Everly Dalton's Dating Disasters

by Claire Kingsley

Chad cut a path through the crowd, people moving aside for him like Fezzik in The Princess Bride. He held my hand, leading me along, and didn’t stop until we were near the stage.

  “What actor is known for the phrase I’ll be back?” Maverick asked.

  “Ah-nold!” Chad shouted, in a silly mimicry of an accent.

  Everyone else in the place yelled the same thing, and Maverick picked a winner on the other side of the bar.

  “Damn,” Chad said.

  “All right, people, let’s take this to the next level,” Maverick said, and the crowd erupted with renewed cheers. “It’s time for the bonus round.”

  Two bouncer-types—big guys wearing bar t-shirts— started clearing a space in front of the stage, making people move back.

  Chad kept us near the front. I had no idea what was going on, but I wasn’t so sure I wanted a front-row seat.

  “Okay, party people,” Maverick said. “I need volunteers for tonight’s bonus challenge.”

  Chad’s hand shot into the air and he put his other arm roughly around my shoulders. “We’ve got this, Mav!”

  “You two,” Maverick said, pointing at us.

  “Yes!” Chad did a fist pump, his arm still around me.

  Oh god.

  As Maverick picked more couples, Chad nudged me into the center.

  “Chad, I don’t know about this,” I said, trying to be discreet. “What’s a bonus challenge?”

  “Don’t worry, babe, this will be fun.”

  Babe? Where had that come from? I glanced down at my dress and heels. Maybe bonus challenge meant something simple. After all, the trivia questions had been easy.

  Chad lifted his arms overhead in a stretch, then bent his leg and grabbed his ankle to stretch his quad. What was he doing?

  “All right, competitors,” Maverick said. “Tonight’s bonus challenge is balloon busting! The winning couple gets a round of drinks on me.”

  “Hell yes,” Chad said. His eyes were feverish.

  Several girls in crop tops and booty shorts came out with blown up balloons.

  “Here’s how this works,” Maverick said. “One of you gets a balloon. The other needs to pop it.”

  “Easy!” people shouted from the crowd.

  “But,” Maverick said, holding up a finger, like he was trying to be dramatic. “The balloon will be fastened to one partner’s butt.” He pointed to his and wiggled his eyebrows. “And the other partner can’t touch the balloon with their hands.”

  Oh no. I did not like this.

  People laughed and cheered while the booty-short girls went around to each couple.

  “Here you go, sweetie,” one of the girls said to me. “I’ll get it pinned on.”

  Before I knew what was happening, the petite but big-boobed brunette spun me around—how was she so strong?—and did something to the back of my dress while Chad continued limbering up.

  “You’re all set,” she said with a wink.

  I twisted around, trying to look. She’d pinned a bright pink balloon to the back of my dress, right on my ass.

  At least it matched my shoes?

  “Ready?” Maverick asked. “Remember, no touching the balloon with your hands. That’ll get you disqualified. Otherwise, all bets are off. First pair to pop their balloon wins. Go!”

  I yelped as Chad grabbed my shoulders and spun me so I was facing away from him. He kept his hands on my shoulders and bumped into me a few times, squishing the balloon between us.

  “Plant your feet, sweetheart,” Chad said, grabbing my hips. “You’re about to get the full power of the Chad.”

  “Chad, wait!”

  With his hands tight on my hips, Chad thrust against the balloon with his groin. I staggered forward a step, but he didn’t let go. He rammed himself against me again and I could feel the balloon compress. But it didn’t pop.

  He picked up the pace, thrusting his hips faster. I jerked forward wildly, my hair flying in my face, my heels slipping on the floor.

  “Yeah, baby,” Chad grunted. “That’s it. Come on.”

  He drove his groin against me like a jackhammer operated by a crazed monkey. The only thing keeping me from falling flat on my face was his painful grip on my hips. And the balloon still didn’t pop.

