Clickbait

by Lisa Suzanne

  I don’t want to listen to this crap. In fact, I deserve better anyway. I deserve someone who is as proud of me and the work I do as I am.

  I’m so fucking tired of people walking out of my life because of what I do for a living. I need to find someone who supports me and stands up for me, not someone who agrees with his mommy that what I do is too personal for him.

  I stand. I pick up my water glass. The waitress just filled it, and I always feel like a royal asshole leaving a full glass at the table. I take one last sip of water.

  “Fuck you, Liam Carlisle.”

  I look at Liam one last time, and before I can stop myself, I throw the remaining water from my glass right in his pretty face.

  I don’t care if people are watching. In fact, I hope they are, and I hope they know who he is. I hope someone blows up the fact that Liam Carlisle is a big, wet douchebag.

  You know what else? He fucked with the wrong girl.

  Looks like Carter King, King of Douchebags, has had his title stripped by Liam, the sad little boy whose parents don’t approve of the naughty blogger.

  As soon as I get home, I get to work on the plethora of articles my naughty brain thought up on my car ride from the restaurant to my condo.

  Liam’s parents don’t approve of my blog? Well they’re really going to hate it when they get a load of my next few articles.

  COURTING SANDY EGGO

  posted by Courtney Sanders

  BLUE-BINNING ISN’T FOR THE WEAK

  The color blue used to make me think of the ocean, of the deep, cold depths you could only see from an airplane. The ocean has always had a calming effect on me. It’s reminiscent of childhood afternoon trips to the beach, tranquil nights watching the sun set over the water, and romantic strolls through the sand.

  Now the color blue makes me think of my ex.

  Ever thought about recycling an ex just for sex?

  Don’t do it.

  The popular trend of sleeping with an ex is probably the worst decision you can make. The two of you broke up for a reason, right?

  My friend warned me. She said blue-binning was dangerous.

  I asked her what blue-binning was, and she responded by asking me what goes in the blue bin. That’s where I put all my empty plastic bottles before they’re taken by the magical green truck off to the recycling plant to be crushed, melted, and reformed into something new.

  Well, nine times out of ten, sleeping with an ex does pretty much the same thing.

  Liam and I had a lot of fun when we dated. We broke up because he moved to a new city, not because we fought or hated each other. We would’ve stayed together if he had stayed in San Diego, or at least I thought we would have. I’m not so sure anymore.

  When he texted me that he was in town, I couldn’t help but think of the good times.

  What I failed to think about were the times that weren’t so good, and maybe even worse, I failed to think about the fact that a new city might’ve changed the sweet Liam I once knew.

  His new city turned him from a kind, sweet boyfriend who took care of my needs into a womanizing dirtbag who makes booty calls for recreational sex.

  And that’s the good news; never mind the bad.

  It’s my own fault. I should’ve listened to my friend.

  But, I didn’t, and Liam managed to crush me, melt me, and reform me into someone new.

  Now I must proceed with caution. Now I know better than to recycle an ex. In fact, I may write off all men for a while. This city seems to be filled with men like Liam.

  Stay tuned for a new feature on the biggest douchebags in San Diego. If even one of you learns from my story, then I’ve done my job.

  Also, I hate everything blue.

  COURTING SANDY EGGO

  posted by Courtney Sanders

  FAST FIVE: WHY SEX WITH AN EX IS A STUPID FUCKING IDEA

  5. What’s beneath his belt doesn’t matter if his mommy makes his decisions for him.

  4. You already know his family and friends AND THEY SUCK.

  3. It can rekindle hope for something that ended for a reason.

  2. It’ll bring back memories—so many memories—and not all good ones.

  1. He knows what to do to piss you off for the rest of your life.

  CHAPTER 6

  At least I’m getting good blog material out of this mess. I sip my gin and tonic. I hate the taste, but I’m in one of those I don’t give a flying fuck kinds of moods and it was the first thing I thought of to order.

  “So then what happened?” Emme asks. We’re at The Port, sitting on some stools at the bar. The place is empty—it’s a Tuesday a little before six, so the crowd will come later.

  “I threw the rest of my water in his face and left.”

  “No parting words?” Axel asks. He’s not busy, so he’s listening to my story about Liam.

  “Something along the lines of ‘Fuck you, Liam Carlisle.’” I seem to recall a similar closing line the last time I spoke to Carter King.

  Who, by the way, has been on my mind even more so than Liam the Momma’s Boy.

  I’m not really all that disappointed that things didn’t work out with Liam. I was hopeful, sure, but I’d rather find out he’s not going to support my work now than get reinvested and find out down the road.

  Honestly, the fact that he insulted my blog—my work, my blood, sweat, and tears—hurt more than the “breakup”, if you can even call it that. We hardly even got back together, and despite the fact that I played up my hopefulness on the blog, I’m doing fine.

  I try not to embellish my life on the blog because I want to write with honesty, but I suppose sometimes my emotions are enhanced with the right word choice. I write what I’m feeling, and if I’m feeling angry, it tends to be amplified in my writing. I wrote the first draft of my new segment on DBs of SD, and it sounds a little angry. I suppose I could tone it down before I publish it…but I probably won’t.

