by Sara Ney
Bachelor Duet
The Bachelor Club
Sara Ney
Copyright © 2021 by Sara Ney
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Bachelor Society
1. Brooks
2. Brooks
3. Abbott
4. Brooks
5. Abbott
6. Abbott
7. Brooks
8. Abbott
9. Brooks
10. Brooks
11. Abbott
12. Desdemona
13. Abbott
14. Brooks
15. Abbott
16. Brooks
17. Abbott
18. Desdemona
19. Brooks
20. Abbott
21. Abbott
22. Brooks
23. Brooks
24. Abbott
25. Brooks
26. Abbott
Epilogue
Bachelor Boss
1. Phillip
2. Phillip
3. Spencer
4. Phillip
5. Spencer
6. Spencer
7. Phillip
8. Spencer
9. Phillip
10. Spencer
11. Spencer
12. Spencer
13. Phillip
14. Humphrey
15. Spencer
16. Phillip
17. Spencer
18. Phillip
19. Spencer
20. Phillip
21. Spencer
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sara Ney
Bachelor Society
1
Brooks
“Eeny, meeny, miney, mo…”
I knock one of the tiny model cardboard houses off the development community layout I’ve been working on. Flick it with my forefinger until it flies off the board and onto the floor, landing in a corner with the rest of them.
“Catch a tiger.” Flick goes another one. “By.” Flick. “The.” Flick. “Toe.”
Flick, flick.
Five more fly off the flat board. It’s large, square, an exact replica of a subdivision the architectural firm I work for is developing. Or…proposing. Or…was going to?
I’m not on the project anymore, thank God. I’ve been promoted—fucking promoted!—and moved to the project I’ve been salivating over since I started here. Literal drool comes out the side of my mouth when I talk about it.
I’ve only been at this company for one year; I rose up the ladder quicker than I’d planned, not because of nepotism or favoritism or sleeping my way to the top, but because I’m a great fucking architect.
I’m not just good at my job.
I’m great at it.
I love it.
Dream about it.
Architecture isn’t only what I do for a living. It’s my passion.
I’m not sad to see this development project leave my hands and my office. Now, if the intern, Taylor, would get his ass in here to remove this goddamn model, that would be swell. It’s cluttering up all the space—I may have been promoted, but my office is still small as fuck.
Leaning forward, I hit the button on my phone’s intercom and buzz the front desk. “Hey Taylor, can you come to my office to grab this community model?”
He clicks his tongue. “Will do.”
“Thanks.”
I swivel in my desk chair, plucking a sheet of loose paper from the printer. Fold a piece in half once, twice. Fold down each corner into a triangle, smoothing it down with my nail.
The paper airplane I’ve folded is a crisp, dynamic flying machine. I press it between my thumb and forefinger. Squeeze my left eye shut like I’m a four-year-old, aiming for a spot on the window in my corner office. The spot where I have the small, orange and white basketball hoop suction-cupped. My mom gave it to me as a gift, hoping it would distract me from work during the day, saying I’m too keyed up, but I don’t know what good she thought a toy fucking basketball hoop was going to do for my stress level.
Whatever.
She shouldn’t be spending money she doesn’t have on junk.
Still. I plastered it on my office window anyway—as she intended—when I should have thrown the dumb thing in the garbage.
Waste not, want not…
I squint again, aiming the airplane toward the target, pull it back before launching, and let it fly in a smooth arc.
Instead of hitting the backboard of the hoop, it ricochets off the glass, bounces, and falls to the ground amongst the tiny white houses.
I leave it, a heap in the graveyard of my shitty ideas.
Fuck.
I need inspiration for this new project I’ve been assigned to before my promotion turns into a demotion. Need to prove to my bosses that they didn’t make a mistake when they trusted me with this assignment. It’s a lot of pressure.
I need a fucking drink.
I need to take a piss.
Standing, I grab my cell before exiting my office to hit the restroom at the end of the hall, pushing through the door and unsnapping my jeans. There’s one urinal and one toilet, and the latter is occupied—dammit. The toilet has a stall and is the perfect place to text, unlike my office, which is a veritable fishbowl of repression with its massive glass walls.
After I pee, re-zip my pants, and wash my hands, I pull out my cell, slanting against the cool tile wall for support. Tap out a message to my idiot best friends as I walk back to my office: What time can you meet at The Basement?
Phillip: Yeah
Yeah? What kind of answer is that? I’m looking for a time the bastard can meet for drinks tonight, not whether he can commit or not.
Me: What time, dude?
Blaine isn’t responding, but if Phillip and I are going for drinks, he’s going to have the fear of missing out. No way will he not show.
