Read Online Unforgettable by Karin Kallmaker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karin Kallmaker
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it made Trish claim it had been a gift.
“Take it, then,” Rett said. “Whatever you think, this is not all about money.”
“Kiss my ass,” Trish snapped.
“I don’t like standing in lines.”
“Class act as always, Rett. Oh, and here’s the keys to that piece-of-shit car.” Trish tossed them on the couch, then turned her back.
“Naomi needs your address. If you want a check, that is.”
“I’ll give it to her myself.” Trish looked slyly over her shoulder. “Unless you’re interested.”
Rett managed a serene smile. “Not in the least.” She couldn’t help herself. She gestured at Toothpick Legs. “But I’m assuming her parents aren’t letting you stay at their house.”
Toothpick Legs stammered indignantly, “I have my own place now!”
“Shut up, Cheri, she’s just baiting you because you’re half her age.”
Rett gestured at the door. “All done? That’s the way out. Feel free to slam it if it makes you feel better.”
Apparently it did. After the thudding echo died, Rett locked the door and murmured, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Trish had no hold on her. Great sex had therapeutic value, apparently. Wouldn’t that make an interesting infomercial, she thought. Forget pills, forget therapy lesbian sex is the cure to what ails you.
Angel. She wanted to call her now. She wanted to see her tonight.
She wrapped her arms around herself and grinned dopily in the mirror. What a night, she thought. The stuff that love songs are made of. She burst into “I Feel the Earth Move” and went to change her clothes.
She tossed the jeans in the hamper before realizing she hadn’t taken out the napkin with Angel’s number. She dumped out the hamper and put her fingers into the pocket.
She found her keys, billfold, the note Angel had written this morning, the remains of the twenty she’d paid the cabbie with, Camille’s business card and some prehistoric lint. No cocktail napkin. It was her only pocket. It had to be there.
She turned the pocket inside out, all the while cursing herself for not actually looking at the napkin. If she’d looked she wouldn’t need it Angel’s number would be right there in her memory. What was the point of a photographic memory if she didn’t use it? She fumbled through the entire laundry pile, just in case. No note.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she chanted to herself. She quickly dressed and dashed down to the street to see if the napkin was at the curb where she’d paid the cab.
She found it half-smashed by a tire tread in the gutter. All she could make out was the last two digits.
She stood at the curb for a long time feeling like this bad universal joke was being played on someone else. What on earth had she done to deserve this?
If she didn’t call, Angel would surely consign her to the realm of cads and bounders. She could call UCLA’s science department and see if she could get a last name for a professor named Angel. Angel had said there was some sort of symposium today. Maybe the office was open.
She tried every number for UCLA in the phone book and there were a lot of them. The only ones that answered had recordings telling her when she should call back to reach a live body. She heard the phrase, “If you know your party’s extension,” about fifty times.
The second to last number, “Public Affairs,” turned out to be an event listing. It was lengthy and at no time did the words “symposium,” “cancer” or “DNA” come into play. Of course she’d assumed that because Angel worked at UCLA that’s where the symposium was, but it could be at USC, or dozens of other campuses. It could even be at a hospital. Hell, the symposium could be about anything, not just Angel’s field of research. Damn. She would have to wait until Monday. Driving out to UCLA and walking up and down the science building halls hoping to stumble across an office door with Angel’s name on it was just too desperate. Out of the question.
She
“Take it, then,” Rett said. “Whatever you think, this is not all about money.”
“Kiss my ass,” Trish snapped.
“I don’t like standing in lines.”
“Class act as always, Rett. Oh, and here’s the keys to that piece-of-shit car.” Trish tossed them on the couch, then turned her back.
“Naomi needs your address. If you want a check, that is.”
“I’ll give it to her myself.” Trish looked slyly over her shoulder. “Unless you’re interested.”
Rett managed a serene smile. “Not in the least.” She couldn’t help herself. She gestured at Toothpick Legs. “But I’m assuming her parents aren’t letting you stay at their house.”
Toothpick Legs stammered indignantly, “I have my own place now!”
“Shut up, Cheri, she’s just baiting you because you’re half her age.”
Rett gestured at the door. “All done? That’s the way out. Feel free to slam it if it makes you feel better.”
Apparently it did. After the thudding echo died, Rett locked the door and murmured, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Trish had no hold on her. Great sex had therapeutic value, apparently. Wouldn’t that make an interesting infomercial, she thought. Forget pills, forget therapy lesbian sex is the cure to what ails you.
Angel. She wanted to call her now. She wanted to see her tonight.
She wrapped her arms around herself and grinned dopily in the mirror. What a night, she thought. The stuff that love songs are made of. She burst into “I Feel the Earth Move” and went to change her clothes.
She tossed the jeans in the hamper before realizing she hadn’t taken out the napkin with Angel’s number. She dumped out the hamper and put her fingers into the pocket.
She found her keys, billfold, the note Angel had written this morning, the remains of the twenty she’d paid the cabbie with, Camille’s business card and some prehistoric lint. No cocktail napkin. It was her only pocket. It had to be there.
She turned the pocket inside out, all the while cursing herself for not actually looking at the napkin. If she’d looked she wouldn’t need it Angel’s number would be right there in her memory. What was the point of a photographic memory if she didn’t use it? She fumbled through the entire laundry pile, just in case. No note.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she chanted to herself. She quickly dressed and dashed down to the street to see if the napkin was at the curb where she’d paid the cab.
She found it half-smashed by a tire tread in the gutter. All she could make out was the last two digits.
She stood at the curb for a long time feeling like this bad universal joke was being played on someone else. What on earth had she done to deserve this?
If she didn’t call, Angel would surely consign her to the realm of cads and bounders. She could call UCLA’s science department and see if she could get a last name for a professor named Angel. Angel had said there was some sort of symposium today. Maybe the office was open.
She tried every number for UCLA in the phone book and there were a lot of them. The only ones that answered had recordings telling her when she should call back to reach a live body. She heard the phrase, “If you know your party’s extension,” about fifty times.
The second to last number, “Public Affairs,” turned out to be an event listing. It was lengthy and at no time did the words “symposium,” “cancer” or “DNA” come into play. Of course she’d assumed that because Angel worked at UCLA that’s where the symposium was, but it could be at USC, or dozens of other campuses. It could even be at a hospital. Hell, the symposium could be about anything, not just Angel’s field of research. Damn. She would have to wait until Monday. Driving out to UCLA and walking up and down the science building halls hoping to stumble across an office door with Angel’s name on it was just too desperate. Out of the question.
She
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