Trophy Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  “Can I be your trophy boyfriend?”

  Boyfriend. There’s that sweet, magical word again. There’s the word that has mattered, the word that I wanted, but I let another word get in the way. Because the truth is I know what I want. I’ve known since way back when I first went trolling for a Trophy Husband on Craigslist. I knew then I wanted a boyfriend, not a husband. Now, I just know who I want that boyfriend to be.

  I am all grins, and I’m sure that this is what happy looks like as I say yes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I ignore the comments on my Web site asking where’s the footage of my Friday night date with Chris. My viewers all know the date was last night. They were expecting to see how it went. I want to jump for joy in my next video and tell them it went fabulously.

  But there will be time for that. For now, I am working on my concession speech. I’m lounging on a deck chair, sunglasses on and Ms. Pac-Man at my feet panting from our tennis ball in the waves session a few minutes ago. I’m trying to find the right mix of humor and contrition. Do I tell my viewers “Sorry, Contest over?” Or do I give a lengthy explanation about my change of heart?

  I stare at a blank page on my laptop. I’m not usually at a loss for words. I’m pretty damn fast at whipping out my blogs and assessing outfits with the 1-2-3 snappiness of a sassy cable show host. But when it comes to penning my own truths about the heart? Well, the keyboard might as well be written in a foreign language.

  When my phone rings, I am thrilled for the distraction.

  Then I see Todd’s name flash across the screen. I would like to ignore him. I really would. But I don’t trust him, and that’s the problem. Untrustworthy people, by their nature, demand attention because they are loose cannons.

  “What’s up?” I say in a resigned voice.

  Ms. Pac-Man tilts her ears as if she’s listening. I like to think she’s protecting me from him. But then, I don’t think anyone, even if my dog, could have protected me from the damage Todd inflicted with one shot.

  “How are you, McKenna?”

  “Fine. But you’re not calling to chat, so what is it?”

  “I was just thinking,” he begins, and then inserts that pregnant pause that marks all his conversations.

  I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking about how I helped you start The Fashion Hound. Remember?”

  When I first came up with the idea for my show, I shared it with Todd and he encouraged me to go for it. He also set up my Web site, bought the domain, and installed my first blog template. He worked in tech PR and he knew his way around the tools of the Internet. I could have done that all myself, but he wanted to help, so I could focus on the writing, and the fashions and finding a talented videographer.

  My chest tightens with worry. “Yes. What are you getting at?”

  Then I hear a baby cry.

  “The baby just woke up from her nap. I’ll call you later.”

  He doesn’t call back, and I hate the way I carry my phone around the rest of the afternoon, even as I get ready for another date with Chris. But there was something in Todd’s voice that made me uneasy, and now I have a knot of worry pooling low in my gut. I wish he could leave me alone, so I do a few yoga moves, stretch my neck from side to side, and tell myself everything will be all right.

  Then I head to the karaoke bar.

  Because tonight, I am with Chris, and I want to only be with Chris. I don’t even want the ghost of my ex infecting this night.

  I listen to him adorably bungling his way through Foreigner’s Jukebox Hero in a fetchingly off-key singing voice. He’s wearing jeans and a brown tee-shirt. The design on his shirt is of two ultra-stylized dinosaurs in orange silhouette sparring with each other. I love his taste in clothes.

  He sings from the low stage at Gomez Hawks Karaoke Bar, deep in the heart of Japan Town, tucked in a dark corner of the second floor of a mall that’s stuffed with Japanese bookstores, crepe dealers, sushi bars and other assorted Tokyo-flavored shops. Chris finishes his number, does a quick little bow, and bounds off stage to join me at the bar.

  “Very nice, Mr. McCormick,” I say, nodding approvingly.

  He shrugs. “I have a horrible singing voice.”

  “I thought it was cute.”

  “Cute blushing, cute singing, pretty lips.”

  “Hey! I told you this is all new to me. I’m working on my lines for you.”

  “Don’t use lines on me,” he teases.

  “So isn’t your sister a Broadway singer or something?”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us have her talent. Besides, she has no mechanical aptitude and there’s where I have all my skills.” He cracks his knuckles in a playful way as if to demonstrate his skill with his hands. He does have skill with his hands.

  “So when does her show open? Crash the Moon, right?”

  “Two more months, I think. I’m going to see it opening night.”

  “Well, of course. You have to.”

  “I am going to be the one cheering the loudest and longest. Well, all of us will be.” Then he leans his shoulder against mine. “You should come with me.”

  “To New York?”

  “No. To Istanbul. Yes, New York. That’s where the show is.”

  My heart skips a few beats. He’s making plans with me two months from now. “I would love to.”

  “Now why don’t you do some cute singing yourself then.” He gestures to the stage.

  “I will,” I say, as I toss the list of karaoke songs aside.

  Gomez Hawks is a tiny bar, the whole place no bigger than my living room. But it’s low-lit and serves terrific mixed drinks and boasts the biggest and best selection of songs in the city, a list about the size of two New York City phone books put together. That’s why Gomez Hawks is popular and that’s why Chris made a reservation tonight. All the tables are full, all the stools are taken. I begin with a few astronomically off-key “whoa, whoa, whoas” of my own before I launch into the opening lines about Tommy’s work on the docks in Bon Jovi’s anthemic song and karaoke standard.

