Sam Cruz's Infallible Guide to Getting Girls

by Tellulah Darling

  “Sam.” My dad comes out of his bedroom, shrugging into his jacket. He’s got dark hair and blue eyes and is always laughing. Ladies love him.

  Dad slings an arm around me. “Alexa, you met my boy?”

  “He’s like a mini you.”

  Now all I can picture is Mini Me from Austin Powers. Not a great look.

  “The kid is a rock star with the girls.”

  I step away from my dad. This is just awkward. For him mostly. “Okay, Pops. Run along.”

  Dad grins at me. He knows what I’m thinking. Then he points at me. “Really proud of this guy.”

  “You should be.” Alexa takes Dad’s arm, “accidentally” managing to press her chest against him. “He’s a cute one.”

  “Well. Homework to do. Nice meeting you,” I tell Alexa.

  With a jaunty salute my way, Dad and Blondie leave.

  Got to hand it to him. The guy’s still got it.

  Of course thinking about Dad and Alexa makes me think once more about Ally in that top and, abracadabra, I’m hard again.

  I sigh and go take that cold shower.

  An hour later, Ian is over and we’re attempting to make dinner with whatever we find in the kitchen.

  I’m filling Ian in on what happened with Ally, which is complicated by the fact that he’s being a pussy and keeping his hands over his ears.

  “Like a sister, mate,” Ian says. “Don’t want to hear this.”

  I hand him a chopping knife, forcing him to lower his hands. “How do you think I feel? I’m not supposed to get hard over her. It’s Ally. My best friend since forever. She’s not even a girl to me.”

  “Apparently she is,” Ian shoots back, slicing cheese for the grilling of bread.

  I get the mustard out of the fridge. “I feel like the creepy relative. There I was with one of the most raging—”

  “Hey, Uncle Bad Touch. Shut it, already. Don’t want to know.”

  “Over and over again,” I groan. “Is this gonna happen every time I help her score guys? I’m gonna get turned on myself? I can’t go there.”

  Ian shrugs. “Tell her she’s on her own.”

  I throw some butter in a heated pan and watch it sizzle, thoughtful. “She’s not ready to be on her own. All of this remains theoretical.”

  “Except the hot part,” Ian adds unhelpfully.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I stick the sandwiches in the pan. “Except that. Alright. Here’s the plan. She’ll get her first success and then I don’t have to be around that part of her. She can go back to being regular Ally for me.”

  “She better. I have a knife and I’m not afraid to let Rachel use it,” Ian says, pointing it toward my groin.

  “If she doesn’t, I’ll use the damn thing on myself.”

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled Ally cleaned up so well. But my entire life, I’ve sorted girls into two different categories: chicks I wanted to hook up with (the urges started young) and females that were just friends or teachers or people’s moms or whatever.

  And it has nothing to do with looks. I’ve slept with girls who wouldn’t be considered conventionally pretty but who had a spark. Maybe they had a great laugh or sexy walk, but whatever it was, there was an instant attraction.

  Then there was Ally. More than just a friend. The friend. I couldn’t remember her not being in my life and I couldn’t see my life without her. She just is. A category all on her own.

  So suddenly seeing her as not just female but spark-worthy is head tripping me big time. I don’t want to sleep with her, because first and foremost she is still Ally, but my brain is identifying her as a female I should want to sleep with.

  You can see how it can mess with a guy’s mind.

  It’s like realizing your parents have sex. You love them as your parents but you sure as hell don’t need to think of them getting it on. Certain categories are supposed to be set in stone.

  “Sam!” Ian’s sharp call brings me back in time to save our sandwiches from burning.

  The kitten, who I kept because I couldn’t risk her being put down if I took her to an animal shelter, jumps on the counter.

  “There really was a cat,” Ian muses.

  I snap my fingers. “Attila, down.”

  Instead, she licks a corner of one sandwich.

  “That’s yours,” Ian says, grossed out.

  “You think?” I reply, setting the plate on the floor.

  “Are cats supposed to eat that?” he asks.

  I shrug. “No idea. This is new territory for me.” I look at Attila, happily nibbling away at the grilled cheese, and pull out two slices of bread for my new sandwich. “As long as everyone’s happy, I can’t see the problem.”

  After dinner, I ask Ian if he wants to go out. There’s always some kind of party happening in a rented club or warehouse.

  But he’d rather be with Rachel, so I call Ally up and tell her to get dressed. No time like the present to kick that little bird out of the nest and let her fly. Or at least master controlling it. Get one step closer to the end of the insanity.

  I head for this nondescript building that used to be a rave staple. The glow stick bunnies and oxygen-huffing boys have moved on but the space has kept the great DJ’s and lack of a liquor license.

  Outside, musclehead bouncers get off on deciding which teen gets let into the skanky box and who has to wait like a nobody.

  Of course I get in, no problem. I’d like to think it’s because of my cool charm that will pull girls into the club like a magnet, but the free movie vouchers I give the bouncer occasionally probably help.

