. Hiding in a crowd is only possible when you don't know most of the people in that crowd, or more correctly, they don't know you. My reasoning: less expensive bars frequently have a TV playing somewhere - and that was the last thing I needed, given that there was a better than even-money chance my neatly trimmed features, and some of my not-so-trimmed ones might suddenly appear on the screen. Up until today I would have welcomed and enjoyed that exposure, after-all a television appearance elevates a person's status amongst the general populace for some inexplicable reason. It might have something to do with you being a pseudo-invited guest in their living rooms and therefore somehow involved in their lives, a subject of conversation and available for judgment, without any right of reply. Given the quality of the crap they excrete out of their antennas these days, and the principal of guilt-by-association, I don't trust anyone who comes on the screen - a point I was probably proving to the masses at this very moment.
To amuse myself for the past half hour I'd been imagining what catastrophic event might have befallen my fellow drinkers to herd them into the Corral - it was way past the hour that the legendary shootout with Wyatt Earp supposedly happened, so a repeat of that seemed unlikely. My state of mind has put me in a place where I can only assume bad things happen to people. That is a mistake, I realize, and unfair to this wanna-be classy establishment, as being an awful person is clearly only a prerequisite for me to be in here having a brain-numbing drink... or ten.
I've staked my claim to a stool on the longer of the two arms of the L-shaped bar and I've been glancing repeatedly at an attractive woman propped up at the bar diagonally opposite me, partly because she is there in my peripheral vision but mainly because something about her is damn hot. I can't put my finger on exactly what it is though. To help my thinking along I decide to give her some history. This is a game I routinely play when I'm bored or lonely - taking a stranger's looks and combining them with the situation they are in, then filling in some details about their lives. She appears a little tense, perhaps wary even - I decide she's having trouble at work; maybe her boss is hitting on her. She looks lawyerly - classy, with expensive clothes, she clearly has great taste and color coordination, and I don't see gold or even a diamond on her left hand. I have trained my eyes well. I decide her problem must be one of her law firm's partners wanting some after-hours one-on-one activity from her. Anyone less than partner she looks more than capable of shooting down, just with those eyes. The very same eyes that I suddenly realize are focused on me. As I grasp that she is looking piercingly at me she seems to realize she is doing it also, and we both instantly turn away.
Kind of awkward, almost the same as being sprung staring at someone's boobs while they are talking to you. Were they the first shots of the new Okay Corral shootout?
I'm a big boy now; I don't normally drool over strangers. But something about the woman was getting to me. I console myself with the thought that I was simply trying to work out what it was about her that caused me to gawk like a horny teenager.
I have my back to the other patrons in the room who are sitting at tables, there are about ten, I think, scattered throughout the room and I can't include them in my game without turning around. Only three of us are sitting at the bar and I shift my wounded gaze to number three. He is a man, about forty, a little overweight and thinning at the temples. Number three is wearing the same uniform as me. He is five stools along on the same side of the 'L' and judging from the anxious look on his face and the way he is studying the papers in front of him I decide he has just been served divorce papers... or maybe presented with a hostile takeover of his company. Either way, the guy was about to be hung out to dry. Maybe he should introduce himself to lawyer-girl. No, cancel that. I saw her first.
'Would you like me to freshen that up for you, Mark?'
I turn to see the soft brown doe-eyes of Bradley looking at me from behind the bar. I don't normally get on first name terms with bartenders but he introduced himself as he delivered my second whiskey, which turned out to be a double. I had only ordered a single. That might be a hint that Bradley is possibly interested in more than just selling me drinks. I have no idea why this happens, but it happens a lot; not the free drink - the unexplained interest in me. I'm a straight arrow, I like women, as my fickle eyes have just demonstrated, but sadly the majority of eligible females don't seem to like me as avidly as a lot of the males.
I drained the watery remains of the Dewar's Bradley had decided I should be drinking, nodded yes to him and pushed the empty glass over. I deliberately didn't say anything, and his doe-eyes registered the hurt of rejection. I recognized the look; it was one I mastered years ago.
