by Lila Monroe
“Anyway,” he goes on, coming back to life and waving one hand, “I’d met this salesgirl on the Rue Cambon, cute little strawberry blond, Mimi, I think her name was, and she told me about the place—after she took me home, of course. Said it was the best kept secret in town.”
“You or the shop?” I joke.
“The shop, of course!” He laughs. “Though she wasn’t exactly complaining about my ministrations either.” He cackles, handing the flask back to me. “In fact, she set me up with her friend Simone the next evening, said she had to take me for a test drive. Can you imagine?”
Knowing the perennial bachelor and pussy hound that is my grandfather as well as I do and as long as I have, yes. Yes, I can.
“Those were the days.” He leans back into his nest of pillows. “No commitment, no attachment, just craven lust and then sweet, sweet goodbyes before you were on to the next target. And the next,” he says wistfully.
Before I can agree with him, my phone rings. I reach to turn it off—Hank can’t abide by interruptions—but he gestures for me to answer. “Time for my constitutional,” he says, and heaves himself out of bed. He hates feeling weak, so I stop myself from helping him and answer the call instead as he slowly trundles to the bathroom.
“You’re a fucking genius, you know that?” It’s Miles, sounding weirdly excitable.
“Any reason in particular?” I ask.
“Your idea, about the strike,” he answers as if I’m being dense. “Listen, I’m setting a bounty—the magazine is going to pay fifty thousand dollars to whoever gets Lizzie to cave.”
“Whoa.” I stop him. “I never said that!”
“You said that guys would be lining up to break it, right?”
“Yeah,” I admit, “But—”
“Well, I’m just giving them a little incentive, that’s all. Fifty thousand of them.”
“Miles, this is a bad idea.” I warn him. Putting a bounty on Lizzie’s . . . maidenhead? Try the worst fucking idea in the world.
“You don’t understand. I need to get laid—and soon! I’m not gonna last another month, Jake. Fuck, I may not last another week! Who knows how far this strike could go if I—if we—don’t do something to stop it?”
He’s lost his mind. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to buy Tatiana some roses and whisk her off to a tropical beach somewhere?” I point out. “Also, way less expensive!”
“Are you kidding? This is going to be great for the magazine. Just think of the pageviews.” I hear noise in the background. “Gotta go, bro. Tatiana just got home and I need to get this done before she comes in here with her nightly list of chores, none of which involve me fucking her senseless, I’m sorry to say. She keeps walking around in front of me in her underwear, Jake! And I know she just had a baby and everything but she looks phenomenal. I’m in hell,” he moans. “But not for long.”
“Miles, seriously. A bounty is a fucking moronic—”
But before I can finish, he’s gone.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath. And I thought the strike was stupid enough. But now Miles is going to double-dare the men of New York to get in her pants?
This can’t end well.
14
Lizzie
OK, so drunkenly making out with Jake Weston wasn’t exactly planned, but I can be cool about it. I can pretend like I wasn’t thirty seconds away from tearing off all our clothes and begging him to take me now. Ugh, when will I learn never to drink in the daytime? When? And when will I learn not to kiss pompous, narcissistic assholes like Jake Weston? Even if it was probably one of the top ten best kisses of my life so far . . .
Hell, making out with him was better than most of the sex I’ve been unlucky enough to have, so god only knows what it would have been like if I hadn’t put the brakes on when I did.
Way to go, Lizzie. Cut short your epic orgasms, why don’t you?
Doing the right thing is the worst.
I sigh, pulling down the skirt of my sundress and adjusting my umbrella. During the night it started to rain—my favorite kind, a light, spring rain, and I love how it makes the city look washed clean. Even the air smells fresh today, the flowers blooming in the park somehow rising over the exhaust fumes coming from the cars on Fifth Avenue.
I’m waiting for a light to change when a guy sidles up beside me, surreptitiously looking me up and down.
“Beautiful day,” he leers, leaning towards me. “Isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s just peachy,” I say in a flat monotone, keeping my eyes on the light and willing it to change.
“Great dress.”
“Thanks,” I say, like I’d rather be doing my taxes or buffing my callouses.
“You work around here?” he asks, clearly undeterred.
“Maybe,” I say, not even bothering to disguise my irritation. “Not that it’s any of your business.” He’s your basic business suit drone, holding a briefcase, his blond hair thinning on top.
“Maybe we could get a drink sometime—or a cup of coffee,” he says brightly as the light changes.
“Nope.” I quickly cross the street and walk up the stairs leading to the Met. Must be spring fever, I think, pushing through the revolving door. But then, after I’ve made my way through the lobby and just as I’m about to press the button for the elevator, another guy approaches, this one dressed in dark jeans and a crisp button down shirt, holding a tray of Starbucks. My mouth salivates at the sight of it. What I wouldn’t give for an Americano right now. I’d probably sell my sister into white slavery. Except as boring as her life is, she’d probably go willingly.
“You’re Lizzie, right?” he asks in a friendly tone, but I’m immediately guarded and suspicious. Has he seen the video? Who am I kidding? I mean, at this point, who hasn’t seen it? I brace myself for whatever’s coming next.
