Driving Me Wild

by Maria Benson

  That said, whenever I was with Aimee it was hard to shake the feeling that a sword hung overhead–one ready to drop the instant she realized it was me she was dating. Aimee had been with a lot of guys over the years, and I was well aware that I didn’t quite fit her profile. Add in the fact that neither of us had yet broached the topic of exclusivity, and I couldn’t shake Scott’s and Bobby’s constant warnings that she would eventually drop me for either a semi-reformed “authentic” playboy or, perhaps, for Ian Wallace or another Master of the Universe.

  “I know I need to mitigate the risk,” I said, tapping my chin in thought. “I still flirt, and regularly test my skills with attractive women–I just don’t follow through.”

  “Okay,” Scott said finally. “Just promise me you’re not shopping for wedding rings with Aimee. I’m kinda proud of you, Mike. You’ve probably quintupled your body count in just four months?”

  I did some rough calculating, my own eyes widening as I realized the answer. “To be honest, it’s now nearly six times what it was. It fell short mainly thanks to the Aimee thing.”

  Scott chuckled. “Nice. I’ve done all I can to protect you from your feelings about Aimee, so at this point I say you’re ready for a final exam. I’ll chat with Bobby about exactly what that means, and we’ll set something up. Catch ya later.”

  When Beverly poked her head out of her office door, she trained her narrowed eyes on me. “Bridget,” she said, referencing her executive assistant, “if anyone else pulls what Mr. Blake just did today, you have permission to shoot them on sight.” As she wearily waved me into her office, she continued. “And tell my next appointment that I’m running fifteen minutes behind.”

  The second she closed the door after her, Beverly turned and pulled me to her. As she attacked my lips with hers, a combination of shock and my red-blooded instincts left me initially helpless, but in seconds I pushed her away and wiped at my mouth. “Hey, hey, I’m not here for all this.”

  My words punctured her horny haze, and she stepped back, wiping her brow. “Hmm, you could have fooled me.”

  I stood quickly and moved behind her executive chair, hiding my massive boner in hopes she would take my words seriously. “Beverly, I didn’t disrupt your day for a booty call.”

  She crossed her arms, eyes still dancing naughtily. “Why haven’t we fucked since New York?”

  I glanced over her head, then to each side. “Wow, you talk like that in here?”

  She had her hands on her well-toned hips. “You know, Michael, when you sleep with a girl on a first date and don’t request another, she might take it as an insult.”

  I peered around her office. “You, ah, kind of have a lot on your plate these days. Not to mention how unethical our relationship would be at this point.”

  “Uh-huh. Somebody must have a serious girlfriend. Whatever,” she replied, waving me away. “What did you want?”

  We argued politely about my immediate concern, the fact that she had forced Maxwell to lay off a couple of his staff, including my friend Kyle Ross, one-time star of the group. After defending the move as part of a larger game plan to bring in some veteran IR staff who could help the company break a series of bad news to investors, Beverly stared me down.

  “Michael, what I’m doing with the IR department is right for the company, but frankly it’s also right for you. Do you really have ambitions about running that group someday?”

  My eyes met hers insistently. “You know I do.”

  Her tone sharpened. “Look at me. Kyle’s gone. In his place we’re hiring two veteran sell-side analysts who, trust me, have no interest in managing people or working here for much more than a year. Do these changes put you further away from, or closer to, your goal?”

  We were staring eye-to-eye now, nonverbals saying so much more than words could, but Beverly got the last ones in. “I’ll take my thank you in the way I choose, when I choose. You understand?”

  Even amidst the demands of a heavy workload, I spent the rest of the day stewing over Beverly’s deluded attempt to burden me with a sexual IOU. Then a text arrived from Olive, the type that can sweep aside pre-existing priorities. 'Do you have a minute?'

  At the moment, I had a forkful of salad in one hand and a bill of materials report in the other. After scrutinizing several more rows of data, I grunted and returned the text. Really busy right now, can I call you tonight?

