Man Card

by Sarina Bowen

“Yup!” Sadie says cheerfully. “Honest to God, they should take away my therapist’s license. Who needs a therapist who can’t see all these red flags?”

  “Hey! That’s not fair,” I insist. “Because you’re not having sex with your clients’ families. It’s sex that confuses everything. You couldn’t see Dick-her’s flaws because you saw his dick instead. You used to tell us that the sex was really good. When there are pheromones in the air, it makes everything cloudy like fog on your glasses. But better.”

  “Steve never made me tingle,” Brynn argues.

  “Right. And that’s why your breakup was less of a shock. She who does not tingle has the presence of mind to end things herself.”

  Sadie smiles at me. “Then you must be our most avid tingler. I didn’t notice he was sexing up the nanny. But you didn’t see illegal activity and embezzlement.”

  “Well…” Cough. She has a point.

  “Ha! That does explain a lot,” Sadie says.

  “We never liked him,” Brynn adds sadly.

  “I know, okay! This formula needs a sex variable. The better the sex, the more you’re willing to ignore.”

  Which means that I can’t possibly see Braht’s flaws. He’s already erased part of my brain with his dick.

  I behaved just the same way with Dwight, who was really attentive in bed. I rushed our relationship. I didn’t listen to my friends. On some level I knew eloping in Vegas was dumb. Part of me knew he’d suggested it to avoid my family’s scrutiny.

  “I knew he wasn’t a great person,” I admit. “He would have tried to sleaze the cable guy out of some extra equipment. You don’t really need those wrenches, right?”

  My friends laugh. “So how good was the sex?” Sadie wants to know. “I’m picturing a nine-inch penis that vibrates on several different settings.”

  “Not nine inches at all. His dick was like him: short and stocky. And it didn’t have any mechanical advantages,” I say slowly. Dwight was a handsome guy, but he wasn’t extraordinary. Ever since our horrible breakup I’ve been wondering why it was so easy for him to keep me under his spell. “Dwight was more about…enthusiasm over technique or equipment. He was so damned confident. Always in charge. My job was just to go along with it, and I was perfectly fine with that. I gave him everything he ever asked for: my coochie, my self-esteem. My bank account number.”

  And then my job. Dwight had actually stolen from the commercial real estate development firm where I worked. Which was how I ended up unemployed.

  The only saving grace of his demise was that his overconfidence led him to take foolish risks. He signed checks with my name, but when they were examined, the signatures weren’t even close. Over the course of forty-eight very bad hours I was interrogated and then quickly released.

  He was so certain of getting away with everything that he didn’t bother doing a good job covering his tracks.

  “Oh honey,” Brynn says. “Those weren’t great years. But you are a badass for putting him in jail and then getting on with your life.”

  “I thought I was,” I say slowly. “But now that he’s out, I’m not quite so sure I really did that. I’m still dragging them around with me, damn him!”

  “If it’s any comfort, you’re not alone,” Sadie says. “Half of my practice is people still trying to distance themselves from horrible people in their pasts.” She frowns. “No, not 50%. It’s more like 90%.”

  “Who does that leave?” Brynn asks.

  “The woman who thinks the squirrels run the country with her long-dead twin brother. And another guy who thinks his toaster is watching him.”

  “See, Ash? It could always be worse,” Brynn says.

  I nod because it could be. Sadie puts her head on the table. Brynn reaches for her hand and I rub her back. We just sit like that for a moment. This shit is hard, but at least we’re in it together.

  19 Really Good Gin

  Braht

  Earlier, when I pulled up to Hill House and saw Ash, my first reaction was, “What the hell?” But my second reaction was “Hell yes!”

  I love it when she one-ups me. She gets all fiery. For a while there, I was worried that this Dwight/Dweeb situation was going to extinguish that light in her for good, but he hasn’t. And he won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.

  So I’m actually glad she’s out with her friends tonight. Everyone deserves to hang out with their besties. I’ve got Tom when I need him and Bramly is always in the background.

