Hookup

by Anne Marsh

  Jack frowns. “She’s working.”

  24/7?

  I open my mouth and close it. Don’t go there.

  Plus, Jack’s already off onto another topic.

  “Are you planning on hooking up with Maple?”

  Quickly finishing my last taco, I protest, “I’m not interested in her.”

  Jack just snorts. “Sure you aren’t. She’s a girl and you haven’t hooked up with her yet. That makes her your type.”

  I shrug. “Clearly, she’s attracted to asshole idiots and I only qualify on one count, not both.”

  Jack laughs, which was my plan.

  The thing is, Maple and I might have something pretty important in common.

  I love to watch.

  And she clearly lives to perform.

  I’m not Mr. Relationship—hello, I wrote a hookup app. Can I be any clearer? Hookups are short, expectations are agreed upon in advance, and everyone goes home with the fabulous parting gift of an orgasm. Plus, when I open my mouth I run everyone off. I’m blunt, I love numbers and I’m the nerdiest billionaire ever. Yes, I own a Jedi lightsaber and I’d have levitated out of bed and through my day if I could. I have two PhDs, I type at light speed but my handwriting is shit, and I remember everything in numbers: miles, seconds, URLs or IP addresses. The ladies not on Kinkster frown on numbers unless they’re the number of zeroes in my bank account. Maple is obviously creative (very, very creative, particularly at 1:12 in her video), so there’s no way we could ever work. Plus, she’s more than a little crazy—and (let’s be honest) I’m an engineer at heart. A dirty, filthy rich billionaire engineer, but she’s way too unpredictable for me. Code does exactly what you tell it to do, with no surprises, no messy emotions and no drama.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jack abandons my office for his and I go back to stalking Maple online. Ten minutes more and then I’ll stop. I promise. From their respective Facebook timelines, I learn that Maple and Madd had been seeing each other for eleven months. In dog years, that’s fourteen years. In human years, that means hundreds of cute couple photos. There are so many that I skip counting them because I’m burning through my minutes and I already know that Madd is a total dick.

  I’m not sure I’ve done enough, to be honest. A quick check in Kinkster’s databases reveals Maple currently has an impressive 937 hookup requests. I send her 937 lavender roses as an apology because purple is the color of royalty (I google it) and she’s a fucking queen.

  Deleting her video from our online storage takes even less time. A few keystrokes and Kinkster no longer has its very own dancing ballerina. Removing her performance from our backups requires a few additional steps and documentation, but five minutes after I start, I’ve erased all traces of her. No breakup was ever quicker or more thorough.

  Goodbye, Maple.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Maple

  #cheatnight #notsohealthy #betterthansex

  “HE SENT YOU the flowers?”

  The he is one Max O’Reilly, hot, sexy, frustrating-as-hell, impossible-to-read billionaire bachelor. Yes, there’s an entire app devoted to dating financially successful San Franciscans. Yes, I looked him up. Yes, despite his weird dating-and-job extra value combo meal proposition, he’s as commitment averse as any of the guys I’ve dated before and the only relationships he seems to have embraced have been brief connections between his penis and a handy vagina. He’s like public transit in San Francisco, rushing from stop to stop and predictably overcrowded, while I’ve always been more of a Trans-Siberian Railway girl, in it for the long haul and the memories.

  Lola stares at me, nail polish brush hovering over my bare feet in her lap as she waits for my answer. Or possibly she’s just dizzy from the overpowering scent of roses in full bloom. I’ve been walking around in a rose-scented cloud since they arrived three days ago. I hum a few bars from The Blue Danube waltz. Strauss wrote it to cheer up the Austrian nation after they got their butts kicked in the Seven Weeks’ War and went broke, so it seems like a good post-Madd-breakup theme song. Plus, it’s catchy and the ultimate earworm.

