anything about Michael being here. Emily and Megan don’t know.”
Rachel shrugged again. “Sure, Mom. Your little secret is safe with me.” She stood up and gathered her things, purse, sweater, a woven carry-all. “I just wanted to stop and say hello. I’m sorry if I interrupted something.”
Diane stood with her. “No, honey, you didn’t interrupt anything. And even if you did, it still would have been fine.” She put her arms around her daughter. Rachel’s body was tense, rigid.
“Drive safe, and call me, okay?”
Rachel kissed her mother on the cheek. “Okay, Mom. Good night.”
Michael left her house with his mind racing. He didn’t want to go home. It was too late to go back to Angela’s. He reached for his cell phone, scanned through the memory, and hit the button for Mark. Mark Bender, his closest friend from high school.
Mark answered, and Michael could tell he was out somewhere from the noise and music in the background.
“Mark, man it’s Michael. Where the hell are you?”
“Fuck, man, we’re at Rollie’s. Come, drink with us.”
“Who’s us?” Michael asked. He knew Rollie’s, a bar in Hoboken, blocks from Marks apartment. Mark drank there when he knew he wouldn’t be able to drive home.
“Well,” Mark said slowly, “there’s Brianne, and Laura, and a blonde who won’t tell me her name. But if the great Mickey Flynn were here, I bet she would.”
“Okay, man. But can I crash at your place? I need to be at the airport tomorrow at eight.”
“In the morning? Jesus, Mike, I thought the tour was over.”
“It is. Toronto is a different thing. I’ll tell you later. I’ll be there in thirty. Don’t leave on me, okay?”
“Hey, we’ll be here.” Michael hung up headed toward Hoboken. He thought about Diane as he drove. God, she was fantastic. Any woman who could hold her own among the Carlucci girls was a rare bird. His sisters were three of the smartest, toughest women he knew, and Diane had stayed right with them. She had even made them laugh. He didn’t often compare the other women in his life to his sisters, simply because so few even came close. But Diane had bowled him over.
She was so sexy, dark, flashing eyes, that shy smile that blazed out unexpectedly. And he could not wait to get his hands on that body. She would be great in bed, he could tell. Smart women, he had found, usually were. She hadn’t had sex in six years. What is wrong with the men around here? He thought. He couldn’t believe she told him that. She must trust him. She must also want him. He felt a flicker of heat. He had been aroused all evening, just watching her, imagining.
She was forty-five. That didn’t bother him. She certainly didn’t look it. Or act it. She had three or four earrings in her left ear, a series of tiny hoops peeking through her hair. She wore a large, onyx ring on her hand, and gold chains around her wrist. She seemed as comfortable in her jeans and sneakers today as she had been in the sleek pant suit she had worn the previous week to dinner. A class act. Maybe that’s why her age didn’t faze him. He knew her strength, poise and grace were as much a part of her as her skin, earned through years of living. Too many women he had met in the past few years were slick and flashy, but without any substance. Diane was the real thing.
He drove past Rollie’s, looking for a place to park his truck. It was a ’99 pick-up, bought with the first check from the first CD NinetySeven recorded. He liked driving it because he didn’t have to worry about it being stolen, scratched, or broken into. He parked on a side street and walked back to the bar. He felt grubby, his jeans blotched with dirt from working outside at Diane’s, and later at his sister’s. He had changed into another shirt, pulled from the duffel bag that was always stashed behind the front seat. He tried to scrape the mud off the side of his sneakers, then gave up. Rollie’s was a neighborhood
Rachel shrugged again. “Sure, Mom. Your little secret is safe with me.” She stood up and gathered her things, purse, sweater, a woven carry-all. “I just wanted to stop and say hello. I’m sorry if I interrupted something.”
Diane stood with her. “No, honey, you didn’t interrupt anything. And even if you did, it still would have been fine.” She put her arms around her daughter. Rachel’s body was tense, rigid.
“Drive safe, and call me, okay?”
Rachel kissed her mother on the cheek. “Okay, Mom. Good night.”
Michael left her house with his mind racing. He didn’t want to go home. It was too late to go back to Angela’s. He reached for his cell phone, scanned through the memory, and hit the button for Mark. Mark Bender, his closest friend from high school.
Mark answered, and Michael could tell he was out somewhere from the noise and music in the background.
“Mark, man it’s Michael. Where the hell are you?”
“Fuck, man, we’re at Rollie’s. Come, drink with us.”
“Who’s us?” Michael asked. He knew Rollie’s, a bar in Hoboken, blocks from Marks apartment. Mark drank there when he knew he wouldn’t be able to drive home.
“Well,” Mark said slowly, “there’s Brianne, and Laura, and a blonde who won’t tell me her name. But if the great Mickey Flynn were here, I bet she would.”
“Okay, man. But can I crash at your place? I need to be at the airport tomorrow at eight.”
“In the morning? Jesus, Mike, I thought the tour was over.”
“It is. Toronto is a different thing. I’ll tell you later. I’ll be there in thirty. Don’t leave on me, okay?”
“Hey, we’ll be here.” Michael hung up headed toward Hoboken. He thought about Diane as he drove. God, she was fantastic. Any woman who could hold her own among the Carlucci girls was a rare bird. His sisters were three of the smartest, toughest women he knew, and Diane had stayed right with them. She had even made them laugh. He didn’t often compare the other women in his life to his sisters, simply because so few even came close. But Diane had bowled him over.
She was so sexy, dark, flashing eyes, that shy smile that blazed out unexpectedly. And he could not wait to get his hands on that body. She would be great in bed, he could tell. Smart women, he had found, usually were. She hadn’t had sex in six years. What is wrong with the men around here? He thought. He couldn’t believe she told him that. She must trust him. She must also want him. He felt a flicker of heat. He had been aroused all evening, just watching her, imagining.
She was forty-five. That didn’t bother him. She certainly didn’t look it. Or act it. She had three or four earrings in her left ear, a series of tiny hoops peeking through her hair. She wore a large, onyx ring on her hand, and gold chains around her wrist. She seemed as comfortable in her jeans and sneakers today as she had been in the sleek pant suit she had worn the previous week to dinner. A class act. Maybe that’s why her age didn’t faze him. He knew her strength, poise and grace were as much a part of her as her skin, earned through years of living. Too many women he had met in the past few years were slick and flashy, but without any substance. Diane was the real thing.
He drove past Rollie’s, looking for a place to park his truck. It was a ’99 pick-up, bought with the first check from the first CD NinetySeven recorded. He liked driving it because he didn’t have to worry about it being stolen, scratched, or broken into. He parked on a side street and walked back to the bar. He felt grubby, his jeans blotched with dirt from working outside at Diane’s, and later at his sister’s. He had changed into another shirt, pulled from the duffel bag that was always stashed behind the front seat. He tried to scrape the mud off the side of his sneakers, then gave up. Rollie’s was a neighborhood
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