The Sexpert

by JA Huss

  “What about the pool?” he asks.

  “The pool?” she says.

  “Yeah, you said something about the pool downstairs. Crowded? What’s up with the pool?”

  “Oh,” she responds, still kind of flustered and annoyed. I don’t know how I’ve wound up in some kind of odd jealousy triangle. I just wanted to sign my lease on my little studio and I now find myself standing awkwardly in a penthouse with a rich, cute guy who’s apparently been asked to destroy my life even though he doesn’t know it and a clearly ovulating leasing agent.

  In fairness, I always feel awkward. I just rarely find myself in a situation like this.

  “Oh, right,” Cheryl mutters. “The pool. You have your own.”

  “What’s that now?” Andrew asks, twisting his neck. I may twist mine too. “My own, you say?”

  “Yes. On the roof. That stair there”—she points—“leads to your own private pool just above us. Shall we go down and sign now?” Holy shit, her bedside manner disappeared fast.

  “Tell you what. How about,” Andrew says, turning to face Cheryl for the first time since we started this tour, “you go on ahead and I’ll be down in a little bit.” He heads for the stair to the roof. “Eden and I wanna check out this pool.”

  “We do?” I ask.

  And at the same time Cheryl deflates and says, “You do?”

  Andrew nods, taking her by the arm and pulling her towards the open double doors the same way she pulled him away from them a few minutes ago. “Yeah, just go on down and I’ll stop by the leasing office before I head back to work. Then we can talk all about the rodeo.”

  “We can?” Cheryl says, hope in her eyes.

  “Most def,” Andrew replies, almost pushing her out the doors. “See you in a few.” And then he closes the penthouse doors right as Cheryl opens her mouth to protest, and the matter is settled.

  “Jesus Christ,” Andrew says, walking back over to me. “I thought she’d never leave.”

  “I didn’t get my key yet,” I say.

  “No worries. We can go back down to the leasing office after we check out the pool. Maybe you can show me your place later, huh?” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

  I squint at him. “No.”

  “Look,” Andrew says, taking my arm and pulling me closer to the windows. “We got off on the wrong foot this morning. I’m sorry, OK? Totally my fault. I wanna make it up to you. K? Let’s go check out the pool. You can use it any time you want. You shouldn’t have to hang out at some crowded, sweaty meat market with creepy guys. Which I’m sure is what’s going on downstairs. So, c’mon. Check out your semi-private pool. There’ll only be one creepy guy hanging out there.” He smiles like he thinks he’s so charming. Which he unfortunately is.

  “No,” I say. “No, I just... I wanna go see my apartment, OK? Please?”

  This morning has been like getting whiplash. I find out that my stupid little video channel is going unexpectedly viral, then I meet this cute guy in the unlikeliest way, then he steals my charger from me, then I find out that my boss’s boss’s boss is making it his mission to destroy my little video channel because I stole the idea from him, which I didn’t, then I run into the cute guy who hands me back the thing he didn’t actually steal, and then I find out he’s the very person tasked by my boss’s boss’s boss with bringing down the little channel and thereby getting me fired, sued, and tossed out of my adorable studio apartment—which I haven’t even seen yet!—and out onto the street.

  Yeah. Whiplash.

  “OK, I get it.” Andrew interrupts my thoughts. “But just before you go... which mountain is your favorite?”

  “What?”

  “Which mountain is your favorite? I climb. I wanna know everything about your favorite mountain.”

  “I… I don’t have a favorite mountain. I just like looking at them, that’s all.” I push my glasses up my nose again. “And I like facts. Cheryl was wrong about Pikes Peak, so I just needed to set the record straight. That’s all. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go. I have to grab my key and get back to work to manage a big crisis, anyway.”

  “Oh... Sexpert?”

  “What?”

  “The crisis. Is it the Sexpert thing? Or is Pierce having some other crisis too?”

  “Oh, no. Yeah. That’s... Yeah,” I say. Jesus. For a second there I thought he was saying he already knows I’m the Sexpert. Which is stupid. No one knows. Not even the inventor of Voice Lift could figure out my secret that fast.

