Hookup

by Anne Marsh

  When the song ends, however, he stops. I pout, not ready to stop, but his hand on my lower back steers me toward the edge of the dance floor. Eventually we push through the crowd and lock in on the VIP section. Of course he’ll have a table there. I’m sure throwing money around must be a membership requirement of the Billionaire Bachelors club.

  People watch us. It isn’t just that I enjoy dancing for an audience—which I do—or like cuddling up against Max—which is a hell yes despite his rather prickly personality. It’s the way he makes me feel as if all of his attention is focused on me and that he’s okay with my taking the lead if that’s what I want. I feel safe with him, especially in a club crowded with drunken assholes, because he’ll step in if and when I want, but otherwise it’s my dance.

  He doesn’t so much as pause when he reaches the stupid velvet rope the club uses to separate us masses from the wealthy special snowflakes and sure enough, bouncer dude unclips it with a respectful nod. Max sails straight through, headed for prime real estate loaded with unopened bottles of champagne and one of those dark-chocolate-colored whiskeys that scream money.

  I’m not a big drinker, so I pass when Max waves at the bottles. You have to pay for bottle service to sit in the VIP section, but clearly he doesn’t feel the need to actually consume the alcohol.

  “Phone,” he demands.

  What?

  “Didn’t you just go to a whole lot of trouble to return it?” I plant my backside on the already crowded tabletop because my feet are too antsy for full-blown sitting and this way I can swing them back and forth. “That seems like wasted effort.”

  “Phone,” he repeats, leaning in. God, he smells good. “Please.”

  I imagine his face if I asked him why he smelled like cedar and spice and everything nice. Does he smell like this every morning or only when he makes an effort?

  Back off, Maple.

  Don’t scare the nice man.

  This could be why Madd left you.

  Did I sniff Madd? Did I come on too strong, too fast, too much? Funny how I can’t remember now. I give up and I pull my phone out of my bag slung across my front. The bag’s awesome, all silver, beads and tassels. Lola swears I’m either a reincarnated Vegas showgirl or a disco ball wannabe. Whatever.

  Max plucks the phone from my hand, taps in my passcode and frowns. “You didn’t change it.”

  “What?”

  “You should have immediately changed your passcode when I returned your phone.” He shakes his head. “You can’t trust random strangers.”

  “Are we strangers? You’ve seen my vulva.”

  The grin he gives me is crooked. “True, but if that’s your criteria, then you should trust most of San Francisco.”

  “I probably could have Sharpied my passcode on my stomach and they wouldn’t have noticed. Or maybe on my boobs.” I cup them in their sparkly dress-nest and consider the available real estate. “I could fit a four-digit ATM passcode on my left tit, but the phone’s eight-digit number is gonna get cramped. What do you think?”

  He gets the cutest little crinkle between his eyes when he’s confused. “What?”

  “Are my boobs big enough to hold eight numbers?”

  The idea of knocking Max off balance makes me oddly giddy. He’s so logical. I stare at him expectantly, while the crinkle grows to Grand Canyon proportions as he stares at my chest.

  He’s actually considering it.

  Or he’s really, really checking out my rack.

  Finally, he says, “How big are the numbers?”

  “Max!”

  He grins, and oh my God, I’m in trouble because it’s a total panty-melting grin that sparks joy in my southern regions. It starts in his eyes, crinkling up the corners deliciously, and then spreads to his mouth.

  “Gotcha.” He returns his attention to my phone. “I’m putting my number into your contacts.”

  “Why?” Max doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who randomly texts pictures of his cat but I’ve been tricked before. “Do you have pets? Because no more than three cute kitten or puppy photos or I’ll initiate the autodestruct sequence. Also, no bathroom selfies. Or gourmet food pictures unless you’re standing on my doorstep about to share.”

  “You have a lot of rules.” My phone explodes into song in his hand, pealing out a rousing bar or six of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.”

