Regardless of my headache and epic case of dry mouth, I threw back the covers and jumped out of bed without a single negative thought about Jackass Jack and his bet.
The room was silent other than the tinny bass vibrating from the earbuds in my roommate’s ears.
I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand and slid them on, and Martin came into focus. Not surprisingly, he was vigorously scribbling in his spiral notebook, looking like he had already been up for a while.
“Hey, Marty.”
He made brief eye contact and went back to scribbling.
“I do so love our deep conversations,” I muttered good-naturedly.
I chuckled and walked to the bathroom for a shower.
We weren’t going to be on any kind of schedule for the weekend, but I had prepared myself for the endless pitches, grabby hands, and literary minds all wanting a piece of the next big pie.
I barely had a first draft, let alone a good hook and pitch, so I was mostly there for the experience. That and one last extended weekend with the guys.
The whole thing was a pretty big deal. Every author—or aspiring author—at the convention would be jittery, anxious, and burning with anticipation. I was fortunate that I wouldn’t have to play the game of relentless ass-kisser. I only wanted to observe the melee and hope to pick up some tips for future conventions.
After my shower, I got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Marty was already dressed and sporting his bright yellow tennis shoes. I couldn’t remember the last time he had worn a normal pair.
“You know, Marty, this is the age of electronics,” I said, slapping aftershave on my jaw. “Why don’t you upgrade to a laptop? It might help you write faster.”
He shook his head and temporarily plucked out his earbud. “I think too fast. Writing by hand helps my mind slow down.”
“Hmm. I’ll have to remember that.”
Martin didn’t speak much, and I had grown used to his silence. I’d roomed with him for three years, through graduate school, and was able to squeak a few sentences out of him from time to time.
But when he decided to speak, it always took me aback. His low-pitched voice always struck me as odd; it never matched the way I thought he should sound.
“I’m going to get some breakfast downstairs, want to join me?”
He shook his head and dove back into his writing.
I took the elevator down to the lobby, grabbed a coffee and banana, and headed toward the banquet hall where the first of the day’s panels were setting up. Several tables lined the front of the massive room, all adorned with white tapered tablecloths and microphones. Hundreds of padded folding chairs sat in the main area, and people were coming and going from the room. I quickly moved to get out of their way.
I strolled by the next room; this one was smaller and much less busy. Only a few people lingered around, looking a little lost. I instantly recognized Monica from the night before. She smiled, and I regretted making eye contact. All I could think about was Jack’s dumb-as-shit bet, and I shuddered. Monica was sort of cute but definitely not my type.
I gave her a thanks-but-no-thanks head nod and looked for the quickest exit.
Turning abruptly, I slammed into a young woman, spilling coffee all over her blue dress—though to be fair, it wasn’t really a dress; it was more of an awkwardly-wrapped toga.
Her eyes widened and she pulled the dress away from her breasts. “Hot. Hot. HOT!”
“Holy shit! I’m so sorry!” I frantically searched the hallway for something to help clean her off—a napkin, or a sponge. An industrial strength pressure washer, perhaps.
The closest thing I could find was a janitor’s cart a few doors down. She stood helplessly as I recovered a rag and brought it to her.
“Here!” I dabbed at her dress. Crap. I’m groping her boobs. They’re nice boobs but I shouldn’t be manhandling them. I all but threw the towel at her. “Sorry, uh, miss,” I stuttered. If there was an award for dumbassery, I would have won it by now.
“Lauren,” she snapped, wiping herself. “I’m Lauren.”
I looked up, and then down, and then fixed my eyes on the janitor’s cart again, because I had no idea where to look. Coffee dripped down her cleavage. She dabbed and blotted her long neck down to the divot between her breasts.
I swallowed thickly, staring at her tits. I couldn’t help it. The whole situation was embarrassing and getting more uncomfortable by the second. And I. Was. Still. Staring!
“Great,” she spoke again. “This towel smells like Pine-Sol. And my manuscript is ruined.” She frowned pitifully, holding up the stack of papers in her hand and slapping it against her hip.
“You’re a writer?” I asked, surprised.
She dipped her chin and stared at me like the idiot I was. “Yes, Einstein. Ninety percent of the people in the hotel this weekend are writers. Another five percent are editors, agents, and publishers.” She paused, raising her eyebrows. “The last five percent are perverts.”
“Please,” I offered. “Let me help you get out of that dress.”
Her eyes bugged out again. “Well I know which group you fall into.”
I scrubbed my hands over my face. “No! I didn’t mean—”
“I think she can do that on her own, Romeo,” Monica chimed in, walking up behind me, twisting her curly hair into a bun on the top of her head.
“I didn’t mean. I mean, I… I wasn’t trying to… She, well I… I got her wet.”
“I’m sure you did,” Monica purred, trying not to grin.
Lauren chuckled, covering her mouth with her hand. “You’re great with words,” she laughed. “What’s your name?”
“Michael Rourke.”
“Let me guess, Michael Rourke: you don’t write romance?”
