Falling in Between, page 3
I furrow my brow. “Yeah.” I want to smack her rolling eyes right out of her head.
“Wow, Charlie. Just wow! All you have to do is talk.”
“About what?”
“You know, stuff. Like, what you do. What he does. Basic bullshit.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Then go to his place and fuck.”
“God, you’re vile.”
A group of men bump into her when they try to scoot by. She glares at them before returning her attention to me. “Seriously, it’s just fun to hang out with a hot guy.” She shoves her finger against my lips, silencing the argument she knew was coming. “And no, having casual sex occasionally does not make you a whore. Just have fun for once, okay?”
At one point in my life, I was exciting. Spontaneous. But the thing is, age does something to a person. Marriage. Life. Divorce. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself, and I’m almost envious of Steph for still having youthful vibrancy.
“Holy hell!” Steph pulls her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and stares across the street. “That man is a liability to women’s panties everywhere!”
Following her gaze, my eyes land on Elijah, dressed in a navy suit that must be tailored to fit him precisely, because dear Lord, it’s like a second skin.
Steph catcalls when he reaches for the door to the shop. “Hey! Was your momma a beaver, because dam.”
I whack her arm. Thankfully, Elijah must not have heard, or just didn’t care, because he disappears inside without losing stride. “What is wrong with you?” I hiss.
“What? Men do that to women all the time. It’s only fair they get a taste of their own medicine.”
“That’s him, you fucking, horny perv!”
Her mouth shapes the perfect O, and her eyes go wide. “Holy. Hell. Charlie! That man is sex on legs. In a motherfucking suit!” She shoves me. “You slept with him and don’t remember how it was?”
I close my eyes and inhale. “Not really. Bits and pieces.”
“That’s depressing.” She glances at my crotch. “I’m so sorry your owner hates you.”
She’s seriously talking to my vagina.
The crosswalk changes and the crowd collected on the corner begins to move. “All right, I’m going to go in and pretend I have no idea who you are if he mentions the whistle.”
“If he can’t appreciate my sense of humor, drink the java and leave. He’s not for you.”
“Yeah. Okay, Steph.” Waving, I start across the street.
I’m fine while I’m amid the people, stuck between their conversations and smells, but the second I set my wobbly wedge on the curb, my nerves feel like a lead weight in my stomach. My palms grow sweaty, and I swear my heart is going to beat out of my chest if it hits my sternum any harder.
I stand in front of the door and blow out a calming breath. I have no idea when I became this girl. I absolutely hate this. Once upon a time, men didn’t make me nervous.
The bell over the door jingles when I step inside the tiny shop. The aroma of freshly ground coffee swirls around me. It’s fairly empty inside, but even if it were packed, I wouldn’t be able to miss Elijah leaning against the wall, casually scrolling on his phone. That navy suit. Good God. There are no words to accurately descript that man is in that suit. Lethal. Deadly. Dangerous.
A tendril of inky-black hair falls across his forehead, and he sweeps it away before tucking his phone into his pocket and glancing up. His gaze crashes into mine in a cold, hard wave, and I find myself nervously wiping my clammy palms on the front of my dress.
Sunlight pours through the windows, hitting him like heaven shining a spotlight on one of its saints. Although, a saint wouldn’t possess the swagger he has crossing this room.
The devil most certainly would.
My body quickly ignites into a blazing inferno of erotic perversion, and now, he’s standing right in front of me with a smile that promises to be my undoing. His teeth tug at his bottom lip. His gaze drags over me. I’m so busy staring at his mouth that I jump when he takes my hand to lead me to a table.
Without a word, he pulls out my chair, and I take a seat, struggling to manage even breaths. My God, either I’m that out of practice, or is he just this good.
“You look beautiful, Demi.”
The deep rasp to his voice has me squirming in my seat. Crossing my legs. Clearing my throat. “Thank you,” I say. “You wear a suit well.” And…I sound like an idiot.
