CHAPTER 9: PYRO
Saturn
I buzzed Vincent Masoli into the stairway that led up to my third-floor apartment at around 7:15. Acceptably late, I suppose, considering I not exactly the picture of punctuality either. It was an especially windy evening. The shutters were flapping and the leaves from the trees near the sidewalk were swirling around our old white east side tenement. The landlord, an older woman with two cats, lived on the first floor. Two college-age guys that attended Johnson & Wales culinary school occupied the second-floor apartment. I shared the top floor with the latest in a string of roommates I’ve had in the three years I’ve lived here. Morgan, who moved in mostly on her daddy’s dime two months ago, was a senior at Brown University. She also was a DJ at WBRW, the college rock radio station. We never really got along and Vin’s arrival on the scene was about to make that situation much, much worse. But on that particular late October evening, my mind was not focused on Morgan. I was excited to see Vin and welcome him to my humble home.
“Hi,” I said, opening the door and watching him ascend the narrow stairway to the third floor. He was wearing a blue, long-sleeve collared shirt, faded blue jeans and sneakers — slightly better than I expected for a teenage boy. His short hair was gelled and spiky, and his handsome Italian face looked more nervous this time than when I met him after the show. No dark rooms or screaming band mates to hide behind this time. It was just going to be me and him … and Morgan, who unfortunately happened to be home at the time.
“Hey Saturn,” he said, giving me a warm hug as I greeted him at the door wearing a tight white top, blue jeans and short, black boots. I toned it down considerably from my look for the show, but I still looked hot.
“Did you get lost?” I asked him.
“No, not at all,” Vin replied. “Your directions were great, but my uncle called on the way over. He has a way of distracting me.”
“Come have a seat on the couch,” I said, motioning him over to the brown sofa in our cozy little living room, which had a picture window overlooking the street. The kitchen and adjacent bathroom also were in the middle of the apartment. The two small bedrooms were on opposite ends. “Want a beer?”
“Seriously?” Vin asked with a big grin.
“I’m 22, Vin,” I said with a flirtatious smile. “I’m allowed to buy beer. I know I’m not allowed to give it to you, but I’ll let you have one if you don’t call the cops on me.”
“Deal,” he said. “No pigs, no sirens.”
“Good,” I said, popping the cap off and strolling over to the sofa. He took the beer, kissed my hand and guided me onto the sofa next to him. Nervous or not, the kid wasn’t a virgin. He clearly had some experience with girls. But I was a woman. It would be interesting to see if he was ready to make that leap.
Speaking of girls, that’s about the time Morgan popped out of her bedroom and headed toward the kitchen. Of course, she stopped to check out my visitor. She was petite, cute, perky and annoying. She had shoulder-length red hair, blue eyes and virtually no tits, but she still managed to get quite a few boys to chase her. Morgan had entertained at least four in just the two months since she moved in. She had just turned 21 and she was taking full advantage of it. Now the Brown senior was sizing up the equivalent of a freshman to my right, and he gave her a healthy look, too. The rocker boy and two potential cradle robbers. Yes, it had all the makings of a bizarre lust triangle. All we needed were some reality TV cameras to complete the picture. Thankfully, there weren’t any.
I broke the awkward silence.
“Morgan, this is Vincent,” I said. “Vincent, my roommate Morgan.”
She came over to shake his hand, which was totally unnecessary. What a slut. He obliged with an enthusiastic handshake, no doubt undressing both of us in his mind and fantasizing about a threesome. Typical male.
“Saturn told me you’re in a band,” Morgan said as she slowly retreated toward the refrigerator.
“Yeah, Freeway & the Vin Numbers,” Vin was happy to report.
“That’s so cool! I’m a DJ at WBRW,” she said, grabbing an apple and biting into it as she stared at him while never looking at me. I had told her Vin was in a local band just to see what would happen. Did I mention I was a bit of pyromaniac as a child? No? Well, I was. Anyway, some people are so fucking predictable. I wasn’t really jealous at that point. It was more amusing than anything.
“Really?” Vin took the bait. “I heard on the radio you guys are doing a promotion at the Heartbreak on Halloween.”
Morgan beamed like a red light in Amsterdam.
“Yes, why? Are you guys playing that night?” she asked giddily.
“Yeah, we’re not headlining, but we’re going on second to last,” Vin replied, his nerves completely gone thanks to yet another helpful distraction. I was tempted to shout, “Why don’t you two just fuck and get it over with!” but I held my tongue.
“Holy shit!” she said. “I’ll talk to the guys at the station. Maybe we can interview you guys during my air time on Wednesday to help promote Thursday night’s show.”
Vin drooled like a horny customer in Amsterdam.
“That would be so friggin’ perfect!” Vin said, warily glancing at me for the first time in days, then staring back at Morgan.
“Great, I’ll set it up,” Morgan squeaked. “What’s your number?”
I turned my head slightly and rolled my eyes. Perhaps the tiny fire I started was going to burn out of control after all. Whatever. He’s 18. She’s 21 going on 16. I’ll be the matchmaker and find a 28-year-old rich guy like I’m supposed to instead of some teenage rocker boy.
But that’s when something very strange happened. Vin actually turned to me and asked my permission.
“Is that cool?” he asked me.
I was slightly shocked and had to search for an answer.
“Sure,” I said, quickly adding a jab. “You only get one chance to be interviewed by WBRW.”
Vin hesitated for a second, studying my eyes. Did he get it? Did he remember when I said you only get one chance with me? I didn’t think so. I could tell the wheels were just spinning in his brain and going nowhere. They were caught in the sticky muck of alcohol, revving hormones and new potential song lyrics that must inevitably swamp a singer’s mind when he’s confronted by what he thinks is a threesome. Morgan, of course, towed him out.
“272-2131,” she said. “Bring the whole band.”
“Awesome,” he said, punching the numbers into his cell phone without looking at me.
Satisfied, Morgan smiled and happily sauntered off to her room with the parting line, “See you Wednesday.”
Vin and I traded a couple of weird glances, but I cut through the awkwardness with one decisive kiss. Yeah, I made the first move. I simply set another fire to counter the first one I started. It worked. It was hot. And I made sure he wasn’t thinking about Morgan the rest of the night.