  If this was what sex with Chad would be like, I was going to have to pass.

  I had no idea what the other couples were doing, but the crowd was almost deafening. Chad rammed against the balloon over and over to the crowd’s chants of “Pop! Pop! Pop!”

  The balloon compressed and slipped to the side. Chad’s groin collided with my ass and he grunted again.

  Was that…? He had to be kidding me. Did he have a hard-on?

  I tilted my hips forward to get his stupid dick off my ass. I was just about to wrench his hands off my hips and put an end to this when he thrust forward again.

  The balloon burst with a loud pop and the crowd went wild. Chad let go so fast I staggered forward into the arms of one of the bouncers. He helped me straighten and I whirled around, ready to lay into Chad.

  But he was bent over at the waist, holding his groin, a look of debilitating agony on his face.

  What had happened?

  I reached around to the back of my dress. The balloon was gone—the pieces had flown off when it popped—but I felt something sharp sticking out of my dress.

  The pin.

  The booty-shorts girl had used an oversized safety pin to attach the balloon to my dress. It must have come loose while Chad was ramming his groin against me, and poked him in the…

  “I’ve been stabbed,” Chad choked out, his words so strained I almost couldn’t make them out. His face reddened and he dropped to the ground, still holding his man bits. “My dick!”

  Nora laughed so hard she had to set down her drink to keep from spilling. “He got dick-stabbed?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh too. “Yep. The pin stuck him right in the peen.”

  “The chances of that have to be astronomical,” Hazel said.

  “That’s what I thought,” I said.

  “Was he okay?” Hazel asked.

  I nodded. “He wasn’t seriously injured or anything. It did take him about twenty minutes before he could get up, though. The paramedics checked him out and said he’d be fine.”

  “Paramedics?” Nora asked through her laughter. “Did they really need to call an ambulance?”

  “Well, that was his fault.” I shrugged. “He kept saying he’d been stabbed. Someone called 911.”

  Nora dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Everly. What are we going to do with you?”

  I sipped my drink. “I have no idea.”

  “Okay, so maybe no more gym bros,” Nora said. “Or guys who are still hung up on their ex, or narcissistic dicks, or gay men.”

  “Definitely not,” I said.

  “Don’t give up, honey,” Nora said, patting my hand. “Modern dating is a minefield.”

  Hazel adjusted her glasses. “I agree.”

  “Thanks, ladies.”

  I sipped my martini, glancing around the bar. My mother kept telling me that I’d find the right man when I stopped looking. But how was I supposed to meet him if I didn’t put myself out there?

  I’d just have to keep myself open to the possibilities.

  Episode 5

  My martini was delicious, and boy did I need it. It had been a long, busy week at work. And it was only Wednesday.

  “You look tired,” Hazel said. There wasn’t any judgment in her observation, just a simple statement of fact.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  “I am tired.” I set my martini down. “Work has been crazy. My boss fired two people on Monday, so now everyone’s in a panic. And of course they all come to me. I feel like I’ve become the office therapist.”

  Nora reached over and squeezed my arm. “That doesn’t surprise me. You’re good at making people feel better.”

  “Thanks. It’s just tiring.”

  I wasn’t in the moo
d to talk about work. I loved my job, and things would settle down soon. They always did. But right now, I needed a break.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “How’s work for you two?”

  Nora shrugged and brushed her dark hair over her shoulder. “It’s fine. The same, really. I’m working on an article about advances in vibrator technology. So that’s fun for obvious reasons.”

  My cheeks warmed a little—I was such a blusher—and I laughed. “Sounds perfect. What about you, Hazel?”

  “My funding was approved, so we start recruiting test subjects next week.” She adjusted her glasses. “We’re studying the effect of emotional intelligence versus cognitive intelligence on various markers for long-term happiness.”

  “Wow, sounds fascinating,” I said.

