That Wild Player, page 2
Michelle
They can’t see your underwear. No one knows you have yet another wedgie.
Then why am I getting this hair-prickling sensation at the back of my neck…again? Another of my coworkers just laughed as he walked past. Why would he do that if he can’t see or know?
Because you’re self-conscious and weird!
I’m not—
Okay, stop. Why am I talking to myself? That’s weird.
I’m probably just nervous about the date. I’ve been debating whether to cancel all day long, but decided to go through with it. Jan and Sammi are going to be out and about with their men tonight. I don’t want to be home alone, eating ice cream out of a tub and feeling pathetic, even though none of the dates I’ve had in the month since Nathan’s craptastic email has resulted in anything but hours I’ll never get back.
But…I have high hopes for this evening. Jerry seems like a genuinely nice guy. A systems engineer working for some government contractor. His online dating profile shows a pleasant face with sandy-brown hair and friendly, pale blue eyes. His family lives in Centreville, Virginia, and he loves comedies. In fact, he moonlights as a standup comic in D.C. on weekends.
Sounds full of potential, right? I want someone who isn’t just great in bed, but also has good sense of humor.
Alas, it isn’t meant to be. I should’ve known the day was doomed when I couldn’t find my power underwear this morning. I haven’t had a chance to do laundry, so the only clean ones I could dig up were a kryptonite-colored pair that have an unfortunate tendency to ride up. A true omen; the day’s been a mess from the moment I stepped into my office. I should have canceled all nonessential activities instead of showing up for the date. Then I would’ve been spared sixty-seven minutes of…
“A man with diarrhea chancing a fart!” Jerry says, slapping his thigh and laughing uproariously over his seventh bodily function joke.
I inhale deeply, unable to find any hilarity in diarrhea or farting. I thought guys grew out of scatological humor around the time they hit puberty, but I guess not. A piece of seaweed—also kryptonite green—is stuck between Jerry’s teeth and not helping the situation. Tuna nigiri and miso soup are left untouched on my side of the table, while he’s gulping his down like a starving albatross.
Okay. No more online dating and hoping for the best…because so far, the “best” has been sort of pathetic, like a limp dick pic I got a couple of weeks ago from a guy who swore his size made up for the flaccid condition of his rather ugly man-stick.
Jerry keeps making more excrement jokes, and the piece of seaweed keeps flapping. How can he not feel that? Argh! The dating site where I found him swore it could pair me with a perfect man because it uses a special algorithm to determine optimal compatibility. Which one of my answers to its long, involved questionnaire led the stupid system to believe I wanted a fecal comedy fetishist with kelp stuck in his teeth?
Probably rating “good sense of humor” as one of top five qualities you’re looking for.
Yes, but only because I couldn’t check “Other” and write in, “Must be able to give me an orgasm.” Besides, Sammi said something about that kind of being a given.
I stare at my inert and silent purse. I should’ve asked Sammi to install Bailey on my phone—a mobile app she and Jan developed to avoid boring and uncomfortable dates. It calls you at a certain designated time, its faux-female voice alerting you to some horrible tragedy in your family, so you have no choice but to bail. It isn’t available from stores, so you have to jailbreak your phone to put it in. I’d rather void the warranty on my brand-new iPhone than see that soggy green banner fluttering in Jerry’s mouth for another second.
I glance at my watch, then at our waitress. Shouldn’t she be interrupting us about now, asking if we want to have dessert and if not, letting us know that we need to get the hell out? But no, she merely smiles, like she’s having a great time watching me suffer. Probably moonlights as a dominatrix.
Resting my elbow at the edge of the table, I put a hand over my eyebrows to block the view of my date, then breathe in and out slowly, meditating. According to several self-help books, I can manifest anything I desire through meditation.
First, someone to rescue me from this date from hell. Second, my destiny. In that order.
I visualize the “golden haze of abundance” like one of those books instructed and pretend I’m inhaling the abundance. One… Two… Thr—
“You fucking bitch!”
