Bet Me: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  “Nope,” she snaps, taking off her glasses and rubbing them on her sweater. “From what I hear he’s still very happy with Harmony. I’ve moved on. I met this guy on Tinder, and I think it could really be something.”

  Tinder, huh? I’m picturing some Grade A meathead with zero manners and marginal social skills, whose idea of a romantic evening is probably watching the game on TV while intermittently ogling her tits. Hope she knows what she’s in for.

  I give her a skeptical look, which she predictably ignores.

  “Not every guy is a jaded oaf like you, you know,” she says.

  “Oh yeah,” I chuckle knowingly. “I’m sure this guy will pull out all the stops tonight: a dozen roses, Dom Perignon—the works. And even if by some miracle he does come through, it won’t mean anything except for the fact that he wants to get you into bed.”

  “Well, as long as it doesn’t turn out like our night together.” She smirks, and damn, now I really want to remember whatever the fuck happened.

  “Odds are, you came your brains out and left begging me for another shot,” I say casually. “That’s what usually goes down on a night with me.”

  She snorts with laughter. “Not even close, sunshine.” She grins over her glasses, the frames matching her red lips, and I have the worst urge to walk over there and pull them off and start kissing her, working my way down her neck until she lets out one of those throaty little moans that somehow, I remember just fine . . .

  “Well, this has been fun.” She slams her laptop shut. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do with the show coming up, so why don’t you let me get to it and we’ll talk more tomorrow about strategy? There are a few key pieces I’ll need you to track down for me,” she says, waving her hand and dismissing me like I’m her fucking lackey. Which in a way, I kind of am, as much as it might annoy me.

  “That’s it?” I ask, thrown.

  “Is there something else you need?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes at me in a way that lets me know that she wants me gone—immediately, if not sooner. Fine. If that’s what she wants I’m happy to oblige.

  “Guess not. I’m sure it’ll be a pleasure working with you,” I say, sarcastic. She smiles.

  “You too!”

  I close her office door, pissed off, and fume all the way down the hall. OK, so maybe she has a point being mad that I didn’t recognize her, but what’s with the power play not telling me what happened with us that night? Fuck, I can’t remember, no matter how hard I try. I remember how hot she was knocking back whiskey in the bar . . . and gleefully destroying her ex’s apartment . . . and even in the cab to my place, with her skirt hitching up those incredible legs and her smart mouth just begging for a kiss.

  Fuck, what did I do? It must be something bad to make her toy with me like this, and dammit if I’m going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s under my skin.

  I don’t need this shit. I’m here to do a job, and I don’t need to take her crap. There are plenty of girls in this city who would be more than happy to relive their nights with me—and come begging for a repeat performance, too. Roses and champagne? Moonlit walks on the fucking beach? They’re for amateurs.

  A real man doesn’t need all that window dressing to get a woman into bed. And at the end of the day, that’s what we’re all here for: no romance, no attachments.

  No letting a woman break your heart into a thousand fucking pieces.

  I’m waiting for the elevator when the doors open, and out walks this girl wearing a blue sundress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination—I mean, it’s molded to her curvy body so tightly that I can practically guess her cup size.

  She’s holding an ice cream in one hand, and she swishes her long blond hair out of one eye, giving me a huge smile and narrowing her green eyes like she wants to devour me—along with her treat.

  “You’re Jake Weston,” she breathes. “Aren’t you?”

  “In the flesh.” I flash a smile, and this time it works, because she blushes from her head right down her chest.

  “I’m so honored to be working with you, Mr. Weston. I’m Skye, Lizzie’s assistant.” She reaches out a hand, and I use my free one and take it. She hangs on just a minute too long before releasing, her finger rubbing against my palm.

  “If there’s anything you need . . .” She leans a little closer, her ample chest rising and falling with her breath. “And I mean anything at all, do let me know.”

  She gives me a little wink, but I drop her hand fast. Lizzie’s assistant? Oh hell nope. I know better than to shit where I eat—especially with Lizzie on the warpath.

  “Great meeting you,” I say smoothly, stepping past into the elevator. “See you around!”

