Bad Boy Boxset

by JD Hawkins

  I don’t want to admit he might be onto something, so I look away, turn around and walk back toward the railing to look out at the waves.

  “There it is! You can’t even argue with me!” Manny says, as he comes up and leans over the railing beside me. “Dude, you’re in love!”

  “Ok, calm the fuck down,” I say, smiling at him. “I don’t even know what love is, ok? As far as I’m concerned it’s just something they put into movie scripts to explain dumb characters. It’s just something they use instead of ‘fucking’ in pop songs.”

  Manny chuckles lightly. “Well it looks to me like you’re about to get a firsthand education on it.”

  I stare out at the ocean, let the rhythm of the breakers calm my thoughts a while.

  “I just like her,” I say. “I like being around her, talking to her, getting her to laugh. I like sleeping with her, touching her, smelling her, listening to her breathe…”

  Manny exhales in a long, low whistle. “Shit. You’ve got it bad.”

  “No I don’t.” I shrug the idea away. “I’m just gonna see where it goes. I’m doing the same thing I’ve always done—having fun. It’s just that my idea of fun is…different now.”

  Manny slaps me on the shoulder as he moves to return to his truck.

  “Don’t lie to yourself, dude. Tell yourself a cliff is just a step and you’re gonna fall hard. Trust me on that one.”

  I watch Manny walk back to the truck, wishing I could dismiss the advice as useless, coming from a guy whose ambition in life is to fuck a girl so hard he makes her hallucinate. But as insane, wild, and careless as Manny is, he’s got a habit of being right.

  16

  Margo

  For the next few days life is just…better. Owen and I film our post-date segment and I don’t feel apprehensive about the cameras, no awkward self-consciousness as we joke about our terrible dates. I finally grab the last of my stuff from Carl’s apartment with Owen’s help, and even though Carl’s not there, with Owen beside me it feels so much easier and simpler, and ever-so-slightly ridiculous that I even left it this long. I completely forget about New York, and suddenly find a million things to love about TrendBlend, work seeming easier, getting along with coworkers better—I even appear in one of Davina’s make-up videos and have a great time getting made up like Lady Gaga.

  Whatever is going on between me and Owen is making me feel born again—so natural, so simple, so right, that I can almost forget everything before him. I struggle to remember what it’s like not getting random text messages throughout the day about how wonderful and amazing and special I am. The knots in my stomach and the constant, constricting thoughts that I’m underachieving in my career and in life become distant memories. I start waking up clear-headed and excited to go to work and see him. Every night we text or call each other before I go to sleep, conversation swinging between pantie-pulling eroticism and spiritually uplifting connection, until I fall asleep in a deep glow of happiness.

  A guy like Owen is seriously good for your health.

  Even Brad seems to stop bugging me at work, as if there’s some kind of invisible shield around us now, and I know that even if he tried to tear me down, I’m in a place where I could only laugh at him pitifully. Barring a few close calls (we figure out exactly how much time the elevator takes to stop at each floor during the numerous make-out sessions we have in there) I begin to genuinely believe that this could work. As long as I keep it cool and avoid cornering him with the ‘where is this going?’ talk.

  And as long as we keep it a secret.

  And as long as Melissa never finds out.

  It’s not just that Owen’s dating vlog—the one he spent months trying to create and then convince Melissa was a good idea—is predicated on the basis that both he and I are interested in other people, it’s also the drama that would explode if we told everyone. The TrendBlend office is full of cool people—but even cool people can get nasty when the guy who’s been rejecting their advances for years suddenly starts dating the bookish girl he sits next to.

  Plus, I’ve been through dating hell with Brad, and I don’t want to go there again. Breaking up with him while we still worked together was a trauma that almost broke me. Friends and coworkers taking sides, whispered gossip spoken just loud enough so you knew they were talking about you, but not loud enough to know what they were saying. Trying to write fun, frothy articles while dealing with the heavy weight of a scarlet letter. No thanks.

