Most Valuable Playboy

Once we leave, my phone lights up like the fourth of July as cell reception returns. My screen bleats with missed calls from reporters, a text from my married friends Chris and McKenna, a slew of messages from Jillian, and even an all-caps text from my mom.

Mom: WHY AM I THE LAST TO KNOW THESE THINGS? I ALWAYS LIKED HER. YOU TWO WERE SO CUTE AT HER PROM TOGETHER. I’M LOOKING AT THE PHOTO NOW.



I fire back a reply.

Cooper: I’ll call you tomorrow to explain.



* * *



Mom: I explained the birds and bees to you when you were younger. No need to explain. :)



* * *



Cooper: Seriously, Mom.



As I scroll through the rest of the notifications, I spot a few texts from my agent. Normally, I love talking to Ford, but with the contract overhang, and the anxiety over whether we’re extending the deal with the Renegades, I’m not in the mood this second. Plus, Trent is calling me, and even his name looks pissed off as it flashes on the screen.

“Hey, man,” I say, keeping it casual when I answer.

“Why, yes, I would love to meet you for a beer right the fuck now and find out what’s going on.”

“I can explain. It’s kind of a funny story.”

“I’m chuckling up a storm,” he says. But there’s no laughter in his voice. Nor in my head.





6





Life in San Francisco is comprised of two tasks: finding a parking spot, and everything else.

Tonight, the pursuit of a space by a curb occupies fifteen awkward minutes. Or maybe they’re not so awkward, since it gives Violet and me something to focus on besides a hot-as-sin, weird-as-hell, I-liked-it-she-didn’t kiss.

“Try Jackson Street,” I tell her, pointing to the right-hand side of the street. She turns, but our hunt is fruitless since the block is stuffed full of vehicles. She tries Webster, but we’re SOL there, too.

“Crap,” I mutter.

“I hate parking in this city.”

“It’s the worst thing in the world. Literally. Studies have revealed that searching for a parking spot in San Francisco can result in depression, anxiety, and a really bad day.”

She laughs faintly as she turns onto Clay. “By that same token, finding a spot quickly has been known to cause euphoria.”

“Better than an orgasm?” I ask, because evidently the word euphoria makes me think of only one thing.

Even in the dark, a hint of red splashes across her cheek. “I suppose that depends on the giver.”

“And on the parking spot?”

She laughs. “Yes. But if you combine the two, it’s like multiples.”

I clear my throat, reminding myself to cease the flirting. “Listen, I can just go by myself. You have your meeting tomorrow morning.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sure Trent wants to give me a hard time, too. Better for me to get it out of the way now. That is, if he can focus his attention long enough.”

Trent is notoriously distracted by his own desire to tell amusing tales, often ones that poke fun at himself. As we turn onto another block, an idea pops into my head. “Do you want to park at my place? I’m not far from here, and I have a two-car garage.” I’m not sure why I tell her that, when she’s parked in it before. The garage was a must-have when I bought my condo a couple years ago. No way was I living in this city without a garage for my Tesla. Even so, I still avoid driving if I can, on account of the utter pain-in-the-ass that is searching for a patch of open asphalt.

“No,” Violet answers, swiftly. So swiftly she might have set a new record for the seconds required for the word no to fire from her mouth.

The message is loud and clear. She doesn’t want to be near my place. “It was just an idea,” I say, looking away.

“It’s just . . .” she begins, then she points to a red BMW whipping out of a spot a hundred feet away. She floors the gas, as if she’s a goddamn snow leopard snagging her prey and guarding it from other predators. She grabs the spot, executing a parallel-parking slam dunk that honestly kind of turns me on. There’s just something about women who are completely independent, confident, and capable that gets my blood going.

But I refuse to be any more turned on by her, no matter how well she can park or smooch.

We head into the bar. A huge TV screen blasts a Warriors game, while another carries ESPN’s SportsCenter. Waiters in jerseys boasting their favorite teams circulate with drinks and appetizers. A curly haired guy with a pointy chin stops in his tracks, the beers on his tray nearly sloshing. “Hey, man,” he says with a big smile.

I don’t know him. I give a quick wave. “Hey there.”

“Kick ass on Sunday.”

“That’s the plan.”

As we walk past the booths, a few heads turn, but I stay focused, and we find Trent and Holly at a quiet four-top in the corner. A few years ago, they started a sports bar in Petaluma where we grew up, and it was so successful they opened several more in the Bay Area, including this one off Fillmore Street. Trent raises a glass of beer and takes a long swallow as I walk over. His eyes never leave me. Why do I feel as if I’m in trouble? Oh wait. I kissed his sister in a ballroom on cable TV.

That’s why.

When I reach him, I say, “Am I being sent to bed without supper?”

He rolls his eyes as I pull out a barstool for Violet. I grab the one next to her. I try not to look at her, but I swear I can see the remnants of my kiss still on her lips. They look redder, fuller. Or maybe I’m spending more time studying them than I usually do. I really shouldn’t, but sometimes once you see something you can’t unsee it.

Like when you finish off a sleeve of Pringles, stare at the tube, and realize the cartoon dude looks just like Mr. Monopoly. Or, when Jimmy Fallon points out that the raccoon from Guardians of the Galaxy bears a striking resemblance to Paddington Bear. And now I’m thinking Rocket is a bear in a raincoat, a rich board game character once sold snack food, and my best friend’s sister kissed me so passionately I don’t know how I’ll erase the image from my mind when I go to bed tonight.

Or whether I’ll want to let that memory slip away at all.

I should unfeel it. Only, it felt too damn good to forget.

Trent drums his fingers on the table and stares at me, waiting. “Anything you want to tell me?”

I adopt a serious expression. “Did you know that Mr. Monopoly used to sell chips as the Pringles dude?”

Trent shakes his head. “What?”

He’s not the only one flummoxed. Violet furrows her brow, and Holly blinks in surprise. Before I can explain, a blond waitress sporting a San Francisco Giants jersey arrives to take our orders. I opt for a beer, and Violet asks for white wine. When she leaves, Trent asks, “What was that all about?”

“It’s called taking an order. It’s what employees who wait on tables do in restaurants,” I deadpan.

Holly laughs. Trent rolls his eyes. “The Pringles comment, dickhead.”

“The Pringles guy and Mr. Monopoly. Doppelg?ngers. Google them. Once you do, you can’t unsee it.”

“Dude, are we playing the unsee game? Because I’m happy to tell you about the time my mom finally figured out I didn’t have a cold when I was fifteen, and she couldn’t unsee that in her mind’s eye.”