Claim
Ashley Suzanne
Ashley Suzanne
Claim
© 2014, Ashley Suzanne
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.
Photographer – Toski Covey of Toski Covey Photography
Cover Design – Sommer Stein of Perfect Pear Creative Cover
Editing – Tiffany Tillman of This Redhead Loves Books
Dedication
For my readers … who mean more to me than they’ll ever know. Thank you!
Chapter One
Loren
They say you’ll know when you meet Mr. Right. There won’t be any denying you’re supposed to be with one another. Everything will be perfect and fit together like a puzzle.
Well, I have a little piece of information to relay to them, whoever they are. No. Just no. I’ve been on my mission to find my perfect guy since I was in high school. Now that I’m twenty-five, I’m starting to give up hope. I’ve tried different varieties—flavors of men, if you will—and to no avail, I’m still single.
Never mind the fact that all my childhood friends are planning weddings and baby showers, I don’t even have a plus one. It’s infuriating. I’ve always succeeded—been ahead of the pack. Until now, that is. With not even a prospect in my sights, I’m tempted to settle for one of the jackasses I’ve dated up to this point.
Even with all this negativity thrown in my face, I still try. Put myself out there on each and every date. Make sure my bikini line and eyebrows are waxed, my legs are shaved and I probably should be buying stock in Victoria Secret’s underwear. I’m on my A game.
So when my friend, Norah, told me about some dating site she found where she happened to meet her fiancé, I decided to give it a shot. How hard could it be? Internet dating was my last resort. It had to work, right? I’d already scoured the bars, restaurants, sporting events … shit, I’d even gone so far as going to church with my nana, but came up empty handed.
And this is where I am now—sitting at my computer desk making a profile for myself, which is harder than you might think. There are so many in-depth questions I doubt anyone would read, let alone a man, but still, I make a valiant effort to answer each and every one without sounding vain or conceited.
What’s your idea of a perfect date?
Really? Is it too hard to want a man to show a little interest in you by thinking up something? Even if the date is boring and uneventful, the fact that he chose something based on what he thought you’d like … well, I guess that answers the question, doesn’t it?
Something original. Outside the box earns extra points.
And the questions only get more ridiculous from there. Favorite color? Band? Type of food? Destination? Seriously, isn’t the point of dating to get to know someone? Maybe this is where I’ve been screwing up all these years—trying to learn about someone after we’d met vs. knowing their mother’s maiden name and social security number prior to phone numbers being exchanged.
Yet, still, I sit here, following the directions word for word as I complete this damn form. Finally, when I’m nearing the end, the website asks for a photograph. Now, I’ve studied a few other profiles which seem to have a lot of traffic and you’d be surprised when I tell you my findings.
Or maybe you won’t.
The women subscribers tend to post selfies, from the neck up, probably to disguise any out of shape tummies or small breasts. Men are shallow, they can’t help it. That’s how we’ve raised them, ladies and gentlemen. But if you look at the male subscribers, you see a lot of far away shots, mostly of them wearing swim trunks, standing by a boat. My conclusion is one of three things. One—they really are dead sexy with abs of steel and have lots of money to buy boats. Two—their parents have money and they have fairly decent bodies which look better from far away. Or finally, three—they jacked someone else’s picture and are proudly displaying it as their own.
I’m sure I’m the cynic here, but I’m almost positive that number three is true more times than not.
And, against my better judgment, I’m still here … uploading a selfie I took earlier in the night. Standing just over five and a half feet with medium-length, chestnut-colored hair, matching eyes and high C cup breasts, I’m not out of shape or have a small chest, but why break a pattern that seems to be working. If the idea is to find a man, it’s best to give it a fair shake. If that means portraying myself as a selfie-taking twit, so be it. I’m in.
No shame in my game. It’s about to be husband time.
I just realized something. I’m just like all those women in the movies, but I’m much younger. Usually, this type of behavior doesn’t start until a woman’s nearing her mid-thirties, but here I am, barely getting started in life and obsessing about a husband.
I ignore my self-rationalization and click ‘submit’ on my brand spanking new, totally badass profile. The website gives me a notification that it could be up to two business days before I’m approved, but for now I can browse other members, I just won’t be able to message them. That’s cool, though. I’m always up for a good round of internet stalking. It’ll give me a lay of the land before I’m thrust into the dating pool, so to speak.
The first few pages of men are those of the uptight, banker’s hours, probably wears his socks to bed variety. Nothing exciting. Nothing to make me want to open their thumbnail. See, this is the thing with internet dating. For all I know, they could have taken a picture at a wedding and used it as their default, but because the entire world is so shallow and doesn’t really care to get to the depth of a person, those poor dudes are automatically ruled out. I’m no better than they are.
