Good Time

by Jana Aston

  “Who says they don’t?”

  “Britney Spears, circa 2004.”

  “Wow. You’re a real buzzkill, Mark.”

  “Thank you. That’s how I introduce myself at parties. ‘Hi, I’m Buzzkill Mark.’”

  “I wouldn’t lead with that. I’d save it for the end of the night when you’re prying cups from people’s hands because you want to rinse them out before recycling.”

  “Your imagination must be a very entertaining place to be.” Beside me Mark props his forearms onto the balcony rail as he surveys the lobby with me.

  “It really is, Mark. It really is.”

  “So how is it that you’re in wedding planning if you don’t care about weddings?”

  “Stop saying that. We’re in event planning. Event. Planning. Which sometimes includes weddings and sometimes includes better things that are not weddings.” I’ve had enough of weddings to last me a lifetime. “I said I might marry that guy and have his babies. A wedding and a marriage are two very different things. I don’t care about one day.” I really don’t. I care about forever and forever is unreliable, at best. Weddings are fun, sure. The fact that the majority of them crash and burn not withstanding.

  “So one look and you’re ready to spend the rest of your life with him?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I said I might, I never said it was a done deal. He might annoy the crap out of me if we spoke or, worse, be terrible in bed.” Doubtful though. The man looks like he’d be a real good time in the bedroom. He’s exuding sex and confidence and I’m not even in the same room with him. He’d be downright lethal if he was looking at me. “We might just have a torrid affair and then part ways amicably.”

  “Torrid affair? Who the hell talks like that?”

  “I do,” I say. “Just now. I just said it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “That’s a nice suit, right? He probably has a real job, so when he divorces me he’ll be able to pay child support. Do you think he looks like the type who would show up for their soccer games or would he just see them on holidays?”

  “Your mind, Payton. Jesus.”

  “Statistically it’s a fair question.”

  “Hmmm.” Again.

  “He’s so pretty,” I add wistfully. Like ridiculously good looking. Tall. Thick dark hair. Strong jaw. Olive complexion, I’m guessing Italian. That or he has a hell of a tan. He’s in a suit that fits him like a glove. Broad shoulders, flat stomach. I know he must be packing some abs under that shirt. As I’m watching he raises a hand and flicks his wrist so he can look at the watch on his wrist. Call me crazy, but that wrist flick is my new thing.

  “Tell him that when you meet. Men love to be described as pretty,” Mark says drily.

  “Gah, look at him though. I think he might be my kryptonite.”

  “You think direct exposure to him is going to weaken you to the point of death?”

  “Hmm, no, that’s not right. Am I not using that word correctly? Why are people always saying stuff like ‘donuts are my kryptonite?’ A donut isn’t kryptonite, it’s a gift to mankind.”

  “So you think that guy might be mankind’s gift to you? Am I following correctly?”

  “He might be. You never know.”

  “Well, he’s leaving,” Mark points out.

  “They always do.” I shrug, not bothered by this development. I keep watching though because damn, is he wearing that suit. I’ve got a bad case of the lust.

  “Should we run downstairs and try to catch him? You can fake-trip into his arms or something equally stupid? I’d be happy to give you a shove.”

  “Nah.” I step away from the balcony rail and start walking in the direction of the large ballroom. We were on our way to do a few measurements for the dreaded Johnson-McNally wedding when I got sidetracked. “You know what they say. If you love someone, set him free. If he comes back, marry him.”

  “That is not how the saying goes, nor is it relevant for a man you’ve never met.”

  “Says you.”

  “If I ever get called to testify against you for stalking I can’t lie for you.”

  “You won’t need to testify. Spousal privileges.”

  “We’re not married.”

  “Not yet, but we’ll be work-married by then.”

  “Work-married.” Mark repeats the words slowly as if this is a foreign concept. “Will I know when that happens? Are these long walks down hotel corridors some kind of courting ritual I’m unaware of? Will there be a ceremony in the cafeteria when it’s official so I know when our anniversary is?”

