by L.H. Cosway
“Well, I’m going to go inside now and eat this food.” I held the bag up as evidence. “See you around.”
“We should trade numbers,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his phone, “so we can arrange dinner.”
My smile morphed into a frown, and I stared at him, my next words slipping out before I could catch them. “Are you serious?”
Kurt’s eyes flickered to mine, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Of course I’m serious. I never joke about dinner.”
He said the words so smoothly, like words should be said, like an expert in banter and flirtation. My heart gave an uncomfortable twist then took off at a gallop. It was one thing to trade polite chitchat in the elevator with my beautiful neighbor when I was certain it would lead nowhere. It was quite another to give aforementioned beautiful neighbor my telephone number and, therefore, permission to contact me for a shared meal.
I couldn’t do that.
I couldn’t.
My table manners were terrible. I’d never been taught.
I sucked at conversation and therefore always ended up tongue-tied, silent, and beet red.
I cussed like a sailor.
My heart-shaped face was very pretty; I knew this. I’d been reminded of it frequently as I was growing up—no one wanted me to forget how blessed I was to have such a pretty face. My eyes were quite large and light brown, rimmed with thick lashes; I had a cute nose that suited my features; my cheekbones were high, my lips were full, and my chin ended in an adorable point.
Which was why my wardrobe consisted of black, gray, or brown pants, skirts, and tights as well as oversized black, gray, or brown sweaters.
I was trying to be wallpaper. This was purposeful. The clothes, my lack of makeup or hairstyle, my quiet and withdrawn demeanor were all typically sufficient to deter interest.
I stared at his phone in helpless panic—confused, horrified. I waited a beat for him to say, “Just kidding!”
But he didn’t. Instead, he lifted his gaze to mine. It moved over my face then back to my eyes—his were still easy and friendly—and I was paralyzed.
His smile widened. “You are too cute….” He said these words like he was talking to himself.
I started, flinched, my eyelashes fluttering at the unwelcome compliment, and I gave into the panic. Looking everywhere but at him, I darted into my apartment, saying lamely, “Uh, my phone is broken or needs repair or got lost, so I’ll just give you the number later, when it’s fixed or I find it. But it was really nice meeting you. Goodbye.”
And with that, I shut the door in Kurt’s face.
***
New York’s Finest
Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*
March 8
If Sporty Spice married a hobbit, had a three-way with a leprechaun, and then gave birth to a sexy, bizarre baby (paternity unknown).
Guess who was spotted this week looking equal parts hot and ridiculous in every kind of synthetic fabric currently manufactured by the miracle of chemical engineering? None other than Colin Farrell (or his doppelgänger) down near the Village. Obviously, no one loves him. Friends don’t let friends dress like this (unless it’s cosplay or part of a bedroom role-play fantasy). If you take a look at the pictures above, you’ll certainly understand my horror at finding anyone willing to wear lime green Lycra and Speedo running shorts. The only explanation I can think of is that he was drunk (you know how those Irish enjoy their whiskey…and beer…and any and all alcohol).
I could have forgiven the spandex, but I can’t forgive the freaky feet. Toe-shoes are never okay. They’re weird and disturbing and really, really pretentious. And, as an aside, for those of you who are interested in looking like a hobbit, this particular brand of toe-shoe will set you back $635. That’s right! You too can look like a weird little man for the very low price of six hundred and thirty-five dollars!!! WTF?
Also, for the record, Colin needs to invest in a cup. Yes, I enjoy the occasional bulge, but this bulge was verging on concealed weapon status. If he continues to run around in these spandex shorts, he will only have himself to blame for the gropings. Goodness, if I’d been within arm’s reach, I definitely would have copped a feel. Amiright, ladies? You all know how I like my bangers and mash, and there’s nothing more Irish than sausage!
Booyah!
<3 The Socialmedialite
Chapter Two
Calories: 4,000.
Workout: 4.5 hours in total.
