Matched

by S. E. Lund

  When the applause dies down, I let go of her arms. "You deserve a cold beer."

  "I deserve a fucking keg of beer," she replies, grinning up at me, a twinkle in her eyes.

  That's my girl. Huge brain. Potty mouth.

  I love her.

  Not in that way, of course. In the brotherly, collegial, and proud CEO way.

  "Let's go," she says and grabs hold of my arm, her fingers gripping my bicep. I flex it, because she's always kidding me about my workouts. I'm ripped. I work out daily – a habit I developed while in the service and I keep it up. No slacking off for me, even though I'm no longer in a combat zone.

  "I'm starving," she says, gazing up at me with those eyes. "I want to stuff myself with a huge piece of steak to go along with that keg of beer."

  "Your wish is my command, CTO of mine," I reply, but my mind substitutes I want you to stuff me with that huge piece of meat of yours, Jon…

  I can't control that part of my mind.

  Cut me some slack.

  We walk out the side of the auditorium, my arm draped around her shoulder in a brotherly way. I'm no longer interested in the last speaker, so we leave the conference for a bar where we're meeting the rest of our team to talk about the conference and our latest contract. Then we'll go for dinner and I'll make sure she gets her big juicy steak.

  Life is good.

  Two hours later…

  Life sucks.

  What the fuck?

  Marina Clark, India's best friend from Montessori, and from forever, is sitting with us and, as usual, she's frowning at me. She doesn't really like me. I don't know why, but she's always scowling at me like I've done something wrong. I check myself over. There's no food spilled on my crisp white shirt or silky blue tie. I run my fingers through my hair, which has a habit of falling into my eyes.

  "What's your problem?"

  She frowns. "You're working the poor girl to death."

  "She's a big girl. She works herself hard. She's a winner."

  Why Marina showed up at the bar, I'll never know. This celebration was meant for the team – not outsiders – even if she is India's best friend.

  When India gets up to go to the bathroom, Marina leans closer to me.

  "She's got a date tonight. Don't mess it up."

  What?

  "India has a date?"

  I'm not the only one shocked by that announcement. The rest of my team members glance at me quickly, like they expect me to be mad. I frown when they lean forward, eager to hear the details. Marina fills us in on this guy she's matched India with.

  As if India needs help finding men. Every man she meets would fuck her, but she's not that kind of girl.

  Besides, she doesn't want a man right now. She's focused on her career. I know, because she told me that when we met at Stanford, back when I thought there might be something between us. She wants to make a hundred million dollars before she ever gets serious about a man.

  She's pure ambition – like me. Like the rest of us at Pacifica.

  "She's lonely," Marina says plainly.

  That hits me like a truck and I'm lost for words for a moment.

  "How can she be lonely?" I say when I recover. I tip my beer up and take a long pull on it. "She's too busy to be lonely. She said so herself. She's focused on her career. India says men are superfluous. Those were her words, Marina, not mine. Superfluous."

  "You think she's going to admit to you that she's lonely?" Marina gives me this derisive snort and takes a sip of her own beer. "She comes home to an empty house and is so lonely that she sleeps on the couch with the television on because she hates being alone in her king-sized bed. True confession." Then she points at me, her eyes narrow. "Don't tell her I told you that. She'll kill me."

  I frown and imagine India sleeping on her couch instead of her bed. I remember when she bought that bed – I helped her pick it out. I even imagined the two of us fucking our brains out on it, but that's just an idle male thought. I'm as red-blooded as the next guy. But that was it. I imagined it one time, maybe twice. Less than a dozen times, for sure.

  It's not like I think of sleeping with India often. I'm way too busy running one of the most successful tech start-ups in the past five years.

  But speaking of her bed, it's hugely ostentatious with four thick posts of dark wood. Silk gray coverlet and throw pillows. In her huge master suite with the marble tile and expensive fixtures and the sliding doors that lead to her own personal deck overlooking the ocean.

  She doesn't like sleeping in that bed?

  I love that bed.