Somewhere around the fourth or fifth page, I find a profile I actually want to open. The thumbnail image is of a man—or at least what appears to be a man—wearing a pair of jeans and tight tee shirt, but it’s his smile that has me interested. With teeth showing, dimples deep enough to put dimes inside and the slight twinkle in his eye … it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen on this damn site. Opening the thumbnail, I begin to read through his profile, which is even more interesting than his picture.
Hey ladies, the name’s Nolan. I’m a football coach for a local middle school. I don’t really know why I’m on this site, but it seemed like the right thing to do. I’ve been married once, to my high school sweetheart, and it didn’t work out. Instead of being jaded, I’m giving this dating thing a go. I have to admit, I’m not really sure how this works. The only relationship I had started when I was fifteen, and there’s not much you can do at that age. So, here I am, wanting to get to know someone, maybe start again. If you’re interested in testing the waters, click that little box up there that says message. If not, I hope you find what you’re looking for.
Yeah, I’m sold. The honesty and realness of his bio are more than I ever hoped to find on a dating website. For all I know, it could be fake. He could be a serial killer living in his grandmother’s basement and eating squirrel for supper, but like he said, I’m going to choose to not be jaded.
I’m going to try. At least once. I’ll give it a shot.
Bookmarking the page, I close my laptop and set aside my dreams of dating Mr. Dimples until, at least, my profile is approved
and I can send him a message. The only other thing on my agenda for the day is catching up at dinner with my best friend, Cleo. Sunday night dinners are just something we’ve done since college, revolving around some kind of silly, childish notion that even after our lives began, we wouldn’t lose touch and go on without each other. For the last three years, it’s worked. I can count on one hand how many times we’ve had to cancel, and none of them were consecutive.
I rush through a shower, rake a comb through my hair while drying it and throw on a simple black dress with ballet flats—my usual Sunday night attire. Checking to make sure I have my keys, cell phone and driver’s license, I lock the door behind me and head to my car.
I arrive at the restaurant ten minutes late, as per usual, and walk inside like I own the place. Just because I have my eye on Mr. Dimples, doesn’t mean I don’t have people to impress. You never know where you’ll meet your soul mate. My friend Tonya met her husband in the tampon aisle at the grocery store. You never freaking know.
“Lo! Over here!” the petite blonde in the corner booth, that’s none other than my best friend, calls. I smile sweetly and make my way in her direction even though I want to choke her for drawing so much attention to me. Scooting in the opposite side of the table, I set my purse next to me and grab a menu from behind the salt and pepper shakers.
“Did you sign up for that website?” Of course she can’t wait five minutes before asking about my dating situation. I love her, almost more than my biological sister, but shit, can’t I order my drink before the twenty questions start?
Over the menu, I eye her, silently begging for this specific conversation to take a break, but she doesn’t take the hint. “Come on. Tell me. Norah said she told you about it and you agreed. Just tell me if you made a profile. Please.” Her doe eyes get me every time; I can’t deny her.
“Yep. I made it. Haven’t met anyone yet. I know that’s your next question. How about you? What’s going on with you? I was really busy this week and didn’t get to chat with you at all.” I do feel guilty about that. I was assigned a huge account for a national brand, and since I’m vying for the Director of Marketing, this project has to have my full attention, or I can kiss that promotion goodbye. But, with working my ass off comes ignoring my friends.
“About that,” she says, blushing the shade of the plastic table cloth.
“Go on.” I fold the menu closed, giving her my full attention. Very rarely does Cleo have news which embarrasses or makes her nervous to tell. I’m one hundred percent invested.
“I’ll just show you.” Turning around, she taps the man sitting in the booth behind us. When he turns around and grins at her, I already know. I have this sick, sixth sense that only kicks in when I’m turning into the only single woman on the planet.
“Loren, this is Kyle. Kyle, my best friend, Loren.” He extends his hand and I accept. On the outside, I’m excited for my friend, but on the inside, I’m wondering why the hell she didn’t prep me for this.
Kyle scoots in the booth with Cleo, draping his arm around her shoulders and kissing her on the cheek. The way she smiles up at him gives me mixed emotions. How long could she have been dating this guy for her to look at him that way? “So, how long have you guys been seeing each other?” Why not just ask and get it out of the way?
“I met Kyle a few weeks ago at a company retreat. You remember the one in New York. Well, come to find out, we work for the same company and he was just transferred here. We talked the whole time, and when he got here, we just knew.”
I nod and smile, listening along with her story, waiting for the situation to produce the red flags I’m waiting so patiently for, but alas, they don’t come. Everything seems perfect between them. His smile, much like Mr. Dimples, is genuine and loving, which just happens to perfectly match hers.
“I’m so happy for you guys. I can’t wait to get to know you better, Kyle. Best friend duties and all.”
“Looking forward to it, Loren,” he says, not taking his eyes off Cleo. That small sentiment, him not even glancing in my direction, I’ve seen it before with other friends. Cleo’s found her guy. These two are going to make it. He’s smitten, as is she.
