by Sara Ney
I have a feeling he’s going to be a pain in the ass about dumping his girlfriend, Bambi—though I hate even labeling her his girlfriend. Give me a break, they see each other and fuck—huge difference. I don’t know what he’s so irritated for. She’s entirely replaceable; we just have to prove it to him.
“Yes.” He scowls, lowering his head.
“Then put the kibosh on the pissing and moaning.” I realize I sound like a bully, and I take a deep breath, wishing I had a cigar to puff on. “Rule 7: If you want out of the BBS, it has to go to a vote. Same goes for adding new members.”
Both my friends nod solemnly.
“Bros before hoes.”
Blaine grunts. “Bambi isn’t a ho.” But even he doesn’t sound convinced.
I personally prefer the statement Bambi ain’t no ho, but potato, potahto.
“Sorry, but her name is Bambi. It even sounds promiscuous.”
“Bambi is history,” Phillip declares, chugging down the remainder of his drink, hand already in the air, signaling for another. He sets his glass down on the table with a resounding thud. “In fact, go ahead and text her now. Get it over with. Do it before we call our first official meeting to order.”
“Now?” He visibly gulps.
“No time like the present.”
Wow. Phillip has really taken a shining to this being single bastards concept; he’s being a real douchebag right now. I mean, I agree that Blaine should break up with Bambi, but at least let the guy do it in private. It’s bound to get ugly; she’s kind of a control freak.
The last time he disagreed with her about something, she wouldn’t have sex with him for two whole days! Then another time, she took his dog without telling him and didn’t bring it home until the next afternoon.
“Wait—what happens if we break the rules?”
“Are you already planning to?”
“No.” He doesn’t sound convincing.
“How about this—if you break a rule, you don’t win the wager.”
Why am I using the word wager like it’s 1824? Jesus Christ.
“What are we winning?”
Something that will make it worthwhile to stay single and not stick your wick in the same someone.
“How about my season tickets to the Jags?” The Chicago Jags are a professional baseball team who have won the Series dozens of times over, and my seats are fan-fucking-tastic: second row, between home plate and first base.
They’re worth a fortune, and my friends damn well know it.
I inherited them from my grandfather when he died. Inheriting them is the only way to come by them these days; anyone on the waiting list waits years. Actually, the odds of winning the lottery are better than getting Jags season tickets, and they were the one and only thing of any monetary value I received when he died.
Four eyes damn near pop out of their sockets.
“Are you fucking with us right now?” Blaine can hardly believe his ears and whips out his phone.
I shake my head. “Serious as a heart attack. That’s what I’ll pony up if I lose. What about you?”
“Shit, I don’t have anything nearly as valuable, but…” Phillip sits back in his chair, thinking hard, brows furrowed into a deep V between his eyes. “Fuck. What about my four-wheeler?”
That shitty thing? “Yeah, that works, I guess.” Although we live in the city, so where the fuck would any of us put it? Phillip keeps it at his parents’ place. They have a farm just outside the city, and every so often, we go out for a guys’ weekend and ride the ATVs through the fields.
“Season tickets, a four-wheeler, and…” Phillip looks to Blaine. “What are you going to throw in?”
Blaine shrugs. “My timeshare?”
He has a timeshare? Random. “Where is it?”
“Myrtle Beach. It’s no Hawaii, but it gets the job done.”
Phillip pulls a face. “Winner takes all?”
I nod. “Yup. Winner takes all.”
I glance from him to Blaine, who is furiously tapping out a message, fingers moving wildly over his cell phone screen at an alarmingly rapid pace.
“Dude, what are you doing?”
“Breaking up with Bambi.” The tip of his tongue is actually sticking out of his mouth he’s concentrating so hard.
“And I’m texting my sister about the smoking jackets. Navy.” Phillip glances down at his phone then glances up. “What size suitcoat are you assholes?”
“Extra-large, duh.” I box out, squaring my broad shoulders. I work out every goddamn day for this body—how is it not obvious I’m an XL? I sit up straighter. “Phillip here looks like a ladies’ medium.”
“Shut up, dickhead. I’m a large.” He chews on a mouthful of nuts, a grin slowly taking up real estate on his entire face. “I think we need a pledge.”
“Fantastic idea.”
Phillip stares at the ceiling, centuries old and covered in a rich cherry wood. Sits up and clears his throat. “I, (state your name), do hereby agree never to break the rules set forth by the Bastard Bachelor Society, formed on this day, September fifteenth…”
3
Abbott
“I, Abbott Margolis, do hereby promise to never again eat another donut with custard in the center, on this day, September fifteenth.” I slouch my shoulders and groan. “I feel like I’m going to vomit all over my new sweater.”
“There you go, being all sexy again.” My best friend Sophia laughs, swiveling on the stool in the coffee shop to face me. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but I haven’t seen her in days, and we both stole an hour from our work day to meet. “Here, wipe the drool off your face—you have schmear in the corner of your mouth.”
Yeah, I’m a real prize, snacking on a donut I promised myself I wasn’t going to eat. But it’s round, filled with goo, and has white frosting and pink sprinkles…so cute and yummy it was practically calling my name from the bakery case, and I’ve been eating so healthy lately I felt I deserved a treat.
