Bastard Bachelor Society (The Bachelors Club)

by Sara Ney

  “I’m scaring her? I. Scared her. She scared me! What the fuck, Abbott—whose side are you on?”

  My eyes fly back to the cat.

  Yup, Desi definitely looks terrified—not enough to jump down from his lap, but enough that her ears are pulled back into a defensive position.

  I keep laughing at him. He’s ludicrous. “Sides? What are you, five? It’s a cat, not a person trying to compete with you. Dear Lord, get a grip.”

  Desdemona’s ears slowly slide back into their normal position as I sweet-talk her, waving a little piece of egg in her direction.

  Her nose twitches curiously. One tiny paw goes back onto Brooks’ forearm and he bristles. Glares.

  “This cat isn’t normal!”

  “Neither is your yelling about it. Let her love you.”

  Voice having risen four octaves, Brooks has his arms and plate extended over his head like a convict waiting for a pat down from the police, his eyes glued to the animal creeping back onto his lap, her pink nose sniffing toward the plate he’s holding hostage.

  “No. Bad pussy.” He holds it higher until Desdemona is forced to retreat from her looting. The savage, greedy little thing. “Bad.”

  My kitty gives him a pitiful little mew. Pats at his abs with her petite white paw, beseeching.

  “No,” Brooks tells her again.

  “You know, cats aren’t like dogs. She doesn’t know any commands.”

  Trust me, I tried teaching her how to roll over and play dead the first few months I got her, but she wasn’t having it. Occasionally she’ll come running when I call out her name, but mostly she gives me the big green weenie.

  Desi puts her face on his lap, deciding to wait him out.

  She’s no fool, probably knows he’s afraid and isn’t going to budge from that spot.

  Animals can smell fear.

  “Awww, look at her—she likes you.”

  Brooks, too petrified to move even an inch, is stiff as stone. Back ramrod straight, arms still above his head. “The feeling is not mutual.”

  “At least you can stop worrying she’s going to claw your face off.”

  My neighbor studies my face, eventually asking, “You think this is funny?”

  “One hundred percent.” I cannot lie.

  “You’re sick.”

  My shoulders move up and down in a casual shrug. “I guess I could have warned you—Desi loves eggs. And popcorn. Loves people food.” In fact, love is putting it mildly. Any time the gluttonous furball hears the fridge open, she comes stampeding into the kitchen like a tiny herd of cattle.

  Brooks stares at me for a good, hard second. “You did that on purpose!”

  Cannot confirm or deny that one. So, I go with a futile, “You insisted on coming over to be fed. You don’t even know me, just invited yourself in to mooch off my nan’s giving nature! Do not blame me for any of this.”

  “You are so full of shit, Abbott—you knew damn well the cat was going to jump on me as soon as I sat down. Don’t lie.”

  “Oh, now I can predict what the cat is going to do? I’m not a psychic.”

  Desdemona, unsatisfied with the progress she’s making by manipulating him with her cute face, rises to stand, climbing farther into his lap. Walks her kitty paws up his chest, furry face reaching for his. Nose practically squished against Brooks’ neck, the loud purrs emitting from her belly no doubt vibrating on his chest.

  “Jeez, get this thing off me.”

  Thing? This thing?

  I’m insulted for my cat for the second time this morning and come to her defense. “You said you didn’t want her attacking you, but you don’t want her to love you, either? Make up your mind.”

  “You should have told me the cat likes eggs.”

  I check my fingernails for lint. “I forgot.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re an awful liar?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I hear.” I pop another forkful of Benedict into my mouth and chew. Swallow. Shrug. “Has anyone ever told you that you scream like a girl?”

  He doesn’t even have the energy to look affronted. Just tells me, “Shut up, I do not.”

  I don’t chastise him for the bad manners, instead driving my point home to irritate him.

  “No, for real. You sound just like one.” I lean across the couch and reach for the eggs Benny on Brooks’ plate. Pluck a bit of egg off for the cat, feeding her from the palm of my hand as Brooks looks on, still breathing heavily. Terrified. “Good kitty. Good kitty witty.”

