He's So Bad Read Online Free PDF Page A

She’s concentrating on whatever she’s doing at her desk.
    “You’re welcome, Mr. Tango,” Zoe says.
    I contemplate asking Zoe for the woman’s name but think better of it. I’m careful about the shit I do these days. I don’t want to be the same Robert Tango that Mavis and Maggie found so revolting. It’s not that I have a sexual attraction toward the motorcycle woman. Hell if I know what I find so alluring about her.
    I show Zoe a thumbs-up and continue on my way.
    Motorcycle woman doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to me, which is strange, because everyone else is paying the kind of attention one does to a possible new owner of the firm. Regardless, I head back to my car and drive downtown to the St. Regis hotel. I’d be a fool to drive an hour back to Napa only to return to the city during rush-hour traffic. Once I’m settled in a presidential suite, I take off my suit and call to have it pressed for this evening.
    I stretch out on top of the bed and stare at the ceiling. I fight the urge to riffle through my contacts list and call up some company for tonight. For two nights, I’ve felt like shit and hadn’t been able to use sex to soothe me. I think about Zoe’s cute little ass, but the possibility of hearing her squeal doesn’t turn me on. Plus she’s married. Poor guy. Motorcycle woman had a nice ass too, but I don’t want to think about her in a sexual way. I don’t want to think about her at all.
    I know four women I can call. Before, I would pick one and invite her over for dinner provided by room service. I would seduce her until we were fucking, and an hour before leaving for Ralph’s dinner party, I would tell her to leave and promise to call her tomorrow. That would be a lie. Most women needed the promise of something more in order to feel good about a fast fuck.
    “Why the fuck do I need a body?” I whisper. Why can’t my fucking hand suffice?
    I flip onto my side and stare out the large window at the view of the city. What the hell do I want out of life other than to purchase Kennedy Creative? Before my father died, I knew the answer. I was eleven years old and in sixth grade when the school principal called me out of class and into the nurse’s office. The nurse sat me on the examination table. I was scared as hell, wondering if I was going to get a shot or something, and if so, then what for? But she gave me a lollipop instead. The nurse kept patting me on the back and telling me that everything would be fine. When my mother arrived, as soon as she saw me, she started bawling and held me tightly.
    She kept repeating, “Daddy’s dead.”
    At first I didn’t know what the entire production meant. My mother always had a flair for the dramatic, and she and my dad were always fighting about one thing or another. I remember her accusing him of cheating all the time. My dad would just look at her, shake his head, and say, “I’m not going to argue with you in front of my son.” I always felt as if he was the only person in the world who gave a damn about me, and that made me feel safe and protected.
    My memories of that morning are still vivid. My mother’s sweet perfume was so strong that it made me loopy. Her thin body crushed me as I watched the principal, Ms. Shine, say to the nurse, whose name eludes me, “He fell off a ladder and broke his neck.” She shook her head, pitying me. I’m not sure if the pity was for my father’s death or for being the son of a woman who was making a spectacle out of herself.
    We dressed in black and went to a funeral. I remember seeing my dad lying in a casket. I thought he was asleep and hoped at any second, he would open his eyes and wake up. At the cemetery, two men rolled the crane to lower the coffin into the ground, and that was when I finally fully comprehended the notion of death. I’ve never seen my mom happier than when receiving condolences.
    After that, I spent a lot of nights at Vince’s house while my mother dolled