Water and fruit? Meh.
Donuts and coffee? Yes, please.
“I can’t help it—the sex appeal oozes out of me like this cream filling. It’s going to ooze right out of me later when I get home and can finally unbutton these pants.”
Sophia laughs again. “How are you single? You’re a prime catch.”
I can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic, but yeah—damn right I’m a prime catch! Too bad I live in a city where prime catches lurk around every corner. Some with bigger boobs, some with better hair. Bigger personalities, fewer evil cats.
I shrug. “Because I only hang out with you? And other women. Come on—what guy wants to approach a gaggle of girlfriends out in public?”
We’re an intimidating bunch when we’re at a bar for drinks: loud, obnoxious, and out for a good time—not to pick up men. Well, they’re not. I occasionally am, but I’m the only one who’s single (and ready to mingle), despite the bloat in my stomach and the oozing goop coming from the corner of my mouth.
It’s a lovely mouth, I’ve been told. Pink and perfectly shaped. Full bottom pout and bow-formed upper. Bow-formed upper? If that’s not a romantic description, I don’t know what is…
“That’s not the reason you’re single,” Sophia dryly points out, rearranging the napkin dispenser on the table in front of us. “It’s the fact that you use words like gaggle in conversation. That word is two hundred years old.”
“I like using relics in everyday jargon—you know this!” I’m always affronted when she points this out. She knows I love Britain, knows I love all things vintage.
I’m a romantic, okay? Old buildings, architecture, and English estates warm my heart like butter and make my knees weak. Is it a crime for me to love a generation that defined us as a people? Is it wrong for me to use slang from 1876? Pfft. Whatever.
“Don’t act so insulted. I’m trying to spare you.”
“How about next time I order a donut, you break my kneecaps instead of letting me order one?” I
pat my waist and hips. “These don’t need any more carbs.”
Sophia ignores me, taking a bite of her Long John donut—the deliciously, cakey confection. “Yeah but it’s so carbalicious. The only thing that would make this better is butter.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“What can I say? I’m from the South.”
“You’re from Missouri.”
“Which is south of here. Duh.”
“Alright.” I roll my eyes and stand, brushing the crumbs off my pant legs. “As much as I’d love to sit here and shoot the shit all day, I should get back to work before someone notices I’m not in an actual meeting. Between the two of us, we have accomplished zero things today.”
Sophia makes a show of checking the time. “Yikes. Yeah, I have a few reports to print out and run over to human resources, so give me a smooch and get the hell out of here.”
I laugh at her good-natured dismissal, knowing we both have work to do, and plant a kiss on her upturned cheek then give her a quick hug for good measure.
I love Sophia—she’s the sister I never had. We didn’t grow up together but became fast friends after once waiting in line next to each other at the cell phone store near my apartment.
She gives me another wave as I push through the coffee shop door. “I’ll see you later, weirdo. Text me.”
“See ya, sexy pants.”
I give my tail end a shake. “Byeee.”
It’s a short walk to the office, and I weave my way through the pedestrians on the sidewalk to save time. Punch the up button once I reach the elevator banks and wait patiently for the car to reach my floor once I’m standing inside.
My office—yeah, I’m a lady boss with her own office—is located at the far end of the hall (door closed because I shut it before evacuating for carbs and sugar), and I palm the doorknob with wet, sticky fingers I haven’t bothered to wash or lick clean.
It’s sunny, light blasting me from every direction. I take a seat and regroup, cracking my knuckles before powering up the desktop situated in the center of my desk. Unkink my neck. Wiggle my fingers as if I’m about to perform a magic trick.
The monitor comes on and I tilt my head to study the screen in front of me, frowning at the glowing image.
It’s from the creative department, and nothing about it is right, though I’ve given them directions twice already—very specific directions, down to the numbers on the color wheel so the shade is perfect. Down to the size I want the font.
I steeple my fingers, cheeks getting warm.
Take a few deep breaths and click open my email, find the last email exchanged with the art department, and click compose. Now, I’m not saying their refusal to take my suggestions is intentional, but it’s becoming habitual, and I have to wonder if it’s because of my age.
I’m young—one of the youngest ad executives in the company—but I earned this position the same way they did: hard work and the occasional long night.
Before graduating at the top of my class, I’d been taking college courses since my thirteenth birthday. By the time I graduated from high school, I was already a sophomore in college, and by the time I graduated from college, I had two degrees.
I’m a giant nerd.
The fact that my grandfather’s name is on the outside of the high-rise is neither here nor there. The fact that my last name is on billboards and in magazines shouldn’t be an issue.
Initially, no one was supposed to know. Technically, when I was hired, I used my mother’s maiden name à la Tori Spelling when she was trying out for that television show in the 90s a billion years ago. Not wanting to be hired because of nepotism, she used a stage name so producers wouldn’t know her father created the show.
Got the part.
Obviously.
I’m not lazy, and I’m not a snob. I earn my salary and bonuses like everyone else in this building. So what if my family owns it?
