Chapter 18 Fantasy Always Wins
FANTASY ALWAYS WINS
Blank slate, he thought, playing back his words to Sasha. Idiotic. And impossible.
He couldn’t focus, anyway. The only thing on his mind was Sasha, stripped bare, unfolding under him like a flower.
God, he’d lost his head in her kitchen. Wes had no intention of taking things that far.
But he was sick over Sasha. Heartsick, soulsick.
Sick of pretending not to care, and even sicker of yearning.
She’d infiltrated his heart, his thoughts, his filthiest fantasies, his whole world—and going crazy for a woman who was crazy for someone else wasn’t his style.
It was unbecoming, thankless work. Why waste his time playing a game he could never win?
No one liked to lose. But for Wes, defeat was repellent.
And so, he’d never longed for things that were out of reach.
He didn’t chase windmills. He only attempted shots he could take.
Not necessarily easy shots, but ones that weren’t futile.
Natural Born Griller was a perfect example.
Years ago, when he, a detective-cum-trainer-cum-boxer who’d never professionally cooked anything but taxes (a brief side hustle, whatever), decided to launch a food truck business—he never doubted himself, because he knew he had the discipline and hustle to make it work.
In his bones, Wes knew he’d win, or else he wouldn’t have tried. Because trying and losing—especially
losing publicly? No. Too harrowing to contemplate.
It was hard enough carrying around the private suspicion that he wasn’t quite good enough to deserve good things.
Subliminally, he’d learned this from his parents.
In our day, there was no ADD, there was just lazy.
No McDonald’s ’cause Wes can’t stop kicking the pew at church.
We’ll have Brooke present the Good Citizen award because Wes forgot his tie (again).
We’re not testing him for dyslexia, he just needs to apply himself.
The subtext was that he was a loser. He couldn’t bear the thought of proving it.
Sasha was a gamble he couldn’t win.
Wes had been with all kinds of women—bougie, boho, hood, fat, skinny, married, weird, tall, petite, sanctified, menopausal, hyperflexible—because he was a lot of women’s type.
And the attention was gratifying to him in a way that demanded in-depth therapy work.
But he had to wonder if a few of those women would take him seriously in a nonsexual context.
Yes, he owned his apartment and his business.
But his apartment was matchbook-sized, and his start-up hadn’t yet turned a profit.
He drove a 2016 struggle-Nissan. The only way he could fall asleep was if he was buzzed, high, or both.
His savings were dwindling. He had good taste, but all his furniture was sourced from his contact, Pier 13 Dean, who stole pieces from freight boats.
Most Sunday mornings were spent trying to remember the name of the woman he’d just put in an Uber.
He had seasonal allergies and expired contacts, and too many flaws to name.
A certain kind of woman would need to squint to see Wes Dane as a serious person.
Sasha Cruz was that kind of woman. She had an Emmy.
She owned an apartment in a luxury building in a fancy zip code.
She carried a barrel-shaped Louis Vuitton purse.
But it was more than looking expensive. She seemed otherworldly—a luminous, bronze-skinned glamour girl who consistently showed just enough cleavage or side-boob or leg to fuck him up for days.
Again, she had an Emmy. She fearlessly jumped out of a window when she thought she was in danger.
She was a force. She needed a man that matched her energy.
Sasha deserved a debonair guy, a dollar sign in a custom suit.
Some captain-of-industry type who knew about St. Barths and caviar families.
Wes was a lot of things, but he wasn’t that.
That was Seat F. Teo. He was a fantasy, but Wes was a flesh-and-blood human. And the fantasy always wins.
He scrubbed his face with his hands, drowning in self-loathing. To her, he was only good for his PI services and an orgasm. He was tired of being used. He was tired of letting her do it. Never again.
Of course it was easy for Wes to say this, now, from the safety of his truck, all the way out in Staten Island, with miles separating them.
But would he remember it in her presence?
Doubtful. Whenever he found himself in her orbit, he lost all faculties.
He became willing to do anything for her. Even find her lost love.
In the history of stupid things done for a woman, he thought, this is the stupidest. I’m basically cucking myself.
But when he kissed her, his blood quickened in his veins.
