The Blind Date

by Alice Ward

  His dark skin looked a little ashen as he sat slumped in his chair. His baseball cap was on backward, and an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants hung from his frame. With his too-dark Risky Business sunglasses perched on his nose, he looked more like the Fresh Prince of Bel Air than the billionaire heir to his father’s boutique hotel dynasty, Witt Resorts.

  “Wow, man, you look like shit,” I said to him, grinning as I slid into the leather chair and picked up the menu.

  He grinned back. “Get this.” He held out his hands in front of him as if trying to frame the picture for me. “Twins. Chanel and Chaely. Both double E with legs…” he whistled, “that went on for miles.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. The lucky son of a bitch always had the most entertaining stories when I wasn’t with him, I had to wonder if he made them up. “And…?”

  “You weren’t with me,” he said, leaning back in his chair and removing sunglasses to reveal two horribly bloodshot eyes. “So I had to take them both. At once.” He splayed a hand over his heart. “A tough job, but someone had to do it.”

  I shook my head, still grinning at him. “You dog. What’d you do with them after?”

  “That’s the best fucking part.” He looked around and leaned in conspiratorially. “They’re still upstairs.”

  I scanned the menu, even though I always got the same thing… a gin rickey to drink and the New York sirloin with loaded baked potato. “How is that good? You don’t usually go for repeat engagements.”

  He shrugged and gave me a smug smile. This was the main reason my first order of business when I took over the reins at Vaughn was to make him a board member. He could make those excruciatingly long meetings a lot more tolerable. “Yeah, well, getting soft in my old age.”

  I smirked as the waiter came, and we placed our usual orders. I supposed only one ménage à trois in a weekend was kind of soft for the man who single-handedly ruled the Manhattan party scene. We were Harvard buddies and had always liked the same things: making money, fucking, and drinking to excess. Over the years, though, the making money thing had started to take over in importance. Sooner or later, you realized that partying each night was like being on a hamster wheel. It didn’t really get you much out of life.

  At least, I’d realized that. Mentally, Gavin was still a twenty-one-year-old undergrad.

  Not that I didn’t wish I’d been with him last night. It was sad that now it was enough just to live vicariously through my best friend. Because fuck it, I liked sex. And I’d been so nose-to-the-grindstone that… hell, when was the last time I’d been laid?

  Shit. If Gavin was going soft, I’d already been reduced to pudding.

  As if reading my mind, Gavin quirked an eyebrow at me. “So when the fuck was the last time you were laid, brother?”

  I shrugged. “Last week.”

  He snorted. “Hell no. Remember? Last week you had that thing for your father in Florida. You’re wound like a fucking top. I can always tell when you’ve been laid because it gets that stick out of your ass. But right now, it’s wedged so far up there we could hang you in a field to scare off crows, man.”

  I ignored the verbal barb and let out a breath, scanning my mental calendar for the last time I did have any sort of fun. “Well. Last weekend. I don’t know. The last time we went out. You know. That redhead with the tits?”

  It had been a good night. Not a good morning. She was every man’s fantasy when I took her to bed, and when she woke up, and I saw her in the light of day, I realized all the cracks in her façade. She was vacant and fake. Fake tits. Fake lips. Fake ass. A gallon of makeup smeared all over the pillowcase. Not that she needed that much. She was pretty without it, but it was something else that I couldn’t handle sober. Her laugh. She had an annoying laugh, like a buzz saw that sounded with each word I said. I’d politely shown her the door, deflecting when she hinted that she wanted my phone number.

  Gavin laughed. “That was the last time? You realize that was three months ago?”

  Fuck, was it?

  Right. It had been right around when I’d taken over the reins at Vaughn. I thought we’d gone out to celebrate.

  My drink came, and I downed half of it in the first gulp. I motioned to the waiter to bring me another because I was going to need it. Just the mention of sex had me horny. Hell, maybe it had been three months.

  That was pathetic. I was in the prime of my life.

  “Shit. I just don’t have the time these days,” I said ruefully. “I’ll make it up. This weekend.”

