“Interesting,” he says. I get excited when he does, because it means he’s considering the whole thing. “And how—not saying I’m saying yes—but how would we—theoretically—keep track of who’s right and who isn’t? I assume this would just be between the two of us, right, so how would that work?”
“Well, we’d have to be adults. I’m not afraid to say when I’m wrong, but I don’t know about you.” I actually know exactly all about you and your giant ego.
“I can admit when I’m wrong,” he answers. “I don’t have a personal vendetta against you, you know that? If I reject a book—even in a preliminary vote—it’s because I really feel strongly against it. It’s not about you, personally.”
Now he’s practically quoting The Godfather—guys love that movie—‘it isn’t personal, it’s strictly business.’ “I get that, from your perspective.”
“My perspective? It’s not just. . .”
“Yes, it is. Look, I get it, you didn’t like the book. But most of the book is what I’ve devoted my life to since college—women and their stories. I’m not some random YouTube star. My platforms are me. I’m not an actress playing some role in a movie you hated—this book represents everything I’ve dedicated the last few years of my life to, and all the stories that I was entrusted with by more real women than I can count. It is personal to me.”
He takes a big old swig of his coffee. Shit! That means I’m losing time. Before he swallows, I realize that I’m approaching this all wrong. I’m not here to argue with him over what happened, or his opinion of the book. Of course he’s not going to change his mind right here at Starbucks—if he was going to do that, I wouldn’t need this crazy idea to begin with. No. The play isn’t to bicker, it’s to get him to agree to this idea of mine—then I have a month to prove him wrong.
“I get it. But this is a business. We can’t make decisions based on how much a book means to an author, and we can make them based on subject matter—otherwise we’d say yes to ninety nine percent of all the books we get pitched.”
I don’t even respond. I just need to get back to the techniques that got me to the dance. “Like I said before, Cormac. You don’t have to do anything—you have all the power here. But you seem to me like someone who takes his ethics and his integrity seriously, am I right about that?”
“Yes.”
“So then imagine rejecting a book from a promising new author for no other reason than you didn’t like the little bit of the book that you read. Is that ethical? What if it’s actually a really valuable book to women, and you’re denying them the chance to read it?”
“I think you might be exaggerating a little.”
I decide to layer my attack. A good fighter works with combinations, not single shots, so I remember my three advantages here—he’s a straight arrow with his integrity, he wants to fuck me right here on this table whether he admits it or not, and he doesn’t want me taking my business elsewhere and making the New York Times bestseller list. Time for phase three.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But, look, what if you really are denying people my message?” I reach out deliberately and take his hand. I rest mine gently over his, and only for a few seconds. I swear he almost drops his coffee. As soon as my skin is over his, he makes this little kid face—like he just had his first kiss and doesn’t know how to respond—and then I take away his lollipop as quickly as I rewarded him with it. “And what’s even worse, what if you forced me to take it to Mifflin for a deal? What would you think if you looked back and realized that maybe you made a mistake, and that the book you couldn’t wait to get out of your office is now a New York Times bestseller—soon to be licensed into a movie? Can you imagine that?”
My three-pronged attack has him thinking now—I’m hitting him in all the areas that matter to a man: his mind, his dick, and his bank account. It’s just a matter of time before the last domino falls. He takes another sip. It’s a small one. He wants to hear more.
“You should work in sales, you know that?”
“I’m a terrible saleswoman. Now ask me some questions about this whole thing—I know you have some.” See, Cormac, I’m really the best saleswoman there ever was.
“I did actually have a few. If we did this—and that’s a huge IF—how would it work? We move in together? Do we tell people? Tell me everything you have in your head and then I can make an informed decision.”
“We’d have to move in together. The whole idea is that we spend enough time together that we can learn more about the opposite sex. We also should talk about the whole book thing, but not actually about the book itself.”
“Huh?”
“What I mean is that we shouldn’t just sit around debating the book—we both know how we feel already. What we should do is talk about what’s in the book—the content. Pick each other’s brains a little.”
“Pick each other’s brains?”
“Yeah, like break down some of these issues so you see I’m not some man hating lunatic—and who knows, maybe you’ll change my mind about guys being such pigs.” Fat chance, but you can try.
He stops and thinks for a minute and takes yet another slug of that quad. The clock is ticking until he’s going to get up and head back to his happy place of solitude and boring paperwork. I need to work fast.
“But what about. . . like. . . umm. . .”
I smile. “Use your words, Cormac. What do you want to know?” I know what he wants to know, and I know why he’s stumbling over his words. He’s not about to prove me wrong about guys at all—he’s about to confirm everything that I already knew. But I’ll play dumb, like the girls I’m sure he’s used to being around.
“The sleeping arrangements. How is that going to work?”
“You mean like which end of the couch do you get?” I smile.
“Well, I guess you just answered me, huh?”
“I’m joking. We’re both adults, Cormac. We can sleep in the same bed. That’s how the sleeping arrangements will go. As long as you can keep it in your pants, we have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, please, Tori, don’t flatter yourself.”