  “You too.” She takes a lick of ice cream, swirling her tongue around suggestively as the doors shut. And I don’t know why, but it triggers something in the darkest corner of my mind. A memory.

  My tongue. Licking something sweet.

  Or someone . . .

  Oh shit.

  6

  Lizzie

  Colin texts me his address, and I head over after work—after a quick change in the ladies’ restroom that would put Supergirl to shame. I’m all dolled up, and I look pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. In the elevator, I smooth down the skirt of my short red dress, making sure I didn’t get wrinkled on the subway ride over, and try to forget Jake Weston’s infuriating cocky grin.

  Forget this, I want to yell, but I keep it together. So he doesn’t even remember that night and all its humiliations? At least I’m making him pay now, holding it over his head.

  But somehow, his voice whispers in my thoughts, and that knowing sneer when I mentioned my big romantic date with Colin tonight.

  It’s not like he knows everything, I tell myself, walking down the hall to Colin’s apartment. The guy who passes out face down in my crotch waives all right to judge my love life.

  I check my reflection in the hall mirror a final time, feeling my excitement rise. Colin promised he was pulling out all the stops tonight, so I ducked out on my lunch break to buy a new dress, and even invested in a pair of lacy panties, too. A good girl scout is always prepared. Maybe he’s cooked a candlelit meal for two, or is planning to whisk me off to a fancy restaurant and have me serenaded by a string quartet—

  The door swings open. “Hey, it’s you.” Colin sees me and thrusts a bag of garbage into my hand. “Can you shove that in the chute? It’s right there. Yeah, just shove it in real good, the damn thing’s jammed.”

  I blink. He’s wearing a beat-up pair of grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Maybe he just hasn’t had time to change yet, I tell myself, still harboring a tiny kernel of hope that for once, a guy might just up and surprise me.

  “Sure.” I go deposit the stinking sack of trash in the hallway chute. “Umm, hi!”

  “Hey,” he says, a broad smile on his face. “Glad you could make it.” He opens the door wider to let me step inside. I look around the room, taking in the piles of empty pizza boxes on the kitchen counter, the clothes strewn all over the living room, and a football game blaring from a flat-screen TV, the announcer’s nasal voice giving me an instant migraine.

  OK. So we’re definitely heading out to eat.

  “Want a beer?” he asks, holding up an open one already in his hand. I’m too speechless to answer, not that he notices. He just heads off to the kitchen and opens the fridge, grabs a can of Coors Light before sauntering back to press it into my hand.

  “Thanks,” I reply weakly.

  He offered you a drink. That’s . . . polite, isn’t it?

  “So . . .” I ask cautiously, popping the tab on the can of beer, if only for something to do. “What are we doing tonight?”

  “You can sit down, you know,” he says, pushing a pile of dirty clothes off the black leather couch and onto the floor. “Sorry about the mess,” he adds. “I’ve been working a lot lately and I just haven’t had time to clean up.”

  “That’s . .
. OK.” I walk over and sit down gingerly. “I’ll just wait here then,” I say, trying not to touch anything. Or look at anything. Or maybe even breathe.

  But instead of heading for what I hope is a thorough shower, Colin kicks back on the couch and pops the tab on his own beer. “Wait for what?”

  “You to get ready?” I ask, clinging to desperate hope.

  He laughs. “I’m all set. I thought I’d order a pizza and we could watch the game.”

  Is he serious? “But . . . you said something about having a romantic evening . . .” My voice trails off as reality sinks in.

  This can’t be real. This guy can’t possibly think that beer and football constitutes a romantic evening, can he?

  Oh, he can. Colin looks at me with this proud expression, like he deserves a freaking gold star.

  “This is romantic! I mean,” he says, “we’ve got the game on the tube, a little pizza, and maybe later a little . . .” He raises both eyebrows suggestively, looking right at my chest, and I feel nauseous. I’d rather eat my own shoes than a pizza right now. He’s grabbing his iPhone off the coffee table, ready to dial up Domino’s, when I snap out of my shock and jump to my feet.

  How. Dare. He.

  “You think this is romance?” I blurt out, putting my hands on my hips and glaring at him, willing him to burst into flames from the sheer force of my rage. “Football and pizza? Why don’t you just order some fucking wings while you’re at it!”