  Immediately, everyone in the bar is singing along, some by memory, others by following the TV screen with the flashing lyrics from the song. Three minutes later, we’re as loud as loud can be finishing the final words of Livin’ on a Prayer in unison. The crowd cheers their approval, despite my lack of harmony, melody and anything in between. But it’s karaoke. You’re not supposed to sing well.

  I rejoin Chris at the bar. “How do you think this place got its name?”

  “I have a hunch the proprietor was racking his brains for a catchy name, drove past a street named Gomez and then a high school with a football team called the Hawks and mashed them together.”

  I laugh. “Is that for real? Do you know that?”

  “No, but it sounded plausible, didn’t it?”

  “Totally. You know what would be even more fun? If karaoke was a game and you could earn points for songs and hitting the notes or something. Even though I’d suck, I’d still play.”

  “Of course you would. You’re even more of a gamer than I am.”

  “Not anymore. I’m all ready to call the whole thing off on Monday.”

  “Good. Because I can’t stand the thought of anyone else thinking they have a shot for you. I want you all to myself.” He loops his hand around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss. It’s a protective kiss, and it feels a bit like ownership. Like he’s claiming me. I don’t mind being his. I don’t mind at all.

  “Did you kiss any of the other guys when you were dating the candidates?”

  “No. Only you. I told you. I wanted to jump you the second I saw you. Oh wait. That’s what you told me,” I say and I grin.

  “I did. I still do.”

  “I want that too,” I say in a low voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “I do. Soon.”

  “Like I told you, I’ll wait for whenever you’re ready.” />
  “But we can do other things…”

  He raises an eyebrow. “There are plenty of other things I want to do to you.”

  “Like what?”

  He’s about to answer when I hear a strain of familiar notes playing from the karaoke machine. I turn to the stage. There’s an older man on stage, graying, and with a paunch. He wears glasses and high-waisted pants, but he has a huge smile on his face. He’s looking at a woman, seated at a table near the front. She has curly gray hair and lines around her eyes. I glance at their hands. Rings on their fingers.

  Then he brings the microphone to his mouth and begins doing his best imitation of The King as he sings about fools rushing in. The lyrics swoop into me, and even though he doesn’t sing like Elvis, not even close, the look on his face as he sings to his wife, only to his wife, about how he can’t help falling in love, slays me like it does every time.

  I remember one of the last times I heard this song. Driving to The Best Doughnut Shop in the City. The day I fell apart and hid in a bathroom stall. I think back to this afternoon, to the phone call, to the way Todd needles me. I can let him get under my skin, or I can let go of my anger.

  Is there really a choice?

  I have to choose to let go of my ex. Because now I’m here, and I’m not just longing for the feelings in this song.

  I’m feeling them.

  I lean into Chris, my back against his chest, and he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close. We sway slightly, almost imperceptibly, as the man sings. When he reaches the words “take my hand” the man does just that and his wife holds her hand out to him. They’re not touching. They’re many feet apart. Still, it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.

  Until Chris takes my hand. Laces his fingers through mine. Squeezes.

  When the music fades, he turns me around so he’s looking at me. “I know you’re not ready for more, but how would you feel about coming back to my place so I can do all those other things I’ve thought about doing?”

  “You mean play Qbert?” I tease.

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  * * *

  Chris lives in a cream-colored Victorian building, with muted green trim on the windows and the door. His home is above an antique shop and right next door to Barney’s Burger Joint, which received the “Best Burgers in San Francisco in 2007” honor from a local paper.

  He unlocks the main door, and we walk up two flights of stairs. As we round the stairwell, his hands are on my waist, and he’s telling me all the things he wants to do to me.

  “You know it’s not going to take me long when you talk like that.”

  “Good. Then we can go again.”

  He opens the door to his place and it’s spacious. The living room is wide and stretches the whole length of the building it seems. I spot a few arcade games off in the corner, including Qbert, and I pretend I’m a zombie, drawn to it. Chris puts both hands on my shoulders and steers me away. “We’ll get to those soon enough,” he teases.

  I look around the rest of the living room. A high-definition TV screen is mounted on the off-white wall, flanked by several gaming consoles. Chris told me once he spends close to fifteen hours a week playing games. “Sounds glamorous and it is when the games are good,” he’d said. “But sometimes, it’s drudgery.”

  There’s a huge U-shaped couch against the opposite wall, in some sort of indistinct gray color. But it looks cushy and well-worn and is stuffed with brown and burnished gold pillows in the corners. His kitchen is modern and sleek with stainless steel appliances, but it doesn’t scream “bachelor cool.” There’s an antique-y table against the wall, with curvy legs, while a pale yellow tea kettle sits in the middle of the stove.

  Chris then gestures vaguely to the other room. “The boudoir. But you can’t see that tonight,” he says playfully. I land on the side of good taste and opt not to peer into his bedroom, but I notice out of the corner of my eye he has a king-size bed with a beige cover, white walls, and blond book shelves beside the headboard.