  I don’t usually talk to Desi like she’s a baby; it’s mostly for my neighbor’s disgusted benefit, because now my cat is purring all up on him and Brooks is hating life right now. Baby-talking the cat likely increases that misery.

  I’m not wrong.

  “Please take my plate,” Brooks begs.

  I lean my back against the couch cushions, enjoying his anguish. “Meh. I don’t think so.”

  I fluff the blanket on my lap. It’s white and pristine and fluffy, just like the cat curled up on his.

  “Please. I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  Doubtful. “If you were having a heart attack, you wouldn’t be complaining right now.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  Yes, he is; he’s just being stubborn. “Stop being a pussy.”

  His blue eyes widen and he mocks a gasp. “How dare you throw that word in my face? How dare you!”

  Speaking of pussies, Desi coils up in his lap and purrs furiously, snuggled against this newcomer she’s decided she loves and adores.

  Just like I knew she would.

  6

  Abbott

  I’m at work bright and early on Monday, a pep in my step that wasn’t there when I left the office on Friday—even after happy hour with my colleagues.

  I don’t see Dale when I round the corner, coffee in hand, headed for my office, but his secretary is at her desk, fingers tapping away at her desktop. On her monitor is a huge image of an orange tabby cat I can see from here. A framed photo of the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen sits next to the computer, and my brows go up as I breeze past.

  “Morning Ms. Margolis,” she greets over the wall of her cubby.

  “Morning…” Shit, what’s her name? Becky? “Beth.”

  I give her a little wave, pushing my office door open with the toe of my shoe, closing it behind me when I’m all the way inside. Make the extra effort to close the horizontal blinds, which are ordinarily—permanently—kept open.

  I pull the thin string until they slide slowly down, creating a blinder for the office staff beyond, who will unquestionably suspect me of looking at porn or having sex on my desk like Sheila in accounting—or Dennis in marketing.

  I settle at my desk for an early-morning extracurricular activity.

  It takes a little while for my computer to warm up, but when it does, I hunker down in front of it like a spy about to begin her first mission and greedily click open search engines.

  B-R-O-O-K-S

  B-E-N…one N or two? Shit. Two Ts or one?

  I try both.

  “Brooks Bennett…Brooks Bennett.” I cannot believe I’m creeping online—as if I don’t have a million other things to occupy my time. And doing this at work, in my office, feels sketchier still. Like a good old-fashioned stalking session, the kind I used to have in college with my friends when I liked someone.

  “You’re not getting paid for this and it is a clear violation of company policy,” I reprimand myself as some weak tactic to thwart my own efforts. But I persist, already ankle-deep in the fray, already gazing at photos of him—the few that pop up in my search, knowing more will appear when I hit his social media pages. “Dad would kill you if he knew you were wasting company time to stalk your dumb neighbor.”

  Brooks Bennett is…kind of a tool; logically, I know he is. The cat knows it. That guy probably has more lotion and skincare than I do, and he came over wearing house shoes, for Pete’s sake. Only my grandfather has ever worn thos
e, and he’s pushing eighty.

  Brooks talked during all the television shows. Occasionally chewed with his mouth open. Talked while he was eating. Scratched his nuts in front of me twice. Brought up all the good times he had in college. His fraternity. And disciplined Desdemona.

  But oddly enough, we had a good time together, and Desi both hated and loved him (an excellent sign). We spent the day laughing on my couch, eating breakfast—then ordered lunch, then ordered Thai takeout for dinner. Binged an entire series, watched an entire movie.

  It was late when he left my apartment, reluctantly crossing the hall for bed. Though he’d almost passed out on my couch twice, he refused to spend the night.

  Whatever—it’s not like he had a drive across town; he only had to walk a few feet.

  Yet here I am, googling the wiseass during business hours, with my office door closed and curtains drawn like a total psycho.