The waiter places two steaming cups on the table. Elijah points at the one set in front of me. “Café latte. Right?”
I nod slowly, and he chuckles.
“In Mexico, you told me you loved café lattes.”
We talked about coffee. And had sex. Wonderful. “What didn’t I tell you?” I ask, my tone a little dry.
With a sexy smirk, he lifts his mug to his lips. The steam curls delicately around his face. “What you do for a living?”
“Of course. Left out the basics, huh? Well, I’m a marriage counselor. Exciting, I know.”
“Oh.” He grins. “I’m sure that’s interesting.”
“It would be the perfect job if I were addicted to soap operas.”
“But you aren’t?”
“No. I’m more of a Dexter, Criminals Minds, conspiracy theories type of girl.”
“So, what you’re telling me is, you know how to get away with murder?”
“I think everyone should…” And now I sound like a freaking lunatic. I fight the heat creeping over my cheeks. Hoping to mask my awkwardness, I take a sip of the latte, and it’s hotter than hell. My tongue possibly has third-degree burns, but I’m trying not to wince. “What about you? What do you do?”
A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. “I’m an entrepreneur.” He circles his finger around the rim of his mug. “But that’s not really important.” His murky-green eyes lock with mine, and the intensity threatens to suck the oxygen from the room. “Blue suits you.”
I glance at my dress, brushing my fingers over the soft fabric. “It’s my favorite color.”
“A person’s favorite color says a lot about them.”
“Really? So what does mine say about me?”
“That you appear confident and strong, but just like the ocean, you have a stormy side.” He reaches across the table and sweeps a single finger over my cheek. Even though it’s like Dante’s Inferno in here, goosebumps dance along my skin. “There’s so much below the surface. Brewing. Brimming. Threatening to suck you, and everyone around you, under.”
The hairs on my arm now stand on end. I open my mouth to speak, but I’m at a loss.
“I was right, I see.” He takes a drink, his eyes crinkling at the corners from a hidden smile.
Sexual prowess orbits him like some seductive, gravitational pull. One that threatens to draw in unsuspecting women with a mere twitch of his perfect lips.
I straighten in my chair. “And what’s your favorite color?”
“Oh, my secrets are best kept hidden, Demi.” He leans back with narrowed eyes. “But for some reason, I believe you think you have most of them figured out already.”
I reach for him and pinch the soft fabric of his suit, rubbing it between my fingers. “Is your suit Versace? Ralph Lauren?”
“Nice guess. But no. Gucci.”
“Ah, even better.” I glance at the floor at his well-shined shoes. “You’re well put together, Elijah. Almost like a devil in disguise.”
“I assure you…” He takes another sip. “I’m no devil.”
“I’d bet black is your favorite color. You seem like the type of man who loves power and dominance.”
He leans toward me. “You’re very intuitive.”
“And you’re very intimidating.”
His expression softens. “You’re different than most of the women I deal with, and it could prove to be very dangerous for me.” He brushes a feather-light affection over my knuckles. “But, I want what I want, when I want it…” he whispers, his gaze pinning me to my seat.
My heart flutters, my stomach kinks, and I swallow. His fingertips sweep up my arm, then my shoulder, and finally my neck. I find myself leaning into his touch.
“Why do I make you nervous?” His knee grazes mine under the table, his palm now cupping my cheek.
I manage to sound unfazed, even though I’m about to climb the walls. “A little full of ourselves, aren’t we?”
“Your cheeks flushed the second my finger started up your arm. Right now, those perfect breasts of yours are rising in ragged swells. Accelerated respiration. Increased blood flow. Either you’re nervous, or you’re turned on.” He smirks. “I’d put money on both.”
What a bastard…
His phone buzzes. He drops his hand to his lap, fishing his cell from his jacket. His lips flatten on an exhale, and he quickly types out a text. “I hate to cut this short, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable. I’ve had a meeting move up.”
“It’s fine.”
