Fox (Bodhi Beach Book 1)

by SM Lumetta

  She blows air out her nostrils like the Irish-Korean dragon lady she is. She straightens and stretches, reminding me she’s nearly two inches taller than me. The woman puts on heels and she’s well over six feet. “Don’t hate on my boys now.”

  “You weren’t even born when Lennon died,” I argue. “How can you call them ‘your boys’?”

  “Don’t shit on my sundae, okay?” she says, smacking her lips as the waitress—who smothers her mirth—sets down her burger.

  “That escalated quickly.”

  “Back to the topic of the day.” Nora resumes her position on the other side of the booth. You’d think her ability to focus on conversation goes to nil the second she sets eyes on her burger with the way she’s looking at it.

  “Your food?”

  “Your progeny,” she says without taking her eyes off the food.

  “I’m going to have a baby.” I steal a fry.

  “Once you get the daddy DNA.” She picks up another fry and throws it at me.

  “Yes, and that’s where I need your help.” I pick the tossed fry off my lap and eat it. I’m about to continue, but she interrupts.

  “No way! No more back-alley hand jobs. I promised your mom I’d quit,” she tells me with a straight face.

  I can’t. I literally can’t. I knock my forehead against the table. Refreshed somehow, I sit up and retaliate. “My mother would never turn someone away from their dreams. You get your hand in every back-alley john’s pants you need to. Hell, siphon a third off with a hose, if you’re so inclined. We’re on a mission!”

  She chokes on her lemonade. “Fuckin’ hell.”

  “Yeah, you may be the queen of bullshit, Madame Mensa, but I’m no slacker,” I tell her.

  “Will you let that go? I tell you about Mensa once and suddenly I’m holier than thou,” she snaps. “I didn’t even end up joining.”

  “I’m just saying, I wish I could buy sperm from you,” I say, honestly. She’s gorgeous, ridiculously smart, and would make very pretty, intelligent babies.

  “Back off, stalker,” she says, pointing a long finger at me. “But seriously. You’re in the market then? That’s what you want my help with?”

  I look around, feeling as if there’s a spotlight on me in a dark room. The decision is still fresh and thereby I doubt myself every other minute. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. My shoulders slump in self-imposed shame. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you’ve been smoking—hopefully not that shit Jonah and Rae get, which is horrible, by the way.” She pauses to give me a look of disdain as if I’m going to pass the judgment on to the newlywed stoners on her behalf. “But I do not in any way have some inside track on sperm banks.”

  I smirk because she’s serious. “I do not need your help finding a sperm bank. I was going to say that buying sperm is not as cheap as I thought it’d be.”

  “It’s not unaffordable, though, right?” she asks.

  I don’t answer right away because I’m transfixed by her extremely liberal application of ketchup on her bun. It’s not a new thing, but she uses so much I wonder if she should have been given a bowl and not a plate.

  Buying a tube daddy is not, in fact, out of range. Though I’m still paying off grad school and my budget is reasonably tight. On top of the debt I charged up and the Brett-sponsored shitty credit, I am afraid of all the extra costs sperm shopping would incur. Not to mention if there are more medical expenses that come along with getting a bun in my oven. Hell, can I even afford to have a kid?

  “No,” I say, finally. “It’s manageable, sure. It just doesn’t… it’s not the option I want.”

  “Because you’re inundated with options at this point?” She uses the voice I hate—the one that makes me feel like I’m a complete moron.

  “Of course not, whorebag, but this way feels so dry.”

  “That’s what lube is for, honey.” Not a single beat skipped. It’s part of why I love her.

  “Goddammit.” I try not to smile and fail. I rest against the back of the booth and run a hand over my hair.

  Nora shakes her head and spreads her arms, burger in one hand. I eyeball it to see if she hits anyone passing by with the ketchup version of a paintball. “You know I can’t pass that shit up.”

  “That’s why we’re friends, hot pants,” I remind her with an exasperated sigh. “I wish I had a partner, but I don’t think I have that kind of time.”