  Immediate reply: 'No!'

  I stood and walked to the window of my new office. Trying to distract myself with the view of a sunny blue sky, I dialed her number. When she answered, I didn’t mince words. “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know why you make me resort to that to get your attention,” she said, her voice husky as if bucking for a fight.

  “Uh, Olive? Chill.” A little reflection reminded me that something had been a little off about our last date those many weeks ago. A great cooking class at The Chopping Block, capped off by a selection of shared wines at Avec, had been underwhelming because Olive had not really been herself.

  Some of it was my fault probably, given my decision to weasel out of sleeping with her again, but the woman who usually steered most of the conversation had been a follower, not a leader. She talked when coaxed, sure: if I went quiet, though, she did the same. I had been on dates with quiet women before and did not miss the experience. In those cases, however, the stretches of stony silence could at least be quickly translated as a lack of interest. This time, that explanation wouldn’t have made sense–this was a woman who had shown plenty of interest in me, both verbally and physically, within minutes of our first official date.

  “You clearly don’t care about anything I am trying to tell you right now,” she said.

  “Why would you say that?” Genuinely confused, I slapped my thigh. Was there something I had done or said, maybe an insensitive comment that had unknowingly hit too close to home? I searched my memory bank, looking across our history of texts, calls and dates, including the couple of nights spent at her place. Clearly I was missing something, unless–well, I didn’t really want to consider Door Number Two. Had she caught me in a lie, one that tipped her off to the existence of the other women in my life? “Look, I really didn’t want to go into this over the phone, not at first.”

  Something in her tone felt familiar, common enough to convince me that I had the answer. “Olive look, if this is about how serious we are, or where our relationship’s going–”

  “I’m pregnant, Michael,” she said, as if a speedy delivery would ease the blow. “Aren’t you glad you called?”

  CHAPTER 35

  Michael

  It’s eight o’clock on a Saturday night, and the final exam Scott has designed for me is under way. He, new mom Ava, Aimee and I are hurtling down Lake Shore Drive in a rented 10-passenger Lexus SUV limo. We are headed to a mayor’s ball at the Hilton, where Scott has indicated I will face multiple tests of my ability as a well-developed womanizer.

  Scott and I have already discussed the significance of tonight. “You’ll need to implement every one of the Bad Boy Rules in a challenging setting,” he explained the night before. “Your challenge? Juggling your lovely date and a number of your past victims. Can you encounter them and keep the most crazy ones from cutting you, or starting a scene? More importantly, are you agile enough to steer Aimee away from any coincidental encounters with them? If you can’t manage all this, your training to this point has been in vain.”

  As the couples make speculative small talk about what local and national celebrities may be in attendance, I knock my top and bottom teeth together anxiously. Scott refused to give me any idea of which women are likely to be at the ball, so I am going in blind.

  Even as Scott and Ava entertain the limo crowd with tales of their adventurous new life raising baby Adam, I am reminded that he has weighty matters on his own mind. “Mike, pass this test,” he had said, “and you’ll prove you have skills that you can reactivate whenever necessary.” He whispered his next sen
tence in apparent shame. “I’m hoping I don’t have to test mine again soon.” Apparently there is trouble in paradise: Ava’s investment banker father is pressuring her to test baby Adam’s paternity before she walks the aisle with the interloping American. Scott is already a millionaire, but it seems that’s not enough for the Swiss one-percenter.

  His domestic turbulence hasn’t stopped Scott from reminding me daily that I’m on dangerous ground myself with Aimee. Several times a day I find myself pausing, if only for a second, and victoriously punching the air. I’m mature enough to know our relationship is still in a honeymoon phase, but also experienced enough to know we have more going on than the average Dick and Jane engaging in booty calls. The more we get to know each other, the more easily the conversation flows, the more invested we seem to get in each other’s lives. The way she is leaning on me for help as she builds her new self-help career tells me plenty. Aimee may or may not be in love with me, but she’s starting to depend on me.

