Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!“Jesus,”
I muttered. I was so sleepy… couldn't move. My head seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!
Christ! Who was calling at this hour? The audacity!I popped upright and took a deep, troubled breath. The white silk comforter was draped over my legs now, covering my loins, and in spite of being alone, my vanity caused me to look down at my bare torso and run my fingers over my abdominal muscles. They felt good; I was in fabulous shape. That was important now, especially if I wanted to attract another Duchess, but it wasn't nearly as important as being rich.
Well, at least I still had my mansion for a while. A shabby-chic mansion could be a very powerful aphrodisiac. I looked around the bedroom. The ceiling was thirty feet above the $150,000 tan and taupe carpet, and my bed was fit for a king. Thick bleached-wood poles, carved to resemble pinecones, rose up at all four corners of the bed, where they supported a canopy of tan and taupe Indonesian silk that matched the carpet perfectly. The Duchess loved her fucking canopies! And she loved her silk too. The mansion had seven bedrooms, and each one had a silk fucking canopy!
Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!
Fuck it!I reached over and picked up the chrome-plated phone.
“Hello?” I mumbled, in the sort of overly sleepy tone that implies you've been called at an inappropriate hour.
Alas, what I got in return was the bright and cheery voice of my least favorite codependent. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” declared the Duchess. “It's eight-thirty! We have an appointment with the real estate broker in two hours!” Cheery, cheery, cheery!
Why, the impudence!I was speechless! At a complete loss for words! What would she say next, that she was going to wear my favorite perfume today? Christ!If I hadn't promised not to blow Debbie's cover, I would be giving the dirty Duchess a piece of my mind right now.
The Duchess, still happy: “Wake up, sleepy-boy! Today's the first day of the rest of your life!” Then: “Why don't you have Gwynne make you some coffee?”
“Gwynne doesn't get here ‘til nine,” I said tonelessly. “And I'm not in the mood for coffee.”
The Duchess, picking up my tone: “Well, someoneseems awful grumpy this morning! Why don't you open the shades and let some light shine in? It's beautiful outside.”
I clenched my teeth in rage and slowly turned my head to the left, to the fabulous taupe shades. Must be twenty feet high, those fucking shades, and they must've cost a fortune! God—how I'd love to have that money right now in cash!
Suddenly—a brainstorm! “You know what?” I said happily. “You're right! I could use some light in here. Hold on a second, sweetie,” and I leaned over to the end table and grabbed the remote control of the future, which controlled everything in the bedroom, from the shades to the recessed lights to the twelve-foot-high entertainment center just across from the bed, with its forty-inch high-definition TV and $75,000 Fisher stereo system, which included, among other things, a three-hundred-CD disc changer.
First, the shades: Remote in hand, I hit a one-inch LCD square marked SHADES, and just like that, the shades slowly slid open, revealing a pair of twelve-foot-high French doors that opened onto a reddish mahogany deck looking out over the Atlantic. “Ah, light!” I said to the backstabber. “Hold on another second, sweetie,” and then I hit a button marked CD SEARCH—causing a new menu to pop up. I punched in the letters B—O—L—T—O—N,and an instant later Michael Bolton's Greatest Hitspopped onto the screen. This was accompanied by a rather annoying picture of him (with his big nose, narrow face, and ridiculous ponytail), along with a list of all seventeen of his ridiculously syrupy love songs, most of which he'd stolen from other, more talented artists and all of which were meant to manipulate the hearts and minds of unsuspecting females.
My teeth were still clenched in rage when I placed my index finger over the song “When a Man Loves a Woman,” and pressed it gently. Then I moved my finger to the button marked VOLUME UP, and I pressed that too and held it for a few seconds.
The still-happy Duchess: “What are you doing over there?”
“Nothing,” I said, staring at my shabby-chic entertainment center and hearing a few clicks and clacks as the CD changer did its thing. “I'm just putting on some music to start my day.”
“Really?” she said, a bit confused. Then: “Okay! I'm heading out to the beach soon. I figured we'd spend the day together.”
“Well, before you get in the car, Nadine, I think you should know that I'm having second thoughts about the Hamptons thing. In fact, I think you should stay put for a while in Old Brookville.”
Not so happy suddenly: “What are you talking about? I thought we already discussed this.”
Just then I heard the opening notes to the song. I took a deep breath, determined not to tip my hand. “Yeah,” I said icily, “but you're already set in your ways out there. You know, you've got all your activities lined up—all the Mommy and Me classes, the cooking classes. And I know how much you like having Alex as your personal trainer. Alex…” I paused for a moment, letting the Romanian dirt-ball's name hang in the air. “I couldn't imagine Alex spending an extra hour and a half driving out to the Hamptons. Know what I mean?”
“He doesn't train me anymore,” she said nervously.
“Oh, really? What happened?”
“Nothing; we had, uh, a little bit of a falling-out.”
Well, that's what happens when you fuck your personal trainer! I thought. But I couldn't just come out and say that, because that would compromise Bo. So I said, “Well, that's what happens when you fuck your personal trainer! You have a falling-out!” Sorry, Bo!
“What are you talking about?” she said defensively.
With venom: “Oh, you're gonna deny that you fucked that slime-bucket of a Romanian?”
“I… I didn't.”
“Oh, save it, Nadine! I know that smelly fuck was sleeping in my bed. I heard all about it.”
Just then I heard the repulsive voice of the ponytailed bastard: “When a man loves a woman, can't keep his mind on nothin’ else.”
I help up the phone to the ceiling for a second—to the 80-watt Bose surround-sound speakers—and then I put it back to my ear and heard the Duchess say, “…you please turn down the music!”
“It's not that loud,” I snapped, and I held the phone back up to the speakers again. Then I put it back to my ear and heard her scream, “… with you, Jordan!Stop! Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”I asked innocently. “Blasting Michael Bolton or talking about the Romanian slimeball? Which one?”
Calm panic: “Who's telling you all this?”
With a hiss: “Oh, please, Nadine! Who do you think you're dealing with? I've known about this shit for months!”
The Duchess struck back: “Yeah—well—who the fuck are youto throw stones? Like you've been a fucking angel out there? You slept with that disgusting Jewish girl who gave you all the blow jobs!” A moment of silence, then the Duchess continued, “I also know about all those crazy Russian girls. You'll never change! You're a whoremonger!”
“Yeah, you're right,” I snarled, “and you're a fucking codependent, who fucks her fellow codependents—like that washed-up golf pro from Pennsylvania. What did he offer you: free golf lessons with every lay?”
The Duchess, incredulous: “I… I don't know what you're talking about.”
Through clenched teeth: “I'll never forgive you for what you did, Nadine. You left me on the courthouse steps, you fucking bitch!”
Right back at me: “And you kicked me down the stairs, you fucking drug addict! I hope you die in jail!”