“We agreed to not speak of that ever again.” I shiver when remembering the incident he speaks of. It was on the way to rescuing Maddy from what we thought was the biggest mistake of her life. Turns out we were wrong, but hey, in the end, the good guy won and the hero of this story can live happily ever after.
Tanya saunters over with drinks in hand. She barely looks at Dixon as she slides his scotch toward him, while I get the whole hog as she practically serves me my beer between her tits. “Here you go, Hunter.”
“Thanks, sweet cheeks.” I reach for the Budweiser, which she holds close to her sizeable chest, ensuring I don’t cop a feel in the process. I make a rule that I don’t shit where I eat, as I have zero interest in Tanya, so fucking her, or leading her on will just end in her spitting in my drink and forcing me to find a new place to hang out.
Dixon smirks, knowing me all too well. I may be a bastard, but I’m not a fucking bastard. Once Tanya gets the hint, she trudges off, probably wondering if Dixon is marrying me, because I’ve obviously renounced my manhood by playing off her advances.
“So, there’s this thing tomorrow night.”
I pause mid-sip, cocking a brow. “What thing? Jesus Christ, for someone who rivals the IQ of Stephen Hawking, you sure as shit act like an invasive dumbass most times.”
Dixon grins, while I gesture for him to continue. “A dinner at Madison’s parents’ house.”
“That’s a lovely story, but why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re invited, you Neanderthal,” he replies, reaching for his scotch.
I can’t contain my excitement and fist pimp. “Fucking yes! About time I was invited to these soirees.” But I reel in my enthusiasm. Something is rotten in Denmark. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What if I’ve got plans?”
“I’m sure you can lay off the hunt for one night,” he counters, knowing all too well what a standard Saturday night for me entails.
But I’m not buying it. Pointing my bottle his way, I bark, “Stick to your day job, Dix, cause your poker face blows ass. Spit it out.”
He sighs, running a hand through his mussed hair. “Well, Madison’s parents thought it would be nice for everyone to get together and talk…wedding stuff.”
My ears prick up, while my inner caveman beats his chest and howls to the full moon. “Wedding stuff. So, Mary will be there?” I ask, leaning forward, my smirk resembling the Joker’s.
“Yes. Finch and Heidi, too.”
Tapping my fingers against the edge of the table, I wonder why he wouldn’t tell me this sooner. “You’re ashamed of me, aren’t you?” I half tease.
Dixon shakes his head. “No, man, as much as you’re an obnoxious asshole, you’re my obnoxious asshole. I held off telling you because I didn’t know how you’d…feel”
“Feel? And there’s that word again. You need to stop talking in riddles and just grow a pair. What the fuck is going on?”
Something shifts and I can see Dixon wrestling with the truth. He doesn’t want to tell me something because he thinks it’ll hurt my feelings. D2 licks his wounds, while I tell that pansy ass to take a backseat. “Man, you could grow a vagina between Finch and you. Your significant others have bigger cojones than you two. What’s the deal?”
“We didn’t know if you’d want to attend because…”
“Because what?” I coax, fed up with this beating around the bush.
“Because Mary has a plus one, and she’s bringing him. I didn’t know if that’d make you feel weird or not.”
“A plus one? Like as in a boyfriend plus one?” I ask, my brain short-circuiting. Dixon nods, while I suddenly have the urge to slam my fist into the table. “When did this happen?”
“Just recently. She’s seeing some guy she works with.”
“What’s his name?” I ask, fist clenched to my thigh. This is so insignificant in the greater scheme of things, but I need to know my opponent’s name so I can holler it in delight when I neuter him.
“His name?” Dixon questions, confused.
“Yes.” It takes all my willpower not to turn into the Marshmallow Man and destroy New York, seeking out this cockface who is Mary’s plus one.
“I really don’t know. It doesn’t matter, dude. Just come, have a good time. Maddy’s dad is a mean cook.”
