Bobby Gold Stories by Anthony Bourdain Read Free Book Online Page B

his legendary wonder-penis. She couldn't really remember the sex yet — but then Jimmy would be happy
     to remind her.
    She swallowed three aspirin, fighting to keep them down while she ran the water, waiting for the room to fill with steam before
     she stepped into the shower. She was in there a long time, trying to boil Jimmy Sears out of her pores. When she was done,
     she brushed her teeth twice, combed out her hair, wrapped herself chin-to-ankles in a long, terrycloth robe and, finally,
     stepped warily back into the bedroom.
    Jimmy, still naked, had made breakfast: two perfectly fluffy yellow omelettes sat plated on the kitchenette counter - a spoonful
     of pilfered beluga on each one. Jimmy's signature garnish: two antennae-like chive sticks projected up from each mound of
     pearly gray fish eggs.
    "I was saving that caviar," said Nikki.
    "I didn't use it all," said Jimmy, pouring champagne.
    "Where'd you get the champagne?"
    "I ran out to the corner."
    "You got dressed . . . ran to the corner . . . bought champagne, came back . . . and took your clothes off again?" said Nikki,
     horrified.
    "Hey . . . It's a special occasion."
    This was enough for Nikki. "You're not staying. And I'm not eating."
    She avoided looking straight at Jimmy. For all his faults, he had a good body. All the surfing, skiing, in-line skating, handball,
     golf and tennis (when he should have been in his fucking kitchen) had made Jimmy tan and cut, his stomach ribbed with muscle.
     Even at thirty-nine, he had a boyish, almost irresistably ingratiating smile that seemed to invite conspiracy and bad behavior
     . .. He was, thought Nikki, watching him reposition an omelette so that the knife and fork faced her, sort of charming.
    He had to go. Now.
    "Get dressed and get out, Jimmy," she said. "You can take breakfast to go. Take it home to your wife, or your girlfriend or
     whoever it is these days you're lying to. Just leave." She sat down on the bed, dizzy again, a sudden stabbing pain in her
     groin. "Jesus . . . what did you fuck me with? A pineapple?"
    Jimmy shook his head, smiling like a little boy who'd just successfully lifted a comic book, and sat down next to her. He
     brushed his lips against her shoulders. She shook him off.
    "Just leave, please."
    He began to dress. J. Crew polo shirt, khaki pants, Gap blazer, Cole Haan loafers (no socks of course), a baseball cap with
     the name of a band on it. God, thought Nikki - how could I have fucked this asshole?
    "Whatever you say," said Jimmy, fully expecting, it appeared, that she would change her mind.
    "I say," said Nikki. Dressed, at least, Jimmy was easier to despise. She looked at the floor, noted with displeasure the trail
     of clothes she'd worn last night evidence of her stupidity — a reconstruction of events possible from the shoes kicked into
     opposite corners, the underwear hanging over the rocking chair. The brassiere must have come off last — it peeked out from
     under a pillow.
    "You're losing your hair," she said.
    "I am not!" protested Jimmy. "Bullshit!"
    "In the back. You're losing your hair. You're going bald."
    "I am not going bald!" insisted Jimmy, zipping up his pants but not going anywhere until this issue was resolved. "I use stuff
     . . . and it's working!
    "It's not working," said Nikki, tossing him a loafer. "Maybe you should get that spray. The skull-paint? Maybe that'll work
     . . . But the Rogaine? The minoxadyl or whatever it is? It's not taking. Believe me."
    "You can be a mean bitch, Nikki."
    "Yeah?" said Nikki, lip curling as she moved in close. She was taller than Jimmy by three or four inches — and face to face
     she looked down into his eyes. "You think you seen mean? Lemme tell you this then, chef . . . I hear one word about this from
     anybody . . . ever . . . One fucking word about last night — and I'm gonna tell every cook, every waitress, every chef, dishwasher,
     bartender and busboy in town that yes — I did take you home and fuck you - that