The Sexiest Man Alive

by Juliet Rosetti

  Chapter Twelve

  “Welcome to Phero-mates, everyone! I’m Kandace McHutchins, your Phero-mate emcee for tonight!” The woman at the microphone, wearing a sequined halter dress and a smile that outdazzled the chandeliers, exhibited a level of enthusiasm that would have made a Reader’s Digest Sweepstakes winner seem apathetic.

  “Is everyone ready to find your Phero-mate?” Kandace squealed, and a few audience members cheered halfheartedly. Most of them seemed embarrassed to be here, as though their name tags read: I’M A BIG LOSER WHO CAN’T GET A DATE THE NORMAL WAY SO I HAVE TO LET WEIRDOS SNIFF MY UNDERWEAR.

  The event was being held in the ballroom of the downtown Hilton Hotel. There must have been around a hundred people there, Mazie guessed; they were milling around guzzling cheap wine and nibbling wilted appetizers. The air reeked of scented candles, underlaid by the odor of unwashed T-shirts, because even double plastic Baggies could not contain the aromas of three nights’ worth of sleep sweat. The T-shirts were arranged on long tables, women’s in transparent pink bags; men’s in blue bags, each bag numbered. The noise level was high, with lots of nervous chatter and strained-sounding laughter. Women outnumbered men about two to one, which Juju said was normal for dating events. It reminded Mazie of a middle school Christmas concert, where all the girls glitzed up, wearing their best dresses, while the boys looked as though they’d RipStiked to the event directly from the skate park.

  Juju, who believed that subtle was a waste of time where men were concerned—like sprinkling tarragon on your dog’s kibble—was wearing a one-shouldered satin cocktail dress in a yellow that was edging up into the neon green of construction crew vests. She’d accessorized with chandelier earrings, a tinkling wrist full of bracelets, and transparent high-heeled sandals that Imelda Marcos would have killed for. Mazie envied Juju her ability to look fabulous in the most outlandish colors, whereas she felt like a tart if her lipstick was too red.

  “They say love is blind,” Kandace went on in her headache-inducing chirrup, “but does love smell?”

  “Love smells, but marriage stinks,” called a guy in the audience, causing a ripple of nervous titters.

  “Every human being exudes his or her own unique pheromones—sex-attracting chemical signals,” Kandace babbled on. “Scientific experiments have proved that pheromones can cause sexual arousal or sexual revulsion.”

  Mazie hated this whole concept. She even hated the word Phero-mates. It sounded like something you sprayed on crops. “Abner—y’all go squirt them turnips with Phero-mate afore the worms take hold!”

  “All right, boys and girls—when you find a smell-tastic shirt, bring it up front, hold up the lucky number in front of our video cam, and wait to be claimed by your Prince or Princess Charming,” Kandace instructed. “Remember to return the shirt to the table when you’re finished. Okay—ready, set, sniff!”

  Mazie picked up a bag at random. Number 48. She opened it and inhaled, then nearly gagged. Her nasal receptors felt as though they’d been scoured out with drain cleaner. Had this guy been sleeping with wolverines? Hastily resealing the bag, Mazie thrust it back in the pile and cautiously reached for another bag. She wished she’d stayed home to zap gnomes and wondered whether Labeck had taken his stupid fish when he left because she didn’t want to come home to an apartment that smelled like badass bass.

  Number 16: Raw onions. Yuck.

  Number 82: Pizza and beer. Plus there was a taco stain in the nipple area.

  Number 5: Pot fumes. Whoa!

  She checked the giant video screen in case some guy had picked her T-shirt, number 76.

  Nope—but Juju’s shirt had already been picked a couple of times—she was carrying on conversations with two guys. Mazie sampled four more bags and was beginning to feel a little nauseated when she encountered one she liked. The Old Spice-y fragrance of 33. Her dad wore Old Spice and she associated it with comfort and security. The commercial came immediately to mind—the sexy sailor and the whistled tune that ended on a high C.

  Oh, what the heck? It wasn’t as though she had to marry the guy. Clutching the bag, Mazie sidled toward the video camera. There was a line now, men and women waiting their turn to hold up their Phero-mate bags. Mazie’s heart gave a little jolt. The man currently standing in front of the camera, looking hopeful, was holding up 76—her bag.

