Bad Boy Boxset

by JD Hawkins

“Fuck you,” I smile, punching him softly in the arm.

  Owen laughs as he checks his watch and then stands up from his seat.

  “Look,” he says, “since I seem to have undone all the ‘good friend’ stuff I attempted to do for you yesterday, why don’t you let me try again. Drinks after work? I’ll listen to you vent about anything and everything Carl- or career- or kitten-related, and promise you no cameras—unless you count selfies. We haven’t been out in a while so we’re overdue anyway.”

  I pretend to think about it. “You’re paying?”

  “If you’re drinking.”

  I grin. “Ok, fine.”

  “Great. Anyway, I have to run for my meeting with Melissa.” He makes a faux-terrified ‘kid who just got sent to the principal’s office’ face.

  “Melissa?” I say, raising an interested eyebrow. “Is someone in trouble?”

  “Oh yeah.” Owen nods with heavy seriousness. “I’m pitching the dating vlog again.”

  “Oh? You think she’ll take it this time?”

  Owen breathes deep, his chest puffing up.

  “All I know is that there’s so much more I could do if I could just make videos instead of writing articles. Or I could even do both. Either way, I’m reading to branch out.” He looks at me, and there’s a slight nervousness behind his ever-cool eyes. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Absolutely,” I say without hesitation. “And you’re awesome at video. Melissa’s an idiot if she doesn’t take you up on it.”

  The nervousness disappears and Owen squeezes my shoulder as he steps past.

  “Thanks, buddy. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Good luck,” I say, enjoying the good vibe Owen always leaves me with.

  Then I remember asking him to show me his abs after he brought me home yesterday and immediately slam my face into my palms. Only lifting it back up to Google if anyone has ever really died of embarrassment.

  I don’t see Owen for the rest of the day, but I remember what he tells me about not apologizing for who I am, and how only an asshole would laugh at me instead of with me. Somehow it makes the day a little easier, lets me share in the comments from coworkers rather than take them to heart. Owen’s always had a knack for making me feel better about the kinds of things that feel like world-enders to me, for spinning my anxieties around so I can see the humor in them, or at least see past them long enough to take a deep breath. When we first met, his ridiculously beautiful face made it difficult to appreciate just how decent a guy he really was—but now his ridiculously great friendship makes me almost forget how hot he is. Almost.

  I’ve never let myself think of Owen as more than just a friend, though. (Ok, maybe sometimes. In the bath. And even then it’s not his personality I’m thinking about—so it doesn’t count.) In college I liked him too much as a friend to want to use him and lose him like my other one-night stands, and I also knew he’d never be into anything more serious than that. And now, years later, I’ve been burned too many times by poor decisions to pretend that I don’t realize that dating Owen would be so obviously one of the worst decisions I could make.

  Coworker? Check. Been there, done that, and now I’m left with a smarmy asshole ex who leans over my computer screen every so often to insult me and make me feel like shit. Owen wouldn’t even need to get up from his desk to ruin my day if it didn’t work out.

  Potential to break my heart? Big fat check. Even if it weren’t for our history, everybody in the office knows Owen is a manwhore—because half of them are trying to fuck him and he still hasn’t slept with any of them. Only someone who’s getting plenty elsewhere could afford to turn away some of the vamps in the office. We might not talk about our hook-ups as much as we used to, but we’ve shared enough Monday morning stories around the breakroom Nespresso machine for me to know that Owen is about as likely to give up the single life as you’d expect from a guy with abs like his.

  Ruined friendship? Double check, and this is the one that really counts. I’d have to be stupid to think Owen and I would still get along with the same ease if we ever got together and things went south, which they inevitably would. That we’d still share as much and have each other’s backs. He’s an easy-going guy who loves women as much as he loves working at TrendBlend and seems to enjoy every second of every day here in his hometown of Los Angeles. And me? Regardless of who I was in college, now I’m an intense, ambitious woman with one eye on working in NYC and a string of disastrous relationships behind me.

