by Tessa Bailey
Name: Reve S. Guy
(Reve spelled backward is Ever. Ever S. Guy.)
Clever, right? No. Not really. Because seeing the words on the screen makes my windpipe feel strained. I hurry through the rest of the questions, inputting my actual age, location, favorite music—James Brown—and a long list of physical stats. For a profile picture, I hastily upload one of me in a Jets ball cap, the brim partially obscuring my face. But when I reach the question about my profession, I hesitate. Combined with all my other answers, someone would definitely know my real identity if I input police academy recruit. What’s the closest possible answer without revealing myself? Fire academy recruit? Fine. It’ll do.
It’s not like I plan on interacting with anyone.
Or I don’t plan on interacting, until I see there’s a catch. I can’t just search for Ever. The only profiles I can view are my matches. A sea of smiling female faces greets me as I scroll down impatiently. Christ almighty, our society needs to find a better way to pair people. This is why—luckily—no one approached Ever in the bar the day we met, while I got my shit together. The Internet is making it too easy. Poor ladies. They should all delete their profiles in protest of modern men being so dickless and force us to do better. In real life.
My rambling inner monologue screeches to a halt when I get to the very bottom of the first page. And there she is. Ever.
They matched us.
I take back every bad thing I said about this website.
My nose is pressed to the screen, I realize, so I make myself back up. I have a finger hovering over the mouse, ready to click, and my pulse is booming. Did she really have to pick the sweetest photograph of all time to lead off with? No wonder she was setting a record for hits. Who could resist a girl hanging from a tree branch in a Wonder Woman T-shirt? Central Park is spread out behind her in the background, a blanket and Frisbee lying haphazardly off in the distance. Who was she with that day? Does she go to the park a lot?
Did I think she spent all her time waiting for me in her apartment? Yes. I kind of did. Because I’m a stupid, self-centered idiot.
I click. Right on top of her nose, pretending I’m tapping it with my finger. After that, I’m just fucked. There are around nine more pictures of Ever in various scenes that I am definitely not a part of. Carrying trays in a giant kitchen, a white apron tied around her neck, determination in her hazel eyes. Huddled under a blanket on her couch, making a squish face and a peace sign. Total joy bursting from her in rainbow waves as a sea lion kisses her cheek, a sign for the Bronx Zoo in the background. She’s so beautiful, I put a hand over the screen for a few seconds to collect myself, then drop it once again.
That’s when I see the bikini shot.
And my cock sits up for a better look.
“No. No, no, no,” I tell my dick. “Don’t even think about it.”
But seriously, the bikini is cotton candy pink, with flimsy, little ties on the sides. The fringe rests on her suntanned hips like a taunt. I’m supposed to just pretend I don’t see this? The bottoms mold to the pussy I know is criminally tight and always, always so damn wet for me. Her pose is modest, her arms twisted in front of her to hide her tits, but the photo is still so sexy I want to die just knowing other men have seen it. Die.
My cock does not want to die, on the other hand. He’s alive, well and thriving, thank you very much. My self-loathing isn’t strong enough to keep from enlarging the picture, looking for the reflection of a man in her sunglasses. Nope, though, just Nina. Knowing Ever was with a man in that bikini might have killed my erection, but no way that’s happening now.
“I’m sick.” I reach into my sweatpants and give my cock a vicious tug. This is what it has come to. I’m beating off to Ever’s dating profile. “Fuck, I’m sorry, cutie, I’m so sick. I just miss being inside you so bad.”
I let my head fall back and picture myself coming up behind Ever while she’s dressed in that bikini. Put the phone down, I would say to Nina. No one sees her like this but me. She would give me a mischievous look over her shoulder, then shake that tight ass against my lap.
“Fuck me,” I breathe, pumping my fist harder, my gaze zeroing in on the tiny pink triangle between her thighs. “Oh fuck, rub your pussy all over me. Slide it all over me. Make me so hungry for it. Make me hold you down and spread your legs to get my mouth on it.”
