Man Card

by Sarina Bowen

  Really, dude? That’s the best you can do? “What is your numbah, please.”

  The asswipe reads off a number that matches the caller ID on Ash’s phone, and after promising to give Ash the message, I hang up on him.

  Then I get to work.

  My first Google search for a John Smith at that phone number reveals nothing. Of course it doesn’t. So I try the number by itself. This is more promising. Ye olde Internet attributes that phone number to a Deborah Engersoll of Wyoming, Michigan.

  So I google “Engersoll” and “Ashley Power” next.

  My computer screen lights up with news stories. First there’s Dwight Engersoll’s arrest and indictment for embezzlement. Dwight Engersoll’s prison sentence of five to seven years. I choose one of these articles and read it. Dwight was skimming money off Ash’s former employer—a commercial real estate developer. At the time, Dwight worked for a software company that was hired to install accounting software at Ash’s firm. That was his in.

  White-collar crime makes for boring reading. Until I flip to the next page of search results, and that’s where I find the bombshell: an old wedding announcement for one Ashley Power and Dwight Engersoll. According to the three lines of text, the happy couple eloped in Las Vegas when Ash was twenty-eight years old. And, if I’ve got the timeline right, he was arrested a mere seven months later.

  My first thought is: Oh, honey bear. You sure know how to pick ’em.

  My next thought is: Why is he calling her now? And from where?

  Back to the search engine we go. I find the Michigan Department of Corrections database website and type in Engersoll. Ten seconds later I’m staring at his mug shot. I have to grudgingly admit that Mr. Dwight Engersoll takes a nice mug shot. It isn’t a photo up to Bramly’s standards, but the man looks surprisingly good for someone who’s just been arrested. He has blondish hair and a face that’s handsome in a smug sort of way.

  The big flaw is his eyes, though. They’re beady and mean. Also, Dwight Engersoll needs to get his eyebrows done. Seriously. They’re like a couple of overgrown caterpillars. Real men manscape. I feel strongly about this.

  Moving on.

  Dwight’s criminal record is laid out for my consumption. His first sentence was part of a plea deal. But then he reoffended in prison. There’s a new conviction for Controlled Substance: Intentional Manufacture or Distribution.

  Lovely. Embezzlement wasn’t enough for him. He decided to peddle drugs in prison?

  But the worst piece of information on this page is the last bit. Date paroled: October 5th.

  Well, shit. My honey bear is dodging her twice-convicted ex-husband? And he’s harassing her?

  Goddammit. He needs to be held accountable. And by “held accountable” I mean “he needs to meet my fist in a parking lot at high noon.” I am not above going a little Westworld on his ass.

  Seriously. If he wants to get to Ash, he’s going to have to go through me. And then he’s going to the salon where he’ll get tweezed. I’m going to make Unibrow suffer.

  12 Red Flags and Tequila

  Ash

  My smiley game face lasts at least five hours.

  After brunch, I haul myself through the afternoon with a session at the gym. It’s a good idea to get buff and feel strong when your ex-con ex is potentially stalking you, right? It kicks up the adrenaline and gets those fat-burning endorphins going.

  Also, I deserve an exercise sticker.

  Afterward, to remind myself that life is good, I follow up with a mani-pedi. Because hey—if my ex murders me for testifying against him, at least I’ll die with a nice manicure.

  Gallows humor. It’s my new best friend.

  I swing by my office at seven that evening, just to see what messages Braht might have taken for me. And—fine—I’m curious to see which of my personal belongings are having sex on my desk. That pencil sharpener has been aching for it, I’m sure.

  The office is dark, and walking through the empty space creeps me out more than it really should. I didn’t used to feel this way, like I’d been cast in a horror movie. If I happen to spot Pennywise or a red balloon ANYWHERE, I’m going to run in a heartbeat.

  Sure enough, when I reach my desk I find that my staple puller is performing oral sex on my favorite pair of scissors. And there’s a note in the middle of my desk blotter.

  Honey bear, I’m a little worried about you. That same guy called again. I need to hear from you to make sure you’re okay.