  I snapped my fingers. This weekend I had a team-building retreat with R&D to oversee, to help them get their heads out of their asses.

  “Next weekend,” I corrected.

  “You realize you’ve been saying that for three months,” he said, starting on his fourth glass of water. “You need to cut the work shit and get yourself laid, boy. Otherwise, you’re going to end up like your dad.”

  I knew it. My dad, always so nose to the grindstone that he’d had a heart attack at fifty, and two more before he hit sixty-five and retired. He had a shitty ticker, yes, but it was always in the back of my mind that I could work myself too hard and end up the same way. After all, I wasn’t a kid anymore.

  “Right. But…” I scrubbed my hands over my face, thinking of it. Thinking of the shit I’d have to go through, just to get that lay. “I don’t know. I’m tired of the game.”

  “The game?” He stared at me like I had three heads. “Shit, that’s the best part. What are you on?”

  “You know. I’m tired of having to play nice with boring-as-shit socialites who only care about their fucking manicures. Taking a woman to bed and then being texted to hell and stalked before she gets the idea that I don’t fucking want a relationship. I just want an easy, no-strings fuck.”

  He dropped his jaw for effect and looked around the place as if looking for someone to confirm I’d gone nuts. Gavin was a drama king. He always made his every expression bigger than it needed to be.

  “What the hell? You’re Zachary Fucking Vaughn, Snack Cake King and all-around legendary lady killer. I’ve seen you in action. If a man like you has a hard time finding a fuck, then we’re all in trouble.” His voice was rising so loud that people at other tables were starting to look. “Last I heard, you had a cell phone contacts list full of booty calls at your disposal. What about that one girl, Ruth? The one with that ass?”

  Yeah, once, I’d had at least a dozen women at the ready. When I’d been hot on the scene, anyway. I had a nice collection of college-aged women who just wanted to hop into bed and didn’t care about commitment. But gradually, they’d moved on. Most of them were married now, some with kids. “Ruth and her ass married a dentist.”

  “Shit, really?”

  I nodded. “Her wedding was last year. Shockingly, I was not invited to it.”

  Our food came. I zeroed in on the steak, smothering it in steak sauce, then dropped the whole tub of butter and sour cream onto my baked potato. I’d double up my reps in the gym later.

  Gavin snapped his fingers, making the older woman at the next table jump. “Hire an escort.”

  I gave her a sorry look before piercing him with my stare. “What?”

  He shrugged. “You have the funds, man. There are places that cater to rich assholes like you. Remember?”

  Sure, I remembered. I used an escort service when I first became of age in college, when it was new and shiny. The women had been ridiculously hot. And yes, no-commitment. They were out of my bed with a smile as soon as I handed them the envelope with the cash. But these days, I didn’t need to pay for a woman. I had too many women throwing themselves at me to even consider such an idea.

  “Well, you want no commitments. They’re no commitments,” Gavin said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “And I know this one place. The girls are at least five thousand dollars a night. And worth it in every respect. They. Are. Beautiful. Inhumanly so.”

  He made a motion like he was squee
zing two tits in front of him, and bit on his lower lip, jutting his tongue out suggestively. The old lady at the table next to us blanched. Seriously, I couldn’t take him anywhere.

  “I don’t think so,” I said as I looked over his shoulder and saw two very scantily clad women, almost like identical bookends, bouncing toward us. They were both blonde, tall, and stuck out like very hot sore thumbs. They had every eye in the place on them. So, he hadn’t just made it up. Shit. I grinned. “I think your friends are here.”

  He donned his sunglasses again, as if that would help him hide. It didn’t work. He turned around as they surrounded him, their hands running all over his broad shoulders and thick arms.

  “Hey, girls,” he said, annoyed. “Can’t a man get some food with a friend in peace?”

  “But we want you,” they said in unison, their hands running up and down his chest as they cooed close to his ears. One of them kissed his earlobe, sucking it between her thick pink lips. “Come on. We miss you so much.”

