What the Facel is a Fucking Vega

"What kind of man trouble? Did Texas run out of them?" I immediately regretted saying it and started to apologize, but J. Paul Tarver started laughing. "I don't know why I'm laughing. That's my daughter you're talking about."

"I'm sorry. I had no right to say that, but she drives me crazy."

"Don't worry about it. I'm her father and she does the same thing to me." He took another bite, chewed then swallowed it and washed it down with a big gulp of beer. Then he spoke. "Listen, Ryan. I want you on the Spenser project. What is it going to take? Money? My first born? No, that won't work. You already hate her ... or love her ... or something. And, actually, she's my second born anyway."

"I honestly don't know."

"Okay. Here's an idea. Talk to Dennis and find out what he thinks is going to be our biggest headache on Spenser. Then take those plans to my place in Belize. Spend a couple of weeks going over them and getting Christine out of your head. When you come back, I will forbid her from going anywhere near you. How's that sound?"

I chuckled a bit. "I would love to go to Belize, but any work I do has to be done with Dennis."

"Okay, I'll send him too. He needs a break, anyway."

"Why not just send Christine?"

He looked at me, took out his phone and punched a button. "Hi, sweetie. Whatcha doin'?"

There was a pause while the other person spoke. Then he continued. "Listen. Your mother and I have been thinking. The pool in Belize needs to be drained and repainted. Why don't you pop down there and take care of it for us? Jose could get it done, all you have to do is keep an eye on things. You could take your sister and niece if you want ... or if they want." A long pause while he took bites of his Reuben, sipped on his beer, and rolled his eyes as he listened to the other person, who I now assumed was Christine. "I know, sweetheart. I've told you for years that men are assholes."

On it went for a several more minutes. I obviously didn't know what she was saying, but he was trying his best to console her. Then I saw his eyes get big and he looked at me. No, not looked, he glared. After he hung up, he continued to glare at me. "My daughter is crying. She hasn't cried since she was fifteen. And apparently, you're the reason."

"What? Why am I the reason?"

He leaned closer to me. "What does 'blow up' mean?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"She said you blew her up. What does that mean exactly?"

"It isn't blow up, it's blow off. Last week she called and asked me if I wanted to go out. I turned her down. I didn't have a good reason, other than she drives me crazy and I'm jealous of her other men. So I blew her off."

He seemed to relax somewhat. "Oh. I thought it meant something else. That's not so bad. As a matter of fact, it's almost funny. I don't think she's ever had anybody blow her up before. Listen, Ryan. Get your ass to the office on Monday and keep working on Spenser. I'll keep Christine away from you and I'll try to convince her to stay away from here." He indicated our surroundings. "If necessary, I'll buy the place and bar her from coming in. Besides, if I know my daughter, she'll have some other guy with a ring in his nose in no time."

He saw me wince when he said that. "Jesus fucking Christ, Ryan."

"You have no idea. Other than the one evening we went out, I haven't spent much time with her. I know nothing about her other than she dates a lot of guys, likes to drive your cars, and is spoiled. I don't know her favorite color, her favorite food, favorite dress, best subject in school ... none of that shit ... but she is on my mind constantly and I can't control it ... and it pisses me off that I can't!"

"I love my daughter, Ryan, never doubt that and if it ever comes down to you or her, your ass is toast. But I hate to see a good man go. Houston is a big city with lots of women so I suggest you find yourself one that trips your trigger. Hell, I might even be able to dig up one or two for you myself. I will try to keep Christine away, but Spenser is going to take a couple of years to build and I won't be able to keep you two separated that long. So get that 'give my notice' crap out of your mind and get to work. Do we understand each other?"

"But ..."

"No 'buts' goddamn it. She's a woman. Prettier than most and dumber than some ... otherwise she wouldn't be crying over some 'feeling sorry for himself slob' who doesn't know whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt. So you can either wallow in your own self-pity and run back East with your tail between your legs or you can help me build this building. Now, I have more important shit to do than nursemaid you and my daughter. You can pay the check. See you at the office on Monday."

With that he stood, downed the last of his beer and left. I finished my sandwich and my own beer, paid the check, left and went back to work. I had a building to build.