  B-

  Just like that, my blood pressure doubles. Dwight called the office again? He must be staying at his sister’s house. And he wants something from me?

  What the hell am I going to do?

  Dwight knows where I work, and now I’m standing here in the empty office like a dummy.

  Fuck!

  I jam Braht’s note in my pocket and head for the door. The heels of my suede ankle boots click impatiently as I make tracks for the rear exit. I press the lock bar and then push my way outside. The back lot smells like fall leaves, and I take a deep breath to steady myself. The sky is still streaked with light, but it’s already quite dark back here. The trees make long shadows across the asphalt.

  I am not creeped out. I am not creeped out. I am not…

  I am totally creeped out!

  And then someone steps out from the shadows as I approach my car, and I jump a foot into the air. At least.

  “Jesus, Ashley. Easy,” he says.

  All the air leaves my lungs as I recognize Dwight’s voice. I take him in with wild eyes. Even in bad light I can see that his hair is streaked here and there with gray. But everything else about him is…harder. And not in a good way. He looks…more broken, if that’s possible. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans, instead of the suits he once favored. But that’s not really it. It’s his hardened expression that terrifies me.

  “What do you want?” I ask in a shaky voice. I’m backing away. The old Ashley is the one who’d back away; the new Ash stands firm!

  Just not this time. I am backing away. I can’t help it.

  He lifts his hands in the air. “Just to talk, honey. I thought we could grab some dinner and catch up.”

  My jaw is hanging open now. It takes actual physical concentration to close it far enough that I can say, “Dwight, we are not old friends who haven’t caught up in a while. You lied to me. You stole money from me. And I testified against you in court. We are not going out to dinner!”

  As this monologue ends, he looks mildly affronted. “Drinks then? I know things ended badly, but we had some good times, too.”

  Good times? I’m shaking like a leaf right now. I don’t know whether to run or kick him right in the good times. “Look. Don’t contact me. Don’t call my cell phone or my office. Just…lose my number.” I say this while circling slowly, putting my body between Dwight and the driver’s side of my car. He hasn’t made a move toward me, but I’m still not okay.

  I’m fucking terrified.

  “I just wanted to…” he starts, but I am not listening anymore. My gut fauna is fucking on fire. Red flag! Red flag! Warning!

  My hand plunges into my bag. I find my key and bleep the locks on my car. Then I turn and bolt for the driver’s side door and jump in, slamming my finger down on the lock button as soon as I’m able. I tear into reverse and then wrench the car forward. He just stands there, and even though he’s receding in my rearview mirror, he’s still as big as life in my head.

  The next few minutes are a shaky blur as I drive home on pure adrenaline. The car starts blasting Santana’s Supernatural album, because hours ago I was in a brave (and obviously retro) kind of mood when I chose this music. But now “Put Your Lights On” hits too close to home.

  I reach my street when I realize I may have just led Dwight right to my house. So I slide to a stop in front of a neighbor’s house. I turn the music off and try to think. There aren’t any headlights behind me, but I still feel scared.

  This man took everything fr
om me: my money, my reputation, my belief that men can be trusted.

  I try to breathe. To think rationally and not react emotionally. The locked car is safe, so long as I never leave.

  Wonderful.

  The corners of my eyes prickle, and my throat gets hot. It’s not like me to cry. It’s not like me to panic, either. Quick! I need a consult. I touch Brynn’s number on my phone, and she answers on the second ring.

  “Hey baby!” she says, and I relax a little just at the sound of her voice. “You okay?”

  “Yeah…” I say, shakily. Please invite me over. Please. “What’s up with you tonight?”

  “My lunch,” she says with a sigh. “Today has been rough. So I’m just curled up on the couch with Tom, trying to keep saltines down while he rubs my feet. It’s a pretty exciting night.”

  Oh boy. They’re so cute it hurts a little. And I’ll have to just let her be alone with her man. “You hang in there, okay?”

  “Will do! Better go. Time to dry heave.” I actually hear a gagging sound as she clicks off.

  Ouch. Poor Brynn. I consider a call to Sadie next. But I can’t really lay my troubles at her door right now. She’s dealing with a lot. Besides, I think her sister has occupied her guest room.

