Bet Me: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  “I’m a reporter from the New York Daily News, and I was hoping to get a quote from you for a story I’m writing.”

  “Sorry, but all press requests go through the main office.” I relax. “I can get you their number, if you give me a minute . . .”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think you understand. This is a story about you. Your sex strike.”

  My what now?

  I freeze.

  “I . . . don’t know if I can help you.” I gulp.

  “I’m sure you’re aware that your video has recently gone viral. I was hoping for a few words.”

  A story. About me. In the New York fucking Daily News. For everyone in the city of New York to read, probably with some horrible photo they’ll pull off the web from my ill-advised Audrey Hepburn turtleneck phase.

  “You’re really hitting a chord. My readers want to know where all this came from. Who is Lizzie Ryan? What does she want?”

  Right now, I want to go back to last week and never record the damn video. Hell, I’d prefer a night with Colin and his extra anchovies if it meant I didn’t wind up sharing my epic rant with the world.

  Suddenly, I feel dizzy. I swallow hard, sitting all the way up in bed and swinging my legs over so my feet are on the floor. Maybe if I stay grounded I won’t faint.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage to spit out, “I have to go.”

  “Wait! I was just hoping to—”

  Before she can say anything else, I hit the End button, and then turn my phone off entirely. Then I bury it under the blankets, just to be safe.

  So much for blessed escape. I thought this would blow over in a few days, but it’s showing no signs of stopping anytime soon.

  Fuck.

  Later that morning, I meet Della at a new climbing gym in Williamsburg, appropriately named High Anxiety. Every Saturday we try some terrible workout before our ritual Saturday brunch of eggs Benedict and mimosas. Last week was stripper yoga, but as I look around the room, taking in the rock walls and heavy grunting coming from the male members in attendance, I realize this just may be worse.

  Della rushes in, bringing the cool spring air in with her, which is a welcome change from the sweaty gym-sock stench of this place. “Sorry I’m late,” Della says. Our friend Melissa is in tow. “We got waylaid by that hottie selling water bottles on the corner.”

  “The homeless dude?” I ask.

  Melissa grins. “The hot homeless dude.”

  We all sink down to the mats in our leggings and hoodies to stretch out. “How are you holding up?” Della extends both legs in front of her and grabs for her calves. I curse her silently. She’s so limber that her forehead practically touches her shins.

  “Ask me after we get mimosas.”

  She gives me a sympathetic look. “Shit, is the video still playing?”

  “Anywhere with a wifi connection!”

  “At least you look hot in it,” Melissa chimes in. “That red dress does amazing things for your boobs. Seriously, if I was going to accidentally upload a video to the world, I’d want my cleavage to look like yours.”

  “Thanks. I think?”

  Della yawns.

  “Late night?” Melissa asks.

  She nods. “Zach woke up with wood and wanted to get busy. He takes forever to come, by the way.” She adds with another yawn.

  “Oh poor you,” Melissa giggles. “I’m sure it was just terrible.”

  Melissa works at the Museum of Sex, where she curates vibrators through the ages all day long, and is writing her master’s thesis on the history of Victorian corsets. We all met at the Alibi one gin-soaked night last year, and have been friends ever since.

  “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it,” Della says with a wink. “Speaking of which,” she goes on, turning her head to look at me, “you’re not really serious about this strike? Celibacy is no joke, you know. Your vagina could dry up from lack of use!”

  “Della!” Melissa shouts, dissolving into a puddle of giggles. “That is so, so not true.”

  “It is true,” Della snaps, stretching an arm over her left leg. “I heard it on NPR.”

  “Guys,” I interrupt, “whether my vagina dries up is not the point.”

  Melissa stretches one blue spandex clad leg up into the air. “So what is the point?”

  “Yeah, Lizzie, what’s the point?” Della parrots as she jumps to her feet, bending over and staring at me from between her legs.

  I sigh. “The point, I guess, is I want something real. A guy who cares. I mean, they think that they don’t have to do anything to get laid because we’ve let them get away with it for years! Whatever happened to actual dating? You know, candlelit dinners, flowers, a guy leaving a container of chicken soup in front of your apartment door when you’re sick?”

