Anything but Love (Wingmen #3)

by Daisy Prescott

  Doesn’t matter. I lean over my keyboard and enter Gomez’s website.

  Hot Ass Guy Found!

  Hey, hey, hey, Erik Kelso, how you doin’?

  No, not Ashton Kutcher’s character on That 70s Show (Hey, turns out his name was Michael Kelso. Who knew? Not me!). Erik’s a fine specimen of man from the great state of Washington. I thought they only grew trees and lumberjacks up there, but apparently underneath all that flannel are some hot ass guys.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s told the world my name and state.

  Thanks for the anonymous tip, Gomez_Girl1986. You might be a new member of our band of misfits, but you’ve earned your place as one of Gomez’s Queens.

  “I’m happy to report after long hours of taking one for Team Hot Ass Guy, I can say I’m 99.9% convinced we have our man. Check out the side by side photo action.

  Am I right? Have we found our dream boy?

  Do you have any pics of Erik Kelso? Maybe an adorable yearbook picture from his awkward years? Him in his tuxedo at prom? Send them to ME ME ME!

  If you happen to see this, Erik, call me. Or tweet me. I’ll be sitting by my keyboard anxiously waiting for you.

  Next to a picture of Gomez’s face covering my crack is a photo of me from a triathlon in Idaho last year. I’m running and drenched in sweat. Not my finest moment, but at least the pic is from the side and my full face isn’t visible.

  “Fuck!”

  I press my hands against my eyes, digging deep into my eye sockets with my fingers. Maybe I can gouge out my eyes and the resulting blindness will somehow make this all go away.

  “Erik?” Layla asks from my door. “You okay? We can hear you swearing.”

  I feel lightheaded and might pass out. Attempting to sit in my chair, I stumble back, forgetting it’s on the other side of the room. Layla rushes over and pushes it underneath me before I assplant.

  “Thanks.”

  “You look sick. Let me get you some water.” She runs out of the little office.

  I rest my elbows on my knees and hold my head in my hands. Breathing in, breathing out. Think.

  Maybe my lawyer can get his post taken down before it spreads. My fingers shake as I pull up her number on my phone.

  Of course I get voicemail and hit zero for the receptionist. She puts me on hold and the Muzak plays.

  Layla returns with a huge glass of water.

  “Thanks.” I face her and give her a half-hearted smile.

  Her eyes are focused on my computer screen.

  Where the side by side ass pics are on full display.

  “You’re Hot Ass Guy?” Her neck turns red, followed by her ears and cheeks. “Ohmygod. I’ve been totally lusting after my boss’s ass. I’m going to go die now.”

  She spins on her heel and I hear her sneakers squeak on the cement floor as she runs down the hall to the bathroom.

  We’ve gone to a place beyond awkward.

  “Hello?” a female voice says from my phone.

  I forgot I was on hold.

  “I need to speak to Virginia Sedro. Or her assistant.”

  “You’ve reached her office, but she’s at a client meeting.”

  “Why bother giving clients her number if they can never reach her?” I blow out my frustration. “I need to get an urgent message to her.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Erik Kelso, I’m one of her—”

  “Hot Ass Guy?”

  “You’ve seen Gomez?”

  “I have alerts for your name. HuffPo popped up half an hour ago.”

  “That’s wonderful. Can you get them taken down?”

  I hear typing and clicking. “Probably not.”

  “Probably not isn’t what I want to hear. I’ve been outed and it’s only a matter of time before people start showing up at my work. Or worse, my house.”

  “We swept your address off public sites last week. As for your business, you might want to avoid work.”

  “I have a company to run.”

  “Look at the good side.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. This could really put your coffee company on the map.”

  I want to be known for making the best coffee, supporting the farmers who grow it, and creating a sustainable organic business, not be an ass poster boy.

  “Whidbey must have lots of backwoods places you can hide out. The good news is living on an island will slow down the press from finding you.”

