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  “I am not a— No, I’m afraid it couldn’t have been anyone else.”

  “After knowing me six hours.”

  Hey! She’d done her best to explain that. “Well, we do have some physical evidence, Mr. Munson. But we’d rather not have to take that to court. We’d rather just settle this in a civilized way. And next time you can send us a different cleaning team, okay?”

  “Physical evidence?” asked Hal, who sounded like he was taking a sip of his coffee.

  “Yes. It’s a…well, Mr. Munson, I don’t quite know how to phrase this. It’s a, uh, a butt-print.”

  Hal clearly spit something on the other end of the line.

  “Mr. Munson? Are you okay?”

  “Is it your butt-print or mine? It has to be yours… That’s very funny, you know. What’s the matter, is your partner standing right there while you pretend to call the cleaning service?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Munson. We would appreciate that. Yes, cash is fine. You have a good week, too.” Shannon hung up and looked calmly at Jane. “All taken care of. I’ll go pick up the money from him.”

  “Great.” Jane turned and left her office. Then she called over her shoulder. “Oh, but Shannon. You forgot to ask about your earring. And Mr. Munson didn’t seem to ask the price of the desk. Plus, even if he had, I doubt it was his cleaning staff that left the five long, curly, blond hairs caught under the lamp.”

  Shannon winced.

  “So you get to disinfect every inch of that desk, Shane, and then polish it with lemon oil. You also get to call a furniture repair place and have the leg fixed or replaced.”

  Jane stuck her head back into Shannon’s office, her expression cheerfully malicious. “And honey, we own a business called Finesse. Remember? I don’t think making butt-prints in Reception falls under that heading.”

  Shannon shot the finger at her.

  “That doesn’t qualify, either. Now are you going to tell me about this mystery man?”

  Shannon shook her head.

  “Didn’t think so.” Jane gave a resigned shrug of the shoulders and finally left her in peace.

  Shannon stared at her phone again, smacked herself in the forehead and hit Redial.

  11

  “OPERATION SHOPPING begins at 4:00 p.m. sharp,” Shannon said when Hal answered.

  “You again!”

  “Sorry about the Mr. Munson thing. Yes, Jane was standing over me.”

  “Can I have a copy of the butt-print as a memento of you?”

  “No. And why would you need a memento of me?”

  “You know. A keepsake. So I can look back fondly on the day that the goddess took pity on the nerd and did him out of mercy.”

  Speechless, Shannon just stared at the phone.

  “Hello?”

  She recovered. “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you still living in some high school fantasy?”

  “Aw, I was kidding.”

  “I don’t think so. And you are not a nerd. You just need a little polish, which is why I’m taking you shopping this afternoon.”

  Hal groaned. “Is there any way that I can just pay you extra to go without me? I could try on the stuff later…”

  “Nice try at sliming out of this, but it won’t work. We don’t have time to waste on me making endless returns. Oh, and by the way, we have a personal training session at the gym at eight o’clock.”

  “I have things to do. I have a company to run. I can’t just leave at four and not come back!”

  “How long until that IPO? How long until your first media interview?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “I’ll pick you up in the moldy beemer at your office.”

  “You didn’t have the carpet professionally cleaned and dried?” Hal’s tone was scandalized.

  “Nope.”

  TODAY SHE WAS WEARING silver leather pants, red spike-heeled boots and a body-hugging red sweater. Her handbag looked like a work of art out of a museum.

  Hal stared at it as he climbed gingerly into Shannon’s car. He wondered how much it had cost and decided he probably didn’t want to know. He had a bad, bad feeling about the kinds of shops a woman like her frequented. How much poorer would he be at the end of the day?

  They drove for an hour and a half until they got to Hal’s worst nightmare: a gigantic shopping mall in the suburbs of New York. The Westchester sported both a Neiman Marcus and a Saks and he’d also spied a big Bloomingdale’s around the corner. His male heart sank into the treads of his running shoes.