  I’m hosting our monthly girls’ night in my San Francisco studio. Despite the limited space (made even more limited by the addition of 937 roses in full bloom), I love my tiny, closet-sized living quarters. Said quarters are at the very tippy-top of a house fronting a square that’s alternately foggy, hot or just outright grimy, and inhabited by trees, pigeons and the occasional homeless guy. Everything in San Francisco is short on space and so the house is tall and gangly like a twiggy, sun-starved plant reaching for the occasional spot of sunshine when it breaks through the inevitable clouds and fog. The outside is all decorative bric-a-brac and a real-life turret with a wind vane sitting on its red-tile top. I had a choice of living in the turret or the unit next door, which has a balcony. If I’d been a billionaire, I’d have gone for both and knocked down the wall between them, but instead I chose the balcony. I do a morning barre routine there, fingers curled around the balustrade while San Francisco trundles sleepily below me as I plié.

  Lola alternates pink with white polka dots and pink stripes on white, which means my toenails are as cheerfully pretty as the rest of my feet are not. Years of dancing en pointe have changed the shape and look of my toes, and even though they’re no longer blistered and bloody from hours of daily dancing, they’ll never look the same again. Doesn’t matter. I love them. They’re a reminder that I really can do anything if I try hard enough and long enough.

  “He sent 937 roses when he returned my phone.” At least I’m almost certain they’re from Max. The handwriting on the florist’s card was really bad, to the point where if you’d told me the note was in Cyrillic, I’d have believed you. The one person I know, however, who did not send those flowers is my ex-boyfriend. Madd never sent me roses. In retrospect, I’m lucky he didn’t gift me with an STD. Part of me wants to laugh or find a way to rub my ex’s face in my flowers (starting with the thorny bits), but the rest of me is still a sad, angry llama that appreciates expensive flowers. And the quick phone repair job. I definitely wasn’t offended by that.

  “Wow.” Lola caps the polish. “That’s random.”

  “It’s very precise,” I counter. “I think he sent one rose for each hookup request I had on Kinkster.”

  Frankly, that number is obscene. Literally. I need no more dick pics in my life, so flowers and a free phone repair are a welcome change even if the only “message” was Max’s name scrawled on the florist’s card in black Sharpie, bold and impatient. The picture I snapped of my new floral accoutrements already has a thousand likes on Instagram.

  Lola just grins. “That sounds like Max actually.”

  I try to sound cool, as if hot, smart guys send me the contents of a florist’s shop all the time. “He sends flowers wantonly and indiscriminately?”

  Lola considers this for a nanosecond. “Max is not a flower guy.”

  “His mother? Dead coworkers? Nada?”

  “You’d have to ask him, but flowers are for the well mannered. Max is blunt.” She makes a face. “Wrecking-ball blunt. He tends to put people off. It’s the precision flower-sending that makes perfect sense. He wouldn’t send a dozen roses, but 937? Absolutely. That number means something to him and he loves numbers. He’s equally likely to send you 937 truffles or 937 thong panties or 937 of whatever else pops into his dirty mind.”

  “Tell me more.” The smile stretching my own face is as big and goofy as, say, a bouquet of a thousand purple roses. I only want to know more because he’s seen me naked, I tell myself. And never mind that by that standard I should be holding mass meet and greets across the foggy, fine city of San Francisco. “Is he seeing anyone?”

  Lola snorts. “Not for more than an hour at a time.”

  I don’t have relationships.

  I have hookups. For sex.

  Doesn’t he realize that relationships are
special? Any two people can hook up, but it takes effort to maintain that connection. It’s the difference between a salad of edible flowers and growing a garden from seed. It’s what makes Madd’s betrayal so much harder to stomach, because not only had I almost decided that he was my forever man, but I’d invested a considerable amount of time in us.

  “He’s a billionaire,” Lola says. “That makes it harder, if you know what I mean.”

  Now it’s my turn to snort. “Because not having any money makes everything so much easier? Pardon me if I’m not feeling sympathetic.”

  “People date him for the experience or because they want stuff from him.” She turns my foot, admiring her handiwork.