  He’s not difficult to find, not with his name combination. The first thing that pops up is a collegiate business organization photograph, taken during his tenure at an illustrious university out east.

  Just like me.

  Brooks is in a black tux, black bowtie, and he’s got a dark mustache.

  I lean in closer, pushing on a pair of glasses.

  Correction: fake mustache. Felt, from the looks of it, but honestly so hard to tell since the picture is sepia-toned.

  What an idiot he must have been, I muse, betting he was probably a giant asshole, undoubtedly hazing all the new pledges as an upperclassman.

  Brooks is cute. No—he’s painfully handsome.

  Crooked, cheeky smile below that dumb mustache. Dark, shaggy hair. Broad shoulders and debonair in a tuxedo, although to be fair, on the bottom he probably wore boxer shorts and not dress slacks.

  The rest of the crew look like morons, too—daddy’s money doesn’t buy anyone class, and these guys look like they just rolled out of bed and stumbled into the photo shoot. Several of them are wearing sunglasses inside. Three of them have cigars dangling from their spoiled mouths.

  One kid dons a sombrero.

  I move along to the next photo of Brooks, this one from a hometown newspaper, the article a write-up of the students from his high school who got full-ride scholarships to colleges and universities.

  Brooks received four offers, and my heart beats a bit faster.

  Good grades, hard worker. Crazy good-looking. Funny.

  Maybe not so spoiled after all.

  I find his Instagram; he follows a ton of people but doesn’t post often. Mostly just food and old buildings? Which surprises me—you’d think an egotistical guy like him would post gym selfies and pictures of himself dressed up, or at fancy bars.

  No such posts.

  His Facebook is set to private and unsearchable.

  I recline back in my chair, steepling my fingers, deep in thought. Maybe he’s not such a tool after all. Maybe there’s a bit of substance to him, barring the fake mustache…

  Hmm.

  7

  Brooks

  I do not have time for this. I do not have time for this.

  Get to work, asswipe.

  Focus.

  “Abbott Margolis—how the fuck is that even spelled?” I’m a smart guy; two college diplomas on my wall prove it. So what the hell am I doing stalking Abbott and why the hell can I not figure out how to spell her goddamn name?

  My long fingers hover over the keyboard of my computer, suspended and at a total loss. They can’t type without a command, and I have no fucking clue how Abbott spells her name.

  It’s not like this little Google sesh will amount to anything. It’s not like I want anything from her. Besides, my prissy little neighbor seems more like the relationship type, and we all know I’ll never be part of a couple.

  Not any time soon, anyway.

  Sure, I’d like kids someday. But like, when I’m forty.

  Not the fucking point, Bennett.

  Get back to work.

  There is a clock mounted on the wall in my office, and its second hand ticking is the only sound. There’s no sound of my fingers typing, nor of my mechanical pencil being dragged along a piece of paper.

  Just the ticking of the clock, one second at a time.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  My index finger hits the A key. Then the B. O.

  T.

  Enter.

  How the fuck is Margolis spelled?

  M-A-R-G-O-A-L-E-S.

  Enter.

  Nothing pops up. I try again, this time with a new letter combination.

  Nothing.

  Fuck.

  Dammit.

  Why am I wasting my time with this? Why can’t I spell?

  I hit my intercom. “Taylor?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  Cringing, I lean forward so he can hear me. “I need you to find the spelling of a name for me.”

  The sound of him shuffling for paper. “Is this the name of a building or the name of a place?”

  “Neither.”

  “Is this the name of an architect?”

  “Why does it suddenly sound like we’re playing a game of Guess Who or Twenty Questions and you’re trying to win something?”

  Taylor huffs into the intercom, lowering his voice. “Look, it’s barely noon, I can’t eat carbs, and I am an intern for an architectural firm. I want to design buildings, but I’m stuck answering the phones up front. I have to amuse myself any way I can.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was pushing his bangs aside and throwing his head back, à la Cher.

  Pure diva.

  “So. Who am I searching?” He’s already clicking away on his computer, no doubt pulling up LinkedIn.

