by Julia Kent
“KINO is all about quietly touching you. They start with the shoulder. The knee. The arm. Then they move on to brush the side-boob, the hip, and so forth. They’re testing your bounds.”
“So I give it back?”
“But on your terms, Suz.” Kari started giggling.
Aha. Suzanne was starting to understand.
“What else? What’s next?”
“Sexual dialing.”
“Like a booty call?”
“No, no. He’ll just dial it up. Start touching you on the belly, the breast, and so forth. Making it clear he wants sex.”
“Eww.”
“You know how cross-examination works in a courtroom, right?”
“What does that have to do with my awkward date?”
“Think about it, Suz. Use his techniques against him.”
Epiphany. Lightbulb.
“Got it.”
“Next, he’ll argue with you about some stupid thing.”
“He’s already done that. Who cares if I drink white wine with beef? He got really weird about that one.”
“It’s called ‘qualification.’ They do it to be all alpha and prove they’re not boring. He’ll do it again.”
“Too late.”
“And the final move is to get you into bed or get your number, but he’ll do it in a way that makes you think he’s rejecting you.”
“He already has my number.”
“Then he’s going for the pink hole.”
“Kari!”
“Well...he is.”
“KINO, dialing, qualification, pick-up.” Suzanne memorized it like she was studying for the bar.
“You’ll do fine. I kind of pity the guy.”
“I hate this.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Suzanne just sighed.
Kari began to giggle. “Suz? How much makeup do you have in your purse?”
“Makeup? I’m not wasting one more second on looking nice for that loser!”
“No, no. I have an idea. Shake out all your makeup.”
Thirty seconds later, Suzanne stared at two lipsticks, a mascara tube, some rouge, and a metallic-blue eyeliner left over from the last time she saw her teen niece.
She recited the items to Kari.
“Unbutton the top two buttons of your blouse.”
“My nipples will show!”
“That’s the point.”
“What?”
“Can you picture an online mail order bride? The kind on those dating sites where—”
“The kind that men who use PUA techniques frequent?”
“Exactly. Whore yourself up. With makeup, I mean. Go for it. Go overboard. He wants a hot woman? Give him one. Scare him off.”
Suzanne looked at her phone with an increasingly dubious expression. “You’re not punking me, are you?”
“I swear. Trust me.”
She picked up the mascara wand and applied three coats, until her eyelashes tangled in her eyebrow hairs. “Mascara done.”
“Now run the mascara wand through your eyebrows.”
“WHAT?”
“Really go for it. Trust me. He’s going to be the one on edge when you walk back out, all confident and done to the nines.”
“I’ll be done to the ninety-nines if I mascara-tint my eyebrows.”
“You know those Facetuning apps we make fun of? When people from our high schools use the makeup apps on their selfies and think no one will notice that their nose now looks like an eraser crashed into it and their eyes have the glow of an Avatar character?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re aiming for a real-life version of that, Suzanne.”
Two minutes later and she stared at a grotesque version of herself, hair pulled up in a rough updo, eyes like raccoon claws, eyebrows darker than Elvira’s, and lipstick so red she might as well join the pageant circuit.
“I look like a woman Donald Trump would date.”
“SUCCESS!” Kari shouted. “Take a picture and text me.”
Suzanne did.
Ten seconds later, she heard a low whistle from Kari. “Oh, Suzanne. You’re...breathtaking.”
“Yeah. I can’t breathe when I look in the mirror, either. Kari, what if a client comes here and sees me like this?”
“When did you start caring what your clients think?”
Good point.
“Open your shirt more. Show a little lace.”
Suzanne did.
“And add one more layer of lipstick.”
“I’ll need paint thinner to take it off if I do that.”
“Yes.”
Suzanne complied.
“You did it. Now go out there like you’re on the prowl. And use all the PUA techniques against him.”
Suzanne ended the call, shoved her phone in her purse, used the facilities, and went back to the table with a heavy heart.
Even if she was hardened and cynical, even if she knew Steve was using her for business information, it didn’t take away the sting.
Every date was a balloon filled with hope. Sometimes the balloon was filled with helium.
This time, it was full of shit.
And when it popped...
Squaring her shoulders, she looked for the table, her vision now obscured by so much mascara that everything in the restaurant looked like the woods from The Blair Witch Project.
As she bent her knees to sit, Steve said, “Cue your rescue text in five, four, three, two,—”
Bzzz.
He smirked, clearly expecting her to be embarrassed, pleased with himself for the barb.
She shrugged. “Can I help it if my friend has a bad case of premature emasculation?”
Steve paled.
She looked at the phone.
Check his Twitter stream, Suz. That guy’s a total ass.
Steve did a double take across the table and peered at her, cataloguing her face, examining her neck and breasts with a wolfish intensity as she tapped her Twitter app, remembered his handle, and—there it was.
A stream of real time texts over the last twenty minutes.
She’s about a five. Could be a seven if she tried harder.