  She takes a monstrous bite of the sandwich and speaks through a mouthful of ground sirloin, ketchup, and far too many onions. But mostly ketchup. “Pndrf.”

  “Honest to God?” I give her “exasperation jazz hands.”

  She chews and battles the cheek bulges for the better part of a minute. I maintain eye contact the whole time hoping to make her choke. Just a little.

  “Tinder, I said.”

  “Oh, yeah, because that was clear,” I say. “So you’re suggesting I bang some random right-swipe and hope for the best? That’s sane. And sanitary.”

  She wipes half a bottle of amateur-level stage blood off her face with my forehead napkin and takes a sip of her water. “I was referring to some quick and easy dating, not necessarily hookups.”

  “Now simply dating someone gets you pregnant? Good plan.”

  “You are determined to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll just call up a matchmaker!” My baby blues are intentionally wide and crazy as I gasp and fake some excitement and awe.

  She flips me the bird before focusing back on her food. She hums as she thinks, swiping up some more ketchup on her plate with the side of her burger and taking another bite.

  I glance at my chicken salad and realize I’m not the slightest bit hungry.

  “You could take out an ad?” She still has ketchup on the corner of her mouth, but I’m not telling her until she coughs up some serious advice.

  I cackle. “I can see it now: Sassy Single Egg Seeks Virile Fertilizer—Are You The Sperm For Me?”

  “You should probably say ‘Sassy and Single-yet-Senior Egg’ given the state of your lady parts.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  Despite the playful banter, Nora and I have a somewhat fruitful conversation. I don’t want to do digi-dating, but she refuses to take no for an answer. I can’t argue, since options aren’t exactly growing on trees. She follows me back to my place and we spend the evening setting up my Tinder profile. She digs up a picture of me from a premiere party we went to last year, because at least then I’ll have set my potential baby daddy’s expectations nice and high. After I read the summary she’s written of me and the answers “I gave” to the questions on the bio, I want to fuck me.

  “This is unfair.”

  She shrugs and takes a sip of her beer. “Just because you want some quick results doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have to work for it.”

  “For me, Nora! It’s unfair to me! I can’t live up to this profile,” I argue, panic gurgling in my guts. I lean on the coffee table from my spot on the floor, glaring at the laptop. “What woman could? ‘Brilliant former porn star seeks stud-like professor with bedroom skills and a bank account to match.’ That’s cartoonish. Not to mention incredibly misleading.”

  She’s cracking up before I finish reading the tagline. “That is some of my best work,” she says from her prone position on the arm of the sofa. “Or at least I think it is.” I can barely understand her even though I’ve spent years decoding her speech on many frequencies. I hope she falls off the couch. “Oh my God, please keep it. I love it so much.”

  “Then snapshot it and write something realistic, will you?”

  “Fine, fine,” she consents and sits up. “As you wish, mistress.”

  My cheek twitches. “I swear to God, if you make me some kind of dominatrix, I will whip you.”

  “Ooh! You could pull it off. You got the attitude down pat. Want me to—” She stops when she looks at me.

  I curl into the fetal position. “I swear, it’s
like you don’t even want to help me,” I groan from the floor. I barely hear the door fly open and bang into the side table just inside. Footsteps slide through the open kitchen into the living room and I contemplate sitting up.

  “What the hell is going on in here? Bennett, did you kill my Lollipop?”

  I don’t have to look up to know it’s Fox. Not just because he referred to me as “Lollipop,” but because his warm tenor is unmistakable. Not to mention his lazy, flip-flop shuffle.

  Nora argues that it’s my low tolerance for self-examination that knocked me out. I sit up and flip her off with both hands.

  “I have those, too,” she says, holding up both her middle fingers.

  I wave her off.

  Meanwhile, Fox is digging in my fridge for food, no doubt. When he comes back to the living room with his prize, he deposits himself on the sofa next to Nora and asks what we’re doing through a mouthful of chicken drumstick.

  I freeze.

  My eyes fly to Nora, who takes the opportunity to embarrass me fully. “Our darling Sophie is embarking on a Tinder mission. Mama needs a dick to ride.”