  “Ohhh, a work spouse anniversary! I never even thought of that! See, Mark, that’s why you’re in the running. You’re supportive and have great ideas.”

  “In the running?” Mark deadpans. “I’ve got competition for a workplace pseudo-marriage?”

  “Not a lot, if it helps. And you’re in the lead,” I announce as I enter the ballroom, dodging a construction worker on the way. The hotel we work at has just barely opened. We’re still in what we call a soft opening, meaning mostly travel journalists and industry executives checking into comped rooms. The casino floor is open for business, but the grand opening gala won’t occur for another two weeks and most of the event spaces are still in the final punch list stage of construction. Paint touchups, chandeliers being hung, trim work installed. It’s chaos and I’m loving every minute.

  “Let’s get these measurements done,” I tell Mark. “I’m starving and it’s meatloaf day in the cafeteria.

  “Just go.” Mark sighs as he waves me off. “I can do the measurements.”

  “Mark!” I beam. “You know what? Let’s make it official. Today can be our work marriage anniversary. Congratulations. I hear that the traditional gift for a work marriage is a box of Cheez-Its. You can bring those in tomorrow.”

  “You did not hear that. You just made it up.”

  “I did, but to be fair, in order for anyone to hear anything someone has to start saying it to begin with.”

  “Right.”

  “I think it’s got a fair shot at catching on,” I add. “Far stupider things have caught on so it’s possible.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “Trust me, I’ve got a lot of inventive ways of looking at things.”

  Chapter Three

  “Do you ever think we should have been required to pass an adulting test before we were allowed to get our own apartment?” I pop a Cheez-It into my mouth while watching my roommate spread jelly on an English muffin.

  “Um, no?” Lydia looks confused by my question as she wipes the knife clean before placing it into the dishwasher.

  Okay, maybe it’s just me. She is having an English muffin for breakfast while I’m having cheese-flavored crackers, so this might be a me issue versus a regular twenty-something issue. Still though.

  “You don’t find it the least bit concerning that we could eat chocolate Cheerios for breakfast every single day and no one is around to tell us not to?”

  “Are chocolate Cheerios a real thing?” Her nose scrunches, her face lined with doubt.

  “So real.”

  “Hmm.” She takes a bite of her normal breakfast while I finish off the last of my Cheez-It breakfast—because the box is empty. I need to start buying the family-sized box or learn how to properly divvy up the amount of crackers I eat between trips to the grocery.

  “Who would run the test?” she finally asks, because she’s a good friend and a good friend always considers your ideas before dismissing them.

  “Mrs. Butterworth.”

  Lydia blinks several times while she stares at me. “A plastic bottle of maple syrup shaped like an elderly woman should be the judge of who is ready to adult?”

  “Who else would do it? It’s not like we could trust the government to make a fair assessment.”

  “That’s probably valid.”

  We’re both quiet then while Lydia thinks adult thoughts and I think about the questions I’d put on t
hat test. Do I need rental insurance? How exact is an expiration date? Is it really that bad to eat cheese-flavored crackers as a meal?

  “Are we carpooling today?” Lydia asks, sliding her handbag over her shoulder, keys dangling from her fingertips.

  “Absolutely,” I agree, grabbing my own bag and following her out the door. We work at the same place so sometimes we carpool. And today is Friday, so if we drive together Lydia won’t be able to stop on the way home at a thrift shop, because that’s how she’d spend her Friday evenings if I didn’t intervene.

  We were both hired at an on-campus job fair during our last year at LSU and it’s sort of a big deal. Real jobs. Adult jobs with 401K plans and benefits at a brand-new resort on the Vegas Strip. My job is in event marketing so basically I get paid to help people plan events. Events that happen in Las Vegas at a fancy resort. How cool is that? I’m adulting like a baller, breakfast issues aside.

