Break Every Rule Read Free Page B

like?!”
    â€œ
Phil
—”
    â€œI’d hate to think my parents were right about something,” she said pointedly. “Good-bye, Mickey.”
    Mickey watched Philippa walk back across the fabulous lobby, and then turned sheepishly back to the writer. Luckily, she was now engrossed in a cell phone conversation, and staring at the ceiling as she talked. Mickey darted into the adjoining nook.
    He found himself in a small room that had been setup like a lounge, with couches and ashtrays. There was only one dude, sitting and chomping a cigar, and Mickey sat down heavily beside him.
    â€œWhat’s your problem?” The man asked, not unkindly. He was on the smallish side and had downy blond hair, even though he was definitely at least forty.
    â€œFight with my girlfriend,” Mickey muttered. He really didn’t want to talk about it, even though talking about it with a stranger was, in a way, preferable to talking about it with his therapist. The chances that he would be asked to describe how it had made him
feel
were infinitely reduced.
    â€œEh, happens,” the man said.
    â€œWhat’s
your
problem?” Mickey asked, irritated that his truly big problem would be dismissed so easily.
    â€œEh, you know, average midlife crisis stuff. You have a career retrospective of your work at the Museum of Modern Art, but what do you really
have?”
    â€œLuc Vogel?” Mickey said. “Mickey Pardo.”
    â€œRicardo Pardo’s boy?”
    â€œYou got it.”
    â€œOld devil, I should have known. You look just like him. We went to grad school together, you know,” Luc Vogel said, passing Mickey his flask.
    â€œYeah, I know,” Mickey took a long sip from the flask. Ah, tequila. “Listen, Luc, I think you’re beingkind of a wuss. Last I checked you were rich and famous. I mean, what could possibly be missing?”
    â€œWell…” Luc Vogel cleared his throat in an attempt at modesty. “Not much, it’s true….”
    â€œAnything…?”
    â€œI’m having a hard time coming up with…”
    â€œ
Nuthin
’…?”
    â€œWell, I have always wanted to do a nude crowd scene in a restaurant. There would be something so urbane about that, don’t you think? Something lacking in the rest of my oeuvre… sort of Roman, but sort of bourgeois bohemian, too. But people never want to do that. Sanitary issues, I guess.”
    â€œThat’s what’s missing?” Mickey asked incredulously.
    â€œYes, that’s it.” Luc Vogel stood up. He seemed satisfied.
    â€œI think you could probably handle it if you wanted to,” Mickey said, taking another swig of the tequila and passing it back.
    â€œNo, no, I have far too many projects already…,” the older man said, moving quickly toward the door. “Too many projects… No, I couldn’t possibly…,” he went on vaguely. When he reached the door, he turned to Mickey, and smiled. “But you seem like quite the audacious young man. Set it up. I
dare
you.”
    He tossed the flask back to Mickey and was gone.

everybody wants a piece of patch
    Patch Flood spent Thursday afternoon flipping through vinyl at A-1 Records on 6th Street and Avenue A, and now he was lying on his bed and listening to the classic T-Rex album he’d found. His cell was ringing again, so he closed his eyes. Patch wasn’t really a cell phone kind of guy; his family had lived on a sailboat until they moved to their Perry Street townhouse when he was six. But Jonathan had insisted he get one a few years back, and since Jonathan did kind of freak out when he couldn’t get in contact with his friends, Patch figured it was probably the brotherly thing to do.
    That didn’t mean he picked up his phone most of the time, of course. Patch was tall and sandy-haired and not easily excited or put out by stuff, so girls were always getting infatuated with him