Phillip: Six.
Fine, six o’clock it is. I’ll be fucking starving by then, but The Basement is the closest pub to my apartment, located in the middle of my neighborhood. It’s convenient, old, filled with tons of character, and in the basement of an ancient building that used to be a national bank, which is pretty fucking cool.
The Basement has appetizers and I can eat more when I get home if I’m still desperate, but actual food would be great. Either I eat or I get drunk on two.
I might have been a member of a fraternity in college, but I’m still a lightweight. Cannot handle my liquor. Have always been that way, always will be.
I return to my office, and just as I’m about to construct another paper airplane, a jaunty little knock sounds at the door; Taylor is rapping his knuckles on the glass wall, eyes trailing to the pile of houses and planes littering my carpet.
“Stressed?” He pushes a pair of black frames up the bridge of his nose.
“Very.” Why lie to the kid? If he wants to be an architect once he graduates, he oughta know it’s not always ribbon cutting ceremonies, fundraisers, networking, and champagne lunches.
It takes actual work.
It takes engineering, long hours, lack of a social life, and countless sleepless nights to meet deadlines.
Taylor? He still has years of hopes and happy hours and bullshit dreams ahead of him.
“I don’t mean to sound bitter, I’m just having a day.”
The smile he gives me is sympathetic. “We all have them.”
He considers my question. “I have shitty days when, like, Starbucks gets my order wrong.”
“Get the fuck out of here. That’s not an actual problem.” I laugh, bending to help him retrieve all the pieces of paper discarded on the ground.
“Where should I take this model?”
I blow a strand of dark, hair out of my eyes, mentally noting the need for a haircut, or a trim at the very least. “Conference room B, maybe? I don’t think anyone is using it. Then Daniels can decide what he wants to do with this.” I hand Taylor a stack of teeny houses with three-car garages. “This development is his brainchild, but I don’t think he has space in his office for one more model mockup.”
“Got it, boss.”
I snort. “I’m not your boss.” Not even close.
“But you could be, someday,” Taylor points out, bending down to grab a paper airplane and extending as if he’s going to send it sailing across the room.
I pause. He’s right; I could become his boss someday if I keep working my ass off. They make associates partners around here. Technically, if I stay and work hard, there’s a chance I could become one, too.
“How old are you?” Taylor asks hesitantly, scooping up a paper house.
I glance at the model of the community resting on a drafting table in the corner of my office. There must have been two hundred little houses on that giant platform, half of which are now scattered on my floor.
“Twenty-six.”
“See? And you’re already on a major project. It only took you a year.”
Shit, is he keeping track of my career? That’s…weird.
I eye Taylor suspiciously. “Are you stalking me?”
He laughs, blushing. “No!” Adjusts the bowtie around his neck. “But I’m following your career because I’m trying to learn how to become successful.”
Holy shit. Wow.
I clear my throat, choking up a bit. “I’m just a guy from a crappy neighborhood, Taylor. I paid my way through college, busted my ass, took a lot of drugs to stay awake late so I could study—sometimes it’s worth it, sometimes it’s not.”
I doubt I should be giving this kid advice. He probably came from the suburbs—not unlike the communities this architecture firm designs and develops, with two married parents, a picket fence, and a dog.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he finally says. “But you’re wrong.”
My brows go up. “Oh yeah? What am I thinking?”
“That I had it easy and was popular, got good grades and all the ladies.”
Um—that’s not what I was thinking. Close enough, though.
“Fine—my parents paid for everything and my dad got me this job, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be an architect, or that I can’t be a good one. I just want someone to mentor me, someone I can relate to.”
“Aren’t you gay?”
“I mean at work. I don’t want to follow you around afterward. I have a feeling your personal life is a shitshow—no offense.”
“None taken.” Because it is.
He nods, the thick, navy, tweed vest he has buttoned over a white dress shirt far too dressy for a Thursday, but who am I to judge? I’m wearing denim jeans for fuck’s sake.
Wrinkly ones.
“So will you? Mentor me?”
“I don’t know what the hell that even means.”
“I’ll write you a proposal.”
Jesus Christ. “Proposal as in job description?”
“Exactly.”
“Fine.”
His excitement is evident, especially when he stands. I swear to God, the dweeb has pep in his step even as he dumps all the little houses onto the board and scoops it up from the bottom, teetering.
“Don’t get your hopes up—you probably won’t learn anything from me.”
“That’s alright. We all start somewhere.”
Such optimism.
I wish I felt it too.
2
Brooks
We’re seated in a semicircle, lounging in big, comfortable chairs, straight from work and ready to triumph and brag about what cool shit we did at our jobs today, discuss our weekends, and toss back a few.