  I’m lounging at home when Ash texts me a picture of her and Sadie and Brynn. They look shiny and happy. So I text Ash a picture of me, in bed, wearing silk. All artists make difficult choices so I opt to crop out the gin and tonic and the crackling fire in favor of a close-up of my crotch.

  That’s artistic, too.

  I’m thinking luxurious, horny thoughts when I spy something out the window. It’s a tiny red light out there in the darkness.

  The kind you see on a camera.

  For a moment I don’t really react. I take another sip of my gin and tonic (it’s Plymouth gin, my favorite. Because cheap gin is a crime). I glance around the room, wondering if something in here could cause a reflection.

  But no. Nothing of mine should be shining on the window. And anyway, I know what I’m seeing. There’s someone outside my bedroom window.

  My heart rate doubles, but I set the drink carefully down on my nightstand (quarter sawn oak. A Stickley reproduction.) Then I ease myself out of bed and walk calmly to the door of my room.

  Jumping out of the window won’t work this time, because I’m on the second floor. So I dart down my stairs, slide on my Guccis and exit hastily through the front door. As soon as I’m outside, I can hear him.

  Footsteps running away, toward the back of my property.

  Shit.

  I give chase, but when I round the corner of the house, he’s already out of sight. So I reverse course, walking out to the quiet street instead. I live in a neighborhood with three- and four-stall garages. So unless someone’s having a party, there are rarely cars parked on the street.

  And yet there’s an aging ’72 El Camino muscle car, the kind of car that’s like a mullet: business in the front, party in the back, parked three houses away.

  I trot right over there, memorizing the license plate number on my way. I keep my head up because I don’t need this asshole surprising me in the dark. The streetlamp gives me just enough light to make out a camera case on the back seat.

  Shit.

  I stand there and look around for a while, waiting. That fucker is probably somewhere in the shadows watching me. And I’ve left my own house unattended.

  So the only thing to do is go home and lock the door. Which I do. But then I get out my computer and Google private detectives.

  Ash might not like me meddling. But she gave me the idea in the first place when she mentioned her friend Sadie.

  I can’t sit here and do nothing. If I call the cops with a vague report that someone pointed a camera into my bedroom, there won’t be a thing they can do. They’re going to assume I’m paranoid.

  A PI will care, though, because I’ll pay him to care.

  The first guy I dial picks up on the first ring, too. “This is Hank Miller. How can I help you?” His voice sounds like life has kicked him around a bit, and then he turned around and sucker-punched life out. He scares me a little.

  He’s perfect.

  “Hi, Hank. I need to know if my girlfriend’s jackass of an ex-con ex-husband is stalking us, and why. I’m going to give you a name and a license plate number, for starters.”

  There’s a pause. “This case isn’t about cheating?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  “They’re all about cheating. I get so tired of shooting pics of guys’ bare butts.”

  Huh. “This case does not involve any bare butts,” I assure him. “But if it’s all the same to you, let’s get this license plate down on paper. I have some very good gin to drink.”

  “I h
ear that,” he says and I can actually hear the ice clink in his glass.

  An hour later I hear my garage door open. And a minute after that, Ash enters the kitchen looking disheartened. “Whatcha drinking?” she asks. “Actually, I don’t care what it is. But make mine a double.” She tosses her coat onto a stool and heads for the living room, then sits down heavily on the sofa.

  “Rough night?” I ask while double-checking my home security system. And I’ve already shut all the drapes in the house. I can’t decide whether or not to spill my guts about spotting that camera outside. I’ll tell her everything I know, of course. It’s just that I won’t know more until the PI gets a chance to do his thing.

  “The roughest. Poor Sadie.”

  I sit down next to her and she puts her head on my shoulder. “Men are such assholes,” I say.

  She chuckles. “You don’t have to be a traitor to your people.”

  “Well. Men make up at least half the assholes on the planet. So it’s true no matter what.” I know quite a few of them, too. My father, for starters.

  Ash doesn’t comment. She only snuggles closer.

