by Lila Monroe
That’s it.
I bolt to my feet, eyes tearing up with laughter. “Why don’t I go order those drinks?” I blurt, then hurry blindly across the room. I barely manage to reach the bar before I explode in hysterics.
So much for true love!
“At least someone’s having a good night.”
The familiar voice makes me look over. It’s Dylan, sitting nearby at the bar—and he’s looking worse for wear. His usually artful hair is sticking out at different angles, and he’s got two-day stubble on his jaw. Which, of course, only makes him look hotter, in a disheveled, bad-boy way. But still, I’m surprised to see him like this.
And even more surprised that he seems to be alone.
“Hi,” I blurt, confused. “Shouldn’t you be out showering Jasmine with rose petals and designer vegan leather handbags?”
“She said no,” Dylan says morosely. “No to drinks, no to the Catskills, no to me.”
“Ohh . . .” I exhale, struck with sympathy. Sure, Dylan is a chronic manwhore. But clearly, he’s a chronic manwhore with feelings. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sure, to be missing out on your payday.”
“No, I didn’t mean that,” I frown. “I know you like her, and rejection sucks.”
Dylan sighs. “Yup. Want a drink? The only thing more depressing than drowning my sorrows is doing it alone.”
“I wish. But I’m on a date,” I explain. “A doomed, hilarious date. And in about five minutes, I’m going to have to come up with a reason to blow him off that doesn’t include erotic poetry.”
Dylan looks confused.
“I’ll explain later.” I glance back across the room to where Chris is tapping happily on his phone. Probably composing another ode to those round, luscious cheeks . . .
Dylan follows my gaze. “If you want an excuse to ditch the guy, I’m happy to oblige.”
“Really?” I brighten. “That would be great. I’m terrible at letting people down gently. I feel so guilty, I just wind up complimenting them so much they think I’m asking them to be exclusive.”
Dylan gives me a familiar smirk. “Luckily for you, I don’t share that problem.”
“Oh, I know so.” I snort. “I’m the one who has to send the apologetic breakup notes, remember?”
“So I owe you.” Dylan downs his whiskey and gives me a nod. “Go sit back down, I’ll be over in a minute.”
I follow his instructions and rejoin Chris at the table. “Everything OK?” he asks.
“Sure,” I lie. “But you know, I rethought the next drink. You see, it’s getting late . . .”
“You want to get out of here?” Chris looks eager. “We can catch that full moon.”
Before I can reply—thank God—Dylan appears at the table. ”I can’t believe you!” he exclaims loudly.
I blink. “Umm, what?”
“How could you bring him here? To our restaurant?” His voice rises, loud enough to draw stares from the other tables.
“Dylan—” I hiss, completely baffled. “I don’t—”
“No!” he roars. “I don’t care if you think it’s over, I love you! I won’t stand by and see you with somebody else!”
What the hell is happening?
“Now, wait a second,” Chris tries to interrupt, but Dylan is getting into the theatrics now and won’t even pause for breath.
“You broke my heart, Poppy Hathaway! But if you love me, we can walk out the door together and never say another word about it.”
“Dylan!” I hiss again, shocked. Just how many drinks has he had?
“Out that door,” Dylan repeats, giving me a meaningful look. “Right now.”
“Oh!”
This is the escape plan he was talking about! My chance to bow out gracefully, without telling Chris exactly why he won’t be seeing my . . . full moon anytime soon.
I eagerly leap to my feet. “Yes! Darling!” I exclaim. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. He means nothing to me. You’re the only one!” I shoot an apologetic look at Chris. “Sorry!” I say quickly, throwing some bills down. “But, you know, true love can’t be denied. You’ll just have to enjoy that moon solo!”
And I grab Dylan’s hand and follow him out the restaurant, leaving poor Chris—and his pale cheeks—behind.
7
Poppy
Two margaritas later, I’ve come clean about the whole humiliating date: full moon and all. Dylan explodes in laughter, and I can’t help it either.
