Arm Candy

by Jessica Lemmon

  She isn’t a safe risk. Something tells me if I took a shot with her, I’d ride her all the way down until I was hollow inside.

  Been there. Done that. Don’t need a repeat.

  “Be careful out there, Gracie Lou,” I call, but I keep my eyes on the screen overhead as the stocks scroll across the bottom. “Men are predators.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet, Davis.” I like the way she says my name—in a familiar, warm way. There is something about her that suggests she’s fragile beneath her “I am woman” exterior.

  She continues stacking glasses upside down on the shelf at the back of the bar, her voice going hard. “You should know better than anyone that I can handle myself.”

  I do know that. I’ve seen her thwart many an advance. She’s good at it, and typically the bonehead trying to take her home doesn’t realize he’s getting a professional brush-off. Sometimes she uses the boyfriend excuse; other times she changes the subject so swiftly the dolt doesn’t know what hit him.

  One hour later, I’m wondering which blow-off she’ll deliver to the braying jackass a foot from my right elbow.

  “Gracie Lou,” I interrupt, waggling my empty bottle.

  She’s leaning on the bar, cleavage between two perfect C-cups on display. She slides me a glance before returning her attention to the blocky guy standing in front of her. I don’t care that she’s flirting, but I don’t like being second place to a man of such low caliber.

  “Gracie Lou. That’s a pretty name,” the jackass tells her, his hands gripping the bar.

  “Just Grace.”

  “Okay, Just Grace. I’m Just Tim.”

  Of course he is. What a fucking moron. My hand tightens around the empty bottle.

  “I have a bet with my pals over there”—he gestures to the dartboards, where three chinos-and-button-downs stand with their fancy IPAs in hand—“that you can tie a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue.”

  “You don’t say.” Grace’s eyes flash the subtlest warning, but Tim doesn’t pick up on it.

  “I say you can, and they say you can’t. If you can, and you show me right now, I’ll go over there, collect my winnings, and split them with you fifty-fifty.”

  Another glance at his buddies tells me he’s lying. They’re not watching him at all, which means there’s no such bet and Tim is an asshole. Grace tilts her head as if she’s considering, but her eyes flick back to his pals. She’s figured out the same thing I have. I smother a smile with the mouth of my beer bottle and turn my attention to the TV.

  Tim leans in and drops his voice, which I assume is an effort to increase his sex appeal. “There’s an even bigger tip in it for you if you do it nice and slow.”

  All right. That’s it.

  I’m off my barstool so fast, Tim doesn’t see me coming. He rocks in place, leaning away from my height, though he’s got me in width.

  “How about she ties your dick into a knot and I’ll double whatever you’re offering?” I say, unable to take his jackassery any longer.

  Tim holds both hands in front of him as a shaky smile finds his mouth. “Hey, buddy, I didn’t know she was your girl.”

  I don’t confirm or deny, but I do lean closer, hovering over him until he gets my point.

  “Grace, my apologies.” Tim clears his throat and tries to ignore me, which he finds challenging since I’m invading his personal space. “Just the drinks, then.”

  She uncaps two bottles and he hands her a twenty-dollar bill, which Grace stuffs into the cash register, coming out with eight dollars in change. She puts the cash on the bar in front of him. Tim shifts away as he takes his beers and wisely mutters, “Keep it,” before hustling back to his friends.

  I earn a smile from Grace for my bravery. We lock eyes for a lingering moment, which makes every second of that interaction worth it. When she blinks, I return to my seat. “Now can I have my beer?”

  “I didn’t know I was your girl either.” Grace chuckles and serves me another Sam Adams. “I could’ve handled him.”

  “The sooner he went away, the sooner I could get a refill,” I explain as I tip the bottle to my lips.

  Her coy smile suggests she knows my refill wasn’t the only thing on my mind. Part of me has started to think of Grace as mine—at least in a superficial sense.

  I fix my eyes on the TV, not giving her confirmation that she’s figured me out.

  “Thanks, Davis.” I hear the smile in her voice.

  I wait until she walks to the other end of the bar to reply.