I should’ve just left at that point. I’d made a complete ass of myself and had nothing left to offer the conversation. Lauren was soaked in coffee, and I had pressed my luck lingering in conversation with Monica. But I’d already dug a hole; might as well make myself comfortable.
So I opted for humor.
I lifted my banana to Monica. “Here. Hold my banana.” I waggled my eyebrows and gave the women a suggestively comical leer. “I’m taking Lauren upstairs.”
Both the girls howled with laughter. I grinned like a fool, glad I was able to salvage the situation. Monica shook her head and walked away, leaving Lauren and me alone.
“I really need to change,” she said, staring down at her ruined clothes.
“Come on then,” I said, putting my hand at the small of her back and leading her toward the elevator.
“Which floor?” I asked.
“Six.”
“I’m on six too,” I said, pressing the button.
“I really don’t need your help to get changed. I’ve been dressing myself for a while,” Lauren chuckled, clearly not annoyed by my klutziness any longer, thank God.
“I feel like a total tool. Just let me walk you to your room so that you can change. Then I’m going to find a dry cleaner and pay to have your dressed cleaned. It’s the least I can do.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, considering my offer. I tried not to stare at the way she was pulling the material of her dress away from her chest so it wouldn’t stick to her skin. I licked my lips as I totally didn’t stare at the mounds of her breasts peeking out above the collar.
Lauren was right: I was a pervert.
“Sure, okay. If it’ll make you feel better.” Her expression softened slightly before hardening again. “I guess I should call to see if I can use the hotel’s printer again anyway. I doubt anyone is going to take me seriously if I show up with a coffee-stained novel.”
I grimaced but didn’t say anything. My endless apologies were starting to sound like a broken record.
The elevator dinged and she led me to her room, stomping her feet against the floor. It was cute, in a bratty child sort of way. But she had every right to be upset with me; I’d messed up big time.
I chuckled. “Mike. Michael Rourke. Where will I find you tonight?” I asked. “I need to get this back to you.”
“I’ll be down in the bar when the last speaker is done, around eight o’clock. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay. And thanks for being cool about this. Again, I’m so sorry.”
Lauren laughed and shut the door, still speaking from behind it. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, seeming resolved that I meant no harm and that what happened was merely an accident.
I balled the blue dress up into my hand and caught up with Martin just as he was stepping into the elevator. I chuckled to myself as we stood in silence on our way down.
***
I didn’t see Monica again for the rest of the morning, and wondered if she still had a firm grip on my banana. The thought made me laugh, and the situation distracted me for the majority of the panel.
Lunch break came. The boys and I met up in the lobby and walked across the street. After ordering our sandwiches, we sat down at a small booth with our trays.
“Have any of you seen the professor yet?” Duncan asked.
“I didn’t see him at the panel,” I answered.
“He probably ran into a female fan. You remember those rumors about Jessica Klein during our second year? All true,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow.
“The man is pushing seventy-five, Jack,” Dunc said, and I almost spit out my drink. “You don’t think she’d actually…” He trailed off and we all started thinking the same thing: our wrinkled, naked professor doing unmentionable things to a very young, very pretty co-ed.
“That’s what happens when you write a classic, my friends.” Jack gleamed. “All the chicks want to get in your pants.” He tapped his temple. “They’re in love with the mind, not the body.”
“Good thing for you, then,” I retorted. “Your chances of getting laid on your looks alone are pretty slim,” I mocked, and the guys snickered.
Jack cocked his head. “Speaking of…” he oozed, “get a chance to see Monica at all today?”
The guys weren’t awake for the conversation last night, so they stared at us in confusion. “Nah.” I waved my hand. “Not interested.”
Duncan prodded. “Not interested in wha—”
“Nothing.” I cut him off. “It’s stupid.”
“A job with Bolten and Knox is stupid?” Jack asked, picking up a leaf of lettuce and popping it in his mouth.
“What?” Duncan gaped. “What are you talking about?”
I rolled my eyes as Jack relayed his idea to the guys, and I hoped they’d find the idea asinine as well.
No such luck.
“Mike!” Duncan shouted. “Isn’t Bolten and Knox the copywriting position that you applied for? Isn’t it the company in Seattle you were waiting to hear back from?”
“Shhh. Keep your voice down. Yes, they were. But I don’t want to get the job just because Chuckles McGee over here puts in a good word. I do have some pride left, you know.”
“Man,” Duncan shook his head, “I’m not sure I’d want to pass up an opportunity like this one. In this industry it’s all about who you know. If you want to get a jumpstart, I’d highly consider taking Jack’s offer,” Dunc responded, while Martin nodded his head in agreement.
“Great. He’s sucked you two in as well.” I glared at Jack. “You’re the devil.”
He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his greasy hair. “Nah, Mike. It’s okay. If you can’t do it, you can’t do it. No shame in admitting when something is too difficult for you.”
I tried to laugh it off, and took another bite of my sandwich, but as Duncan changed the subject and they started chatting, I found myself chewing slowly and contemplating what I should do.
One weekend.
