Rush Me

by Allison Parr

  I scanned for likely Alexandras, nerves kicking a jig in my belly. She had described herself as very tall with straight blond hair, and I was doing my best not to feel intimidated. What kind of person stayed at the Easton rather than crashing with a friend?

  Oh, right. A proper adult.

  To the left, a blonde sat in an armchair, but lines crossed her face and white streaked her hair. Another stood by the elevator, wrapped in a fur coat, but she couldn’t be more than five six I swiveled around. Maybe Alexandra hadn’t arrived yet?

  No—there, standing at the back of the lobby, frowning down at her cell, stood a tall, willowy woman, a perfect hanger for runway fashions. She’d pulled her fine pale hair back into a tight chignon, and her face had drawn together like a thundercloud. Dressed in a pencil skirt and blazer, she resembled any number of the businesswomen filling the lobby.

  I took a deep breath and crossed the floor, making sure my shoulders were back and my back straight. “Hi—Alexandra? I’m Rachael.”

  She looked up and the scowl dropped away, replaced by an astonishingly pretty smile. She couldn’t have been much older than me. “Alexa’s fine. Shall we go to the café?”

  I agreed, even though adding caffeine to my jitters wouldn’t be a good idea. You are professional, I told myself. You know what you’re talking about.

  And since I did, that reassured me. Besides, it was possible she was just as nervous as I was.

  With that in mind, I tried to make small talk after we ordered our pastries and drinks. The café opened into the lobby, and our seats were right along the edge. For a moment I watched the constant stream in and out, and then I focused on Alexa. “So, what brings you to New York?”

  Her mouth tightened again and her pale lashes swept down. Embarrassment flooded through me. I’d just been trying to make her comfortable before jumping right into book-ese, but maybe that was unprofessional?

  “Family matters,” she finally said. “I’m meeting my father.”

  Instead of shutting up, I continued babbling. “That’s great! Does he live here?”

  “Yes. He does.”

  An awkward silence ensued, where I could feel everything slipping away—goodbye, brilliant book, goodbye, career at Maples&Co, hello, law school. I pulled out my copy of the manuscript and pasted on another bright smile. “I was hoping you could tell me what you’ve been doing with your book right now? In order to get it published?”

  Great. Now I was doing that thing where every sentence ended in a question mark.

  Thankfully, Alexa became infinitely more approachable as we spoke about the book, and once I was on footing I understood, I stopped sounding like an over-eager intern and instead felt reasonably competent. It helped that Alexa didn’t actually have a clue how publishing worked, and had simply sent the manuscript out to everyone. “It started as a joke.” Her pointer finger traced a map of Alexander’s route throughout Europe, Africa, and Asia. “For my friends. And then they sent it out to their friends in other programs and some of the professors saw it and it took on a life of its own.”

  Her friends were doctoral candidates at the top universities in the States and UK; her professors the leading researchers in their fields. Alexa was in the last year of her PhD program at the University of Chicago, writing her dissertation on economic exchange in the Hellenistic World. That helped me tremendously, since non-fiction authors, even snarky ones, needed to have a knowledge base that would convince readers they were worth listening to.

  “And...how do you think you can help me?” she finally asked.

  I shifted, and took a deep breath. This was what the economy was like now, wasn’t it? Selling yourself. Proving you were invaluable. “You have a great concept and I think you could really have a hit here, but it needs to be cleaned up a bit. You have to decide who your audience is—are you going for intelligent, academic humor, or are you trying to make Alexander the Great entertaining and accessible? I could help you narrow your focus. Also, I think there’s a great potential for expansion—this is very social media friendly. I don’t know if you’ve thought about a website, but I think that would bring in a lot of readers.” I stopped and resisted clearing my throat. Instead, I watched Alexa nervously. Had I spoken too much? This carving-your-own-position was terrifying, and I wasn’t even looking for a paid partnership.

  Alexa tilted back on her chair, looking a little stung and overwhelmed. “No—no, I hadn’t thought about any of that. I wouldn’t even know how to go about doing a website.”