  Lydia and I decided we’d share an apartment when we moved to Las Vegas, which is turning out to be a great decision because while we’re the same age, we have very different skill sets. We’re like two peas in a pod. If one pea was organic and one pea was fried and served with a side of delicious dipping sauce. Wait, no. I’m thinking about those crispy green beans at P.F. Chang’s, so not a pea. Whatever, you get the point.

  She’s a brunette.

  I’m a blonde.

  She’s a virgin.

  I’m not.

  She was a Girl Trooper through the twelfth grade and earned every life skill badge available.

  I was kicked out of the Girl Troopers over a badge pyramid scheme.

  It’s fine. I didn’t want to go anyway. Not really.

  The point is, I’m helping her break out of her good-girl shell by encouraging her to live a little. Speak to the cute guys at the pool. Kiss the stranger at the bar. Earn all the fun badges, so to speak. It’s a work in progress, but I think I’m making a real difference in her life.

  We didn’t meet until junior year in college and we never roomed together before moving to Vegas, or I’d have realized earlier that she needed my help. Event planning and helping people socialize is basically the same thing. At least it is when I do it. Or it will be. As someone fresh out of college I’m not working on the good events yet, but I’m having a great time on the projects I’ve been given thus far.

  For example I’m currently organizing the rewards dinner for a chapter of the American Dermatology Association, who’ve booked a week-long conference next spring. I know, you think that sounds boring, but it’s going to be real extra by the time I’m done with it. I’m working on a couple of weddings too, which are the worst, but I’m paying my dues. Eventually I’ll work my way up to the really good stuff, like organizing launch parties for celebrity denim lines or a cosmetics conference. Events where I won’t have to mediate between a bride and groom fighting over menu options and where to seat that uncle who won’t shut up about politics while I bite my tongue about how stupid all of it is.

  A wedding is just one day. One annoying day of trying too hard to have the best day of your life, which is impossible because the best days of your life are never planned. The best days always happen when you least expect them to.

  “I’m worried about Rhys,” Lydia says when we’re about halfway to work.

  “Why’s that?” Rhys is her love interest. He’s also her boss. And my boss. He’s everyone’s boss because he’s the general manager at the Windsor, the hotel where we both work. They’re not technically dating, but he’s into her and he’s fighting it, which is dumb because Lydia is amazing and they’re going to end up together. Sometimes men just have to figure things out for themselves though.

  “It’s been two weeks since the, um, since the thing in the bar and I’m starting to feel like we’re not going to happen.”

  The thing in the bar was an orgasm. In the back office, but still. I was super proud of her because that was way out of her comfort zone. When we got home that night I made her a bar badge, which is like a Girl Trooper badge for grownups. Dirty grownups.

  “But also,” she continues, “I feel like we’re meant to happen. I cannot have all these feelings for no reason, can I?” She doesn’t pause long enough for me to answer so I think the question is rhetorical. “I know he feels it too, I know he does. I just can’t figure out why he won’t act on it. He kisses me like he means it, Payton. No one has ever kissed me like that before, you know? It’s different.”

  I don’t know, because I haven’t kissed Rhys. But I’ve seen the way he looks at her, so she’s probably right.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I promise her. “I’ll ask around. I know people.”

  “You know people?” Lydia glances over at me while she’s stopped at a red light. “We both started on the same day. Who do you know that I don’t know?”

  “Pfft.” I wave off her doubt. “You’re in human resources. I’m in event planning. Trust me, I get all the good gossip. No one is telling you anything.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “I’ll have this figured out by lunch. It’ll be fine.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Probably. It’ll probably be fine. I’ll for sure have it figured out by noon, but Rhys might be into some weird shit for all I know. Like maybe he’s into furry sex or something. Which is cool, no judgment, but I don’t know if you’re down for dressing up like a panda bear to get him off so it might not be fine for you.”

  “What?” Lydia shoots me another glance, her expression lined with confusion.

  “Err, never mind.” I don’t think she’s ready to know just how confusing dating can be.