  “You’re welcome, Gracie.”

  Chapter 2

  Davis

  It’s a good day to make a lot of money.

  I straighten my tie and pull on my suit jacket, checking my reflection once more in the mirror to ensure I’m put together. Face cleanly shaven, check. Suit pressed into sharp lines, check.

  Do I have to suit up to work in my home office? No. I could ride the couch commando if I wanted to. Listen up and I’ll give you a little Work from Home 101, free of charge. If you dress like a slob, the guy on the other end of the phone or email can sense it. I didn’t get to the top of my company by being perceived as lazy. Would you give me your millions if I slouched into my office in Superman pajama pants?

  No. Of course not.

  Downstairs I prep my espresso while toasting an English muffin. My standard breakfast lately consists of a whole-wheat English muffin and two boiled eggs, espresso, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. It’s a bit of a rut, I suppose, but it’s simple and I can spend my morning thinking strategy instead of meal planning.

  I’m a routine guy, yes, but I mix it up on occasion. Like I said, I can cook. My Belgian waffles, much like my skills in the bedroom, are moan worthy.

  After breakfast, I have a date with the stock market. She’s a wily serpent, but at least she’s reliable. I can count on that bell to ding, telling me she’s open, and then another to tell me when she’s closed, and those are the hours I keep.

  Surprised? I get that a lot. Most everyone I meet doesn’t understand why a guy who dresses impeccably to work at home doesn’t overwork himself into an early grave. I have enough. Enough money, enough of a reputation. Enough clients.

  Could I have more? Sure. Do I want more? Sometimes. But I refuse to work a minute past four. I’m not going to be making any panicked after-hours phone calls shouting, “Sell! Sell! Sell!”

  That shit’s for the movies.

  What I like is a solid day of honest labor followed by dinner and an ice-cold beer. Slide in a lunch break and a visit to the gym, and that’s my personal utopia. After my daily obligations, I like to unwind, and typically I choose to unwind with a member of the opposite sex. One who sheds her clothes and her inhibitions with me for a night or two of fun.

  I’m rinsing my plate when a female voice croaks behind me, “Morning.”

  I’m not going to lie: She startled me a little bit.

  Not that I didn’t know she was here. Heather came home with me last night after I took her out of McGreevy’s to hit another bar she invited me to. Her friend is in a band, and she begged me to go while tugging me toward the exit. I paid my tab and went along. I didn’t foresee the pair of buttery nipples that took her down. You know I’m talking about the drink, right? Okay. So, yeah, she’d already had several when we were at the pub, but then at Rhode Haus she had two more, and guess who we couldn’t find an hour later?

  Her ride.

  She was so sauced she couldn’t remember where she lived, so I brought her back to my place. She sneaked from the couch to my bedroom at three in the morning and tried to go down on me, only to fall asleep next to me. I let her have my bed and I took the aforementioned couch. I slept for shit, but at least I wasn’t getting simultaneously mauled and/or puked on, so that was a win.

  Heather, wrapped in my dove gray luxury comforter, drags it with her as she comes down the stairs. My apartment, I have to admit, is the stuff dreams are made of. A staircase from the front door deposi
ts you into the living room and kitchen area, and then another staircase angles to the bedrooms upstairs. I keep my decor simple. White walls to offset the black slatted stairs, and abstract artwork on the walls to add a splash of color to what would otherwise be a monochromatic palette. My office is beyond the kitchen in a dining room I turned into a work space.

  “How’d you sleep?” I ask, drying the dish and placing it in the cabinet.

  “Fitfully.” She’s a little bit of a thing. Blond, so well within my shagging rights, but I didn’t shag her. Not only because she was drunk, because, come on, we’ve all had that sort of a hookup, but because she didn’t appeal to me.

  Even as I look at her, hungover though she is, I can’t figure out the lack of desire. Petite, with long, flaxen hair, she’s pretty in a simple way. Her face is angular and her piercing blue eyes memorable. She’s thin rather than curvy; small breasts press against the cotton of one of my T-shirts.