  “Oh, it’s easy enough,” I said, relieved she hadn’t dismissed me out of turn. “We’d probably buy a domain and use a blogging platform and CMS isn’t that tricky.” Or at least, it no longer was after three months updating Penelope Books’ website. “The hard thing is publicity and marketing, but I have a couple of ideas about that, especially tied into a website.”

  “And would you want to be hired as a publicist? Or what?”

  I took a sip of my raspberry mocha. “To be honest. I’m hoping that I can help you get this ship-shape, and then present it again to my editor. I think you have a great project; it just needs to be a little fine-tuned.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, we bent over the table, flipping back ideas about publicity and websites and other avenues. Alexa’s background as a doctoral student meant she knew the material she’d written about inside and out, the odd tidbits and ancient gossip that made each story fascinating. And I could point out the parts that needed more clarifications, and the bits that wouldn’t interest the general public.

  We went on longer than I’d expected, long enough for the game to end even if it had gone into overtime. When Alexa excused herself to the bathroom, I quickly texted Ryan to see when he was free. Dammit, I should have texted earlier. Was there a sports equivalent of “break a leg?” I should have at least wished him good luck.

  My phone buzzed and I almost jumped.

  Give me 10. You still at the Easton?

  I saw Alexa coming back, and I quickly typed, Yeah, I’ll call you when I’m done.

  Alexa sat back down, unease sharpening her features. I wanted to dash out the door, but I also wanted to make sure everything was wrapped up and that she was okay. I liked Alexa. She came off as quiet but sincere, dedicated and sharp. And a little sad, but I couldn’t do anything about that. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh.” She glanced over her shoulder, at the quickly filling lobby. “Yes.”

  I followed her gaze, surprised at the number of people, and the disproportionate amount that did not look like guests. “Do you know what they’re all doing here?”

  About a quarter of the women dressed like the men, coats slung over jerseys, but an alarming amount wore casual-best or alarmingly tight dresses. The rest wore a heavy sprinkling of Leopard jerseys, and I frowned in shock. The staff acted irritated but unsurprised. I looked to Alexa to see if she felt as equally baffled as I did.

  To my surprise, she blushed. “Actually, I think I do. I heard that since this is the closest hotel to the football stadium, visiting teams often stay here, so fans sometimes come and hang out to try to meet them.”

  “Really?” I craned my head to better scan the lobby. “Wow! And there was a game today... Do you think they’ll be back soon?”

  Alexa toyed with her fork. “Do you follow football?”

  Ha. “Not as much as I ought to,” I admitted, swallowing a laugh. This was ridiculous. How had I gone twenty-odd years without ever noticing a single football advertisement, and then all of a sudden they were everywhere? It was like the real life equivalent of Plato’s Cave—the moment you learn about it, you can’t stop seeing it. “It’s like you can’t throw a rock without hitting a football player in this town.”

  Alexa’s elegant brows rose.

  I coughed slightly. “Do you follow it?”

  “Um... Yes. Sometimes.” She shook her head, as though she were clearing it. “An old friend plays.”

  The note in her voice was sligh
tly off. I tilted my head. “Professionally?”

  Her face paled. “Yes.” She spoke almost too faintly to hear. I followed her gaze to the lobby’s doors, and watched two broad shouldered men enter.

  Ah.

  The first had a stocky build, thick neck, and squarish, bluntly good-looking features. The second had less bulk, like Ryan and Mike, with eyes so wide and dark I could see them clear across the room.

  For a moment, I thought they were going to cross the lobby without anyone approaching them, even though I noticed as women crossed their legs so their skirts rose up higher, and a couple guys shouted out congratulations.

  Then two guys crossed the empty space and started in on what I could only assume was an instant replay of the game just completed. Like that, the dam was broken, and they were surrounded by well-intentioned fans. Mostly, I watched the girls, fascinated by how much they threw themselves. While some hovered in the background, nervously, others squeezed through gaps and flirted outrageously.