  Owen-as-boyfriend has all the ingredients for disaster. Thinking about it only makes me appreciate him as a friend all the more.

  An hour before I’m about to leave work, Owen texts me.

  Don’t revoke my friend card, but I can’t make it tonight. Melissa wants a sample video for the vlog so I’m going out on a last-minute date. Tomorrow 10AM? Maddie’s Bar?

  I groan a little, but part of me doesn’t mind the extra night to come to terms with everything that’s happened the past few days. I’ve barely had enough time to think about the Carl thing and the Month interview and the video fame, let alone vent. Since tomorrow’s Saturday I figure these plans will also keep me from moping around the house all weekend, and maybe even put me in the mood to finally pick up the rest of my things from my ex’s.

  Sure. See you there. Have the kind of date worth telling me about. ;)

  Owen’s reply comes less than a minute later.

  Haha. I always do. St. Paddy’s Day tomorrow, so wear something green unless you want me to pinch your ass.

  I smile at the phone screen, half considering the idea of not wearing anything green just to see if Owen keeps his promise.

  3

  Owen

  Maddie’s is about half a mile from my place in Echo Park. A cocktail bar that’s kinda rustic, all chalkboard menus and wood paneling. Just about clean enough that you couldn’t call it a dive bar, but with just enough personality to separate it from the super-slick pick-up joints I usually go to. Most of the clientele are regulars who live nearby, and though I recognize some of them—the straggly-haired guy who looks out of the window pensively in between writing in his notebook, the two auto shop workers who always finish the peanuts, the sassy-looking grandma who leaves her white wine spritzer in the booth to smoke outside every half-hour—the unwritten rule that you don’t talk much is clear. This is a place for drinking, not for picking up girls or meeting people—which is why I like it. Everybody’s got to take a break sometimes.

  I make my way there early, figuring that I’ll grab a booth before the St. Patrick’s Day rush of hipsters looking for cheap green beers, but when I get inside I see I needn’t have bothered. Margo’s already sitting in one, and though it’s a little busier than it usually is on a Saturday, it’s hardly jumping except for the seventies rock they’re playing on the jukebox and two guys at the bar watching a Lakers game.

  I make a show of looking at my watch when she sees me, and as I slide into the seat opposite her say, “Ten minutes early? You need a drink that bad on a Saturday morning?”

  I smile at her but she makes a grimace, and I can see she’s not in the best mood.

  “Last time we met here it took me forever to find a parking spot.”

  I look down at the table between us. Two full glasses, and three empty ones—one of them a shot glass.

  “Head start, huh? You better not be planning to drive home. And if Carl’s giving you more shit about picking up your stuff, I’m happy to go with you and rough him up a little—”

  “It’s not that. I didn’t even order these!” Margo sighs deeply, rests her head in one hand, and uses the other to pick up the empty glass. “This was the non-alcoholic lemonade I ordered. This,” she says, picking up the shot glass, “was courtesy of the bartender, who addressed me as ‘the cat video chick.’”

  I look toward the bar and the bartender, an old-timer named Casey, winks happily in our direction.

  “This was from two old ladies wearing glittery green hats.
This was from a guy who begged to take a selfie with me. And this,” she says finally, picking up the glass full of beer, “was from another lady who came up and offered to give me a kitten from her litter.”

  “Now I get why everybody wants to be famous,” I say, as I take the beer glass from her hand and hold it higher. “To fame.”

  Margo picks up a half-empty glass and clinks it against mine.

  “Infamy, more like.”

  We both drink and I settle back into the seat, smiling as I look at Margo. Her hair’s messy as always, dark waves falling around her face easily, but I know plenty of girls who’d pay a couple hundred bucks to get their hair like that. She’s wearing a black tank top, some faded band name across it, loose on her shoulders but tight across her round breasts. Those big glasses make her green eyes look a little more distant—adding to the whole ‘hidden depths’ thing she has.