  Madd’s calling.

  Max hands me the phone and I decline the call because I’m not stupid. He’s a stupid, bad-news cheater but he was my mistake and it’s hard to let go of the potential I saw in him. Madd gave great fantasy.

  Madd is also persistent. When I don’t answer, he texts a picture instead. In the photo he’s cuddling a brown-and-white puppy in a big white tumbled bed. I bought him that duvet cover and now it dips artistically, teasingly, beneath the sharp, sexy line of his hipbones. I think he’s naked. I can almost imagine that’s the thick line of his penis beneath the sheet that’s slipped beneath his lean belly.

  Dreaming of u and our fur family.

  I swear my heart stops for a second because this is the way I’ve imagined him for months and, now that he’s walked out on us, he wants to be my dream man?

  Max growls something so profane that I revise my opinion of his creativity upward.

  “I thought he was a dick but puppies are a new level of clickbait,” he says.

  I cock my head, trying to figure out the man in front of me. “Wow. You truly don’t have a filter, do you?”

  He shrugs, his give-a-fuck either as broken or nonexistent as that filter. “I don’t lie, if that’s what you mean.”

  Madd did. Does? I look down at almost-naked Madd again. Is that Madd’s puppy? Ours? A prop for his insta-life? Responses to Madd’s text tumble through my head.

  It’s too late.

  Why are you doing this to me?

  Why don’t I care more?

  “Not-lying is good.” My fingers skim over the phone screen, but I’m not going to answer Madd. Not tonight, not ever. “I realize you’re just being honest with me, but I don’t think I’m ready to discuss my ex-boyfriend with you.”

  He tucks my phone back into my bag. For just a moment, I feel the weight of his palm brush against my stomach and I fight the urge to lean in. “If you need me, text me.”

  “Why?”

  He lifts me down off the table while he thinks about it. I’m used to being lifted and moved about, although usually I’ve agreed beforehand and there’s a well-established script. I wouldn’t have predicted that Max’s high-handedness is sort of sexy. Part of me wants to explore what else I might find sexy about him, but that’s just madness. Or maybe horniness. Unfortunately, the guy attached to the very large penis isn’t particularly likable even if he is eminently sex worthy.

  His hand settles on the small of my back, fingertips brushing my bare skin. Unlike the creep on the dance floor, I don’t think he even realizes he’s touching me. He’s just there and I’m here and somehow we have this bizarre connection. I should step away but instead I let him steer me in the direction he wants to go.

  We’re moving toward the exit before he answers me. “For whatever you need. Because I owe you. Because you clearly need either a fake boyfriend or your own personal bouncer until your San Francisco fans forget about your video.”

  If you had asked me earlier what I wanted, forgetting would have topped my list. That’s why I Ride of the Valkyried his ass and issued a personal takedown notice.

  I look over at him. “I lost a campaign today. I was supposed to shoot this big dancer, little dancer number with a pink-tutu-wearing mini-me, but now some other influencer will land it.”

  “They saw the video?”

  I try to be fair. “They claimed their budget was maxed out so they weren’t going to move ahead with the campaign after all, but my agent heard throug
h her network that they booked a different influencer because I was trending for some very unwholesome reasons.”

  I’d been so excited to be scouted for that campaign because I’d always loved that brand. They were my first shoes and I still have them in my box of dance souvenirs.

  There’s a handful of paparazzi waiting outside the club in the hopes that someone shot-worthy or famous will exit and they perk up when they spot Max. Questions fly: Who’s the date tonight, Max? Are you and Hannah through? How about Melissa? Alice? Are you seeing anyone?

  “No comment.” He frowns, his hand at the small of my back urging me toward the waiting car.

  Nothing to see here.