Truthfully, though? They’re not bragging; I am.
Seems I’m the only lucky bastard who’s in the mood to boast about his job. Not only have I been granted a promotion, a bit of recognition, I somehow seem to have landed one of the interns as a quasi-assistant.
Fine. Technically, Taylor isn’t my assistant, but I’m able to use him as a resource, and therefore, my friends are jealous.
Goddamn, I really am one spoiled son of a bitch.
We order a round of shots.
Then another.
Then another.
“You know what I can’t stand? Listening to you gloat about your great new job for an entire hour straight. It’s annoying,” says Phillip, one of my best friends, as he splits a roasted pecan in half.
Blaine, my other sidekick, nods. “Yeah, quit the bragging and tell us something about you that isn’t amazing for once in your damn life. No one wants to sit and listen to how happy you are.”
“Something nice and shitty to make us feel better about ourselves.”
“You know what I can’t stand?” I begin rather abruptly, already a bit drunk.
Blaine rubs his hands together with glee. “What?”
“Couples.”
Blaine chuckles, motioning for the server. “Couples of what?”
“Couples—people.” I wave my hand around in the air, pantomiming my irritation. “On the street, in restaurants. Getting freaking coffee in the morning. Hogging all the space and stealing my air.”
When both my friends laugh as if I’m hilarious, I go on.
“I’m seriously sick of watching them. Jesus, I practically smashed into three of them—six people—on my way in here, all holding hands and shit.”
“Three of them.” Blaine uses air quotes to mock me. “They’re not zombies who are part of the apocalypse.”
They might as well be.
“They’re in my way.” I pout into my half-empty glass.
My friends stop to stare at me, confused by my harsh tone. I’m not normally like this—honest.
“This is shitty? Couples annoy you? Life sucks because there are too many people in love crashing into you on the sidewalk?” Phillip wants to know, pounding the rest of his cocktail, tipping his glass to get a few ice cubes out then chewing them loudly. “Sounds to me like someone is still butthurt they were dumped a few weeks ago.”
Try six months.
And now that I’m single, I notice blissfully happy couples everywhere, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing but my amazing job.
Adding to my melancholy? The fact that now that I’m earning a decent wage, I’ve started semi-supporting my mother, sending her cash and checks when I can since she’s broke and it’s all I can do to help her out.
I go to work in the morning.
I go home to an empty apartment at night.
I see these two clowns a few times a month, and they’re the closest thing I have to an actual relationship since my girlfriend dumped me. Fuck, maybe I miss being in a relationship more than I thought.
This must be the alcohol talking. Those three shots and that cocktail have gone straight to my head and are messing with my good nature.
I can see by the looks on Blaine and Phillip’s faces that they’re not impressed with my sudden change of attitude, but I don’t give a shit. I’m feeling a certain kind of way and this is how I’m dealing with it.
“Sounds to me like someone is a wee bit jealous.” Phillip tries at light banter, affecting an Irish accent—he knows I fucking love it when he sounds like the Lucky Charms cereal leprechaun, damn him.
“Jealous? Me? Of what?”
“Couples?” Phillip hesitantly ventures to point out
, giving a sidelong glance at Blaine, the only one of us dating a woman at the moment.
“Should we be adding that to the list we made last week of things that drive you nuts? I took notes.” Blaine whips out his cell, pulling up the notes app. “Let’s see,” he reads out loud. “Puppies. Dogs peeing on the sidewalk. Dogs in the city. Women wearing sneakers with skirts on their lunch breaks.”
Phillip chimes in. “You forgot men who wear ties that are too short for their torsos.”
Blaine grunts, typing on his phone. “Ah, good one. Totes forgot about that one.” He studies the list we compiled after I began complaining about streetsweepers—I was in a foul mood then, too.
Seems to be a common theme, but then again, my personal life is crap, so that’s not such a huge surprise.
Blaine clears his throat so he can continue reading from the list. “Meal prep posts on Instagram. Bloggers who smile with their mouths open in every photograph.” He rolls his eyes after reading that one. “People who wake up before five to work out.”
Phillip grins. “Is he missing anything?”
I grunt. “Whatever, you can’t deny those things are fucking nauseating.”
“Yeah, but not enough to bitch about them.”
“All I’m saying is that shit cannot be sustainable.” I’m in a mood, and nothing they say will break it.
“Sure it can. I wake up at four forty-five to jog.” Blaine likes to constantly rub in our faces how fit he is. How well he eats at every meal. How disciplined he is about going to bed at a reasonable time. How great the chick he’s been dating is.
