“Not interested.”
His shock is palpable. “Excuse me?”
I turn to look at him. Yep. As expected. Expensive suit, sleek hair, not super attractive but handsome enough that he wouldn’t experience a lot of rejection. A solid seven.
I give him my most patient smile. “Thanks for whatever it was you were going to say next, but I’m not interested.”
Any other day, I’d be tempted to engage in a little sexual therapy, but tonight I’m preoccupied with thoughts of Max and our exchange. Imagining what he looks like based on the sound of his voice, I’m thinking tall and blonde. Probably shirtless.
Despite my indifference, Mr. Seven isn’t reading my signals, because he leans on the bar and gives me what I’m sure he believes is his panty-dropper smile.
“Well, I haven’t told you what I’m offering yet, so how do you know if you want it?” He smiles again, and even though he’s a douche, he has just enough arrogance to have my body interested in finding out more. Specifically, what he looks like without clothes.
What is it about these sleazy assholes I find irresistible? Is it because I’ve screwed so many of them, whenever they’re in my presence, my body expects sex? A horny Pavlovian response? What’s more, they seem to home in on me like I have a giant neon sign over my head that flashes, Strong, independent woman looking for a night of mediocre sex. No strings attached. Orgasms optional. Inquire below.
I give him a slow and thorough examination, from the shine of his outlet shoes to his carefully cultivated designer stubble.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s play a game. I’m going to tell you three things about yourself. If I’m wrong, you can buy me a drink and we’ll see what happens. If I’m right, you go elsewhere. Deal?”
He chuckles. “Sounds good. Although I’m not going to lie – I really hope you’re wrong.”
Part of me is with him. I could certainly use the stress relief, even if I don’t need the distraction.
“Okay,” I say, “how’s this? You go to a different bar every Friday night, and you usually go home with someone, even though you already have three girls on a constant rotation for booty calls when necessary. Your parents are divorced, and part of you blames your mother for not putting in enough effort into keep your dad interested. In high school you had a girlfriend you loved, but she dumped you, and now you avoid anything serious in favor of the classic come and dump.” I tilt my head. “How was that?”
He stares, dumbstruck for a second then adjusts his tie. “Uh ... how did you do that? Are you psychic?”
“No, I just know men.” Specifically, men like him. “So, thanks for the offer, but as I said, no thanks.”
He gives me one more disbelieving look before heading off in the direction of his lookalike friends at the other end of the bar.
As soon as he’s gone, Asha slides onto the stool beside me. “Am I imaging things, or did you just brush off a guy?”
“You’re not imagining things.”
She gestures to Joe the bartender for her usual. He nods and pulls out a tall glass before grabbing some bottles. “Wow. I want to remember this moment forever. It will go down in history as the day my big sister finally learned how to say no.”
“Don’t be a smartass. I say no all the time.”
“Not to guys who look like that. Sleazy finance douches are your Kryptonite. Even more so than unemployed pot-head musicians. Could it be you’re finally starting to think with your brain instead of your vagina?”
“Hey, Regina objects to your insinuation that she makes bad decisions.”
Asha stifles a laugh. “You know very well Regina Vagina rules your life like the evil queen out of Alice in Wonderland. ‘Off with their pants!’ and all that.”
“Yeah, well, if you listened to your honey pot more often, you’d be less uptight.”
My sister blushes so fiercely and fast, I have to laugh.
“You said you wouldn’t tease me about that name.”
“Pfft. That was years ago. I figure the statute of limitations has run out on pet names your high school boyfriend called your pussy.”
“You were never supposed to see those texts Jeremy sent me.”
“Then you shouldn’t have left your phone out where I could find it. Did you expect me to just ignore it when he started sexting you?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I expected.”
I shake my head. “Sometimes, Ash, it’s like you don’t even know me.”
Joe delivers Asha’s drink, and she takes a sip. I think it’s ironic that despite my sister’s lackluster sex life, her favorite drink is a vodka cocktail called One Night Stand. If she had more of the real deal, she might stop hassling me about my track record.
“So,” she says, as she swirls the ice cubes with her swizzle stick. “What’s the story with you tonight? You seem to be in a mood.”
I sip my drink. “I don’t know. I guess I just have stuff on my mind.”
“Such as ...?”
I down the rest of my drink and gesture to Joe to bring us another round.
“Well, for a start,” I say. “I spoke with Mister Romance earlier.”
She almost falls off her stool in shock. “You’re kidding. You tracked him down? How? What was he like? Was he gorgeous? What was he wearing? What did he say?”
“Okay, cool it with the questions, Lois Lane. I didn’t see him. We spoke on the phone.”
I went on to explain my P.O. box stakeout, as well as my experience at the warehouse. She listens with rapt fascination.
“Oh, my God. He’s so mysterious. Like some hot secret agent.” She gets a wistful expression, and I can tell she’s imagining him in one of her romance-novel scenarios. I just hope it involves her and not me.
“What if he says no to the interview?” she asks.
“Then I keep investigating.”
“But would you really expose him and his clients?”
I give Joe a nod as he places our drinks in front of us. “It would be more beneficial to me if I did. Naming and shaming would be a national scandal. I could really hit it big if I can find out who they are.”
Asha sips her drink. “Hmmm. That’s true. But the karma wouldn’t be good.”
As usual with most of my conversations with Asha, I roll my eyes at her idealism. “Ash, you don’t get to be a well-respected journalist by being afraid to name names. If I want to create a career-making omelet, I’m going to have to break some eggs.”
“Yes, but in this case, the eggs are people’s lives. Do you really want that on your conscience?”
“May I remind you that you’re the one who told me to pursue this story in the first place?”