  Apparently they were going into Neiman’s first, since she parked close to it. Hal stared balefully at the entrance before girding his loins and getting out of the car, which stank of mildew.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets while Shannon locked the beemer and threw the keys into her work-of-art bag. In her designer sunglasses and the beautiful leather pants, she looked like a Bond girl about to go somewhere on 007’s arm. She took his, instead.

  “Hal, where did you get those clothes? I know exactly what I left in your closet and those weren’t there.”

  His chest swelled with manly pride. “You never checked my laundry hamper.”

  She put a hand to her temple. “You’re wearing dirty stuff?”

  “No. I washed them.”

  “Well, that’s something, then. We can donate them on the way out of here.”

  “I like these pants. I like this T-shirt. They’re comfortable. You’re not giving them away. And I want my other jeans back, you thief! That was really low.”

  “Sometimes I have to resort to desperate measures to get my job done.” She looked at him over the top of her glasses. “And I’m happy to say that the other jeans are long gone.”

  “Could you at least show the tiniest bit of remorse? Could you fake it?”

  “No. You looked like an abandoned scarecrow in those. And those shoes…” Words seemed to fail her. She tugged him into the department store and propelled him into the men’s shoe department.

  “Hello,” she said sweetly to a wizened little salesman. “This gentleman needs footwear. Badly. And if you have a metal trash can and a lighter, that would be excellent. I have hairspray in my purse.”

  “Hairspray, madam?”

  “Flammable,” she explained. “I’ll drench those horrors he has on his feet.”

  “Madam, the Neiman Marcus fire code does not permit—”

  “No?” she asked in sorrowful tones. “Well, then I’ll just have to toss them in the Dumpster. Not nearly as much fun, though.”

  “Great,” Hal muttered into her ear. “So you’re a pyromaniac as well as a nymphomaniac.”

  “Hal, honey, when will you understand that I’m just a maniac, period? Now sit down.” She pushed him into a chair, where he crossed his arms and glared at them.

  “I need a loafer in cordovan and one in saddle leather,” she said to the salesman.

  Hal shot out of his chair. “No penny loafers!”

  She nodded but otherwise ignored him. “And a casual lace-up, one black, one brown. Then we’ll need dress shoes in black, brown and cordovan. For extremely casual, we’ll need a hiking boot and a nice Italian sandal—”

  “No way,” said Hal.

  “Disregard the gentleman, please,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses over her long blond hair. “He doesn’t understand what he needs.” She added under her breath, “And under no circumstances are you to tell him the price of anything.”

  “Very good, madam. May I offer you two some refreshment?”

  “Yeah,” said Hal gloomily. “Strong liquor.”

  “Sir, I deeply regret to inform you that Neiman Marcus is unable to provide you with spirits. Perhaps a glass of wine?”

  “Do you have beer?” Hal asked.

  “Sir, I deeply regret—”

  “To inform me that you have no beer, either. Fine, let’s get on with this miserable process.”

  The little man raised his chin. “Sir, here at Neiman Marcus we strive
to provide our customers with the highest level of service. We also attempt to ensure that our clientele enjoys their visits to our retail establishment. Under no circumstances do we wish you to feel that your selection process is a miserable experience.”

  “Then just bring me some shoes,” Hal begged.

  “Very good, sir.” The salesman scuttled off.

  “Hal, that was rude. Becoming a cool guy means that you have an easy, relaxed demeanor. You never sweat anything, especially not such a small thing as buying shoes.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, but I don’t think we’re just buying shoes. We’re starting to waste my entire life savings on stupidities.”

  She sighed. “Well, get used to it. Because we’ve got a lot more ‘stupidities’ to buy.”

  HAL STOOD like a coatrack with arms as yet another wizened little man sucked on the pins between his teeth and drew chalk lines on the suit that Hal wore. His new shoes pinched his little toes, which were beginning to go numb. Shannon, relentless in pursuit of his new wardrobe, dove among the clothing displays like a gorgeous bird of prey. Each time she surfaced with yet another jacket or sweater, he blanched. How could women possibly like to shop?

  It was torture. Sheer, unmitigated, gruesome torture. And worse, all of this stuff was going to have to be dry-cleaned!