  Right? Right?

  “Yeah,” he says. Then, “Hey! You wanna see the terrace, though?” He walks forward, completely ignoring everything I just said about my apartment and needing to get back to work, and grabs a handle on the window and pulls it open. The glass slides smoothly aside, folding in on itself. He does this again for the other window, and suddenly we are outside.

  “Wow,” I say, kinda gobsmacked.

  Andrew looks at me and smiles. “Not terrible, yeah?”

  I walk outside with him, in kind of a trance, looking at all of Colorado as we make our way across the massive terrace filled with outdoor furniture, and stop right at the nearly invisible frameless glass railing to take in the unobstructed views.

  The wind is hot and dry just like it is down on the ground, but stronger, so that my hair, even though it’s tied back into a ponytail, blows across my face. We can hear the sound of the lapping water from his private pool just above our heads.

  “Hey.” He turns to face me. “So you’re not really afraid of bulls, right? Bulls are awesome.”

  “No, I really am. When I was in school up at Colorado State we had Ag Day every fall. I don’t know where you’re from or where you went to school—”

  “Originally from Kentucky,” he says. “Bennington for undergrad, then Berkeley for grad school. Art history.”

  I snort. I can’t help it. That’s all funny. “Well, anyway. Ag Day is a big deal up there and the school actually has like… a farm? So they bring out the bulls for Ag Day and I swear to God, I was just minding my own business eating my waffle cone as I watched the cowboys do their cowboy thing. And this bull just comes charging up to me. Apparently, it had gotten loose while they were walking it around the stadium. And even though everyone insisted I overreacted and it was tame, I sorta… overreacted and… I don’t really think it was tame.”

  “Did it trample you?” Andrew says, aghast.

  “No, it licked my ice cream.”

  His laugh is so loud I startle.

  “It wasn’t funny,” I say. “Do you have any idea how big a bull actually is? That thing was a monster. Scarred me for life.”

  “OK,” he says. “Forget the rodeo. But seriously, let’s have dinner tonight. Please?”

  “I dunno. I think...”

  “What? You think what?”

  “I just... Pierce is my boss and...” And you two are probably going to talk about figuring out who this Sexpert chick from the internet is.

  “He made a reservation for eight-thirty. Which is a ridiculously European thing to do. I’ll find out where and change it to six-thirty. Which is a very American time to eat. We can meet up then, have dinner first, and then you can scram before he gets there, if it makes you feel weird to hang with your boss socially. I get it. It’s like seeing your elementary school teacher at the grocery store or something.” He looks at me with these puppy-dog eyes that are totally unfair. “Please? I feel like taking you out is the least I can do to make up for stealing your charger.”

  I smile at him and say, “Borrowing.”

  Which makes him light up with delight. “So, is that a yes?”

  I look at him. Consider how I should back away from this. It would be the smart thing to do. I mean, Pierce did ask him to figure out who the Sexpert is, and the more time I spend with him, the more likely it becomes that he will actually do that.

  But he’s… he’s cute freeway guy. And well… “OK,” I say. “But I really gotta go now so—”

 
“Sure,” he says. “Let’s go get keys, I’ll sign my lease and I can walk back to the TDH with you. I’m still new. Don’t wanna get lost.” He winks again.

  OK. It’s not un-charming.

  So I let him do all that. We go back to the leasing office where Cheryl pouts because she can tell Andrew is interested in me, not her, and we do our thing and pick up our respective keys.

  And then he walks me back to work. And it sorta feels like he’s holding my hand, even though he isn’t.

  And I’m starting to get the sinking feeling that very soon I’m really, really going to regret ever having let this guy borrow my charger.

  CHAPTER EIGHT - ANDREW

  The restaurant is French. Because of course it is. I’m sure that after he gave Myrtle carte blanche (that’s roughly all the French I speak) to make a reservation, he vetoed every one until she got to the French place. You gotta love him.

  I approach the maître d’—realizing suddenly how much French works its way into the English language, especially where food is concerned—and she says, “Bon soir, monsieur, under what name is la reservation?” At least she’s actually French, like from France, or at least Montreal, so it doesn’t make me wince like it does when Pierce says stuff like that.