  Then it hits me. Heather isn’t exciting. A certain red-haired bartender must’ve awakened my dormant adrenaline junkie.

  Fantastic.

  “What are we doing today?” Heather angles her face for a kiss. Rather than give her one, I thrust a glass of OJ into her hand.

  “Drink this and get dressed. Your cab will be here in a few minutes.” I turn and grab my espresso and lift it to my lips. “I assume you remember your address?”

  She blushes, purses her lips into a pout. “You have to go to work.”

  “I do.”

  “When?”

  I hate when they’re desperate. It’s embarrassing for them and sad for me.

  “Five minutes ago,” I lie. I’m not late. I’m never late. I prepare for each unplanned possibility. No, really. If a sinkhole swallowed my apartment right this second, I’d have an escape route.

  Once upon a time I was ill prepared for a circumstance that left me with my dick in my hand. (No, not literally.) I vowed that day to be prepared, block my life off in manageable, measurable units.

  “Oh.” She chews on the side of her lip. “I don’t have to go, though.” She steps closer and fingers the button on my suit coat.

  “You have to go, Heather. I brought you here rather than leave you at Rhode Haus, and that requires no thanks on your part. But I need you to leave so I can get to work.”

  Her eyes glitter with what might be tears, but then she smiles tightly and sets the juice glass down. “I guess I’ll get dressed.”

  Right then a honk lifts on the air and we hold each other’s eyes for a truncated moment. Her gaze is filled with longing and regret and mine is filled with patience and understanding.

  I can tell she’s not used to being treated with respect. The problem is she’s mistaken my hospitality for what could be more, and I can’t allow her to continue with that misconception.

  At least I didn’t leave her to the whims of one of the dirtbags in the band.

  See?

  I’m a nice guy.

  Grace

  “No one wears red like you, Grace.”

  My best friend, Roxanne, puts the final touches on my hair. She’s the beautician responsible for my flame-red tresses. Today we opted for a more natural shade of red, though the color is still bright and bold.

  Like me.

  She makes house calls, which makes her indispensable. My house isn’t large, but we make do with a kitchen chair, some plastic on the floor, and a stainless-steel kitchen sink.

  I put down the hand mirror after admiring the straight, smooth hairdo she’s given me, with only a passing thought about how Davis preferred my curls the other day.

  “Let me see it again.” I put down the mirror.

  Rox knows what I’m talking about and it sure as hell isn’t my hair. She thrusts her hand in front of my face and I’m blinded by a gorgeous diamond set in fourteen-karat gold and surrounded by other smaller, shining stones.

  I cradle her hand in mine. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She gives me a playful shove as she fetches the broom from the pantry and starts sweeping the inch she trimmed off my ends. “I know you don’t buy into the whole matrimony thing, Grace. It’s okay.”

  She hoists a dark brown eyebrow and pushes her hair behind her ears before continuing to sweep. Rox, like any hairdresser worth her salt, has phenomenal hair. Smooth, straight, and down to her elbows. She prefers to keep her natural dark color but always has a few pieces of bright purple or royal blue—or both—peeking out from underneath.

  “Yes, but for you I make an exception,” I say sweetly. I stand, remove the plastic cape responsible for keeping the hair dye off my person, and carefully carry it outside to give it a good shake. Back inside I continue. “I’m still coping with the fact that you didn’t call me until two days after it happened.”

  Rox, done sweeping, gives me a sheepish look. “I’d apologize by asking you to be in the wedding, but Mark is talking about a destination wedding and I wasn’t sure you’d want the expense.”

  “Oh, like Puerto Vallarta?”

  “Or Cancún.”

  We both purr at the same time, then giggle at our shared brains.

  “That’s nice, though!” I argue. “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

  “Yeah, well, it’ll be awhile. He’s not done with his master’s degree yet.”

  “No harm in waiting until you’re ready.”

  Rox stands in front of me and cocks her head. “I could say the same thing to you.”

  “I’m not even dating! How could I be waiting to get married?” I chuckle as I fold the cape, but my stomach does a sickening flop. Marriage, even talking about it as if it’s way out in the future, is a terrifying prospect. And not just because my parents hated each other and divorced after I graduated from high school.

