Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [36]
Which makes me remember that the best way to come down just a little is to masturbate. I mean, I hate to be overly graphic or make anyone uncomfortable here but if your heart was racing and you were feeling like you were maybe teetering on the edge of a mountain and could fall off, wouldn’t you think about masturbating?
I retreat to the bedroom and plug in my Magic Wand. The thing is mammoth and manages to penetrate my potentially coke-dulled nether region, making me come in under a minute. And the vodka-and-Wand combination actually works—I feel immediately better. I charge back to the living room, leaving the still-plugged-in Wand on my bed because I know I might need it again later.
The birds have already been through their incessant chirping routine and my next-door neighbor has long since left for work when I’m putting the finishing touches on my Kane piece. It has parts I’ll need to fill in later—like the tertiary comments from his friends—but I’ve done everything I can for the time being. This tiny part of my brain is in complete hysteria about having to call Kane and act like a professional journalist—that is, someone he didn’t kiss the other night—but I’m so wired that this anxiety manages to sort of stay on the periphery of my thoughts.
See, the thing about a coke all-nighter is that you partially feel amazing, like you could conquer the world, while on the other hand you know that what’s going on is incredibly fucked up and you should just acknowledge what you’re doing and start sleeping it off. Since duty calls, however, I make an effort to stay with the first feeling.
A couple of lines get me through the car ride, and once I’m at work I know that I have to call Kane sooner rather than later and also know I need some powder encouragement to do it. Waiting until I’m sure that no one is about to go into or out of the bathroom, I storm in there, enter a stall, sit on the toilet, and lock the door. Not sure if I want a bump or an actual line, I sit there for about half a second but then panic and decide that it’s less risky to do a few lines because that means I won’t have to duck into the bathroom as often. I tap some coke out of my vial onto my left hand, pull out an already-rolled bill and snort it down. That goes well, so I do another.
When I leave the bathroom and make my way back to my cubicle, I see Brian approaching. Even though I know there’s no way any white powder could be lodged under my nose, I can’t help but panic and imagine that some has appeared in the three seconds since I left the bathroom.
“Problem, Amelia,” he says. I’m so fucking busted, I think. “Kane told you he was single, right?”
I nod. He’d offered this fact up literally seventeen times.
Brian tosses a photo on my desk—a picture of Kane making out with a skinny blonde. “This was taken at the American Music Awards last week,” he says. Pointing to the blonde, he asks, “Who is she?”
“I don’t know, Brian. He told me he wasn’t dating anyone. And just because they’re kissing doesn’t mean they’re, you know, dating.” All-too-familiar shame courses through my veins. Kane is obviously a complete player. How could I have thought for a second that he was interested in anything more than just sleeping with me?
“Look, if the camera got it, we have to address it,” he says. “You told me how well you got along with him. Just call him up and ask him.”
I nod. “Sure. No problem,” I say as Brian walks away. Before I lose my courage, I start dialing Kane’s cell number. Relief floods me as I realize that I’m getting his voicemail, and I struggle to make my voice sound singsongy and light. “Hey, Kane. It’s Amelia from Absolutely Fabulous here. I just wanted to say thanks so much for the other night. Oh, and I have a few follow-up questions for you. Also, if you could get me the numbers of those people I can interview about you, that would be great.