3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
For her date with David the next night, Paige took great pains to look nice, dressing in dark, boot-cut jeans, black booties with spiked heels, and a black, silk blouse. She’d left it unbuttoned enough to show off some serious cleavage, which had been enhanced by the push-up bra underneath. She’d also curled her caramel-colored hair and paid special attention to her eye make-up, while Sputnik, her Russian blue cat, sat on the bathroom counter and watched.
“Damn,” David said, when he arrived to pick her up.
“Is this too much? I didn’t know where we were going—”
“No, it’s not too much. I was just … damn,” he repeated, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. “You look great. That’s what I meant.”
Paige smiled, buoyed by his reaction and not surprised when his eyes kept coming back to her cleavage. “Well, thanks. You look great, too,” she told him, admiring him in his dark jeans and black polo shirt before tilting her head. “You know, we actually kind of … match.”
As if realizing it for the first time, he nodded. “Yeah, I guess we do.”
“I can go change really quick,” she offered. “It will only take me a minute.”
“Hell, no. You’re not changing anything.”
His tone was just bossy enough to make her mouth quirk. Before she could comment on it, though, he glanced uneasily over his shoulder at Mrs. Harte’s apartment door across the hall.
He turned back to Paige, his expression borderline anxious. “Now, let’s get out of here before that barracuda sees me and comes out to give me hell again.”
For a moment, she thought about not alleviating his fear because it was fun to watch, but in the end decided to take pity on him. “That ‘barracuda’ is at bingo, so you can relax.”
Not even a little embarrassed at how welcome that news was, David wrapped his hands gently around her neck and pulled her forward. “Good. We have time for this then,” he said, before bending slightly to kiss her.
His real-life lips were better than anything in a dream and Paige welcomed them eagerly. As was the case during the previous two times they’d made out, she was quickly caught up in the moment, her world narrowing to the taste of his mouth, the glide of his tongue against hers, and the feel of his trimmed beard against her chin and cheeks.
Peripherally, she was also aware of the scent of his Hugo Boss cologne, his shoulder-length hair clutched in her fingers, and the press of his growing erection against her, which let her know she wasn’t the only one enjoying the exchange. Once upon a time, this would’ve made her shrink into herself and withdraw, but not anymore. Now, it gave her a powerful rush knowing she was responsible for his arousal, filling her with a feminine pride and power like she’d never known.
It was stunning, and so very, very welcome.
When he finally pulled away, her blood was humming and her skin felt several degrees warmer. Paige slowly opened her eyes and murmured, “I needed that. Thank you.”
“I needed that, too. And you’re welcome.”
He gave Paige another quick kiss, this one soft and easy, before taking her hand. She found the gesture sweet, the familiarity of his long fingers entwined with hers making her feel both comfortable and giddy.
It was a feeling that lasted until they arrived at Bender’s.
A little stunned, she stared at the restaurant, having never planned on being here again. From the outside, the building looked benign, with nice architectural details and bright lights, but inside it was her personal ground zero, where one of the worst nights of her life had played out.
“If you really don’t want to eat here, we’ll go someplace else,” he quickly assured her, not immune to her hesitation or the unease in her bourbon-brown eyes. “But I’d like to neutralize this place. I don’t want our last memory here to be that shit-show.”
Paige figured he probably had no way of knowing that neutralizing bad memories didn’t always work. However, she could appreciate his desire to try, especially since it would benefit them both.
Taking a deep breath, she nodded; she could do this. “I’ll be fine.”
They went in and while it was still a little uncomfortable—her eyes immediately went to the spot where she’d gone down like Sonny Liston when he fought Muhammad Ali—it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be. She was able to acknowledge the bad memory of the encounter with Ashley without feeling it, then let it go. She was even able to smile at the hostess who was obviously trying to remember how she knew Paige, but thankfully never did.
She and David were taken to a semi-secluded booth where Paige found, after getting past the hostess station and into the actual restaurant, most of her anxiety dissipated. It was probably because she’d never set foot in there and therefore had no negative association with it, but she took it as a win, anyway.
After they got their drinks and ordered for one another, which was a game they’d played when married and had recently began playing again, the waitress placed a complimentary basket of freshly baked breadsticks on their table, then left.
Once they were alone again, David took a drink of his Audrey Hopburn Belgian IPA before asking Paige, “How are you doing?”
She gave him a quick smile, appreciating his concern. “I’m good, for the most part. How about you?”
“To be honest,” he said, looking rather pained, “I’m thinking it was a mistake to come here.”
“Are you serious? Why?” She honestly didn’t know why he’d be having a more difficult time here than she was. “What’s wrong?”
“This fucking song,” he muttered with disgust.
Paige blinked at his answer, which at first seemed nonsensical, until she heard “We Built This City” coming from the overhead speakers in the ceiling. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Well, I see your hatred for this song hasn’t gone away,” she couldn’t help but tease him.
“It will never go away. If anything, it only grows every time I hear it. It’s the worst song to ever be written, recorded, and put on the radio.”