  Shannon winged by with a couple of cashmere sweaters that probably cost more than the national debt, and he brought the subject to her attention. “Do you realize how much it’s going to cost me to take care of these stupid clothes? Do you know how bad dry-cleaning is for the environment? The fluid also causes cancer!” He quoted several statistics at her until the salesman/tailor stuck him in the ankle with a pin. “Ow!”

  “Begging your pardon, sir. We here at Neiman Marcus do strive not to stab the customers, but occasionally we err. We are only human. Would you care for a bandage, sir? Or a complimentary tetanus shot?”

  “What?” said Hal. “No!”

  “You mean, ‘No thanks, man,’” said Shannon.

  “Oh, I do, do I?” Hal said in ominous tones.

  “Yes. And it’s definitely not cool to go around spouting statistics about dry-cleaning fluid. So drop that.”

  “You may be stunning to look at, but you are starting to piss me off.”

  “No, no, no.” Shannon shook her finger. “You’re cool, remember? You don’t sweat it.”

  Hal counted to three and stared at her breasts for a distraction. They were so plump and happy nestled in that red sweater…just the right amount of swoop.

  She turned and went back to the racks of clothing, displaying her silver-leather-clad delectable bottom. He stared at that, too. He forgot about how annoying she was and cooked up quite the little fantasy. It involved her naked on a baby-oiled waterbed…

  “Sir? Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m having difficulties marking your alterations. We at Neiman Marcus are dedicated to the highest quality of customer service. Given the, er, circumstances, may I provide you with an explicit magazine and a private bathroom?”

  Hal looked down and blinked. He sported an enormous, gabardine-clothed erection. He was beginning to hate Shannon Shane…a lot.

  “Uh, no, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

  “Very big, sir. Uh, good. Very good, sir.” The little guy turned purple and fled.

  Hal stood in front of the three-way mirror and wondered just what a “cool” guy did in this situation.

  SIX PAIRS OF SHOES, three suits, two blazers. Six T-shirts made of silk woven by designer worms. Four pairs of casual slacks, two pairs of walking shorts and three pairs of jeans that Hal felt were too snug. “How am I supposed to get a wallet, cell phone and my dick in here all at the same time?” he asked. His concerns were addressed by an eye roll.

  He didn’t even want to know what he’d spent on the cashmere sweaters, the upscale ties, the multiple pairs of socks, the silver-handled umbrella, the leather satchel or the elaborate shoe-care kit. Oh, and the belts, silk boxers and shoe trees.

  “You’re not working under the illusion that I’ll actually use those, are you?”

  “Close your eyes and sign here, Hal. There’s a good boy.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re patronizing and obnoxious?”

  “I just love compliments. Now take the pen.”

  “Do I have any money left?”

  “Money?” Shannon threw back her head and laughed. “Hal, honey. This is credit. But we’re opening a series of store charges so that you can save ten to fifteen percent. That’s a lot of money saved right there.”

  Hal dug his hands into his pockets. “How come I have to spend so much in order to save?”

  “It’s just the law of retail,” Shannon told him, pulling his hands out of his pockets. “Don’t do that. You look like an overgrown teenager.”

  “Aw, for chrissakes—”

  “Shoulders back! Stomach in! Cock one hip. Good,” said his drill sergeant. “Now, casually drape one arm along the counter. Excellent.”

  He curled his lip at her.

  “Stop that. Turn to Lana,” she instructed.

  Lana was their current salesperson, engaged in packaging all of his new silk boxers. He looked at her, and she looked up at him, raising an eyebrow at Shannon.

  “Now smile,” said his tormentor. “Smile at Lana like she’s the only woman in the world.”

  “Cheese,” said Hal. “This is beyond cheesy…” But somewhere along the way, he did aim a genuine smile in her direction.

  Lana blinked and a dreamy expression came over her face. She smiled back. Then she said, “Wow.”

  Wow? Did she mean this stuff actually worked? Hal kept his shoulders straight and then folded his arms on the counter and leaned in just a tad. He decided to experiment.

