Instant Gratification

by Blakely, Lauren

  As I head to meet my friend Presley for a morning cuppa, I text Charlotte along the way, feeling a little proud of myself.

  Truly: I’m ready to see Jason for our night at a pub. Planning on being a model citizen.

  Charlotte: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA

  Truly: You doubt me?

  Charlotte: Of course not. I’m watching a Roomba cat video, not laughing at your efforts at model citizenship.

  Truly: And for that, I can’t wait to come back to you tomorrow and tell you I was an angel.

  Charlotte: I can’t wait either, you devil.

  * * *

  I meet Presley at Doctor Insomnia’s, certifiably the best coffee shop in the city. And even though I’m a mixed-drinks gal, I do like to dabble in coffee drinks now and then just to keep my palate sharp. I order a birthday cake latte and take a drink.

  “This latte is an eight point five,” I declare as we settle in at a table by the window to people-watch.

  She arches a dubious brow. “You’re only saying that because it tastes like cake.”

  “It’s supposed to taste like cake.”

  “No, it’s supposed to never ever be ordered by anyone over thirteen.”

  “You might be right.” I take another sip of the sugary concoction. “Okay, fine. You’re right. It’s . . . a little sweet.”

  “Exactly. May you never order a birthday cake latte again. But if you do, I’ll know you slipped into that Jennifer Garner Thirteen Going on Thirty flick.”

  “Mark Ruffalo was hot, but that movie was so robbing the cradle.”

  She holds a hand up high. “Preach, sister.”

  I push the latte aside, eyeing her coffee longingly. “Yours looks good.”

  “Want me to order you one? Because you’re a straight-up gal when it comes to coffee. You should know that by now. You always order coffee, black, when you need to center yourself, and you always order something ridiculous like a watermelon latte with a side of nutmeg when you’re unsure of something.”

  “Whoa. Way to psychoanalyze me based on my beverage consumption.”

  She adjusts her brunette ponytail, saying, “Am I right or am I right?”

  I sigh. “You’re right. Also, a watermelon latte sounds disgusting.”

  “And yet I’m sure somewhere in this city, some café sells it.”

  “Let us vow to never go to that coffee shop.”

  “I accept this suggestion wholeheartedly. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Have you ever gone through a million wardrobe options because you’re planning to spend time with someone you’re not even dating. I did that this morning. I’m seeing Jason tonight, and . . . well, you know. I need to stay strong.”

  “I do know. And that's why you need a coffee, black. In fact, that’s what you should have tonight before you see him.”

  “You’re right. That’ll keep me strong.”

  She leans in to whisper conspiratorially. “Good luck staying strong with the guy you want to bang.”

  “I do not want to bang him.”

  “Oh, sorry. I meant to say the guy you sooooo want to bang.”

  “Between you and Charlotte, I’ve decided friends are the devil.”

  Presley smiles, and it’s a devilish smile.

  14

  Jason

  Ryder meets my eye from across the booth in the studio. “And we’re back for the final segment of The Consummate Wingman. Today, we have a special guest in the studio. You know him as the Modern Gentleman in New York, and he’s dedicated to the cause of helping our listeners be the best they can be. Jason, talk to us. I need your number one new tip.”

  It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m in the booth at the studio where Lockhart records his wildly popular radio show.

  The man is a rock star in the advice business, and with good reason. He tells it like it is, and he has something to say. That’s what I’ve learned matters most. You can have a good voice, be comfortable in front of crowds, and possess a charming grin that warms people to you. But if you want to be an “expert,” you must have a point of view.

  I move closer to the mic. “I’ve been thinking about how we can help our fellow men out there, and I have just the tidbit to share with your listeners. Ryder, tell me something. Do you think there’s ever a need to manspread?”

  He chuckles. “No. Never.”

  “Exactly. I propose an end to manspreading. In the ongoing quest to make manners the next cool trend, can we please keep our knees inside our own personal space?”

  Ryder hoots. “I’m down with that.”

  “Am I right? But if you don’t believe me, gentlemen of the city, put yourself in the place of someone who must share space with you. Let’s say you’re sitting on the train, heading into work, and you spread your legs. Do you really need a foot of space or more between your knees? Is that essential to your comfort and well-being? Your mating posture?”

  Ryder smiles broadly. He’s clearly amused with today’s advice. “Nor is it necessary for your junk.”

  “Exactly. And when you do manspread, do you know what the other person across from you is thinking? They’re thinking, ‘I can’t believe that’s somebody’s son, husband, brother, or what have you.’ Because spread legs are tacky and virtually always uncalled for.”

  Ryder raises a fist. “Down with manspreading. Let’s bring an end to it.”

  “Precisely. One of the reasons I say don’t do this in public is if you keep doing it in public, you’re going to do it in business. You’re going to do it when you sit down for a job interview. You’re going to do it when you sit across from somebody you want to hire you. And I tell you this: it’s highly unlikely anyone is interested in hiring a manspreader.”

  “I think it’s safe to say that employers of the world are thanking you right now.”

  “And I’m thanking your listeners who I know are going to change their habits today.”