  “Uh, Chevalier? Pierce Chevalier?”

  “Ah, oui, Monsieur Chevalier. Pour deux. Your other party is already here.”

  I drove in from Moab fourteen hours ago expecting to see what my new office and apartment are like, and maybe ask someone if they can get a ping-pong table put into the break room of Aureality, for, y’know, team-building and stuff (I really have no idea how to run a company, but I don’t plan on telling anyone that), and now I’m wearing a blazer and a pair of pants that aren’t jeans, going on an impromptu date with a girl I met during a traffic jam on the freeway this morning.

  Colorado seems pretty solid, so far.

  The dining room itself is appointed with burnished wood and soft lighting. The bar area is bustling with all the TDH denizens coming together after work to hook up and hit on each other under the pretense of talking about whatever important business thing it is they’re pretending to talk about, but the main room is still pretty sparsely populated this early in the evening. Which is partially why it makes it easy to spot...

  Pierce.

  Sitting at a small, romantic-looking two-top. His tie is loose, causing the vest of his three-piece suit to protrude outward slightly, making him look like he has a bit of a paunch which isn’t normally there. He’s on the phone, and as I approach from across the room I hear him talking with Derek. I don’t know for sure that it’s Derek. But I know.

  “What do you mean six months?” He’s sort of yelling. “Six months for a trademark? What the fuck, Derek?”

  I knew it was Derek.

  “Find a way to fast-track it.” And he hangs up the phone. I wonder how long this Derek guy will continue lawyering for Pierce if he keeps getting hung up on all the time.

  “Monsieur,” the maître d’ says, showing me to my seat.

  “Merci,” I say, sort of as a reflex, as I sit. I probably sound like an asshole. But. Then again. Comparatively...

  “Merde!” Pierce lets out, slamming the phone down on the table, and downing his Shirley Temple with an aggressiveness that comes over as really cute, since it’s a Shirley Temple and all. (I think he drinks them so that other business types who may be watching him won’t know he’s a teetotaler. Gotta keep up appearances in the cut-throat world of douche-baggery.)

  “Hey, man,” I say, adjusting myself into place. “Um... Why are you here?”

  “What do you mean?” he says, annoyed, chewing on an ice-cube. “We’re having dinner.”

  “I thought—”

  “Turns out I need to get out of here early, because I’m hooking up with a flight attendant chick I hook up with when she’s in town. She’s on a turn-and-burn from London, so if we wanna get it on, I gotta snap up twenty minutes in the airport Westin.”

  “Charming.”

  “So I had Myrtle call to see about making the rez for earlier, but it had already been pushed up to six-thirty. I assume you did that. Gauche American that you are. So anyway. I’m here. How we doing on figuring out who this bitch is?”

  I smile at him with tired eyes, both because I am tired from the day and because being Pierce’s best friend can tucker a body out. I let out a puff of air through my nose and say, “What was that on the phone?”

  “Good news and bad news. The good news is that Sexpert hasn’t been trademarked yet. Ha! Dumb hussy.”

  “OK, let’s all just—”

  “The bad news is that the attorneys say it’s gonna take at least six months for us to get a trademark on the name.”

  “OK. And?”

  “And? And who knows if this chick already has a trademark in motion. But more importantly, she’s out there now. She’s gaining traction in the public’s perception. So, even if we get it legally locked in six months, by that time her brand will be established in the Zeit. Geist”—I don’t know why he breaks it up into two words. For effect, I guess—“and that’s it. The brand will be hers. It’ll be meaningless to own the name. And we’ll look like the copycats.” He chews on another ice cube.

  “Dude, I don’t get it. I mean, it’s a fun idea. It’s a clever idea. Hell, man, it might even be a genius idea, but it’s not the only idea. I get that you’re freaked out about the magazine losing money. I do. OK? But don’t you think you’re putting a lot on this one thing?”

  He stares at me for a moment while he crunches his ice cube.

