by Staci Hart
At that point, I didn’t skip out the door. I ran like my hair was on fire.
You’d think it wouldn’t be so hard to find guys who were cool with no strings, but this was shockingly untrue.
They would say they were fine with it, but I swear to God, at least a third of the time, we would hit that three-date mark, and they would profess their love. Date one would be easy, fun, always the best. Date two, I could feel those strings looming, hanging over me like a goddamn raincloud, but I’d just pop open my rainbow-striped umbrella and keep on skipping until date three when I’d get some variation of, I think I’m in love with you.
The last one was a perfect example.
As I had been getting dressed, he’d sat up in bed with eyes like the saddest beagle ever and said, I feel like you’re using me.
I’d smiled and kissed him on the forehead and told him I’d call him.
I never called him.
I know, I know, trust me. I wish I could let myself fall helplessly in love, but I’d done that once, and when it had ended and I had been left alone to put myself back together, I’d known without a doubt that love wasn’t for me. The reason: He had driven me crazy. And not the cute kind of crazy. The kind of crazy that earned you a restraining order.
Not that I was butthurt about what had happened — hanging on to things just wasn’t my style. I looked forward, not back. Forward was easy. Forward was fun.
No point in lamenting all the things I couldn’t change. Instead, I’d learned my lesson and kept myself blissfully unattached.
Once my lips were red and plump, my skin creamy and white, and my liner black and winged, I felt ready, getting up to inspect my reflection. My favorite black-and-white-striped bustier set off the tattoos across my chest with its sweetheart neckline, and I’d paired it with high-waisted black shorts with sailor buttons on the front.
I smoothed a hand over the wide finger waves in my purple hair as Ramona belted the last verse of the song, and I joined in with an air-guitar accompaniment that would make Lady Love proud.
Veronica swiped at the corner of her lips with the pad of her finger, inspecting her makeup. “Courtney Love was a badass. I don’t care what anybody says about her.”
“I mean, she was a hot-ass mess, but she got to bang Kurt Cobain on the regular. I miss him.” I sighed and sat on the edge of my bed to put on my red wedges. “They were like the ‘90s version of Sid and Nancy. Totally, terrifyingly romantic. That’s what love is. All-consuming, self-destructive, and absolutely not something I’m interested in experiencing.”
Ramona laughed. “You’re so dramatic. Shep and I aren’t like that, and you see us all the time, so I know you know better.”
I shifted my boobs around in the bustier to maximize my rack. “Yeah, but that’s not how I love. You know me. Do you really think I’m capable of doing halfway on anything? I mean, need I remind you about Rodney? I would have gone toe-to-toe with Satan himself to hang on to that boy in high school. This is the same guy who wouldn’t let me speak when that commercial with Paris Hilton eating a hamburger came on. Like he would clap his hand over my mouth and force me to be quiet until it was over. He was a psycho, and for two years, I let him torment me.”
“Ugh, fuck that guy,” Veronica said. “Even if he is a rock star.”
“Don’t remind me.” My face was flat. “If he hadn’t dumped me, I probably would have hung onto him like a barnacle. A screaming, psychotic barnacle. Can you imagine me on tour? I really would have been like Courtney — lipstick smeared and mascara running down my face when I ran onstage and shoved him because he’d banged a groupie. But at least the three-date rule came from the whole mess.”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “First of all, it’s three bangs, not three dates.”
My brow quirked. “Who doesn’t bang on a date?”
She ignored me. “And second, that rule is so stupid. And I say that with love. Think of how many relationships you’ve missed out on.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Listen, a multitude of things can happen after the three-date zone, and I don’t want to deal with any of them. Either I’m bored or I try to climb up their b-holes like an enema. Either they blow up my cell phone or get stalky. Or they propose marriage, like Clay.” I gave Ramona a pointed look.
“What? He flew here all the way from Italy to ask you to marry him. What was I supposed to do? Leave him in the hallway with two dozen roses and that look on his face?”
