The Right Swipe

by Alisha Rai

  “No one in this city likes to walk because you could get hit by a car. But I’m glad you were able to make it in one piece.”

  “Here you go,” the server interrupted them and handed Rhiannon a drink before walking away with a full tray for other customers.

  Rhiannon lifted the glass of pink liquid. “You ordered for me?” No one had ordered for her in a very long time, save for Lakshmi.

  “Wasn’t hard to guess what you’d like. You always get the same thing.” He frowned. “Was I wrong? Do you want something else?” He was already raising his hand, and she shook her head.

  “No, I do always get the same thing.”

  “I didn’t expect that. Wouldn’t have pegged you as a creature of habit.”

  “I’m not, but I am efficient. I was told a long time ago that staring at a menu and dithering over what you want to order is a sign of weakness.” When she’d first started out, her mentor had told her to pick a signature drink and be done with it, so as not to waste a chance to talk about business. Back then, it had been a gin and tonic, clear and boring.

  When she’d started Crush, she’d felt free to order the splash of cranberry juice, tinting the drink pink.

  “A sign of weakness?” He stared at her, baffled. “What an odd thing to consider a sign of weakness.”

  Lord, if he only knew. Sometimes she felt like her whole life was navigating what was weak and what was strong and always ending up confused and unsure. She nodded at his drink, what looked like a Coke, the same thing he’d ordered the first time they met. “You don’t drink alcohol.” He wasn’t the only one who was observant.

  “I don’t. I never really have.” He looked out over the cityscape and gestured at the video being projected on the building across the street. “That’s cool.”

  A change of subject, which was fine. Alcohol consumption could be a testy subject. “They usually pick a single artist and broadcast their greatest hits. Must be MJ tonight.” They watched the zombies dancing for a minute. “‘Thriller’ is my favorite.”

  “Mine too.” The touch of wind blew a strand of his hair over his forehead. It had grown out since the conference. She wondered if he would cut it short again or let it go long, like when she’d seen him in Cayucos. She’d liked those wavy locks.

  She shifted and placed her drink on the table nearby. “You ever think about how the music video wouldn’t make sense if it was shot today?” She continued when he shot her a questioning look. “I mean, technology could take care of this whole problem. Car breaks down? I have a battery starter in my glove box, it’s the size of a tablet. If that doesn’t work? A cell phone would call AAA and help. You wouldn’t have to leave your car to walk down some spooky path with a werewolf.”

  “Eh. I don’t know about that.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know about that? A cell phone solves like 99.9 percent of the problems that created conflict in media prior to 1998.”

  “Hear me out. You didn’t charge that car starter. You’re out of cell service, or, as is usually the case with me, your phone battery’s run out.” He spread his hands out in front of him. “Boom. Zombie dance. Technology’s only good if it’s functional.”

  “Okay, but the setup still might not work.” Rhiannon gestured to the terrified young woman on the screen. “That poor girl’s on a date, possibly a first date? Today’s day and age, she’s got pepper spray or a Taser on her. I’m on a first date, and a guy’s car breaks down, and he magically ‘doesn’t have’ cell service?” She used air quotes. “I’m going to have one hand in my pocket or purse, on my weapon and my keys, ’cause something’s fishy there. A woman with a hair bow that jaunty, she’s a fighter.”

  He mulled that over. “You think pepper spray would work on zombies and ghouls?”

  “Open membranes are open membranes, son.” She couldn’t hide her smile at his laugh. He had a beautiful laugh, all deep and hearty.

  She sobered. It would sound good on camera, which is what they were here for. Rhiannon pulled out her phone and a tripod, setting it up on the table so it would capture some of the scenery. She adjusted it so the music video wasn’t in view. The last thing she wanted was for legal to bitch about how they couldn’t air the thing because of licensing.

  “You have a little phone tripod?” He peered at her setup. “How clever.”

  “I didn’t invent it, but it is clever.” She hit record and took a step back. She glanced up at him and then pressed his shoulder, angling his body so they were both visible.