  “Christ, Nor!” I’m eye-daggering the shit out of her, but she’s impervious.

  Fox’s face lights up and he claps like a dolphin. “Ooh! Let me help!”

  “No,” I say with a growl, but unfortunately I am not even on the hiring squad.

  Nora twists and pulls her posture extra straight before crossing her legs. She’s gone full professional. “Mr. Monkhouse,” she says, taking invisible notes on her imaginary notepad, “what qualifications do you possess that would make you an ass-et to our team?”

  I slap a hand on the table. “I said no!” I sound like a whiny child. Not that it matters—Nora’s mock interview of Fox is happening no matter what I do. I look at his face. His expression is serious, his posture completely unnatural as he mimics Nora’s. He folds his hands in his lap. I struggle not to smile.

  “Well,” he says, looking off into space, “I’m a dude.” Brilliant. “I have extensive experience having a dick, and have a critical perspective on the requirements of women who want to get on it.”

  Nora nods, incredibly fake-impressed. “Excellent, excellent. Anything else?”

  “You’re both assholes.” My commentary is not even denting their cone of mean-friends-who-torture-me.

  “Yes!” Fox flips his hair back. Preparing for lowering the boom, no doubt. “I promise to be helpful and serious and only make fun when it’s appropriate.”

  The last word is the kicker, because if there’s one thing Fox cannot manage to be with any consistency, it’s appropriate.

  “Congratulations, sir. You’re hired!!” she tells him, immediately whipping around to point at me with a stern, slightly mean finger. “This is going to be hella awesome. Having a guy’s perspective is perfect! Especially a manwhore like Fox.”

  He elbows her and she smiles victoriously. I slump, defeated by my two helpful yet pushy-as-fuck friends.

  Fox is a complete pain in the ass during the entire process and nearly obliterates my motivation. Nora, on the other hand, is inspired by his most inappropriate contributions. I suddenly remember the song “Crash and Burn” by the Bangles—a little prophetic, considering this venture I’m committing to.

  It takes hours, hours I’ll never get back, to create a bio I will accept. I still hate it, but it’s mostly accurate and not altogether as humiliating as I anticipated. Nora is enthusiastic, which is encouraging.

  Fox, who’s been leaning on Nora, jolts upright and snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Um, why are you spacing? We have created a foolproof hookup profile here. You need to get laid, my friend. Trust me, I know these things. I’m an expert.”

  “You’re a slut, Fox. That doesn’t make you an expert.” Nora winks at me and shakes her head at Fox’s side-eye reaction.

  Meanwhile, I simply glare at him, willing my eyes to sputter up some goddamn lasers or fireballs or something. He looks back to me and grins madly. He’s far too adorable when he grins like that. I bet it’s what gets him the ridiculous amount of tail he pulls in. I remember he doesn’t know the full extent of what’s going on. I huff and correct him. To a degree, anyway.

  “Maybe I’m looking for more than a hookup.” It’s not a lie, technically. Nora looks everywhere but at me. I lean forward from my crisscross seat on a yoga bolster, pick up a coaster and throw the flat cork circle at her. It hits her in the temple. I smile.

  “Pffft,” is Fox’s genius and mature response. He resumes his recline on Nora’s shoulder like the lethargic pimp he is. “Everyone wants a hookup. Sometimes sex turns into something more, but that part’s up to you.”

  My mouth falls open to compliment him on his target “normal” response, but he promptly follows up to negate it.

  “I’m just propping you up to hop on some primo dick.”

  Nora pushes him off. I pick up another coaster and throw it harder at him.

  “Okay, okay, knock it off. You bitches are abusive!”

  Nora and I both admonish him with an almost parental-sounding, “Heeeey.”

  “Only bitches can call bitches ‘bitches,’ ” I say, arching a stern eyebrow.

  Irritated, he narrows his eyes and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

  “That’s your only warning.”

  “What about when you’re actually being a bitch?” he asks, probably thinking he’s found a loophole.