  “Calm down.” Why is everything an event with this guy? Don’t they teach these kids in college how to behave less excitably in a professional work environment? “I don’t need you to do the searching for me, I just need to know how to spell a name.”

  His enthusiasm tapers, the professionalism returning to his voice. “What’s the name?”

  “First name Abbott, last name Margolis.”

  If one could hear a set of eyebrows rise into a hairline, I’d be hearing it now. “Alright. Hold on.”

  “Thanks.”

  The line goes dead. Minutes pass until I’m impatiently swiveling in my desk chair, abandoning all the precious work that earned me my promotion. For what?

  To creep on some chick I’m technically not allowed to chase. Even if I’d met her before I created the Bastard Bachelor Society, I doubt I’d have pursued her.

  Yet here I fucking am.

  I stare at the intercom system, wondering where the hell Taylor is with the information I need. I can’t sit here all damn day staring at the damn clock; I have actual work to do, and if any one of the partners walks in here, I’m in some serious—

  “Got it!” Taylor breezes into my office, a yellow sticky note stuck to two fingers. Slaps it in the center of my desk.

  “Jesus Christ!” He could have just given me a stroke.

  “Your frown lines are going to give you wrinkles.” His lips are pursed, eyes boring holes into my forehead.

  “I think I can live with that.” I pluck up the small square of paper. “Are you sure this is right?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t hard to find.” Taylor leans against the corner of my desk, pencil eraser caught between his front teeth. “Is she a new client?”

  I hesitate. “No?”

  “Is she a personal project?”

  “No!”

  “Do you want her to be?”

  “Christ. No. She’s my neighbor.”

  “Oh, the plot thickens…” He leans closer, poking my mouse with the tip of his finger, powering up the monitor that had gone black. “Seems super un-neighborly to stalk your neighbor.”

  “It’s not stalking. It’s… I want to make sure she’s not…” I pause, for lack of adjectives. “That she’s not…” When I glance up into his smug fa
ce, my head shakes. “Stop making that face.”

  “What face?” He pulls it again.

  “That face—the superior one like you know everything.”

  “Hey, I know nothing. All I did was get you the information you asked for. Because it’s my job.”

  My eyes narrow suspiciously. “You googled her, didn’t you?”

  His only reply is a snarky grin.

  Fuck.

  “Can you get out of here?” I tell him unprofessionally, irritated that he’s seen her background first. Because I couldn’t figure out how to spell her fucking name and he could. I tack on a “Please” to soften the command.

  Except the little bastard doesn’t budge from his perch on my desk.

  “Nah, I don’t think I will. I want to watch your face.”

  “Why?”

  Taylor gives the mouse another—we’ll call it a nudge—prompting the computer to surge to life. “Go ahead. Abbott Margolis.”

  He slowly spells out her name, one letter at a time.

  “Thanks—I got it. I’m not stupid.”

  His brows shoot up. Then why did you need me to find the spelling for you?

  “Shut up, okay?”

  Taylor pulls his pinched thumb and index finger across his lips: My lips are sealed.

  “Was that one B or two?” I ask out loud, though her name is spelled out in front of me, very clearly. Neat and tidy, perfect block-letter penmanship.

  The intern rolls his eyes heavenward, and I think it’s the first time we’ve gotten this personal with each other. Which is good—really good. Building relationships at work is paramount and focus on the task in front of you, asshole.

  “You can relax your face—having your eyebrows permanently stuck into your hairline will cause wrinkles.”

  Taylor frowns. “Funny. Quit stalling—I have a billion things to do.”

  “By all means, please go do them.”

  “And miss this chance to snoop?” His tone is indignant. “Pfft, I don’t think so.”

  Abbott Margolis is the granddaughter of media tycoon Ambrose Narcisco Margolis, an immigrant of Greek decent who came to the United States in 1926 and made his fortune through the accumulation of newspaper, television, and magazine networks. Margolis’ vast holdings include Margolis & Co., Margolis Worldwide LTD, and TriTelecom Media…