  “You know what you’re doing,” he rumbled.

  She dropped her hand away from his shoulder, that nice, solid shoulder. Because business first. Pleasure later. “Sometimes.” She fixed a smile on her face for the camera and gave a brief intro, including where they were standing. The bar manager had been kind enough to allow them to do this for free, in exchange for a mention, so she dropped the bar’s name a couple of times.

  A few people glanced their way, but this was L.A., and there were more exciting things in the world than two possibly vaguely familiar-looking people talking to a cell phone set up a foot away from them. They’d be left alone.

  She looked up at Samson. “Samson, I’m not even sure where to start with you. How long have you been out of the dating game? Years, right?”

  “Five years.” There was a shadow of a smile on his face, and she knew they were both thinking of their one night together.

  Which they couldn’t. Not now. “Phew. Too long. We gotta get you up to speed. Where to even start with you.”

  He grimaced. “I’m afraid I was so awkward I may have come across as a jerk on my last date.”

  “I think you were more nervous than anything. Got in your head a little too much about it?”

  His cheeks slightly reddened, and it was so cute, she hoped the camera would pick up the color. “Yeah.”

  “Everyone’s got nerves or awkwardness on their first date. That’s okay, you can usually recover from those things. Just don’t be a jerk. In fact, let’s start with talking about some general dating no-nos for people. Number one: don’t be an asshole.”

  “This seems totally doable.” He patted his pockets. “Should I take notes?”

  “Commit my words of wisdom to memory.” She held up a finger. “Okay, second rule, related, but more specific. No dick pics without invitation.” Their target audience was adults, they could be adult.

  He choked on his soda. “Yes. I’m on your side, 100 percent.” He looked down his body. “It’s not even that pretty. No one wants that in their texts.”

  She ran her tongue over her teeth. His penis was, actually, delightful, and she had firsthand knowledge of that, but she wasn’t about to say that on camera. There were limits. “The prettiness of a dick might be subjective.”

  “Breasts. Breasts are universally pretty.” He shook his head, and she was certain his bewildered expression was genuine and not an act. “Penises are floppy and boring and messy looking. God give me the confidence of a man who thinks the sight of his dick will lure all the ladies to the yard.”

  This time she allowed herself to laugh and leaned back against the railing, relaxing. She could almost forget the camera was there, which was odd for someone who almost always had their professional mask on when a camera was rolling.

  She’d grown up in the age of YouTube. You never knew when you were being recorded, so when you knew you were being recorded, you acted right. “Let’s just say, there might be times when you want your partner to send you a picture of their private bits, because you find it arousing.”

  He looked doubtful. “Okay . . .”

  “But then it’s not unsolicited. A solicited dick pic is great. Go with God. Send your penises all over town.”

  “Send your penis all over town if asked.” He tapped his temple. “Got it.”

  “I guess all of this could be shelved under the general advice of don’t be a fuckboy,” she mused. “Unless you’re being upfront and honest about being a f
uckboy, and that’s what your partner wants too.”

  He squinted. “What’s a fuckboy?”

  “What’s . . . a . . . fuckboy.” She tapped her lip. “You don’t know?”

  “No. Is it someone who just wants sex?”

  “Oh no. You can just want sex and still not be a fuckboy. You can want a relationship and be a fuckboy. Fuckboys are on Matchmaker, on Crush, on every platform.” Though they probably heavily congregate on Swype given the Chief Executive Asshole’s top-down culture of boys will be boys. “But you know, I don’t know if I’ve ever had to give a succinct explanation of what a fuckboy is, and I’m pretty sure the phrase has hugely evolved since it first came into general modern usage.”

  Two women passing by cast them amused glances, clearly having heard their conversation. They were both in their early twenties, wore short skirts and tall boots, and were gorgeous enough to be models.

  Rhiannon made an abrupt decision and waved at them. “Excuse me.” She gestured at the phone facing her and Samson. “We’re filming for a thing.”