Every muscle in my neck, stomach and arms is strained beyond belief. I’m going to go off so hard. I might even come close to the kind of orgasm Ever gives me. Maybe. Maybe . . . here it comes . . . just another few jerks—
My laptop dings.
What the hell?
I sound like a racehorse after the Kentucky Derby, my cock is a throbbing monument jutting from my lap, my hand squeezed around the base. But I drop my junk like it’s hot when I see Ever is messaging me. She’s messaging me. Jesus Christ. Can she see me? Did she see me rubbing one out to her pink bikini picture?
Hi, I’m Ever ☺
That’s it? That’s all she’s giving me to work with? I mean, I definitely shouldn’t message her back. She doesn’t know I’m Charlie. But ignoring her would be rude. Especially when the hard-on she inspired is lounging on my abs like a sunbather. I drum my fingers on my desk a few moments, trying to ignore the voice shouting in my head that answering is a terrible, no good, very bad idea. The desire to speak to Ever wins by a landslide.
Hey. How’s your night going?
Pretty good. I love James Brown, too.
“You do?” I have this crushing urge to hug my laptop. Or pick it up and shake it. I’m not sure which. “What else don’t I know about you, Ever?”
Do you play Frisbee in the park a lot?
Only twice. Once to find out I was terrible at it. And then one more time to confirm.
It’s all in the wrist.
Oh no. You’re supposed to state up front in your profile if you’re a Frisbee enthusiast. You didn’t read the fine print?
Frisbee enthusiasts need not obey your silly human rules.
You’re an alien, too? I have the worst taste in men.
My smile collapses like it’s a Vegas casino that’s just been imploded. Worst taste in men. As in, me? Charlie? Or is she just kidding around? I’m scared to find out.
It hits me at once that Ever is flirting with a man she thinks is someone else. Charlie is barely an afterthought right now for her. I have no idea how long I stare at the winking cursor, trying to count how many things suck ass about the current situation. In the end, I run out of fingers. And my erection has left the building on top of everything else. Another message dings on the screen from Ever, shaking me out of my stupor.
Hey, sorry if that was weird, bringing up other men. You’re the first guy I’ve messaged and I think I might be worse at this than I am at Frisbee.
No, you’re great at this, actually.
My fingers are stiff as I type, but I can’t deny wanting to reassure her. And no lie, I’m back to a semi-even keel knowing I’m the first dude she’s messaged. That’s not the kind of thing Ever would lie about. She’s not a liar at all, being nothing but honest with me since the beginning. I’m the liar in this scenario, and I’m making it worse the longer I continue this conversation, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I want to talk to her.
I’m probably the one that’s sucking at this. It’s my first time, too. I’m more of a face to face person.
Same. There’s too much left to chance here. You could have a voice like Mike Tyson.
I snort laugh. Then I make a pretty unmanly whining noise. She makes sports references, too? Reve S. Guy is one lucky asshole.
We should meet so I can lay your fears to rest.
The words have been typed before I realize my fingers are moving. What am I doing? What is wrong with me? I can’t meet up with her. I’m Charlie, not Reve. I’m pretty sure a Halloween mask and a voice manipulator are out of the question when we meet in person. So what is my end game here?
If Ever has plans to go
on a date with Reve, it might prevent her from making more dates. And if I plan the date with Reve far enough in the future, it will give Charlie time to slide back in to her number-one spot. It’s such a dick move, though. Am I really capable of something like this?
God, she could have just as easily messaged someone else tonight. If I hadn’t signed up, she would be chatting with them right now. It could be anyone on the other side of the screen. Someone who could break her heart . . . or prey on her. I hear those kinds of horror stories every day. A woman meets a man on the Internet, he lies about his background and intentions, then boom. He’s a felon with warrants for credit card fraud and assault. Not Ever. Never Ever.
Wow. This is easier than I thought. Um. I think we’re supposed to be in this talking phase longer, but as long as we meet somewhere safe . . . okay. Let’s do it.
I’m jealous of myself. How ridiculous. But seriously, she’s not even going to ask me for a better picture? Or some proof of citizenship? Or a hair sample? I could be a serial killer.
