One Click Love

by T Gephart

  Ignoring my resolve, my phone lit up again with more incoming messages vying for my attention. And much to my amusement, I wasn’t as pissed as I initially was. If I didn’t know myself better, I’d think I was mildly entertaining the thought of checking out some of those messages. Not because I thought I’d end up with anyone, but because the curiosity was getting the better of me.

  “Here you go.” Riley burst in, balancing both a cup of coffee and a cake-filled plate in one hand. “I know you’re trying to watch your waistline, so we cut you a smaller piece. Wouldn’t want you to get fat as well as old.” His face morphed into a horrified grimace before settling into a smirk.

  I didn’t bother shoving the phone away, folding my hands across my chest as he lowered the coffee and cake onto my desk. “I’m not fucking old.”

  “No? Must be the surly attitude then that’s got me confused.” His eyes dropped to my screen, the dating website still open on my internet browser.

  I waited, expecting some wiseass comment because that kind of material would have been too hard for him to resist. He knew I’d been looking, and whether it was for curiosity or any other reason wouldn’t have meant shit, but surprisingly his eyes snapped back up to mine and his mouth stayed shut.

  “Something you wanna say, North?” I asked, because I was slightly unnerved by the lack of comment. It wasn’t like him to bite his tongue and I liked it better when I could see the trouble coming.

  “Well, I better get back in the bay. Tibbs needs help checking hoses.” He tipped his chin to my desk. “Enjoy.”

  And without so much as another fucking word, he turned on his heel and he left.

  His hasty exit was so out of character it had me uneasy. And what the hell did he mean, enjoy? Was he eluding to the coffee and cake or the freaking website?

  “Jesus.” I grabbed the phone, and against my better judgment claimed the goddamn profile. “I already know I’m going to regret this.”

  Hayden

  THE LAST TIME I’d been asked out by a man I’d worn Levi 501s, Doc Marten boots and a see-through lace T-shirt. My padded push-up bra had turned my sweet little B cups into majestic Cs, while my dark brown matte lipstick hadn’t budged despite the bottles of Zima I’d been swallowing all night. Surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke and CK One, I’d locked eyes with a guy across a crowded dancefloor while Pearl Jam blasted out of the speakers. My heartbeat quickened as he threaded himself through the gyrating bodies, not dropping his gaze as he made his way over to me. His lip ring caught the light, twinkling against his beautiful lips as he leaned in closer and offered to buy me another drink. I hadn’t even thought twice, abandoning my Zima on the bar—and my common sense—and running my hands up and down his arms. They were toned, not overly muscular but athletic, and covered in tattoos. And instead of buying me a drink, we made out in a dark corner.

  He was magnetic, and dangerous, and made my toes curl with just his kiss. So obviously when our lips finally separated and he asked me out, I readily agreed. Little did I know that ten years after that first kiss in that crowded nightclub, I’d end up Cooper’s wife.

  Of course, when we took the walk down the aisle, the lip ring had been removed and his tattoos were usually covered by starched white shirts, and that wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Much to my mom and dad’s delight, he decided to go back to college, me having to work two retail jobs just to keep our rent paid while he gave up on the rebellion and became a cog in the machine we both used to despise. I got it, I did. We were no longer in our twenties and at some point we needed to grow up. But while Cooper was praying at the altar of corporate America, he forgot about me.

  And I’m a little ashamed to admit I forgot about me too. My dreams were put on hold while I did whatever it was that made him happy. I stopped worrying about taking care of myself and gained thirty pounds, dying my hair blonde with drugstore bleach instead of maintaining my natural light brown at the salon because it was cheaper and easier to hide the grays. And sex . . . well I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been touched. It had to have been years. YEARS since he’d made me feel like anything other than his fat, boring wife who hadn’t even bothered to finish community college.