  The closest girl, blonde and poured into a red dress, looked unimpressed. “Who isn’t filming in this city?”

  “I know, right? Listen, we’re trying to come up with some dating don’ts. Can you give us a description of the worst person you’ve dated or could imagine dating?”

  “I’ll stay off camera,” her companion said. She was Black, had a smoothly shaved head, and wore a white leather mini and a crop top. “But that’s an easy one. Someone who sleeps with you once, doesn’t call you the next day, and then hits you up with a ‘got any pics?’ like, two months later.”

  “If you do text them, they leave you on read for, like, days,” her friend chimed in.

  “Oh yeah, he totally has his read receipts on, even though there’s no reason for such a thing in this decade.” The woman shook her head. “He also bails on plans with you, but gets pissed off if you have a genuine reason why you can’t see him at the spur of the moment.”

  “They regularly use the phrase ‘bros before hoes.’”

  “He posts a million mirror selfies of himself but makes fun of women who do the same thing.”

  “He sends dick pics, and they’re never framed well.”

  “You can text him something hilarious and witty that you spent a lot of time thinking up, and he’ll respond four hours later with haha.”

  “He’s shallow.”

  “Egotistical.”

  “And he always comes crawling back.”

  The girl in white clapped. “Al-ways.”

  Her friend scowled. “Says all the right things.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You give him a second chance. And then blam. The whole thing starts again. Ghost or most, rinse and repeat.” The women sneered.

  “Well.” Rhiannon cleared her throat. “Uh, thank you, ladies. That was extremely . . . thorough.”

  The pair waved and left, and Rhiannon looked at Samson. His eyes were wide. “My God,” he whispered. “That’s so much.”

  She snorted a laugh. “So don’t be that guy. Unless a woman wants you to be that guy, in which case, be up front about how you’re that guy and have fun.”

  He nodded but seemed preoccupied. “What did that young woman mean when she said ghost or most?”

  “Ah, mosting. That’s a newer one. You know how ghosting is when a person disappears, no contact on a person? Mosting is when a person disappears, no contact, and does it after making the other person feel . . . special, in a very short period of time. Sweeps them off their feet. There’s no good reason to do either, but at least you can recover from a so-so date when someone disappears. Harder to get over a person who takes you on a magic carpet ride and then vanishes.”

  His skin grew lighter, and she realized why when he made a rough noise. “Rhi.”

  Just that, only her name, and she realized he thought she was talking about him. Them.

  Maybe she was, she didn’t know. But she didn’t want to do it on camera. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “Let’s switch gears and talk about how you communicate with your matches,” she said brightly, eager to get them off a topic that was so close to home for them both.

  Samson rolled his shoulders. For a second, she thought he might object, but he followed her lead. “Again, no dick pics.”

  “Right, yes. No being a jerk either. Try to find something in their profile to talk to them about, whether that profile is short, like on Crush, or long, on Matchmaker.”

  “One thing I like about Matchmaker is that you only get a small number of matches, based on the personality test, and you can really focus on—”

  “My God.” A visibly drunk man stumbled up to them. He grabbed Samson’s arm and leaned in really close. “Are you—are you Samson Lima?”

  Rhiannon didn’t like the look of this. She turned the camera off, stuck her mini tripod and her phone in her pocket, and balanced on the balls of her feet. She hadn’t brought her pepper spray with her. A mistake.

  Samson disentangled the man’s grip from his arm and took a step to the side. “I am.”

  “Ugh. Fucking hate the Brewers.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Samson subtly positioned himself so he was between her and the guy.

  Rhi stood on her tiptoes to look over Samson’s shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, but we are in the middle of something here.” She gasped when Samson gently reached behind himself and placed a hand on her arm, pushing her farther behind him. What the hell?

  Was he . . . protecting her?

  “Used to love them, but they all got fucked up after you turned traitor. Haven’t won a Super Bowl since.”

  “You’ll want to walk away now, sir.”

  The man’s face contorted and he curled his lip at Samson. “Lima Curse.”

