Having a one-night stand.
I wouldn’t be in this position had my boyfriend, Pete—aka the Douche—not ripped my heart out six months ago. Over what was, I thought, a romantic dinner that would result in a marriage proposal, he ended up telling me that he wanted to break up. Something about wanting to travel the world as a wildlife photographer and not wanting to be pinned down. I thought that was weird… seeing as how I don’t even think he owned a camera.
So I said goodbye to the Douche, immersed myself in misery and work, and yes, in a night of complete drunkenness, agreed to Macy’s idea that I join One Night Only… at her expense, of course.
By the time I woke up the next morning, with a raging headache and puke in my throat, Macy had me signed up. A simple physical and blood test later, and I was a full-fledged member.
Now I have a date with Number 134—a tall, gorgeous hunk of a man that is supposedly going to put my battery-operated boyfriend to shame tonight. I made sure my application said I was only interested in vanilla sex, and I apparently was matched to someone with the same tastes.
Smacking my lips together, I turn to Macy once more for her final assessment. She gives me the critical eye, running her eyes over me slowly while she taps her finger to her chin. “You are definitely one-hundred percent, perfectly fuckable.”
Rolling my eyes at her, I pick up my clutch purse and double check my contents. Credit card, iPhone, lip gloss, and Mace.
All a girl could ever wish for on a date.
Date.
Funny word.
Holy shit!
This is it.
No turning back.
I walk into Sullivan’s, a swanky bar on the Upper East Side, where Number 134 suggested we meet. Our communications so far have been limited to one encrypted, anonymous email from Number 134 (him) to Number 3498 (me) setting the date, time, and place. If our membership numbers have been assigned chronologically, then he’s clearly been in the system for a while. He said he’d arrange for the hotel so I didn’t have to worry about it.
As pre-arranged, I went up to the bar and took a seat, ordering a white wine from the bartender. I arrived almost half an hour early, hoping to get one drink under my belt to calm the nerves that were jangling around inside of me.
I want to do this. Despite my hesitations, I really, really want to do this. But it still doesn’t stop me from being nervous over meeting Number 134.
He told me to call him Mike, but that’s not really his name. Everything is about the anonymity, and I told him my name was Stella. I doubt we’d even use the fake names we gave each other. It’s not like we’d be having any deep conversation tonight, and I have no plans to reveal any more identifying information about myself.
As soon as the bartender sets my wine in front of me, I hear, “I’ll pay for that.”
It’s on my lips to decline… to say that I’m waiting on someone, but when I turn to the voice, I’m assaulted by the decadence that is none other than Number 134 himself.
He’s even more beautiful than his picture, radiating pure magnetism and sex appeal. He’s tall, which is good, because I am, too. But I can tell he’ll tower over my five-nine frame by several inches.
Dark brown hair cropped in a fashionable, yet short style, along with an elegant, dark gray suit. I peg him as a banker or financier. His eyes are golden-brown, more golden than anything. He’s smiling at me in a completely relaxed, but I’m here to fuck you senseless, kind of way, and it manages to show the two dimples he sports on either side of his full lips.