  Chapter Four

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Lydia?” My superior socializing skills want her to say yes. Yes, because it’ll be fun. Yes, because this is crazy. Yes, because we don’t have anything better lined up for the weekend. But as her best friend, I want her to think this over. For those very same reasons.

  It’s Saturday morning and we’re sitting in the parking lot outside of Double Diamonds. The strip club. Gentlemen’s club. Whatever. The website didn’t look nearly as seedy as I expected it to, but it’s still a strip club. We’re here because my best friend the virgin wants to go inside and ask the owner to help her auction her virginity. To Rhys, specifically.

  I know.

  It sounds too nuts to be true.

  It’s insanity.

  But yet that’s what’s happening. I asked around yesterday and it seems that Rhys spends a lot of time at this gentlemen’s club. And there were rumors of professionals. And by professionals I mean hookers. I relayed the information to Lydia at lunch and by last night she’d come up with a plan. The aforementioned plan of selling her virginity at some kind of auction, to Rhys. There is no way this plan is actually happening. Nada, zip, zilch. Lydia is the good girl. The good friend. The good daughter. The good everything. And this idea she has is nuts. It’s not that I don’t think Rhys will bite, he will. It’s that I don’t think we’re about to encounter a strip club owner made of gold.

  Anyway.

  Into Double Diamonds we go.

  I expect we’ll be kicked out. Or arrested for solicitation. Or hogtied and tossed onto a plane bound for Mexico. What? I have a vivid imagination.

  Instead we’re asked if we’d like applications, which, I’m not gonna lie, is a little bit flattering. Sure, I already have a job, but you never know when you might need a back-up plan.

  “I’d like to speak to the owner,” Lydia replies, shoulders squared and head held high.

  “Me too,” I add, because I can’t let her go back there alone, assuming the head honcho is here and we’re allowed a meeting. Reason number one: I’m a good friend and a good friend would never send you into the back office at a strip club by yourself. Lydia is blinded by love and I can’t let her make a decision she’ll later regret. Reason number two: This has the potential to be real entertaining and there is no way I’m missing out.
I stuff the application into my handbag as Lydia shoots me a look. I shrug—I kept the application because I’m curious, not because I’m actually going to apply. Probably.

  We’re escorted past a few elevated platforms with the requisite poles in the center, down a long dark hallway and through a door.

  The door leads to… an office. It’s a nice office. Really nice. It’s quiet and a row of windows floods the space with natural light. There should be a view of the parking lot because we’re a block off the Strip, surrounded by high-rise hotels and tourist traps. But instead there’s a courtyard of sorts. It looks like a section of the parking lot was walled off and turned into an outdoor patio. The wall blocks out the view beyond from our vantage point just inside the office doors so all I can see is a flower garden and a fountain. A freaking fountain. This is super disappointing because I was envisioning a dark room with bad lighting and an overweight white man smoking a cigar behind a desk while a couple of goons stood at attention ready to protect him if the need arose.

  Ahead of us there’s a seating area with leather couches and a couple of armchairs. A coffee table sits in the middle, made of what looks like reclaimed wood set in a herringbone pattern, a slim metal frame supporting. There’s a coffee bar built into the side wall—wooden cabinets topped with a slab of sleek marble, an industrial coffee maker and glass jars of sweeteners and granola bars lining the countertop.

  And there’s a desk.

  Just one.

  Where a curvy woman who must be in her fifties sits, beaming at our arrival, making me feel as though I’ve just stopped at a friend’s house after school instead of into the back room at a strip club.

  It’s a bit of a letdown if I’m honest. I thought this meeting was going to be a bit more dramatic, but this woman looks like she runs a book club, not a strip club. The kind of book club that only discusses books with fade-to-black sex scenes or, worse, books with no romance at all. Ugh. Lydia doesn’t need me here for this. These two will be exchanging crockpot recipes while they sort out Rhys’ life for him with this pseudo-auction.