“Let me take you to dinner sometime?”
“Sure.”
He laughs. “It almost sounds like you can’t be bothered with me.”
“I didn’t mean…you know what?” I sigh. “Forget it. I’m just socially awkward I think.”
“Well, I find it charming.” He pushes up from his seat. “I’ll text you.”
I smile in response, watching through the window as he steps outside.
I sit in the little shop alone and finish my coffee, unable to shake him from my thoughts.
Maybe there are some men you can have a casual fling with. Elijah—whatever his last name is—is not one of them. And I know it, because I already can’t forget him.
5
Later in the evening, I met Steph for Indian food. Of course, she wanted a blow by blow of my date. Imagine her disappointment when I told her the afternoon did not end in an orgasm. She was so disheartened that it’s all she’s talked about from Bryant Park to East 32nd Street.
We maneuver around the trash bags piled on the sidewalk for garbage pickup. “And so,” Steph says, “this mysterious man, whose last name and age you still don’t know, just up and leaves?” She tosses her hands in the air, nearly backhanding a woman passing by. The lady grumbles something, but Steph ignores her.
“For the third time, yes.”
“What kind of guy asks a girl out—one he’s already screwed, by the way—knowing he only has half an hour to spare?”
I shrug.
“He came dressed in a suit, Charlie.” Steph balks like it’s a crime. “That means he was between business meetings. He obviously wasn’t planning to rock your world today.”
I sigh, and my shoulders droop in defeat. “Not everything is about sex, Steph.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Charlie. At our age, everything is about sex.”
“No, everything is about sex when you’re in your twenties, before men start sprouting hair on their backs like a Chia Pet.”
She snarls. “Ew.”
“It’s true.”
“Okay, so you don’t want a relationship?”
I hold up both hands in full surrender. “Absolutely not!”
“You don’t want a fuck buddy?”
I shake my head. “Seems overrated.”
“Are you just going to be alone forever?”
“I’ve only been divorced for half a year. And besides, there are always cats.”
“As in…the animals that meow?” Her pace slows, but I keep walking.
“Yep. I think ten sounds about right.”
She sighs like I’m a lost cause. “Look, I refuse to be best friends with the pussy lady.”
“You’re such a perv. Anyway, everyone needs a pet.”
She stops, grabs my shoulder, and holds up a finger while giving me a stern look. “One, Charlie. I’ll allow you one.”
“Two.”
“One!” Her left eye twitches a little.
“But—” I fight a laugh. “The first one will get lonely.”
“It’s a cat! They lick their assholes and cough up fur balls.”
One block later, Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” bellows down the street. It’s the only cue I need to know that my neighbor Dot must be sweating away on the elliptical she keeps on her patio. By the time we’re in front of my apartment building, there’s a wild grin dancing on Steph’s face. “I swear. How old is she?”
“I don’t know. Seventy-five or eighty.” I turn and glance up at her half of the brownstone. Sure enough, she’s in a tiny sports bra and bicycle shorts, a cigarette dangling from her lips while her legs churn away in beat with the music.
Dot catches us staring and waves. We both smile and return the gesture.
“I bet Dot would tell you it’s all about sex.” Steph giggles.
I thwack her with my purse. “Gross, Steph.”
“Well, why do you think she’s on that thing every night? People only exercise to look good naked.”
“Steph…”
“I told you I saw her at The Yeah-Yeah Club last weekend on some twenty-year-old guy’s lap. Pretty sure he was giving her a hickey.”
“Stop!”
“Extreme Cougars of New York or something—that’s a show, you know?” Steph gives me a playful shove.
“And on that note, I’m going to bed.”
Poison’s “Every Rose Has its Thorn” cuts on when I shove my key into the door. As annoying as it is, I can’t bring myself to complain. I’m pretty sure Dot’s half deaf and has no idea how loud it is anyway. The noise only amplifies when I step into the small foyer. Most people envision elegance when they think of a brownstone—at least I always did. This one…it’s nice enough, but it’s not exactly anything to brag about. The wallpaper in the foyer is peeling at the corners, and a few of the spindles on the wooden staircase are loose, but it’s affordable.