“I don’t want to judge!” I protest, giggling. “I mean, the heart wants what the heart wants. But something tells me that I’m not going to be able to give Chris what he . . . needs most in a relationship.”
“You think it would be better to put the date behind you?” Dylan smirks. “Leave it in the rearview mirror?”
I groan and shove him. “You’re never going to let me hear the end of this, are you?”
“I’m sorry,” Dylan laughs, then tries to stop. “You’re right. I’m just being cheeky.”
“Just for that, you’re buying the next round,” I inform him archly. Or at least, it would be arch if I wasn’t already tipsy, because as usual, the tequila has gone straight to my head.
“That’s the thanks I get for being your knight in shining armor?” Dylan demands, fake-wounded.
“I hate to break it to you, but your armor isn’t looking so shiny,” I reply, teasing. “How long were you propping up that bar?”
“Not long enough.” Dylan waves down the bartender and orders another round for the both of us. The girl behind the bar is tall and tattooed, and in no time at all, is scribbling her number on a napkin and sliding it across to him.
I shake my head in disbelief—and awe. “See? You don’t need to be moping around over Jasmine, you’ve got women throwing themselves at your feet at every turn!”
“It’s not the same,” Dylan sighs, still looking mournful, even as he tucks the napkin in his shirt pocket. “I’ve been waiting to go out with her for fifteen years.”
“Seriously?” I ask, but he just slides a shot glass over to me.
“Let’s make things interesting . . .” he says with a dangerous smile on his face. Uh-oh. I may be tipsy, but I haven’t taken leave of my senses completely. Because that smile?
It’s trouble.
“Tequila is plenty interesting enough for me, thanks,” I reply, taking a sip.
“Aww, come on,” Dylan urges teasingly. “We’ve worked together . . . how long is it now? And I barely know a thing about you.”
“Thirteen,” I inform him, sipping my tequila. I look around. “Are there snacks here? I want snacks.”
“Thirteen what?”
“That’s how many different women you’ve commissioned me to seduce,” I tell him. “Thirteen flirty messages, and extravagant flowers, and meaningful poems, and morning-after notes. I haven’t been on thirteen dates in the last five years!”
“Why not?” Dylan asks. “You’re pretty enough.”
“Pretty enough?” I snort with laughter at the faint praise. “Why, good sir, you’re too kind!”
“Shut up.” Dylan rolls his eyes. “You know you’re a catch.”
Umm, sure. “Apparently, the men of New York don’t agree,” I note. “But this isn’t about me.”
“It should be.” The bartender produces two more shots. Dylan nudges one closer.
I shake my head. “Any more, and you’ll be carrying me home.”
“I’ve been working out.” Dylan grins. “Besides, truth or dare always goes down better with tequila.”
“I’m not playing truth or dare with you!” I laugh.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re shameless,” I say. “So you’ll pick dare every time.”
“Then you better make them good ones,” Dylan says. “I’ll even let you go first . . .”
I take a sip and give him a sidelong look. I have to admit I am curious about this whole Jasmine thing. And if this is the way to get some answers out of h
im . . .
“OK,” I decide, trying to think of something devilish. “I dare you to get the bartender to change the music . . . to Justin Bieber.”
Dylan laughs. “Too easy.”
He gets up and strolls over to where she’s collecting empty glasses. I watch him lean over and turn the charm all the way up to 10. Damn him and his perfect roguish smile. If someone looked at me like that, I’d probably turn Belieber too.
Sure enough, she reaches behind the bar, and a moment later, a pop hit starts blasting.
“Mission accomplished,” Dylan says, sauntering back to join me. He looks so smug, I toss a peanut at him.
He catches it in his mouth. “Your turn . . .” he says, and that roguish smile turns downright devilish.
Uh-oh.
“Be gentle,” I beg. “I’ve been drinking on an empty stomach.”
“We can fix that.” Dylan offers me his hand, and I clamber down inelegantly from the stool. “You decide where to eat, and I’ll decide what deeply personal questions to ask you next.”