  I’m not stupid. I’d connected a few dots even before flouncing out of his office on Monday and then promptly checking him out on the Billionaire Bachelors app he created, an app that’s apparently the best way to meet the love (or lay) of your life. Think about that for a moment. He’s the CEO of a company that hooks people up for kinky sex and DIY porn. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s a money-making idea, but billionaire conjures up images of hot, cut guys (or old, fat guys) in expensive suits. But maybe that’s like assuming all dancers run around in tutus 24/7?

  “That explains how he could afford all the roses.” I can’t remember the last time I dated someone who was financially solvent enough to purchase a dozen roses, let alone almost a thousand apology flowers. Not that Max and I are dating. Or hooking up. Or even remotely interested in each other. Although I do appreciate the fact that he did what he promised to do and took my dirty dancing video down. Madd had definitely set the bar low in the promise-keeping department.

  “Do you want me to cut Madd’s balls off? Or send Dev to perform the amputation?” Lola grins, clearly enjoying her mental revenge fantasy.

  Frankly, it appeals.

  “That would be a career-limiting move,” I say finally. “I think I’m going to have to take the high road here and avoid a recreational stay in San Quentin. I’m holding out for the round-the-world tour.”

  “Madd’s a dick.” Lola waves the nail brush for emphasis. “I never liked him. Next time, you should listen to me.”

  “Duly noted. Walking away from a long-term relationship sucks. Madd and I were a couple and I invested time in us. I thought I knew him.”

  Does that sound plaintive? Yes, it does. I make a note to kick myself in the butt.

  Lola’s already shaking her head. “How many times have you gone out with a guy just for fun?”

  “We had fun,” I protest.

  “You go from zero to sixty,” Lola says. “You move him in and then it’s all future plans and serious talks because everything has to be a milestone and a step forward and special.”

  “Lola.”

  She leans her head against my shoulder. “You need to slow down, Maple. You don’t think about what’s happening right now because you’re so busy planning for a future that never arrives.”

  “The future never arrives because I pick shitty men,” I say.

  “You don’t know them, Maple. You just fantasize them into being right. I think you need to take a break.”

  “From life? From sex? Or just the entire male gender?”

  Lola sits up and slaps my shoulder. “Just have fun the next time you go out with someone. Use him for sex. Don’t go plunging into another long-term relationship five minutes after meeting someone.”

  I make a face, willing someone to knock on the door or a telemarketer to call. Now would even be a good time for the upstairs neighbor to do the galumphing walkabout she usually saves for 3 a.m. “No more relationships. Just fun. And business. I’m still trying to get offered that contract from the Live Your Best Life people.”

  I’m not ashamed to beg. Please, please, please pick me to be the face of your yearlong campaign because there is nothing I’d love more than to spend twelve months touring the world on your dime and shooting fabulous, yoga-and-dance-related content. Can you imagine what that would be like? Jet-setting from one tropical island to the next? They just fired the influencer who was the social media face of their campaign for drunken scooter driving in Thailand, so they need to find someone fast.

  My phone pings, alerting me that dinner has arrived. Saved! I lever myself off the bed and walk to the door on my heels because it would be a shame to spoil Lola’s handiwork. I haven’t had pretty toenails in years—it’s one of the downsides to being a dancer. Nightly ice baths, gauze, blisters—none of those scream “pedicure.” Even now that I’m no longer dancing professionally, my feet are still tough and I love them.

  When the intercom buzzes, I let in the delivery guy and carefully walk over to the door on my heels to retrieve our dinner.

  Lola frowns at me. No, at my feet. “How do you do that?”

  I look down automatically, but those are the same feet she was painting seconds ago, albeit slightly dustier. I need to up my housekeeping game. “Do what?”

  “Walk so gracefully,” she says. “It’s not fair.”

  “Years of practice.” I dig into the bag and pass her a set of wood chopsticks. While anybody can dance, ballet requires a commitment. In relationship terms, it’s a monogamous, twenty-five-year marriage rather than a fun hookup. And while I think I like my new life, it feels strange not to be spending sixty-plus hours a week dancing. “How are things with Dev?”

  She grins. “He’s amazing.”