  Move along.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Max

  A MISSILE CRASH-LANDS on my chest. Instinctively, I roll, cradling my laptop. Everything’s backed up but replacing hardware is inconvenient and I’ve already done so once this week. For a brief second I’m airborne and then I fall, my shoulders hitting the floor hard as the rest of me slides off my sofa. The laptop slides to a gentle landing beside me. Fuck me, but I should invest in carpet. Maybe one of those shaggy rugs or a faux sheepskin.

  I haven’t slept in a bed since moving into my Santa Cruz place as I prefer to work until I pass out. The couch is the only piece of furniture in the big empty living space. It came with the house and has three legs; the missing fourth has been replaced by a stack of books. The Realtor described my style as postmodern. My housekeeper has declared it “easy to clean.” I crack an eye, but the only thing on eye level is a Roomba slowly gliding over the floor. The black wood shows every piece of lint and dust. It drives me nuts, hence the Roomba army. There’s a scratch in the floor by my nose that I need to get fixed.

  Sun pours in the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. I don’t own curtains. If you want to watch, watch. The sofa creaks a warning and I tense as the missile hammers my rib cage. I grab it with my free hand. Danger. Did I hook up last night after rescuing Maple and forget? Because that’s a female hand. I let go fast while my brain catches up with the rest of me and I pry my eyes open.

  Lola crouches over me.

  No.

  Scratch that.

  She’s straddling me.

  “You suck,” she bellows.

  Given her lack of an inside voice, I decide she’s talking about the way I abandoned her last night to go after Maple and not about any kind of sexual activity, but... I’m not sure. Houston, we have a problem. It’s not that she knows the passcode for my alarm system—using the first fourteen places of pi was predictable—but that we’re touching in ways a guy should never, ever touch his best friend’s girl.

  Oblivious to my dilemma, she glares down at me. “Maple deserves more than a hookup.”

  “What?” Despite my multiple PhDs, I sound less than intelligent but I require three hours of sleep to be functional and I’m now operating on less based on the angle of the sun on my floor. Rescuing Maple took the better part of the night.

  “Do not mess with my friend.” Lola punctuates her words with additional and vigorous rib poking. I turn my head to check my laptop while trying not to move because grinding my morning wood against Dev’s girlfriend—even accidentally—would be disastrous.

  “Can we discuss this over breakfast?” It’s not unusual for me to stay up all night, but this is the first time Lola’s paid me a solo call. Usually she’s attached by some body part to Dev and I’m busy trying not to perv on them.

  Lola bounces, I grunt, and she must figure out what my problem is because now it’s her turn to freeze.

  “Right,” she says, staring out the window. Pink flushes her face. “This is awkward.”

  “Generally speaking, women don’t attack me or try to ravish me,” I offer. “In fact, I can remember zero instances. So I’m assuming I’m misinterpreting this situation and you’re not trying to get me killed by Dev or offering yourself up as a substitute for Maple. Which is a very friendly overture but one I’m going to have to pass on.”

  Lola groans and pounds her head into my shoulder. I think. Honestly, I’m not sure what she’s doing, but she’ll have to do it by herself. Dev is a big motherfucker and I know exactly how hard he can hit. She climbs off me, however, which is progress.

  I stand up cautiously, considering next steps. It seems likely that everything will become clearer after I caffeinate, so I head into the kitchen. Rather like my relationships, I have a policy of getting in and getting out of my kitchen. The room channels a Siberian snowstorm, all white subway tile, white marble and big-ass stainless steel appliances. You practically need a parka or snowshoes to fight off the pristine chill. I pull the fridge door open and check the contents. I need to place a grocery order. For all my dollars, I appear to own no more than a can of Coke, a bowl of Mini Moo’s and an unidentifiable white take-out container.

  Fake milk it is.

  I get busy with the Mr. Coffee, shoving an espresso pod in and cranking on the buttons.

  “Why are we talking about Maple?” I hope I’m not smiling like a jackass.

  Maybe I am, because Lola holds up her hand. “Your app shared her naked nudie dancing with most of San Francisco.”

