by Lexi Scott
The waitress hurries over a second later with a double round of shots.
“Roxy told me to tell you welcome home and the bourbon is on the house,” the waitress says, still looking pretty awestruck.
“Please tell her thank you, and that I better see her at my show next week,” Tracey says, raising one shot to a woman behind the bar, I’m guessing Roxy, and downing it in one neat swallow.
“That’s… That’s incredible. Your career. It’s amazing.” I mean it.
She twists her hands together and sighs. “It is and it isn’t. It’s a mixed bag, if you want to know the truth. I always wanted my career to break out this way, but I never thought about what it would really mean. Leaving Sage for months on end? Having private pictures of me pop up on the internet? Being hounded by paparazzi?” She shudders, just a slight tremble of her shoulders. “Enough depressing talk.” She holds up her other shot. “Last one. I’m not about to crash when I have someone as sexy as you on my bike. I need you to make it back to my place in one piece.”
The shot rolls down the wrong way, and I choke and cough like a madman. Tracey’s throaty laugh is sweet and helps dissolve some of my piercing humiliation.
Our waitress brings us the tray of mussels, but before we can dig in, the band starts up and Tracey grabs my hand.
“Dance with me, Cohen!”
Like I said before, I doubt many people tell this woman no. I follow her to the dance floor and thank whatever gods allowed me to inherit my parents’ decent sense of rhythm.
The beat kicks in, deep and frenzied. Tracey puts her hands over her head, then pulls them back down her face, her neck, lower, letting them trail along every curve with excruciating slowness. Suddenly the music changes. I don’t think I would have noticed except for the fact that Tracey has snapped to attention and is staring at the stage. My arms are still loose around her waist, and I follow her line of sight.
A guy with a shaved head and a lot of piercings and tattoos looks at her with possessive eyes, nods once, and straps his guitar on.
“Someone you know?” I ask.
She presses her lips together. “That would be Sage’s father. My soon to be ex-husband.” Her eyes flutter back to him, then to the floor. He’s looking right at her. “I’m sorry. He’s supposed to be touring with his band in Europe. He was in Stockholm two days ago. I had no idea he was back in Silver Strand.” She clears her throat. “Hey, don’t let this ruin the night. Let’s keep dancing,” she insists.
And we dance. We dirty dance. Like our moves would make the most risqué exotic dancer blush. And it’s more than obvious that this is a show…for the dude who looks like he’s going to jump off the stage and bash me over the head with his guitar.
When the song is over, the crowd goes wild, and Tracey puts a hand to her throat, her smile directed my way, but her eyes glued on her soon-to-be ex.
“I’m dying of thirst. Let’s grab a beer.”
She’s still staring at him, and I realize there’s no question: this date is officially over. And I need an escape plan.
“You stay here. I’ll fight the crowds and get us drinks, okay?”
She finally looks at me, her eyes soft. “Yeah?”
I watch her ex stomp our way like a bull that just saw the red flag wave. That’s my cue.
“Definitely.”
She puts a hand on my arm. “Thank you, Cohen,” she whispers, kissing my cheek.
I head to the bar and order two beers out of politeness. I’m pretty sure Tracey will be too busy sucking her ex’s face to drink hers. I turn just in time to see my suspicions about their tonsil hockey are officially confirmed.
Cohen: Can I bug you with another date question?
I’ve already hit send when it occurs to me it might be a little late to randomly text someone who’s riding the line of coworker and friend. But I see the three bubbles pop up right away.
Maren: Uh-oh. How bad is this? Is she listing the names of your future children? Is she on her seventh work call? Or has this one taken a vow of silence too? Please tell me it’s not lap full of vomit bad…
Cohen: No vomit. But my date used me as a stripper pole on the dance floor to make her ex jealous. He’s in the band and could probably kill me with his bare hands. I went to get us beers, and now they’re sucking face. So my question is: is it rude for me to drink BOTH beers?
I watch as the bubbles move and stop, like she’s typing and pausing. I down half of one beer in a few gulps and vow not to bother Maren with my lame date stories in the future. I’ve always liked the way we interact at work. Maren’s told me more than once that I’m her personal hero— I know she’s just talking about how I swoop in and redirect screwed up orders or handle ornery sales reps for her, but I dig that I’m the one she looks to when she needs things fixed.
Whining about my pathetic dates kind of ruins that whole superhero vibe.
Maren: Please tell me you’re kidding. It’s like you’re on a terrible reality dating show.
Cohen: I wish I was. And I already finished that first beer…
Maren: Oh you definitely EARNED the second one. Bottoms up! (PS I don’t wanna get all after school special but you’re not driving yourself home, right?)
Cohen: LOL. I’ll definitely call a cab.
I watch those bubbles, back and forth, moving and stopping.
Maren: I’m not doing anything if you need a ride.
Maren: I hope that wasn’t weird.
Cohen: Not weird at all. That’s really sweet of you. But I’m fine. Thanks. I’m only a few miles from my place.
I’m halfway through Tracey’s beer when I get this minor epiphany rereading Maren’s texts. It occurs to me it might mean something that out of all the contacts in my phone, I only wanted to text her. Every single time I was having a bad date, I wanted to talk to Maren. And when I told her how shitty things were going, she made me feel better, made me laugh, made me realize how rare and awesome it is to find someone you just click with.