White wine with beef? Amateur.
She served in the military. I spent six years at Boy Scout camp all summer and learned more about discipline than she seems to know. Maybe I’ll have to discipline *her*.
The tweets were all aimed at a handle called PUAsucksess, but good old Steve had forgotten to put a dot in front of them, therefore making them public. It was clear from his behavior that he thought those tweets were private.
She looked up, a slow burn, to find him grinning at her.
And then it happened. Kari totally called it.
The hand.
The hand reached out and tapped her knee, an exploratory touch.
You might say he was feeling her out.
Literally.
KINO, huh?
She reached across and gently poked his ear.
His grin faltered but he scooted his chair closer, eyes on her white wine.
Tinny laughter preceded his bountiful condescension. “Didn’t you learn about wine? I thought it was a prerequisite in law school.” Touch.
“No. I studied law in law school.” Poke. She poked his shoulder twice. He startled, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
“Surely you know that moving in certain business circles is all about cultivating the right taste,” he said. His palm went to her knee, staying there.
Oh, God. This was worse than that blind date with the guy who kissed his ferret on the lips.
“No.” She cut him off, fast. “Moving in certain business circles is about being good at business,” she replied, her hand going to his chest, palm over his heart.
His eyebrows shot up, eyes widening.
She grinned.
“But taste is taste,” he said, ignoring the comment, looking down at her hand and licking his lips. “It is cultivated and rarified, and white wine
and red meat together is like—”
“A fish riding a bicycle.” She began randomly pushing on his chest, pecs, shoulders, neck and earlobe, like he was a human version of a sheet of bubble wrap.
Pop.
Pop pop pop.
“Exactly.” He said the word like one praises a small child who has acquiesced, except his voice trailed off. “Drinking white wine with beef is a sign that you’re, well—”
“Uncouth?” Suzanne finished off her glass.
His nose wrinkled. “Uneducated.” He slid the hand on her knee up her thigh, his other hand reaching for her stomach.
Sexual dialing.
Kari wasn’t just right.
She was a psychic.
“Don’t worry. I’ll teach you,” he crooned.
“Teach me?” Her eyes widened. Oh, brother. Deciding to play along, she pretended to be appreciative. “That would be great, Steve. I am already learning so much from you.”
Like the fact that she’d rather date a guy who kisses his ferrets.
This was the problem with having Gerald as an ex.
Ten years.
Ten damn long years, and no one else had ever measured up.
Not that Steve Raleigh was even close.
“Hee hee!” she said, poking him in the stomach like he was the Pillsbury Doughboy. Twisting slightly, she broke the contact between his palm and her thigh.
“What are you doing?” he grunted, affronted by her finger poking.
“This!” She poked him again. “Just being friendly!”
His eyes narrowed, but he reached for her abdomen, clearly undaunted.
She dropped her napkin in his lap, “accidentally” overreaching for it, her half-closed hand colliding with his crotch with more force than he expected.
“Ow!”
“Sorry. I guess I’m not good at being friendly.”
He let a small glare come through, then recovered, leaning in, trying yet again. “You’re captivating in a way that—”
She bopped him on the nose, then pretended to “steal” it, her thumb poking out between her index and middle fingers. “Got your nose!”
Bop.
“Gave it back.”
He looked at her like she was crazy.
Progress.
Then barely masked anger. Strategically, if he was dating to manipulate his way into bigger and better deals on the business circuit, he had to be nice to her. Had to take whatever she dished out.
“I would love to see how we can mutually teach each other,” he said, drinking his wine.
“What do you have to offer?” She sat up slightly, eyes drifting down his body, ostentatiously stopping at his lap.
“You’re...bold.” The facade was beginning to crack.
“I’m me.” She shrugged, taking a bite of hearts of palm, the cold slide of chilled vegetable highlighting how bizarre the past hour had been. From seeing her ex to seeing his opposite.
“Does it work?” he asked, sitting back and pulling on his tie and cuff links.
“Does what work?”
“The aggressive feminist act.”
Okay. Gloves off.
“Shall we get to the point, then?” she said, shoving a piece of chilled marinated carrot in her mouth. Might as well get something in her poor stomach.
“The point?”
“You’re not here to get in my pants, Steve. You’re here to get into my client portfolio.”
Most unctuous men would have spluttered and denied, gone out of their way to protest that they would never do such a thing.
Not Steve Raleigh.
One corner of his mouth curled up. His eyes shifted, darting around the room, assessing the layout.
And then he leaned forward, eyes on her breasts, and whispered, “You’re not really my type, Suzanne. But I would love to be friends?”
The Qualification. The negative close. Wow. He was a paint-by-numbers guy.
Suzanne had to give him credit. He exhibited more male prowess than she expected. The guy was a typical frat boy, the follower, the clinger who did whatever he was told for the sake of pack mentality. She knew the type well.
She’d commanded hundreds of guys like Steve.