  “So there you go,” he says, leaning against the wall in his hallway, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops on his jeans. I can’t help myself. My eyes drift down to the bulge in his pants. How am I going to refrain from taking his clothes off and wrapping my legs around him? But I know once we go there, I’ll be gone for him. I’ll be more over the moon than I already am. Once he’s inside me, there will be no turning back.

  I want to, I’m almost there, but yet the possibility of being shattered in a million pieces again prevents me from taking that step. So I turn away and walk to Qbert. I run a hand across the control panel, feeling the joystick against my palm. I trace my fingers across the name in its big, balloon-y print. Then I peek at the side of the machine. The entire side panel is a bright bold yellow with an illustration of Qbert cursing as he nears the edge of the pyramid. I return to the screen and lay my cheek against it.

  “You sure you don’t want me to leave you alone with it?”

  “I have other plans,” I say, but then I’m distracted when I notice the Galaga machine to the right, then a Donkey Kong.

  “My God, you have your own arcade.”

  He joins me by the games. “Would you be impressed if I told you I built them all myself?”

  My eyes open wide. I can’t believe what he is saying. My brain is about to pop. “You built an arcade game?”

  “You make it sound like I made a time machine out of a Delorean. It wasn’t that hard.”

  “Wasn’t that hard?” I parrot back. “How do you make an arcade game?”

  “I dusted off an old computer, found some source code from this non-profit development project that preserves old arcade games, tweaked it up a bit and then built the cabinet.”

  “This is amazing. You have some serious skills,” I say.

  “And you haven’t even seen me surf. I can ride some serious waves.”

  “You can ride this wave,” I say suggestively. “You can make this wave.” I hop up on the Qbert, and sit on the console, my legs dangling in front of the machine. I glance down at my skirt, and he gets the hint.

  “You on my Qbert machine might possibly blow my mind. But I’m willing to try.”

  He runs his hands through my hair and kisses me hard, as if he needs to kiss me first for foreplay or something. But even a whisper of a kiss from him is all I need. Besides, I’ve been ready for this since the karaoke bar.

  He moves to my neck, kissing me there, then pulls off my shirt, cupping my breasts with my bra on. He unhooks it in seconds flat, and his tongue flicks over a nipple, then the other one and I lean my head back and say his name, and that sound moves him further down my body, as he kisses my belly, then pushes up my skirt. He’s gentle as he lifts my butt and wiggles off my underwear, careful to make sure I don’t bonk the joystick. Then he bends lower, kissing the inside of my thighs, softly, trailing his tongue from my knee all the way up, then darting over to the other leg.

  I am electric and fiery from every touch of him, and I am dying to feel his mouth on me. I want to pull him between my thighs so he can taste me, lick me, press his lips against my warm wetness, and do all the things he said he wants to do.

  “Chris,” I moan, since he’s teasing me, toying with me, making me want him more.

  He nibbles lightly on my thigh, as his strong hands spread my legs wider. I accidentally bump the start button, and even though he hasn’t put a quarter in the game, the theme music from Qbert begins. I laugh, and so does he, but then my laugh turns into a long, low moan at the first flick of his tongue on me. He makes this sound too, like a rumble, as he tastes how ready I am for him. It’s like an altered state I’ve entered, and my whole body is crackling with heat. He is magnificent, his tongue divine as he traces delirious lines up and down my center that make me whimper.

  My noises drive him, and each sound that tumbles from my lips makes him hungrier for me, and we become this perfect feedback loop of wanting, and giving, a
nd taking as I grow wetter and hotter with every single touch. I am in heaven with him, I am in a white-hot dream. I grip the edge of the game console as he consumes me with his mouth, his tongue, his lips.

  His mouth was tailor-made for me. He goes down on me like he’s kissing me and devouring me at the same time, somehow both soft and hungry in the fevered slide of his delicious lips against my very core, driving me wild.

  Then his hands slink under my thighs and he lifts my legs onto his shoulders, draping them over his back. I feel so completely vulnerable with him, as if I am giving myself to him completely, but I’m not scared anymore, because he wants what I have to give. He wants me, all of me, only me, and that’s why I’m nearly panting as I say his name, and tell him how good it feels, because it does, it feels good, it feels great, it feels like everything is happening for the first time, and the best time, and that it won’t be the last time. It’ll be the start of something amazing with him.

  Then he brings me there, and he shatters me with an orgasm that’s as endless as it is intense. I let go of the side of the game, and I grab his hair, his ridiculously soft hair that slides through my fingers, and I hold onto him as I come hard, with the kind of soundtrack that drives neighbors jealous.

  Soon, when I can form words again, and when he’s standing and looking at me with those dreamy eyes that say everything I want, I kiss him, tasting myself on him, tasting what he just did to me. He loops his arms around me, and I lean my head on his chest. “That was out of this world. You know how to go down on a girl.”

  He kisses my forehead. “I know how to go down on you because I want you. Because I can’t get enough of you.”

  “You are the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Those words feel a bit like a promise, and that promise feels a bit like falling in love.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The afterglow lasts through Sunday as I spend the afternoon strolling through my favorite boutiques in Noe Valley with Hayden and Erin.