  “Does that ever actually happen?” Melissa whispers to Della. “I thought the chicken soup thing was just an urban legend!”

  “The point is,” I say more forcefully, “that they need to shape up before we give it up, you know? And if we make them wait long enough, maybe they’ll change their ways—for good.”

  “But in the meantime,” Della interjects, “aren’t you going to be horny as hell?”

  “How is that any different from my normal state?” I laugh. “I mean, it’s not like I’m giving up a bunch of hot sex every night for this strike—I’m not getting laid anyway!”

  “She does have a point,” Melissa notes.

  “I guess so,” Della says grudgingly. “But it still sounds like no fun to me.”

  “Unlike this?” I point at the climbers on the wall in front of us, dangling from the wall like spiders, and Della gives me a wicked smile.

  “Come on, ladies,” she says, as she pulls us to our feet. “Let’s hang.”

  One hour—and a whole heap of bodily humiliation later—I’m coated with sweat, and sore in places I didn’t even know I had. We head next door to one of the trendy wine bars that have popped up all over the neighborhood: the kind with fifteen-dollar pancakes and all the mimosas you can drink.

  “God, I love brunch,” I declare, sinking onto a bar stool. There’s a wait for tables, but that never stopped us before. “Whoever invented it deserves a medal. ‘Sure, let’s make dessert a real meal, and throw in champagne to boot.’ ”

  “Amen,” Melissa agrees, raising her glass.

  I’m just taking the first sip of my drink when I spy a familiar face across the room—Jake Weston, in the flesh, and dressed, predictably, in a suit even though it’s a Saturday. Does this guy not own a pair of jeans? Or a pair of kicks, for that matter? His black ankle boots are so highly polished you could probably check your make up in them.

  Just as I’m turning away, hoping he hasn’t seen me yet, his eyes lock on mine, and he raises his glass at me.

  Great. Just what I need today—eggs with a side of sarcasm.

  He’s standing with a couple of guys who look about the same age as him—mid-thirties—one with brown hair and a shy smile, and the other with “alpha male” written all over him. Great. Before I know it, they’re walking over, Bloody Marys in hand. Well, his friends are walking. Jake is practically sauntering, taking time to flash that million-dollar smile at every hot woman who crosses his path.

  Quelle rat.

  “Are you stalking me now?” I ask, when he finally reaches me.

  “Now, that’s no way to greet your beloved boss.”

  “Co-worker,” I correct him.

  “You say potato.” He shrugs. “This is Miles,” he nods to his shy-looking friend, “and my cousin, Nate.”

  “Hi, I’m Lizzie.”

  “Great to meet you!” Miles beams, and shakes my hand enthusiastically. “You work at the Met? That must be fascinating.”

  I blink. A friend of Jake’s, with manners and enthusiasm? “Yes.” I warm to him immediately. “It’s great.”

  “I majored in art history,” he says, still smiling. “At least, until my dad threatened to pull my trust fund. Then I swit
ched to business, but it wasn’t nearly so fun.”

  Suddenly, another woman comes hurrying over. She’s got strawberry-blonde hair, and is wearing jeans and a Doctor Who T-shirt. “Hey babe,” she grins, and I tense. This doesn’t look like Jake’s kind of woman, but then she reaches past him and slides an arm around Nate’s waist. I relax. “Did you order me waffles?” she asks, then catches sight of me. “Oh my god, it’s YOU!”

  “Ummm . . .” I stare back blankly.

  “From the video! Wait, you guys know each other?” She looks to Jake, then snorts with laugher. “Oh, yeah, that totally makes sense. Jake would make anyone swear off men. No offense.”

  “None taken.” Jake rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He reaches over to take my mimosa. But this time, I’m prepared for his tricks. I snatch it out of reach and take a gulp.

  “So how’s it going?” the woman asks, wide-eyed. “I’m Julia, by the way, big fan!”

  “Nice to meet you, Julia. But since when did my sex life become a topic of national discussion?”