“No, you should have called the cops. The last thing I expected was him sitting naked on my bed looking like he’d delivered me everything I’d ever wanted via Lufthansa Airlines. I had to fake a headache and let him cuddle me, pretend all the next day that things were cool. I couldn’t break up with the psycho until he left for the airport.”
Veronica laughed. “Oh, which one was the baby-talk one?”
I groaned. “Derek. My God, he drove me nuts. We would get tacos, and he knew I liked the chips that were like three chips wrapped up together, so he’d dig through the basket, hand them to me, and watch me eat them.”
They laughed, and I kept going, always happier with an audience.
“The baby talk though, that was the worst. I wuv you a yacht. I wuv you a whole FLEET of yachts! Aw, schmoopsie-poo. Are you a sheep or awake?”
Ramona waved her hand with the other on her stomach as she laughed so hard that she was barely making noise. “Oh my God!”
“Seriously. But he was so hot. I mean, how could I resist a firefighter? With that ass? And that smile? I was willing to overlook a lot for bunker gear and smelling like a campfire.” I sighed. “But I mean, those guys are so much easier to deal with. The real kicker is when I go bonkers. Like when I was five dates in with Tony. Remember him?”
Veronica sighed wistfully. “The one who could cook.”
“Right? Dude made his own pasta. Fucking dream guy. But, I swear, I was begging to meet his mother by date five — after I told him no strings, and he was so about it. He slowly backed toward the door, said he’d call me, and I never heard from him again. There’s a chance he died in a gutter somewhere, but I’m pretty sure it was from his phone exploding from the eighty-four-thousand text messages I’d sent him. And that was just a mild case of stalking — I’ve crossed the line so many times, I’m surprised I’ve never had the cops called on me.”
“You’re too cute for jail,” Veronica said with a laugh.
“Not when my crazy eyes get going.” I crossed my eyes and drew a circle in the air around my ear. “Rodney trained me to trust no man, so ninety percent of the time, I convince myself they’re lying to me about where they are, what they’re doing, how they feel. I go clinger. I’d rather be clung to.”
“I dunno. See, I disagree with Veronica,” Ramona said. “I think the rule makes sense. Penny, you’re larger than life. I’ve been friends with you for eight years, and I’ve seen how guys treat you. Every hetero man in the room notices you when you walk in. It’s like every curve on your body is sending a signal directly to them. They want to know you, and some, like Rodney, want to control you. This is a way for you to protect yourself against the whole thing. You break hearts so yours doesn’t get broken. And who knows? Maybe someday you’ll meet somebody who changes your mind.”
I laughed. “God, I hope not.”
She smiled like she knew better than me. “How long have you been on the three-date wagon now?” Ramona asked.
“Two whole years,” I answered, proud of myself. “Two years of normal dates with no crazy on either side of the line. Everything has been perfectly smooth ever since I really decided to stick to the rule. This is better for all parties involved, trust me. I’d rather not put my heart through the meat grinder again, thank you very much.”
Veronica snickered. “She said to her friend whose wedding is in two weeks.”
“Oh, stop it. That’s what I’m saying — Ramona and Shep are perfectly perfect. I’m just a mess, like Courtney Love but with tidier makeup.�
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But Ramona’s face had fallen into a sad expression. “Two weeks. That’s all we have left for this.”
Veronica looked the same. “Less than that. You’re moving next week.”
Ramona’s eyes misted up. “What am I going to do without you guys?”
I knelt down between them. “You’ll start your life with Shep, and it’s going to be everything you ever wanted. We’ll see each other at the tattoo parlor every day. And Ronnie and I will be here, doing our makeup and trolling for boys at least three times a week, so you can come with us anytime. Be our wing woman.”
She laughed and rubbed her nose. “Ha. As if you need help.”
I smirked. “I wasn’t talking about me.”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha. You’re a fucking riot, Penny.”