Hey, it worked! A distraction! Maybe the guy’s going to be angry and start a sushi bar fight, wielding a broken saké bottle, thereby giving me a graceful excuse to leave the restaurant.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Hmm. The voice is coming from someplace awfully close. I frown, but keep my face covered, continuing to meditate. If I keep it up, I might even be able to manifest my destiny. Hopefully in the form of a spectacularly handsome man who can give me an orgasm and all the amazing, wonderful things I want in my future.
Suddenly a rough hand wraps around my wrist and yanks my hand from my face. I almost tip over, but catch myself. “What the hell?” I cry out, looking up.
It’s Mr. Scene. He wasn’t yelling at some random person. He’s been yelling at me. Jerry is staring with his mouth open, but keeps his ass firmly in his seat. Maybe he thinks his scummy seaweed smile will repel the guy.
Mr. Scene has a longish head, and the outer corners of his gray eyes droop a bit. It would make him look like Eeyore, except the eyes are firing volcanic rage in my direction. His flushed face is vaguely familiar, but I can’t figure out who he is or what’s gotten into him. Probably confused from too much sake.
“Do I know you?” I demand. “And let go before I call the police.”
His hand still tight around my wrist, the man turns redder and breathes hard through flaring nostrils, like a pissed-off bull before a matador…except he looks like a demented donkey.
I don’t have time for this. “Let go—”
“You ruined my marriage! My wife left me because of you!”
Ooooh… Light finally dawns. He’s one of the johns I nabbed. “Actually, your wife left you because you cheated on her.”
“You tricked me!”
I roll my eyes. People are so predictable when they get caught. It’s always somebody else’s fault—like the honeypot or the spouse who hired her. Guess it’s never occurred to this lobotomized jackass that if he hadn’t taken me to his hotel room, his wife wouldn’t have left—and probably cleaned him out in divorce court.
Jerry is still staring, and I know better than to expect him to sully his hands to defend me. Only his humor is dirty. Definitely not potential Mr. Michelle Malone material.
Donkey-Face is a seriously crappy manifestation of the distraction I asked for, but whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers. I tug my wrist, but he holds on. He better have a damn good lawyer, because I know a few.
But as I reach into my purse for my phone, he lets go with a small scream.
His other arm’s bent in an odd angle behind him. My gaze travels up and up to… Wow.
Dark hair in a thousand-dollar haircut, perfectly sculpted facial bones and biceps that bulge just so as my rescuer twists the arm of the abusive Donkey-Face. My rescuer looks like a long-lost twin of Henry Cavill, except with bright moss-green eyes. And he’s an excellent dresser in a button-down pale blue shirt and black slacks, both of which fit his broad, muscled body perfectly. The rolled-up sleeves reveal strong forearms and large, lean hands. Good forearms and hands are my weakness. They’re totally hot, especially when the guy’s lean enough that I can see every tendon and muscle flex.
My cheeks warm, and I want to squirm—and not because of the damned wedgie.
Is this the manifestation of my second desire?
If so, I’ll definitely take it.
“You don’t touch a lady like that,” Mr. Superman Lookalike says. His baritone penetrates all the way down to the bone.
Oh my. He isn’t even breathing hard, like holding a grown man hostage is no exertion at all.
“She asked for it!” Donkey-Face squeals, ruining the moment. Maybe I should meditate for a ball gag.
“What I heard is her telling you to let go.” Mr. Green Eyes looks in my direction. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I shoot him a quick smile. “Thanks.”
“Want to call the police?”
I rub my wrist, eyeing Donkey-Face, my worthless date…and the crappy waitress. Calling the cops would mean having to spend more time with these offensive people. It’s about time Green Eyes and I make a quick getaway. “No. I’m all right.”
Then, to make sure he understands what needs to happen next, I give him my most winsome smile, the one that never fails to mesmerize men.
Except my rescuer blinks once and frowns.
Huh? That’s not the reaction of a charmed man.
“Want some dessert?” Jerry says. “This place has the best green tea ice cream.” Like everything’s cool now.