  “I’m assuming since you didn’t text us after your date this weekend that it was either boring, or particularly horrible.” Nora arched an eyebrow at me. “Or good and you were waiting to tell us in person so we could all squeal with you over the fact that you finally got some.”

  I took another sip of my drink. “A combination of the first two. And no, I definitely didn’t get some.”

  “That sucks,” Nora said. “If you need any new toy recommendations, I can fill you in on my research.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  Nora shrugged one shoulder. “Suit yourself. But tell us about your date.”

  “Well, you know how it is—they always start off okay…”

  The brunch buffet was lovely. My date, Jerry, and I sat in a large booth—he’d requested it—sipping mimosas and eating our mini-quiches, bite-sized pancake skewers with fresh strawberries and whipped cream, and other assorted breakfasty finger-foods.

  Jerry had carefully arranged the food on his two plates so nothing touched. I’d met him on a dating app and after exchanging a few messages, he’d suggested we meet for brunch. He was cute in a nerdy way, with dark-rimmed glasses and a button-down shirt. He was an engineer at Boeing. I knew from our messages that he had an interest in aviation, but thankfully he hadn’t shown up for our date wearing a vest with his collection of airplane pins or insisted on taking me on a six-hour tour of the Museum of Flight. Not that I’d ever dated someone who’d done that.

  Okay, yes I had.

  “We should get started,” Jerry said. He pulled a folder out of his briefcase—I’d been wondering why he’d brought one—and set it on the table next to his brunch.

  “Get started?”

  He produced a ballpoint pen and clicked the end. “We have a lot to cover.”

  “We do?”

  “Of course. This is a first date,” he said, as if that explained everything. He flipped open the folder, revealing a yellow notepad.

  “Are you taking notes?”

  “Yes.” He held his pen poised over the paper. “First question. Education level?”

  I blinked at him a few times, my lips parted. Was he serious?

  “So, no college then?” His pen dipped closer to the paper.

  “No, I have a degree. I’m just not sure why you’re—”

  “I already know you’re currently employed.” He jotted something down. “Do you own or rent?”

  “I rent, but that’s an odd question.”

  “That’s actually a point in your favor. I own my home, so you being a renter is one less potential complication.”

  “Wait, complication?”

  “Have you been to any foreign countries recently? Particularly any with health warnings from the CDC?”

  Why did this feel like the weirdest interview ever? “Um, no.”

  He looked up. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I think I’d know if I’d been to a foreign country recently.”

  “Unlikely for rare infectious diseases,” he muttered as he wrote. His brow furrowed and he flipped through several pages in his notepad.

  “Jerry, I’m not sure what this is about.”

  “I’m sorry.” He flipped back to his notes. “I’m usually much more prepared, but I seem to have left my questions at home. This is very unlike me. I’m having to do this from memory.”

  “What questions?”

  “This is the best way I’ve found to get to know someone and measure potential compatibility,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m thirty-six. I’m not interested in casual dating. If I’m going to spend time and effort dating a woman, I need to know up front whether there’s the potential for something long-term.”

  His dating profile had made it clear he was interested in a long-term relationship. It was one of the reasons I’d started talking to him. He seemed mature and settled, which was appealing to me. Maybe this was simply the engineer in him.

  “Okay, I suppose that makes some sense. Do I get to ask you questions, too?”

  “Absolutely. I think that would be prudent.”

  I folded my hands in front of me. “All right, then.”

  “Great. Next question. Are you up to date on your vaccinations?”

  I blinked again. “Um, I think so.”

  “Excellent. Would you describe yourself as more career-oriented or family-oriented?”

  “I don’t think you have to be one or the other. I have a job that I love, but I still make time for family.”

  His forehead creased and he pinched his lips together, hmming to himself before writing something down. “What about other interests and talents? Are you musical?”

  “I sang in the choir in high school and I can hit the high note in ‘Take On Me’ about half the time.”