But food is the last thing on my mind because all I want to roast is Mary’s little boyfriend’s nuts. “Why did you tell me to tell Lamb how I feel if she’s seeing this asshat?” I bite, confused.
“Because I doubt it’s serious,” he explains, which makes perfect sense, but the rational side of me is suddenly in hiatus.
“Of course it’s not serious. She’s been seeing him for five seconds.” But regardless, she’s chosen someone else to take to this dinner. She’s chosen someone else to call her plus one.
Some small, pansy part of me had hoped Mary was playing hard to get, and after she made me work hard for it, she’d finally put me out of my misery and meet me halfway. But it seems she’s a sadistic witch who likes to see me grovel. Well, fuck that. Hunter O’Shea does not beg or grovel for anyone.
“Whatever, man, it’s cool. Good luck to her, and good luck to him. I’ll send him a condolence card in the mail.” I pull back my shoulders, refusing to let this dampen the mood.
I’m happy for Dix and Maddy, and tomorrow, I’ll fucking eat cake and smile. I won’t give in to the impulse to rip off this jerk-off’s arms and beat him like a piñata at a ten-year old’s birthday. If she wants to play, then so can I.
“Seeing as everyone seems to be bringing their nearest and dearest, you wouldn’t mind if I brought someone along?”
“Who?” Dix questions. He has every right to be suspicious, but I can’t stomach being the only lame ass with no plus one.
“You don’t know her.”
“Do you?” he poses quickly, his doctor mask slipping into full swing.
I’ve had enough of being dissected under the microscope for one night. Standing, I finish my beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m asking to be polite, but even if you said no, screw you.”
Dix raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, bring her. But Hunt…” I wait for him to continue. “No hookers.” He knows me oh so well.
I fake horror. “I should be offended, but I’m not. Sayonara. Text me the details.” Hunting through my jacket, I pull out my wallet, but Dixon waves me off.
“My shout. Next one is on you.” I know there is a double meaning behind his words—that smart, hypnotizing warlock. I don’t bother with long goodbyes because I have work to do. I need to find a date.
The chilly March breeze has me pulling the lapels of my blazer across my chest, wondering if I should hail a cab, or walk the ten blocks to my apartment on the upper east side. While in thought, a destitute man bumps into me, apologizing profusely. His garbage bag filled with cans drops with a racket to the pavement.
Without a second thought, I drop to a squat and help him collect his loot. Whether it’s Divine intervention, or the work of the devil, I’ll never know, but when the paper I heedlessly threw in the trash is stuck to the side of a Pepsi can, I know this is a sign.
The man notices me staring at the number, and kindly peels the paper from the metal. “Here, sir.”
I accept with a smile. “Thank you.” We both stand while I pass the man the last of his cans.
I have no idea what possess me, but I decide to confide in this stranger because most times, strangers don’t spare your feelings because they don’t have to. “This number, it was given to me by a lady I fucked after knowing for roughly thirty seconds. My best friend, that handsome devil in there…” I point to Dix, who is on the phone, no doubt detailing to Maddy what a fucking disaster tonight was. The man nods when he looks at Dixon, appreciating his charisma. “He’s getting married to the love of his life, and tomorrow, he’s asked I attend a dinner. That all sounds like an episode of The Brady Bunch, right? But the problem is his fiancée has a be
st friend who drives me crazy, and I mean that in every literal sense of the word.”
I exhale loudly, wishing this underlying need to see her would hit the high road and fuck right off. “She’s bringing a plus one. Some jerk-off who wouldn’t know how to handle her even if he had eight hands. I want her, and I thought that maybe she wanted me too. But now it appears she’s moved on to greener pastures, so maybe it’s my turn to do the same.”
The man nods quietly, allowing me to purge.
“So, my question is, do I move on too, even though I don’t want to? Or do I fight for her? Listen to what Dixon said and tell her how I fe…feel? I’ve fucked seven or eight women this week—I’ve lost count—and as much as I hate to admit it, Dix is right. I’m kind of lonely and maybe this is a cry for help.”