I have two options here. One is to turn up to the date as Charlie. In which case, I’m pretty sure she’ll castrate me, right there in the dining room. The second option is to lead her on until the date rolls around and cancel at the last minute. Or not show up at all. No way. I’m not going to hurt Ever’s feelings like that. I still haven’t recovered from the first time, when I fucked up her speed dating night and made her sad.
So here is what I’ll do. I’ll give myself until the date to get us back to our original arrangement. As Charlie. If I can’t pull it off by next Friday . . . I’ll show up to the date as myself and come clean.
It’s risky. Really risky. But I don’t see another way that doesn’t cause Ever pain.
God help me if I blow this.
How does next Friday sound?
Chapter 9
Ever
It’s a job night and everything has been royally fucked from the word go.
There are several drawbacks to hiring students to walk around and offer hors d’oeuvres to guests. They court drama among themselves, they’re always cranky and they’re flakier than cereal. No matter how effusive they are about their work ethic and punctuality, it takes almost nothing to make them call in sick. A light drizzle, a fight with their significant other, a Netflix binge they didn’t see coming. They never cancel in a timely manner, either. They wait until oven buzzers are going off and the pinchy-featured woman who hired you is checking her watch.
Problem is, Nina and I haven’t established ourselves enough yet to hire a full-time staff. We don’t have enough capital to pay waiters until we get paid. God forbid something goes wrong and people are shortchanged. So on a job night—like tonight—we often squint one eye and wait to take a punch.
This evening, Hot Damn Caterers has been hired by the Women’s Art League of New York—and that is no small potatoes. There was a small write up recently about Nina taking over the family donut shop in Brooklyn and starting her own catering company in the space. Apparently, it had caught the right eye, because the Art League had contacted us directly, interested in using the services of a female-run company.
We’ve been testing recipes and fine-tuning the menu for a month. Fois gras crème brȗlée, spiced lamb meatball and tuna tartar appetizers. Sangria-marinated filet mignon, pesto-pistachio gnocchi and pancetta-wrapped pork tenderloin entrées. Yeah, we’ve pulled out all the stops on this one. No way we’re going to let them down, knowing how much business a successful event could lead to. Of course, when we’d stressed the importance of this event to our college crew, it had gone in one ear and out the other.
We are short a waiter, which doesn’t seem like a huge deal. But it is. Catering companies with more financial security always play it safe and book extra help. Hot Damn doesn’t have that kind of bankroll yet. Maybe we should have tapped another waiter despite the cost, though, because now we’re stuck.
“Maybe I can multitask,” I mumble to Nina out of the side of my mouth, conscious of the nervous Art League chairwoman pacing the kitchen, going over notecards. “Stock trays and plate food, then do a pass with it . . . lather, rinse, repeat.” In front of me on the stove, four pans sizzle with different sauces and a huge pot of boiling pasta. We spent most of the afternoon prepping the food off-site in Williamsburg, but the Art League hasn’t paid through the nose for trays of ziti on chafing racks. They expect gourmet, and they expect it hot and fresh, which is why we’ve been busting ass in the Art League basement for four hours without a break. The event begins in half an hour.
“No, we need you down here.” Nina chews on the thumbnail of her free hand, the other holding a cell phone to her ear. “Damn. No one is answering. That’s the fifth voicemail I’ve gotten.”
“College students with plans on a Saturday night.” I sample the sauce and decide more fresh ground pepper is needed. “Never would have guessed.”
When Nina would usually toss back a smart-alec response, she laughs and pats me on the back. “Good one.” Such compliments have been the theme of the week. Maybe her heart isn’t in our ongoing battle of wits right now because she’d ended things with her boyfriend? Whatever the reason, I hope she gets back on the insult horse soon—there’s only so much positivity I can take.
“Crap,” Nina grounds out. “Crap. Six voicemails. That’s it. Wad blown.”
“Damn.” Now I’m nervous. I was able to hold off the anxiety until the final safety was pulled on our parachute, but now the deficit is real. This is a huge opportunity for us, and we’re missing a vital player. “Um . . . do we know anyone—”
“No. Jeremy’s sister could have done in a pinch, but . . .” Nina shrugs off the mention of her ex-boyfriend’s sister, her eyes clouding over.