  Cautiously she approached him. He was small and nebbishy-looking, with receding sandy hair and the kind of bow tie worn by guys in movies who turned out to be the serial killer. He looked nervous, his hopeful smile slipping as the seconds ticked away and no one came up to claim the bag. Mazie immediately felt sorry for him. She approached him and held out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “I’m number seventy-six. I’m Mazie.”

  “Oh, hello.” He grasped her hand as though it was a life preserver. “I was beginning to think no one would rescue me. I’m Ted. Nice to meet you, Mazie—only you’re really cute, so you probably aren’t interested in someone like me.”

  “Of course I’m interested.” She let go of Ted’s hand, which was sweaty, surreptitiously wiping her own hand on her skirt.

  “Because if you don’t want to go out with me, I’ll understand,” he said hastily. “I don’t get a lot of yeses from women.”

  “Oh, come on—a handsome man like you?” The guy brought out Mazie’s protective instincts.

  “It’s because I’m short. You’re short, too, but even short women don’t want short guys.”

  “Napoleon was short,” Mazie said.

  “Yeah, but so was Hitler.”

  Mazie hoped Ted wasn’t in sales because he would absolutely stink at it. “There’s Tom Cruise,” she offered.

  Ted’s face brightened. “Oh, hey, thank you. I get told that all the time. That I look like Tom Cruise, I mean.”

  “You do, kind of,” Mazie said. If you had black hair, a square jaw, and flashing white teeth. Other than that, sure.

  “And I’m a Scientologist.”

  “Oh.” Uh-oh.

  “Tom Cruise is, too, you know. That doesn’t put you off, does it?” Ted asked anxiously.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Because Scientology is a religion, not a cult. Would you like to hear our core principles?”

  “Gee, I’d love to, but I see my girlfriend over there, waving at me and I’d better go see what she wants. She gets these—these asthma attacks—”

  “I’ve got an asthma inhaler.” Ted patted his breast pocket. “I didn’t put my lips to it—I just carry it around in case someone has an attack. Your friend can borrow it if she wants.”

  “That’s really nice of you. But I think she also has menstrual cramps.” If Ted carried a pack of Tampons around in a fanny pack, she was going to be seriously creeped out. “Gotta go—catch you later.”

  “Okay. I better go return your T-shirt to the table. See you, Mazie.”

  Not if I see you first. She disappeared into the crowd, snagged a glass of wine and a plate of appetizers, and tried to find Juju. When she didn’t see her—which shouldn’t be any harder than spotting a signal flare in the night sky—Mazie figured she’d gone off with someone to a more secluded spot. Starving, Mazie scarfed down a shrimp on a cracker and a cocktail wiener while studying the video screen, where sniffers and sniffees were meeting for the first time. If somebody didn’t turn this into a TV reality show, Hollywood had lost its sense of tawdriness. She realized she was still holding number 33’s T-shirt bag. She ought to go track him down or set it back on the table.

  A man spoke behind me. “Excuse me—number seventy-six?”

  That voice! Mazie whipped around. Ben Labeck stood there, holding up her T-shirt bag and looking mock-serious.

  “I guess this proves the pheromone stuff works,” he said.

  “You cheated,” Mazie accused. “You saw me with whatshisname—”

  Ben grinned. “No, I didn’t. I picked yours before the short guy did.”

  She scowled at him. “Did you follow me here?”
/>   “Yup.”

  Scanning his outfit—he hadn’t changed out of his fishy-smelling clothes, except that now he was missing his undershirt—she raised an eyebrow. “And they let you in?”

  “I turned on the old Sexiest Man Alive charm.”

  “Try Smelliest.”

  “My bag is number one-oh-one, in case you’re interested.”

  “I’ve already gotten a whiff of you.”

  “And I got yours. Seriously, I liked the way your shirt smelled—like when my mom makes pies.”

  “I cheated,” Mazie confessed. “I sprinkled in pumpkin pie spice. Vanilla, too. It was Magenta’s idea.”