He’s overcompensating. Literally as he says those words his eyes drift from my face to my neck, and then as far down as he can see before the table we’re sitting at cuts me off. “I’m not flattering myself, I just know men, and I know that the little head does most of the thinking for the big head.”
“And what makes you think it’s little?” He grins at me. I roll my eyes to take him down a notch.
“I’m sure it’s very impressive, but the only ‘sleeping arrangements’ we’ll be making is which side of the bed you want—as long as it’s the left side, the right is mine.”
“Left side is fine with me. Do we at least get to go out on dates?”
Huh? Dates? “What do you mean?”
“You know, dates. Like a real couple. Dinner, dancing, the movies maybe. That kind of thing.”
The more he asks questions the more I realize that I haven’t totally thought this through. It all sounded perfect in my head, but he’s bringing up some valid points, and I’m not sure I have all of the answers. I have to think on my feet here. But honestly, the idea of being out to dinner or dancing with him doesn’t completely make me want to vomit.
“Sure, yeah, we can do that. As long as we both agree what the date is going to be. It has to be a controlled situation.”
“A controlled situation?” he asks.
“As in, we don’t let things get out of hand and get swept up in the moment. I’m sure you’ve mesmerized a few women into giving up more than they wanted to with those eyes of yours.” Did I really just give him a free compliment on his looks? This guy has some strange magic in his face, and I hate that it’s kind of working on me.
“There you go, making assumptions again. I’m not some creep who tricks women into bed. I don’t need to do that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “Someone thinks highly of himself, I see?”
&nb
sp; “I’m just being honest, not cocky. I don’t coerce women into anything. I never have and I never will. So our dates can be as ‘controlled’ as you want them to be, but if we’re not at least acting like boyfriend and girlfriend then this whole thing is pointless.”
I hate to admit it but he has a point. I need to unclench a little. If I’m going to be playing his girlfriend, then I have to at least be willing to act like a girlfriend in some ways.
“Fine, you’re right.”
“Thank you. Now, can we revisit this no-sex rule of yours?”
I almost spit my coffee out.
“We’re not having sex, Cormac. I don’t even want to kiss you unless we have to for appearances.” Now it’s my turn to put up a front. If he grabbed my face and planted one on me, not only wouldn’t I resist, but I’d be all over him. But I’m not about to stroke his already too large male ego.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Wow,” I say. “Maybe you’re even more arrogant that I thought. You think all women want to kiss you?”
For the first time in the conversation, I feel like I’m losing the upper hand. Our psychological Cold War is tipping in his favor on this issue, because this time he has my number. He leans forward, putting his cup down on the table and capturing me with those eyes. “No, Tori, I don’t think all women want to kiss me, but I do know that you want to kiss me.”
Holy shit. I just felt a fire light between my legs, and I’m totally thrown off my game for a minute. I take a drink because I don’t know what else to do. I need a second to gather my thoughts. Holy crap, that was unexpected. But I regather myself quickly. He still hasn’t said the words that I need him to say.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“On the left-hand side of the bed, of course.”
That one makes me smile. “So is that a yes then?”
“It’s a maybe right now, and I can’t even believe that I’m considering something like this, it’s nuts.”
“Totally nuts. But if you knew me better, you wouldn’t be surprised that I’d come up with something crazy.”
“Well I guess I’ll just have to get to know you better, then, won’t I?”
Dammit, he made me blush! That’s going to throw off my whole I’m-not-affected-by-you-being-good-looking thing, but maybe he’s oblivious to it. Probably not, my cheeks get really red. It’s kind of embarrassing.
“So. . .is that a yes, finally?”
“One last question.”
Uh! “Alright.”
“If I said I’d only do this if you’d sleep with me at some point, what would you say?”
“Say?” I ask. “I wouldn’t say anything. First, I’d throw this coffee at you. Then I’d punch you in your chauvinistic face, and then I’d tell you where you could stick it as I walked away from you forever and headed over to Mifflin.”
The last thing I expect from a #metoo style rant is for the guy to smile. Like really, really smile. Like a happy smile. “Good,” he says. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
“Wait, I’m confused. You wanted to hear that I’d scald, slap, and curse you out?”
“I wanted to hear that you’re not trying to sleep your way to a book deal. I can say fuck all to your feminism stuff, but what I can’t do is move in with someone who’s trying to use their sexuality to get a deal out of me. I’ve. . . let’s just say I know how that story ends.”
What was that? The plot just thickened a little. What does he mean by that? Do female authors proposition him all the time? I need to find out, but right now I’m just waiting for the only words I want to hear. He stands up and takes what I assume is the last sip of his quad that he’s going to take. He seems energized.
“I’m going out with my brothers later on. I’ll text you after.”
He starts to walk away and I’m super confused. “Cormac, wait, is that a yes?”
“That’s a I’ll text you later and let you know, after I see my brothers.”
Then he’s gone. I’m not sure what just happened—if I got what I wanted or just blew the biggest opportunity of my career. But one thing I do know—I really want him to say yes, and not just for the chance to get a book deal.
