Chapter 21
"The Winner Takes It All," ABBA
Cruz
“A noise complaint? You sure?” I confirmed when Rodriguez called my work phone on Saturday night about a sound in his vents.
“For over an hour. It’s … damn, man, it’s painful.”
Although I was off-duty, I sprinted upstairs to the fifth floor, telling myself that he must be mistaken. For two months, I’d hoped to hear her sing again.
I guess my prayers should have been more specific.
The synthesizers hit like a gut punch when Rodriguez opened the door, and Victoria's voice joined in with lyrics about giving up after heartbreak. Disgusted shivers broke out along my skin as I choked out, “Is that fucking ABBA?”
And yet, even with all her high notes rolling sharp as she slurred along to 'The Winner Takes It All' … my cock swelled at her raspy voice. My brain told it to chill out, trying desperately not to make an association that could pop a boner for ‘Dancing Queen.’
Rodriguez winced at the vents as she missed a high note by a mile. "Are you sure you can handle it? Maybe I should just call the cops."
I gripped his shoulder in solidarity. “Don't. I'll take care of this ABBA-mergency.”
"I don't know, Cruz. She's hot, and you think you can win everybody over with that dumb grin," he said, and I flashed it at him, "but maybe the bite isn't worth the venom, you know?"
"Tell you what, if she's still singing in half an hour, call the cops."
He wished me luck to the cadence of awful lyrics—seriously, who rhymes ‘gods throw dice’ and ‘minds like ice’?—and I knocked on her door uncertainly. “Ms. Blackstone?”
No reaction, aside from an overdramatic retelling of the judges deciding and the singer abiding. Seriously, these lyrics were garbage.
I knocked louder, hollering her name.
“I’m coming, hold your horses,” she slurred before swinging the door open, leaning so heavily on the doorknob I wondered if it held her up.
Her silk blouse was untucked from her trousers and her hair was falling out of her bun. Bloodshot silver eyes glared through smudged mascara.
I lifted my hands. “I’m here about a noise complaint.”
Her nostrils flared. “I can’t sing in my own apartment?”
She stumbled back into her kitchen, muttering about how if she lived in a McMansion nobody would fucking mind.
I stepped in, closing the door to make sure the cat didn’t escape.
Her kitchen counter held her up as she squinted at the phone in her hand, jabbing a manicured finger at the screen, increasingly agitated with each missed swipe.
I thought her phone would crack under her tight grip, so I reached over to press the stop button. Blissful silence—and maybe a muffled thanks hollered through the vents from Rodriguez.
“Satisfied, you fun killer?” Victoria snarled, hands on her hips.
I started towards the door as she reached for a tumbler next to an almost empty liquor bottle. “Everything ok, Cobrita?”
“Don’t fucking Cobrita me,” she snapped, the liquid sloshing out of her glass. “Go find somebody your age who can deal with your cute nicknames and irresistible smile, and forget about me. Everybody else has.”
Oof, there was a lot to unpack there … including ‘irresistible smile.’
“Ok, Victoria,” I said, noticing her hazy gaze on my biceps before she distracted herself with a drink. “I’ll leave.” Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Once I know you’re ok.” And they tensed right back up. “Is there somebody I can call for you? I think I have Alex’s—”
“The last thing I need is him and his fucking fiancée shoving their happiness in my face.”
Oh. Well that explained a lot.
But she wasn’t done. “Next thing you know, they’ll have a house full of kids and even adopt a golden fucking retriever to make their perfect fucking happy ending.
” She leveled a finger at me, and I caught a whiff of her whiskey breath.
“No, she’d adopt the mangiest mutt at the shelter, that fucking saint. ”
She reached again for the bottle, giving a generous pour. I reached around to snag it out of her hand. "Looks fancy, whatcha drinking?"
"Pappy Van Winkle," she answered, stopping her pour to look fondly at the label. "I wanted a classic Manhattan but they overtightened the vermouth and I didn't have any bitters."
After her rant about Alex, I thought she had plenty of bitters to go around. I lifted the vermouth, opening the lid easily, and she frowned in annoyance.
"My grandfather has a Manhattan named after him, you know," she said, her voice fond. "He was so proud when I drank it with him at The Alder. Told me bourbon put hair on my chest."
"You want hair on your chest?" I asked.
"Of course not." Her frown deepened.
"I'll finish your drink," I said, pointing towards her couch. “Put your feet up, you deserve a break.” I poured a glass of water and followed her to the couch, where she glared out the French doors.
