The Last Guy

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  My stalker radar is up and tuned in.

  “I Googled you.” She wiggles her fingers at me. “Number One Bachelor in the city according to the Houston Herald. And now that I’ve met you in person, I agree.” Her gaze drifts over my face. “Any interest in settling down soon?”

  I cough. “No.” I take a big drink of whiskey. “So . . . tell me about the worms.”

  “Lemme get another shot first.” She waves at the waiter and points at her empty shot glass. She clears her throat as if settling in for a long talk. “A vermiculturist is someone who manages worms to convert waste products, such as uneaten food, grass clippings, and spoiled fruit and vegetables into healthy, nutrient-rich soil and organic fertilizer.” She smiles prettily. “I know that sounds all scientific, but basically, worm poop is gold. Plus, it’s on trend. Everyone’s eating organic. Farmers love it. Moms love it.”

  She chews on a breadstick, but all I see are worms in my head.

  I search for a topic change, but she’s still talking.

  “ . . . and Red Wigglers, the big fat ones are unparalleled as soil excavators. They spend their lives ingesting, grinding, digesting, and excreting soil—”

  “Mind blowing,” I say, interrupting her as the waiter drops off her shot. “What else are you interested in?”

  It’s like she doesn’t hear me.

  “Here look at this.” She shoves her phone in my face and shows me a picture. It’s a blurry image of a reddish brown blob.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “That’s Wally! He was my first worm—dead now. Their life span is only a few months.” A tear shimmers in her eyes.

  What the fuck.

  “Do you need to compose yourself?” Like in the restroom—far away from me.

  She shakes her head and smiles. “No, it’s fine. It’s just . . . he started the company and now we’re the most successful worm farmers in the Southwest. We owe him everything.” She munches on another breadstick. “People get squeamish about worms, but to me, they’re like people who sacrifice themselves for the greater good.”

  “Uh-huh. How’s the knitting going—for the orphanage? Do you make hats or blankets?”

  But it’s too late. She’s in full-on worm mode.

  “ . . . slime is what we call their secretions, which is nitrogen, an important plant food . . .”

  I think about the game. I consider dashing to the restroom to check the score.

  “ . . . best thing to feed them is kitchen scraps. Amazing, right?”

  “Totally,” I murmur.

  Where the hell is the waiter? I’m waving at him.

  “ . . . worms will love you if you blend their food in a mixer.” She pauses. “I’m not boring you, am I?”

  “No.”

  I’m saved by the waiter who’s returned. He runs down the specials. “Would you like to start with an appetizer?”

  I turn to Sissy, and I can’t resist the words I say. “Escargot sound good?”

  Sissy sputters—but at least she’s quiet.

  I forget about my date and everything else when I see Stone walking into Paulette’s—with some dark-haired dude.

  My hands clench around the menu and my nose flares in distaste.

  Who the fuck is he?

  I can’t think straight, and I don’t remember what Sissy or the waiter say. All I see is Stone and her companion being led through the dining area and given a table several feet away from us. I watch them talk for several minutes as my date continues lecturing about poop. Sissy let’s out a laugh, and Stone’s eyes meet mine.

  The entire room disappears.

  Rebecca

  YOU KNOW THAT pain in your chest when your heart literally stops beating? It’s exactly how I feel this evening when my eyes land on Cade’s. He’s here, in Paulette’s, with another woman, another completely different woman, who is also completely gorgeous. I’m pissed and angry and hurt, and I really want the ground to open and for him to fall right down the crack and burst into flames.

  But let me back up to earlier today . . .

  After spending the most amazing time with him this morning, watching him work with inner-city kids, coaching them and encouraging them, I’d fallen for Cade in a completely new way. He’s not just sweet to his family, he and his football buddy Hart are really dedicated to helping these kids break the cycle of poverty and disenfranchisement surrounding them. They’re heroes.

  Kevin has so much amazing footage, and I have so many great notes. I could barely take my eyes off Cade the entire morning, and not just because he’s so fucking hot in his tee, throwing passes, muscles flexing, Mr. Big swinging low in those long shorts, taunting me with dirty promises of mind-blowing orgasms.