Eggs: Could go to my grave quite happily without ever seeing another one.
*Ronan*
I’d just finished doing fifty chin-ups when the phone started ringing.
And if that wasn’t the opening line of a narcissistic arsehole, then I didn’t know what was. I’d spent way too much time around privately educated, privileged rugby brats, and their ways had finally rubbed off on me.
At least I didn’t say I was getting my pump on.
Anyway, I’m not a narcissistic arsehole. However, I might be a bull-headed idiot with too short a fuse who lets his temper get the better of him when there just so happen to be paparazzi hanging about, but that’s a story for another day. Or you could go out and pick up a tabloid.
Yeah, I was going through a bitter patch, but I had every right. I was sick of my private life being splashed all over the papers. Somehow, I’d never connected the idea of being good at a sport with the possibility of becoming a “celebrity.”
I understood my role; I did my best for my league and for the sport. I knew what rugby needed from me, and I wasn’t planning on letting anyone down. But if there was one thing I hated in this world, it was people who wrote about other people’s personal lives for a living. Those people could all do with taking a dive off a very high building, in my opinion.
You see, bitter.
Picking up a towel, I wiped the sweat from my neck then went to pick up the phone. My little sister Lucy’s face was flashing on the screen which made me less hesitant to answer. I thought it might be my publicist, Sam, with some new instructions on how I could clean up my public image, and I was in no mood for that shite.
“Luce, how’re you doing?” I said as I held the phone to my ear and looked out at the Manhattan skyline before me. Some people might have been well up for living in a penthouse apartment in the center of New York, and yeah, it was my choice to come here; but I hadn’t anticipated there would be nowhere to drive. Driving was one of the only things that kept me sane. Me and my 1969 Chevy Camaro and the open road. No stress, just miles and pure freedom. Ah, that was the life.
I should have done my research.
In order to make up for the lack of driving, I’d been working out more than usual, which was always a good thing when you played professional rugby for a living. Well, technically I was suspended from the team; but fingers crossed I’d be back in a couple of months, and I wanted to return fighting fit. You wouldn’t think it to see the dark, moody eyebrows I was sporting, but I was a silver-lining sort of bloke. It wasn’t my intention to be irritable; life had just dealt me a crap hand lately.
“Morning, bro. You sound out of breath. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Lucy replied. There was something about her tone that put me on edge. Usually she was cheerful and upbeat. The girl was full of sunshine. Right now she sounded hesitant, and, almost as if I was having a moment of foresight, I knew I wasn’t going to like the reason why.
“Timing’s perfect. How’s everything at home?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Ma’s still spending too much money on clothes. I’m trying to teach her that material possessions don’t equal happiness. It’s a work in progress.”
Ever since I’d made the big time, my mother had acquired expensive tastes. I didn’t mind. My mother and my sister were the only real family I had. If my money could give them a good life, then I was all for it.
I chuckled softly. “It’s not like she’s snorting cocaine, Luce. She likes dresses. What woman doesn’t?”
“There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start, Ronan.”
My smile grew. I always enjoyed baiting her. “What? Girls like pretty things. It’s a known fact.”
“You know what, I don’t even feel bad about what I have to tell you now. Take out your computer. There’s something you need to see.”
My smile vanished and was instantly replaced with a frown as I walked through the penthouse to find my laptop. I flipped it open and brought up a new window. “What is it this time? Has Brona been spreading her lies again?” I asked.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s actually kind of funny. I read this blog all the time because I love the girl who writes it. At least, I think it’s a girl. It could very well be an old bald fellow in a basement with a pet rabbit. It’s called New York’s Finest, and you were featured on Saturday. Only get this, she thinks you’re Colin Farrell. How hilarious is that?”
My frown slowly disappeared as I typed in the name of the website and brought it up. Being mistaken for a famous Irish actor when you were in fact a famous Irish rugby player was positively whimsical when compared with some of the PR disasters I’d experienced of late. Then the article popped up, and I was frowning again.