I figured if a seventy-year-old woman with electric-blue eyeshadow felt safe here, I should be fine. So now this is home.
With a sigh, I climb the stairs, humming along to Dot’s musical selection for the night. At least the racket is partially drowned out when I step into my apartment and shut the door. I kick off my ridiculous wedges and go straight to the bedroom where I collapse on the bed and grab the remote.
My phone chirps, and I check my text from Steph. See. Extreme Cougars of NYC.
Attached to the text is a picture of Dot sitting on the lap of a guy who looks to be at least ten years younger than me.
Wow…
6
I’m stuck in my office, staring through the tiny, single-pane window that faces a parking deck as I wonder how unprofessional it would be to have a whistle I could blow like a referee.
For the past ten minutes, Ben and Megan have argued over toilet paper and toothpaste. When the timer sounds, I couldn’t be happier. I turn around, quickly grab a worksheet about listening and hand them each a copy.
“I want you both to read this and answer the questions on the back as honestly as you can. We’ll discuss it next week. I think it may give you both a better understanding of what’s important to the other.”
“This is a waste of time…” Ben stands and walks to the door, slinging it open.
“You see!” Megan points at him and shakes her head before following him out, their argument continuing down the hall.
Toothpaste. Spreadsheets. Sometimes I wonder why people bother with marriage anyway.
I finish up my notes, then lean back in the chair with my phone in hand. “Well, look who’s popular today,” I say sarcastically when I notice the three notifications on my HookUp app.
I tap the icon and open the first message, only to be greeted with a not-so-impressive, veiny dick pic. No note. No hi. Nothing. Just a penis. “For fuck’s sake.”
Sometimes I wonder if guys sign up for these dating apps just to send pictures of their genitals. I ignore it and go on to the next.
Another penis.
But, at least this guy included a request: I showed you mine, now show me yours.
This is the pool of men I have to draw from? They’re like scavengers. Do I even want to go to the third? Three veiny appendages in one day are three too many… I bet Elijah doesn’t do these dumb dating sites. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to. He can walk down 5th Avenue and pull any woman he could possibly want. He’s above sending photographic evidence of how well he’s hung—at least that’s what I want to believe…
Just as I click on the last message, a text pops up on my screen. Steph: Don’t Kill me.
I ignore it and go to the HookUp app. Tom Brown: Excited to meet both you and Stephanie tonight!
I stare at the communication in disbelief. If she set me up on a blind date, I’m going to kill her.
Ding. Steph: Charlie! I see your read receipt! I’m coming to get you at seven.
I quickly type out: I hate you.
Steph: No you don’t.
With a sigh, I drop the phone to my desk and recline in the chair, massaging my temples and wondering if everyone else’s best friend is this meddlesome and neurotic.
_____
Eight o’clock at night, and instead of being cozied up in my bathrobe with a tub of ice cream, I’m dressed in a short, red dress and those damn wedges, wandering aimlessly through some deserted part of Manhattan with Steph. Heat wafts through the grate in the sidewalk, and my skirt goes flying up around my ass like Marilyn Monroe. I swat it back into place while the deep rumble of the subway passing underneath passes through my body.
To make this entire ensemble even worse, I let Steph do my makeup, which means I have on more contour than a Kardashian, magnetic eyelashes, and some lip stain I’ll need turpentine to remove.
Steph makes a sudden turn between two buildings, her gaze fixed on the navigation map on her phone. “It says the bar’s on the other side of this street.”
“This is not a street, Steph. It’s an alley.”
“Well, Maps tells me it’s a shortcut.”
“This is how people get murdered,” I grumble, following her into the darkness.
“No one’s getting murdered.”