  "She sleeps on the fucking couch?" I say, still dumbfounded at the prospect that India's lonely and wants a date.

  Marina nods. "Sad, right? So I've found this guy for her. I mean, he's right up her alley brains-wise. He teaches at Stanford, like her parents. He has a PhD from Harvard in Humanities. Philosophy."

  "Philosophy?" I snort and make a face of disgust. "What the fuck is that?"

  "You know – ‘what is the good life?’ That kind of shit." She shrugs. "His name came up among my subscribers as a match. I figured he was smart enough for her. Plus, her family is big in the whole humanities thing. He's coming tonight." She glances at her watch. "Any time now, in fact. I'm sure India's nervous. She's probably in the bathroom throwing up." She wags her eyebrows in this most annoying way.

  "Throwing up? What the fuck are you talking about? Why would India throw up because she's meeting a pencil-necked professor of philosophy?"

  "He's not a pencil-neck. He's really handsome, in a professorial sort of way. She's shy, Jon," Marina says, and that's the second time tonight I'm struck dumb by something she says. "You should know that. God, what have you been doing all this time? Ignoring India? See, that's what I mean by ‘you work her too hard.’ You don’t even know her."

  "I know her better than almost anyone else."

  I lean back, my blood pressure rising, my anger at Marina's meddling choking me for a moment. I sit steaming, unable to respond.

  My India – shy? Nervous enough to meet some man that she'd throw up? I don’t really even know her?

  "This wasn't supposed to be a public event, Marina. This was meant to be a celebration for the team."

  "India needs a man," she replies, shrugging like it's nothing. "I found her one."

  "She doesn't need a man. She needs to focus on our business. On Pacifica. We have a big meeting coming up, at the fucking Pentagon. I don't want her to be distracted by some flake from the Philosophy Department."

  "No, no," she says and punches my arm. "She needs some, Jon. She's been out of circulation for way too long. You're always going on about how important sex is for human well-being. Isn't that right?"

  I sit and glower at Marina for throwing my words back at me, but she doesn't seem to notice the hate I'm sending her way.

  "Oh, here he comes," Marina says and sits up straighter. "Be nice."

  Be nice. Like I'm not nice.

  Into the bar walks this tall fucker with dark hair and eyes, and a fucking goatee. He's wearing a tweed blazer with actual fucking leather patches on his elbows. And jeans. He must be forty if he's a day.

  Old, in other words. There's actual gray in his hair at the sides.

  "Him?" I say under my breath, giving Marina a glare. "He's an old man. Couldn’t you find someone a bit closer to her age?"

  "I did a really careful review of him, his values, his goals, his beliefs. They're a great match."

  "I didn't know the app was ready…" I harrumph and lean back in my chair, taking a big drink from my bottle of beer. "I can tell just by looking at him he's not right for her."

  "The soft launch is next month. We hard launch later, but I wanted to use India as a test subject. I've signed up about a thousand people to use as test matches. Most from Stanford and SFU. He ticks all her boxes."

  I watch the dickhead professor of philosophy approach our table. I don't know who this fucker is, but he's not the kind of man for India. That m
uch I do know just by looking at him. How could he be? I can tell by the way he looks and dresses and walks that he's a stuffy old man. How could India be with someone like him?

  "He's too old for her."

  "Shush," Marina says and turns to the guy as he walks up to the table, all smiles. "Thomas! You made it. India's in the bathroom but should be right back."

  "I did make it," Thomas says, his voice deep. "My flight from Boston was late but I managed to get an Uber driver who actually knows the fastest routes. I was giving a guest lecture at my old alma mater and we were late getting finished – I got swarmed by students wanting to talk after the lecture. I missed my flight but was able to get on the next plane out. Barely made it."

  He gives us all a smile, his teeth white over his goatee.

  I hate him.

  Marina introduces him as Doctor Thomas McAllister. Professor of analytic philosophy at Stanford.

  He's not a fucking doctor. He's a professor. Doctors actually do important work in society, unlike professors of philosophy. I should know – my father was a doctor. I hate the way people call professors Doctor like they're something special.