My back stiffens until it’s ramrod straight. I slowly turn toward him. “Are you kidding me?”
“Hey, no problem. If you’re trying to diet…” He eyes my untouched sushi.
My jaw drops. Is this guy serious? I arch an eyebrow in the superior way I’ve practiced in front of mirrors for years. “For your information, I am not on a diet. I don’t need to diet. And even if I wanted green tea ice cream, I certainly wouldn’t have it with you, not if it means having to look at that giant piece of seaweed flapping between your teeth. Or,” I add for good measure, “enduring any more fart jokes.”
Green Eyes snorts back a laugh, while Jerry’s face turns redder than the maguro on my plate.
“Well excuuuuuse me!” he says. “Like you’re any better with that lipstick smeared on your teeth!”
Oh, please. I roll my eyes. I’m the one my friends turn to for makeup help, and I know how to move my lips so I don’t smear lipstick anywhere. God, men are so predictable when their egos are hurt.
I grab my purse. Enough of my life has been wasted on this loser.
I turn to Green Eyes, wanting to play it cool…but it’s damn hard because my gaze is sweeping him up and down shamelessly. “Thanks for your help. I think you can let him go now.”
“Okay.” He does as I say, and Donkey-Face scuttles away like a roach running from bug spray. “Can I walk you to your car?”
“Sure.” I try my Michelle Smile™ again. Maybe he just didn’t notice it or something the first time around.
He looks down at my mouth and frowns. Again.
I pause. What’s going on? My lips are my best feature—full and bee-stung. With a bright red tint, they’re absolutely killer.
Wait a minute… Do I really have lipstick on my teeth?
Before I can gather myself, he’s already leading me outside, his hand at my back. The touch is old-world gentleman with a smidgeon of protectiveness and possessiveness—just my type.
But now I can’t focus on anything but the fact that I might have something on my teeth as well, and that’s why Green Eyes isn’t reacting correctly to my smile. And the wedgie underneath my bright magenta pencil skirt? A few grains of sand seem to have magically found their way up my ass. And they chafe.
Seriously. Today’s the kind of day I need power underwear.
Give up, girlfriend. You’re doomed. First impressions and all that.
Yeah. I get it. I should consider the evening a win—at least Jerry isn’t going to try to end our date with a kelp-kiss.
I stop in front of my blue Accord. “Thank you,” I say, this time careful to keep my teeth hidden. I doubt Green Eyes can see much in the dark, but you can never be too careful.
“Glad to help.” He gestures in the direction of the restaurant. “You sure you’re okay with that guy running loose?”
“He’s not the stalker type. It was a crime of opportunity,” I say, using a term I often heard my dad use in his job. He’s a PI, but I don’t moonlight for him. That’d be creepy.
“Okay. Well…” Green Eyes smiles.
And wow. The gears in my brain slip for a second. It’s like his whole being’s glowing. And a cute little dimple at the left corner of his mouth is begging to be kissed…or at least caressed.
And all this time, I thought Jan was being silly when she rhapsodized about Matt’s dimple. But if they can be this mesmerizing, sign me up for the Dimple Admiration Society.
“I should get going,” I say, clearing my throat. Normally, this is when guys ask for my number, but based on the how my day has gone… I shift my weight a little, hoping to regain a modicum of equilibrium.
He tilts his head, his mouth pursing as though he wants to say something, but in the end, he nods. “Okay, then. Take care.”
Disappointment ripples through me. I knew it. This just isn’t my day.
I climb into my car, watching the guy who could’ve been The One walk away. When he disappears behind an SUV, I immediately turn on the interior light, then slump low—just in case—and check my teeth with my compact mirror.
Oh my God! The Toilet Joker was right! There’s a smudge of red on my front teeth. Ack! How can this be?
I’ve never had this happen. Ever. I checked my appearance thoroughly before leaving work, including my teeth.
Freakin’ cursed.
I rub the stain until my teeth squeak. Then, after turning off the light and putting my compact away, I lower the window, letting cool evening air into the suddenly stuffy interior of the car. I glare at my underwear through my skirt. It’s all your fault!
