by Deveraux, CM
After the basics had been covered, she added one final word of warning that rang out like a clarion call to womankind everywhere. “Incessant bitching, whining, and nagging is a downer, and it’s disrespectful, to yourself and your man.”
Her challenge to me was to learn to love myself so a man could love me too. Once I applied Veronica’s aforementioned principles to my own life, I arrived at phase three, which in this case was home plate, the green light for sex. Almost.
CHAPTER 5
I met Fitz on an online dating site for men and women aged twenty-five and over. Fitz’s screen name on the website was DarcySeeksBennet. Interesting.
I’d been initially attracted to his main profile photo. His hair—a thick, milk-chocolate brown—was messy, with pieces shooting off in all directions, even though hair gel had obviously been used to achieve the desired effect. An obvious perfectionist. Suited me just fine. His eyes, a piercing shade of azure blue, stared right into the camera and through my soul. And though we hadn’t even met, all I could think about was ripping the thin, white, V-neck shirt he was wearing off of his svelte body. (A few months without sex does that to a person). The eye candy, coupled with a candid, page-long description about love being the only thing he was missing in life, had me raring to go.
When I’d first messaged him, I didn’t send a flirty wink like other less-confident girls did, or a silly smiley face either. Those were reserved for the shy, fear-of-rejection girls. And I wasn’t one of those anymore. I typed an actual message with actual words. I even signed it with my real name. My first name, anyway.
Three hours after I’d hit the send button, I received a response:
Jess,
I enjoyed your profile. You are an attractive, captivating woman. I have three questions for you:
Where do you like to travel?
What do you like to eat?
What are your hobbies?
It’s only fair I answer them myself, so here it goes...I enjoy Italy. Have you ever been to the Fontana di Trevi? It’s beautiful. I enjoy Beliz. I enjoy anywhere life slows down long enough to create a lasting moment I’ll never forget. My favorite dish is lasagna made with tomatoes from my grandmother’s garden. As for hobbies, I enjoy photography. Maybe one day I’ll get the chance to photograph you. As for my other hobbies, I have many, and for those, you’ll just have to wait.
What questions do you have for me?
I look forward to your reply,
Fitz Darcy
Fitzwilliam Darcy. The Pride and Prejudice Fitzwilliam Darcy? Gorgeous and Clever. I wondered how many naďve women had fallen for the name, thinking it was really his. I ruled against calling him out on it. Besides, seeing how fast I could get him to reveal his real name piqued my interest. If it was a challenge he wanted, I was a challenge he would get. And as to the “other hobbies” he mentioned, if the same racy thoughts ran through his mind as they had done in mine, he’d be well worth the wait.
In the fast-paced world of dating, Fitz proved to be a great deal more snail than Energizer bunny. Most of my online suitors over the past few months had asked me out within the first two email exchanges, but not him. He suggested we write back and forth, swapping questions, getting to know each other. We’d exchanged messages seven or eight times before he said he had one final question. He asked for my number. I supplied it. In his final email, he said, “By the way, my real name is Tyler. Talk to you soon.”
The next night, Tyler called. His voice, low and deep, matched the tone I’d drummed up in my mind. In a world where most of my dates had been of the “high and squeaky” variety, Tyler’s smooth, gentle inflection revved my innermost desires.
We’d spoken on the phone a few times before he said, “Where would you like to have dinner?” He didn’t ask if I wanted to meet in person, he assumed I did. Bold and confident. I liked it. Even though we’d emailed and spoken on the phone, I still had many unanswered questions. Where did he work? Did he live in a high-rise building on the Vegas strip, or did he bunk at home with Mommy and Daddy? Since I still knew so little about him, I threw out the name of one the most lavish Italian restaurants I’d been to—Le Sueur—and waited to see if he would know it.
Bite. You know you want to.
And he did.
He’d responded, “I know it well.”
“I dine there once a month if I can,” I said.
“What’s your favorite dish?”
“Roast chicken. You?”
Without hesitation, he said, “Steak au poivre.”
Live with Mother and Father he did not.
CHAPTER 6
Date One: Getting to know you.
Veronica’s final set of pre-date, pre-sex instructions had me following something she’d coined the “Three-date Rule,” which basically meant, if we made it to date three, sex was on the table, or the floor, or the sofa, or tied to the bed post. You get the idea. I had every intention of getting there and getting off.
I stood, mostly naked, in my newly acquired house, in my ruby-colored bedroom, in a pair of Agent Provocateur see-through, black lace panties and matching bra. Six months earlier, I wasn’t even aware the high-end lingerie company existed, and now my drawers were practically lined with their stuff. Thank you Visa Gold card. What a difference several months and some good plastic made.
If I played it Veronica’s way, I wouldn’t be getting anywhere this evening, so I supposed the underlining I’d chosen for tonight’s soiree didn’t matter. Still, I maintained one of her other cardinal rules, which was to be prepared for anything, anytime, anywhere. Besides, gawking at myself in front of the mirror, assessing the slender, toned flesh I’d worked so hard to achieve via Veronica’s three-month, full-body boot camp, coupled with lingerie that made me feel sexy as hell, was all the motivation I needed.