  He really cares, and it’s so refreshing and so sexy. At one point, he’d caught my eye and given me a wink. It was my signature move, and it made me laugh. It made my entire body warm, and I’d returned to my apartment with rainbow clouds floating around my head and dreams of white picket fences and little dark-haired boys playing with their daddy.

  It’s ridiculous, I know, but I’m pretty sure I ovulated more than once this morning.

  “Girl, you need to get in here and get ready.” Chas is at the door waiting. “Your date is tonight at eight.”

  “Tonight!” I shriek, all dreams of having Cade’s babies gone. “What have you done?”

  “Apparently, clicking make contact means Wonder Hookup Powers Activate!” She’s leading me to my bedroom and tearing through the hangers in my closet. “Look at all these wire hangers. Mommie Dearest would be apoplectic.”

  “I’m having second thoughts about Phil—”

  “No!” Chas looks over her shoulder at me, eyes wide. “You can’t blow him off or he’ll leave a bad review and you’ll be ostracized.”

  Now I’m pissed. “You go out with him!” I sit on my bed, slamming my hands beside me.

  My roommate turns and levels her gaze on me. “Now you know good and well Whiteboard Phil would stroke out if all this fabulousness met him at the door. He might anyway. You are the tit-tular queen of Houston.”

  “Not. Funny.” It’s just short of a growl, and Chas’s shoulders drop.

  She crosses the room to sit beside me on the bed. “I confess, I might have accidentally accelerated this one.” Reaching up, she slides my hair behind my shoulder. “I’m not familiar with this site. All my hookups are on Grindr, and it’s very clear what’s happening and when.”

  “We just have to call him and let him know we had a technological glitch. We didn’t understand how the program operated.”

  Chas’s face brightens, and she gives me a dazzling smile. “Does this mean you’re going to start dating that sexy sportscaster? It will be so nice having him around the place.”

  That weight pulls through my chest again, and my chin drops. In spite of my revelation this morning, none of my reasons for maintaining distance have changed.

  “No,” I say quietly.

  “Then I don’t understand. Why would you crush poor Whiteboard Phil’s dreams if you’re just going to sit at home and date no one?”

  Here we go. “I’m not crushing his dreams. He doesn’t even know me.”

  My roommate’s eyes narrow. “Have you seen Whiteboard Phil? Trust me, Rebecca Fieldstone will be the highlight of his life.” She rolls out life as if it’s the Lipsync for Your Life round of Drag Race.

  “It will not,” I grumble.

  All I get is The Look.

  “Stop it, Chassy. I’m not going out with Phil. It’s just mean.”

  My roommate’s voice changes to patient instruction. “Buttercup, you don’t understand the point of dating apps. You get twelve new possible dates a day. It’s all about getting out there, enjoying life, embracing the possibilities!”

  “Using all the colors in the crayon box?”

  “That’s it!” Chas claps. “Now get in there and get gorgeous!”

  With a sigh, I go to the closet.

  The nice thi
ng about Hookup4Luv is I’m meeting Whiteboard Phil at the restaurant. Paulette’s is actually a classy French bistro, which is a check mark in the good column for Phil. The only problem is I don’t see him anywhere.

  “Do you have a reservation?” The perky, black-clad hostess looks up at me with a smile, and her face instantly changes. “Have we met before?”

  Shit shit shit! I’m sure she recognizes me from that stupid YouTube clip of Pixie dragging my boob out, but she hasn’t put two and two together yet.

  Moving us right along. I slide my hand down the front of my red silk dress and clear my throat. “I’m meeting someone named Phil Byars? Is he here yet?”

  She’s studying me, searching for who I am, but just as fast a man swirls up from behind me, grasping my wrist and lifting it, pressing our palms together, fingers spread in a strange V.

  “Rebecca Fieldstone?” His voice is swift and direct, like he’s telling me rather than asking.

  “Wha—”

  “Rebecca Fieldstone!” the little hostess practically shouts.

  My face snaps to hers, and I cut her off with one word: “No.”