“Yes,” I say, jabbing the down button again. Why are elevators so slow these days?
“I’m Brandon,” he says with a nervous smile. “I work over in Asian Arts?”
“Oh yeah,” I exhale in relief, pretending to remember him. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” he says with enthusiasm as the elevator arrives and we step inside.
“I thought Asian Arts was upstairs?” I ask, confused as to why he’s descending to the basement with me.
“Umm.” He shifts uncomfortably, rearranging the tray he’s holding. “It is, but I just saw you and well. I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime?”
I blink. Twice in one morning? I mean, I know I’m not exactly hideous, but I’m definitely no Gisele either. Plus, I’m on strike for god’s sake! Don’t these guys know that asking me out is just futile? That they’re not going to get laid any time soon?
“That’s very sweet,” I say as I walk out into the basement. “But I don’t think so. It’s my policy not to mix business and pleasure, you know?”
Right. Except if it involves drunkenly kissing Jake Weston up against the wall. Then I’m totally fine with it.
“Oh, right,” he mutters, his cheeks reddening. “I just thought . . .” His voice trails off, and I will the doors to close because this is sheer agony, and finally they do.
“Wait!” he says, putting one hand out to block them.
Dammit. I was so close to getting out of there unscathed.
“Have a coffee,” he says, handing me a venti. “Americano, right?”
“Umm, yeah,” I say, reaching out and grabbing it. “Thanks.”
“Brandon,” he says firmly. “In Asian Arts. You know where to find me if you change your mind,” he grins as the door finally closes.
Huh. Weird. I gulp the coffee and head to my office, but when I walk in the door, there’s the biggest bouquet of roses I’ve ever seen sitting on my desk—there must be at least three dozen flowers in there, stuffed into a crystal vase that’s bursting at the seams. Who died and sent the funeral arrangement to the wrong place?
My pulse quickens despite myself. Could they be from Jake? But what wo
uld it matter anyway, even if they were, I tell myself. It would just be some empty romantic gesture designed to get me to break the strike so he could have his way with me.
But would that really be so bad?
I shake off the hormones and pluck out the card from the bouquet.
Hey Lizzie,
Hope these flowers brighten your day. I’d love to catch a drink sometime if you’re down!
Barry (Renaissance Arts)
Who the hell is Barry and why is he randomly sending me enough flowers to hold a small wedding in my office? This makes no sense—I start a sex strike and all of a sudden I’m every guy’s dream date?
Either way, they’re shit out of luck. But I get to spend the day smelling like I’m in the middle of the country. Win-win!
After work, I head over to Della’s for our group stitch-and-bitch meeting. It’s tradition: the three of us with three bottles of wine and enough yarn to last all night.
“So how are you holding up?” Melissa says from the couch as she wrestles with a ball of yellow wool. “Have you gone out of your mind with horniness yet?”
Della laughs. “Yeah,” she says, nudging me in the ribs. “Did your vibrator give out yet?”
“Very funny,” I say, wishing we could talk about something, anything else. “I mean, it’s hard, but I wasn’t exactly having great sex to begin with, so it isn’t like I’m really missing anything,”
Except hot make-out sessions with my co-worker. Yeah, those.
God, why can’t I stop thinking about kissing him? About his gorgeous hands on my thighs, the way they slid down to my panties? It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. But if that’s so, a little voice inside me pipes up, then why are you so attracted to him?
“You’ve got your wool in my Syrah!” Della cackles like a needle-wielding Wicked Witch of the East, pulling a strand of soggy blue yarn out of her wine glass and tossing it at me.
“Sorry!” I say, balling it up in my hand before unwinding another long piece from the ragged blue ball beside me. I’m supposedly knitting a pair of socks for my niece, but they look more like lopsided rectangles at this point. “I think it has a life of its own.”
I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve tried something easier—like maybe a scarf? I mean, how hard it is to make a scarf, really? It’s probably a lot less difficult than these fucking socks, I’ll tell you that much—but who cares? It’s not like we’re really here for the knitting. That’s not the point of a stitch-and-bitch, after all.
I start on the next row, winding the wool over my needles, the brightly colored Moroccan rug underneath me scratching against my legs. All of Della and Zach’s furniture is beautiful but wildly uncomfortable. Their chairs are lumpy and old and every rug is made out of some kind of scratchy wool that gives me a rash. But I love it here. And Zach always stocks the kitchen with the best wine he gets free from reps trying to sell into the bar.
“That reminds me,” Melissa adds. She opens up her purse and shoves what looks like a handful of magenta paper at me. “I brought you coupons for The Pink Pussycat, that way you can stock up!”
I turn them over in my hands. “I’m fine,” I say emphatically, tossing the vouchers to the floor. “One vibrator is enough for anyone, and mine is doing just fine, thank you very much.”
“Okay,” Melissa giggles, “but you never know! What if this little strike of yours goes on for three more weeks? Or even three months?”
Dammit. I guess she does have a point. Kind of.
“I say you can never be too prepared!” Della laughs. “On second thought, give me some of them.”
“What do you mean?” Melissa asks. “I thought Zach couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
“Not anymore. He’s decided to take up your strike, too.”