Gazing down at the soiled number in my hand, I wonder if perhaps my problem is that I’m not giving other women a chance because I’m hung up on the unattainable. I’ve put Mary on a pedestal because that’s her rightful place. Let’s face facts. She belongs with someone nice, a good guy who will call her beautiful and not follow with the words ass or tits. I can’t give her that because I’m not the Prince Charming type.
I tried to fool myself into thinking that she’ll see something that no other woman has before, but there isn’t anything there to see. All my cards are laid on the table, and it appears no one likes my playing hand. Mary isn’t different because I’m no different. I’m no one special and I was living in a Walt Disney world if I thought otherwise.
“Good talk. You’re a real good listener,” I say, lightly slapping the man on the arm.
“So, what have you decided?” he asks, appearing genuinely curious. As Dix stands, I know it’s time to hit the road.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my wallet and offer the man a Benjamin. He waves it off, but I press it into his palm. “Take it, you’re cheap compared to how much that fucker would charge me.” I gesture with my chin to Dixon. “And what I’ve decided is that this bachelor is back in the game.”
I leave my new favorite shrink standing on the sidewalk, confused, while for me, the Mary haze has finally lifted. I was blinded by the fantasy of living my own, real life fairy tale because it appears that the world no longer needs heroes…it needs monsters for the good guys to slay.
The Stand-In
I’ve hit the gym, gone for a run, and showered, and it’s only 9 a.m. After my revelation, I came home and pulled out my trusty black book. I have the names and numbers of many women who as ashamed as I am to admit it, I don’t really remember who most of them are.
After my song and dance last night, I’ll be damned if I rock up to this dinner without a date on my arm. I know this is completely petty, not to mention childish, but if I’m to get over whatever this Mary spell is, then I need to move on.
I’m sitting in my office on the 47th floor, staring out the glass window, wondering who the fuck I can call. My black book sits in my lap as I restlessly rock backward and forward in my leather seat. The names may as well be random numbers in a phone book.
There was this one girl, Siobhan, who I saw on and off for three months. She was a real stunner and smart, too. It was probably around nine months ago that we “broke” it off. It was amicable, which is why I spin around and pick up the phone. I call from my office private line, just in case this turns a little pear-shaped.
We ended things pleasantly, or at least I think we did, because when I turn the page, I see another Siobhan, but with the initial L scribbled after her name. This was obviously done to distinguish between the two. Too bad I have no idea which Siobhan is the one I want. I have no clue what either girl’s surnames are.
It’s too late to hang up because a bubbly voice sounds over the receiver. “Hello.”
Wading through all the voices in my head, I attempt to match a face to the name. Shit. I’ve drawn a blank. This serves me right for not paying closer attention.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” Her high-pitched voice suddenly punches me in the solar plexus and I remember her screeching out my name as I ate her out in this exact chair. Bingo.
“Hello, Siobhan. It’s Hunter.”
Silence.
I don’t know if that silence is due to the fact she’s in shock, about to hang up on me, or if she has no idea who I am. I decide to clarify. “Hunter O’Shea. We met at Starbucks on Broadway.” More silence. “We both wanted the last lemon tart,” I add. As far as reunions go, this is veering toward a crash and burn.
“Holy shit,” she finally says, the surprise clear in her tone.
“Holy shit indeed. How are you?” Even I cringe at the stupidity of that question.
“Me? I’m good, thanks. How about you?”
“Fine.”
And it appears the third wheel to our conversation has joined us once again. Silence.
Clearing my throat, I man up and pull out the big guns. “I’m calling because I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink with me. Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
Rocking back in my seat and peering up at the ceiling, I shoot myself with an imaginary gun. But I persevere. “Yes, tonight. I have this thing…and thought it’d be nice to catch up.” I mouth a ‘what the fuck’ and roll my eyes. This is more than a little pear-shaped, it’s a fucking debacle.
“I…um, Hunter, I’m really surprised you called me.”