  “You’re very helpful.” I’m being sarcastic.

  “You’re welcome. I’ll have Virginia call you when she’s back in the office.”

  “Great.” I hang up. “I won’t hold my breath.”

  Pacing, I begin an emergency to-do list. I need to let people know to lock down their social media accounts. Sure it was funny (not) when locals teased me about it or posted pictures (not funny at all), but all of those will be fodder for the media to share. Forever and ever.

  I text Carter back.

  *Lock down your accounts. Do the same on Mom and Gram’s. LOCK EVERYTHING DOWN.*

  I follow my own advice. I change all my settings to private and pray it’s not too late.

  I debate shutting down the Whidbey Joe social media. Instead I scan it for any pictures of me or mention of my name, deleting as I go.

  I might as well be putting a sandbag in the Skagit River and hope to stop it. Pointless, but doing something and being proactive makes me feel better.

  My office phone rings. I pick up, hoping it’s my lawyer.

  “Erik Kelso?” an unfamiliar female voice asks.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Is this Erik Kelso?” There’s giggling on the other end. “Hot Ass Guy?”

  I hang up.

  Shit.

  I text Carter again.

  *LOCK EVERYTHING.*

  I think for a moment and text him again.

  *HIDE.*

  The office phone rings. I don’t pick up. Instead, I grab my keys and wallet. I need to get out of here.

  Carter texts back.

  *ON IT.*

  *Why do I need to hide?*

  I hear both the café phone and the office phone ring as I walk through the warehouse. “No one answer my line. No one answer the main number either. In fact, we’re closing early. As soon as the orders are packed, leave them outside for the UPS guy, lock up, and go home.”

  “What’s going on?” Amber asks.

  Nick pops his head through the door from the café. “You have a phone call.”

  “Tell them you don’t know any Erik Kelso and they have the wrong number.”

  “It’s your mom.” He furrows his eyebrows. “I think she’ll know I’m lying about not knowing you.”

  “Are you sure it’s her?”

  All three of my employees give me the same strange look. Like I’m being paranoid.

  “Um, why would someone lie about being your mom?” Nick asks.

  “Layla can fill everyone in.” I huff and change course for the café. “No more phone calls.”

  Layla leans over and whispers something to Amber, whose cheeks pink and mouth drops open. “Oh.”

  I ignore her and follow Nick into the café.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, honey. How’s your day going?” She sounds completely normal and unaware of the impending shit-storm.

  “Did Carter get a hold of you?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. What’s going on?”

  “Do you have access to Facebook? Are you home?”

  “Of course. I always keep it open at work. Helps pass the time.”

  I walk her through making sure her profile is set to private.

  “Is this because of your grandmother’s cute pics of you and Carter at Maxwelton? You know she doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “I know, but you’re going to need to walk her through the same process. As soon as possible.”

  “Oh, honey. She only has about thirty friends on Face
book and probably a third of them are dead.”

  “Dead or not, they’re a liability right now. Someone told the media I’m the guy in the famous pictures.”

  “Oh.” The line goes silent.

  I don’t hear typing or background chatter, so I check to make sure we’re still connected. “Mom?”

  “I’m here. I always knew you’d make something of your life, but I didn’t think it would be for posing naked.”

  “I didn’t pose, Mom. This isn’t some sort of nude photo shoot like Penthouse.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “Would they pay you a lot of money?”

  “Mom!”

  “I think one of the Donnely cousins posed for Playboy in the eighties. If your bottom is already out there, might not hurt to capitalize on it. That’s all I’m saying. I know you have loans and debt with starting up the business. Think of it as a windfall like winning the lottery.”

  “Lottery winners are typically cursed.” I don’t tell her about the porn sites. It’s only a matter of time before the porno offers come in. Let’s see how she feels about those.

  I can’t believe I’m even thinking about talking to my mother about porn right now.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a call later. Fix Gram’s computer, please. And for the love of my sanity, do not tell Dad.” I don’t wait for her to say more before I hang up.