The wedgie, low-grade irritating all evening long, suddenly seems unbearable. Screw this. I’m not wearing them anymore. They’re trying to kill me, because who the hell can be super with a wedgie? It’s like you’re being attacked by your own damn underwear, a garment so stupid it thinks it can kill you through butt strangulation.
Well I’m going commando.
I push my skirt up—it’s too tight for me to pull off my panties otherwise—and finally hook my thumb around the elastic and yank down hard. I hear something rip—hopefully the damned underwear—and kick them down toward the floor of the car. One of the holes gets stuck around my stilettos like a flopping magnet of misfortune.
“Get…the hell…off!” I mutter, then finally yank the damned panties free and fling them out the window like a dead rat.
At the same time I think, Good riddance, I also hear, “Hey!”
I swivel my head, and there’s Green Eyes…pulling my underwear off his nose. He blinks a few times, then does his very best to keep his eyes on my face, although his gaze drops lightning fast, then jumps back up.
Unconsciously, I look down and see my skirt gathered around my hips. If you stare really hard, you can probably see the outermost bits of my lady parts.
Holy shit. My face flames so hard and so fast, I feel like my skin’s melting off.
Why is he back? Good manners dictated that he go home, feeling proud and heroic, not make a U-turn back to my car.
Maybe he has a flat tire. Or maybe his car needs a jump start.
But first things first. Since there’s no graceful way I can tug my skirt down, I put my purse on my lap and paste on an extra-cheery smile to cover my humiliation. “Can I have my, uh”—I gesture at my underwear still clutched in his hand—“garment back?”
A small grin curves his lips. “Finders keepers.”
There’s no way I’m letting him keep my underwear. I didn’t even mean to toss them out the window like that either. I give him a hard stare, then… Wait. Is that a red mark on his nose? How hard did I fling those damn panties? Actually, it doesn’t matter. I could’ve dropped them gently, and they still would’ve hurt somebody because they’re just that kind of pair.
So freakin’ cursed.
I stiffen my back and inhale deeply, trying to brazen my way through the humiliating moment. “I’m sorry about that, but really, I didn’t mean for you to find them.”
“Interesting. What did you mean to have happen?”
Nothing! “They slipped from my hand. If you hadn’t caught them, I would’ve gotten out and picked them up.”
He raises both eyebrows. “Do you often fling underwear from parked vehicles? Interesting hobby…”
“No!” Why am I answering his questions? It’s time I took charge of this conversation. “Flat tire or dead battery?”
“What?”
“Why are you back? Do you need something?”
His lips press together for a moment. “I’m CJ. I never got your name.”
Fuck my life. Couldn’t he have done this before I got into my car? “I’ll trade you for my underwear.”
He grins. “Nope. These are worth more than a name.”
My jaw drops open a little. The man’s ludicrous. I’m ludicrous for even talking with a guy who’s clutching my panties to his chest in a sushi restaurant parking lot. It isn’t like I’m ever going to see him again. “Fine, then. Keep ’em. They’re cursed anyway.”
Then I start the car and peel out.
Chapter Three
Michelle
The lights are on in the living room and kitchen when I pull up to the house. I swear I had them all turned off before leaving, but maybe not. I was in a hurry this morning. Again, bad juju. I’m never rushed for time in the morning, but the damned underwear crisis threw me off.
I park in the driveway, then walk up to the door and bang my head against it. The pain in my forehead is nothing compared to the pain in my heart at realizing that I not only wasted precious time—which I could’ve spent on more productive tasks like doing laundry or sleeping—but humiliated myself in ways I’ve never humiliated myself before.
The door swings open, and I almost head-butt Jan.
“Whoa. You okay?” she asks.
Smoothing my features, I inhale. “I thought you were going to Matt’s,” I say in a rather calm voice. It’s important to appear in control even if you’re not—especially if you’re not.
“Hi!” Matt waves from the couch. His black hair is slightly disheveled—I can guess how—and his blue eyes are bright with cheeriness.