  “Since you have more views than Beyonce,” Julia says. “And I’m an author. Everything’s material. Sorry.”

  “It’s not going to last, you know. The strike, ” Jake announces.

  “Wanna bet?” I say, draining my glass. I’m getting the feeling I’m going to need liquid courage for this conversation.

  “Admit it, you need us.” Jake gives a cocky grin.

  I snort. “Sure, because your track record in this department is golden. Women don’t need a dick to get off,” I add, enjoying his discomfort. “Toys do a much better job anyway. It’s scientifically proven.”

  “Is it?” Miles laughs. “Maybe I should go buy some for Tatiana when we’re done here.”

  “Miles and Tatiana just had a baby girl six weeks ago,” Jake explains in a low, conspiratorial voice, “so he’s desperate to get laid again.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say desperate,” Miles sighs, setting his glass down on the bar.

  “I would.” Jake looks at me and smiles, and despite how much he annoys me, I feel it all the way to my stomach. And maybe lower, too. “I mean, having to look at scantily clad women all day while you’re stuck in sexual purgatory?”

  I must look confused because Miles explains, “I run Dapper,” he says, naming a mega-successful men’s magazine. “I’m working on revamping the website right now.”

  “So after a day arranging a photo shoot with Charlize Theron, he goes home to his hot Brazilian ex-swimsuit model wife, and . . . nothing,” Jake laughs.

  “I’m sorry, Miles,” I say sweetly, “that sounds like absolute torture. How you manage to survive each day with a successful magazine, a beautiful wife, and a new baby girl is beyond me.”

  Julia snorts with laughter again. “I like her,” she says to no-one. “Can we keep her?”

  “But you,” Jake says, pointing a finger at me. “You, on the other hand, you’re doing this sex strike of your own free will! Miles, here, doesn’t have a choice. I’m telling you, it’s not going to last. A few weeks, tops. Unless you’re having issues with your libido,” he adds, fake sympathetic. “Is that what this is about?”

  “My libido is just fine,” I say coolly. “I told you, a toy is just as good—if not better than any dick in town. Particularly in this town, I might add.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t met the right dick,” Jake says flirtatiously. Oh brother.

  “You’re right, I haven’t,” I shoot back with a smile. “And the tongue round here isn’t great either. No stamina, if you know what I mean.”

  Julia looks interested. “Am I missing something here?”

  Jake chokes on his drink. “No, nothing.” He gives me a warning look.

  I laugh. At least our NYE misadventures give me a trump card to play, but I think I’ll save it for another day. “It’s a long story. Another time.”

  Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn. It’s our hostess, a cute woman in her twenties with curly dark hair. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” she says, eyes wide, “You’re the one going on strike, right?”

  I cringe. Is there no escape?

  “She’s the one,” Jake announces loudly, and I shoot daggers at him. But instead of more gossip and laughter, the hostess claps her hands together.

  “Oh my god, you’re like, an inspiration! I agree with everything you said. I’ve decided to do it too,” she says proudly. “I’m going to teach my asshole boyfriend a lesson!”

  “Uh, good luck.” I’m shocked. Someone actually agrees with me?

  “You too!” She squeezes my arm and then says, “I’ll show you to your table whenever you’re ready.”

  I gesture for Della and Mel, and they follow the hostess over.

  “Nice meeting you,” I tell Julia and Nate. “And you better watch out,” I tell Jake, who’s watching with a surprised look. “Looks like the strike is really taking off. Who knows? Maybe I’ll amass an army of sex strikers!”

  Jake regains his composure. “I wouldn’t bet on it. So you’ve got some press.” He shrugs. “It’ll die down in about a week or so—if that. It’s not like people have much of an attention span these days, you know.”

  Ugh, he’s so smug! But I have to admit, part of me wants to agree with him so this can all be over. But there’s no mistaking the fact that part of me also likes the fact that the strike—and everything it represents—seems to have struck a chord.

  If the price for educating the men of NYC happens to be my dignity, then what the hell, maybe it’s a price worth paying!