And it was worth it. Knowing that, with one look, one touch, or the sound of his voice, he owned her for that moment at least—well, that was worth it, too.
There was power in it. Because, as she continued this ridiculous search for this hypothetical soulmate with a digital footprint so nonexistent he was either Jason Bourne or AI—Wes knew, and Sasha knew, who she truly belonged to.
And Teo might get her in the end, but he’d taste Wes’s name on her tongue.
He’d sense her desperation for someone else. And that, too, was worth it.
But was Sasha’s sexual desperation truly about Wes? Or was it just that he was there? If so, it wouldn’t be the first time he was treated like a himbo escort. Wes was used to that. But this was the first time it hurt. He didn’t know this much hurt existed.
What also hurt? Realizing that he was in way over his head at this competition.
He’d had four customers in the past two hours.
His fellow grillmasters were leagues beyond him, experience-wise.
His competition was a lumberjack wearing a lab coat full of festival medals, spit-roasting a whole hog.
Next to him, a team of women wearing traditional Lenape clothing were serving chili-and-maple-sugar–glazed wings that leapt off the bone.
A guy in a BLUE LIVES MATTER cap was causing a commotion with something called Freedom Pork Belly (this played in Staten Island).
In this crowd, Wes was invisible. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true.
A few folks had taken selfies with the truck.
Optimistically speaking, if they tagged Wes in the photos, that was a win.
Not a financial win, though. He’d spent four grand on meat, spices, and marinades, and was getting a bit itchy.
And he was convinced this brisket was his most delicious batch.
One of his few customers, Chase Trellino, a massive barbecue-head who’d followed him from Brooklyn, even said so.
Wes didn’t have to win the competition, though.
He didn’t even need to place in the top three.
As long as the esteemed judges (two Michelin-star chefs, a New York Times food critic, and .
. . Method Man?) voted him into the top five, he’d be qualified to enter his truck at EAT ME, the biggest BBQ festival on the East Coast.
But Wes’s head wasn’t in the game today. All he could think about was Sasha. He was so tired of being aware of her. He wondered how to become un-obsessed with someone.
Wes looked out into the rain, as smoke from the grills and spit roasts wafted through the crowds.
Umbrellas brushed against each other, as hungry barbecue-heads mingled and ate, nodding their heads to the deejay’s yacht rock tunes.
The summer storm had cast a humid pall on the event, which nicely complemented his psyche.
He hadn’t had a customer in ten minutes, though.
Might as well work on the case. He was under the gun now.
Sasha’s letter to Teo was practically burning a hole in his desk at home.
Pulling out his notebook, he went over his notes.
Before he’d left for Staten Island that morning, he’d also called every hotel inspector agency in every cosmopolitan capital—New York City, London, Milan, Paris—and no one had heard of Teo D.
Scera. Except for the receptionist at the Cayne Agency NYC.
She recognized Teo’s name, not because he worked there, but because, a few years ago, a woman named Kim, claiming to be his ex-fiancée, had called looking for him.
So, Sasha wasn’t the first woman Teo had pulled despite revealing practically nothing about his personal life. And he’d proposed to this Kim. Wes couldn’t say he was surprised. But the proof affirmed his creeping suspicions.
Wes discovered that Kim lived on the Upper West Side.
He easily found her contact info and, after a short call (in which he impersonated an NYPD officer working on a missing persons case), she invited him to tea at Gotham Lounge.
Kim Gold was a striking, Natalie Portman–esque brunette in finance, maybe forty, who dated Teo ten years ago.
She’d been looking for him because she was engaged to a new man, and wanted to return the jewelry Teo had gifted her.
On their initial call, Wes had asked her to bring to tea anything that might help the case.
And so, with a solemn expression, Kim slid a small stack of postcards across the table.
As Wes flipped them over, scanning them, she explained that postcards were their “thing.” Wherever he traveled, he’d write her love notes on postcards and bring them home as souvenirs.
Wes was surprised that she was willing to part with them and told her as much.
“I’m too busy to be sentimental,” she responded.
Plus, she said she didn’t speak Italian and never understood the notes, anyway—she’d just been swept away by the romance of it.
(Sounded familiar.) Wes pocketed the cards in his messenger bag, to revisit later.