Tonight, when I tell her I’m alone and drunk in a bar, she offers to come pick my ass up. That’s beyond flirty and fun— Maren is the kind of loyal friend you don’t take for granted.
I look at Tracey and her probably-ex-ex practically having sex on the dance floor. I’m so sick of these crappy dates. I’m getting really tired of going out, getting my hopes up, putting on a show—all for what? To get puked on, used, and left at the bar alone?
Maybe what I need is to take a risk with someone good and decent, someone real who’s been right in front of my face the whole time.
Cohen: Two beers officially down. Guess it’s time to head home and accept the fact that the only girls who want to hang out with me are borderline alcoholics or chicks on the rebound…
Those little circles tease me for an eternity that probably spans all of two minutes.
As I watch, I consider the fact that she might take the bait and offer to show up.
Show up. Here. Tonight.
Maren.
Not just a voice on the phone, not just a great work friend who helps me solve furniture store issues, not just my sweet, hilarious texting companion.
I’m not sure if I’m panicked or excited.
Maren: LOL! Don’t be too hard on yourself. How could a furniture salesman compete with a guy in a band? Maybe this girl’s tastes just run a little wild.
Now I’m not sure if I’m let down or relieved that Maren’s not running over.
But her text?
Damn. Holy knife in the gut. I know she’s just kidding, but isn’t there some old saying about how there’s truth in every joke? Kensley, Claire, Tracey—now even Maren—all clearly want the kind of wild alpha male asshole I guess I’m just…not. I accept that instead of trying to be wilder, I might just have to start looking for girls who want what I can give.
Which is what? Predictability? Lack of adventure? Reliability?
Great. Me and my future wife can spend our time trying not to bore each other to death.
<
br /> Cohen: Good call. It’s too late for a square like me to be out anyway. Cab ride home it is. TTYL.
I call up a cab and head out, unnoticed by my date, alone in my misery, and at my romantic rock bottom.
…
“No more!” Deo begs. “No more of this music. I feel like I should be watching an animal cruelty commercial. This is sad. This is so sad. Whit, my angel, make this madness stop.”
Whit plops between us on the couch and hands me a fresh beer. She ropes an arm around my neck and rumples my hair as she answers Deo.
“He’s sad. Let him be sad.”
“I’m so cool with him being sad. Right there. Quietly. So I can ignore him. Explain why I have to listen to all of these whining girls and their fiddles?”
He pulls Whit on his lap and kisses her shoulders.
“This music is fucking genius,” I snap.
I would say I’m arguing, but you’d have to put some real effort into presenting your point to make an argument, and I have no energy for that. What I do put effort into is drinking this beer so I can deaden some of my depression.
“It’s all right,” Deo gripes. “She was all right. Take her off the damn pedestal, man. It was one date.”
“It’s not Tracey, and it’s not that one date. I honestly didn’t have any chemistry with her. Or any of the girls I hung out with. That’s just it… Is it me? I mean, the date with Tracey was my fifth attempt since Kensley, and they all went up in flames. I’ve got to be honest with myself and admit I’m the common denominator. Tell me the truth: am I that impossible to be around?”
“Right now? Yes,” Deo grumbles.
“You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself, Cohen. This is supposed to be fun. You need to stop worrying about finding the one and just have a good time.” Whit tilts her head to the side and considers me, her dark eyes squinted. “You need to go on a date with a built-in escape hatch. You need a double date.”
Deo and I both groan, and Whit slaps Deo’s arm.
“Stop it. Both of you. Stop being man-babies. Cohen, you need to go out with other people so if it’s not going well, there’s a whole group to pick up the heat. And if it’s amazing? There will still be other people to balance it out. It can’t get too insane, but it also can’t get too intense. Perfect.”
“I’m not going on a double date with this whiny asshole,” Deo declares, which is fine, because I’m not about to find a nice girl to date only to have Deo’s big mouth and lousy sense of humor fuck it all up.
Just when I’m about to say all that to his stupid face, my phone rings.
“I gotta take this.” I jump up and head to the back deck.
“Who is it?” Deo calls.
“Maren Walshe. From work.” I start to close the sliding door behind me.
“Hook her, man.” I look back at him as I accept her call. “The way you looked when you saw it was her on the line? I’ve only ever seen you look that way before a major swell. That’s love, dude. That’s stable, responsible, perfect-for-Cohen love.”
Maren says hello for the second time, and I do my best to slam the sliding door on Deo and his endless stupidity.
“Hey, Maren. I’m sorry. I’m at my idiot friend’s house. You doing okay?”
“I am. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting. I did have to tell you that the Reyes account needs to be looked over tomorrow morning. Unless they want three sectionals, there’s an input error on their order, and it’s going to production tomorrow morning, so we still have a window to catch it.”
“You’re a damn angel, Maren, you know that? Seriously. I’m calling Maurice and having him give you a raise. You’re a lifesaver.”