  “Hey,” he says, holding up one hand. “Chill. I mean, you can get as many toppings as you want, okay? Except pepperoni. I hate pepperoni.”

  “Goodbye, Colin,” I say, before I inflict grievous bodily harm with my purse. “Enjoy your romantic evening,” I yell out, slamming the door shut behind me.

  When I get to Alibi, Della and Zach are draped all over each other at the bar. It turns out New Year’s Eve was just the beginning of a beautiful relationship for them. They got married last summer in the little courtyard out back, and now Zach owns the place. Funny how things work out. Fucking hilarious, even. But they’re perfect for each other, so it’s not like I can even be mad about it—plus Zach gives me a break on rent for my apartment right upstairs. I’ve never seen Della so happy, although she does take Zach for granted a little too much, in my opinion.

  Not that anyone actually asked me for my opinion. Besides, I just spent a hundred bucks on lingerie to sit on a guy’s couch and watch the game.

  “Lizzie!” Della yells out happily as I approach them, throw my purse down on the bar, and slump onto a barstool next to her. Zach’s leaning across the bar, holding her hand in his, and when he sees my face, he extricates himself to make me a gin fizz, no questions asked. Zach doesn’t really say much, but he doesn’t have to. He gets it.

  Della, on other hand, is full of questions.

  “You’re back early. How was your romantic date?” she chirps happily.

  “Don’t ask,” I moan, and put my head down on the bar.

  “That bad?” Zach asks, putting my drink down in front me.

  “The worst.” I raise my head long enough to gulp half the glass down.

  “Easy there, partner,” Zach says. “Keep that up and we’ll be scraping you off the floor.”

  “Good thing I live upstairs.” I take another swallow, hoping that if I’m drunk enough, I’ll forget this night entirely.

  Scratch that. Maybe if I keep drinking, I’ll forget the past five years.

  “What happened?” Della asks, wrinkling her forehead.

  “I’m so stupid.” I shake my head. “I got my hopes up, and it turns out all he wanted was to watch the game, order a pizza, and then maybe fuck me? Prince Charming, right? Apparently this is what constitutes romance these days . . .. at least on Tinder.”

  “What an idiot,” Zach laughs, as he grabs my glass to make me another drink, throwing the bottle of gin in the air and catching it as effortlessly as Tom Cruise in Cocktail.

  “He’s so sexy when he does that,” Della whispers at me conspiratorially.

  “You’re the one who’s sexy.” Zach smiles at her, revealing a dimple in his right cheek that Della once told me she sticks the tip of her tongue into every now and then because it’s so cute and she can’t help herself.

  “Are you guys even listening to me?” I plead, aware that I sound pathetic, but I’m so dejected right now that I really couldn’t care less.

  “Most guys are assholes,” Zach sighs, running a hand through his shock of blond hair. “You should see the douchebags that come in here on a regular basis. Their idea of romance is calling a girl an Uber at three a.m.”

  “So did you just leave?” Della pats my leg softly like I’m a wounded bird.

  “Of course I left!” I say, taking a sip of the fresh drink Zach slides in front of me. “What was I going to do? Listen to his shitty armchair commentary all night while drinking cheap beer?” I shudder. “Did I mention he was wearing sweatpants?”

  “The horror,” Zach whispers under his breath, channeling Brando in Apocalypse Now.

  Della giggles and leans to kiss him across the bar. Usually, their adorable couple-ness gives me hope, but right now, it’s like a big flashing neon sign:

  You’ll never have anyone to love. You’re going to die alone.

  I down the rest of my drink and grab my bag. The only thing that could possibly redeem this night is my own bed. And that Pepperidge Farm coconut cake I have stashed in the freezer for three-alarm emergencies.

  This is definitely a layer cake kind of night.

  “I’m taking off, guys.” I give them a wave. Della comes up for air long enough to give me a sympathetic look.

  “I’m sorry about your date, babe. Maybe the next guy?”

  “Or the next. Or the one after that.” I salute, and head for the back stairs, pausing on the landing to take off my heels before I continue up the other two flights to my apartment. Sure, the commute is a bitch, but I have calves of steel now, and I’m never more than eighty seconds from a cocktail.