  10

  Lizzie

  All it takes is a couple of weeks—and one viral video—and my life is suddenly way out of control. The strike has taken on a life of its own, spawning think pieces on websites like Jezebel and The Huffington Post, segments on Good Morning America and The View, and has inspired so many blog posts that I can’t even keep track of them. Not that I have to worry about it, though, since Skye’s been spending her free time organizing all the press in a file on my laptop—in spite of the fact that she doesn’t really get what all the fuss is about in the first place.

  “I mean, this is just the way things are,” she says while dragging blog posts to separate folders on my computer. “So guys are selfish and lazy. It’s part of dating in the twenty-first century! And, really, it’s always kind of been this way, hasn’t it? I mean, as long as I can remember, anyway.”

  I laugh. “That’s because you’re a fetus. But since you’re asking, then no. No it hasn’t. There is a world that existed before apps and booty calls took over, you know. It’s called dating. And it’s a grown-ups-only zone.”

  She waves her hand like she’s shooing away a fly. “But that’s so old-fashioned. I mean, who has time for that kind of stuff anymore? It’s just not the way we live!”

  “Well, isn’t that the problem?” I muse, gaining confidence now. “I mean, we order up dates now the way we order in Chinese food, for fuck’s sake!”

  “But what’s wrong with that?” She looks genuinely confused.

  “Oh my god, Skye!” I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Everything! It’s the death knell of romance! It means we’d rather choose convenience over real human connection! Over real feelings!”

  “But it doesn’t have to,” she pouts, closing the laptop and sitting back in my desk chair. “Look at Spencer and me—we met in person, not on an app—and he can be very romantic, I’ll have you know. He hardly ever makes me sleep in the wet spot. And just the other night, for instance, when I wasn’t feeling well, he researched Zika on the internet for two hours to make sure I didn’t have it. I guess he’s kind of a germaphobe, but still—he cared enough to check!”

  “Skye,” I say firmly, leaning forward and enunciating every word. “That’s. Not. Romance. It’s hypochondria! They’re not really the same thing.”

  “So what’s the difference?”

  Just then the door opens and my boss, Morgan, comes stampeding in, her armful
of bracelets and tangle of necklaces jangling noisily. Morgan likes to really pile it on before a workday. The good news about this is that as a result, she’s kind of like a cat with a bell—I can usually hear her coming from a mile away before I ever catch sight of her. Which generally gives me time to hide.

  Except today, I’m not so lucky.

  She looks at me expectantly, opening her lips in a wide smile. In fact, she’s practically beaming.

  Uh-oh.

  This can’t be good. Morgan’s everyday mode of communication with me usually consists entirely of displeased scowls or impatient sighs.

  “Lizzie,” she says in a cloyingly sweet voice. “Why there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere!”

  Everywhere except my office—where I spend the majority of my workday.

  “I was hoping to have a few words with you—in private,” she half-whispers, shooting Skye a look that could freeze a lava flow in its tracks.

  Skye may be naive but she can definitely take a hint. Without another word she exits. The minute she’s gone, Morgan sits down in my chair and leans forward with a furtive expression on her face, which doesn’t really move anymore. I swear, this woman’s had so much Botox and filler that her face is practically a landfill.

  “Lizzie . . .” she starts, looking down at the desk as if she’s studying it. “I was hoping to get your advice on a delicate matter.”

  “Sure,” I say, reaching into my purse for a Kit Kat and tearing the wrapper off. I skipped breakfast this morning, and I’m starving. Plus, I read this article that said if you eat your dessert first thing in the morning, you’ll actually lose weight! Win/win!

  “You may know that Bradley and I have been together for quite a while now.” She looks up at me expectantly, as if I know exactly what she’s talking about, and the weird thing is that I do—Bradley is her investment banker boyfriend. I heard her talking about him one day in the cafeteria.

  “And things have been, well, fairly serious between us for some time. I’ve been waiting for him to take things to the next level, but he seems perfectly happy to let things go on as they have been . . .” She gives me a tight smile.