I lean against the deck railing and look into the clear blue sky, relieved that Maren caught the slipup before Mrs. Reyes came in and gave me an ass-chewing I’d never forget.
She clears her throat. “Also. Um, I know things didn’t go the way you…the way you planned. On your last date. And this may be too weird and too soon, so please feel free to say no—”
And it hits me.
Maren is going to ask me out.
Maren.
Sweet, perfect Maren who fixes problems and has this voice that can flip from bedroom-sexy to furniture-ordering-fierce like a switch.
My immediate reaction? No.
Nope, nada, not happening. I want one dream girl not ruined by the clusterfuck of a bad date. Just one. I need her stability in my crazy, depressing, romantic world.
She clears her throat a second time. “So my friend from work has this guy she wants to set me up with, and I’m usually fine with blind dates, but I think hearing about your recent disasters might have me spooked.”
She laughs, but I forget to join in, because I’m taking a second to process what she just said. So she’s going on a date with some other guy? Why is she telling me this?
And why does it make me so damn pissed off?
“God, I’m rambling,” she continues. “Okay, so my friend got four tickets to the Angels game so she and her boyfriend could go, too, kind of to cut the tension… And something came up last minute. They’re really good seats, and my friend knows this girl from work who wants to go. She’s single, too, and I know another blind date is probably the last thing you want to do right now, but it’s gotta be easier to at least have someone you know there— I mean I know we don’t know each other, exactly…”
I rake a hand through my hair. I’m just not sure I’m ready to put myself out there and get my heart trampled on again. I’m not ready for more disappointment.
And I’m really not ready to meet Maren, the coolest girl I know, while she’s on a first date with someone else. It’s a little unsettling just how aggravated the thought makes me.
Then again, maybe it’s the perfect setup. A nice girl I really like who can stay a friend because we’ll both be there with other people.
I can’t lie; there’s a part of me that wants to be there just because she’ll be there with someone else. I’m not sure if it’s jealousy or protectiveness— All I know is it’s a strong enough feeling to push me past my blind date phobia and toward saying yes.
Just then I glance up and see Whit and Deo through the reflections on the sliding door. I see the way he looks at her while she tells him something. I see the way his eyes never leave her face, the way she gets him to smile no matter what’s going on. He kisses her, and I stop watching ’cause I’m not a perv like that.
But I want what they have. I want it bad. And I’ll never get it drinking my sadness away in their living room.
Isn’t this exactly what Whit just told me I needed? Isn’t this kind of like fate slapping me upside the head?
I take a deep breath and just fucking go for it.
“Sure. I’d love to go.”
Holy shit. What did I just do?
I just agreed to meet Maren. Sexy, sweet, funny Maren. In real life.
I just agreed to another blind date.
I just agreed to watch the girl I kind of have a crush on hang out with some other guy.
I hope to God this isn’t another huge mistake, but it doesn’t feel like it could possibly be anything else.
Chapter Six
Cohen
The stadium is crazy crowded, and the fans are already getting rowdy as the sun dips behind billows of dark clouds. It looks like rain.
I wonder if this date will suck for reasons that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with the weather. And I wonder if I can stop thinking about the weather long enough to beat down my nervousness at finally meeting Maren.
And Ally, of course. I’m obviously nervous to meet the girl I’m actually going on a date with.
I admit that I tried looking Maren up on Facebook, just to have a reference. Asking for her picture straight-out seemed creepy, but I was willing to do some cyber stalking, just so I’d at least be able to recognize her. Unfortunately, there were a million girls with her name, and a ton of them lived in California. There were s
o many girls who could have been “my” Maren, I just gave up looking and accepted the fact that I’d have to live with watching for her under the giant red Angels hat on the left, like she’d told me to.
She also told me she’s going to be in head-to-toe Angels gear, which isn’t remotely weird for this insane crew. And she’ll be holding a sign like one of those guys who pick you up at the airport.
I head to the hat, my guts clenching tight, and wish I could rewind time. As sucky as things may have been with Kensley in the end, there was this sense of safety, of belonging, and I took that for granted. I had no idea what it meant to have that ripped out from under me, but I know now.
I can’t sugarcoat the facts: the dating world fucking blows.
I scan the crowd, but people are moving fast, and I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for. I didn’t want to ask for the details on her appearance, because I didn’t want to sound like a shallow dick, but my old-school manners are making finding her difficult.
Is she tall? Short? Curvy? Willowy? Blond? Brunette? I can’t help smiling a little when it occurs to me just how many ways a girl can look damn good. Deo would no doubt be proud of this thought process.
“Cohen?”
It’s the voice I know, right away, no questions.
I turn and…damn.
It’s Maren.
She’s petite and curved in all the right places. Her dark hair is twisted in two shiny braids, and her eyes are wide and a clear light blue.
The smile that curves on her lips makes me feel like she’s thinking something she shouldn’t, and for a stupid blip of a moment, I hope she’s thinking whatever the hell she’s thinking about me.
Something about her is…familiar. Like I know her from somewhere. Like I’ve seen her before. But I wrack my brain and can’t think where it might have been.
“So you weren’t kidding about being all A’ed out.” I smile at her jersey, hat, red sneakers, and Angels socks.