  “Out of bed, too, I hope?” I arrange my food on the table and snap a picture then ten more because the lighting’s not quite right. #cheatnight #notsohealthy #betterthansex. Which, I discover when I dig into the first carton, isn’t an exaggeration at all. Mmm. Chow mein with those bright red chunks of pork.

  Lola launches into a Dev story, something about a romantic weekend up in Napa. I think there were supposed to be wineries and maybe a romantic picnic surrounded by grapevines, but Lola’s story meanders from a really cool-sounding lunch in a restaurant that even I’ve heard of to a roadside pit stop (kissing) to finding a stream surrounded by wildflowers (where far more than kissing happened).

  Her face glows when she talks about Dev. She met him by crash-landing in his lap at a networking event, and then followed the introduction up by hiring him as her new summer intern. Of course, it turned out he’d really come to her office to find out why she was illegally using his software (a completely innocent mistake on her part) and then they’d had hate-sex before agreeing to mutually use each other for orgasms. Or so Lola tells it.

  Because there’s that glow that says their relationship is far more than crazy hot sex in some pretty kinky places. They’re happy together rather than angry and I think they may be working their way toward that long-term monogamous thing sooner rather than later. Like picking-out-a-puppy-together territory or possibly even a permanent move to the Kingdom of Happily-Ever-After. I’ve heard they have engagement rings and killer ceremonies there. Lola’s Dev stories are pretty freaking amazing, but I hope he realizes just how lucky he is. Lola may not have a billion dollars, but she’s worth the world to me and I’ll kill him if he can’t see that.

  The Kinkster app on my phone pings and I can’t stop myself from giving the screen a quick glance. “Max owes me a rose—I have another hookup request.”

  And eww. This guy also sent a picture and my eyeballs are burning. There are things you can’t unsee, no matter how small the phone screen.

  Lola grabs a carton of kung pao shrimp and digs in. “I thought you deleted that app.”

  I shrug. “Just keeping track of my fans.”

  At first, I kept the app on my phone to make sure Madd hadn’t uploaded anything else. Then, I kept it just because. Just because I’m curious. Just because the kink other people get up to is amazing. Just because it reminds me of Max and then I can’t focus, imagining the way his mouth curled into a grin and his legs brushed mine. Maybe just b
ecause part of me wonders if he really deleted all the copies of that video—or if he’s still watching me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Max

  SATURDAY IS THE crown jewel in a week that went rapidly downhill after I met Maple on Monday. It takes twenty minutes to find a place where I can pull off the Santa Cruz highway because the sandy stretch fronting the Pacific Ocean is busier than an In-N-Out drive-through after a pot festival. And then, when I finally battle my way to the surf break, rookies clog the water, battling for a shot at the waves. Secrets have a way of getting out. The whole time I’m out on the ocean, my brain keeps rewinding my encounter with Maple. Did she really believe her boyfriend would keep her video secret? Does she think about my watching her video? Does she imagine, even for a second, what I look like fisting my dick as I watch? Watched. After an epic wipeout on what should have been a good wave, I abandon my surfing attempt and head in. The sun is setting and tomorrow is another day. Just call me Scarlett.

  My board bumps against the backs of my knees and I adjust my grip, towing it to shore and up onto the sand. Splashing behind me indicates Jack and Dev are following my lead.

  I lob the usual no-brainer over my shoulder. “Tequila and tacos?”

  Jack, Dev and I always hit up T&T after our Saturday surf. Not only is it just down the road from our favorite beach, but the bartender makes all sorts of weird margaritas and there’s a taco al pastor that’s the best this side of Cabo. This time, however, no one rushes to agree or joke about whose turn it is to pick up the bar tab. Instead, the silence stretches out between us. I turn until I can see their faces. Nope. I’m still clueless.

  Jack finally shrugs. “Sure.”

  He doesn’t sound sure.

  A frown puckers his forehead. When did he get so distant?

  Dev’s not even looking at me because he’s head down in his phone. “Lola’s in.”

  This is supposed to be our time together, but things have changed since Dev met Lola and our Saturday nights have changed.