“This sounds like a hot dog situation,” I decide, my mouth already watering at the prospect of carbs.
“Classy lady.”
“Only the best two-dollar dogs for me.” I grin. “Onwards!”
* * *
We leave the bar and walk a couple of blocks over to a hole-in-the-wall spot that’s wafting the delicious scent of grease into the night. “Go on, do your worst,” I finally say, when I’ve inhaled a bacon chili-cheese dog and half an order of fries in thirty seconds flat.
Dylan grins. “Truth or dare?”
“You think I’d let you think up a dare? Ha.” I laugh. “Truth.”
Dylan looks thoughtful, and I brace myself for something wildly inappropriate.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Huh?
I blink. “You really want to know?” I ask.
“You certainly have a lot of opinions on it,” Dylan says wryly.
“Because it’s my job!”
Dylan shakes his head. “No, you really believe all the stuff you write. So, are you basing all this wisdom on experience, or . . . ?”
We start strolling, and I eat another handful of fries. “I thought I was in love . . .” I say finally, thinking of Tyler. “But looking back now . . . I don’t know what it was.” I sigh. “I hope that wasn’t love. What about you?”
Dylan shakes his head. “Never.”
“Because you never stay with anyone long enough to give them a chance,” I remind him.
“Or maybe they weren’t the one for me,” Dylan argues. “But Jasmine . . .” He stops, with a conflicted look on his face.
“It’s your turn,” I remind him. “Truth or dare. Spill.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I pick dare.”
“Of course you do.” I laugh.
“So, what will it be this time?” he smirks. “Inviting the cab driver to belt some Enya? Asking some bikers to get down to Ariana Grande?”
“Oh no,” I tell him, catching sight of a neon sign across the street. “I’ve been playing too easy. This one is going to be fun . . .”
I lead him across the street and down some stairs, to a packed, noisy dive bar with a large doorman minding the entrance. “What’s the big occasion?” I ask, raising my voice so we can be heard over the hoots and hollering coming from inside.
“Friday night dance contest,” the guy replies. My grin widens.
“Did you hear that?” I turn to Dylan. “I hope you’re wearing your dancing shoes.”
Dylan doesn’t seem concerned. “I can cut a rug any day of the week.” He winks. “All the ladies love my moves.”
“The ladies will have to wait,” I grin, pushing open the door . . . To the hottest, sweatiest gay bar on the lower East Side.
Dylan looks around the crowd of rowdy men and bursts out laughing. “Oh, you’re going to pay for this,” he chuckles.
“Come on, let’s go sign you up!” I grab his arm and drag him through the door before he can back out.
Inside, the place is so crammed, we can barely fight our way to the bar. “How do we enter the contest?” I call across to the guy with a clipboard.
He looks me up and down. “No offense, honey, but I don’t think you’re in with a shot.”
“Not me, him.” I gesture at Dylan. The man’s expression changes.
“Ohhhh. Sure, he can enter. How about I put him right up top?”
“You do that,” I beam. “What does the winner get?”
“Five hundred bucks. And bragging rights,” he replies.
“Oh, you better believe there’ll be bragging,” I smirk. “Dylan?”
“Sure, why not?” He shakes his head, looking amused. “But I’m going to need a little more whiskey courage, especially if I’m going to go up against those guys.”
He nods to a couple of limber-looking hip-hop dancers, warming up with some grinding moves nearby.
“You think you can take them?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. “This, I can’t wait to see.”
I get us a couple more drinks and find a free table in the corner beside the stage area. “You know, you could just avoid your public humiliation and tell the truth on a couple of rounds,” I point out.
“And miss all the fun?” Dylan shoots back. He takes a gulp of whiskey. “Besides, what is there to tell?”
“The deal with you and Jasmine, for starters.” I give him a look. “Come on, were you high-school sweethearts?”
“Ha!” Dylan gives a wry laugh. “No way. She never looked at me like that, not in a million years.”