  Margo’s one of the few girls I can just sit and look at like this. I look at most hot girls the way sprinters see a finish line: focused and direct. Reading bodies and gestures like a dirty novel. Involuntary visions of what they’d look like naked, and how I’d please them. Even the cuties in the office. I can’t help it, and it doesn’t help that women tend to look at me in the same way.

  But Margo’s different. Just as hot as the others—if not more so, because she’s hardly even trying—but when I look at her, I just enjoy being near someone so beautiful. Like a painting, or a Shelby GT. Maybe it’s that I appreciate her so much as a friend, maybe it’s that she’s got the kind of personality that won’t allow a shallow gaze, or maybe it’s just that I can’t see her legs under the table. Margo’s got the long legs of a dancer, and I always struggle to keep my imagination in check when she shows them off.

  “So,” she says, swallowing beer and tossing hair aside, “tell me about this ‘date’ you went on last night.”

  I shrug. “Like I said, Melissa wanted to see a little bit of what I was talking about with the dating vlog I pitched. So I just found a random girl on some app and went out with her.”

  “You filmed it?”

  “No. Just my reactions…you know, a ‘personal diary’ kind of thing. In the bathroom of the restaurant, then afterwards at home. I could have just made it up, but truth is always stranger than fiction. So I wanted it to be authentic.”

  Margo does that thing where she smiles while biting her lip.

  “You bring her home after?”

  I shudder theatrically for Margo’s benefit. “No. She was…not my type.”

  She lets out a laugh. “Do tell. The ones where you don’t hook up are always the funniest to hear about.”

  “Are they?”

  “Sure,” she says, shrugging so hard one of her tank top straps slips down her shoulder, “it takes a pretty serious dealbreaker or a pretty heinous date for you not to bring somebody home.”

  I take a long sip of beer as a response.

  “Come on…what was the dealbreaker?” she insists. “I know it’s bad if you’re avoiding the question.”

  Slowly, I set my beer down, clear my throat, and look Margo dead in the eye. “Do you believe in extraterrestrial abduction?” I say, utterly serious.

  Margo tosses her head back as she laughs, all throbbing throat for a second as she claps loudly.

  “No way! She said she was abducted by aliens?” she says.

  “It’s all very serious. She runs a group out of Santa Barbara that goes into the forest and communicates with them, well, the ones who have the implant, that is. You can’t do it if they haven’t put the implant in,” I say, tapping the back of my neck.

  Margo slaps her palm on the table and clutches her waist, giggling so hard I have to pat her back at one point so she can get air.

  “You know, Margo, it’s people like you who put up the kinds of social barriers that keep the extraterrestrials from returning more frequently—” But I don’t get to finish my sentence, because Margo’s shaking her head and trying not to spit her drink across the table.

  “I don’t buy it…no…” she says, when she’s calmed a little. “Are you sure she wasn’t just feeding you a line? Maybe she wasn’t as impressed with you as most girls are?”

  “I thought that too, at first,” I say, nodding slowly. “But the tattoo looked pretty real.”

  “Tattoo?”

  I brush a finger across the inside of my forearm.

  “‘I believe,’ and the ‘e’ was a little flying saucer—pretty nice design, actually.”

  Now Margo’s humor is replaced with incredulity as she leans across the table and looks at me open-mouthed.

  “Whoa…that’s like some X-Files type shit.”

  “So yeah,” I say, “it was a pretty good reaction video I made. Although I think actual date footage might be a good idea in the future, because the people watching wouldn’t even believe half the dates I go on.”

  Margo shakes her head and looks away.

  “That’s so weird. I mean, I think of a person like that and I just…don’t think of the kind of airheads you usually date.”

  “What do you mean, ‘airheads’?”

  “You know what I mean,” Margo says, picking up her drink again with a grin, “clothes so tight it looks like they bought them in the kids’ section, heels tall enough to replace a lightbulb. All pouty lips and Snapchat filters. You know. The typical L.A. type.”

  She finishes her beer and then waves at the bartender, pointing at the empty glasses.

  “Hey, come on, give me some credit.”

  Margo looks at me sincerely and says, “I’m just kidding.”

