New York Nights: Shaken and Stirred. Kathleen O'Reilly
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later Tessa changed into her best pair of black jeans and dashed into Century 21 to buy a dressier shirt. Attire was something she’d never worried about before, but now appearances mattered. The golden, glittery top looked great in the dressing room, but the frumpy haircut? Tessa glared at her own reflection in the mirror and sighed. She could fix clothes, but hair couldn’t be fixed in ten minutes. Actually, it could, but even Tessa knew that getting a haircut in ten minutes or less was a really bad idea. She’d done that once when she was seventeen. Not doing that again. Later, when she had the time, she would fix the hair thing.
When she got to the club, she scoured the room for Marisa, finally spotting her near the back, dressed exquisitely in some neatly pressed olive-green suit that brought out the highlights in Marisa’s exquisitely styled hair.
Marisa, to her credit, looked over Tessa’s new, improved wardrobe and didn’t say a word.
No, the first words out of her mouth were, “Did you talk to him?”
Tessa, whose last conversation with Gabe had consisted of very little communication, having more to do with groping and grabbing, elected to spin the truth. “The time wasn’t exactly right.”
Marisa looked disappointed.
Tessa realized that disappointment wasn’t how you approached the sole person who could help you on this new career in real estate. “But there’ll be more chances,” she added, throwing in an optimistic smile.
Marisa perked up nicely. “I checked into Hudson Towers for you. I know a guy who knows a guy who has an aunt who’s about to move into assisted living. Her place is going up for sublet in another three weeks. I gave him your name, and he was excited to avoid the whole finding-a-new-renter nonsense. How’s that for results?”
Holy moley. In another three weeks she’d have her ideal place. Solo. Marisa was faster than most cabdrivers Tessa had ridden with. “Really? You’re not just yanking my chain, are you?”
“Cross my heart,” promised Marisa.
Tessa ordered a drink from the waitress, choosing to stick to a diet soda. Better to maintain a clear head tonight. After all, this was business. Marisa, not knowing that tonight was business, ordered a Tom Collins.
“When did you decide to go into apartment rentals?” Tessa asked after the waitress deposited their drinks.
Marisa tossed back the hair from her face in one very confident, self-assured flick. “I futzed around after college, trying to design an interesting career around a degree in liberal arts, and then I realized that this city lived and breathed real estate. I didn’t have to teach English if the possibility gave me hives. I could do something more exciting, and financially a lot more rewarding.”
A degree. Bummer. But Tessa wasn’t discouraged yet. “But somebody wouldn’t have to have a degree, would they?”
Marisa shook her head. “Oh, no. We have this one kid in the office who’s fifteen, and even though legally he can’t act as an agent, he’s as good as a walking database of New York City apartments. When he turns eighteen, he’ll be earning a fortune.”
“Wow. Fifteen,” murmured Tessa, shamed by a mere fifteen year old with more business sense than her. “I want to go into real estate, Marisa. I know more about the apartments in this city than anybody, even your fifteen-year-old whiz kid.” There. She’d done it. She’d actually tried to sell herself.
“Really?” asked Marisa, which was better than Get out of my face, bitch, you’re bothering me.
Tessa was mildly encouraged. “Sure, test me.”
And for the next half hour Marisa did. Tessa knocked off the answers one by one, not hesitating, her confidence growing by leaps and bounds.
Eventually Marisa sat back in her chair, arms crossed across her chest. And there was approval on her face. Actual Tessa approval. “You do know your stuff. You think you can handle the exam?”
“With flying colors,” answered Tessa, getting cockier by the millisecond, so close to Hudson Towers she could taste it.
“There’s a weeklong course that you’ll have to take. And then pass the exam. But, yeah, I’d vouch for you.”
And, yes, success. Tessa was in.
“Thank you for all your help.”
Marisa smiled graciously. “Not a problem. You’re helping me out, too,” she reminded Tessa.
“I can’t believe you have problems meeting men.” Because Tessa could see the guys in the club checking out Marisa.
“I’m tired of stuffy Manhattan studs who think every woman must fall down at their feet and perform full-throated fellatio within thirty seconds of the first meet and greet. I’d rather find someone who can respect me. What I like about bartenders is that they seem to respect females. It’s a very therapeutic profession.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Tessa replied.
Marisa leaned her chin on her palm. “Tell me about Gabe.”
Gabe? Did they really have to talk about Gabe? Yes, apparently they did.
Tessa, not quite willing to give up yet, looked around wildly, her eyes resting on the surfer boy who was tending to the bar. “What about this guy? He looks sensitive, almost poetic. I bet he’d love to go out with you.”
“Nah. We dated a few months ago and I broke up with him. I think he was still hung up on his ex-girlfriend or something. You know, it’s very hard for men to break free from repressed memories.”
Oh, man. Marisa was about forty thousand steps ahead of Tessa in the relationship world. “What about the bartenders at Club X? I knew this one bartender there—we played against them in softball last year—and he was fabulous. The most perfect set of abs you’ve ever seen.”
“Mario?”
“Oh.” Tessa’s face fell. “You know him.”
“Yeah,” answered Marisa. “We didn’t go out, though. He’s got a bad track record of date-’n’-dump. I don’t need that.”
“You really know your bartenders, don’t you?” said Tessa, trying to get used to the very real possibility of Marisa dating Gabe. He would be impressed with Marisa. She was confident, successful, nice, well put together and she really liked her bartenders.
“A woman can’t be too careful in this city.”
“No,” Tessa chimed in. Quickly she ordered a shot of tequila, deciding that the vision of Gabe and Marisa was best seen through alcohol-tinted glasses. “A woman can’t.”
The waitress brought two shooters and Tessa clinked her glass with Marisa’s. “To my hookup with Hudson Towers.”
Marisa grinned. “To my hookup with Gabe O’Sullivan.”
The pale liquid should have been hemlock. But as Marisa had said, a woman couldn’t be too careful in this city.
Tessa launched the tequila down her throat. Time to get off the Gabe train while she still could. It’d be too easy to fall back into the same depend-on-a-man trap and get sidetracked from learning to take care of herself. Tessa had dreams, and it was time to start fulfilling them. It was time to either put up or shut up. Either Tessa could take care of herself or else she was going to end up like Stella or with a boyfriend like Chaz who would want to sleep with Tessa’s friends—all at the same time.
No way. Not Tessa. She was going to do this.
No more sex. No more sex at all.
WHEN GABE CAME HOME at two in the morning, Tessa was sacked out on the couch, his old throw cuddled in her arms. The TV was tuned to MSNBC, which gave him a short pause, but he turned it off anyway.
A book was tucked underneath the throw—“New York State Real Estate Requirements”—and he noticed