  “Well, you heard it here,” Ryder says, shifting to a wrap-it-up tone, “from the Modern Gentlemen in New York. Today’s tip? Just cut that nasty habit, dudes, and we’ll be heading toward a classier society.”

  When the segment finishes, Ryder walks out of the studio with me. “The listeners dig you. It doesn’t hurt that they think you’re speaking from a position of authority simply because of that accent.”

  “It’s true. The accent proves I’m always correct,” I joke.

  “Let’s get you back in the studio in another week. Next Monday good for you?”

  A smile threatens to take over my face, but I do my best to appear grateful and professional and not out of my mind with glee. Don’t want to scare him away. “Sounds great to me.”

  “And listen, I’m really impressed that you’ve built a reputation as an expert on your own over the years. It’s amazing to meet somebody your age who’s gone through Toastmasters and done all sorts of public speaking. We may have an opening soon. I’m going to advocate for you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  When I leave the building, I want to pump a fist, to jump up and down. It’s an odd job I’ve cobbled together, but it’s one I love. Talking. Sharing. Giving advice. And really, trying to save the world one man or woman at a time by keeping them from being disgusting pigs.

  Later that night, I do something else I enjoy.

  I meet up with Truly.

  15

  From the pages of Truly’s Drink Recipe Book

  Gentleman Friend:

  Coffee

  Just Coffee

  Some guys are just . . . hard to categorize. They don’t want to stay in that neat drawer you’ve selected for them.

  There’s the friend drawer, the date drawer, the colleague drawer, the lover drawer, and the boyfriend-material drawer.

  But some men don’t fit in your bureau.

  Take that guy who’s a friend, but not the average friend. You rely on him, you turn to him, and you laugh with him.

  He has interesting things to say. He has a poin
t of view. And you like that. Damn it, you like that more than you should. You find him . . . intriguing. You think you know him, but you’re also keenly aware that you haven’t unearthed everything that makes him tick. And you want to.

  Because there’s more going on.

  You’re not talking about looks, but he has all that. You’re talking about who he is. His brains, his heart, his smarts.

  His charisma.

  Damn, his charisma.

  He has that by the gallon.

  But you made a deal. You have a plan. There is a road map. He’s your friend, he’s simply your gentleman friend.

  And sometimes when you’re heading out to see your gentleman friend, you need a shot of courage.

  No liquor this time, ladies.

  You need to be in complete control.

  If you want to make it through a night with your gentleman friend, you need something strong. We’re talking the stiffest, toughest drink possible to gird yourself.

  Garlic juice.

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  Kidding! Garlic is like bacon. It’s a no-go.

  But coffee? A strong pot of coffee? Yes. Come to mama. None of that French roast crap for the Gentleman Friend drink. The Gentleman Friend is single origin Ethiopian, natural wash, handcrafted, organic with a bright, juicy taste. Never more than 202 degrees. Keeps the brain on high alert. Keeps your attention on anything other than the way your gentleman friend looks when he walks down the street in those dark jeans and that pullover shirt that hugs his pecs, wearing that five-o’clock shadow you want to run your hands over. Coffee will hold your focus when he gets that twinkle in his amber eyes—damn that twinkle. Damn it to hell and back for the way it makes your stomach flip.

  Coffee. God bless coffee.

  Coffee keeps you strong.

  16

  Jason

  She waits for me outside the pub in Tribeca she picked.

  Dressed in dark jeans that hug her legs and a clingy top that slopes off one shoulder, she’s the woman in black. She hardly ever wears anything colorful, except her lipstick. It’s a wine red and shiny, like there’s a layer of gloss over it.

  Somehow it’s fitting that she’s the color of night, because there’s a toughness to Truly. An edge. She’s no-nonsense, all business, and naturally, I want to take all those black clothes off her.

  But I remind myself I need to maintain balance and exist peacefully in this state of wanting but not having. This is a normal feeling for me to have around her, and I’ve learned to live with it.

  She waves, smiles, then when I reach her, she throws her arms around me. I’m taken aback, nearly knocked over by the unexpectedness of her embrace. But I’m not nimble for nothing. I seize the opportunity and sniff her hair. Fresh, clean, so very her—and do I detect the faintest scent of coffee beans? I do, and hell, now coffee reminds me of sex. “I’ll take this, and gladly. But I’m not sure what the returning hero greeting is for.”

  She grasps me tighter, her arms looping around me, and yes, that’s quite nice too. “Thank you for spreading the gospel of no more manspreading.” She breaks the embrace and clasps my shoulder. “Manspreading is the bane of my existence, and you’re a superhero for doing your part to eliminate the virus that it is.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. To make the world a little more civilized, one bloke at a time.”

  “I see it all night long at the bar. Men have no idea how much it turns off women. I swear, I see groups of women walk away from packs of manspreaders.”

  “Packs. Seems apropos for men with such wild and unruly behavior.”

  “It’s almost as bad as mansplaining. That’s a touch worse, since it’s an insult to intelligence. Down with mansplainers, I say!”

  “You’re on fire tonight.”