  They stayed together for me. (Gee, thanks, guys.) Growing up with that sort of animosity around doesn’t foster visions of dream weddings. Logically I know my parents are individuals and their marriage doesn’t set the tone for anyone but them. But the idea of falling in love and watching it devolve into hate—or, worse, ambivalence—terrifies me.

  “What about that guy…? What’s his name?” Rox asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “You do too! The one who wore the hipster-style black glasses. And rolled his skinny pants at the ankles.”

  “Ugh. Micah.” I was trying to forget about him.

  “Micah. He was cute.”

  “He was okay.”

  “You only went out with him three times.”

  “That’s because I thought okay would graduate to not bad. By date three he’d gone from okay to meh. Once they slide down the scale, I’m out.”

  Rox lets out a small laugh. “You’re quick to cut them loose.”

  Better a fast death than a slow, dragged-out one.

  “There’s no such thing as—”

  “Mr. Right,” she finishes for me.

  “There’s not.”

  “It doesn’t mean you can’t have great sex in the meantime,” Rox says as she continues sweeping.

  It’s not a throwaway statement. Rox knows of what she speaks. She was the epitome of the girl who didn’t want to settle down. She played the field quite a bit, and I don’t mean that in a slutty way. I mean she played the players, and she was damn good at it. And then she took a class at the community college where Mark was teaching applied physics. His big brain won Roxanne’s big heart.

  Go figure.

  “I don’t go anywhere except work and here. How am I supposed to meet anyone besides drunk guys on the other side of the bar?”

  “What about coworkers?” she asks, stashing the broom back where she found it.

  “None I’d consider.” But my mind is locked on Davis. He’s not drunk and belligerent. However, he’s typically on a date with a blonde, so I don’t consider him an option. Even though lately our animosity has turned borderline friendly. I remember the way he stood up to bail me out of the cherry-stem incident the o
ther day, and warmth gathers in the pit of my stomach.

  “Whoa. Who is he?” Rox asks.

  I blink to focus on her saucy smile and raised eyebrows. “Who is who?”

  “Whoever you thought of just now. Your entire posture changed. You got this far-off look in your eyes and you’re twirling your hair.”

  I pull my fingers from the sleek strands in a rush to prove her wrong, but when I shrug, my movements are jerky. “No one.”

  “And your voice went up an octave. Don’t keep potential Mr. Right from me.” Rox trudges over and clings to my shirtsleeve. “Pleeeease.”

  “Fine! All right!” I laugh as I shake her off my flannel. “There is a guy who’s one of my regulars at McGreevy’s, but,” I add when her eyes light up, “he’s a man whore and we don’t like each other.”

  “So he’s hot.”

  “He’s gorgeous.” I can’t lie any more than I can prevent the sigh from lining my voice. “Hence the man-whore thing. Unfortunately, he’s working his way down a sexual bucket list of blondes, so”—I gesture to my red hair—“not his type.”

  It’s a total blow-off, but Rox lets me have it.

  “Honey, I can make you blond.” Her eyes narrow as she considers. “We’d have to do it in three different sessions and wait a few weeks in between color lifts. Otherwise you’ll have so much breakage—”

  “Rox. No.”

  She sighs. “Does he have a friend?”

  “He has a very attractive friend.”

  Roxanne gasps.

  “Vince recently, and happily, hooked up with one of the cutest brunettes I’ve ever seen.” Not to mention that Jackie is sweet and funny and, from what I’ve observed, the perfect match for him.

  “Well. Shit.”

  “I know.” I throw my arms into the air dramatically. “I’m hopeless.”

  Rox is laughing. She knows I’m kidding. I never needed a man in my life to define me. “Change so we can go. I want to pick out an outfit to match my masterpiece.”

  Her “masterpiece” is my hair. She wants me in new clothes to complement the new cut and color. I pull the flannel shirt off and toss it next to the accordion doors hiding my washer and dryer before taking the stairs to my bedroom.