“Easy for you to say, asshole,” I grumble as I pound out a curt reply to the art department’s latest mockup of a billboard that will be plastered in Times Square. “You’re the one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and they hate you because of it.”
Don’t choke on it.
I have no desire to kiss anyone’s ass because I was born into a family who owns a business, but I am wary of their reaction to it. That, plus my age.
I’m twenty-four. Most of them think I’m way too young to be in this position, and sometimes, they might be correct. But I stay off social media, I don’t post anything on Instagram, and I don’t twitter. Or tweet. Or whatever you want to call it.
The last thing I need is someone from work following me and seeing the stupid shit I get up to on the weekends. Well, me and Duchess Desdemona, my amazing cat.
Grabbing my phone, I thumb through my music and open a moody playlist. I must be hormonal. There is no rational reason this mockup should make me emotional. It’s just a stupid graphic sent up by an artist who thinks she’s right.
Bambi Warner always thinks she’s right.
Unfortunately, the Times Square account is mine, and the graphics that go up there are my responsibility—so if she wants her work represented, she better tweak the shit she keeps sending me until she nails it.
Or I’ll…
I’ll…
Well, I’ll probably do nothing but send her email reminders, too passive-aggressive to confront her in person—which is something I’m working on.
But, baby steps. First, I’m going to conquer middle management, then I’m going to grow a spine.
Goals!
There is a banana on my desk and I grab it, peel it, and stuff one end in my mouth. Chew while the entire thing hangs. A knock at my door jars me from my troubles with Bambi and I jolt in my desk chair, banana still dangling from my lips—a move that would leave my mother needing her smelling salts.
Dale, my counterpart, stands in the doorway, watching me.
I avert my eyes, because never make eye contact while deep-throating a banana.
I risk a glance up—his brow is furrowed, mouth downturned into a frown.
Shit.
Frickety frack.
Also something to work toward: cursing like an adult and not a teenager.
I pull the fruit from my mouth, chew, and shoot Dale a wobbly smile. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Has the art department sent you the specs for the TS ad?”
He has the verbiage all wrong; I send the art department specs, not the other way around.
“Um…if you’re asking about a mockup, yes, they just sent it through. I was just emailing Bambi my feedback.” Without a napkin, I’m forced to wipe banana on the leg of my slacks. “I noticed she didn’t copy you on it. Want to have a look?”
“Sure.”
Dale enters my office, hands jammed in the pockets of his pressed navy pants. His shirt is a hot pink, gingham check. Fun and not at all stuffy, unlike a lot of the other guys walking around this office.
Dale is younger, too, and creative. He makes his way around my desk as I swivel my computer monitor.
The ad is center screen, bright and punchy.
Dale leans in. Hesitates before pulling back. “It’s missing something.”
It is.
I nod.
“The color isn’t right.”
“I know.” I push the monitor back into place. “I gave them the exact pink I wanted, but she has yet to use it.”
“How many times have you told her?” He knows who’s working on the draft, knows what Bambi can be like.
“Twice.”
“Fuck.” He glances down at me. “Shit, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I just… How much fuss do I make over a simple color?”
He walks back around my desk and rests his hand on the back of a chair. “May I?”
I hold a hand out. “Please do.”
Dale plops down across from me, the tension leaving his body. “Can I be honest?”
Well this is some
thing new—someone on the staff about to confide in me. I lean forward, tamping down my excitement. “Yes, absolutely.”
“That whole department pisses me off. Why hasn’t Linda done anything about it?”
Linda is their direct supervisor, though I am technically Bambi’s boss.
Linda is rarely around, spending tons of her time networking at lunches with magazine editors and salespeople to get the accounts we need that generate our revenue.
“Linda is clueless.” I slap a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, don’t repeat that to anyone.”
I’m going to hell for talking shit behind her back. Either that, or Dale is going to repeat it and I’m going to get my ass chewed out.
This is what I get for being socially awkward and only hanging out with my cat during the week. I need to branch out and hit up happy hour.
Dale crosses his arms and grunts. “I need a stiff drink.”
I’m more of a wine girl, but I agree. “Same.”
My co-worker leans forward and fiddles with the silver spheres on my desk, plucking one so it swings on the pendulum it’s suspended from. “So other than that, what’s going on with you? What else are you working on?”
“Times Square, a new development on Bell Air Avenue, and something for the NBA.” No small potatoes.
Dale whistles. “Nice.”
“What about you?”
He pauses. “Arena, a series of bus ads for this author with a huge book coming out, and one cool spread in Men’s Health for a fitness line. Pretty pumped about that one.”
Dale sits up straighter in his chair, and it seems like he’s puffing out his chest a bit, but I can’t be sure. Is he…showing off for me? Surely not.
Not a single soul in this office has ever flirted with me, let alone come into my office to do it.
There isn’t a rule against dating co-workers here.
My grandfather made sure of that, because my grandmother, Maureen, was one of the first female salespeople for the firm and they met here, fell in love, and—the rest is history. I wouldn’t be here if he’d implemented a non-fraternization policy.
I swivel in my chair and gaze at Dale.