I shrugged innocently. “I mean, if you weren’t so picky, you’d be able to find a guy — at least for a night.”
She made a face at me. “Maybe not all of us want a guy just for a night?”
“That’s fair. But not even sometimes? I’d love to be your wingwoman, but it’s exhausting, and I’ve got goals of my own.”
“Yeah, to eat every dick in Manhattan,” she shot, eyes twinkling and lips in a smile.
My mouth popped open, and I laughed. “You bitch. I don’t have to eat them all, but having them in or around my vagina would be fine. You know, as an alternative.”
“So slutty!” Veronica shook her head.
“Thank you,” I said sweetly. “I love being slutty. I don’t make any promises, and I know exactly what I want. What the hell is everyone’s problem with that anyway? Who cares who I sleep with? Does it affect anyone but me and the guy involved? Answer: No. And I tell all the guys I whatever with what my expectations are, and they agree. It’s not my fault if they catch feelings.” I shuddered. “It’s like the emotional equivalent of gonorrhea — the clap, but for your heart!”
Veronica laughed. “I mean, with that endorsement, why wouldn’t you want a boyfriend?”
“Precisely my point. And anyway, it’s such a fucking double standard. Guys are allowed to fuck whoever they want, and other dudes are like, Way to go, bro, and slap them five. Girls are supposed to be all demure and pure and rely solely on their vibrators if they’re not in a committed, monogamous relationship. Fucking patriarchy.”
“Fuck the patriarchy!” Ramona crowed as she held up her hand for a slap.
I obliged.
I rapped the chorus of “I’m not a player” like Big Pun. “Ronnie, you need to crush a lot. I’d even settle for a little crushing. You’re too hot not to crush as much as humanly possible.”
Veronica laughed. “Maybe tonight. Wing me.”
My mouth popped open. “Oh my God, seriously?”
She nodded, closed lips smiling. “You won me over with your slut speech.”
“Finally. I’ve been working on you for years. I can’t believe I’ve seen the day. And I’m not even in Depends!”
She laughed and pushed me over, and I couldn’t even be mad about it.
* * *
A half an hour later, we were walking into a bar on Broadway called Circus that had popped up a few months before. The thing about themed bars was that they were hit or miss. That was mostly because, in an attempt to be cute, the bars would end up overdone, and within a few months of the novelty wearing off, the bar would close and a new one would take its place.
Not Circus.
A circular bar stood in the center of the room, and it was made out of a small version of a carousel. It looked like someone had plucked the top off a carousel and hung it from the ceiling. Around the top, Edison bulbs lined the panels of alternating mirrors and vintage paintings of circus scenes, and long white bar lights spoked from underneath the center, like a wheel. Red-and-white striped fabric draped from the peaked top of the carousel and out into the darkness of the edges of the ceiling, and the barstools were all saddles.
Everything in the bar had a circus feel — from creepy-cool oddity art to brushed brass fixtures on everything. The bartenders were dressed up like ringmasters, complete with handlebar mustaches and red tails, and the cocktail waitresses were all dressed in tails too. Rather than shirttails, they wore black bras, and rather than pants, they wore high-waisted shorts and fishnets. They even had little top hats on.
I swear to God, if I hadn’t had my dream job as a tattoo artist, I’d have dropped everything and joined the Circus.
I led the charge through the crowd and to the bar with my roommates behind me, squeezing in between two gigantic guys to lean on the bar.
They looked down at me.
“Hey, fellas.”
They smiled.
The closest bartender set a drink in front of a girl down from me, and the second he saw me, he headed straight over, effectively skipping everyone ahead of me.
It might have been the fact that I’d hopped up a little, caging my rack in my arms to put it on display. Oldest trick in the book.
I told you — I was absolutely shameless.
With drinks in hand, I gave the bartender a smile, and the girls and I headed away from the fray to look for a table. A group was just getting up, and we swooped in like birds of prey just ahead of a pack of bitter chicks wearing painful-looking shoes.