I'm not anti-Brad or homophobic, I don't believe I even harbor any repressed, thinly disguised socially unacceptable feelings on that subject that might somehow sneak out in my facial expressions. If I did they would have killed my career at the very beginning and certainly would never have allowed me to achieve the heights I have reached... Up until today, that is. I like to think I'm a liberal free-spirited guy; quite open-minded and I do enjoy the company of men and doing guy things with them, but certainly not the horizontal tango. Weirdly, something about me says the exact opposite to many gay men. I have studied my looks endlessly in the mirror trying to objectively work out why. Rational, pragmatic me says: my face is pleasantly acceptable in an unremarkable way, and my physique is well proportioned, but I'm no supermodel or stud athlete. My only guess is my lips are the problem. I have full, round, quite red lips that could be a male version of Angelina Jolie's - lips that a lot of men seem to be able to imagine doing wonderful things to sensitive parts of their bodies. Well, that's what I imagine when I look at her lips, and I guess gay men could also be aligned with that concept regarding yours truly. Other than that slightly embarrassing thought I have no clue why my pheromones are scoring hits in directions I don't want them to.
The lawyer is looking at me again. Her look is either one of concern, annoyance or questioning. I'm not terrific at reading expressions. Maybe she's frowning or the dim light is hurting her eyes.
I realize that I must have been subconsciously staring at her while my mind mused about my lips, and gay men. I immediately look away. This is verging on becoming embarrassing.
Thankfully Bradley arrives with my Dewar's. I'm back to singles, apparently.
'Thank you, Bradley,' I offer up pleasantly, but my expression changes to bemused as he smoothly slides my check across the bar with a wordless wry smile. Seems I have somehow indicated I was leaving. I did mention I'm not very good at these subtle signal things. My day-from-hell now includes a gay barman who hates me and a gorgeous brunette lawyer who is ready to sue me for eye-undressing and stalking. At least the guy with the divorce papers is still my buddy. I glance at him but the look on his face tells me I don't want to be his buddy; he seems ready to punch the first person who talks to him. Good luck giving him his check, Bradley!
The fresh ice cube makes a satisfying clink as I gently swirl the rich amber liquid around before taking a sip. As I lift my head my eyes glimpse my potential lawsuit looking at me from across the bar with an amused look on her face. I hold my drink just in front of my mouth, smile back at her and gesture a small toast with my glass. To my surprise lawyer girl smiles back and does likewise with her glass.
I came here to be alone and get drunk, but a second scenario has just presented itself. My day-from-hell might just have a hot sweaty silver lining if I can lift myself out of my depression and weave some verbal magic.
I have never been overly shy, in my job self-confidence is a prerequisite, and I swivel off my barstool and stand... only to realize that I had actually gone some way to achieving my original aim. Three whiskeys in half an hour - make that four, thank you Bradley, and I was a little more plastered than I had imagined. I lift Bradley's bill off the bar and glance at it as I make my way towards lawyer-girl. He has written a phone number on it, plus; "The best you'll ever have..?" I don't think he is referring to a drink and I make a mental note to see a plastic surgeon about a lip-ectomy or an Angelina-ectomy, or whatever they might call the operation I need to de-gay my mouth.
'I apologize for staring at you,' I offer-up as I help myself to the stool beside her, 'but, there's something incredibly attractive about you and I was just trying to pinpoint exactly what it is.'
'That's either unbelievably sweet...' she pauses for dramatic effect, 'or outrageously corny,' she offers me a half-smile, 'I need a moment to decide which it is. Say something else.'
Definitely a lawyer.
'I'm only corny during office hours. After work I'm sweet,' I made an exaggerated effort to look at my watch, 'and look at the time.'
I smiled... sweetly.
Up close she was definitely beautiful. Her face was symmetry - big dark green eyes, high cheekbones, skin - blemish free and as smooth as an air-brushed super-model; her smile unleashed a perfect set of the best pearly-white teeth money can buy. Her hair was... bingo! That was it! Her hair was the reason my eyes had been riveted to her. I have no idea what the style would be called, but it was cut in a wild, shaggy way; the same concept as those designer jean that they intentionally cut and tear in the name of fashion, and milking money from fashion addicts. Her hair is a bit longer than jaw length, it is curly and frizzy with an almost wet look to it, like she had just stepped out of the shower and towel dried it. After hours of heavy sex.
I now had a name for the style - the "Just-Fucked" look. I should copyright that name, it's very marketable.
She was looking at me with that bemused smile she had originally given me, I could see she was trying to work out if I was a "possible" or a "jerk". I learned years ago that women do this within seconds of meeting a guy, that's why I came on so abruptly to her. It disorients them and gives me a few more seconds to show that I'm not an ordinary guy. It only works for a short time, then they work out I am just an ordinary guy... with big lips. Then the door usually shuts.
'I'm Monique,' she says with a soft sweet voice that seems too nice to be unpracticed.
'I'm Mark.' I slide my hand out to her and she places hers in mine. It is soft and warm and feels good. 'I've worked out why I was staring at you,' I add, still holding her hand and smiling confidently at her.