  "Pleased to meet you," I manage and shake the guy's hand, squeezing extra firmly. "So, tell me, what does a professor of analytic philosophy do? I mean, when you're not giving lectures."

  "We think about how to think. It's meta," he says, smiling like he's made a joke.

  I don't know what the hell he means, thinking about how to think. What kind of lame-ass job is that?

  "Cool," I say, shrugging. "I already know how to think. Now I just make shit. Shit that helps the good old USA win wars."

  I lean back in my chair, folding my arms, and smile at him.

  Score one for the Viking.

  Chapter 3

  INDIA

  Marina insists that I meet the match she’s found for me at the bar after the conference. She sprung it on me just an hour earlier. No warning.

  Jon stepped out for a moment to talk to someone in the restaurant and so we're alone with the rest of the team.

  "What's he look like?"

  "Stop thinking about looks and think about compatibility," she scolds. "He's handsome. Tall, dark, goatee, well-dressed. I'd do him. Give him a chance. It's like he was made for you, based on both your answers."

  The rest of the team are busy talking, so she scoots closer and shows me the pic on her cell.

  Thomas McAllister, with a PhD in philosophy from Harvard. He's apparently right up my alley. He loves classical while my playlist features hits from the 70's. He cooks as a hobby while I hate cooking. My kitchen cupboards are empty because I always eat takeout. While our music tastes clash, at least music is important to him.

  I'm not so sure about the perfectly matched thing…

  "You need someone stable. Someone who is strong, calm, and knows his own mind. And who shares your interests. He scores high on all those areas. You're a perfect match."

  "I don't cook," I respond.

  "You eat."

  Marina matched me with him after I answered her questionnaire earlier this year. I'm one of her guinea pigs for the app she's working on with her friend Clint from Stanford. He's doing the coding and she does all the human stuff. It’s called MATCHED and is in its soft release period, where they test it out to make sure it’s ready to go before they do a full release with promotion.

  I'm one of the first users and Professor McAllister is my first match.

  In that moment, I wonder what Jon will think. He'll be merciless when he realizes Marina invited an outsider and that I have a date for the evening. Technically, I shouldn’t have even invited Marina, but she's my best female friend.

  Jon won't approve. I know that already. He thinks the business must come first, and it has. Believe me, I've devoted myself to the business for the past three years non-stop.

  He's all business and no pleasure.

  I need to unwind. I want someone to pamper me, to look after me.

  Frankly, I want someone in my bed. I want to feel a man on top of me, and inside of me. I've woken up too many times in the middle of a wet dream with nameless faceless men.

  At one time, I thought Jon and I might get together, but when I realized what a playboy he was, I pushed him away, setting firm boundaries on our relationship. We could be friends and business partners – but no benefits other than loyalty and support.

  "I need a drink."

  "You need a hard dick," Marina says under her breath. "That's it. Plain and simple."

  "Such a way with words," I reply. "Such deep analysis you have there, counselor. You did how many years of school to come up with that?"

  "I speak the truth and you know it."

  "I can't meet him now," I argue, panic rising in me that Jon will get pissed.

  "If not now, when?"

  I chew a fingernail and consider. "You really think he's a match?"

  She nods, folding her arms. "I've got the questionnaire honed and perfected. It shows that he's definitely a match for you. You have the same interests, similar backgrounds. You have the same level of education and goals for the future."

  "Jon won't like it if he shows up at the bar."

  "Jon can go fuck himself. You watch. He'll be picking up some ditzy blonde before the night's over and won't think about you and what you're doing."

  "He'll eviscerate Thomas."

  "He'll try, but he does that to everyone. He's such a hardass."

  Speaking of hardasses, Jon returns from the restaurant and sits down, taking his beer in his hand and saluting me with it. I smile back but then I get this feeling like I'm going to regret agreeing to meet Marina’s match.

  “Where were you?” I say, trying to make conversation to hide my nerves.

  “Talking with a former colleague of my dad’s,” Jon says and he smiles softly. “He only heard recently about it and offered his condolences.”