  So even though Owen’s not Brad (in almost every way) I still don’t need things to end up like that, and the fact is, we’re not even a couple. Not really. It takes more than a few instances of bone-shaking sex and whispered sweet nothings to make a relationship.

  “Guess whose lucky day it is?” Owen says as he returns to his desk beside me, hand brushing inconspicuously across the back of my neck as he goes.

  I look at him with amusement. “Mine, I’m hoping?”

  “Hmm. Let’s see…” he says, pulling his arm from behind his back to reveal a strawberry frosted Sprinkles cupcake that he places on my desk. “You might just be right.”

  I smile so hard I have to cover my mouth. Owen winks and turns back to his computer. I pick up the cupcake and take a huge bite of it, nearly groaning at how good it is. Strawberry…my favorite. I guess that’s the benefit of seeing someone who’s been a friend for so long.

  “Oh,” Owen adds, spinning his chair around to me. He points at his screen. “It’s trivia night tonight. Are we going?”

  I jolt a little and look around to see if anybody heard, then lean forward to whisper, “Owen…don’t say ‘we’ like that.”

  “Like what? Like it meant something?” Owen just laughs, but his words leave me feeling unsettled. “God, you’re hot when you’re annoyed with me.”

  “Glad you like it.” I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, reminding myself silently that there’s nothing to get pissy about since Owen and I are just fuck buddies. And great ones. Definitely nothing to get upset about there. I realize I’m already smiling back at him. “Yeah. We can go if you want. But only if you’re on my team.”

  One Friday out of every month, TrendBlend books out a cool little bar and holds a quiz night. We split up into teams and compete for a silly prize that usually ends up on our work desks. That’s why Jamie has a Barbara Streisand LP next to his computer monitor and Michaela has a knitted Pepsi can on her desk.

  The night is supposed to start around six—but everybody’s usually so excited about it that they knock off work early and start heading there around four or five. Owen tells me he’ll catch up with me later, and I leave the offices with a bunch of coworkers to drive there.

  I love trivia night, but if I’m being honest with myself, I’m more interested in what Owen and I are going to do afterward. Since we penciled in our first official ‘date’ for Sunday (a.k.a. the ‘in-depth research meeting for the dating vlog’ that we scheduled), we’ve been trying to keep things cool (as cool as they can be with a guy who grabs any opportunity to put his hands on you), but trivia night feels like a good excuse to spend a little more time together. Especially since we’ve barely seen each other outside of working hours. Now that Owen is going full steam ahead on the vlog, he’s been staying late and editing things with Tom, combing through hours of footage for all the best (and worst) date clips, while I’ve been trying to catch up on the many articles I should be writing when I’m actually just chatting (and sneaking glances) with Owen.

  Halfway there, I’m sitting in stopped traffic on Wilshire watching people in their cars like I’m in a nineties music video. It’s only four thirty, but there’s still a sense of Friday night excitement in the air. Groups of men walking with the swagger of their best clothes, girls laughing loudly, starting early.

  My phone rings. I check the name, freeze for what could be three seconds or three minutes, then spring into action with the intensity and nervousness of a bomb defusal expert as I fumble around and connect the call to
the Bluetooth of my car.

  “Hello?” I say, suddenly gripping the wheel like I’m about to take off, even though the traffic’s still not moving.

  “Hi Margo. It’s Cassandra Beale. How are you?”

  The edgy, jarring swing of her New York accent makes me tense up even further. Somehow she makes it sound incredibly cool to introduce yourself on the phone, even though she probably knows I saw her name before answering.

  What is it with Cassandra calling me whenever I’m in a car?

  “I’m great! How are you?”

  I check the clock and realize it must be after seven in New York. On the loudspeakers I can hear the rustle of papers, the keyboards clacking, the background chatter of her office, and I start to wonder if everyone at the New York Month works a twenty-four hour day.