Paige pondered that while reaching for a breadstick; she could only resist delicious smelling bread for so long.
“You disagree?” he asked when she didn’t immediately agree with him.
“I just think maybe you’re exaggerating. That’s all.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Has your hatred of Twizzlers gone away?”
“No, but what does that have to do with—”
“So, you’re allowed to hate Twizzlers with impunity, but my hatred for this song is an … exaggeration?”
“My hatred for Twizzlers is different than your hatred for this song.”
“Wrong.”
“You’re wrong. Twizzlers is the worst licorice there is, but I don’t think “We Built This City” is the worst song there is—there are songs that are just as bad as “We Built This City” out there. There’s nothing just as bad as Twizzlers out there. See the difference?”
He grabbed a breadstick of his own and took a bite. “So, you think there are songs that are just as bad as “We Built This City”?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay. Name ten.”
“Ten?” Paige’s eyes widened at the unexpected and ridiculous demand. “You know, most people would say, ‘Name one’.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No, you’re not. You’re clearly a lunatic.”
“You’re the one who said there are songs ‘just as bad’ out there, or have you forgotten?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. It was fifteen seconds ago.”
“Well, I’m assuming that meant you could come up with at least ten songs that qualify as ‘just as bad’ as this song.” David gave a shrug that managed to be both dismissive and challenging at the same time. “But if you were just talking shit and can’t back it up …”
“Oh, I can back it up.”
With a smirk, he leaned forward. “I’m ready when you are.”
“First things first.” She grabbed another breadstick. “What do I get when I come up with ten songs?”
“Besides personal satisfaction?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m going to need more than that.”
David gave her a long look. “Well, if you can name ten songs that are just as bad—and I have to agree they are just as bad—then you’ll get something good.”
“Something ‘good’? That’s pretty vague.”
“It’ll be good. Trust me.”
Tilting her head as if debating whether or not she could trust him, she finally said, “All right. But I’ll have to agree it’s good.”
“Fair enough. Now, what do I get if you can’t name ten?”
“Something ‘good’,” she deadpanned.
“I’ll have to agree it’s good,” he returned.
“Fair enough.”
They stared at one another over the table for a moment, before David gave her the universal Bring it on hand gesture.
Paige ran through a few songs in her head before settling on a bonafide gem to get the annihilation started. ““Disco Duck”.”
“And she comes out of the gate strong,” he said, with feigned wonder. “That’s one.”
“I’m not fooling around,” she replied, then fired away with another song. ““Lady In Red”.”
“No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
He sighed with regret. “I actually had my very first slow dance in the eighth grade to that song. So, no.”
“What?”
“You heard me. It doesn’t count.”
“Why? Simply because it’s … nostalgic?”
“Yes. I have fond memories tied to that song.”
“You do? What was the name of the girl you danced with?”
David paused, the question taking him by surprise. Mindy? Mandy? “Unfortunately, I don’t remember her name. It’s been a long time.”
“Long time or not, that’s a pretty important detail to be missing from your ‘fond’ memories.”
“Yes. But what I do remember is that she had—” he broke off and held his hands out in front of his chest, obviously miming a pair of large breasts.
“What?” Paige adopted an innocent expression. “Big hands?”
His mouth quirked, but he pretended her question was legitimate when he answered. “No. Big boobs.”
“Oh, of course.”
He nodded. “That’s why I have fond memories of that song.”
“Thanks, but I was able to come to that conclusion all on my own,” she told him, not skimping on the sarcasm. “So the song really doesn’t count because some girl you danced with over twenty years ago—whose name you don’t remember—had boobs.”
“Big boobs.”
“Sorry. Big boobs. And probably gave you a boner.”
“I didn’t say anything about a boner.”
“You were in the eighth grade. It’s a given,” she said, rolling her eyes. Then, when all he did was munch on his breadstick and look at her with expectation of the next song, she continued with a hint of belligerence, ““Sussudio”.”
“That’s two.”
““Ice Ice Baby”.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Yes. That one counts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“I need a real reason. Not something a five-year-old would use.”
“Fine. Because … the bass line is cool.”
That was almost as lame as the first reason he’d given. “You know Vanilla Ice basically stole that from the song “Under Pressure”, right?”
“That doesn’t make the bass line any less cool. And the song still doesn’t count.”
Making a face at him, Paige selected another song from her arsenal. ““Mr. Roboto”.”
Slowly, he nodded. “I’ll allow it.”
“You’ll allow it?”
“I liked it at the time, but it hasn’t held up well. So, that’s three.”
““Macarena”.”
This time, he barely hesitated. “Four.”
““Who Let the Dogs Out”.”
“Five. Look at you, on a roll.” David pointed his breadstick at her before shoving the last bite in his mouth. “You must really want that something ‘good’.”
“Considering I don’t even know what it is yet—nor do you, for that matter—you can’t really pin my motivation on it,” she said, then tossed out, ““Abra Cadabra”.”
He immediately shook his head. “That one’s so bad, it’s good.”