And she knew that she’d be in charge in the bedroom, too.
Not that it would ever get to that point.
“You’re here to network. Not to screw me. Admit it.”
“I’m here for the same reason you’re here, Suzanne.”
“Which reason is that, Steve?” she asked as he helped himself to a big chunk of red meat.
“Don’t be coy.”
Coy was a word that no one had ever applied to her.
“Coy?”
“You looked me up. It’s cute of you to say you didn’t, but you did.”
“I didn’t.”
He smirked. “Whatever. You know that my bank and your firm have enormous potential with the MacAlister account.”
Here it came.
“MacAlister.” She knew the account well. It was her baby.
“I know the heirs to the company are in a vicious fight. We’re invested—deep.”
We, she assumed, meant Steve. Not his firm. She knew how investment bankers worked.
“And you’re looking for insider information?”
He had the decency to pretend to be shocked.
“What? No. Of course not. I would never, ever violate the law.” His voice was steady as a level. Was he purring? “Just two colleagues getting to know each other better, chatting about work, becoming more intimately acquainted. If we happen to discuss the MacAlister account, it’s pure coincidence.”
Coincidence.
She’d had quite enough coincidences for one day, thank you very much.
A part of her wished this had really been just about Steve using his PUA techniques to get in her pants. As disgusting as the synchronized, slimy gestures were, the idea that he used those techniques as a gateway to get into her business network made it all worse.
A new server appeared, a young woman with a bouncy ponytail. Shift change, apparently. “Ready for the dessert menu? Coffee? Another—”
“We’re ready for the check,” Suzanne and Steve said in unison.
At least they had one thing in common.
He gave her an irritated smirk. “You’re hard core. Nothing like most women I date.”
“What are most women you date like?”
He began to take a breath, halting midway, the puff of air artificially cut off. The sound was like someone being scared on a very cold morning.
“Not like you.”
“How tautological.”
“You don’t need to pull out grad school words to prove your intelligence. I know what that means.”
“I wouldn’t have used the word if I’d thought you didn’t know the meaning.” She touched his hand, smiling.
He flinched. From the look on his face, he clearly didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.
“Here’s the check!” Chirpy the Server announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Steve picked it up, eyed Suzanne, then sat there.
Saving him the trouble, she pulled three twenties out of her purse and set them in the check folder. Her half. He matched it, remaining silent.
Without another word, they walked out of the restaurant. Expecting to separate at the covered entrance to the restaurant, Suzanne was surprised when Steve followed her up the stairs and onto the sidewalk, side by side.
“So,” he said, moving closer, coming in for a kiss.
Oh, no.
No no no.
Aside from the fact that there was no way that man’s tongue was getting anywhere near her, if she kissed him right now all the lipstick she wore would make him slide off onto the curb.
“Where’s your car?” he asked, smiling at her in a way that made her love her dog even more.
“I took the T.”
He shuddered. “How can you stand it?”
“You drive into the city every day?”
“No. I live in Back Bay now,” he crowed.
“And you have a car?” That was overkill.
“Of course! A Beemer.”
Of course.
She began a slow walk back toward the arts center, the ground dark with a light rain that must have fallen during their short dinner. A handful of dive bars speckled the way, mixed in with a fancy coffee shop, a bead store, a head shop, a co-working center and an ancient dry cleaner.
“Suzanne, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” Steve announced, his voice contritely pompous. How the hell did he manage that contradiction?
“Yes?”
He reached for her elbow. She took her finger and spelled out the word ‘asshole’ in cursive on his chest.
He let go.
“I believe I gave you the wrong impression with this date.”
She kept walking, but watched him, giving him her full attention as one does with toddlers and men wearing Jason masks.
“Yes?” she urged him. Long past the point of being romantic, the date had turned comical. At least she’d have a good story, as Kari often said after spectacularly bad dates.
“I didn’t seek you out because of your partner status at your firm.”
“You didn’t?”
“Not initially. Your picture was gorgeous and your personal statement caught my eye.”
She laughed.
“My best friend wrote that.”
He perked up. “Is she single?”
Sliding to a halt, she was simultaneously grateful and furious when his hands reached out to steady her, her fingers gripping his forearm as one of his hands slid around her waist. Righting herself quickly, she spiraled out of his grasp.
“Can we get a selfie before you go?” Steve asked, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I have my selfie stick and we can—”
She grabbed her phone and pulled up his Twitter stream.
She came out of the bathroom looking like a goddess.
Her hand’s on my crotch. Score!
Pic to follow to prove I bagged her.
Just then, the door to a bar a few feet away opened, spilling neon light and the raucous sounds of sports games and billiards into the city streets. A dark-haired man accompanied by a bald friend came into the light, then shadows, both of them tall, one bulkier and more muscular, big and rippled with—
No.
“Suzanne?”
Gerald.
“STEVE?”
Declan.
Her hands flew to her face. She looked like Pennywise the Clown married Tammy Faye Bakker.