  The techno music is loud and bass-heavy but only a few people are dancing. More are chatting or, more specifically, scoping each other out, because the night is young. And the crowd is horny.

  Ally has texted me that she’s already inside. I figure it’s a good sign she got in on her own, because her old look would have had her waiting outside until she froze. I scope the room out for her.

  Whoa. Where did she get that dress? It’s red and there isn’t very much of it. I see Rachel written all over the thing and curse her for getting involved.

  Ally is perched unsteadily on a high stool at a small table, legs crossed, which look about ten miles long in her heels.

  I take a deep swig of Coke then hold it up to her as a sort of cheers.

  She smiles and waves enthusiastically.

  Take two. I shake my head and make my way over to her table, weaving through a giant clique of girls who have just started dancing.

  I escape with only minor jostles and get to her, only to find to my shock and dismay that Etienne is there, chatting her up.

  I have no problem interrupting. “You’re not supposed to wave,” I tell her. “You need the definition of ‘disinterest’ tattooed on you?”

  Ally makes a dismissive gesture, sure of herself as usual. “In my opinion, coy yet approachable will work better than disinterested.”

  “First, that wasn’t coy,” I tell her “and second, when you become the expert on pulling the opposite sex, we can try it your way.”

  I face Etienne. “What are you doing here?”

  “Helping you.”

  Yeah, right.

  He shrugs. “I called your house. Your father said where you were. This is your friend, Ally?”

  He sounds genuinely surprised and I realize they’ve never actually met. “Ally, Etienne. There. Now bye-bye.”

  Big shocker, he ignores me. “She is loveliness incarnate. Why do you always speak of your friend “old” Ally? Sam, you are really a douche.”

  “‘Old?’” Ally asks. “Is this how you get women? You insult them and they fall to your feet in a masochistic heap?”

  “The roofies help,” Etienne adds.

  I elbow him sharply. “‘Old friend,’ asshole. Not old.
Etienne has a tenuous grip on the language,” I explain to Ally. “And reality.”

  “Allow me to buy you a drink,” Etienne charms. “Better yet…” He pulls a flask from his jacket and uncaps it.

  “That’s so sweet.”

  I can’t believe her. I shoot her an incredulous glance and she gives me a “what?” shrug. I guess she’s trying to stay with the program.

  “No,” I say. “It’s disruptive.” Could he be more annoying right now?

  “Tequila?” Etienne motions at the flask. “The worm is especially potent.”

  “Actually,” Ally says, “that’s a myth. It would violate all kinds of laws in Mexico if there were really worms.”

  “I had one once,” Etienne disagrees.

  “No. What you probably had was a butterfly larva found in some types of Oaxacan Mezcal. The worm in Mezcal isn’t even a traditional element in—”

  “Fascinating,” I cut in. “Now try again. Like you actually mean it.”

  “I mean it,” she protests.

  “Because nothing says do me like ‘I’ve had worms.’”

  Ally turns to Etienne, only to find him scoping out her chest.

  “Hello. My eyes are up here.”

  “I’m aware,” he replies.

  “The only interesting and environmentally appropriate trivia,” I continue bringing her back on topic, “is the many ways Tab B fits into Slot A.”

  She ignores me some more. Doesn’t matter. If she keeps going like this, she’ll lose him soon enough and then we can focus.

  Ally snaps her fingers under Etienne’s nose. He finally looks up.

  “There. That wasn’t so hard was it?” She plasters on a fake smile that still makes her look annoyed.

  Etienne shoots me a glance. “She’s kidding, right?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  Etienne looks appalled. Some blond in a purple tutu passes by and smiles at Etienne. He follows her.

  “Son of a bitch,” Ally swears. “Fine. What now?”

  “You scared off a Frenchman. I’m stymied.”

  She stares at me skeptically then points out an average-looking guy flailing around in a sad approximation of dancing. “Maybe I could start lower on the food chain.”

  “Your first time as ‘evolved owning your sexuality’ Ally does not involve bottom feeding. Nor does it involve accessing your inner Bill Nye.”

  Ally sticks her tongue out at me then surveys the room.

  We see an uptight girl chat up some sour-looking Republican who looks bored and a ditzy looking trendazoid staring wide-eyed up at two frat boys, who seem to be doing all the talking. She touches them a lot and they’re falling over themselves to impress her.

  Neither approach is right for Ally, in my opinion, but she needs to figure some of this out on her own, so I leave her to her own devices and head back to the bar area to get a refill.

  Coke in hand, I sweep through the room like I own the place.

  Given the flirty looks shot at me by girls, I do.

  As I recognize some faces, I realize that not everyone here is a high school senior. There is, in fact, a pretty good representation of my favorite college delights.

  Before I can pick out which morsel to go for, I accidentally bump into a pixie-like girl.

  Choice made.

  “Sam,” she says, surprised.