  He shrugged and pushed away from the table. “It’s a tough job, but I’m up for it,” he said under his breath.

  I mock saluted him. “Be all that you can be.”

  The girls looked up at me. “Who’s your friend?” one said, licking her lips.

  I shook my head. Orgies weren’t my thing.

  He started to let himself be guided away by the bouncing women in their high heels, when he turned and whisper-shouted, “Escort. Get some, man. Do it for me.”

  By the time they left the dining room, he already had his hands on their asses, and the old lady was staring daggers at me.

  I finished the rest of my steak and drink, thinking of the possibilities. I could just go back to my apartment and take care of my pent-up sexual tension myself, but that seemed lonely. Empty. No, Gavin was right. At the rate I was going, my cock might end up shriveling on my body and falling off from disuse. I needed to stretch that muscle.

  I pulled out my phone, opened it to the internet browser, and typed in, Escort services – Manhattan.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Juliana

  I threw up my hands for the thousandth time that Friday night, wondering what the hell had gotten into me.

  Why had I agreed to this again? When it came right down to it, I liked being home alone, with Hobbes and my favorite vegan frozen yogurt. In fact, right then, that sounded like a heavenly night.

  But no. I had to go out. On a blind date. That I not only stupidly agreed to but had initiated.

  Dumb, dumb, dumb. I wanted to stab myself with the hanger as I held a dress in front of me. God, could I look any more like a schoolmarm? I grabbed a blouse out of the closet and a flowy white circle skirt, my standard go-tos for an evening out. The outfit was nice enough to be dressy, but not too dressy. Perfect.

  But when I put it on, I groaned. It was like another Attack of the Schoolmarm was coming on. Apparently, the answer to “could I look any more like a schoolmarm” was a resounding yes.

  I ripped the blouse off and stared at myself again in the mirror, repeating You are not a frump over and over again to myself, hoping all that positive self-talk would sink in. If I was a sexy goddess, what would I wear?

  I knew what I had to do. Of course. I pulled back on the circle skirt and blouse, stood in front of the mirror, and took my picture. Then I peeled the outfit off, put on a little black sundress, and… whoa, had it shrunk? It barely covered my ass. I took a picture of it anyway, and texted them both to Leah, along with Which one?

  Predictably, she said, The black. You look like an old lady in the other.

  I groaned and typed. Too short. You can see my ass cheeks.

  So? Perfect.

  I shook my head. Leah was never afraid to show a little — actually, a lot — of skin. She had the body for it, willowy and lithe like a dancer’s. Her body was made to show off. Mine? I’d been so used to hiding all my life that anything remotely bare outside of the gym just felt too revealing. Though the fat was gone, I still hadn’t quite gotten over all my hang-ups enough to show myself off. I needed constant cheerleading.

  But no, really. I would never be able to pull off the black in public. I didn’t know how I’d let Leah talk me into buying it. Oh, that’s right. I didn’t. She’d given it to me as a birthday present last year.

  Tapping my finger to my chin, I rummaged through the hangers of outfits in my closet. Finally, I pulled out a dark maroon colored halter top and a pair of skinny jeans. I threw them on with a pair of ballet flats and whirled in front of the mirror. Maybe…

  I snapped my picture and sent it to Leah with the comment: Playing it safe?

  Safe is boring, but you look fab, she came back a moment later. You going to meet him soon?

  I jabbed in, We’re meeting at Terra at 7:30.

  Yay! I want details afterward.

  She knew our plans, of course. We’d been talking about her brother’s college roommate’s cousin, Zachary Something-or-other, who was, supposedly, such a god it seemed impossible that a man with his perfection was still single. He was a successful businessman, thirtyish, lived in Manhattan, had a cat of his own, and looked like Chris Pratt. She said she would have gone out with him herself, but her brother insisted she wasn’t his type. I kept saying he must be gay, but Leah insisted that he wasn’t and was excited to meet me.

  I figured she was embellishing on all counts.

  There had to be something wrong with him. A serial killer, probably.

