Saturday, February 11, 1995
“M-M-M-Mr. Hornsby, please be alive,” a woman’s voice said, unsure.
It was dark. He poked his tongue into his cheek. His mouth tasted sour, slightly metallic, and regretfully all too well. “That’s my dad. Mom calls him Chris. Christopher, when he’s been bad.”
“Why don’t we try Ian?” She gasped, “Thank you.”
Ian–that was his name–didn’t want to open his eyes. He wasn’t exhausted. He was well-rested. He wasn’t confused. He was lucid. He wasn’t paralyzed. He certainly could run away from the voice. Cracking his eyes a touch meant accepting a reality that almost two years of sobriety went down the drain. As if the throbbing behind his eyes didn’t confirm it. He had the hangover, but where was the bender? A better inquiry was when? He fought with Ricky. He lied to Ricky. He woke up here. Where was here? His pulse raced. He needed to know. Opening his eyes was like plucking nose hairs. “You’re Tori.”
“Yes, I work here.” Giant, warm brown eyes stared back at him. They blinked with a camouflaged intelligence, taking stock of him. He’d scared her to death. Then again, she had the same alabaster makeup from Jake’s memorial.
“Our resident magician,” he said, cheeks burning. That’s where he’d seen her last, onstage, overshadowed by Kitty, their resident bookkeeper. He’d sized her up as their resident lesbian. Jake always cast one of each in his family LGB. This generation had five. Why did he need extras?
“I’m Jake’s bookkeeper.” She blushed. “I mean Fantabulous!…you.” Tori’s hair was the same dark mess that framed her delicate, boyish face. She smiled, full of teeth and life. Gone was the bluish lipstick, replaced by a low-key brown shade that complemented the deep color of her eyes. In her rugby shirt and white cargo shorts, Tori Spelling could have been on the cover of magazines like Vanity Fair two years ago.
Fantabulous!…him. If only she knew how true it was. No one would know the icy floors he crumbled on, the books she kept, and the paycheck that kept Kitty Darling in makeup and wigs was Ian’s idea. He made a big statement for Ricky. A big mistake for him. Much like all his regrets involving Jake, it was too little too late. He wasted so much time plying the ex-gay with extravagant booze and his irresistible charm. It distracted him from mourning Jake again after he’d just gotten him back. His words, anyway. And just like that, he murdered him once more with his flaunting. As if Ricky didn’t owe him for the broken trust. Ian should have called it even. Protected the letter. “Guess I should get up. I don’t recall vomiting. Hell, I don’t recall drinking. But this is definitely a hangover.” He laughed as a sledgehammer drilled his brain, bile percolated in his guts, and his breath nauseated Tori.
“I know the feeling,” she said, not flinching. She leaned in closer and offered him her arm. She readily supported his weight for a Cindy Crawford rather than a k.d. lang. She even smiled in the face of his foul breath. “I went on a couple of benders myself last year. How I found Fantabulous!. Met Jake.”
“We saw that Glenn Close movie last Monday. I was going to mention it last night, but I didn’t see you.” He sat up thanks to her.
“I wanted to be there for the reopening, but I suck at parties, Mr. Hornsby. I’d be a downer. My girlfriend and I watched Basic Instinct.” She rolled her eyes. “I know…I know… I have a huge crush on Sharon Stone, so sue me.”
“I agree with Ebert, heteros should be equally offended.” He smoothed down his uniform. “And I have a huge crush on Michael Douglas.”
His body tingled as he crawled to a wall like he was running away from wolves. “Is Ricky on the way here?” He was going to die any second, but not from the phantom hangover. Limbs too weak, he instantly gave up.
“No, I usually come in at 7:00 AM.” She glanced at the Coca-Cola Clock between the men’s and women’s bathrooms. “I usually work on weekdays, but we’ve been closed for over a month. Thought I’d make a fresh start ASAP. I didn’t know I’d find you, Mr–”
“Ian. Can we go back to Ian?” He blurted. He genuinely liked Tori Spelling, as Kitty nicknamed her. She was quiet, thoughtful, and had a calming energy for someone who paid attention to details and, before that, served. “Your name’s not really Tori Spelling, right?”
She snorted. “I’ve never watched 90210. I preferred Glock. At least it had mystery and some action.”
“I bet Jake loved you!” He winked. He meant it as a compliment.
Tori sank to her knees. Her eyes filled with tears. “He was like a brother to me. Why did I have to be the one to find him?” She whimpered, “Dead.”
He barely remembered Bee mentioning that one of Jake’s employees, the army girl, found him at the police interview. His eyes closed as he added he was grateful it was the butch one, not the transvestite. Such a Bee comment. Inappropriate but honest. Shut his eyes to hold back the tears lest he be mistaken as a sissy. Ian tapped the space beside him. “Sit.”
“I should get to the books.” Her eyes darted back to where she found him.
“You can’t blame yourself…” He ground to a halt. Even with the blinding sunlight pouring in, Ian was chilled to the bone to realize where he’d slept. Where Tori had found him. Found Jake. No wonder she begged whoever she implored that he still be alive. She slowly smiled at his overdue realization.
“I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies. Many were my co-workers. My friends. That’s the army. This place was supposed to be safe. Yes, it’s my job too. But we’re not supposed to be fighting a war. We’re not supposed to be shot up like…” She pressed her hand over her mouth and just started crying. He cried beside her.
They cried their hearts out for an hour. By the time the clock read 8:25 AM, Ian started to wonder if Ricky had noticed he didn’t come home. Their suite at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica was enormous, but someone used to living with a big family, like his boyfriend, constantly sought company. The TV was never enough back in Palm Springs or here, so he’d chat with Ian with the bathroom door closed or call his cousins until he flushed, reappeared. The only time Ricky demanded to be left alone was in his kitchen. With the same guilt-ridden intensity as Ian while he memorized his lines in his trailer. At least Ian got to taste whatever magnificent epicurean creations Chef Luna prepared. Even that hadn’t whetted his appetite. Not just this morning but every day since he asked Ricky to put his career on hold. Was that what he did, begging him to quit his job overnight? He checked his cellular phone. No calls. The office phone didn’t ring either since he woke.
“Worried about Ricky? Go and call him already. I’ll make us some coffee.”
“I haven’t had time to come up with a good excuse.” His stomach complained. “I shouldn’t have to. I only drank orange juice.” He raised his hand. “I swear.” He’d done the same last night. Swore to Ricky he’d keep away from Treat Dobbs if he stayed away from Tyler. Ian lied, not about dropping the whole Only One Love business for now. He wouldn’t contact Dobbs if Ricky kept Tyler at arm’s length. There was definitely a link between them. The phantom tattoo Ricky obsessed over aside. Now he had a phantom hangover.
“Could someone have slipped you a Mickey?” Tori got up to make coffee.
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