  Hmm. Well. I supposed if I’d had a group of good-looking, well-groomed guys competing outrageously for my attention, all the time, I might have turned out rather like Ryan had.

  The bigger guy laughed, throwing his head back, as a girl tucked a piece of paper in his belt. As he lowered his head, he stared straight across the room. Another grin, a more sincere version, flashed across his face, and he excused himself and started heading toward the little café.

  I jerked my gaze away, and focused on Alexa. “Is it just me, or is that guy headed straight for us?”

  Her cheeks pinkened. “Uh, no, it’s not just you.”

  In two more seconds he was standing before us, grinning so hard two dimples showed up on either side of his big smile. “Well, hello, Alexa. Fancy seeing you here.”

  Alexa stared at the table, and then raised her face with a pained smile. “Hi, Matt. Did you guys win?”

  “What, you weren’t watching, heart in your throat? What kinda fan are you?” He pulled up a chair, swiping his shaggy brown hair off his forehead with one huge hand, and then flashing a smile at me. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Uh—this is Rachael Hamilton. She’s helping me with my book.”

  “That’s great. You also a writer?”

  “No, I work on the publishing end.” My head pinged back and worth, fascinated by this interplay. How did Alexa know this guy? “So—you play for the Ann Arbor Bisons?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. You a fan?”

  I spread my hands apologetically. “I live in New York. I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed.”

  “Oh, come on.” He leaned toward me, body language open and inviting. “We’re way more attractive than any of the New York teams.”

  I laughed outright. “I never knew players were so vain. But I know half a dozen Leopards who would knock you over for saying that.”

  Alexa stared at me. “I thought you didn’t follow football.”

  “I don’t,” I said cheerfully. “I just hear about it an awful lot.”

  Matt’s interest visibly rose. “Who do you know?”

  “Oh—Malcolm Lindsey, Abe Krasner. Ryan Carter.” I tried not to infuse his name with any extra emotion.

  “And you didn’t watch the game either? For shame, ladies.” He shook his head. “For shame. Are you dating one of them?”

  He certainly moved quickly. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I smiled to take the edge off. “I don’t think we’ve actually been introduced.”

  “Matt Barrett.” He reached across the table and pumped my hand in a warm, strong grip that lingered a little longer than polite. “You two coming out to Turquoise tonight?”

  I raised my brows at Alexa in amusement, trying to telecommunicate who is this guy? And what was Turquoise?

  Alexa didn’t meet my gaze. She’d fixed on something across the lobby, and now she squared her shoulders and refocused on Matt. She unleashed a brilliant smile at him, the kind so blinding they ought to be regulated. “Yes.” She sounded more determined than I had heard since we stopped talking about the book. “In fact—I have a couple bottles of champagne we were going to start with before heading over. Care to join us?”

  I eyed Alexa. Where had this come from? I liked her, but did she really expect me to join her and some random football dude for drinks? I had a pseudo-date to plan.

  But she now gave me such a desperate, pleading look as I hesitated, and I couldn’t say no. “Yeah. You should join us.”

  From the other side of the table, a new voice said, “I think I will, too.”

  Alexa jerked so badly she almost upset the drinks. I swung my gaze from her to the newcomer. It was the other player, his dark hair curling slightly, his dark eyes blank. Definitely good-looking, but so solemn I thought he’d do better as a Byronic artist than a football player. He gazed at Alexa like a parched man gazing at water he knew could only be a mirage.

  Matt nodded. “Cool. We’ll come by later. What room are you in?”

  The other player smiled, closed-lip. “Don’t worry. I know the one.”

  Alexa met his gaze, and for a moment I was certain they’d forgotten the rest of the café existed. And then she ducked her head, high cheekbones flushed. “We have to go.” She grabbed her purse and clutched it tightly under her arm. “See you!”

  “Uh—nice meeting you.” I nodded to the two guys and ran after the writer.

  She didn’t stop until we were out of the hotel, and then she caught a breath, leaning against the building. Her face crumpled. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into that.”