  Welp. Better make myself comfortable in my car. My eyes sting a little as I close them against the night. I take a deep breath and listen to the silence around me. This is the most strung out I’ve been for years. I know it’s all my fault. I made bad choices when I was young and stupid. Hell, I wasn’t even that young. I was just afraid to be alone. So I overlooked warning signs that shouldn’t have been ignored.

  Bad idea. I should have known it would come to this—hiding in my car from my vengeful ex, wondering what to do next.

  This is a really safe block, though. My keys are in the ignition, so I’m ready to drive away if I have to. And it’s so quiet that I’d hear another car coming down the silent road.

  “IT’S RAINING MEN!” my phone shouts suddenly.

  I leap about a foot, bang my thighs against the steering wheel, and drop the phone. I’m already a nervous wreck, so I’m positive something sinister has happened until I find the phone on the floor and turn it over.

  The screen says, Braht calling.

  That fucker changed my ringtone. I want to rip his bowels out with my bare hands. Lucky for him, I just got a new manicure. I swipe to answer, my finger shaking. “It’s raining men?”

  “Trust me, it’s better than the first couple of ideas I had.”

  Then he chuckles warmly into my ear, and the golden sound of it brings my heart rate back under control. I’m a little less alone than I was a minute ago.

  “What were the other ideas?” I ask, because I need to keep the conversation going, and to convince my heart rate to slow down. Right now, Braht is my lifeline, even if he doesn’t know it.

  “‘I’m Too Sexy’ would have been a good choice,” he suggests.

  I snort. “You flatter yourself.”

  “I was talking about you, baby.”

  “Smooth.”

  “Always.”

  There’s a silence, but I can finally breathe again.

  “Ash, you okay? We need to have a little chat about this guy who’s called you twice. I know who he is.”

  “You do?” I look reflexively out of the car windows, checking the shadows beneath the streetlamp. But I don’t see Dwight lurking anywhere.

  “Yeah.” His voice goes soft. “I hope you don’t mind that I Googled the old news stories. I mean—I’m not a big fan of people Googling my past. But this felt like an emergency.”

  I try to take all that in. Braht has some kind of skeleton in his closet? In the back of my mind I think I knew that. It’s about his family, though. Father? Grandfather? Someone was a criminal. I heard whispers at work. That’s why he changed his last name.

  But…now he knows about Dwight?

  “You know about Dwight?” I squeak. “That he’s out?”

  “Parole decisions are public record, sugar pop.”

  I growl. Because sugar pop?

  “What are you doing right now?” he asks.

  “Just, uh, chillin.” Down the block from my house. In my car. Like a loser.

  “I’m making pulled-pork tacos. With fresh corn tortillas.”

  My stomach grumbles. “You cook?”

  “Come over and see. You can tell me what you’re doing about this ex-con who’s trying to call you. And I can ply you with tequila and try to get your clothes off.”

  “Braht…!”

  He chuckles into my ear, and it makes my damn nipples harden. “Just kidding with that last thing, although I could sure go for an Ash taco. Just making sure you were paying attention.”

  “If I come over, you have to be good.” Please be good, I beg privately. I really need a friend right now.

  “On my best behavior,” he promises.

  I hesitate for at least ten more seconds, because Braht’s best behavior isn’t really all that good. But tacos and companionship are calling more loudly than my conscience.

  Also, my nipples tingle.

  He gives me his address, and a minute later I’m driving toward East Grand Rapids, my stereo blaring confidently again.

  13 My Fantasy Life is Very Detailed

  Braht

  Now, normally, when I’d have a foxy babe coming over, I’d do the normal routine: flip my collar up in a nod to the eighties, check my breath, do some push-ups to get my muscles popping, dim the lighting, spray some lavender (a much better aphrodisiac than Axe, my friend), and pour a couple of glasses of Lafite Rothschild or, you know, top-shelf vodka. Whatever the babe drinks.

  But honestly, I haven’t had a “foxy babe” over in forever because nobody has used that phrase since 1989. And I’m not planning on seducing Ash, because my Spidey sense is telling me that she’s freaked out. And to take advantage of that would make me a Prime, Grade-A Asshole, and that’s not me.