I turn and plop a kiss on her shoulder. “Look, we’ll just send up more trays with each pass and set them out, instead of walking through. If the food can’t go to the guests, the guests must go to the food.”
Nina throws a look over her shoulder and winces. “That’s going to go down like a wet fart in a church.”
“Nina.” I muffle a laugh with the back of my wrist. “Maybe we should tell our not-so-calm-and-collected client now and limit the fallout.”
“I already know what’s going to happen,” Nina whispers, massaging her forehead. “We’re not going to get paid in full and we’ll lose money, Ever. We really can’t afford that right now. We’re going to be paupers bathing in city fountains.”
My pulse drums hard on either side of my throat. Times like this, I’m tempted to fall into the trap of uncertainty. Was I crazy to think I could just morph into a businesswoman, like my mother? What do I know about running a company? I’m learning as I go, taking it one day at a time. But this is a now problem, so I battle the urge to buckle and breathe through my nose. Thinking . . . thinking . . .
Later tonight, I will look back at this moment and wonder if some sort of voodoo had come into play. Inside the pocket of my apron, my cell phone buzzes and I fumble my spoon into its holder so I can grab it.
Charlie, says the screen.
For a full month, Charlie contacted me for one reason only. Sex. So it’s little wonder that seeing his name on my cell phone screen makes my vaginal muscles clench like I’m trying to crack a coconut. Charlie Burns: a walking, talking reminder to do your Kegels.
Only, we’re friends now. Not hookup buddies. Three days ago, we shook hands over beer and everything. When he walked me to the train, he kept his paws and mouth to himself, which had to mean he was serious, right? When three days passed without so much as a text, I started to doubt. But it’s possible I’ve been too rash. Ninety percent of the afternoons we were together, he wore his uniform. Maybe the academy really does keep him too busy for a relationship, just as I suspected when I first laid eyes on him. When he claims to have no time, maybe it’s the truth, plain and simple.
“Charlie?”
“Ever.” His voice slides into my ear and the bubbling sauces on the stove fade ou
t, but continue to warm my arms. “What are you up to?”
“Working a job.” I notice Nina watching me closely. Motioning for her to keep stirring, I take a few steps away. “You?”
“Watching the game with Jack. Or I was, before he passed out.” A pause, wherein I can almost feel him kissing my neck, simply because that’s what usually happens when small talk is out of the way. “I was going to see if we could hang out. Like friends do.”
“Like friends do,” I say back, catching my reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator. I’m twisting side to side at the waist like a middle-schooler talking to a boy on the phone for the first time. Really, it’s heinous. “Maybe a different night.”
There is a picture of Charlie beside the word persistent in the dictionary, so I’m not surprised when he doesn’t take no for an answer. “Not even for a drink afterward? What neighborhood are you in? I can come meet you.”
“Believe me, a drink will be necessary, but I think it’ll be a bottle of red wine passed between me and Nina in bed.” I look back anxiously at my friend, who in turn stares at the pacing Art League chairwoman. “We’ve had a pretty big setback tonight, so we’ll be licking our wounds.” When he doesn’t speak for a moment, I nudge him. “Charlie?”
His sigh is almost wistful. “Sorry, I got stuck on the part about you drinking wine in bed with another woman.”
“Lecherous man.”
“You brought it up.” His smile beams through the phone, reminding me of the hug he gave me in the bar. How he’d smelled. How he’d seemed invincible, those steady breaths lifting his chest beneath my cheek. “What kind of setback?”
“One of our waiters cancelled—” I cut myself off as a thought occurs to me. Call me a skeptic, a realist or both. I’m not one hundred percent sure if Charlie really wants to only be my friend. Heck, I’m not sure if women and men can be friends at all without one of them wanting to knock boots, let alone when they’ve been at it for a month. Why not find out if he can put his money where his mouth is? “How are you with a tray? Think you could walk, smile and carry one at the same time?”