You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(24)

That’s for CRACK, not weed, and I grab it. “No, I mean, not really. It’s not mine.”

DUMB, JOE, DUMB. No one ever falls for that line, whether it’s about Penthouse or crack pipes. Seconds ago, you were mine, and now you’re folding your arms. I toss an old greasy Times on top of another errant fucking pipe, and you look at the walls, at the books. “So I guess the book obsession runs in the family.”

If only you knew what he does to these books. “Ha. Yeah, I guess…”

“So, you have this all to yourself and you don’t even have to pay him anything?”

A little tone in your voice and, right. No one wants a freeloader. Also I don’t want you to worry I think you’re digging for gold. “Oh, hell no. I pay rent. Angus is a serious guy.”

“Wait…I thought it was Andy?”

FUCK YOU, ANGUS, and why do you want to know about things that don’t matter? I tell you that Andy is a nickname, and I keep on cleaning. Empty baggies. Tinfoil. Spoons. Filth. Soon the place is in order, and you reward me for my labor. You slip off your boots. Butter and leather. Lace and skin. Tights…not sure how to get those off but not gonna get ahead of myself. You are at ease. This is progress. Did I pass the test? Do I jump your lovely bones? You cross your legs like you just read my mind, like the answer is Not just yet, Cusack.

“Second things second, Joe. I have another question, but first…Not that I don’t like Peter Frampton, but does it have to be on repeat?”

YES, VAIL. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO WORK THE CD PLAYER. I play the romantic, the cool cat, and tell you that repeat is my thing, same way I had Dylan on a loop in the bookstore and Jesus Fucking Christ. Are me and Angus the same fucking crackhead?

“Ah,” you say. “Well, that is very NYC Bookstore Babe of you.”

Is that a good thing? A bad thing? It might be a bad thing, and it’s a fucking CD player. How hard can it be? I see things I missed. Leftover coke on the jewel cases, on the CD player, and I hit Play. Am I high now? Does coke get in your fingers the way smoke gets in your eyes? I push a button. Nothing happens, and the song begins again.

You tell me to relax. “I can do the repeat thing, especially with this song. Used to great effect in Reality Bites…. You’ve seen it, right?”

Fuck, no. “Only about five times.”

I trip on my own feet, on another fucking crack pipe. You laugh. “Okay, I’m curious.”

It’s the Spanish Inquisition and I’m never going to Spain unless I pass this fucking test. “Shoot.”

“Well, actually…First, can I have a glass of red?”

No, you can’t, Vail. I don’t know how to operate a fucking corkscrew. “Of course.”

I walk to the cabinet of reds and whites, and I pick up a bottle. This is a new crime. This is theft. I pick up a corkscrew and I’m screwed. If you learn I can’t pop the cork on a fucking wine bottle, you’re not gonna let me pop your cherry. Stupid. No cherry for me—you’re not a virgin—and the guy who popped yours probably knew how to open a bottle of wine.

“Joe?”

“Sorry. I, um…I think I left the lights on out on the terrace.”

You motion for me to give you the bottle—phew—and I open the door to the terrace. Another first, not for our Moleskine, just for me. Finally, I see it, the city from here.

You join me with two glasses of red. I am loved, fed. “Wow, Cusack. What a terrible view.”

I take the wine. “I know. Don’t worry. I won’t make you come out here.”

You lick your lips. You liked that. “Okay, baby, I am ready for my tour.”

I am baby—that’s a first for the Moleskine—and I lead you back inside, into the kitchen—a pigsty that makes you laugh and groan, men—and now it’s off to the den where it’s books, more books, and movie posters, more posters. You gush about Magnolia and you’re a little too fond of Paul Thomas Anderson, so I tell you the bedroom is a mess.

You slap me and smile. “I didn’t ask to see the bedroom, baby.”

Oh, you’re good—and we make our way back home, to the sinking living room. Butter and leather. Lace and skin. You touch your neck and look at me like I’m James Fucking Bond. Bondage. Are you into that? I hope not.

You sit. I sit. Do I touch you? Kiss you?

You offer me more wine, and I can’t do it, Vail. My Portnoy is nervous. Twitching. You set your glass on the table and stretch and now your feet are on my lap. Little feet. Trapped in plaid stockings. Stripes thick as the bars on a cage, and did you wear those tights on purpose? Are your legs off-limits?

“Okay,” you say. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, Joe…. I’m a little surprised.”

That I didn’t tear your clothes off? “About what?”

Your toes curl in the bad way. “Baby, I know it’s not ‘your’ place. And I mean, it’s nice to have rich relatives…”

I don’t really have an Uncle Warbucks and your toes are stiff. Bent. “Yeah. Totally.”

“What I mean is…well…You had a party.”

Angus had a party. I hate parties. “It was just one night, just a bunch of dudes.”

You tilt your head at a wineglass, at a lipstick stain, and I make up a girl who showed up uninvited and you tell me to stop. “It’s okay, babe. I’m not like that. You’re allowed to let loose.”