  I’m Grade-A Prime, but not an asshole.

  Besides, when the time is right, she can seduce me. When she’s ready. In the meantime, there’s always the shower, where I can lather up my cock, imagining it’s her hand wrapped around my dick. It will have to do. For now.

  So prepping for Ash’s arrival is a little different. I put on a soft flannel shirt that’s irresistible (organic cotton from Patagonia. Raised by virgin monks in an untouched valley somewhere). My breath is fine (good hygiene). Lighting is bright and safe. Instead of lavender, the house smells of homemade cookies. (Oatmeal. The best kind.)

  Back in the kitchen, I put on an apron. It was my grandmother’s, and it has gingerbread dudes on it. I cut a couple of limes for margaritas.

  Standing there at the counter, I allow myself the daydream of Ash coming home from work, finding me here waiting. I’m wearing the apron (but only an apron in my fantasy) to welcome her home. And plenty of skin and muscle to greet her. She’s had a long day at work and I’m there to welcome her to our home. She swings the kitchen door open, her first sight is my bare ass. “Oh, baby,” she says in a husky voice. “What’s for dinner?”

  “You’re the appetizer,” I answer. “Followed by me banging you on the countertop until your orgasmic screams bounce off the glass-tiled backsplash. Followed by chicken braised in wine and rosemary with garlic smashed potatoes, sesame green beans and a buttery white Bordeaux.”

  My fantasy life is very detailed. There will be lemon cake for dessert, with espresso. We’ll need our energy for round two.

  These good thoughts are interrupted by headlights in the driveway. I open the door, letting light spill out over the cobblestone path. I know Ash can see me, even if I’m only in silhouette. I turn and give a King Tut pose, because that’s a surefire way to let her know it’s me. I’m tempted to go to her and swoop her up in a big man-hug, but I’ve got to pace myself.

  Step one: She’s here.

  Step ten thousand: She stays.

  She turns off the headlights, turns
off the car, and I’m a little surprised when she walks briskly up to me. And by briskly, I mean, she could compete in one of those walk-marathons, where you go toe-heel toe-heel. She’s practically running. I open my arms to her, but she sidesteps me, walks inside, throws a huge bag on my couch and spins around.

  “Did you make cookies or are you fucking with me?”

  “Oatmeal. But you can’t have one.”

  “Why?” Her skin is all flushed and her blonde hair is down and sorta wild looking. She’s not a foxy babe. She’s the only babe.

  “Because it’s for dessert. I promised dinner. Pulled pork tacos, remember? I’ve been pulling pork for at least an hour. It’s exhausting and there’s no release. I will make you a drink, though.”

  “I’m not doing shots with you. Or…pulling…pork. My clothes stay on,” she says, and I’m glad to see that fight in her eyes again. Whatever spooked her is starting to slip away from her.

  “I’ll make you a margarita. On the rocks. And there’s plenty we can do with our clothes on.” I waggle my perfect eyebrows at her (no monobrow here—my stylist would be appalled).

  She gives me a look that is pretty much like Cyclops in X-Men gives to unsuspecting enemies before he zaps the shit out of them. I am not unsuspecting, though. “Plenty of things we can do with our clothes on like…play Scrabble?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Canasta?”

  She actually harrumphs.

  “Chick flick marathon?”

  I see it in her eyes. I’ve got her number.

  She says: “Okay. But I’ll make the margaritas. You do the tacos.”

  She’s angry even when she compromises. It’s fucking adorable.

  “Deal,” I say. “Let me just tighten my apron, honey bear.” I wink at her.

  Ash

  He fucking winks at me! I laugh a little, dammit, because I can’t help it. Being around Braht is like being in front of a fire watching Golden Girls reruns. It’s weirdly comforting, at least tonight.

  He literally does keep that apron on. Who does that? At first I think it has cars on it, but when I look at it, his apron is peppered with little gingerbread men. And gingerbread women. And…are they doing it? No. It’s just my sexually frustrated brain in action.