“Sure,” I smirk. “Because we’ve established that women never fall for your charms.”
Dylan gives a rueful smile. “I mean it, Poppy. You didn’t know me back then. Just think of the dorkiest guy imaginable. I had a bowl cut and wore chinos, and I even had a stammer . . .” he admits. “I had to see a speech therapist every week for years just to string a sentence together. But Jasmine didn’t mind. She was always so sweet to me . . .” He sighs, and I feel a surprising pang of sympathy.
It looks like Prince Annoyingly Charming wasn’t always so smooth. Dammit, it turns out he has depth, as well as those dreamy blue eyes.
“Everyone had a tough time in high school,” I tell him. “But you’re not that guy anymore. You’re successful, and charming, and not entirely unattractive, based on the number of guys in here checking you out.”
“Go on,” Dylan says with the beginnings of a smile.
I laugh. “I’m just saying, rejection happens to all of us eventually. Some of us more often than others.”
“So how do you deal with it?” he asks.
“What, my constant romantic failure?” I snort.
Dylan grins. “You know what I mean.”
“The same way anyone else does, I guess.” I shrug and knock back my tequila.
“No, really. I feel like shit,” Dylan insists. “How long is this supposed to last?”
I blink at him. “Wait a minute . . . You’re saying this is the first time anyone’s ever turned you down? EVER?” My voice rises in disbelief. Because sure, Dylan is a walking snack that any sane woman would want to nibble on, but seriously? “Seriously?!”
Dylan shrugs. “Women like me. And I like them.”
“All women?!”
He grins. “Jealous?”
“That you’ve floated through life without ever once trying to translate a two-word breakup text? Umm, yes!” I shake my head. “Wow. I always knew you were cocky, but now I’m beginning to see why.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Before I can think up a witty comeback, the contest organizer gets up on stage and motions for quiet. The bar is packed to the rafters now, and everyone is hyped up, already hollering. “Can I get my contestants to the stage?” he calls, and the crowd breaks out in catcalls as a parade of hot, ripped guys join him.
“There’s your cue, hot stuff.” I grin at Dylan.
“Come on, you’re not serious!” he protests. “Those guys are all professionals!”
“A dare’s a dare,” I insist, shoving him closer. “Or are you chicken?’
He narrows his eyes at me. “Never.” He finishes his whiskey and slams the glass down. “Fuck it,” he says with a rueful laugh, then he goes to hop up on the stage.
He’s greeted by a cacophony of wolf whistles and cheering.
And yes, I’m the loudest.
“Woohoo!” I call. “Take it off!”
He’s rolling his eyes, looking seriously bashful as the music starts. “It’s Raining Men.” Because, of course.
The guys start dancing . . . and I can’t stop laughing. Because he’s right: the others are all pros, but Dylan looks like he wants to die of embarrassment up there. That, or murder me for making him do it, but either way, he’s plotting someone’s bloody end.
“Show us your moves!” I holler, along with the crowd. “Don’t be shy!”
“Yeah, baby!” the guys around me whoop.
Dylan shakes his head, laughing. He mouths something at me far too crude to bear repeating, but then he seems to loosen up and moves his hips in time with the music.
“Give it to me, baby!” I yell. “That’s the ticket!”
The rest of the crowd start yelling for more too. Clearly, he has some fans. And sure enough, Dylan feeds off the attention: getting bolder in his dance moves and even breaking out some “Thriller” moves, laughing along with the other contestants.
“What do you think?” the MC calls, booming into his mic. “Time to take things to the next level. Let’s get wet!”
And before Dylan can react, the MC wields a hose and turns on the water full blast: drenching the dancers from head to toe.
Oh my God!
I burst out laughing seeing the look on Dylan’s face. He’s got water dripping all over him, and the crowd can’t get enough.
And to be honest, I don’t blame them. His hair is slicked back and sexy, and his shirt clings wet to his torso, like he just stepped out of a stripper calendar.
Hello, mama! Someone call the fire department, because July is heating up!