  “Lana, I’m in training here. I haven’t graduated yet from Suave School. But I have to say that you have the most beautiful eyes.”

  The woman, probably in her midforties, blushed and dimpled. “Oh, thank you. Aren’t you sweet.” She stuck some kind of gold sticker on the tissue paper she’d wrapped around the boxers. “You know, I think I can give you another special discount on these…let me see if I can find the code.” She rummaged around. “Yes! Here it is.”

  And just like that, Hal learned the power of charm and image.

  Shannon dug him in the ribs with her elbow as they walked out. “See? A smile, a little easy confidence and good grooming. They will get you everywhere. You gonna listen to me now?”

  Hal all but staggered under the combined weight of the shopping bags. “Are we done yet?”

  “One more stop at a sporting goods store. We need to get you outfitted for the gym.”

  He groaned. “You are relentless. Why does it matter what I wear when I sweat?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Shannon stared at him. “This could be the most important part for your social life, Hal.”

  “Huh?”

  She gazed at him with something akin to pity. “You’re going to be picking up chicks in the gym.”

  “Chicks,” repeated Hal.

  “Yes,” she told him. “So you’ve got to show all the right bulges in all the right places.”

  I got a bulge for you right here, baby. But he didn’t say it aloud. He was pretty sure that sentiment crossed the line from “cool” to “disgustingly piggy.”

  So he just continued to drag their kill through the echoing, gleaming mall until they arrived at a he-man’s paradise called Jock, Stock and Barrel. Leering in the window stood a shiny mannequin with Ricky Martin’s face and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body. It had biceps like Popeye and wore microscopic, lime-green nylon shorts with a canary-yellow muscle T-shirt.

  “No,” said Hal, transfixed with horror. “I’m not setting foot in there.” A man had to draw the line somewhere, didn’t he?

  12

  “COME ON, HAL,” SHANNON bullied him. “We’re almost done.” It had been a very long afternoon and she was tired. Spike-heeled boots migh
t look killer, but they felt killer, too.

  “Correction. We are done.” And her client dug in his own heels. The formerly malleable Hal became a mule, and no matter what angle she took she could not find the carrot to move him forward.

  She finally installed him back in her moldy beemer and put on some reggae music in the hopes that he’d unwind a little. She drove to a nearby strip mall and left him in the car with the packages while she went in and bought him some basic workout clothes in dark and neutral colors. She added white socks to the mix and then went and got him. “I can’t just buy the cross-trainers and running shoes for you. You have to actually come in and test them for comfort.”

  She got him into this last store, stuck him on a vinyl bench and brought him several pairs of gym shoes. Then she drilled a rule into his head: Thou Shalt Not Wear Running Shoes With Jeans.

  “Why not?” asked Hal.

  “Just repeat after me. ‘I, Hal Underwood, will not under any circumstances pair my running shoes with jeans or any other slacks.’”

  “What about sweatpants? Shorts?”

  She sighed. “How about, ‘I, Hal Underwood, will only wear running shoes with sweatpants or shorts.’”

  “I still don’t understand why.”

  “Just promise!”

  “What about cross-trainers?”

  “Those are okay with jeans in extremely casual situations. But try to avoid that look. We’re aiming for cool elegance.”

  “Suave School sucks, you know that? Gym shoes are comfortable. These lace-up things are not. If my little toes stay numb and eventually fall off, I’m suing you for replacements.”

  “Fine.”

  They at last agreed on one pair of trainers and one pair of running shoes. While the salesperson boxed them up and ran the total, Shannon patted Hal’s shoulder. “This bill won’t be so bad. You can even keep your eyes open. I’m just going to run out to the car for a sec, okay?”

  He eyed her suspiciously.

  “What?” she asked, all innocence.

  Hal squinted.

  She widened her eyes. Then she turned and walked out to the car. Keeping an eye on him through the large plate-glass window, she found the bag that contained his old clothes and shoes. She waited for him to look down and sign the credit card slip. Then, bag in hand, she sprinted for the Dumpster in the corner of the parking lot.