“It’s so bad, it’s good?” She gave him an incredulous look. “You’re full of shit.”
“I stand by my assessment. I don’t think it’s just as bad as “We Built This City”, and the rule is that I have to agree—”
“Fine. It doesn’t count, but you’re a cheating a-hole.”
“A-hole? Ouch.”
Paige took a fortifying drink of her wine. ““Africa”.”
“Which version?”
“What do you mean, which version?”
“The original or the cover?”
“Someone made a cover of “Africa”?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Weezer.”
She made a face. “Why?”
“I don’t know, maybe because they wanted to?”
“Okay, well, regardless of the version, it’s still a crappy song. So that’s number six—”
“Not so fast,” he cut her off. “I agree that the original song is crappy, but the cover by Weezer is pretty good, so I’ll compromise with you and split the difference.”
“Split the difference?”
“The original “Africa” will count as half a song.”
“Are you for real?” She pursed her lips, the urge to throw the rest of her breadstick at him almost overwhelming, despite the fact she wasn’t one to waste good bread. “You’re giving me half a song?”
“It will bring your tally up to five and a half. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” she said grudgingly, before continuing. ““Rico Suave”.”
“I won’t argue that one. Six and a half.”
““I’m Too Sexy”.”
He paused for a ridiculously long time before saying, “I’m torn on this one.”
“You better be fucking with me right now. Because if you’re seriously ‘torn’ over that song, your hotness quotient is going to take a swan dive—out of the Hindenburg, then off the bow of the Titanic, and into the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Fine.” He chuckled at her oddly specific threat and combative tone. “Seven and a half.”
““Achy Breaky Heart”.”
“Eight and a half.”
The ‘and a half’ nonsense was starting to drive her crazy, mainly because it was so idiotic. ““I Touch Myself”.”
David immediately shook his head.
“Seriously?” she asked, even though she should’ve seen it coming.
“It’s a good song. Actually, any song about masturbation is a good song,” he amended. “So if you’re thinking about trying to get any others past me, like “She Bop”, “Turning Japanese”, “Dancing With Myself”, “The Stroke”, or “Darling Nikki”, you should know they’ll be vetoed.”
““The Stroke” actually isn’t about masturbation.”
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
“Well, it’ll be vetoed anyway, since I thought it was.”
Paige turned her attention back to the task at hand. ““Pac-Man Fever”.”
He tilted his head. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a song.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s still a song. And it’s definitely just as bad as “We Built This City”.”
“Given the title, I’m sure it is, but since I haven’t heard it, I can’t judge if it’s just as bad as “We Built This City” or not. So, it doesn’t count.”
“I’ve never heard “Africa” by Weezer, and you screwed me on that. So you should be screwed on this.”
“I gave you half a song for the original, and that was a gift. I could’ve given you nothing.”
“Then give me half a song for “Pac-Man Fever”.”
“No. You need to give me another song.”
She exhaled through her nose like a dragon. ““Physical”.”
David looked like he was going to argue with that, making her sputter, “Don’t even think about not counting that.”
“The video was good,” he argued, straight-faced. In truth, he could’ve easily let her have it because the song did suck, but it was fun making her work for it. This entire musical throw-down was a lot of fun, actually.
“Wrong. The video sucked,” Paige argued back. “But even if it was good, we’re not judging videos, we’re judging songs. And the song is beyond terrible, so it counts.”
Reluctantly, as if it went against everything he believed in, David relented. “All right. It counts. That makes nine.”
“Nine and a half,” she corrected him, not even sure why she did, since she’d still have to come up with another whole song to win this stupid challenge.
“My bad. That makes nine and a half.”
She smiled, then fired her kill shot. ““MMMBop”.”
When he shook his head, hers almost exploded.
“It was a catchy song,” he told her. “And Hanson wrote all their music and lyrics and played their own instruments, unlike your favorite boy band, N’Sync. I mean, for Christ’s sake, the drummer was only like ten years old or something, so they get a pass.”
Paige glared at him, but he didn’t back down. “You need one more,” he pointed out unnecessarily. “Well, a half of one more.”
It was time she put this challenge in the books. ““Kokomo”, “Safety Dance”, “Don’t Worry Be Happy”, “Red Red Wine”, “She Blinded Me With Science”, “Ebony And Ivory”, “All She Wants To Do Is Dance”, “I Wanna Be A Cowboy”, “The Final Countdown”, and anything off the Seven and the Ragged Tiger album—”
David laughed out loud, knowing there was no way he could argue anymore, especially with any seriousness, so he graciously conceded. “All right, that’s enough. You win.”
Leaning forward and unknowingly giving him a hell of a view down her shirt, she asked, “So, what’s my something ‘good’ going to be? And it better be really good, because I’ve more than earned it. I gave you at least twenty songs.”
“As soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” he replied, unrepentant, just as the waitress arrived with their food. After setting their plates down (a New York strip for David and chicken Marsala for Paige) and then leaving, David ceremoniously picked up his half-empty glass of beer and toasted, “Here’s to … getting something ‘good’.”