“Just so you know, it happens every day. Especially in the shadows of the inner city. You do realize you have no survival skills, right?”
“Wow, Charlie. Just wow! All you have to do is talk.”
“About what?”
“You know, stuff. Like, what you do. What he does. Basic bullshit.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Then go to his place and fuck.”
“God, you’re vile.”
A group of men bump into her when they try to scoot by. She glares at them before returning her attention to me. “Seriously, it’s just fun to hang out with a hot guy.” She shoves her finger against my lips, silencing the argument she knew was coming. “And no, having casual sex occasionally does not make you a whore. Just have fun for once, okay?”
At one point in my life, I was exciting. Spontaneous. But the thing is, age does something to a person. Marriage. Life. Divorce. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself, and I’m almost envious of Steph for still having youthful vibrancy.
“Holy hell!” Steph pulls her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and stares across the street. “That man is a liability to women’s panties everywhere!”
Following her gaze, my eyes land on Elijah, dressed in a navy suit that must be tailored to fit him precisely, because dear Lord, it’s like a second skin.
Steph catcalls when he reaches for the door to the shop. “Hey! Was your momma a beaver, because dam.”
I whack her arm. Thankfully, Elijah must not have heard, or just didn’t care, because he disappears inside without losing stride. “What is wrong with you?” I hiss.
“What? Men do that to women all the time. It’s only fair they get a taste of their own medicine.”
“That’s him, you fucking, horny perv!”
Her mouth shapes the perfect O, and her eyes go wide. “Holy. Hell. Charlie! That man is sex on legs. In a motherfucking suit!” She shoves me. “You slept with him and don’t remember how it was?”
I close my eyes and inhale. “Not really. Bits and pieces.”
“That’s depressing.” She glances at my crotch. “I’m so sorry your owner hates you.”
She’s seriously talking to my vagina.
The crosswalk changes and the crowd collected on the corner begins to move. “All right, I’m going to go in and pretend I have no idea who you are if he mentions the whistle.”
“If he can’t appreciate my sense of humor, drink the java and leave. He’s not for you.”
“Yeah. Okay, Steph.” Waving, I start across the street.
I’m fine while I’m amid the people, stuck between their conversations and smells, but the second I set my wobbly wedge on the curb, my nerves feel like a lead weight in my stomach. My palms grow sweaty, and I swear my heart is going to beat out of my chest if it hits my sternum any harder.
I stand in front of the door and blow out a calming breath. I have no idea when I became this girl. I absolutely hate this. Once upon a time, men didn’t make me nervous.
The bell over the door jingles when I step inside the tiny shop. The aroma of freshly ground coffee swirls around me. It’s fairly empty inside, but even if it were packed, I wouldn’t be able to miss Elijah leaning against the wall, casually scrolling on his phone. That navy suit. Good God. There are no words to accurately descript that man is in that suit. Lethal. Deadly. Dangerous.
A tendril of inky-black hair falls across his forehead, and he sweeps it away before tucking his phone into his pocket and glancing up. His gaze crashes into mine in a cold, hard wave, and I find myself nervously wiping my clammy palms on the front of my dress.
Sunlight pours through the windows, hitting him like heaven shining a spotlight on one of its saints. Although, a saint wouldn’t possess the swagger he has crossing this room.
The devil most certainly would.
My body quickly ignites into a blazing inferno of erotic perversion, and now, he’s standing right in front of me with a smile that promises to be my undoing. His teeth tug at his bottom lip. His gaze drags over me. I’m so busy staring at his mouth that I jump when he takes my hand to lead me to a table.
Without a word, he pulls out my chair, and I take a seat, struggling to manage even breaths. My God, either I’m that out of practice, or is he just this good.
“You look beautiful, Demi.”
The deep rasp to his voice has me squirming in my seat. Crossing my legs. Clearing my throat. “Thank you,” I say. “You wear a suit well.” And…I sound like an idiot.
The waiter places two steaming cups on the table. Elijah points at the one set in front of me. “Café latte. Right?”