'Feel free to elaborate,' she replies, making no effort to remove her hand.
'Your hair!' I announce triumphantly, as if those two words are self-explanatory.
She raises her eyebrows and looks questioningly at me, as I knew she would.
'I love it.' I give her an intense leer then abruptly replace it with a smile. 'It has that just-screwed look about it.' I cleaned up my newly created name, it seemed too early for the copyrighted version.
Her face lost its smile and she frowned at me. 'That cut cost two days’ pay... and you think it looks like I've been screwed?'
I kept smiling, it was not the time to back down, and I think she is actually happy with my description; just testing me out.
'I was going to say just-fucked,' my smile changed to a grin, 'but I restrained my language because I detected you were a woman of class. And no, I don't think you have been screwed. Whatever it cost, you look sensational.'
A questionable statement, followed by a compliment usually gets a woman off-guard and Monique was no exception. I had changed plan and introduced the f-word at that point because I didn't want the conversation to get bogged down and diverted to the cost of her haircut.
'It is called, Curly-Messy and,' she paused a little longer than necessary having ended her statement on a high and then she added, 'it was cut by Boris Metransky.' She said his name like everyone on the planet knew Boris. I didn't of course and my look told her that. 'He's absolutely huge in Paris, at the moment.'
'Hilton?' I asked, innocently.
'France!' She let her piercing eyes bore into mine for a moment, then she smiled. 'I was there two days ago.'
'You flew to France to get your hair cut?' I gave her a disbelieving look.
'I flew to France for a shoot. The haircut was a bonus part of the job.'
'You're telling me you are either an international hit-woman, or a model?'
'Neither.' She smiled challengingly again, seemingly happy that she had reversed the conversation, placing me in the position of having to make dumb comments or ask stupid questions. I like this woman, my crappy day was improving.
'Not a model - Not a paid killer.' She shook her head at me in mock disapproval. 'I said I was involved in a shoot.'
...that came with a bonus haircut that costs two days’ pay. A conundrum to solve.
'I used to be a model... when I was young,' she goaded me.
Monique looked to be in her late twenties and I could easily see her as a model. The world had gone completely crazy when a woman as beautiful as her was considered too old to be the subject of a photograph or video. Anyway, she sure as hell wasn't too old for me.
'Actress!' I almost shouted when the obvious answer came to me. I was grateful that my original guess from across the bar was off the table, I'm really not a huge fan of lawyers, mind you that hadn't stopped me from walking over to her. But then I wasn't hoping to get legal advice.
She shook her head slowly from side to side. 'Ready to give up now?'
'You enjoy being on top, don't you?' I asked with a dirty smile. The double meaning only slightly disguised.
She ignored the bait. 'I'm a photographer. I freelance for most of the top fashion mags and Boris is a friend. I get him a lot of work with the shoots I organize and he repays the favor - seemingly by making me look like a whore.'
'A freshly washed one, at least,' I grinned at her, fully aware that that last quip went way over the line. 'And I never suggested you looked like a whore,' I said this casually to avoid the impression I was on the defensive, 'to the best of my limited knowledge of the opposite sex even frumpy old housewives wash their hair, and everyone knows they don't have sex... ever.'
She looked at me, her head tilted slightly sideways, perhaps seeing if I didn't look quite so insane on an angle. 'So, replacing "freshly washed whore" with "frumpy old housewife" seemed like a good way for you to gain my favor?'
'I've already gained your favor,' I gave her my cocky smile. My big lips allow me to do that smile quite well. 'The fact that you haven't kicked my ass off this stool by now, tells me that.'
She looked at me in a mock questioning manner, one eyebrow cocked slightly. 'You haven't gained my favor, as you so overconfidently put it,' she shook her head as she said it. 'You intrigue me... a little... And possibly you amuse me... a little. But I say the same about my friend Jane's pet poodle, and I don't actually like that dog; it's quite annoying most of the time, it yaps and runs around frantically, like it's on stimulants.'
'Phew!' I melodramatically wiped my brow with the back of my hand. 'For a moment there I thought you were comparing me to that dog, but you couldn't be, because I have never yapped in my life, not even barked once and I certainly don't run around like I'm on stimulants. I try hard to go the other way.' I held my glass up to her to emphasize my laid-back qualities.
'What do you do, Mark? Apart from insult women you have just met and ply them with sexual innuendo.' Monique's face, in particular her eyes and cheeks maintained the smirk she deployed so successfully. It disarmed me. She was a worthy adversary possessing the subtle ability to turn a dominant, forceful personality into a bumbling, defenseless one.