  She folds down a finger.

  I think she might be really mad at me.

  “She confronted you.” Another finger.

  “Instead of simply taking down her video, you made offers that included a job, stock options and sexual intercourse.”

  There’s a brief pause. I suspect Lola is waiting for me to confirm or deny, but I settle for a noncommittal shrug.

  “You sent her roses.”

  Finger, finger, finger.

  “You rode your big, sexy white horse to the rescue.”

  “Am I the knight in that analogy? Or a cowboy? Because I drove my Porsche to that club and I’m confused.”

  Lola stabs her middle finger in my direction. Point made. “Poetic license. Either way, you don’t seem to be keeping away from her and you need to rethink that decision, big guy.”

  “I didn’t realize that she was off-limits.” The coffeemaker finishes filling my lucky mug with tarry black goodness.

  “You are the hookup king.” Lola peers in the cup and shudders. “That is so gross.”

  I think she’s referring to my personal life and not the coffee, so I hand her the cup and Mini Moo’s and start drink number two. What does Maple drink when she gets up? Does she like her coffee milky and sweet? Dark and bitter? God. What if she doesn’t even drink coffee? She could be one of those weirdos who starts the day with hot water and lemon or a hit of matcha. Whatever that is.

  “Executive summary.” Lola dumps a handful of fake creamers into her cup and then lobs the empty plastic cups at me. “Don’t mess with her.”

  I redirect her missiles into the trash. “Do I look like a total dick?”

  She looks around instead of answering. “This place is almost completely empty. You should buy some furniture.”

  I look around, too.

  I have a trash can, a fridge and a sofa.

  I think she might be right. I should invest in something to fill up the space.

  “They have people for that,” Lola points out. “You could support the local economy and hire out.”

  “Dev hired a decorator, but I don’t want some random stranger waltzing into my place and making decisions that I have to live with.”

  “Wow.” Merriment dances in Lola’s eyes. “And yet you’re totally good with random hookups?”

  “Sure?” I guess it sort of is the same principle, picking out what I’ll live with based on the outside packaging. On the other hand, I’d have to pay a decorator and I’ve never paid for sex unless you count dinner and drinks. Which I haven’t because I’ve never expected a girl to sleep with me because I’ve fed her. That’s all kinds of wrong. You don’t drop a bag of canned
goods off at the local food shelf and expect the recipient to put out.

  “There’s nothing wrong with hookups.” Lola takes a sip of her coffee and makes a face. “Although your taste in coffee is bad. Sometimes you don’t want forever.” From the way her mouth curls, though, she’s thinking about Dev again. I’m pretty sure both of their hookup days are behind them.

  “But you don’t think I should hook up with Maple.”

  “Not really, no. She’s no good with short-term rentals.”

  “So I’m not allowed to take her out and then get down on my knees, run my hand up her—”

  Lola grabs my laptop. “Shop. Buy a room.”

  I think I understand why Dev likes her so much. She’s fun. Since she’s taken and we’ve already established that I don’t do long-term anyhow, I do as she suggests and go online. I choose one of those mattresses-in-a-box for my bedroom, but after that I’m stumped. Houston, we have a problem. There are 11,298 furniture options and more filters on the website than the user interface for the space shuttle. I try a few sample searches before giving up and attacking the problem from a different angle.

  “What would Maple like?”

  Lola makes a face. “Maple is a hoarder.”

  “More words.” I try to decide if I know what size my mattress is but I draw a blank. It’s big.

  “Maple loves keepsakes. Or she’s a collector. Possibly a shopaholic.” Lola leans over and taps a few filters. My possible choices narrow to 1,456. I suppose I could just order them all and then donate the ones I don’t like, but then I spot the dreaded words: assembly required.

  “She has lots of stuff?” I’m not exactly sure what Lola’s getting at, but now I sort of want to see Maple’s place. I’m also certain she’d hate mine because the only word to describe it is empty.