  Emme always warns me to sit on an emotionally charged article for a day or two before I hit publish. I try to follow her advice—it’s smart, and it helps keep me from publishing things I shouldn’t—but sometimes they slip through anyway.

  “Hey, man. Glad you made it,” Axel says, reaching across the bar to someone standing next to me and breaking into my thoughts in the process. They shake hands.

  I turn and look at the man Axel greeted.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” I say.

  Fucking Carter King stands directly beside me, and he looks as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

  He grins, showcasing those perfect teeth of his. “Lovely to see you again,” he says, pulling out the barstool beside me and sliding into it. God, I hate that he looks so good in his jeans and a plain white t-shirt.

  He smells good, too, but that’s really beside the point.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “I could ask you the same.”

  “It’s my bar.”

  “You own it?”

  “No, but I’m close friends with Axel and Emme.”

  Axel places a dark beer in front of Carter. “Give that one a try,” Axel says.

  Carter takes a sip and savors it, closing his eyes briefly. A little quiver runs through my belly, but I ignore it.

  “That’s fucking awesome,” he says, punctuating each word with a brief pause.

  “Right?” Axel says.

  I watch their exchange, feeling like they’re having some continuation of a conversation I’m not privy to. Clearly, they know each other, and for some reason, that pisses me off even more.

  “How do you know Axel?” I demand.

  “Oh, we go way back, Axel and me,” he says in a total non-answer.

  “Fine. I don’t care.” I turn my back to him and face Emme, who has been watching us with rapt attention.

  “He’s cute,” she says, her voice low. She says it in the kind of tone that tells me she thinks I should go for it.

  “Shut up,” I
hiss, hoping he didn’t hear. Carter King is the last person I’m going to go for it with.

  “I’m not just cute,” he says. “I’m also a good guy, but you won’t give me a chance to show you that.”

  Could this guy be any douchier? For real.

  “Go be a good guy somewhere else,” I say before turning back to Emme. “Can we go?”

  “Hell no,” she says. “This just got interesting.” She stands, walks behind me and Carter, and settles into the stool on his other side. Sometimes I really hate my best friend. I guzzle my gin and tonic and signal to Axel to bring me another one.

  “So how do you know my sweet friend Courtney?” she asks Carter. I pretend to ignore their conversation while I totally hang on every word.

  “Sweet? Her?” He pauses, and I feel his eyes glancing in my direction. “Are we talking about the same person?”

  Emme laughs. “She can be a bit hard to take sometimes. I’m Emme,” she says.

  Hard to take? Emme will be paying for that comment later.

  “Carter.”

  “As in Axel’s cousin Carter?”

  Cousin? What the hell?

  “One and the same,” he says. “And you’re the Emme Axel has been talking about nonstop since you started dating?”

  “He has?” Emme asks, and I wonder if that causes her to blush. I don’t bother to glance over that way, though; it’s not worth risking accidently meeting eyes with Douche King Carter.

  “He has, and to answer your question, I met your gorgeous friend at Dog Beach last week, and then I ran into her again at a gas station.”

  Gorgeous?

  He lowers his voice conspiratorially, but I can still hear him. “I think she’s following me.”

  I roll my eyes. He wishes.

  “Other way around,” I say, obviously done with the pretense of pretending not to listen.

  They both ignore me. “So you’re from New York, right?” Emme asks him.

  “I am.”

  “What made you come to San Diego?”

  “A few things, obviously including hanging out at the beach and visiting my cousin.”

  Axel lives a few blocks from the bar, so it’s starting to make sense why I keep running into Carter. We’re in the same territory, and I don’t like it one bit.

  “How long are you in town?” Emme asks.

  “I have to head back to New York in a few weeks.”

  “Axel says you’re looking to buy a place out here.” She says it like she’s asking a question.

  He’s looking to buy a place? Fuck my life.

  He nods. “I’m shopping for homes this week.”

  “Well Courtney and I would be happy to show you around while you’re in town, right Court?” Emme finally addresses me.

  “Wrong. Speak for yourself. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Ah, yes. The blog,” Carter says.

  “You know about her blog?” Emme asks.

  “My ex followed it religiously. She got me hooked on the exciting life and advice of Courtney Sanders. I know she’s just proceeding with caution because Liam crushed, melted, and reformed her, so I’ll tread carefully.”

  Emme giggles. “You read her post from today, I take it?”

  He shrugs. “I still get an email every time she posts. My ex signed me up for it, and every time I go to unsubscribe, something stops me.”

  “Maybe you’re holding on to your ex,” I say.

  As if I didn’t even speak at all, he says, “At this point, I’m just really interested in what Courtney has to say—you know, to see who she hooks up with next.”

  They both laugh and completely ignore me as I mutter, “Sounds like you’re hung up on your ex to me.”

  “What happened with you and your ex?” Emme asks.

  The million-dollar question. To be perfectly honest, I’m curious about the answer to this one, too.

  “We, uh, wanted different things,” he says. “So what’s on the agenda for tonight?”