Cormac
“Bro, have you lost your damn mind?”
That very judgy question came from Aidan after I filled him in on my coffee date with my favorite psycho feminist author.
Probably. I must have. Why else would I (sort of) agree to something so stupid? Actually, I know exactly why, but I’m not about to admit it.
Aidan and our youngest brother, Conor, agreed to meet me at Patty’s Place, a bar three blocks away from where I work. As fate would have it, all three of us ended up working and living in Manhattan, so we have the chance to meet up from time to time when our schedules permit.
We also have the most stereotypically Irish names in the world—and it doesn’t help stereotypes that we’re having this conversation in a bar covered in green shamrocks. But proper representation of Irish American culture is dead last on my priority list. Instead, I need some advice. The funny part about meeting here is that I’m not even that much of a drinker—at least compared to Aidan and Conor—but after that whole thing with Tori today, I could use a stiff drink. . . maybe two. No more than three or four, I swear.
“I might have,” I tell him. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this shit. What in the fuck was I thinking?”
“I’ll be the judge, let me see this girl.” It’s less of a question than a demand, so I take out my phone and Google her name. Holy crap, she really does have a huge following! Before I even finish her name Google autofills the rest. When I click on that about ten different websites pop up—her YouTube channel, her podcast on iTunes, her images—all of it. I have to check her out and do a little more research, but right now all my alpha male brothers want to see is what she looks like.
“Here,” I say, handing my phone to Aidan. Conor leans over to steal a look also.
“Boom! Mystery solved!” he says, laughing his ass off.
“What are you talking about?”
“You asked yourself the wrong question before,” Aidan says. “The question isn’t what were you thinking, it’s which part of you you were thinking with? And the answer is that shriveled up little pecker in there. Now it totally makes sense. I’d listen to any crazy shit that girl said to me.”
“You’re nuts. Yeah, she’s cute and all, but she’s not all that.” I don’t know why I’m lying so badly. She’s fire. She’s a dime piece. I’m so full of shit it’s coming out of my ears. Conor smells it right away.
“Okay, sure. Yeah, she’s just cute. She’s definitely not making my dick hard just from looking at your old ass phone.” Conor’s a savage. A really nice one, deep down, but the man has no filter, especially when it comes to discussing anything female related. “Don’t be a hater, that girl’s a smoke show, and I would have signed my tax return over to her if she asked me to. Now stop fronting and take a shot with your brothers!”
I wasn’t going to hit the hard liquor quite so hard, but . . . “All right. Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
“Atta boy!”
The bartender pours three shots of Tequila and in seconds they’re burning their way down our throats. “Warm up complete. So let me tell you about this Tori chick.”
“Hold on a second, her name’s Tori?” Conor asks. He looks like he just saw a ghost.
“Oh shit, man, I didn’t even put that together.”
There’s been a running joke among the three of us since high school, and I didn’t even think of it until just now. Whenever Aidan and I want to mess with our baby brother we call him ‘Snowball’. Not because he’s delicate—he’s the opposite—it’s because of this girl Tori he dated in his sophomore year of high school.
We started calling him Snowball after he came home late one night, red faced and embarrassed, which was not like him at all. Usually Con
or could give a shit what anyone thought of him, but that night he wouldn’t even speak to us. He just ran into the bathroom and stayed in there for like fifteen minutes. When we shouted to check what was wrong he came out with an empty bottle of mouthwash in his hand, and left the bathroom a wet mess.
“You good?” we asked. He didn’t answer, just shook his head back and forth all slow and weird.
And that’s when he told us.
Apparently, Tori—who had a little bit of a reputation as one of those girls in high school—gave Conor head in his car after he took her to the movies. He made the mistake of giving her instructions on how to do it more to his liking, which apparently offended some sense of blow-job pride she had in herself. Not taking too kindly to him telling her how to do her job, she decided to get even, unbeknownst to Conor.
After letting Conor come in her mouth, high school Tori grabbed him by the face and kissed him, spewing all of his own cum back in his mouth, which mixed with both of their salivas and ended up dripping all over his shirt.
He never should have told us that story, because he was henceforth known to me and Aidan as “Snowball Delaney”, even though my parents never got the reference when we said it.
Aidan laughs his ass off and orders another shot. “Fuck, Snowball, I forgot that girl’s name was Tori. I always just called her the school whore, I thought that was her name! Cormac, listen to me, don’t let your Tori blow you, alright, otherwise you might be Snowball the Second.”
“I think I’m in the clear. Something tells me that this Tori doesn’t do that. Girl’s never even had a real boyfriend, at least according to her book.”
“Wait, what?” Conor asks. “She wrote that shit in a book?”
“Yeah. She’s trying to publish some man-hating nonsense and she needs my vote to get it through.”
“And that’s where this living together thing came from?”
“Exactly. I thought the girl was crazy at first—I still think she’s crazy—but the idea of living with a hot chick and trying to change her mind about men is kind of intriguing to me. But could be a total disaster.”
The Three Kiss CLause Page 6