  But tonight, booze is the last thing I need. And even my trusty Pepperidge Farm can’t fill the aching void in my chest.

  Another shitty date. Another guy who can’t seem to care less if I’m even in the room.

  Is this really the most I can expect from dating? God, I might as well swear off men for good and go sign myself up for a convent at this rate, like a reverse Maria from The Sound of Music, except without annoying singing children. Or Nazis.

  I’m just so damn tired of trying.

  I sink down on the couch and sigh. I’ve been doing this too long: the first dates, getting my hopes up only to have them smashed to smithereens amongst the dirty laundry on my date’s floor. It’s been three long years since Todd walked out, and I’m closer to getting a loyalty card at my local sex toy store than I am to finding a decent man.

  “At least with a vibrator, you know exactly what you’re getting,” I say aloud. “Sure, they won’t cuddle, but they don’t use your chest for target practice, either.”

  OK, talking to myself. Not a good sign.

  I grab my laptop, praying my sister’s online so I can avoid slipping into dubious mental health territory, but her status icon is marked unavailable. I slump back, then I see the video icon winking at me. All my emotions are still bottled up, and I know I need to get this out if I’m going to sleep tonight, so I push my hair back, set the computer on the table, and hit record on a message for her.

  7

  Lizzie

  11.22 p.m.

  RECORDING: ON

  “Is this thing working? OK. Hey, it’s me, I know you’re probably off snuggling with your dear husband, but some of us are still in the trenches trying not to drink ourselves into oblivion just to make it through the night.

  Yup, I had another shitty date. And yes, I know, I just have to keep trying, but come on, if the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and expecting different results then I’m certifiably crazy by now. I don’t understand it!
What the hell happened to men? I mean, I know getting nostalgic is stupid, and the past was full of all kinds of terrible things, like polio, and lynching, and women needing permission from their husbands before they can get a job in the typing pool, but I don’t know . . . I feel like we lost something along the road there, some kind of courtship, or romance, or men acting like they gave a damn about love, and it wasn’t just some game to pass the time they could swipe for on a fucking app and have us show up on their doorstep like they called out for dry cleaning, you know?

  You remember that story Mom used to tell us, about how Dad swept her off her feet? He saw her in class, and brought her flowers every day for a week before she agreed to go out with him. And then he kept showing up with that same bunch of white roses on their anniversary every year. At least, until, you know . . . And yes, our parents are like the worst role models for a functioning relationship, but that story always made me feel better about them, somehow. They tried. It may have all gone to shit in the end, but it started on the right track, didn’t it?

  And now, all I can think is that nobody is even willing to try for me. Not even one tiny bit. Do you know how much effort I put into these dates? I mean, these days, I’ve cut it back to like the bare minimum, but that still means I have to shave my legs, and put my contact lenses in, and pick out an outfit, and wear cute-but-debilitating shoes, and make sure I go to Vilma the evil waxer once a month, and make sure I don’t eat my body weight in carbs, because god forbid I get to be thirty and single and overweight. It’s OK for you, you have love. I mean, you really do. You have someone to talk to, and snuggle up with at night, and hold your hair back when you’ve got food poisoning, but some of us are still out here vomiting on the bathroom floor alone!

  I know, I’m rambling, but it’s just hard, that’s all . . . I want love. I want fireworks, and chemistry, and romance that makes my stomach dance with butterflies. And yes, I realize that sounds naïve, and I’m supposed to be a modern independent woman who fucks and forgets as good as the next guy, but what can I say? Those afternoons in front of TCM screwed me up, and good. But c’mon, Jess, surely it’s not asking too much to find a man who puts five seconds of thought into showing me a good time? Who finds a moment to plan an amazing date, just to make me smile? Or who cares enough to find out what I like instead of just going through the motions, or even worse, barely looks up from his X-box when I walk in the room? I’m not asking him to fish a damn necklace out of the wreck of the Titanic! Or write me a letter every day for a year! Just don’t assume you get a prize just for showing up and breathing in and out, and that the prize is going to be my pussy!