  “Good. Listen: we talked it over and we really liked both of the interviews we conducted with you. We loved some of the pieces in your portfolio and your work ethic seems on part with our company culture. We think you’ve got the raw talent to become a wonderful writer, and we’d like to try you out.”

  I stare at the dashboard, mouth so dry it feels like I don’t have one anymore. Was that a job offer? It sounded like a job offer. But it’s the New York Month, and the last thing I did of any note was a funny make-up video. I thought I didn’t want it anymore, but it’s New York City, and—

  I’m jolted back into the present by a loud horn behind me, followed by Cassandra’s cutting voice.

  “Margo? Did you hear me?”

  “Um…yeah,” I say, looking up and seeing the street empty ahead of me. “Sorry, I’m just in the car.”

  “So?”

  “What? Oh! The job…ah…well…yes! Of course! I’d love it! But…well…I just…”

  Cassandra laughs on the other end of the line, the nonchalant, breezy cackle of a practiced socialite. “You’re welcome to take some time to think about it, if you wish. Sounds like you still need to mull it over a bit.”

  “Um…”

  I try to think of something better to say, but the onrush of thoughts is too thick and complicated for me to pick one from.

  “Call me in a few days,” Cassandra says decisively, and I can hear a slight smile in her voice. “Let’s talk when you’ve figured it out.”

  “Ok, great,” I say, to which Cassandra responds by hanging up.

  Stunned, I lose myself in the monotony of driving for a little while, allowing the sweeping scenery to hypnotize me as I slowly regain a foothold on reality.

  That was it. That was the moment I’d been waiting for since I was a little girl reading Henry Miller, watching Woody Allen, listening to Lou Reed. That was the call I’d been praying for when I was hammering books at college, pouring my heart and soul into thinkpieces for the school paper or internet sites and fanzines that never paid me. That was what I’d lived my whole life for up til this point, the starting shot to the life I always wanted.

  So why do I suddenly feel so bad?

  I get to the bar in a daze, and for the next few hours only grow increasingly more detached. When Owen arrives it’s even more of a struggle to keep myself in the moment. Under his gaze, bunched up in a corner booth so close I feel his whole side pressing against me, I start to feel suffocated, trapped, like I’m gasping for air. Trivia’s normally my chance to kick major ass among my colleagues, but tonight I can hardly come up with decent guesses.

  “What’s wrong? I know you knew the answer to that one,” Owen says, leaning over, concern showing in his furrowed brow.

  “What? Oh…I’m just…not in the mood tonight.”

  “Wow. Never thought I’d hear that phrase come out of you.” He laughs.

  I just smile meekly. “It’s not anything to do with you. It’s just…personal stuff.”

  “Like what? You know you can always vent to me.”

  “I know. And I will. Just not here,” I say, glancing at the others around our table, laughing and shouting just inches away though it feels like I’m hearing them through a filter.

  Owen nods, as if considering what to say next, then settles for simply squeezing my knee surreptitiously under the table.

  “Suit yourself. I’m gonna run to the restroom real quick,” he says.

  I slide out of the booth so he can go and give him a little wave as he leaves, then sigh with the complexity of being here, now, with him.

  If Cassandra had offered me the job a few weeks ago I’d be looking at apartments in Brooklyn already. I’d be bouncing off the walls with excitement, already planning how I was going to shake her, the New York Month, and the whole damned city up with the best damned writing they’d ever seen. A lot has happened in these last few weeks, though, and now that I’ve actually got something to lose, I’m not sure of anything anymore.

  How do you even choose between the thing you’ve wanted all your life, and the person who might be the one you’ve waited for all your life? I’d have missed Owen deeply even before we got together, but now I’m not even sure that a life without him in it could even work.

  But so what? Should I give up everything I am, everything I’ve wanted for so long, for a relationship that’s not even technically official? I’ve been here before, so infatuated with a guy that I lost sight of my dreams, and it’s led me nowhere fast. Not only that, but if I said no to this job, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. And however things with Owen and I could end up, even it stayed as good as it is now for forever, I’d never be truly happy knowing I gave up this one chance for a guy, a guy who I know for a fact has no intention of ever settling down.