  “That’s nice,” I say, my mind temporarily sidetracked from worries about my date by thoughts of Jon’s father. He died very rapidly and very painfully from Pancreatic Cancer. Through it all, Jon was a rock, there for his dad every moment he could spare.

  I went to see him before he died, and was shocked to see how warm and affectionate Jon was with his dad. He held his father’s hand and kissed him, talking softly to him as he lay in pain, waiting for the drugs to kick in and send him into a morphine-haze.

  When he finally died, I saw Jon cry for the first time and it was hard to take. Jon is always such a joker, fun-loving and quick with a smile or laugh. We embraced that day when he returned from saying goodbye and I worried that it would turn into more, but at the last minute we thought better of it and broke the embrace.

  I sigh and catch Marina’s eye. She raises her eyebrows and points to her watch, a signal that my date will be arriving soon.

  That sends my heart-rate racing and suddenly, I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

  "Excuse me," I say and pick up my bag. "I'll be right back."

  I practically run to the bathroom and close myself in a stall, trying not to panic. I take in a few deep breaths and recite my mantra.

  Oh, God. What will Jon say? He'll be relentless.

  I swear I spend more time with Jon than anyone else. Don't get me wrong – I love the guy. He's like my alter-ego. He's brave and fearless and a crazy man, while I'm shy and reserved and cautious. I need his fearlessness to accomplish anything, but this blistering pace at work is just wearing me down. I can barely remember the last time I was kissed – really kissed. Or the last time a man touched me intimately.

  Actually, I can remember. It was Blaine, my ex, who left for Manhattan a year ago. I miss having a relationship. Sure, my last one ended badly with a broken heart on my part, but it was something, at least.

  I was in love with Blaine and I thought he was in love with me. We had a lot of sex. We laughed and watched movies together. It was real – or so I thought. But Blaine left for New York and never looked back. I swor
e to myself when I watched him board that plane for the last time that, one day, it would be me leaving the past behind me and living the life I wanted.

  So, I've put my head down and tried to focus on something besides the ache in the middle of my chest. And I've worked hard – harder than anyone else. Anyone besides Jon, that is. But I'm lonely.

  I want someone deep and real. It might take me a couple more years to have the seed money I need to start my own company but I don't think I can face another two years without someone in my life.

  That was why I did Marina's crazy questionnaire. That's why I agreed to go on a date with Thomas, but I had no idea it would be tonight.

  After about five minutes, my pulse calms down. Then, my cell dings. I take it out and see it's Marina.

  MARINA: He's here. Get your ass out of the bathroom.

  INDIA: Jon's gonna freak.

  MARINA: Fuck Jon. Get out here now!

  INDIA: Oh, crap…

  MARINA: Just come out. Thomas won't bite. He's really very erudite and cultured.

  INDIA: It's not Thomas I'm worried about. It's Jon.

  MARINA: I said, fuck Jon. No, I take that back. Fuck Thomas.

  INDIA: Oh, crap…

  I put my cell back in my bag and leave the stall, washing my hands while I check myself out in the mirror. I pull my hair out of the tight bun and let it fall over my shoulders and down my back. I put my glasses away in my bag and run some gloss over my lips. I can't see very well without my glasses, but I can't wear contacts, so I'll have to squint.

  I saw his picture. He's definitely handsome, in a rugged way.

  I pull off my jacket and unbutton one of my buttons, showing a tiny bit more cleavage. Gotta use every weapon in the old feminine arsenal.

  I paste a smile on my face and walk out of the bathroom and back into the bar.

  Then I see the two of them sitting side by side – Jon with his arms crossed, his biceps bulging, his legs spread wide. His head is down and he's glaring at me. His handsome face – all square-jawed and scruff and perfect – is angry. His sun-bleached dark blond hair falls in his eyes in that sexy way, and his blue eyes are narrowed. I'd like to imagine that’s jealousy in his eyes, but then I realize that it's really just contempt. His full lips are pressed tightly together.