I nod slowly, and he chuckles.
“In Mexico, you told me you loved café lattes.”
We talked about coffee. And had sex. Wonderful. “What didn’t I tell you?” I ask, my tone a little dry.
With a sexy smirk, he lifts his mug to his lips. The steam curls delicately around his face. “What you do for a living?”
“Of course. Left out the basics, huh? Well, I’m a marriage counselor. Exciting, I know.”
“Oh.” He grins. “I’m sure that’s interesting.”
“It would be the perfect job if I were addicted to soap operas.”
“But you aren’t?”
“No. I’m more of a Dexter, Criminals Minds, conspiracy theories type of girl.”
“So, what you’re telling me is, you know how to get away with murder?”
“I think everyone should…” And now I sound like a freaking lunatic. I fight the heat creeping over my cheeks. Hoping to mask my awkwardness, I take a sip of the latte, and it’s hotter than hell. My tongue possibly has third-degree burns, but I’m trying not to wince. “What about you? What do you do?”
A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. “I’m an entrepreneur.” He circles his finger around the rim of his mug. “But that’s not really important.” His murky-green eyes lock with mine, and the intensity threatens to suck the oxygen from the room. “Blue suits you.”
I glance at my dress, brushing my fingers over the soft fabric. “It’s my favorite color.”
“A person’s favorite color says a lot about them.”
“Really? So what does mine say about me?”
“That you appear confident and strong, but just like the ocean, you have a stormy side.” He reaches across the table and sweeps a single finger over my cheek. Even though it’s like Dante’s Inferno in here, goosebumps dance along my skin. “There’s so much below the surface. Brewing. Brimming. Threatening to suck you, and everyone around you, under.”
The hairs on my arm now stand on end. I open my mouth to speak, but I’m at a loss.
“I was right, I see.” He takes a drink, his eyes crinkling at the corners from a hidden smile.
Sexual prowess orbits him like some seductive, gravitational pull. One that threatens to draw in unsuspecting women with a mere twitch of his perfect lips.
I straighten in my chair. “And what’s your favorite color?”
“Oh, my secrets are best kept hidden, Demi.” He leans back with narrowed eyes. “But for some reason, I believe you think you have most of them figured out already.”
I reach for him and pinch the soft fabric of his suit, rubbing it between my fingers. “Is your suit Versace? Ralph Lauren?”
“Nice guess. But no. Gucci.”
“Ah, even better.” I glance at the floor at his well-shined shoes. “You’re well put together, Elijah. Almost like a devil in disguise.”
“I assure you…” He takes another sip. “I’m no devil.”
“I’d bet black is your favorite color. You seem like the type of man who loves power and dominance.”
He leans toward me. “You’re very intuitive.”
“And you’re very intimidating.”
His expression softens. “You’re different than most of the women I deal with, and it could prove to be very dangerous for me.” He brushes a feather-light affection over my knuckles. “But, I want what I want, when I want it…” he whispers, his gaze pinning me to my seat.
My heart flutters, my stomach kinks, and I swallow. His fingertips sweep up my arm, then my shoulder, and finally my neck. I find myself leaning into his touch.
“Why do I make you nervous?” His knee grazes mine under the table, his palm now cupping my cheek.
I manage to sound unfazed, even though I’m about to climb the walls. “A little full of ourselves, aren’t we?”
“Your cheeks flushed the second my finger started up your arm. Right now, those perfect breasts of yours are rising in ragged swells. Accelerated respiration. Increased blood flow. Either you’re nervous, or you’re turned on.” He smirks. “I’d put money on both.”
What a bastard…
His phone buzzes. He drops his hand to his lap, fishing his cell from his jacket. His lips flatten on an exhale, and he quickly types out a text. “I hate to cut this short, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable. I’ve had a meeting move up.”
“It’s fine.”
“Let me take you to dinner sometime?”
“Sure.”