The next few months went smoothly. We broke ground on Spenser, finished it's foundation, and started building above ground level. I had neither seen nor heard from Christine. I did hear that her sister Marlene had taken delivery of her specially equipped van and all the modifications she needed in her house were completed.

Cam had broken up with Mr. Right and we were fuck buddies again. About once a week, sometimes more frequently, she and I would try to fuck each other's brains out. We spent our share of time at the Obit and on those nights she had a date we would just wave to each other. I had even moved out of my parent's house and into an apartment. But most importantly, the pool in Belize had been drained, painted and refilled.

I was a pretty happy camper.

Then the bottom fell out.

J. Paul Tarver came into my office on a Monday morning and closed the door. "I need your help, Ryan."

"Of course."

"I want you to call Christine and take her out."

I just stared at him for at least ... well, it was a long time. Then I spoke. "Fire me. Shoot me. Cut off my balls. But don't ask me to do that. I'm just getting back to normal, or whatever passes for MY normal, so don't ask that."

"Ryan, I'm desperate. She's been seeing some dude with no teeth. He wears jeans which look like they haven't been washed in years and I can see oil dripping out of his long assed pigtail."

"Mr. Tarver. Please don't ask ...."

"He has grease under his fingernails, Ryan. He doesn't wear socks and you can see his dirty ankles."

"Mr. Tarver, I just ..."

"Ryan, I'm desperate. What do you want? A partnership in the firm? My Alfa? They're both yours if you do this for me."

I looked at him. His hangdog look would have made Attila the Hun do anything he asked. Fuck! I stood and looked out the window for a long time. After a couple of minutes, I felt him standing beside me. I turned and looked at him. The hangdog look was still there. Goddamn it!

"Okay. When do I call her and what do I say?"

"Oh, God, Ryan. You'll never regret it." He acted like he was going to hug me.

"Too late. I do already. What do I say?"

"I don't care. Tell her your dog died and you need a shoulder to cry on. Tell her you're dying! I don't give a shit. Just get her away from that greasy sleezeball and DON'T tell her I told you about him or told you to call. She has to think it was your idea."

"I want you to know that I'm doing this to save my job. Period."

"Aw, come on, Ryan. I wouldn't fire you if you didn't ... okay, maybe I would. Just call her. Soon. Oh, you'll need her new number." He wrote it on the back of one of his cards. And with that he left. I kept looking out over Houston. Call Christine? I'd rather ... My thought was interrupted when my door opened and J. Paul Tarver stuck his head in and boomed, "Thank you, Ryan!" Then he was gone.

I sat down and for an hour tried to figure out what I was going to say. I really didn't want to open this can of worms. Then it dawned on me that I might not have to say anything. Maybe she won't even speak to me. That would work; I would call her, she would refuse to speak to me and I would have done what Mr. Tarver asked me to do.

After putting it off as long as I could, I picked up the office phone and dialed. It rang. No answer. It rang again. Still no answer. Third ring ... my luck was holding. Maybe she had a heart attack and couldn't get to the phone ... or some other stroke of luck for me. Fourth ring. I held my breath. "Hi, this is Christine. I'm unable to come to the phone, but if you leave your name and number, I'll get back to you."

I inhaled deeply. "Uh, Christine, this is Ryan Prescott. I was ... I was ... just wondering if maybe you would like to have a drink. Or something. If you can't, it's okay. Bye."

'If you can't, it's okay?' What kind of weak-assed shit is that? God, what a schmuck.

I was still berating myself when my phone rang. "Ryan Prescott."

"Hi Ryan. It's Christine."

"Uh, hi. How have you been?"

"Not too bad. You?"

"Not bad."

For Pete's sake, Ryan, get it over with. "Christine, would you like to have a drink ... or something this evening?"

Her response was immediate. "I would love to. What time?"

"Seven at the Obit?"

"Seven is fine, but I'm not allowed in the Obit."

"Why not?"

"Daddy paid the owner to bar me. We can go to Andy's on Westheimer, if that's okay."

"Sure. See you there at seven."

After we ended our call, I discovered that my shirt was soaking wet and my imagination was filled with her perfume.

How can any one person have the effect on another that she had on me? It took me months to get her out of my system and in one phone call I was a wreck. I left for the day and went home.

I walked into Andy's. She was standing in the lobby. I took a sharp, deep breath and tried to smile. Her smile looked just as strained as mine.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi," I said just as softly. We stood looking at each other.