One stupid weekend could mean a lifetime of doing what I love. A job with Bolten and Knox wasn’t exactly where I wanted to end up permanently, but it was a damn fine starting point. All the connections I could make, not to mention the writing experience, could be invaluable. That position was an open door calling me to walk through it. All I had to do was convince this joker that I, Michael Rourke, could live the life of a player.
My conscience would take some convincing that taking Monica to bed for a night was worth feeling like a total asshole for the foreseeable future. That my career was worth it. But what would it mean for my happiness?
I’d slept with random women before, so it wouldn’t be unheard of for me to do it. I’d just never gone into it with such sleazy intentions. But if I tried to remember that this meant opportunities resting in the palm of my hand, I might be able to wash the guilt away with the morning-after shower.
That’s all I needed: I didn’t always have to be the nice guy. I could be the schmuck. I think.
Okay.
Sold.
Cliché Three:
The damsel in distress caught in a rainstorm.
The majority of the afternoon was spent following Duncan, Martin, and Jack around the hotel, cringing at the lack of creativity and unsettled nerves that Duncan displayed with his pitches, and how forced and unpracticed the words were as they flew from Martin’s mouth. Both these guys had finished manuscripts; both books had already seen content editors, professors, and proofreaders. But it was obvious by their weak presentations that these boys had never done this before.
Jack disappeared for an hour or two, leaving me to watch them on my own. Not that it surprised me, but I thought it was kind of shitty of Jack to abandon his friends when he claimed he’d done this before. I had absolutely no words of advice for them.
But by the end of the day, Dunc and Marty had slid into their grooves. With business cards shoved in their pockets, and satchels filled with publishing materials and brochures, the three of us headed to the lobby for a drink.
“Mr. Rourke?” The front desk clerk stopped me on my way through, and the guys signaled that they were headed to the bar.
I nodded and turned toward the counter. “Yes?”
“I have your dry cleaning ready. They dropped it off about an hour ago, but you didn’t answer your phone.”
“Right.” I rubbed my forehead, waving to the guys to go ahead without me as they walked into the bar. “Sorry, I was at the convention. How much do I owe you?”
“Oh, we’ve already charged it to your room. Would you like us to keep the item in back until you need it?”
“Um…”
I debated whether or not this was one of those fated signs. A nudge from destiny. If I was going to proceed with Jack’s bet, I’d have to move quickly. It was already Friday night, and my flight would leave on Sunday morning.
But I’d never done this sort of thing before—deliberately playing the cad, seducing women into bed with practiced ease. There was nothing about me that I’d ever considered smooth. In fact, most of my love life consisted of apologizing to women over fumbled words, awkward silences, missed opportunities, and now added to the list: spilled coffee.
“Sir?” the receptionist prompted.
I shook my head. “Sorry. No, I’ll take it now.” Time was my enemy. I needed to get the dress to her before our evening began. This was an opportunity I shouldn’t pass up. I couldn’t wait until I saw them later that night.
The clerk walked to the back while I summoned the courage I needed to hand-deliver the blue dress to Lauren and Monica’s room. My stomach tumbled and my heartbeat quickened.
I took the elevator up to the sixth floor and fled to my room. After combing back my hair, changing into a pair of comfortable jeans and tighter-than-I-was-used-to T-shirt and brushing my teeth, I grabbed my coat and walked to the other end of the hall.
My nerves were getting the better of me, and my hand shook when I brought it to their door. At the last seco
nd I stopped myself from knocking and decided to give myself an internal pep talk.
You’re smooth.
You’re sexy.
You’re Rico Suave. Rico Suave? Nice reference, dickhead. Wait, isn’t he gay? No. No, I think that’s Ricky Martin. No, Ricky Martin can’t be gay. Those were just rumors. Doesn’t he dance with chicks in his videos? And hasn’t it been a decade since he released an album?
Is he even cool anymore?
Wait a minute, why am I arguing with myself about the sexual orientation and latest releases of a one-hit wonder 90s pop culture icon?
I shook my head and stretched my arms from side to side, crossing them over my chest. Then I cracked my neck and felt two vertebrae pop. Letting out a deep breath, I knocked twice.
Monica swung open the door, and her eyes traveled from my hair to my groin and then down to my shoes. A hunger lingered between us as she licked her lips, and she brushed her hair behind her shoulder. “Hey,” she said.
“H…hey there.” My voice caught in my throat halfway through. My nerves resurfaced and my obvious stutter gave it away.
She leaned against the doorframe and tilted her head. “I hope you aren’t here for your banana, because I swallowed it this morning.”
Whole? That couldn’t have been comfortable. Should I ask her if she choked on it?
Think about that for one damn second, moron. “Hey, Monica. Did you choke on my banana?”
No, asshole. She’s trying to be sexy. Run with it.
I cleared my throat, at a loss for words.
Dammit, think! You’re not Michael Rourke right now. You’re some other famous not-so-Ricky-Martin kind of guy. You’re sexy and hip and women dig you.
You’re Superman.
Well, without the Clark Kent side.
Now go get this girl, asshat!
“I…uh—” I started.
“Who’s there, Monica?” a voice chirped from behind her.
Four Play: A Collection of Novellas Page 23