He laughs. “It almost sounds like you can’t be bothered with me.”
“I didn’t mean…you know what?” I sigh. “Forget it. I’m just socially awkward I think.”
“Well, I find it charming.” He pushes up from his seat. “I’ll text you.”
I smile in response, watching through the window as he steps outside.
I sit in the little shop alone and finish my coffee, unable to shake him from my thoughts.
Maybe there are some men you can have a casual fling with. Elijah—whatever his last name is—is not one of them. And I know it, because I already can’t forget him.
5
Later in the evening, I met Steph for Indian food. Of course, she wanted a blow by blow of my date. Imagine her disappointment when I told her the afternoon did not end in an orgasm. She was so disheartened that it’s all she’s talked about from Bryant Park to East 32nd Street.
We maneuver around the trash bags piled on the sidewalk for garbage pickup. “And so,” Steph says, “this mysterious man, whose last name and age you still don’t know, just up and leaves?” She tosses her hands in the air, nearly backhanding a woman passing by. The lady grumbles something, but Steph ignores her.
“For the third time, yes.”
“What kind of guy asks a girl out—one he’s already screwed, by the way—knowing he only has half an hour to spare?”
I shrug.
“He came dressed in a suit, Charlie.” Steph balks like it’s a crime. “That means he was between business meetings. He obviously wasn’t planning to rock your world today.”
I sigh, and my shoulders droop in defeat. “Not everything is about sex, Steph.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Charlie. At our age, everything is about sex.”
“No, everything is about sex when you’re in your twenties, before men start sprouting hair on their backs like a Chia Pet.”
She snarls. “Ew.”
“It’s true.”
“Okay, so you don’t want a relationship?”
I hold up both hands in full surrender. “Absolutely not!”
“You don’t want a fuck buddy?”
I shake my head. “Seems overrated.”
“Are you just going to be alone forever?”
“I’ve only been divorced for half a year. And besides, there are always cats.”
“As in…the animals that meow?” Her pace slows, but I keep walking.
“Yep. I think ten sounds about right.”
She sighs like I’m a lost cause. “Look, I refuse to be best friends with the pussy lady.”
“You’re such a perv. Anyway, everyone needs a pet.”
She stops, grabs my shoulder, and holds up a finger while giving me a stern look. “One, Charlie. I’ll allow you one.”
“Two.”
“One!” Her left eye twitches a little.
“But—” I fight a laugh. “The first one will get lonely.”
“It’s a cat! They lick their assholes and cough up fur balls.”
One block later, Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” bellows down the street. It’s the only cue I need to know that my neighbor Dot must be sweating away on the elliptical she keeps on her patio. By the time we’re in front of my apartment building, there’s a wild grin dancing on Steph’s face. “I swear. How old is she?”
“I don’t know. Seventy-five or eighty.” I turn and glance up at her half of the brownstone. Sure enough, she’s in a tiny sports bra and bicycle shorts, a cigarette dangling from her lips while her legs churn away in beat with the music.
Dot catches us staring and waves. We both smile and return the gesture.
“I bet Dot would tell you it’s all about sex.” Steph giggles.
I thwack her with my purse. “Gross, Steph.”
“Well, why do you think she’s on that thing every night? People only exercise to look good naked.”
“Steph…”
“I told you I saw her at The Yeah-Yeah Club last weekend on some twenty-year-old guy’s lap. Pretty sure he was giving her a hickey.”
“Stop!”
“Extreme Cougars of New York or something—that’s a show, you know?” Steph gives me a playful shove.
“And on that note, I’m going to bed.”
Poison’s “Every Rose Has its Thorn” cuts on when I shove my key into the door. As annoying as it is, I can’t bring myself to complain. I’m pretty sure Dot’s half deaf and has no idea how loud it is anyway. The noise only amplifies when I step into the small foyer. Most people envision elegance when they think of a brownstone—at least I always did. This one…it’s nice enough, but it’s not exactly anything to brag about. The wallpaper in the foyer is peeling at the corners, and a few of the spindles on the wooden staircase are loose, but it’s affordable.