  I pull her into my arms and sigh. We’re both a little down. Obviously. That explains why we’re not tearing each other’s clothes off, and why my dick is, well, down.

  I take a breath of her fruity scent and realize that this is nice, too. Very nice.

  “Braht?”

  “Hmm?” And, whoops. Spoke too soon. I chub up just from hearing her say my name in that breathy voice.

  “My parents have invited us to the cottage for a couple of days.”

  Oh. “When?”

  “Tomorrow night. Mom says she wants us to spend time there once more before they close it down for the season. I’m on the fence. I should be showing the heck out of Hill House, but it would be good to get away. I could make excuses for you and go alone.”

  “I’ll go,” I hear myself say.

  She lifts her face to look at me. “Really? Because you could also sell the listing out from under me while I’m gone. I probably deserve it.”

  “You probably do.” I put a finger on her nose. “But I’m not sure it matters. Dennie’s showing went really well. That young couple wants to tear it down.”

  “That’s so tricky,” she protests.

  “It is, unless you’re two married architects who can design a showy new home on the old one’s exact footprint.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh. Shit.”

  “Yeah. I think we’ll have an offer by morning.”

  She puts her head down on my shoulder again. “Fucking Dennie. He couldn’t sell an oasis to thirsty nomads.”

  “Life is unfair. On the other hand, this means we can go have more cottage sex.” I give her a squeeze. “I have fond memories of that little bed.”

  “You’ll have to go there as Hunter again,” she says to my neck. “That’s weird.”

  Oh, Ash. You have no idea. “Wouldn’t you know? I’m already used to it.”

  20 Weiner and Balls

  Ash

  I think I’m depressed. It’s got nothing to do with Dennie selling our listing. It’s actually cute to see him walking around the office all puffed up like a peacock. “Guess who sold a house? Me! This guy right here! In your face, Braht!”

  I honestly think it’s the first house he’s ever sold. Mostly he’s just in the office to notarize things and pick up Starbucks. So, good for him.

  What’s depressing is that Dennie’s sale leaves Braht and me neck and neck on the leaderboard. Nothing is decided, and I’m still on edge.

  Damn Braht.

  I’m also a little jealous of the couple who are buying Hill House. That will cost a wad. Must be nice to have so much money that you can buy a house for a fortune, tear it down, and then spend another fortune rebuilding. All I do is worry about money, and I can’t tell my parents because then they’ll try to help.

  The clock is ticking on year end, too. Even if I got a new listing right this minute, it might not close in time to count. But I won’t give up yet. I’m not a greedy girl. But I have needs. All I want is enough money for my home, some quality appetizers at happy hour, and a security system.

  Okay. And a day at the spa. I really feel like I’ve earned that after powering through all my Dwight-induced stress.

  One surprising bright light in all of this murkiness is the cottage trip with Braht. No—Hunter. It will feel ridiculous to spend another night calling him by the wrong name.

  I wish I’d been honest from the start and just told my parents the truth. I had a million chances to come clean, but I stuck with the delusion. Obviously I’m good at those.

  And then Braht slipped so seamlessly into the role that it stunned me. When my parents call him Hunter he turns immediately at the sound of that name. It’s kind of freaky what a good actor he is.

  Braht is pretty much good at everything.

  And I mean everything.

  I’m worried I might be falling for the fashionable fucker.

  Fuck.

  It’s November, and the highway scenery is just breathtaking. The trees are almost bare of color, but what’s left is stunning: bright yellows, reds, a lick of piney green. It’s like the forest sets itself on fire for a couple of weeks and then rises from the ashes in the spring.

  I should do that, too. Okay—I don’t actually want to set myself on fire. But somehow I will rise from the ashes of this shitty situation and emerge stronger on the other side.

  What stickers would work for this? A phoenix, maybe. And do they make washi tape with tiny little ass-kickings depicted on it?

  “You are deep in thought,” Braht remarks. He reaches across the car and puts his hand on my thigh. Literally right on my thigh because I’m wearing boots, a skirt, tall, cable-knit socks and a cashmere sweater.