  They locked eyes for a moment and Mazie nearly smiled back before she recollected that she was furious with him. This was the man who’d simply disappeared for a week without a word, who’d shown up on her doorstep an hour ago with no apology, assuming they could just take up where they’d left off. This was the man who’d allowed her to get trampled in the Sirocco restaurant, who’d called her stupid in the middle of Wisconsin Avenue, and whose idea of a romantic gift was a chest full of fish. He didn’t respect her, he didn’t appreciate her, and he obviously didn’t care about her.

  Still, she knew herself well enough to realize how little it would take for him to topple her shaky new defenses and reel her in like one of his stupid bass. Standing close to him, even with his two days’ growth of beard, chapped lips, and ragbag clothes, he gave her a head-to-toe rush so intense, it made her carefully straightened hair curl. She gazed at his hands, large and beat-up-looking from whatever he’d been doing the last few days. The memory of how those hands had felt on her body made her breath catch in her throat.

  “Mazie,” Ben said, dropping the bantering tone. “Could we—”

  “Let me ask you something.” Mazie narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ve got tickets for Ragtime at the Rep tomorrow night. Would you like to go with me?”

  “Ragtime—the play, you mean?” She could practically see the guy-gears churning in Ben’s head as he floundered around for an excuse. “Well, sure, I’d like to, but I think … yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m scheduled to work, since—”

  “Forget it.” She’d sprung question two of Magenta’s “Is He or Isn’t He a Jerk” quiz on him and the skunk had flunked, big time. Mazie spun on her heel and started to walk away, but at that moment a man suddenly appeared in front of her, blocking her escape. Cargo shorts and ripped rock-band T-shirt. A little too old for the look, Mazie thought; he was fortyish, with a receding hairline. “Hi,” he said, grinning, pointing at the T-shirt bag Mazie held. “I see you’ve got number thirty-three. That’s me.”

  Another man elbowed him aside. “Nah, forget it—that’s definitely mine, babe.” This guy, in pleated pants, silk shirt open to his sternum, and gold chains, looked like he was heading for an ’80s costume party. His cologne was so strong, it made Mazie’s eyes water. “You wanna blow this joint, honey? Maybe go for some drinky-poos?”

  “Bug off,” snarled the cargo shorts guy. “I saw her first.”

  The two men faced each other, looking ready to square off and start trading punches, but a third guy—young, Hispanic-looking—shoved his way forward. “What’re you crudballs talkin’ about—that’s my shirt. See? It’s got a St. Theresa scapular tucked inside, for luck, and there’s my name on the flip side of the tag—”

  “Eddie?” Mazie couldn’t believe it.

  “Hey, Maze.” He grinned at her, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

  Cargo Shorts and the ’80s guy threw him dirty looks, but Eddie Arguello, even in a tuxedo, looked enough like the tough, South Side street kid he actually was to scare them off. They slunk away and melted into the crowd, looking for more available prey.

  “How did you get in here?” Mazie asked. “Didn’t anyone check your ID?”

  “Nope.” Eddie rocked back and forth on his heels, beaming. “I just filled out the registration, sent it in, collected my ticket at the door, and started huffing pink bags. And then I turned around and saw you with my T-shirt. I always had this big crush on you and now, this pheromone stuff, like, proves that we’re right for each other—we’re phero-mates!”

  Mazie shoved him away. “We. Are. Not. Phero-mates. You are sixteen years old! You ought to be home doing your summer school homework.”

  She wasn’t sure whether Eddie Arguello had ever done any homework in his life. He had more important ways to occupy himself. After-school job, paintball, riding around in his 1987 Cadillac, and now, apparently, crashing adults-only events where the liquor flowed freely. Eddie was medium height and built along the lines of a defensive lineman—wide, solid torso, sturdy legs, and bull-like shoulders. He had black hair parted in the center and swept back in crow’s wings, dark eyes that looked as though they’d been expertly eye-lined but were natural, and a buccaneer’s grin. He was cocky, macho to the core, and fearless to the point of lunacy, the kind of guy who would eat a live centipede on the theory that he’d never tried centipede before. Mazie suspected that it had been Eddie who’d originated the YOLO acronym every teenager in the country now used: You Only Live Once.