  When the hell did I give up? I couldn’t even remember how it happened, and other than looking in the mirror and being horrified at what was looking back at me, there wasn’t a lot I’d gotten from the divorce. And no, it wasn’t the extra weight I was carrying or the mediocre home-dye job that made me cringe. It was the lack of myself that I saw in the reflection. I was a ghost. A faint echo of who I used to be, and I vowed never to let anyone—let alone a man—ever make me feel like that again.

  I dried my eyes for the last time, promising I was done feeling sorry for myself.

  It had been a year since I’d gotten the courage to move out and file for divorce, the finalized paperwork having arrived earlier that morning.

  And I was free.

  “Well, at least you didn’t have kids with him.” My sister-in-law, Gayle, joined me on my bed, handing me a glass of champagne. “That would’ve made it worse.”

  “Yeah, probably the only smart thing I did. Although, people usually have to have sex for that, and let’s just say it wasn’t high on either of our lists of priorities.” Although, as much as it had been my decision to keep my womb unoccupied, I knew my chances of becoming a mother had become remote. It wasn’t so much a regret as a slight ache in my heart. Still, the impending menopause my mother warned me was looming at my door wasn’t helping either.

  “So, what are you going to do to celebrate?” Gayle lifted her flute to her lips, savoring the champagne. “You want to go out? Have a nice dinner? See a movie?”

  As adequate as all those options sounded, I’d just spent the better part of twenty years with one hand on the snooze button and I didn’t want to continue the trend.

  “I want a one-night stand.”

  Gayle coughed, the champagne getting caught in her throat. “Sister, you’ve got to warn a girl before you come out with something like that.”

  Maybe she had a point, but I’d gone from my middle-finger-in-the-air twenties, to my apologetic-conforming-self-conscious thirties. And at forty-two, I think I was done being polite. Besides, we’d already established I hadn’t had a male-provided orgasm in God knows how long. And if that was how I wanted to ring in my renaissance, then I was allowed. Hell, Cooper hadn’t waited as long. And while I had no proof he’d been unfaithful during our marriage, he’d seemed to quickly replace me after I’d left. She was the typical Stepford-wife clone, perfectly coiffured hair but probably sucked dick like a Dyson. And she was welcome to him.

  But unlike him, I didn’t want a replacement.

  In fact, a relationship was the last thing I wanted. Please. I wanted to play the field a little, enjoy myself, and after being condemned to one average penis for so long, I was looking forward to spending a little time at the buffet.

  “I’m serious, Gayle. I want sex. No strings. Just someone who is going to make me feel good for a night. I don’t even care if they lie to me, it’s not like we’ll ever see each other again. So give me some ideas. Tinder? Bumble? Where should I start looking? Because even I know going to a bar and finding a guy is no longer a thing.”

  She nodded, commiserating that internet dating was very much my reality. “Yep, it’s all about swiping and finding matches these days. Guess we need to find you a site and set up a profile.”

  That’s what I loved about my sister-in-law, there was no judgment. My brother, Matthew, had gotten lucky when he’d found her, she was the best. Cooper had won custody of most of our friends after the divorce—I was the whore who left my husband. And those I’d had before marriage had been lost during my boring, need-to-please stage. Which meant I came up kind of empty on my contact list, Gayle rapidly becoming my best friend. So I guess I’d gotten really lucky too.

  Setting my glass on the dresser, I pulled out my laptop and typed online dating
into the search bar. I was positive I was going to be inundated with a million options, but despite what millennials thought, people my age did know how to use the Internet, and we still wanted to have sex.

  “Oh! What about Date My Friend?” She pointed to one of the sponsored ads. “I’ve heard really good things about it. They run background checks on everyone on the site. Your profile can be active while they run the search but anyone found with outstanding warrants, avoiding credit collection agencies or felony charges gets booted and/or handed over to the police. Also, while you need to put in a real name and Social Security number, it’s kept private. No need to exchange personal information, everything goes through an app. So if he ends up being a jerk, you don’t need to file a restraining order.”