  “That’s okay.” I burned with curiosity. “As long as you tell me what just happened.”

  “It’s—complicated.” At my expression, she made a face. “Nathan and I grew up together. He was my best friend. A long time ago.”

  “And now you want to make him jealous.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” Taking a deep breath, she let them fall to her side. “I’m a grown woman, and here I am, moaning about a guy I dumped a decade ago.”

  “It’s not pathetic,” I assured her. “It’s irritating that people get a hold on us. But it happens.”

  She sighed. “Well. Do you mind if we find a liquor store? I lied about the champagne.”

  I laughed. “I figured. And maybe we should stop somewhere for clothes? I have no idea what Turquoise is, but it sounds like the kind of place that won’t respond well to business blazers.” She smiled wryly as I thought of one more thing. “Actually—do you have a smart phone? I’m the last person on earth who doesn’t.”

  She offered hers, and I quickly looked up the game score. Damn, the Leopards lost. There went opening the conversation with congratulations.

  I cleared my throat several times and called him up on my own cell. He answered on the first ring. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I jumped right into my spiel without leaving time to breathe. “Um, so, the author I met with wants to go out tonight—she ran into some old friends, and well, I think she really needed a wing woman. Do you want to—do something—say tomorrow, instead?”

  “You got roped into playing wing woman to a woman you just met?”

  I snorted a laugh and took a step farther from Alexa. “Well, she had this sad desperate look in her eyes. It would have been cruel to leave her.”

  “Also,” he teased, “you’ll almost certainly get her business now.”

  Another laugh broke out of me. “Hey! No. You’re bad.”

  “You want me to meet up with you?”

  I sucked in a breath. “That would be great. We’re going to this place called Turquoise down in the Meatpacking district.”

  He was silent for a beat. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Am I humorously kidding or ironically kidding?”

  “How do you even know about Turquoise?”

  I glanced over at Alexa, who gnawed on her pinky nail as she flipped through her phone. “Well, that’s a funny story.”
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  “Humorous funny or ironic funny?”

  I laughed. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  * * *

  At nine o’clock, we entered Alexa’s suite. I scanned the room, impressed, as she set the champagne to chill. Her room included not only a bed and armchair, but a tiny sitting area with two loveseats facing each other over a coffee-table.

  We’d stopped by Eva’s theater to pick up clothes, since I’d known she always had more than enough dresses in her locker and the schlep back to Brooklyn was too much. I’d thrown on a red slip dress over tights and belted it, while Alexa had slinked her way into one of Eva’s tiny silver dresses. On Eva, it flattered, but on six-foot Alexa, it could have been a runway outfit.

  Turquoise, we’d found out, catered to the other half, and particularly to sports teams.

  We grabbed Chinese take-out and cracked out more website ideas while we waited for the guys to show up. When they did, we poured plastic cups full of champagne and followed Matt’s toasts to the Bisons, and one or two by Nate aimed at getting to Alexa. They worked. Setting her jaw, she emptied out one of the champagne bottles into her glass.

  At first, all four of us sat on the couch together and talked, but eventually Alexa got up to open another bottle, and Nate followed her. Matt, sitting next to me on the couch, gave me a heavy-lidded gaze and moved a little closer. “So, Rachael. Tell me about yourself.”

  I glanced over at Alexa, who was engaged in an intense, low-voice conversation with Nate. “Well...I live in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn with a struggling actress for a roommate, and I struggle to pay rent.” I shrugged. “Just like every other twenty-something in the city.”

  He laughed. It wasn’t a “you’re-genuinely-funny” laugh, but a flirtatious one, like he would have laughed no matter what I’d said. It irritated me, but I decided enduring Matt’s come-ons was worth it to let Alexa get whatever closure she needed. “Are you from New York?’

  I burbled out my backstory, and Matt kept my champagne glass full. Ha. I was on to him.

  “So.” He knocked my knee with his. “How can I convince you to be a Bisons fan?”