  “I might have had a cup of coffee a few minutes ago.”

  “So if you’re normally at a ten when it comes to energy, vim and vigor, you’re at about one hundred now?”

  “Something like that. Also, coffee keeps me strong.”

  “News flash—you’re already strong.”

  She shoots me a look, one I can’t quite read, but it seems to fall squarely on the side of I-know-what-you-look-like-naked. “I need to be strong.”

  “Okay, then.”

  She gestures to the door. “Ready for pub lesson number one?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  We head inside and grab two stools at the bar, surveying the decor: leather chairs, round tables, high-backed booths, and the darkest of dark wood everywhere.

  I nod appreciatively. “Looks pretty solid.” My gaze drifts to the bar itself. Beer tankards hang above it. “Very authentic.”

  “Filing that tidbit away,” she says. “I picked this one because it was on my list as having promise. It has that local pub feel, right?”

  “Yes, so you can check that off the list.” I peer toward the back room, cataloging the pool table, and the table football one too, then I make a note to stroll back there later for a proper survey.

  “Good. Because I did a lot of research online. I don’t want you to think I’m simply going to expect you to do all the work.”

  “Like when I fucked you from behind?”

  Her jaw drops, and for the first time in my life, I think I might get slapped. I probably deserve it.

  I definitely deserve it.

  She doesn’t speak at first, just stares. “Did you really just say that?”

  “Did I? Seems that might have been the little devil who sometimes takes over my mouth.”

  “Gentleman, my ass.”

  I shrug a little sheepishly, hoping I haven’t gone too far. “Even the best gentlemen have devils in them.”

  “You and your devil are terrible.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you meant? I feel like incredible was the first line in the review you gave me after.”

  She shakes her head, huffing. “You’re the worst.”

  “Or am I really the best?”

  She leans in close. “Just a little reminder, since you seem to have forgotten some details. I did all the work when I rode you. I seem to remember you saying, Yeah, ride me like that, Truly. Let me watch you fuck me hard.”

  Hallelujah! It worked. “You do realize it’s still hot as fuck when you talk dirty, even if you’re imitating me talking dirty to you? And for the record, that was my favorite view.” My brain has the courtesy to slide that image front and center. “Picturing it again right now.”

  She covers my eyes. “Stop. Just stop.”

  “Nice try, but it’s here in my head with me.”

  She drops her hand. “The worst.”

  “Also, a gentleman always apologizes, so please allow me. I’m sorry for saying you didn’t do any of the work. Now that I think about it, I recall you were fantastic at rocking against me when I bent you over the bed.”

  Her eyes bug out. “You won’t ever stop, will you?”

  I gaze at the ceiling, considering. “Probably not.” I return my focus to her, lowering my voice. “Do you really want me to? To stop?”

  She locks her pretty blue eyes with mine. “Do I? I suppose that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  And she doesn’t technically answer it.

  Perhaps that’s the answer. Don’t stop.

  * * *

  The bartender swings by, setting down coasters and looking far too much like Liam Hemsworth for my taste. He better not speak like him.

  “Cheers! Welcome to Fox and Frog’s Finest, serving the most authentic pints this side of the pond.”

  Great, really great. He’s Daniel Fucking Craig, with his now-I’m-from-London-and-all-the-ladies-throw-knickers-at-me accent. Why can’t he just sound like a stuffy, rich uncle from Downton Abbey?

  “We are indeed here for the authenticity,” Truly remarks.

  “You have come to the r
ight place, then. I’m Marcus, and I’m here for you tonight.”

  Fantastic. His personality is a combination of a tour conductor on a double-decker red bus and Frasier, with the whole “I’m listening” routine.

  “Nice to meet you, Marcus. Great pub you have,” Truly says.

  “I appreciate you saying that. I’m the manager. Newly promoted. Pretty excited for the new role.”

  “As you should be. Congrats,” Truly says.

  “Thank you very much. But enough about me. Can I interest you in a pint?”

  “Pale ale for me, and a porter for my . . .” She casts her gaze at me, mischief in her eyes. “My friend.”

  Friend. A reminder of who we are. This is our zone, no matter how many times I might call up scenes from that night.

  But friends is what I want, I remind myself.

  “Would you like to hear about the pale ale?” Daniel—I mean, Marcus—asks.

  “I would,” Truly replies, sounding captivated. “Go on. I'm all ears.”

  Marcus clears his throat and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Fantastic. He has arms like a Hemsworth too, and dresses like, well, like he listens to my advice on how a man should dress. “Let me tell you about the pale ale. Because you picked well. You are going to get the finest hops this side of the Hudson.”

  Truly scoots closer, listening intently. “Tell me all about it.”

  He chuckles, rubs his palms together. “You’ll find this East Coast IPA is sweeter and juicier than a West Coast IPA. Personally, I’d say the flaked oats provide just the right sweet touch.”

  Truly nods excitedly, her lips curving into a grin, and a sharp pang of awareness hits me. She’s fascinated with flaked oats. She’s mesmerized by his fucking beer.

  “I love a little hint of sweetness in an IPA,” she says.