  He did look dazzling, though, in his dark dinner jacket, white shirt, and black bow tie, a getup that made him look older than he was and which explained why nobody had twigged that he was five years short of legal drinking age. But if he thought that allowed him to date women twice his age, she was going to set him straight.

  Mazie seized Eddie’s tie and jerked him down to her eye level. “How many women’s phone numbers did you collect tonight?” she growled.

  “Oww—stop it, Mazie, you’re choking me. Not that many. Five or six.”

  “You can’t go out with them, you know.”

  “The hell I can’t! Mazie, these babes are, like, rarin’ to go, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  “Eddie, if one of those women so much as lays a finger on you—”

  He sniggered. “Jealous, Maze?”

  “Not funny—those women could be charged with corruption of a minor.”

  She’d met Eddie Arguello when she was a fugitive, trying to track down one of Eddie’s relatives who was connected to her husband’s murder. Eddie and his cousin Rico had helped Mazie set up the sting that had led to Kip’s murderer being exposed. Since then she, Eddie, and Rico had remained friends, if that was what you called teenagers who stopped by uninvited to horse around, make crude jokes, and clean out her refrigerator. Mazie had to ride herd on Eddie, who was one giant, pulsating hormone and didn’t see why a fourteen-year age difference should be a barrier to their romance.

  “You have to go tell those women how old you are,” she told Eddie sternly.

  “No way.” Eddie turned and noticed Ben standing there. “Hey, Benny—Sexiest Man Alive! Way to go, man—it must be awesome!”

  “Totally,” Ben said, his voice flat.

  “Having girls wanting to drop their panties for you—”

  “Eddie,” Ben said, “I’m going to walk you to the men’s room and dunk your head in a toilet for a couple of hours until you stop hyperventilating.”

  “Dudes, hey!” Rico Del Toro barged into the group, grinning ear to ear.

  Mazie groaned. “Not you, too.”

  Rico beamed, patting the pocket of his dinner jacket. “I got eight women.” He’d opted for a white dinner jacket and looked like the punk version of a wedding cake groom. Tall and knobbly, Rico wore his curly hair slicked back with gel, a kind of Antonio Banderas–as–gigolo look set off by chin studs and multiple earrings.

  “Eight women—get outta here,” Eddie said.

  “No shit,” Rico insisted. “All of ’em gave me their numbers.”

  “Mazie says we have to go back and tell all those chicks we ain’t old enough for ’em,” Eddie said.

  Both boys roared with laughter.

  “Those ladies like young guys that can give them hot, strong loving, guys what don’t get all wilted after one time,” Eddie boasted.

 
“Yeah. Forget Labeck—he’s over the hill,” Rico said. “You want to see the Sexiest Man Alive, check this out.” He pointed to his own scrawny chest. His Adam’s apple stuck out like a tennis ball in an ostrich’s windpipe, a strand of artichoke was caught between his teeth, and his scraggly beginner’s mustache resembled pubic hair.

  Rico looked around. “I got one more chick I need to find,” he said. “Anybody know who number seventy-six is?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Keeping a couple of car lengths behind, Ben had trailed Juju and Mazie downtown and watched as they drove into the Hilton Hotel parking ramp. He’d waited two minutes, then had followed, finding a parking spot on the fourth floor.

  A few minutes later he was in the hotel lobby. No sign of his quarry. Checking the display on the hotel’s marquee board, Ben discovered that only one event was scheduled for tonight: Phero-mates. He made his way to the conference room, peered inside, and immediately spotted Juju wearing a dress so bright, it seared his corneas. Mazie was next to her, the red dress sedate by contrast.

  He tried to figure out what this event was supposed to be. Men and women were wandering around the room, sipping wine and shyly eying one another. Plastic bags like the one he’d seen in Mazie’s purse were laid out on tables around the room. It was a dating event, Ben realized—some kind of group sniff-a-rama. Mazie had spurned his fish to put herself up on the auction block at this mating meat market?

  Okay, fine. Two can play this game, lady.

  He waited until Juju and Mazie moved away and disappeared into the crowd before approaching the registration table. “Is it too late to get in on this?” he’d asked the woman at the table, whose name tag identified her as Tammi.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—we’re sold out, already over maximum capacity.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.” Ben looked Tammi in the eyes and smiled.