I placed the water on her side table then sat down on her coffee table to get to her height, my jeans brushing her wool pants. “What happened?”
“None of your business,” she said crisply, still staring at the night sky.
“It wasn’t. But I got called to check on you, so it is now. What happened?”
I gently put my thumb on her jaw to turn her face. She tried to tug away from my gentle grasp, but I maintained the hold on her chin. Her eyes were storm clouds, glistening with the weight of accumulating tears.
“Go ahead,” I whispered in my softest voice. “You can tell me.”
“I lost it all,” she breathed, barely above a whisper, gazing blankly over my shoulder at an empty wall. “Forbes, Fortune, Bloomberg … all gone. We were supposed to be a power couple. The next Regina and Arthur.”
“Like Beyonce and Jay-Z? Kim and Kanye?”
Her brow furrowed, fists gripping the armrest. “But he’s staying here in this second rate city.” She shook her chin out of my grip, her skull thumping against the wall behind her couch. “I wanted to show them all I could do it without their money and their name … and now I lost it all.”
Her lower lip trembled, swallowing heavily.
“And he gets everything he fucking wants. The girl, the house, the kid … he’s throwing away his success for that white picket fence,” she muttered.
Her head finally tilted to me, a mean smile on her face.
“And what did he do to deserve it? Nothing. Just born with a pretty face and a dick, but that’s all he needs. ”
I coughed to cover my surprise that a woman born with a silver spoon in her mouth would criticize Alex’s privilege…but she wasn’t sober enough to handle a larger discussion so I simply said, “The white skin and zip code didn’t hurt either.”
She nodded, those pink eyes rimming again with unshed tears. “And now, when we’re so close, he just … he fucking quits on my dream.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was a one-night guy for a reason: I could get women off but I didn’t want them to get attached.
I kept things low-commitment because I didn’t need anybody else relying on me.
I had enough responsibility with maintaining the building and sending home money for Mama’s rent and Luisa’s tuition.
But thinking of my family sparked an idea. If some douchebag broke Adriana’s heart and flaunted his engagement, I knew what I would offer her.
I gently nudged Victoria’s leg. “You wanna punch me?”
Her head tilted like a confused dog. “What?”
“If I were you, I’d want to punch Alex’s smug face. I mean, I pretty much always have to stifle that urge,” I said, and her lips pursed. “But he’s not here. So want to punch me instead?”
Her drunk eyes went glassy, then she muttered, “Oh my god you’re serious.”
“Totally serious,” I said. Adriana would want to punch me, and her right hook could do some damage. But Luisa, she would want … “It’s either you punch me or I hug you.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m not going to punch you.”
“I won’t even dodge it. Come on, break my nose,” I stood up and slid her coffee table aside to make room for a boxing ring, spreading my arms wide to prove I wouldn’t block. Her mouth tilted in repressed amusement.
“Ok, fine. You made your choice.” I reached for her hands to pull her to standing. She didn’t resist, tilting into my embrace much easier than I expected, hands tucked into my chest as I wrapped my arms around her.
When she spoke again, it was muffled into my chest. “My dad liked Alex. Even Beverly couldn’t find fault with him, and she could criticize Mother Theresa.”
“Well she obviously didn’t look close enough, because he’s an asshole,” I said, wondering who the hell Beverly was. “And an idiot to let you go.”
She huffed a warm laugh into my beard. “You sound like Nick. He always told me I could do better. You’d like Nick,” she exhaled softly. Her voice cracked, hands fisting in my shirt. “I miss Nick so much.”
Her body leaned heavily into me. She was barefoot, but even without her heels she was drunk enough to lose her balance. I could put her back on the couch, but worried that if I released her, she’d go back to Angry Victoria. Mopey Victoria wasn’t much better, but she let herself be comforted.
So I pivoted to sit on her couch and pulled her onto the cushion beside me, wrapping my arm around her shoulder.
Her body coiled so tight, I wondered if she’d ever snuggled before.
A moment of indecision flashed on her face before she swayed into the crook of my arm, her head slumping on my chest. Maybe it was just drunk exhaustion, but I counted it as my victory.
“When Alex asked me to start the business,” she murmured into my armpit, “he showed me a picture of me, him and Nick from ten years ago. He said it was the last time he was happy. He thought moving here could make us happy again …” A choking sound caught in her throat.
My palm began a gentle stroke up and down her back.
“He’s happy now, Cruz. He smiled so much when he told me he was marrying her. ”
I handed her the water, and she twisted the glass before gulping the whole thing down. “He’s the only one who likes me.”