  I’d meant it as a bit of a joke to hopefully lighten the mood—although I really could hit the note, especially after a few drinks—but Jerry didn’t seem impressed. He just kept jotting things down in his notebook.

  “What about your health history? Any hospitalizations, genetic disorders, serious illnesses, surgeries?”

  “I’m not really comfortable giving you my medical information.” I was trying to be a good sport, but this kept getting weirder.

  “Do you happen to know your waist-to-hip ratio?”

  I gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “An adequate waist-to-hip ratio can be a good indicator of suitability for childbearing.”

  “Are you actually asking me if I have good childbearing hips?”

  “My family has a history of large babies. I was eleven pounds at birth. It’s an issue. You’re very pretty, but possibly too slight.”

  Jerry didn’t strike me as a guy who’d been an overly large baby. He was tall, but thin. Almost too thin for my taste, but I was trying not to get too caught up on physical appearances.

  “That’s still a very weird question.”

  “Well, then I have a more direct question.”

  I took a sip of my mimosa. “More direct than what you’ve been asking?”

  “Do you want children?”

  Setting my mimosa down, I let out a breath. Direct or not, that was a fair question if he was this concerned about establishing long-term compatibility. Odd for a first date, yes, but I didn’t mind answering. “Yes, I do. Someday.”

  He wrote another note. “Good.”

  “Is it my turn to ask questions yet?”

  “I have quite a few more topics to cover, but sure.” He clicked his pen and held it out to me. “Would you like to take notes? I can give you some blank paper.”

  “No thanks.” I hesitated, not sure what I wanted to ask. I just didn’t like the feeling that I was being interviewed. “Do you want kids?”

  “That’s the goal.”

  “The goal? You make it sound so clinical.”

  He looked up as footsteps approached our table. “There you are.”

  There who was?

  A middle-aged woman with graying hair wearing a floral blouse and light-wash jeans stopped beside our table. My lips parted in surprise as she slid into the booth next to Jerry.

  “How are we doing?” she asked, her voice sugary swee
t.

  “I’m not finished, so I haven’t calculated the percentages yet,” Jerry said.

  I gestured to the woman. “Um, who is this?”

  “Sorry,” Jerry said. “This is my mother, Linda.”

  His mother? Before I could ask why his mother had just sat down with us—and what Jerry meant by percentages—he kept talking.

  “Are you allergic to pet dander?”

  “Um, no.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “So far, she checks out. Her medical history might bring up something that I haven’t found yet, but she looks healthy.”

  Linda peered at me. “She does. Good color in her cheeks. How are her hips?”

  “She looks a bit small-boned, but we could take some measurements to be sure.”

  I sputtered as they talked about me like I wasn’t there, but I couldn’t seem to get a coherent word out.

  “We’ll do a six-month trial,” Jerry said. “I think we should start immediately with a dog, see how we do with co-parenting a pet. Everly, if your rental doesn’t allow pets, the dog can sleep at my place, but I’m going to need you to pull your weight as far as pet care and training time.”

  “What?”

  “Jerry, I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Linda said.

  “Yes, he is. Thank you.”

  “I haven’t seen her eat yet,” Linda said.

  I blinked at her a few times. “Excuse me?”

  “Go ahead.” She gestured at my food, indicating I should eat. “Take a bite.”

  “Why do you want to see me eat?”

  “How many drinks has she had?” Linda asked, completely ignoring my question.

  Jerry glanced up from his continued note-taking. “Just the one.”

  “Acceptable, although if this is a habit, it could be a problem.”

  I pointed at Jerry’s mimosa. “He has a drink, too.”

  “He’s a man, dear,” Linda said.

  “A man who drinks pomegranate mimosas,” I said.

  “I’m sensing stubbornness,” Linda said, pointing to Jerry’s notes as if she meant for him to write that down. “That, plus the drinking…”

  Jerry adjusted his glasses and looked at me. “True. But nobody’s perfect. Everly, how do you feel about the names Edwin and Delilah?”