  Had to admit, keeping as much of myself private did seem pretty appealing. While my divorce settlement hadn’t been huge, the sale of our house had given me enough for a down payment on a small, one-bedroom condo in Inwood. Hard to believe I’d been able to afford to stay in Manhattan, but property prices were favorable, and I’d scored an adorable little place in a gorgeous neighborhood. I’d spent the first part of my marriage supporting my husband and the rest of it more than contributing my share to the mortgage. I was done paying someone else’s bills.

  “Yep, the less they know, the better.” I’d already clicked on the website and was reading the fine print.

  It was exactly how Gayle had explained. Real information had to be provided and you were free to use the service while they ran you through their “checks.” Then you could be handed over to the appropriate authorities if you were anything other than the model citizen you claimed to be. But there was only one catch, a friend had to sign you up.

  Hmmm. Well that was interesting.

  “I guess you’re going to have to do this.” I swiveled the laptop toward Gayle. “Apparently a friend needs to create the profile.”

  Gayle smiled, cracking her knuckles. “Probably because friends are better at seeing all the good qualities.”

  I rolled my eyes, not needing to hear yet another pep talk. “Just don’t lie. No need to give my poor prospective fling a heart attack when he’s expecting a tall, thin runway model and I show up.”

  She elbowed me, her fingers already busy typing. “Just shut up and let me write.”

  Even though it killed me, I didn’t edit the profile once I’d claimed it. While Gayle was incredibly generous in her description of me and my virtues, I would probably be the first to admit I wasn’t exactly objective when it came to my selling points.

  Those thirty extra pounds didn’t do wonders for my five-foot-five frame, and while my self-dyed blonde hair didn’t look out of place with my gray eyes and pale skin, it was a far cry from the luscious, glorious locks I’d seen on Fifth Avenue.

  And yes, I knew I wasn’t ugly. But I just wasn’t feeling great about my body—like almost every woman in America—and was just being honest about it. Still, curvy women with ordinary features got laid all the time, so clearly I just hadn’t found my target market.

  Shifting through prospective “dates” later that evening wasn’t as much fun as it sounded. What I hoped would be like flicking through an IKEA catalog, felt more like looking at mug shots. Firstly, I didn’t believe half those profile pictures were accurate. Maybe like twenty years ago when the photo had been taken, but there was literally no way a forty-five-year-old man looked like that. Not unless he’d had some major surgery done. And I was totally cool with that—hey, I wouldn’t mind getting a little nip and tuck if I had some spare cash—but I highly suspected Rob from Staten Island hadn’t gone down that road.

  And if the whole photo bait-and-switch wasn’t enough to turn me off, there was the bullshit their friends had written about them. Likes long walks on the beach, looking for my other half, enjoys the theater and ballet—please, most of these guys were just looking for a quick lay and they—or their friends—were regurgitating what they thought women my age wanted to hear. Newsflash, not every woman over the age of thirty is interested in a man “to grow old” with. We weren’t a Ming vase that needed to be put on a shelf and adored.

  Some of us liked to be fucked. Properly and thoroughly fucked, so that we didn’t have to fake an orgasm. Sure, slow and passionate love was nice too, but it didn’t mean that was all we wanted. And why the hell did anyone think we wanted long walks on the beach? We weren’t border collies. And screw the theater and the ballet, that would be hours of my life I’d never get back. I’d rather a decent meal in a non-crowded restaurant or better still, pizza on the couch.

  Wasn’t there a man who was decent looking, knew how to have a good time, and maybe—if I wasn’t asking for too much—up for starting a little trouble? Someone who—

  HOLY SHIT.

  My throat tried to swallow but I was having a hard time of it while my eyes widened.

  He was . . . well, there was no other word to describe it but breathtaking. John McPherson was a forty-five-year-old firefighter—it didn’t explicitly say but if the uniform shots were anything to go by—who gave new meaning to hot. He had a warm smile and kind eyes, but left nice on the side of the road and became something else. He was toned and muscular, his body obviously conditioned either for work or for pleasure. Please God, let it be pleasure. And his profile—absolutely nothing about walking or soul mates.