I figured if a seventy-year-old woman with electric-blue eyeshadow felt safe here, I should be fine. So now this is home.
With a sigh, I climb the stairs, humming along to Dot’s musical selection for the night. At least the racket is partially drowned out when I step into my apartment and shut the door. I kick off my ridiculous wedges and go straight to the bedroom where I collapse on the bed and grab the remote.
My phone chirps, and I check my text from Steph. See. Extreme Cougars of NYC.
Attached to the text is a picture of Dot sitting on the lap of a guy who looks to be at least ten years younger than me.
Wow…
6
I’m stuck in my office, staring through the tiny, single-pane window that faces a parking deck as I wonder how unprofessional it would be to have a whistle I could blow like a referee.
For the past ten minutes, Ben and Megan have argued over toilet paper and toothpaste. When the timer sounds, I couldn’t be happier. I turn around, quickly grab a worksheet about listening and hand them each a copy.
“I want you both to read this and answer the questions on the back as honestly as you can. We’ll discuss it next week. I think it may give you both a better understanding of what’s important to the other.”
“This is a waste of time…” Ben stands and walks to the door, slinging it open.
“You see!” Megan points at him and shakes her head before following him out, their argument continuing down the hall.
Toothpaste. Spreadsheets. Sometimes I wonder why people bother with marriage anyway.
I finish up my notes, then lean back in the chair with my phone in hand. “Well, look who’s popular today,” I say sarcastically when I notice the three notifications on my HookUp app.
I tap the icon and open the first message, only to be greeted with a not-so-impressive, veiny dick pic. No note. No hi. Nothing. Just a penis. “For fuck’s sake.”
Sometimes I wonder if guys sign up for these dating apps just to send pictures of their genitals. I ignore it and go on to the next.
Another penis.
But, at least this guy included a request: I showed you mine, now show me yours.
This is the pool of men I have to draw from? They’re like scavengers. Do I even want to go to the third? Three veiny appendages in one day are three too many… I bet Elijah doesn’t do these dumb dating sites. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to. He can walk down 5th Avenue and pull any woman he could possibly want. He’s above sending photographic evidence of how well he’s hung—at least that’s what I want to believe…
Just as I click on the last message, a text pops up on my screen. Steph: Don’t Kill me.
I ignore it and go to the HookUp app. Tom Brown: Excited to meet both you and Stephanie tonight!
I stare at the communication in disbelief. If she set me up on a blind date, I’m going to kill her.
Ding. Steph: Charlie! I see your read receipt! I’m coming to get you at seven.
I quickly type out: I hate you.
Steph: No you don’t.
With a sigh, I drop the phone to my desk and recline in the chair, massaging my temples and wondering if everyone else’s best friend is this meddlesome and neurotic.
_____
Eight o’clock at night, and instead of being cozied up in my bathrobe with a tub of ice cream, I’m dressed in a short, red dress and those damn wedges, wandering aimlessly through some deserted part of Manhattan with Steph. Heat wafts through the grate in the sidewalk, and my skirt goes flying up around my ass like Marilyn Monroe. I swat it back into place while the deep rumble of the subway passing underneath passes through my body.
To make this entire ensemble even worse, I let Steph do my makeup, which means I have on more contour than a Kardashian, magnetic eyelashes, and some lip stain I’ll need turpentine to remove.
Steph makes a sudden turn between two buildings, her gaze fixed on the navigation map on her phone. “It says the bar’s on the other side of this street.”
“This is not a street, Steph. It’s an alley.”
“Well, Maps tells me it’s a shortcut.”
“This is how people get murdered,” I grumble, following her into the darkness.
“No one’s getting murdered.”
“Just so you know, it happens every day. Especially in the shadows of the inner city. You do realize you have no survival skills, right?”