  Douchebag.

  I feel sorry for his ex.

  He changed the subject pretty fast when she came up, which indicates to me that his ex wanted a commitment he wasn’t willing to give.

  I need to know more about this Carter King. When I looked him up before, I was so enraptured by his photos that I didn’t really take the time to look at who he was apart from the fact that he’s from a wealthy family in New York.

  It’s time to dig a little deeper.

  But first, my fingers are itching to write an article.

  COURTING SANDY EGGO

  posted by Courtney Sanders

  THE BIGGEST DB IN SD: A MINI-SERIES

  Call them what you want: douchebag, dirt bag, dingle berry, dead beat, dick brain, dirty bastard, douche box…the list goes on. The letters DB tend to lead to one type of guy, and it’s the type of guy you don’t want to date.

  That’s where this mini-series comes into play. THE BIGGEST DB IN SD will detail the biggest dirt bags San Diego has to offer. This is my way of warning my lady readers away from the guys my friends and I have had awful experiences with. I won’t ever name last names, so don’t message me asking, but I will out the biggest and best douchebags in Sandy Eggo. You can determine for yourself if you’re dating one of them or if you should run the other way when there’s even a hint that you’ve met one of them.

  VOLUME ONE: LIAM

  Yes, this is the same Liam I wrote about just a few days ago. First I sounded hopeful, I know, and then I sounded miserable.

  I just want you to know what I’m dealing with here.

  Liam’s father is involved in politics, and he’s running for a prestigious office. I refuse to name names or positions. All I can say is that he wants to govern or something. His mom, who was very nice to my face when I met her, told Liam it was inappropriate to date me, and instead of standing up for the girl he left Chicago for, he decided she was right. He chose to dump me and insult my blog all in the same conversation.

  So you know what? He’s a DB, and I deserve better than someone who doesn’t respect and support my job.

  Ladies of San Diego, beware. This man may lure you in with his charm, his warm brown eyes, his pretty face, and his talents in the bedroom—and oh dear God, is he talented—but he’ll stomp all over your heart if his mother deems you unworthy of her baby.

  CHAPTER 7

  Liam won’t leave me alone, and not in a good way. He’s pissed about my article, and he’s demanding a retraction.

  The ladies of San Diego, however, can’t stop falling at my feet in thanks. The first edition of DBs of SD has been wildly popular—so much so that it actually went viral. I had over a million views in the first week, and comments keep pouring in from across the country.

  Turns out a hell of a lot of women can relate to dating mama’s boys, and even more women know a douchebag or two. They’re all hitting up my inbox with their stories, hoping I’ll post one of theirs in the future. While my DBs are going to be specific to San Diego, I’m learning there’s a wide pool of assholes out there.

  I refuse to retract based on two things. One, I didn’t use his last name, so if people put together that it’s him, then they’re just smart. Two, the post is viral. I’m not deleting something that’s bringing so much attention to my blog.

  Besides, it’s not like I said anything that wasn’t true. Maybe it was mean of me to call him a douchebag, but if it’s the truth, it’s not defamation.

  A few days after I saw him at The Port, I do a quick search on Mr. Carter King. I discover that he’s sort of like those wealthy girls on that reality show that didn’t really do anything to earn the millions of dollars in their bank accounts.

  He’s from one of the richest families in America. King Communications opened in the early twentieth century and exploded, and now they’re in nearly every home across the country providing television, internet, and ancient landline phone lines. They even dabble in print media, which is sort of an interesting twist. I end up spending more
time researching the company he’s heir to than the man himself, but I’ve gotten a fairly informative impression of him.

  He doesn’t appear to do much. His older brother is in line to be the next CEO, not him. A few pictures and a quick stalk of his social media seem to imply that he only dates gorgeous blondes. There are pictures of him with other women, but mainly one blonde. I briefly wonder what happened with her, but seeing him in pictures with more than one women confirms my gut feeling that declining his dinner invitation was the right move.

  I find myself lost in pictures of him once again. He is damn fine, even if he’s a total jackhole. I can’t help but think of those amazing abs as I wipe a small dabble of drool from my chin. Okay, I’m not actually drooling, but damn. A girl can ogle even if she doesn’t actually want anything to do with the guy.

  My phone dings with a text notification, and I sort of jump and click out of my internet search. I hate that I always feel like I’m going to get caught doing something wrong. It’s just research, strictly professional blog research. I’m not even interested in this guy.

  I glance at my phone, and the text is from a number I don’t recognize.

  Unknown Number: Don’t be mad at Emme. She just knew you were making the wrong decision.

  I glare at my phone, knowing who it is even though he didn’t identify himself. Speak of the damn devil.

  I hate Emme for a hot minute for giving him my number.

  Me: So what’s the right decision?

  Carter King: Dinner with me.

  Me: In your dreams. Lose my number.

  I’m about to block him, but something stops me.

  Well, two things stop me.

  I think of his abs first, obviously.

  Then, an idea brews.

  What if I do allow this guy to take me out, and what if I use it for article research? There has to be something to be said for dating one of the wealthiest young bachelors in America. This could be huge for me.