There was a picture of me standing by the bar at my mate Tom’s restaurant last week, signing autographs for a couple of women. It looked like it had been taken from a low angle, as though the person who took it was sitting at a table. It was a completely unexceptional picture until you factored in the plethora of red arrows that surrounded it, each one pointing to some perceived flaw in my appearance.
Apparently, I chose my outfit while drunk, my footwear was disturbing, and my cock and balls were on display. I scowled and tried not to get pissed. I was going to give myself high blood pressure if didn’t quit getting so worked up about the media. Still, it was irritating how this blogger had totally ripped into what I was wearing. Clothing for me was all about function. I wore what was best for training purposes and gave not one iota of shit what I looked like.
Scrolling down, there was a short article written by someone who referred to themselves as The Socialmedialite, who called me both a leprechaun and a hobbit, and then went on to suggest I invest in a cup. Well, when I say “me,” I mean Colin Farrell because that’s who this person thought I was, which is ridiculous because I barely even look like him.
“Oh, you so look like him, Ronan,” Lucy disagreed down the line, and I realized I’d said that out loud.
“I don’t. This blogger is an idiot if she can’t see how much I don’t look like him. I bet she does her research on flipping Wikipedia, the amateur.”
I scrolled down the page to the next post to see she’d snapped a photo of Bradley Cooper getting out of his car in workout clothes. There was a wet stain on his pants that was obviously sweat or spilled liquid. Nevertheless, The Socialmedialite had composed an article containing a list of possibilities as to how the stain had occurred. Some of the stories were way too detailed which made me think she was in serious need of a life. A number of readers had even commented below with their own scenarios. One person thought his personal groomer had tried to foist a bottle of clove oil on him to shave his face, and Bradley had swiped away the offending article, stating he would never shave off the source of all his sexy power, thus resulting in the stain.
Seriously, some people.
“This site is ridiculous,” I muttered while Lucy snickered in response. “It’s not even funny. And sausage is more German than Irish.”
“What are you talking about? It’s hilarious. It objectifies men in the same way women have been objectified for centuries. Turnabout is fair play, you know.”
“It’s stupid. And anyway, I’m way too tall to be a hobbit.” I stood up and walked over to look at myself in the mirror. At five feet eleven inches, I thought I was a decent height for a man.
“Oh, wow. Vanity, thy name is Ronan. She’s already getting to you, isn’t she? And she called you a hobbit because of those godawful shoes you were wearing.”
“My trainer suggested them,” I grumbled. “Don’t you have your yoga class to be getting to this morning?”
“Yes, I do, cranky. You’re obviously taking this all the wrong way. Don’t you know that the ability to laugh at oneself is the most desirous quality of all?”
“Not really in a laughing mood these days, Luce,” I replied gloomily and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.
I could hear her sigh down the line. “I know. I’m sorry. I was trying to cheer you up. Promise I was. How is everything in the Big Apple? You settling in okay?”
“Don’t apologize. I’m a grumpy old bastard. And yes, I’m settling in fine. My car arrived yesterday which was kind of a cruel joke since all I can do here is sit in traffic. I should never have let Tom talk me into taking time off in New York. I wanted to go to Canada, get lost in the mountains or something.”
“Yeah, that would’ve been cool. But at least this way you get to go see the naked cowboy.”
“I don’t know who or what that is, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Spoilsport. I was looking forward to a picture of the two of you. Anyway, I’d better get going.”
“Okay, take care, Luce. I love you.”
She made a kissy sound into her phone that nearly deafened me. “Love you, too!”
The moment I hung up, my phone began ringing again, and this time it was Sam, my PR agent. I briefly considered ignoring the call but knew he’d have a fit if I didn’t answer. The man was more highly strung than Margaret Thatcher on the rag, God rest her.
“Sam, what can I do for ya, bud?”
“Oh, it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, my friend. But first, did you see were featured on New York’s Finest Saturday?”