  “NuqneH!” The man coughs . . . sneezes?

  “Gesundheit,” I say.

  He’s still gripping my wrist, pressing our palms together, so I give mine a pull. He releases me, and ice blue eyes sear into mine. “I am Phil Byars.”

  “You are?”

  He’s clean-shaven and wearing slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. With his dark hair tied up in a man-bun, I see tattoos rising out of his collar all around his neckline.

  “You look . . . different.”

  He smiles, revealing straight white teeth. “I use a fake profile picture.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He sweeps an arm toward the dining area, and I notice more tattoos peeking out from his wristbands. “Let’s have drinks.”

  “B-but . . .” I look quickly from the smirking hostess to Not Whiteboard Phil.

  “Right this way.” The girl grabs two menus and takes off into the restaurant.

  My stomach is squirmy, and I feel trapped. New Phil isn’t bad looking—he looks like the lead singer of a metal band or that magician guy in Vegas. But why did he sneeze on me? Was that a hex?

  We’re led to a table in the middle of the somewhat crowded restaurant. I notice Phil’s ass isn’t too bad in his black jeans. He’s too skinny, and when he turns to face me, our eyes are level. He isn’t very tall.

  “Here you go, Miss Fieldstone!” The hostess emphasizes my name, and I give her the death glare.

  My date studies me curiously as we sit. “Do you know her?”

  Is it possible he’s the last man on Earth who hasn’t seen my boob on live TV? “I . . . uh . . . I work for KHOT News.”

  “Ah . . .” He lifts his chin. “The enemy of the people.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  I’m interrupted by our waiter. “Welcome to Paulette’s! What can I start you off with?”

  I answer fast. “Martini, double, and keep ’em coming.”

  “Of course, Miss Fieldstone.” My eyes cut up, and he gives me a signature wink. My face flames hot. “And for you, sir?”

  “Corona.”

  “Of course. Your bread and water will be right out.”

  Phil leans back in his chair, and his fingers form a steeple in front of his mouth, chunky silver rings on most of them. I decide to take this bull by the horns. I’m a reporter after all.

  “So you have a fake profile picture. What’s that about? Witness protection program?”

  “Nothing so elaborate.” He turns serious, scooting forward, dark brow clutched. “I grew tired of the superficiality, of women only responding to my picture. They only wanted the exterior, this mortal shell.”

  “Okay . . .” I’m still on the fence about calling an Uber. If he tries to blackball me, I’ll claim deception. I thought I was dating Dwight Schrute, not Criss Angel. “But it takes time to get to know someone, right?”

  His eyes move up and down my body. “What if I were only interested in you for your height, your directness, your sturdy build?”

  Did he just call me sturdy? I lean back as the server puts my drink in front of me. As soon as it’s down, I take a huge gulp of the pine tree-flavored beverage.

  “Would you like to order?” the man asks, and I look to Phil.

  “Give us a minute,” my date says, and I nod.

  “I’ll have one more of these while we’re thinking.”

  The waiter nods and disappears, and I stare at my date a moment, waiting for the martini to hit me. Once more Phil holds up his hand in that weird salute. His first two fingers are stuck together and his ring finger and pinkie finger are stuck together, with a deep V in the middle.

  “Is that the universal sign for spread your legs?” I snort a little laugh. It’s possible my martini is kicking in now.

  His dark brow furrows. “It’s the Star Trek salute. It means ‘Live long and prosper.’”

  “Oh,” I nod, taking another sip, holding up my hand. “Shama lama lakum.”

  “Most people don’t know the Star Trek franchise is based on a whole universe of novels by Gene Roddenbury. He wrote galactic civilizations, complete with customs, languages, fashions . . .”

  “So you’re a Trekkie.” It’s not really a question, more an acknowledgment that Fate hates me—as if I didn’t already know this.

  Loud female laughter echoes from the other side of the room, and I automatically glance in that direction. When I see the source, I almost drop my drink. I almost forget my own name. Right here, in the middle of Paulette’s, Cade Hill is sitting across the table from Miss Universe Brazil or something. She’s long and lean with silky brown hair and smooth, caramel skin. She’s a freakin supermodel, and Cade had said he was spending time with his mother. Liar!