I sipped on my tequila — it was chilled: I’m not that hard — looking around at the mass of people, soaking it all in, as “Pretty in Pink” by The Psychedelic Furs played.
And then time stopped, and the crowd parted like the universe wanted to point right at him.
It was Blondie from the ice cream parlor.
The music stretched out, people slowing under the red and white striped fabric, the naked bulbs of the carousel painting him in golden light. He stood right there like he’d been placed in that spot just for me, tall and beautiful, his skin tan and smile bright as he laughed at something his twin had said.
I almost fell out of my chair. There were two of them. My insides turned into raspberry jelly at the thought of what kind of damage they could do to a woman.
But my eyes found Blondie again — his twin was wrong somehow, which was bizarre in itself because they were identical. From where I sat, they were night and day. There was something about Blondie, some vibe that hit me even more now than it had at the ice cream parlor. He felt … familiar. Something about him I couldn’t quite place caught me, something in the line of his profile and the curve of his lips. But I was certain I’d never seen him before — I remembered all of the Adonises I’d met and arduously logged them in my mental bank of spank.
He was tall and jacked with a smile like a lightbulb and hair like spun gold. It was a little long, curling around his ears, and I wondered if it was soft, wondered what it would feel like between my fingers as I rode his face like a pony.
I didn’t realize I had slipped off my stool and was walking toward him — I had locked onto him like a goddamn target — until he met my eyes, froze for a split second, and then walked toward me like he was caught up just as much as I was.
I should have known right then that I was in big Blondie-sized trouble. But I couldn’t seem to find a single fuck to give.
* * *
Bodie
The pinup girl from the ice cream shop had the reddest lips curled into an irresistible smile, and my feet, which had been moving entirely of their own accord, didn’t stop until we met in the middle.
I knew her somehow, but I couldn’t place her and wondered if it was just that I’d been thinking about her since I saw her a few hours before.
Shock and awe, man. She was standing there in front of me like a dream, but up close and personal where I could see her. In a split second, I’d catalogued everything about her — her gold septum ring, the black gauges with tiny cat ears, the curve of her plump red lips, the shine of her hair, and the tattoos across her chest, her shoulders, her arms, her thighs. I wondered where else she was tattooed and found myself smiling down at her, imagining the answer.
“Heya, Blondie,” she said slyly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were following me.”
One dark brow rose with one corner of her lips. “Who says you know better?”
I chuckled as my eyes combed over her face like it was the first face I’d ever seen. She was so familiar to me, but I’d have remembered the purple hair, the piercings, the tattoos. That smile.
I blinked.
I knew that smile.
“I’m Penny,” she said, extending her free hand.
I took it, my smile spreading. “Bodie.”
She showed no recognition at my name — when she had known me, I’d gone by a nickname. Her eyes were on my lips, and I realized fully that she had no idea who I was. I wondered if I’d really changed that much from when she’d seen me last, realizing I had. Sometimes I’d look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. And earlier she’d had on big sunglasses, on top of being far enough away that I couldn’t tell it was her. Eight years had changed her too, but only the colors of her feathers. Everything else seemed exactly the same.
I considered telling her, but dismissed the thought. Because there was really only one thing to do: fuck with her until she figured it out.
“Good to see you again,” I said ambiguously.
“You too, but I’m surprised. I mean, after going down on a waffle cone for you earlier, I figured you would have had plenty of me to last.”
A laugh burst out of me. “Oh, I have a feeling your kind of ice cream is the kind you can’t get enough of.”
She shrugged and brought her drink to her lips. “It’s been said.” She watched me for a second again. “So what’s your story, Bodie?”
“I just moved here from LA.”
“For a job?”
“You could say that. I’m a software engineer.”
She laughed. “Wow, not what I would have guessed.”
“Oh?”
Penny dramatically looked me up and down. “Hmm. I’d say … personal trainer. No, no. That hunky moving company I always see commercials for.”