  “No, you don’t get it,” he finally says. “It’s not just the idea. It’s that it was my idea. And somebody has stolen my idea. My dad never wanted me to be a part of his business. You know this.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I don’t wanna get all Freudian and shit, but fuck it. You know my first memory of my dad?”

  “I don’t.”

  “It was him turning his back on me and Mom and closing the door to the house in Marseilles when the car drove us to the airport. I was four, and he didn’t hug me, or say goodbye, or whatever. Didn’t even wave. Just turned his back. And closed the door. And that was it. And then we were on a plane to America. And I spent the next twenty-three years—twenty. Three—trying to connect with the guy and get him to ... well, not love me, that’s ridiculous. But, hell... like me. Or trust me. Or let me be a part of his world. And finally, finally, he gave me a shot. I came to him with the magazine idea and he finally acquiesced and gave me a chance to do this thing. That was five years ago. And in these last five years, I’ve gotten closer to him and had a relationship that I’ve wanted my whole life. Well, not exactly. But as close to a relationship as we’re gonna have.”

  He’s been chomping the ice all through his soliloquy—because I kind of think he forgot I’m here and is just saying all this for himself—and now that he’s masticated it all down, he swallows and says...

  “And if I don’t pull this magazine around and it fails, or worse, becomes some kind of embarrassment or scandal, he and I are done.” He emphasizes the word.

  “What? No way, man. Come on.”

  “You ever meet my dad?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. You’re my best friend and you’ve never met my dad. What does that tell you?” He lets that land and I just nod, slowly. Then he adds, “We. Will. Be. Done.”

  I take it in and only nod. Because there’s nothing worse than telling a person that something they know way more about than you do isn’t true, just so you’ll feel like you’re helping them feel better. After a moment, I breathe in deeply and say, “You need another Shirley Temple?” I nod at the empty highball glass.

  “Nah,” he says, “I’m driving.”

  And that right there is why I love Pierce. It’s because despite all his very best efforts to be an asshole—and they are, honest-to-God, valiant attempts—he won’t ever be able to disguise the fact that under
it all he’s a funny, good, decent person.

  After a moment, he adds, “Can you track her down, And?”

  I shake my head. “I mean, yeah. Probably. Yes. But again, what do you think that’s going to do? Let’s say I can find her. What good do you think it’ll do?”

  “If she somehow got wind of my idea and stole it, I’ll fucking bury her.”

  “K. And what if it’s—and just hear me out on this—what if it’s just a shitty coincidence, and somebody had a similar idea to yours and just happened to get it out there first? What then?”

  His eyes narrow and he breathes in and out heavily through his nose. His jaw tightens. He closes his eyelids and throws his head back. Then he says, “I’m gonna hit the WC.” He stands. “I went ahead and ordered a steak. You should get yourself something. Think of a funny story to tell me when I get back.”

  “What kind of...?”

  “I dunno. Something with jokes and shit.”

  Then he pats me on the shoulder and heads off to the men’s room. It’s tough—really tough—to watch someone you love spiraling. You’re stuck in between wanting to help and not wanting to enable their spin. Pierce knows what that’s like. He went through it with me. Not just with my breakup, but throughout the whole damn relationship. He was there for me. He would show up at my door unannounced if we had a phone call that left him worried. Just jump on a plane from Denver and show up at my door to make sure I was OK. It’s why I’m here. I could’ve put the offices for the company anywhere, but I’m here because Pierce asked me to be. And so, whatever he needs right now to keep himself from falling off the edge of the planet, I’ll do it. I owe him. I owe him for a lot of things.

  “Sorry I’m late!”

  Oh. Right. I’m on a date. Or whatever. And she’s here now.

  And she’s barreling toward me all adither.

  I’ve never described anyone before as being “adither,” but she is. She’s waving her hands around like a butterfly flapping its wings, which is a clear indication that she’s already about two sentences deep into a conversation with me that I’ve yet to be included on. She looks amazing. Her blonde hair is down around her shoulders. And I do mean her shoulders. Her bare shoulders. She’s wearing a sleeveless... I dunno what you call it. Tube dress, I guess? It’s kind of like a ribbed cotton thing that goes to just below her knees. And it has a plunging neck line. And ho-ly shit...