  As a newly trained “player” it embarrasses me, but I am ready to surrender to love. The only complication in that dream scenario is Olive, whose pregnancy news landed like a haymaker.

  In disbelief, I had insisted on dropping by her place the night of the news. She opened her door slowly, as if unsure who awaited on the other side. “I just put on some tea,” she said forlornly, her downcast eyes still wet. “Come on in.”

  When she slid in next to me on her deep red Ikea couch, two teacups in hand, she pecked a gentle kiss onto my cheek. “Are you freaking out yet?”

  Forehead creasing, I forced a dry smile. “Well, you eased me into it so gradually, Olive.”

  She inhaled. “I should explain. I was a little emotional when I called.”

  Sitting there in Olive’s darkened studio, the only light the shafts coming off from the kitchen, I clenched my right hand as I asked the question muttered by millions of men before me: “So, are you sure?”

  The latest news was, she was not certain. Olive had not taken a pregnancy test, but was two days late. “You can usually set a clock by me,” she said, “so when Aunt Flow didn’t show up yesterday, especially with me preparing for London, I kind of freaked out.” Since I had met her, Olive had been pretty anxious about her orchestra’s upcoming tour with orchestras from half a dozen countries. “I really hope she hits before I leave. If not, I’ll be peeing on a stick overseas.”

  I weighed her words, feeling their impact more viscerally this time. Oh God.

  She rubbed my back gently. “Michael, it’s probably a false alarm, okay? I’m sorry for jumping the gun and getting you worried.”

  I sat there, both panicked and grateful. Four months of “playing around” with over twenty women, and this was my first pregnancy scare. “You’re right,” I said, cupping her chin. “No need to get too worked up yet.” I hesitated and caught my breath. “Do you want to talk about what happens if the tests are positive?”

  She burst into tears, leaned into me. “There’s no way it should have happened. We’ve been safe, every time.”

  I dipped my head for a second. “There was that time with the ripped condom.”

  “But I’m on the pill.”

  “Which fails, what, ten percent of the time?”

  She shuddered in my arms. “Oh God. This is what I get.”

  Not sure whether to be insulted, I sat up a bit. “What do you mean?”

  “I broke rules for you,” she had said, voice whispery. “If I asked you how many partners you had before me, would you tell the truth?”

  I grinned, as if I wasn’t still reeling from her news. “Would you want to hear the truth?”

  “Probably not.” Face still wet with tears, Olive smiled despite herself. “My own stats are not impressive.”

  I used my right hand to start counting off. “Well let’s see, you already told me about Deepik, Carlos and Miles–”

  “That’s it,” she said definitively. “Deepik was my prom date and first boyfriend, Carlos was my college steady sophomore and junior year, then I met Miles in graduate school.” Her lips trembled before she spoke. “I loved all of them, Michael. You were pretty much my first hook-up.”

  I frowned. “Oh.”

  She laid a hand to my chest. “I’m not saying that’s all you are to me, but come on, you’ve

  never claimed that we’re exclusive. I know what’s up.”

  I ran a hand through my hair, forced myself to look back into her eyes. “I-I guess I assumed you were seeing other people too. A woman as stunning as you–”

  “What did I tell you the first time we met? I don’t get hit on by that many guys; they usually seem intimidated or assume I’m already with someone. The ones who do come at me, most are yuck, these overbearing jackasses who think they’re God’s gift. I turn my back on those pretty quickly.”

  I sat up again, an uneasy feeling seeping through me. “I’m not sure what you’re telling me, Olive.”

  “We’ve been going out, having fun, for a matter of weeks, Michael,” she had said, lifting her head from my shoulder. “That’s not enough time to know a person well enough to fall in love.”

  I nodded. “No question.”

  “I knew better than to hook up with you so early,” Olive said, crossing her arms and leaning away for the first time. “But I was in a new city, feeling unsettled about this new job, and tired of pushing away one guy after another.” She shrugged. “It just felt like time to let loose a bit.”