  I laugh. “Sure you are. Anyway, the hot ones are always the craziest. The sun worshippers, the conspiracy theorists, the alien abductees—they’re all tens.”

  “Seriously? How does that work?”

  “Think about it. When you’re that good-looking, what guy is going to tell you you’re batshit insane? A beautiful girl could tell a guy she thinks the earth is flat and he’d play along if he thought it gave him a chance.”

  “Ugh. Men,” Margo groans, but she’s half-smiling. “So where does that put me? Am I not crazy enough to be a ‘ten’?”

  “Ha! You’re hot enough to be crazy, for sure.” I lean over the table conspiratorially to say, “Hey, do you remember that one beach party with the ice cream truck?”

  “The one where those twins got into a fight over you?”

  I shake my head. “No, no. The one where I got those five girls to go skinny-dipping with me.”

  Margo thinks and then nods slowly. “Yeah...what about it?”

  I lean back and bring the beer up with a grin. “Nothing. Just wanted to remind ourselves of it.”

  Margo rolls her eyes. “Like I could forget. One of them was the dean’s daughter! It was campus gossip for weeks.”

  I spread my hands and make an innocent face. “I still maintain I never touched her.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Margo says. “In fact, what I heard was that you—”

  “Hey now,” I interrupt. “You were just as bad. Remember that night at Craig’s party? You are not that bad at strip poker…”

  She blushes. “Well, yeah, but Craig was amazing. God…I just wanted to take him home and use him as furniture.”

  “I’m not even gonna ask what that means.”

  “I was not ‘just as bad’ by the way. You were all over the girls’ dorm. They should have put your face on a ‘wanted’ poster! Everyone used to joke about it being ‘their turn’ with you. I think a few are probably still waiting.”

  “Line’s a bit longer now,” I joke.

  “I bet it is,” Margo says, flashing another wry grin before staring into her empty glass.

  I look at her, wondering suddenly where the fun of remembering turned into this slightly heavy vibe. “Men are gonna line up for you too, once they find out you’re on the market again. And this time you’ll pick a good one. I can feel it. Just…don’t settle down so soon. Keep your options op
en. Play the field. I think after all this time you’ve figured out what you don’t want, so now you can go after what you do.”

  “Am I really supposed to take dating advice from you, Mr. Serial Dater?” Margo asks, but she’s smiling.

  I thought it was solid advice, but she’s got a point, and I’m not sure how to respond.

  Luckily, that’s when the drinks come, two beers and two shots.

  “You wanted shots?” I ask her.

  “They’re on the house,” Casey the bartender says, flashing Margo another big smile. “Not every day I get an internet celebrity in here. My granddaughter loves that video. She made me watch it three times yesterday.”

  There’s a sudden roar in the bar that drowns out the chugging rhythm on the jukebox. We all turn around and see the TV—someone’s changed the channel to a celebrity entertainment show and Margo’s cat video is playing on it. I watch her face turn red, and she shrinks a little further back into the booth, away from all the smiling, laughing faces directed at her now. Time to save the day.

  I swoop over to the bar to grab the remote from someone’s drunken hand, then switch the channel back to the basketball game. A few people grumble, but most get caught up in the three pointer playing out on the screen. I beckon Casey toward me and offer him a few folded twenties.

  “Let’s keep it on the game, yeah?” I phrase it like a question but we both know it’s a demand.

  Casey nods seriously as he pockets the bribe money. “Won’t happen again.”

  I hand him the remote for safekeeping and then head over to the jukebox to load it up with as many songs from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack as I can find. While not my favorite, it’s music that I know is 100% guaranteed to put Margo in a good mood. By the time I get back to our table, she’s already grinning and doing a sexy little shimmy from her seat.

  “I saw what you did,” she says. When I give her the innocent face, she squeezes my shoulder warmly, letting her hand linger there a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. “Thanks, Owen.”

  I clink shot glasses with her and then we tip our drinks back, but I can tell she’s still stuck on something as I pause to take in the elegant beauty of her face.