“Whaaaaat?” Melissa drops her knitting into her lap.
I look at Della, surprised. “Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately.” Della scowls. “He says there’s no reason the strike should be just for women, and that men get taken for granted all the time, too. So now he says he won’t fuck me until I shape up.”
“Shape up?” Melissa asks, clearly confused. “I mean, what does he want?”
“Who the fuck knows?” Della drinks the rest of my wine. “I mean, I like to flirt a little when we go out, but it’s not serious. And yes, he does all the housework, and the cooking too, but he’s just better at it. I guess he feels like I take him for granted or something.”
I wisely keep my mouth shut. I mean, maybe she does, just a little, but he always seemed like he was fine doing the heavy lifting in the relationship. Or any lifting, of any kind at all. It was just their dynamic, but I guess Zach wasn’t all that happy at all.
“So now I’m stuck taking care of business while he stays out all night with his friends,” Della sighs.
“I’m sorry,” I offer. “I never meant it to go this far. I mean, I never even meant to post that video in the first place—much less inspire anyone else to go on strike, too!”
“I know.” She refills her wine glass. “I know you didn’t. But as they say, the damage is done.”
“So what are you going to do?” Melissa asks. “I mean, would it kill you to try and be a little more romantic?”
“Probably,” Della snaps, and even though she’s cranky I’m happy to see that spark come back into her eyes that I know so well. “But you could help me,” she says, fixing her gaze on me, “if you wanted to.”
“Umm, what do you need me to do?” I say, turning my ball of yarn over in my hands.
“Maybe talk to him? Tell him that the strike is a dumb idea? That maybe you went too far with the whole thing? It’s been a week so far and I think I’m losing my fucking mind!”
A week? Please. Talk to me when it’s been a month.
“I can try,” I say, but even to me, my voice sounds unsure. I mean, if Zach wants to go on strike, who am I to stop him? And how can I convince him that he should stop when I’m still doing it?
Della just glares at me until I relent.
“Okay,” I say, sighing loudly and pushing my knitting to the side. “I’ll try and talk to him. Will that make you happy?”
“Very,” she says, smiling broadly now, reaching over to hug me, enveloping me in a cloud of the musky, patchouli-based perfume she always wears.
So now I guess we’re good? But this also means that I have to, you know, actually talk to Zach, now that I said I would. On top of this, I have to convince him that going on strike is a terrible idea, even though I’m not sure it really is. I mean, Della does take him for granted a lot of the time. And also, there’s the simple fact that I have absolutely no idea what to say now that I’ve been so fucking vocal on the subject of romance—or the lack of it—and the entire world knows what I think. Now I’m going to say it was all a mistake?
Oh well, I think, draining my glass of wine. I’ll think of some way to make it work.
Don’t I always?
15
Lizzie
The next day, I’m down in my basement lair, trying frantically to get things set up for the show, which is drawing closer every day that passes. The phone rings just as I’m cataloguing Audrey Hepburn’s gorgeous, full-skirted party dress from Sabrina, and I pull off the white gloves I’m wearing and race over to answer it, tripping over Bette Davis’ Oscar in the process, the one she scored for her catty, bitchy performance in All About Eve.
“Hello?” I say, rubbing my shin, while glaring at the golden statue. Legend has it that they’re called Oscars because Davis claimed that the statue’s ass resembled that of her own husband, Oscar. It’s probably not true but I like the story anyway, and you can bet your own ass that it’s going in the show.
“Hello,” a deep, smooth male voice answers. “I’m returning a call from Lizzie Ryan. This is Dylan Mandeville.”
Yes! I fist pump the air and catch my breath. I’ve been trying to get a hold of Dylan for weeks now. His grandfather, Clark Mandeville
, was one of the most prolific directors of classic rom-com’s, and directed that movie Bring Me the Stars that I was telling Jake about. I’ve been calling his office in Hollywood every day for the past two weeks, but until now, I’ve only gotten radio silence. Dylan is an up-and-coming director, which probably explains why he’s had zero time for the likes of me. Until now!
“Thanks for getting back to me,” I manage to say, sounding professional. “I’m interested in talking about your grandfather’s work . . .”
“It sounds great,” he says after I fill him in on the show and my plans for his grandfather’s place in the exhibition. “But why don’t we discuss it in person? I’m in New York on business right now. I don’t have much time, but I can drop by in about an hour.”
“Perfect,” I exclaim. “I can’t wait.”
An hour later, I’m sitting across the conference table from the hottest guy I’ve seen since, well, since Jake Weston walked into my life. But unlike Jake, this guy doesn’t come buried under the weight of a decade of bitterness and cynicism. Score! My tongue is pretty much hanging out of my mouth like a dog salivating over a juicy bone. He’s exactly my type—dark, handsome, and in his thirties, and dressed very Hollywood-meets-New York in a pair of grey pants and a crisp white button down with the sleeves rolled up. On his feet are beat-up leather loafers with no socks, and he has the most brilliantly white smile I’ve ever seen.
Maybe it’s the strike, maybe it’s my raging hormones, but just looking at him, I’m instantly turned on.