I extracted two dresses from the closet and returned to the mirror, dangling them both in front of me. Red or black. That was the question. The red, sleeveless number looked more like a satin negligee than a dress. If I bent over while wearing it, even slightly, anyone behind me would receive a front row peek of my tan derriere. Too much? Probably. The black number was a little less revealing. It had a low-plunging neckline, which still allowed my B-something cup cleavage to peek through the top without bursting out, and a hemline cutting off about three inches above my knees. I could lean over and touch my toes and the most a man would see was my upper thigh or maybe a hint of a panty line. Perfect. I slipped it on, paired it with some strappy Jimmy Choo’s, and headed for the door.
Go time.
On the way to the restaurant, I reminisced about what I knew about Tyler so far. Not much. He didn’t watch many sports, but he did enjoy basketball and mixed martial arts. He hadn’t always lived in Vegas. He was born in a small town where the population was less than five thousand people, although he had yet to mention the name of the town. He’d attended college and graduated, although he hadn’t said where or what he studied. He’d moved to Vegas in his early twenties. Why? I didn’t know that either. There were many cavities to be filled, and with any luck, maybe one day, one of them would be mine.
CHAPTER 7
Date One included an exit strategy, just in case things didn’t go swimmingly between us. As my wing woman, fifteen minutes in, Veronica would send me a text message. If she didn’t receive a response, she’d know all was well. If I messaged her back, she’d wait five minutes, call me, and set our escape plan in motion. I prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
I arrived at the restaurant several minutes early, slipping onto a padded stool at the bar. I’d selected this exact location because of the clear view it offered of the front door. My goal was to spot him before he spotted me.
The front door swung open then closed.
I looked over.
Male.
Check.
Without a date.
Check.
But unless he was in his upper sixties with patchy, balding hair, it wasn’t him. The man in question
grabbed a to-go bag from a female at the front desk, paid, and left.
A bartender appeared in front of me. I ordered a martini. Dry. Extra olives. Extra because the olives served at Le Sueur weren’t your ordinary run-of-the-mill fruit. (And if you’re wondering, yes, they are in fact a fruit). Stuffed with blue cheese and tiny bits of meat, they looked like the result of an olive after experiencing an orgasm.
The bartender filled my request, propping the drink on the counter in front of me. I popped an olive to my mouth and bit down, swishing it around with my tongue, savoring every juicy second. The door opened and closed again. A young couple this time. High school age. The girl wore a dress made of endless layers of hot pink taffeta, the guy a simple, run-of-the-mill tux. Prom night. Perfect. The guy couldn’t keep his eyes off of the girl’s cleavage even when the hostess asked him a direct question. Given the radiant innocence of his date, it was quite possible she’d never exposed them before.
Six o’clock, right on the dot. Anytime now. I sipped the martini like a lady even though I had half a mind to guzzle it down and order another one before he showed.
Breathe, Jess. How amazing can he possibly be?
I hadn’t been nervous like this in months. Why was this date any different than the others?
It was different because I actually liked this guy. As much as one could like a man they’d never met in person before.
“Jess?”
Shit. The door hadn’t opened or closed. I swiveled the stool to the left and glanced up, gripping the stem of the martini glass so hard I thought it would shatter.
“Tyler,” he said, smiling. “But you already know that.”
“I...hi,” I stuttered.
I, hi?
Not exactly an A+ first impression. In a few brief seconds I felt like everything Veronica had taught me had evaporated from my body. My leg quivered. I pressed a hand to my thigh. It didn’t help.
Tyler sat down, his eyes never leaving my face.
Is he going to say something? Is he waiting for me to say something?
The bartender reached for my martini glass which I still clutched in a kind of unrelenting death grip. I unhanded it. “Another?”
I nodded.
The barkeep turned to Tyler. “And you, Sir?”
“Water.”
Water?
“Sparkling or still?”
“Sparkling.”
Tyler sized me up and down. “You’re ravishing. Your photos on the website lured me in, but seeing you tonight—I never imagined you could be an even greater beauty in the flesh.”
His look, on the other hand, left me confused. In a pair of faded, ripped jeans, a slightly oversized, long-sleeved, black T-shirt, and a ball cap, he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was far too underdressed for a man who claimed to have been a patron of the restaurant. The stubble on his face indicated he hadn’t shaved for a day, maybe two. His cut jaw line and sensual eyes matched the guy from the photos, but a majority of the rest of him was off. Online, his attire had been tailored and classy, making me question his current garment choice. In person, it seemed like a façade.
The waiter returned with our drinks. I tucked an unruly wisp of bang behind my ear, alerting me to how nervous I was.
Get a grip! Say something!
“Should we get a table?” I blurted. “Or would you like to sit here for a while?”
He leaned forward until we were inches apart, his steamy breath filling my ear. “Do you want to know what I’d really like?”