  “I’m outta here!” I yell into the warehouse. “Finish up and lock the place down.”

  I start the Bronco’s engine as my phone rings.

  SEEING A FAMILIAR name, I answer my phone. “Hey, Bert, what’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you, but I thought you might want to know that when we loaded the boat in Mukilteo I noticed a couple television vans.”

  The heaviness in my stomach returns.

  “Erik? Can you hear me?”

  Clearing my throat, I reply, “Yeah. How do you know it was a TV crew?”

  “Big logo on the side of the van told me. Local station out of Seattle. But I got a gander at some other journalist types in a couple of vehicles that followed it.”

  My foot bounces as I absorb his news.

  “Any chance you can detour the ferry to Camano?”

  His throaty, smoker’s chuckle is so loud I have to pull my phone away from my ear. “If I was captain, I’d stall us mid-route for an hour.”

  “You’re a good man, Bert, but then you’d lose your job and pension. A twenty-minute head’s up will help.”

  “You know we always take care of our own around here.” His voice lowers. “Even if sometimes people don’t have enough sense to keep their pants on in public.”

  I choke on my own spit and cough. “Please tell me you didn’t look at the pictures, Bert.”

  “I wish I hadn’t, but when the wife and daughters keep giggling over them on their phones, it’s pretty impossible not to be curious.”

  My head lolls forward. “Shit.”

  More chuckling comes over my phone’s speaker. “The wife wants you to sign the one she enlarged and printed.”

  I’ve got nothing. Mrs. Lindstrom plays the organ at the Lutheran church every Sunday.

  “Thanks for letting me know about the camera crews. I need to go.”

  “I’ll stop by later this week and bring the photo.”

  I end the call to more laughter.

  I sit at the end of our driveway debating which way to turn.

  Right will take me the shortest route to my house. Left goes to the main road. Which could take a guy up to Greenbank.

  I debate if I should warn Cari. The vultures won’t be looking for her. It’s my flesh and body they want to sink their talons into.

  The most obvious place for any media to head to first is here. I need to put some distance between me and the warehouse.

  I turn left and buy myself time to decide what to do next.

  Texts light up my phone as I drive. I try to peak at the screen while steering, but the last thing I need is to get pulled over for texting while driving. I most definitely do not need more attention right now.

  A brilliant idea hits me and I turn left into Sebo’s Hardware.

  Inside, I give Maria at the counter a wave and head for the sign aisle.

  I grab all the “No Trespassing” signs they have.

  “How’s it going?” I set the signs down on the conveyer belt. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I act casual, even whistling a little tune.

  “What’s up with the signs? Most people get one or two for their property and that does the trick.” Maria scans the stack of ten plastic sheets. “Hunters see one and get the point to move on.”

  “It’s not hunters I’m worried about. Hey, you know if you post these and someone ignores them, can you have them arrested?”

  Debbie smacks her gum. “I guess. You’d need to call the sheriff’s office to confirm that.”

  I pay with my debit card, wave off her offer of a bag or my receipt, and jog back to the Bronco.

  The Phallus Palace is under our old coach’s name. We get our mail at the post office in Langley. With a long dirt driveway, we’re hidden in the woods. Unless someone tromps through the nettles and wetland between us and the road, we’re as hidden as possible. If we park Carter’s truck to block the driveway, we might as well be a fortress. Of solitude.

  Feeling better about my hideout, I decide to pick up Cari. Knowing her ability to get in trouble, she’ll stumble upon the journalist and give them an exclusive. If she’s with me, I can keep her silent.

  I call the warehouse to make sure everyone leaves soon. They have about ten minutes before the ferry unloads and another fifteen at the very earliest before anyone could get to the building from Clinton.

  No one picks up. I try the café. No answer.

  Then I remember I shouted at everyone not to answer the phones.

  I find Nick’s number in my phone and call that. He picks up right away.