"Table or booth?"

"What?" I asked.

The hostess asked again. "Table or booth?"

"Booth ... I guess." I answered still staring at those beautiful green eyes.

We were led to a booth where we sat facing each other. The hostess was prattling on about who our server would be, or some such tripe. We just looked at each other. We hadn't spoken other than the feeble "Hi's" in the lobby.

Apparently, our server had been hovering over us, watching us looking at each other before finally clearing her throat and asking what we wanted. She asked twice. We both said beer.

"What kind?"

"Who cares? Just bring something." She left.

I finally shook my head and broke out of my trance. What a ridiculous way for two adults to act. "How've you been?" I managed to get out.

"Not bad." Was her feeble response.

Things got better from there. We slowly relaxed, sipped our beers, and talked about everything but the two of us. By ten, we were laughing and joking. By eleven, we both realized that we should call it a day. By midnight, I was in my apartment trying to remember why her having so many boyfriends was so bad. We had made no other plans to talk or meet.

I had been in my office less than five minutes the next morning when my phone rang.

"Ryan Prescott."

"Ryan," the voice boomed. "You're a fucking genius. I don't know what you did, but it worked. She talked and laughed until three this morning ... we couldn't shut her up. Keep up the good work, my boy." I could hear J. Paul Tarver laughing as he ended the call.

I spent the day thinking about her and all of her boyfriends and found myself back to where I was months ago. The thought of her with all of those guys still drove me fucking crazy. How many guys had she had? Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? The night before, I went to sleep convinced that it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was what happens when she and I were together. Last night it didn't matter; but in the cold light of day ... I wasn't sure. Did the number of women I slept with matter? To me it didn't. Should it matter to her? Again, it shouldn't. But the fact that I had slept with so few and her so many? So am I a hypocrite? Mine didn't matter, but hers did? I would say yes; I was a big assed hypocrite

Christine didn't call me that day as I half expected her to ... until just before close of business. "Ryan Prescott."

"Hi. It's Christine."

"Hi."

"I had fun last night. Thank you."

"So did I," I said genuinely.

"Any possibility we could do it again?"

It didn't take me long to answer. "Yeah. I'd like to, but what about your boyfriend?"

"What boyfriend?"

"Your current guy."

"There is no current guy."

"No?"

"Absolutely."

"Then how about tonight?"

"Same time, same place?"

"Same time, different place. The Obit."

"I told you I can't ..."

"Trust me. They'll let you in." There is no current guy? That's what she just told me. Someone isn't telling the truth.

This time I was waiting for her when she walked in. Nobody challenged us as we found a booth. It was another nice evening ... except for the lie either she or her father was telling, hanging over us. I tried a couple of times to bring up a boyfriend, but as time went on, it again, became less and less important.

The rest of the week was more of the same; as was the following week. Our evenings were spent together and most enjoyable. One night during the first week, I kissed her. Really kissed her. And when she kissed me back, I couldn't have cared less how many boyfriends she'd had.

One Saturday morning found me at The Spenser build site. Both Dennis and Mr. Tarver were there. We spent the whole morning conferring. Around noon, Dennis had to leave. "Ryan, I want to thank you again for what you've done for Christine. Damn, man, she's a different person."

"Tell me more about her sleezeball boyfriend."

"There's nothing more to tell."

"There's always the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"I think you know, Mr. Tarver."

"All I know is my daughter is happy for the first time in months. She's her old self; she sings, she jokes, she laughs. But most of all she acts alive. If an imagination and a little lie were all it took to help accomplish that, I'd do it every day. But it wasn't the lie that did it. It was you. She cares for you. My only mistake was not lying months ago. I saw her pain, but didn't help her because I was more concerned about money. When I finally realized that, it took me a long time to figure out how to fix it; and the fix was easy. Get the man who caused her depression to cure it. So, I lied."

"That's fine for you and her, but I'm not fine. I'm still going fucking crazy. One minute I can't stand her, the next, I can't wait to be with her. One minute I don't care how many men she has dated, the next I'm jealous of all of them. I can't live like this. I know it's immature and childish, but that's the way it is."

"I can't help you there. All I can tell you is that she cares about you."