  Samson went entirely rigid. “Say that again.”

  Whoops. What was that? She’d never heard that rough whisper from her smiling, sweet colleague. Worried now, Rhiannon made eye contact with the huge bouncer by the elevators and jerked her head. The man immediately started jogging over.

  “Curse,” the drunk fool hissed, and Samson took a step toward him.

  Rhiannon tugged at Samson’s arm. She’d always assumed if she was ever in a bar brawl, she’d be the one starting it, not playing the role of an anxious girlfriend. “Come on,” she said as she scanned the rooftop. Her gaze lit on the egg-shaped cabanas on the other side of the roof.

  The bouncer arrived and took a firm hold of the drunk.

  When the guy started walking, Samson allowed Rhiannon to lead him away, too, but he balked when she got inside the pod. The hard plastic had openings on either side, and a cutout on top, to look at the stars. It was large and could probably fit like five or six people. It was also weird. “What is that thing?”

  “It’s a cabana.” She gestured at the pool not far away from them, the water lit blue and green.

  “That is not a cabana.”

  “They call them cabanas.”

  He tentatively touched the mattress she was sitting on. “Is that a waterbed?”

  She settled on to the surface, letting it jostle her. These things usually had a waiting line for them on weekends, but they were empty on this weekday night. “Yup. Come on in.”

  Gingerly, he got inside, the mattress waving with the weight of his body. He ran his hand over the cotton surface of the covering of the mattress. “They wash these, right?”

  “I’m guessing very much so.” She tried to sit so her back was against the plastic wall, but the mattress made being upright difficult. “Don’t think about it too hard.”

  “Got it.” He adjusted himself, but no matter what he did, she was going to be attached to him. The waterbed wouldn’t allow them to sit on opposite ends, and she rolled right next to him.

  She hadn’t planned on wrapping herself up in him. Her instincts had only urged her to get them far away from the source of his agitation.

  It had been so long since she’d cared
after the emotional well-being of a romantic partner like this, and she didn’t quite know how to feel about it, but that was something she could dwell on later. Finally, she gave in to water and gravity and rested her hand on his belly, her head on his chest. He froze for a second, and then his arm went around her shoulders and he pressed her against him. The mattress stopped waving, and they sat there quiet for a few minutes. The lights from the stars and buildings around them bathed them in a blue glow.

  It wasn’t silent. The noise from the bar and the pool filtered through, but in this odd egg-cabana, they were alone. It was nice. Peaceful.

  He let out a deep exhale, the air coming from his toes. “You want to know what that was all about, don’t you?”

  “I mean, I may not understand. Anger over sports isn’t really in my wheelhouse. I reserve my anger for other things. As you’ve seen.”

  “People can get real emotional over sports. And me.”

  “I’ve heard you called the Lima Charm before. Why did that guy call you a curse?”

  His hand rubbed up and down her arm. “When I was a kid, my dad and uncle played for the same team for a while. I would go to some of the games. The games I went to, they won. My dad started calling me his lucky charm. As I went up through college, the name morphed. I had a way with the media, with the public, with women. It turned into the Lima Charm, among my teammates, and then the media heard, and you know how it goes.” His body tensed, then relaxed. Like he was forcing it to relax. “It became the Curse when I retired. Or rather, how I retired.”

  “How did you retire?”

  “I walked at halftime in the middle of a game.”

  “What?” She lifted her head. “You can do that?”

  “I did.” That big, calloused hand ran up her back to her neck and he massaged her there.

  At the first touch, she wanted to melt into him and forget talking, but she couldn’t do that, not without satisfying her curiosity about one more thing. “Why did you do it?”

  His chest rose and fell. “My friend got knocked out with a hard hit. Like out cold. He came to, and they wanted to put him back in the game. He was clearly concussed. Could barely recognize any of us, was seeing double, and they wanted to put him back in the game so he could get a concussion on top of a concussion. I told them, if they tried it, I’d walk. Then they tried it.” He grimaced. “So I had to walk.”