From my purse, my phone chimes. Since these two are in their own little world, I waste no time digging around in my bag for it. Opening the notification, it shows an email from the dating site, alerting me that I have been approved. I can now proceed with full member privileges.
Looks like when I get home I’m going to get to message Mr. Dimples.
This might be a great night for me, too.
Chapter Two
Loren
As soon as I walk in the door, the very first thing I do is drop everything on the couch and open my laptop. It probably seems kind of immature, but Mr. Dimples is the only thing I could think of the entire time I was out. I need to know more about him. Is he a fraud? Is he real? Could he be my Mr. Right? I’ll never know unless I reach out to him.
Pulling open the bookmark with his page, the little icon in the upper right hand corner that says ‘message’ screams at me. And then I pause for just a second. What if he’s all wrong? What if I’m excited about absolutely nothing? Hell, here I was so excited to message him and now I can’t think of anything other than the worst case scenario.
Fuck it.
Nolan,
Hi *waves*, I’m Loren. I’m not exactly sure how this all works, but I really liked your profile. I’d like the chance to get to know you better. If you’d like, email me back.
Talk to you soon,
Loren
I wait for a few minutes to hit send, unsure if I sound moronic or if this is how messages are supposed to be sent. After weighing all my options and making sure everything’s spelled correctly, I hit send, then hold my breath, as if he’s going to respond immediately. When the little envelope on my homepage lights up indicating a new message, I’m pretty sure my heart stops.
Frantically, I wiggle my fingers across the mouse pad, getting frustrated when the cursor doesn’t move. Finally, it does and I open the envelope. Disappointment hovers over me when I realize it’s not Mr. Dimples who’s messaged me, but some other man with the screen name ‘NineInches’. This is exactly what I feared when I put this damn profile up.
Against my better judgment, I open the message and nearly fall out of my seat when the picture loads. His penis. Not even a nice one. More short and fat, not nearly as long as I’d like it to be, with razor burn where his pubic hair should be. Well, at least it looks like razor burn. For all I know, the dude could have a raging STD. I barely see the note attached to the terrible shot of the fake ‘NineInches’.
Just a little something to make your day brighter.
Xoxo, NineInches
I laugh. Out loud. Does this misinformed man with bad measuring skills really think this makes my day? More like it makes me want to go back to one of the guys I’ve dated before. I know they’re well equipped below the belt. All this liar did is made me skeptical to online dating and how most men who utilize this type of service are only in it to deceive and maybe get a few pictures from unsuspecting women to pad their spank bank.
Suddenly, I regret messaging Mr. Dimples. I think I like the idea of him best. If I actually talk to him, he has the capability to ruin this whole experience for me. If he’s a fifty-year-old accountant living with his mom, I’m liable to freak out. Possibly punch something.
Deciding to resign for the night, or I’ll be sitting here refreshing the screen every five minutes, I close the laptop, walk into my bedroom and fall into my waiting bed. Staring at the popcorn ceiling, all kinds of interesting things race through my mind as I try to figure out if I’m going to stand up to put on some PJ’s or if I’m sleeping in this dress. Could Mr. Dimples be real? Is he going to have a small package like the guy who never learned how to properly use a ruler? What is my family going to think if I tell them I’m online dating? Do I really care what they think? What am I going to have for lunch tomorrow?
This is why I can’t sleep well. My brain never shuts off. It’s constantly running with all kinds of useless questions that I’m never going to need to know the answers to. But it’s what makes me, me, right? There’s probably a medication out there for this. I might want to look into it.
Somewhere between types of sandwiches and trying to remember the lyrics to a Backstreet Boys song, I pass out, where I assume my dreams are a lot like my insane thoughts, only I can’t remember them. I wake just after six, thankful that I feel rested for a change. Today’s one of the first pitch meetings I have with the execs and I’m extremely nervous. If you were to add tired into that mix … it’s a recipe for failure.
I promise myself I’m not going to look and see if Mr. Dimples messaged me back, but as soon as I crack my Dell and open my email, the notification saying “You’ve received a new message from Nolan” has all those thoughts going straight out the window. Pondering if I should open it before or after my shower, I determine I can read and respond to his message while I’m waiting for my hair to dry, so I run the water in the bathroom and take the quickest shower I’ve ever taken.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in front of my computer and opening the message I spent all night dreading. After a few deep breaths, I click ‘read’ and scroll through his reply.
Hi Loren,
Thanks so much for messaging me. I read your profile and it seems you’re a bit sarcastic, which I happen to like. It’s refreshing. Too many women on sites like this try to put out this persona that they’re either tough as nails or completely pliable. It’s nice to see someone comfortable enough in their own skin to let their personality shine through.
I’d really like to meet you. A friend of mine is playing at a bar downtown this weekend if you’d like to come. Please feel free to bring a friend if you feel weird meeting some guy off the internet. Actually, please bring a friend. It’ll make me feel better if you have someone to take you home if you think I’m a creep.
Claim: Volume One Page 1