  “Then it’s fair play. I’m just saying you’re not a gangsta rapper, so you can’t throw ‘bitch’ or ‘ho’ around like you have a right. Not that they have a right, per se. You know—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He falls back into the couch cushions, but raises a finger to lecture me. “Pro tip—do not lecture any of your potential hookups like that or the dick will walk away limp and sad. I believe that is the opposite of your goal here.”

  If my genitals were on the outside of my body like a man’s, they would crawl up inside me right now. As they are not, they’re trying to hide behind other organs in inexplicable embarrassment.

  “I swear to Christ I’m not sure why I keep you around,” I say.

  Fucker grins again like a fox in a henhouse… which is sadly kind of accurate.

  Nora groans. “You know what? Go home and eat your own food. Soph’s house is not a grocery store.”

  “But I can’t cook,” he says with a slight whine. “At least everything here isn’t processed or from a box.” He doesn’t move from his spot on the sofa.

  “Fox, my mom gives you leftovers whenever you come with me to visit. Don’t bullshit.”

  He looks smug. “I go over there without you sometimes. She feeds me then, too.”

  I get up and grab a magazine off the table. I roll it and hit him in the head with it. “Get the fuck out. No really, ya goddamn mooch. You’ve helped enough.”

  Fox rolls casually off the couch and stands. He glares down at me. “You never used to be so violent.”

  “You never used to be so annoying,” I counter. He grins again. It makes me smile. “Sorry.”

  He winks and I smile bigger. I shake my head. Sometimes I hate that he can do this to me. In our shared freshman debate class, he managed to make me giggle in the middle of my argument. The topic was Dr. Kevorkian and euthanasia. It was torturously awkward.

  “Seriously, though, dude. Get out of my house.” I look at Nora, who merrily points finger-guns at Fox. “You, too. I’m tired. I have a shit-ton of work to do in the morning and I have to drive to the studio.”

  Nora looks surprised at the eviction. “But we haven’t shopped tonight! You said we could shop!”

  “Tomorrow when I get back. Promise. Come over at seven?”

  “Eight.”

  “Fine.”

  “Am I invited?” Fox calls from behind the refrigerator door.

  “No.” Nora and I answer simultaneously.

  He just shrugs. He disappears into the fridge, pulling out the second half
of a strip steak I made yesterday. “Can I?”

  I close my eyes and shake my head in exasperation. “Incorrigible.”

  It’s all the approval he needs.

  “Thanks, Lolls!” he calls, waving over his shoulder with his free hand on his way out the door.

  “You’re far too easy on him,” Nora declares. She gives me a hug and slaps my ass. “I expect daily updates and conferences on your Tinder progress.”

  I nod and roll my eyes as she grabs her purse and slips into her sandals. She stops just before closing the door behind her, poking her head back in. “We’ll get a baby in you. Don’t you worry.”

  I throw her some snark as the door closes. I’m cautiously not pessimistic. I can’t go full optimist; it’s just not in my wheelhouse. I go to bed forcing myself to look forward to “shopping.” Nora will make it painful for my own good.

  We shop together and separately—Nora demands to pick one for me, and sends a message ON MY BEHALF. I don’t agree to it, but after she does it anyway, I don’t have much of a choice.

  After a week of fielding and weeding the slew of responses I receive, I agree to my first date.

  Date One

  “So you’re an architect?” I ask, feeling way too much like a substitute host on a morning talk show. My date is reasonably cute, so I am willing to give him a shot. And he is Nora-approved.

  “Oh, no,” he says boisterously. This restaurant is too quiet for this guy. Not to mention he’s dressed as a Zoolander extra. I thought that particular profile picture was a Halloween costume. “I work in an architectural firm.”

  I chomp on the inside of my cheek. “Oh, okay.” He mentioned the job in his tagline, which was not all that creative, I might add. Also, Nora made me choose this one. I think she’d had too many old-fashioneds at that point, but she’s still getting the business when this is over—which is hopefully in the next twenty minutes. Less if the appetizer gets here sooner. I squirm in my seat. At the very least, I will finish my drink. Wait, the appetizer is spinach dip. I consider hogging it all if only just to see a look of horror on his face.

  “What do you do at the firm?”