by hannah
October 20th, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 18: KNIGHT IN DARK ARMOR)
I’m leaning over the bar, finishing up a cigarette and flirting with the bartender who has been pouring me generous drinks all evening.
“You look fucking fantastic,” I hear from behind me.
I turn around. It’s Phillip Ferrari, looking pretty fucking fantastic himself. He’s wearing dark jeans and a t-shirt, probably handmade by some up-and-coming designer out of SoHo, and a driving jacket. He looks casual yet sharp, as always. He takes the half-smoked cigarette from between my fingers and drops it in an empty glass. “But you’re going to have to quit that.”
Fairly tipsy, I throw caution to the wind and wrap my arms around him. “I started thinking you weren’t going to make it.”
He’s clearly taken aback, but gives me a squeeze. “And miss seeing how the rich kids on the West Coast live? Not a chance.” He reaches into his pocket, takes out a pack of mints, and pops one in my mouth. I suck on it happily.
by hannah
October 11th, 2010
Photo: Corbis
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 17: THE BUSINESS OF PLEASURE)
My office line rings. Why is my office line ringing at eight at night? I look at the caller ID. Why is Phillip Ferrari ringing me on my office line at eight at night?
I think about not picking up. He can’t know I’m here. He probably wants to leave me a voicemail about a project; he might even get irritated if I pick up the phone and prevent him from leaving a voicemail—he’s that type of man. Then again…
I prep myself to express both surprise and fatigue: “Hello?”
“I noticed your light was still on.” His voice is static, yet deep and purposeful. “Are you working on the Benson project or the Bridgeloft project?”
I can’t quite put my finger on Phillip Ferrari yet. He works—all the time—and he makes everyone feel like they’re not working enough. All he ever talks about is work—even when we’ve gone out to research “everything L.A. has to offer” as “friends.” He doesn’t like anything about Los Angeles; he complains about how it’s not New York: the service is slow, the people don’t care about their appearance, everyone’s always going somewhere but nothing ever gets done. If he has a drink, it’s only ever one type: Lagavulin single-malt scotch, straight up. I once moved his attaché to make room for some paperwork; he moved it back. His clothes are never frumpled, even when it’s hot; he always rolls up his sleeves—two times, exactly—when he’s not wearing a jacket; and he never talks about his private life, maybe because he doesn’t have one. He lives and breathes his career. How I wish I did.
He repeats his question and I snap out of it. “The Benson project; I’m not on the Bridgeloft project, remember?”
“Can you come into my office?”
by hannah
July 22nd, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)
I scan my kitchen counter: A half-full bottle of Skyy Vodka…maybe; a bottle of Monogamy cab—definitely not; and a black bottle of 1994 Colheita Porto that my dad sent me for New Year’s Eve—to celebrate my engagement. I pick up the black bottle. My dad, who drinks this stuff every night while knocking back a large cigar, still thinks I’m going to develop a taste for it. The stuff typically makes me gag, but it’s strong, and I need to get rid of it before it brings back any more bad memories of how my New Year’s Eve should have turned out. I open the bottle and pour two glasses. I stroll over to Ben.
Ben is reclined on one end of my couch; his jacket is draped over a chair, his shoes are kicked under my coffee table, and he’s recounting the night he and Yvonne strong-armed her ex-husband over recipes. Her ex got the bar in the divorce, but she refused to give up the title to the dishes she’d helped perfect.
I hand one of the glasses to Ben. “So the large white envelope I saw you holding was filled with…”
Ben nods. He hands his cigarette to me.
“Stealing recipes, Sopranos-style…nice.” I take the cigarette, kick my heels off, and recline on the opposite end of my couch.
I place my feet near his crotch, take a drag, then take a sip of the port—and wince.
Ben starts rubbing my feet with his free hand.
“Somethin’ like that. Yvonne’s stubborn. She kept saying: ‘He’s got the best pub grub thanks to me, and that’s what everyone wants right now.’” Ben takes a sip of his port—and winces. “But, like, fries with six different dipping sauces. You know: fancy stuff.”
I hand the cigarette to Ben, who takes a last drag and then drops it into his glass of port. “This stuff sucks.”
We both laugh, looking at one another through the spirals of leftover smoke.
“I’m told you eventually develop a taste for it,” I say. “So, Wiseguy, back to the night of the Great Recipe Caper, were you packin’ heat, or what?”
Ben tilts his head and winks. “Sopranos-style.”
He grabs both my feet and tugs me toward him. I have just enough time to set my glass down next to the couch before he reaches over, grabs my hands, and pulls me onto him. His hands run up the length of my jeans and grab my ass.
I straddle him and beeline for those plush lips. Ben is such a great kisser…