  It was clear from the start—Owen made it clear himself—that this was just sex, just fun. Maybe it doesn’t always feel like that, and maybe we have years of friendship behind us, but that’s exactly what it is. Besides, am I really worried that Owen would miss me? I’d give him a week before he’s working his way through lingerie models again. He’ll probably be more disappointed about me leaving the dating videos than leaving him…

  “Is that Owen’s phone?”

  I look up at the voice directed toward me—it’s Mia, and she’s pointing at a lit-up phone beside me, vibrating its way almost off the table.

  I catch it at the edge and accidentally hit the green button, answering the call by mistake. Shit. I look at the screen. Ron. After looking up to check if Owen’s on his way back, and realizing he’s not, I decide to just take a message for him.

  “Hello?”

  There’s a second’s pause before Ron speaks. “Is this Owen’s phone?”

  “Yes. He just ran to the restroom. He should be back in a minute. Or if you want I can take a message?”

  Ron chuckles on the other end of the line, the soft, easy laugh of an older man who loves his life. Something in my chest loosens at the sound. “And you are?” he asks.

  “Margo,” I say, realizing that I’m smiling. “His coworker.”

  “Oh? Are you working late with him?”

  “No. We’re having after-work drinks. Not just us. Everyone from the office is here, I mean. So do you want me to pass on a message?”

  “Yes. That would be very nice of you, Margo. I’m his father.”

  “Oh.” Memories of Owen arguing with his dad go rushing through my brain, but I can’t seem to connect this nice-sounding man to the womanizing monster that Owen’s painted in the past. I wonder if the man has changed over time, if Owen’s view of his father has been tainted by the difficult childhood I know he had being raised by a single dad.

  “Can you tell him the dinner on Sunday will be around seven? And let him know we’re both really excited about it.”

  I think for a moment, still lost in thought. “Did you say Sunday? Meaning this Sunday?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Oh. Nothing…just making sure.”

  “Is everything ok?” Ron says, and I can really hear the similarity now, the sincere care in his voice, the strength behind it, as if he’s not just checking whether I’m ok, but offering
to do something about it.

  “Yes. I’ll pass it on, don’t worry.”

  “Thank you so much, Margo. It was lovely talking to you.”

  “You too.”

  I hang up and suddenly notice Owen squeezing back into his place beside me in the booth.

  “Were you just on my phone?” he asks.

  “Yeah. It was your dad. Your cell was vibrating off the table and when I grabbed it I hit the green button by mistake.” I smile sheepishly. “We only talked for a minute.”

  Owen’s smile drops. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

  “It’s really fine. He said you’d arranged a dinner with him this Sunday…?”

  Owen’s head drops, then he turns to look at me. “Shit. I completely forgot. Our plans are still on, though, ok? I’ll just tell him to forget the dinner since I have an important work meeting.”

  “No! He said he was really excited about it. We can go out another time.”

  Owen leans back in his seat and rubs a palm across his mouth. I can see the anxiety and frustration just below the surface.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask gently. “It’s really no big deal.”

  Owen looks around us at the cacophonous group before leaning over to direct his full attention at me. “Look, you already know that my dad and I have kind of a…strained relationship. I’ve told you how it goes. Every few months he meets a new girl, convinces himself she’s the one, and expects me to act the same. And he arranges these meetings and they’re always so cringeworthy. This has been his pattern my entire life. I’m surprised he stayed with my mom long enough to make me.”

  I shrug. “He probably just wants your approval, you know? Wants to know that you like these women as much as he does. Or maybe he feels like he has something to prove, wants you to see he’s made a good choice.”

  “They’re never a good choice,” Owen says, raising his drink to take a long swallow. “And they never last. He gets bored of them as quickly as I…”