"Yeah, but I bet she cared about every one of half the men in Texas she's slept with."

I knew as soon as I said it that I had gone too far. His face got red and he clutched his fists. I thought he was going to attack me. In that instant, I realized that if someone said that to me about my daughter, either he or I would had been carried out of there by the handles by six of our best friends ... so I had to give him credit for restraining himself.

He spoke coldly and slowly. "I told you that if it ever came down to you or my daughter, your ass would be toast; and it is. You're fired." He got into the car he had chosen to drive that day and left. I followed immediately. I went to the office, took all of my personal stuff, left my keys on the desk and walked out.

Soon after that at my father's house, I told him what happened. "You can't do that to people, Ryan. You have no way of knowing how many men she has slept with and it's no concern of yours, anyway. That is grossly unfair. You owe both of them an apology. And if you can't deal with her past, the two of you have no future."

He was right and I knew it.

He and I spent the rest of the weekend going through my mother's clothes. He was donating all of them; except for her wedding gown and the pajamas she was wearing when she died. It was her Alpha and Omega, he said.

Bright and early Monday morning my phone rang. "Hello." I answered.

"All right. What happened?" asked Martin Cummins.

"I basically called his daughter a whore."

"Good God, Ryan. Are you fucking crazy?"

"Yes, I am. And she made me this way."

"Listen. Stay put and lay low for a couple of days. Let him cool off. Savvy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Goddamnit, I knew she was trouble."

Nothing happened that week so I started making plans to go back to Pennsylvania. Getting out of my lease was going to cost a fortune.

Friday night I was at the Obit. I was sitting at the bar nursing my third beer of the night when I smelled her. I looked around but didn't see her. A few minutes later, I smelled her again. Stronger this time. I spun on my barstool and there she was. Staring at me.

"Half the men in Texas, huh? If you only knew." And she started away.

"Wait." I almost yelled as I started after her. She stopped and turned back to me. I went to her and reached for her hand. She jerked it away. "I had no call to say that and I sincerely apologize. I offer no excuse other than to say that you drive me crazy. I've never been jealous in my life but the thought of you with someone else sends me into idiot mode. I can't help it and I can't control it. I hope you can forgive me for thinking it much less saying it."

"You don't own me, you know."

"I know that."

"I can do anything or anyone I want."

"I know that, too."

"Anytime and anywhere I want." I didn't say anything. There was a pause. "Daddy said he fired you."

"He did. If I remember correctly, I told you that's what happens when you mess with the boss's daughter."

"Only if you're stupid." We just looked at each other before she continued. "What are you going to do now?"

"Go back to Pennsylvania."

"When?"

"Probably Monday or Tuesday." I turned to go back to my barstool, but she touched my arm stopping me.

"Why didn't you just ask me about the men, Ryan?"

"I guess I didn't want to know how many there were."

She looked at me and shook her head. "The hardest thing about this is you gave me no credit. You automatically assumed the worst. That's the part that hurts the most. Good bye, Ryan."

And she walked away leaving her perfume in the air. She was right. I thought the worst from the very beginning.

I never returned to my barstool. I went to my apartment, packed my clothes, and loaded my car. I had breakfast with my father; told him I would arrange to get rid of the rest of the stuff in my apartment, got in my car and headed east.

That was Saturday morning. I drove 24 hours straight and on Sunday, I rang my best friend Barry's doorbell. I had called him to let him know I was coming so his wife, Jennette, wasn't surprised when she opened the door. I spent the next three hours telling them my tale of woe.

I never got any sympathy. What I did get was a comment from Jennette. "You're an asshole."

I fell asleep on their living room sofa. I awoke at seven in the evening and we ate dinner. We chatted until midnight then I was back on the sofa asleep. I stayed asleep until nine thirty the next morning when my phone rang. Half asleep, I answered it. "Hello."

"Goddammit Ryan, you did it again."

I recognized the voice of J. Paul Tarver. "What are you talking about?"

"Every time you get near my daughter, you make her cry."

"Now wait a minute. The last time I saw her was Friday evening at the Obit and she started talking to me. Up until then I was minding my own business. Besides, she shouldn't have been there. If I remember correctly, you paid the owner to keep her out. I know I can't control her, but you're her father; you should be able to. So stay off of my ass." And I ended the call.