  I’ll text you if I survive, I typed in, giving myself another glance in the mirror. What if he hates the way I look?

  He won’t. Tom showed him your picture, and he said you were cute.

  I’d wanted to see pictures of Zachary, but the only one Leah could scrounge up of him — the one that had led her to declare him really cute — was from when he was in high school. He looked fine, for a kid with moderate acne, I guess. But I knew a lot of things could happen to a man in twelve years, and not all of them were good.

  Ugh. But what if I don’t like him?

  We both knew that wouldn’t be the case. I didn’t feel meh on many things, especially men. I either hated or loved, and when I fell, I fell hard. Leah always joked I was borderline OCD, Only Cares Deeply. About certain causes, and certain men. The problem was, the men I fell for? I hadn’t yet had one do me the favor of reciprocating those feelings.

  Stop. Get out there, woman. You’re a man-eater. Go get him.

  Right. Rawr. Clenching my fists, I repeated those words in my head as I grabbed my special date-night purse I never used and checked that it had everything I needed inside. Lip gloss, check. Green Tic Tacs, check. Unzipping the side pocket, I slipped my wallet and apartment key inside. With that done, I took a deep breath and headed out the door.

  I was early, as usual. Where most of the world was fashionably late to everything, that didn’t exist in my vocabulary. It was part of the discipline, something I prided myself on, along with working out every day and minding what I ate. Having a regimen in those areas helped me stick to all my other commitments. Plus, I figured that if I got there early, I could get a table in the corner, have a drink, and scope him out as he came in.

  I got to Terra at seven, when the place was still relatively quiet and empty, since whatever happened in New York didn’t really start until much later. The hostess led me to the perfect out-of-the-way table in the corner, where I sat facing the door. I ordered a glass of water since I thought it’d be a bad idea to meet this stranger at anything less than one-hundred-percent sober. Then I pulled out a copy of the book I was reading, an Agatha Christie mystery entitled The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. I was actually a sucker for tawdry romances, but I wasn’t sure I wanted my blind date to catch me reading one, lest he think I was eager to reenact some key scenes on our first meeting. That could be awkward.

  I sipped my water and looked about surreptitiously. All right. Come at me, lover boy, and let’s see what you’re made of.

  Somehow, I managed to drown ou
t the sounds of people chatting, yelling, having fun enough to get seriously into the book. Christie books always required extra brain cells because there were so many characters to sort out, but I managed to settle in, and by the time someone tapped my shoulder, I looked up, surprised to see that I wasn’t in my bed with Hobbes at my side.

  It was a tall guy in a cowboy hat, all leather skin, and jowls. Definitely not from around here. I could tell that much, and he hadn’t even opened his mouth.

  If this was Zachary, cute, successful Chris Pratt look-alike, I was going to scream. And murder Leah the next time I saw her.

  “Hey, you,” he said with a sultry southern accent, and though I had precious little experience at being picked up in bars, I knew that What’s a sweet thing like you doing here all alone? was next. Ugh.

  No, this couldn’t be my blind date. Leah had high standards and twenty-twenty vision. This guy was at least twenty years older than me, drunk, and clearly no Chris Pratt.

  Before he could say any more, I held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Me?” he asked, leaning forward until I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

  I smiled, trying not to be overly rude. “Sorry. Have a nice night,” I said before burying my face in my book again.

  Thankfully, he got the hint and sidled back to the bar, where a group of other cowboys were waiting for him, razzing him for his crash and burn with me. I hadn’t noticed earlier, but I guessed they’d all been watching our little exchange. After he went back, the cowboys kept looking at me, giving me grins until a group of rowdy bachelorette party girls came in, blocking me from their view and detouring their attention. Whew.

  Moments later, after I’d read another chapter, I felt another presence hovering over me.

  I knew it. This was it.

  Steeling myself to make it through the next few awkward moments, I lifted my eyes, expecting to see Chris Pratt the second, or a reasonable facsimile. But it was the waitress, refilling my empty glass from a pitcher. “Can I get you anything, hon?” she said to me sweetly.