I swallowed, harder than usual, making a barely audible gasping sound. He didn’t seem to notice. Thoughts circled my mind, all of them X-rated. The clothes, his look tonight—it didn’t match his sultry voice. I looked him square in the eye, attempting to meet his seductive tone and raise it with one of my own. “What would you really like?”
He pinned a hand against my upper thigh and left it there, his fingers bearing down on the fabric of my dress like he was desperate to claw his way inside. A tingling sensation surged through every orifice of my being.
His jaw fell open and he spoke. “I’d like to eat somewhere else.”
Wait...what?
All of this...the provocative voice, the way his eyes, so fierce and unrestrained, seemed to capture my soul, just to tell me he wasn’t up for French cuisine? Why agree to meet here in the first place?
“Okay...sure,” I said, flatly.
Disappointment flooded my mind in a single, capsizing wave.
His hand remained on my thigh, firmly positioned like it had fused to my body.
“Why don’t you finish your drink first?” he suggested. “No rush.”
I didn’t know what to say. Sure. And why don’t you finish your...uh...water, you idiot?
I jerked my chair toward the counter. His hand fell away, but his eyes held steady, even though his head had been slanted down since we arrived. Why? What was he hiding from?
My evening bag buzzed. Veronica. I casually removed my phone, tilting the screen toward me. I read the message even though I already knew what it said. I rapped my fingernails on the countertop, unsure of what to do next. Stay? Leave? How could I not know? I sat, frozen, my eyes glued to the screen of my phone. I’d never been this indecisive before.
Why here?
Why now?
I messaged her back: “Not sure? Text again in ten.”
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I snapped the phone case closed, feeling it glide down my fingers, back inside my bag. “Yes. Fine.”
The end of his shirt sleeve rose up a few inches, revealing a very nice, very expensive watch underneath. When he caught me rubbernecking, he wiggled his wrist, jerking the sleeve back down again. This had been done using the slightest of movements, his attempt to appear nonchalant.
It bugged me.
He bugged me.
I wanted to leave.
His jean pocket vibrated. He lifted a phone halfway out, clicked a button on the top, then shoved the phone back down without bothering to see who’d called or texted him.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
Two could play at this game.
Our eyes met, and I realized he must have had a Veronica too.
He burst out laughing. “Now that we’ve gotten our friends out of the way, what do you say we continue our evening? I was thinking we could go to this excellent—”
From across the room, I spotted a man with Guy Fieri-style hair inside a private, sectioned-off booth with not one but two women on each side. He poked his head out like a curious turkey, peering in our direction.
“Richard, hey! Is that you?” the man yelled.
Richard?
I looked to my right. Two women sat there. And Tyler was the only one sitting to my left. Shit. What had I gotten myself into? Surely the man at the booth was mistaken. But he obviously didn’t think so.
The man darted out of the booth. When he was halfway to the bar, he clearly addressed Tyler saying, “Richard? It is you, man. Long time.”
“Richard?” I asked, aloud.
I considered hurling my second martini of the evening all over my date’s stupefied face.
Fitz, a.k.a. Tyler, a.k.a. Richard, hung his head like if he pretended Crazy Hair somehow didn’t exist, he could make him magically disappear. By the time he looked back up again, Crazy Hair had smacked him on the shoulder and was towering over him.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Crazy Hair started. “Where did I see you last? Cabo? Yeah, it was Cabo! I remember now. How’s—”
“Adam, it’s nice to see you again,” my date said.
“And who is this lovely young lady?” Adam gestured toward me.
“Jess.”
“Yes, I’m Jess,” I said. I stuck my hand out and glared at my date. “Jess. Not Fitz, Fitzwilliam, Tyler, or Richard. Just Jess. The same name I give to everyone I meet.”
My date—who at this point, I didn’t know what to call short of Gigantic Asswipe—co
uldn’t even look at me.
Adam’s face reddened, realizing my words were drenched in sarcasm. He gave Gigantic Asswipe a nonverbal look like he wanted to apologize, but knew better. At this point, I didn’t care. And I didn’t need another text message from Veronica to know how to handle things myself. I flagged the bartender down and grabbed my martini, downing every last drop. The bartender handed me a bill, which I promptly shoved inside Gigantic Asswipe’s pocket. I slid my chair back and hit the ladies’ room to nurse my increasingly queasy stomach before I made my final exit.
With the door to the restroom closed behind me, I braced both hands on the sides of the sink, willing myself not to cry. I looked in the mirror. Over the past several months, I’d come to love myself, flaws and all. Was it too much to ask to find just one guy to spend the rest of my life with? A man who wasn’t an egregious liar? I didn’t want to grow old, die alone, but I’d be damned if I’d settle for less than I deserved either.
The door thrust open. I reeled my head around. Gigantic Asswipe stepped inside.
“What—you can’t be in here,” I said. “Get out!”
He canvassed the room. “It’s just us. What’s the problem?”
“The problem?” I pointed a finger in his direction. “You lied to me.”
He nodded, shoving his hands inside his pockets like a falsely accused felon. “Can we talk? Please? Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”
“You know what?” I said, “I don’t care what you have to say. It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. Don’t contact me again. Ever!”