  My finger hovered over the MATCH button, wondering if a man like that wasn’t looking for some twenty-something supermodel to take to the Fireman’s Ball. Not that I knew if fireman’s balls were still a thing, but if they were I bet he would look amazing in his dress blues. As for the rest of his uniforms, he was rocking the fuck out of those turnouts.

  There had to be at least seven or eight photos, each of them more amazing than the last, and every single one of them showcasing his assets. They didn’t have the same vibe as the other guys, the resolution of the photos definitely from the current decade as well as showing him from all angles. Not like the kind of photo spread that was conducive to hiding physical flaws, he was either exceptionally good looking or the photos were of someone else. But those eyes. Man, something about them was just so trustworthy I couldn’t believe it was anyone other than the firefighter he’d been described as. If someone was catfishing, they’d gone to some serious effort. Of course hot didn’t disqualify you from being a rude asshole with shitty conversational skills, luckily I was interested in a different kind of oral.

  Pushing away old insecurities, I clicked on his name with a steady resolution to stop giving a fuck. The worst thing he could do is reject me and I’d been numbed to that kind of hurt after years of indifference, so who cared what a stranger thought. And, if by some miracle he was looking to play with someone closer to his own age, then I’d have missed out simply by not taking the chance. I was soooooo done with missing out.

  Deciding I was too old to play games, and with no patience to learn what was acceptable dating ritual in the current decade, I accompanied my marked interest with a note.

  John,

  Not sure how feisty I am now, but I’m fighting my way back. Little scares me though, and I’m not someone who breaks easily. Not interested in playing mind games, so if your idea of a good time is heading to a club where we pretend to be into the scene, then it’s probably for the best we don’t meet. I expect honesty and a half-way decent orgasm I don’t have to give myself. Other than that, open to negotiation.

  Let me know if you’re game,

  Hayden

  Then deciding to not wait for a response either way, I closed my laptop and went to retrieve that half bottle of champagne Gayle had left in my refrigerator. Dating was less complicated and more fun the first time around, although I was able to appreciate being in my pajamas and not having to wear Spanx as I sipped on my drink.

  See, there was always a positive. I just had to find it.

  Mack

  I SIMULTANEOUSLY LOVED and hated the end of a shift.

  Those twenty-four hours eithe
r dragged ass or flew at lightning speed, and both scenarios left you fucking tired. I rarely got any sleep at the stationhouse, too busy making sure shit was running at its optimum level and keeping my men in check. No shit, some of them were like fucking toddlers and you’d think they didn’t have enough to do. But there wasn’t a one I’d trade. Nope, when that bell rung and they piled into the engines, they left their bullshit at the door and became some of the finest men I’d ever seen. That they were mine—well, that just made me a little prouder.

  Part of me hated not going out on the calls. As an officer and senior staff, I spent a lot of my time pushing papers around and dealing with administration. It was a necessary evil, and a team is only as good as their leader. Plus, I’d hoped the change would’ve kept my marriage together, but that was a losing battle that probably went on longer than it should.

  “Want to go grab some breakfast, Chief? I have an hour before I have to be home to get Quinn to our appointment.” Riley stood at my door, already in civilian clothes, keys dangling from his fingers.

  My head lifted, meeting his eyes as I shook my head. “And risk you being late? Your wife will have your balls and then come after mine. Go be a daddy and tell the little sucker hi from me. And make sure you call me so I know everything’s kosher. It could be any day now. That last month is a crap shoot.”

  Riley laughed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “You’re telling me. Had the bag packed for over a month and make Quinn run drills just to be sure. Never thought I’d be this anal, I swear I’m turning into you.”

  “There’s worse things you could be.”

  “Yeah. There is.” He swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. “Look, Chief, about that dating thing.”

  “North, if this is the part where you tell me to go get laid, save it. We’re both tired.” Besides, last thing I wanted to do was admit I was considering it. Fuck, then I’d never hear the end of it. Nope, he could go on believing I was still annoyed while I worked out whether I wanted to look through a million messages.