  I sighed. “And then this happens–or maybe it hasn’t.”

  As we stared at one another across the abyss of possibility, I stifled the desire to come clean to Olive about my growing loyalty to Aimee. I wanted her to understand that I cared for her, but that our romantic relationship would end regardless of whether we now had a child to raise.

  The honest truth was, aside from the fact that I had never had to worry about getting pregnant, I had been a male version of Olive a few months back–viewing dating primarily as a precursor to finding a soul mate and spouse, not just the latest hook-up. As Olive’s lover, I had been just another face in the crowd, though, a soulless cheater tempted to dodge accountability for my actions.

  Crowding out recognition of my moral bankruptcy, I had gently moved Olive’s black hair from in front of her eyes. “Whatever happens, we will deal with it together. Okay?”

  The raucous conversation in the limo and the loving squeeze of Aimee’s hand on mine wipe away my recall of that last hug with Olive. As Aimee and I joke about the night’s events, I place Olive onto a mental shelf. She has decreed that she will not take a pregnancy test until she returns from London, and has asked for some “space” in the meantime.

  If I am about to become a father, would it ruin my shot at happiness with Aimee? As I wipe at one arm of my tuxedo jacket, a high quality black Burberry I bought after my first night with Aimee, I realize that I can’t assume she and I are about to ride off into the sunset. Odds are, the minute I trade in my playboy status and devote myself to Aimee, she’ll run back into the arms of either one of the many high-powered womanizers in her recent past or Ian Wallace. I’m not sure what definitive evidence I need, but before I truly go “all in” I want more proof that Aimee is over such guys. I’ve seen too much to just dive in on faith.

  Arriving at the Hilton, we pile out of the limo and follow Scott and Ava into the central ballroom, where aldermen, Fortune 500 execs, bankers, physicians, successful entrepreneurs, attorneys, and relative wannabes like us clog the marble floors. For the first half hour, we all huddle behind Scott and nibble on sushi, arugula-dressed finger sandwiches and fruit salad while Scott works the room.

  After the obligatory meet and greet with Mayor Rahm and a few especially powerful aldermen, Scott pulls me aside. “Time to make your break, man,” he says, his breath scented by a glass of Scotch. “You need to circulate solo before you run into some of those special guests we talked about. Not to mention,” he says while checking his Rolex, “you’ll need to be over in th
e Great Hall at nine o’clock, right near that clock tower. You miss that appointment, you’ve failed for the night. Got me?”

  The minutes begin flying by as Aimee and I introduce each other to one harmless acquaintance after another, then she is spirited away by Ava, who seems quite taken with Aimee’s new celebrity-ish status.

  Newly abandoned, I don’t make three steps before running into my first conquest of recent months. I recognize her immediately; a tall, sexy-lanky blonde with a pageboy haircut, and in another minute I snatch her name from the recesses of long-term memory. I basically survive the encounter–my last words to her having been a 3 AM promise to call her within a few days–by blaming my absence on a crazy work schedule and some to-be-disclosed “issues.” The amazing thing is that she winds up giving me her number again.

  By nine o’clock, I’ve survived encounters with three more of my hook-ups, including Camila, the first woman I successfully landed using Scott and Bobby’s training; Anastasia, a neighbor I seduced during a skilled dialogue in our building’s laundromat; and Ana, the college friend I got with when I went to New York to get things going with Beverly.

  In all cases, I’m just glad to have plowed my way through them without having Aimee cross our path. She knows I’m not seeing her exclusively, but she’s too classy to have to be subjected to my other women. What I can’t figure right now is who I’m supposed to be meeting in the atrium at nine.

  Standing here in the hotel’s Great Hall, I scan the cavernous space for a familiar face. Unfortunately, I haven’t completed my 360-degree scan quickly enough to catch the first of my surprise guests. She’s so close, her hot breath tickles the hairs of my neck, before making them stand on end. “You,” the female voice says, “suck.” Hers is a tone laced with hostility, betrayal, and more than a few threats.