  “Hey.”

  “You still at the warehouse?”

  “We’re locking up now. You really freaked out Layla and Amber. I’ve never seen them pack boxes so fast.”

  I want to yell for them to get out of the house. Now! However, as big of a nightmare as this is, it’s not a horror movie. Yet.

  “Good. Before you go, can you put a sign on the café door for me?”

  “Sure. What do you want it to say?”

  “Gone Fishing. Closed until further notice.”

  “Should we not come to work tomorrow?” Nick’s voice sounds nervous.

  “Let’s all take the day off. I’ll pay your regular hours. Tell Layla and Amber. I’ll let you know tomorrow what’s going on.”

  “Okay. That’s cool.” Nick is unflappable. I suspect a little herbal help, but he’s a great worker, so I don’t care. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I wish I felt confident I’d get through this.

  I bang on the side door of the A-frame where I dropped Cari a few days ago. Her car sits in the same parking spot, so I assume she’s here. Unless she’s gone wandering to photograph trees again.

  How many pictures of wood can one woman take?

  I mean trees.

  She doesn’t answer. I pound on the door louder.

  On the back deck, a slider opens and I hear footsteps walk to the edge closest to the door.

  “Can I help you?” A woman with short gray hair wearing yoga pants and a baggy sweater peers down at me.

  “I’m looking for Cari. Is she here?”

  “Is she expecting you?” Her crossed arms and stern expression let me know she doesn’t like strange men banging on her tenant’s door. Or banging her tenant. “Cari didn’t tell me she’d have male visitors.”

  I don’t look like a creeper. I’m wearing a reasonably clean Whidbey Joe T-shirt and cargo shorts. I probably smell like coffee, but some people like the smell.

  “We’re friends.” I give her a charming smile to make the lie more convincing. We’re not even close to being anyt
hing but enemies. Or adversaries. I step away from the door and give her a little wave. “I’m Erik.”

  She nods, but doesn’t move.

  “If Cari isn’t here, can I leave a message for her with you?”

  “If you’re friends, shouldn’t you have her phone number?”

  Excellent point. She’s given nothing away and managed to put me on the spot. Maybe she’s a lawyer. If she is, I wonder if I can hire her.

  “I lost my phone.” One lie easily becomes two. “I need to speak to her. It’s urgent.”

  She squints at me. No one is getting past this woman. I can leave now and find a way to reach Cari later. I give up.

  “When you see her, let her know Erik Kelso stopped by. She knows how to reach me.”

  The door in front of me opens and a wet Cari, wearing only a towel, pokes her head out. “What are you doing here?”

  “Do you know this man? He says you’re friends, but I get the feeling he’s lying.” Our chaperone leans over the railing.

  “I know him. Thanks, Lois.” Cari tugs me inside.

  “Inviting a man inside your apartment while you aren’t dressed! This is not that kind of rental. I’m not running a no-tell motel, young lady!” Her footsteps stomp back inside the house.

  “Seriously. What are you doing here other than upsetting Lois and possibly getting me kicked out?” She tugs her towel higher. A few droplets of water drip from her hair onto her skin.

  “I don’t have your number on my phone.”

  She stares at me from the corner of her eye as she walks into the apartment. “Were you missing me?”

  “No. I needed to talk to you.” Footsteps stomp overhead. “Sorry I broke the no boys in your room rule.”

  “She’ll get over it. I’ll make sure you’re gone by curfew at nine.”

  “Lois isn’t going to like me any better once the news hits.”

  “What news?” She seems to realize she’s practically naked and clutches the towel. “I need to get dressed.”

  She dashes into another room and closes the door. I’m left standing in a small living room with a picture window facing the lawn, a sofa, a round table for two, and a small kitchenette. Tucked beneath the deck, the light is gloomy in here. Above me, I can hear Lois walking around.

  “Does Lois own firearms?” I ask loud enough to be heard through the closed door.