  And now that warm hand is starting to slide northward, under the hem of my skirt, and slowly dancing over to the seam of my panties.

  “Braht…” I warn, a little breathily. I’m actually driving, so it isn’t safe to turn me on right now.

  “What? You just seem really serious and you scare me when you’re serious so I thought I’d lighten the mood.”

  His finger ventures further, that fucker. He lightly circles my clit, and the only thing protecting me from instant orgasm is a thin layer of cotton and about ninety seconds. “Stop!” I say, but laughing. “I am not getting into a car accident.”

  “At least you’re wearing nice underwear. So if the ambulance comes, they’ll say, ‘wow, she’s wearing nice underwear. She must be a good girl. Not the kind who pulls over to let a guy fuck her in the back seat.’”

  “None of that,” I say. Sadly, his fingers retreat. I miss them already. “Later you can have your filthy way with me.”

  He smiles at that and we drive up the steep hill and park.

  When we get to the door, though, a sense of doom lands swiftly on my shoulders like a lead blanket. “What’s wrong?” Braht asks.

  I take a deep breath, just to confirm. “Oh god, Braht…”

  “Hunter,” he reminds me.

  “Hunter…” I turn to him and in a stage whisper I say: “Take a whiff.”

  He does. “Ehm?” He looks really confused. “What is that? Did the sewer back up?”

  I shake my head. “It’s worse. That’s my mother’s cooking.”

  Braht

  * * *

  I am a strong man. I really am. But this is going to be a test of my fake boyfriend skills. I sort of thought Ash was joking last month when she told me that only her father could cook. I mean, that apple pie her mom made was amazing, so I thought maybe Stuart was just giving Beth a break by doing all the other cooking.

  Now I understand the enormous error I’ve made.

  “Soup’s on!” Beth says. Stuart is in the living room and we suddenly hear Frank Sinatra singing to us in surround sound. Everything is lovely so long as you’ve lost your sense of smell. I grab hold of Ash’s hand because she’s actually shiv
ering.

  “So, Ma,” she says. “Why did you cook tonight?”

  Beth doesn’t answer right away. There’s some banging, an “ouch,” and a puff of smoke. She’s forbidden us to help, so we’re both sort of watching in polite horror.

  Stuart comes in and sits down. “I just wasn’t in the mood,” he says. My Spidey sense is telling me that something is going on in the Power household. My Spidey sense also tells me to be quiet and ride it out. Ash squeezes my leg and confirms my instinct.

  “Here you go,” Beth says proudly. “Guests first!” and she hands me a plate. I just…I can’t…and I have to hold in a giggle. I really do. Grown men cry and grown men giggle and this is worth a giggle for sure, because there are two boiled potatoes on my plate and a terrifyingly long…what the fuck is that?

  “Kielbasa!” Beth says. “I took a class and we made our own! Handling that meat was a little troublesome, but Chef Rinaldo says I did a great job.”

  I set the plate down in front of me. And just blink. It’s a long, reddish-purplish kielbasa with two white potato balls at the bottom. I swear to god, we’re having dick for dinner.

  I look to Ash and gulp. She’s smiling at me. “Try some sauerkraut with it,” she says, then whispers, “You’ll need it.” And then she thunks down an enormous spoonful of the stuff on my plate.

  I wait for everyone to sit down at the table before taking a tentative, dainty bite. And it crunches. The kielbasa crunches! A sausage should not crunch. I look back to Ash in horror and she nods and takes a very long sip of water.

  This is a crossroads. The choices are bleak. Either I offend Beth by passing up her cooking. Or I offend my digestive system by remaining the perfect boyfriend so that Ash will eventually understand that I really am here for her.

  Panic grips me, because it’s a difficult choice. I need Ash. I value her. Yet I also value my intestines.

  But then I do a little more cost-benefit analysis and realize I can relax. The path is clear. Some temporary discomfort would be worth a lifetime of Ash. So I will eat this meal. And smile. And love it. Every single horrible bite.