Seriously, I felt like I was stuck in Groundhog Day, and that film always got on my tits. “Yeah, my sister already had the good grace to inform me.”
“Well, I don’t know why you sound so glum about it. This is a big deal, Ronan. You’re virtually unknown over in the States. This could be the thing that helps you crack America. I can just see it now, a picture of you reclining in a pair of tighty whiteys advertising for Calvin Klein on the side of a skyscraper.”
“Fuck, man. Are you a psychic? How did you know that’s my one true dream?”
I could practically hear him pursing his lips in irritation. “I’m going to ignore your sarcasm because I have more news, and I don’t have time for your pissy attitude. I have a friend who works for Davidson & Croft Media there in New York, and they’re just itching to meet you. They think they can re-brand you. Clean up your image. You know, turn you into the David Beckham of rugby.”
“Again, do you have a crystal ball, because this shit is positively clairvoyant.”
“They want to meet you today at one. I’m emailing you directions,” he said impatiently.
I glanced at the clock. “It’s already half past eleven. I have to shower, and the traffic in this city is a nightmare. Can we re-schedule?”
What I really wanted to say was, Can we forget about it altogether? But I still had some sense of professionalism, and yeah, I guessed working with this agency could probably do me some good. It would be like pulling teeth, but I knew anything worth doing was usually difficult. I ended the call and went to hop in the shower. I was in and out in less than ten minutes and made quick work of getting dressed. When I walked by my computer, I noticed that the website was still open, and I had a sudden urge to vent.
It seemed like my life was being controlled by faceless people sitting behind computers writing stories about me, and I was sick of it. Sam always coached me to have a “no comment” policy on this kind of thing, but I wanted to have my say for once.
Months of silence meant I had a lot to get off my chest, after all.
So I sat down in front of my laptop, opened up a fresh email, and began to type. Fuck it if I was late to the meeting. If these people were
so eager to see me, they could wait.
March 10
Dear Socialmedialite,
Just thought I’d enlighten your vacuous little mind as to a few things.
1.) I’m not Colin Farrell, I’m Ronan Fitzpatrick. Go look me up. It’ll make for some colorful reading.
2.) Your fixation on the minute details of the male form leads me to believe that one, you have no life, and two, you have not been laid in a loooong time.
3.) I think that if you’re going to make these kinds of judgments on the appearance of others, then you should at least be open about who you are. Anonymity is the choice of cowards.
My suggestions:
1.) You actually do your research and make sure that when you think you’re getting a picture of Colin Farrell, it’s actually Colin Farrell. FYI: Ear-wigging on the conversation of a group of giggling women does NOT constitute research.
2.) Go out and have a drink. Talk to a guy. Let somebody fuck you. You’ll be amazed by what clearing those cobwebs can do for your frame of mind.
3.) Put up a picture. Tell everyone who you are. Let’s see if you can handle people criticizing your looks the same way you criticize theirs.
You’re welcome.
Ronan Fitzpatrick
And send.
That felt good.
I quickly made a note of the address Sam had sent me and then went to catch a cab. Arriving at the agency’s building, I stared up at the high-rise before walking in and announcing my presence to the receptionist. She was a slim, attractive blonde and immediately gave me the glad eye after she took in my appearance. If I was the same guy I was at twenty-two, I’d have been in there like swimwear. Unfortunately, I was a cynical, disillusioned twenty-seven-year-old with no patience for women and their wiles. Right now, all I was on the market for was no-strings sex. For years I’d been faithful to Brona, and then she’d gone and shoved my fidelity in my face by shoving my teammate’s cock down her throat.
But maybe Brona did me a favor. My vision was now remarkably clear. These women were all glittery, seductive eyes and shallow propositions. All I could see was another version of her: superficial, dim-witted, materialistic fame-whores, looking for a place to hitch their star, only out for what they could get. Not surprisingly, that was enough to deflate even the most determined hard-on.