Here’s hoping that surprise is of the good kind. “I know, sweet cheeks, but I’ve been thinking about you. Have you been thinking about me?” I drop my voice purposely low, turning on the charm. I could make this woman come in one minute flat when I knelt at her altar. Sex was a little harder, she made me work for it, but I knew the buttons to push to turn her on.
“Honestly…” Her pause and shallow breathing has me fist pumping, but it’s premature. “No.”
I pull the receiver from my ear and bang the ear piece on the corner of my desk. There must be something wrong with the phone. However, when I press it back to my ear, I will happily give Satan my soul if he erases the past thirty seconds of my life.
Her brutal honesty is accentuated when the unmistakable sound of a baby wailing pierces my ear over the line. From the sounds of it, the infant is young. My stomach drops and I assume the worst. “You have a baby?”
“Ah…yes, I do.” Her pause also adds to the assumption. One plus one equals fuck me.
I catalogue over everything I can remember. We broke it off because she wanted a family and I didn’t. We went our separate ways after she fucked the living shit out of me. I thought she wanted to go out with a bang, but now I think that bang was a wham bam thank you ma’am for putting a bun in the oven.
I suddenly feel so violated. “Oh.” How do you ask someone in a roundabout way if they were sleeping around and got knocked up by somebody other than you? There really isn’t a nice way, it all amounts to holy fuck balls.
My silence speaks volumes, and Siobhan suddenly bursts into laughter. I have no idea how Dix went through this and stayed sane. “I’m sorry, Hunter,” she finally says around a mouthful of giggles. “Don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking. The baby isn’t yours.”
“Thank fuck for that!” I express a little louder than intended.
“But I do have you to thank for little Fiona coming into this world.” God dammit! If I’ve counted my chickens before they’ve hatched, I’m going to be fucking pissed.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I allow her to explain. “After we ended things, I met someone. Believe it or not, this person knows you too. Small world, right?”
This can’t be good, but I humor her anyway. “Crazy.”
“I was talking to this person about you, and well, anyway, it appears we both dated you.”
My mouth moves in wordless animation because one, I never thought we were officially dating, and two, if this person helped bring Fiona into this world, then I’m assuming that person is a man, and I sure as shit know I have never dated a dude.
/> There was this one time in Reno, but it was dark, and I could have sworn he said his name was Peta, not Peter.
Focusing on the task at hand, I swallow and suck it up, now looking at that phrasing in an entirely different light. “I’m really happy for you, but I don’t swing that way. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My best friend is one sexy stud muffin, and if I batted for the same team, I’d be all over that man beast like a rash, but I like the ladies…”
“So do I,” Siobhan says, which has me screeching to a sudden stop.
“What?”
“The person I met was Molly.” When I remain silent, she shows me mercy and sheds light on what the hell is going on. “Molly was the girl who served us at Starbucks. She was the one who gave you the last tart.” It appears she means that in every literal sense of the word. “I went back to the Starbucks, call me a romantic fool, and we bonded over the fact we both knew you.”
“You’re gay?” I need her to draw me a diagram because I’m so fucking confused.
“Yes, Molly is my partner, and as you know, I was desperate for a family. So was she, so we got a donor, and nine months later, our little Fiona was born. So we have you to thank.”
I don’t even know what to say. “You’re welcome…I guess. I’m happy for you two. Congratulations.”
She’s gay? She liked head, but I would never pick her for being a lesbian. But regardless, this is a new kind of awesome. “I was a beard then? For two chicks! That’s kind of cool.”
When that stagnant quiet falls over us once again, I know I need a fucking handbook, ’cause I’m in a state of constant confusion it appears. “Well, not really, when we were with you…we weren’t gay.”
“I…what now? I beg your pardon?” I blink once, shaking my head, because now I’m surely hearing things.
“Sorry, Hunter, but…”
“But what? I turned you gay?” I tease, but eat my words soon after.
“Well…I suppose so.”
The Hunt - Monica James Page 3