  Quickly, I regain my footing and focus on Phil. I’ll be damned if Cade Hill thinks I’m going to sit here and brood over him while he’s over there having a ball with some brunette Giselle Bündchen. Criss Angel and I are about to have ten times as much fun.

  “I’ve been a Trekkie most of my life,” he continues, and I study him thinking. I suppose some . . . very special girl would find this appealing. I simply have to channel her.

  “Qapla!” he says loudly, and I jump back.

  “Kerplah?” I’m pretty sure that’s the sound my boob made when it fell out on camera.

  He grins. “It’s the Klingon word for success.”

  I cut my eyes up, putting on my best sex-kitten face. “Is Klingon the only foreign language you know?”

  “I can speak a bit of Romulan.”

  Of course, he can. “Is that what you said in the foyer?” I try to imitate the snorty-cough sound he made, and he chuckles.

  Good. I want him to laugh. I want him to laugh and laugh like I’m the greatest date in all of Houston—because who says I’m not?

  He does the noise again. “NuqneH! Is the traditional Klingon greeting.”

  Heaven help me. I’ve got to steer us to a topic I can follow. “Do you play any instruments?”

  “No, although, I am learning to play the theremin.”

  I sneak a glance and see Cade smiling that ridiculous, deep-dimpled smile, and Wonder Woman leans back and laughs as if he just said the funniest thing in the world. My nose wrinkles.

  “I’ve never heard of that.” Another martini magically appears before me, and I scoop it up, taking a long drink. “What’s a theremin?”

  “It’s an early electronic musical instrument controlled without physical contact.”

  I give up. Of all the things . . . Who would have known Hard Rock Phil is even more of a geek than Whiteboard Phil? Dig deeper, Rebecca.

  “Okay . . .” I look around, avoiding Cade’s table. “So Klingons are the little guys with the weird ears and the pointy teeth?”

  Phil’s eyes light, and I get a huge smile. “Those are Ferengis! You are familiar with Star Trek!”

&n
bsp; “I think so . . . but I mix those guys up with the Orcs.”

  His enthusiasm dims only slightly. “They’re actually part of the Tolkien mythology.”

  “That’s Game of Thrones?” I take another, longer sip.

  “Game of Thrones is George R.R. Martin.” Phil shakes his head. “Lord of the Rings is J. R. R. Tolkien.”

  “So many Rs. Are they related?”

  “Not that I’m aware . . .” Phil clears his throat and forges on. “As far as fantasy humanoids go, Orcs are possibly the most sophisticated, with their base of operations in the Misty Mountains, Morder and Isengard . . .”

  Holy space balls. I look around and catch Cade’s eyes staring right at us. It’s like a lightening strike to my core, and I snap back to Phil.

  “Oh, my goodness!” I say loudly, reaching across to cover his hand with mine. “That’s so funny!”

  He pulls back, confused. “Sauron and Saruman are actually the worst villains in the entire trilogy.”

  “Their names are sour!” I smile bigger, giving his hand a slow, affectionate stroke.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true . . .” He takes a slow sip of his beer and watches me as if I’m the one saying a bunch of crazy shit.

  I’m about to ask about Klingon villains when I feel the heat of bodies near the table. I look up to see Cade and his Amazonian princess standing right beside us. The look in Cade’s eyes could laser-decapitate Phil the Fantasy Nerd.

  “Hello, Stone, funny seeing you here.” A definite edge is in his voice, and it pisses me off. He’s got a lot of nerve.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” I say, meeting his tone and raising it. “I thought you were visiting your mother.”

  “You know him, too?” Phil’s eyebrows rise.

  “We work together,” Cade and I answer simultaneously.

  “You’re Rebecca Fieldstone!” The impossibly beautiful woman at Cade’s side says, and I brace myself for a boob comment. She shakes my hand. “I’m Sissy. I just loved the report you did last year on the fossilized remains of the ichthyosaur they found in Del Rio! It was a huge part of the reason I wanted to move here.”