  Shit. “Hey gorgeous,” I cover, having no clue what her name is. “Good to see you again.”

  I lean in and kiss her cheek.

  “You too,” she replies. “I haven’t seen you since…”

  She waits for me to finish. She’s good.

  But I’m better.

  I whip out my phone. “Hang on. My fat fingers mangle the keyboard but I’m not letting you leave without getting your info.”

  I hand her the phone. She reluctantly takes it and starts entering her contact info.

  “How’s school going?” I keep the small talk going long enough for her to enter her name and number.

  “Great, actually. I made the Dean’s list.”

  “You totally deserve it.” I take the phone back and surreptitiously glance at it.

  “You know, Hannah,” I continue, “you’ve done something different since I last saw you.” I check her out. “Hair?”

  She touches her hair. “Um, it’s shorter now.”

  Hair. Always a safe bet. “It looks great,” I assure her.

  She looks at me oddly and I can tell she’s confused about whether I really remember her. Which I don’t, but why upset her.

  “I almost didn’t…” I trail off at the sight of Ally, throwing me a totally sexy grin. Huh?

  “…Recognize…” I try to focus but lose it again as Ally twirls her hair and blinks adorably before looking away.

  Perfectly disinterested.

  I am confused. And turned on.

  “I…”

  I shift, uncomfortable.

  “Are you alright?” Hannah asks.

  I glance back at Ally, who takes a sip of her drink then licks her lips.

  I take a large sip of pop and press the glass to my neck. “Hot in here.”

  “I should get back to my friends,” Hannah says.

  “No! I mean, let me buy you a…” Once more, there I go. Except this time it’s because I realize what’s actually been going on.

  Ally hasn’t been doing this for my benefit. She’s been coming on to some douchebag in urban clothing who’s honing in on her like a heat-seeking missile.

  “Monkey humping credit card baller,” I mutter. “I don’t think so.”

  I hurry off to intercept the guy, bailing on Hannah and skidding to a stop in front of Ally.

  I glance back over my shoulder with a scowl, momentarily stopping the DB.

  Ally shoves at me. “Get lost. I hooked one.”

  “I don’t like the way he’s looking at your soft underbelly. Let’s go.”

  “No,” she protests.

  “No arguing with the master.” I grab her hand and drag her away.

  Chapter fourteen

  Sam flicks on his bedroom light and I stomp in. His kitten, Attila, snuggles on his pillow, asleep.

  Even though I’m annoyed at Sam for killing my potential happy buzz, part of me is hugely relieved. There was a lot of pressure back at that party. Not that I’m backing down, but it all felt so contrived.

  I’d kind of like my first post-Jeremy hookup to be a bit more natural and not so blatant, like the clock is ticking down to midnight so I better nab some guy so I’m not on my own when the lights come up.

  Of course I’d never admit this to Sam, so I keep my annoyed face on as I stroke the kitten.

  “Ooh, you’re a sweetheart,” I coo as she rolls on her belly, eyes wide open and gazing up at me.

  “Mistakes were made,” Sam tells me.

  I flick my gaze toward him and reach for my indignant place. “Are you totally insane? You drag me out of there, don’t talk to me the entire way back, and then tell me mistakes were made? What mistakes?”

  “The mistake was that you’re not ready because you don’t know the last lesson.”

  Uh-huh. “So it’s your mistake,” I charge.

  Sam brushes me off. “Do we really need to assign it?”

  I scratch Attila’s ears. “What’s the last lesson? Or should I say who?”

  “The Ethan Hunt. Because getting out of there without hard feelings can be a mission impossible.” Sam considers me, thoughtfully. “Although as a girl, you probably won’t have the same trouble. They’ll just want you gone.”

  “Charming.”

  “However, in case you happen to snag the one girly man who wants to cuddle, we need a sound strategy to get you out safely. Because after your night ‘o fun, you must end it. Hi
t the road.”

  “Thank God you told me that. I might have just stayed stuck in the bed for years.”

  Sam makes a face at me, his lack of amusement plain. “When you enter a guy’s room, the first thing to do is find a bedpost or easily accessible place to throw your clothing for speedy retrieval. Take a moment to map out the room so that you can leave without any noise, even if it’s dark.”

  He mimes out taking note of the room and scampering away.

  “That seems a little callous.”

  “Awkward ‘après chit chat’ is worse,” he informs me.

  Yeah. I’m sure he hates talking to girls any longer than he has to and he probably has a point, but still. Maybe I can modify the lesson as fits the situation.

  Sam senses my doubt because he continues with “When you leave that bed, you have about sixty seconds before they notice you’re gone. Or about 4 rounds of the MI theme music. Make the most of it.”

  “The depth to which you’ve broken this down is actually kind of frightening me,” I say.

  “You’ll thank me when you’re out of there safe and sound,” he assures me.

  “What if we’re at my place?” I ask.

  He huffs in utter frustration. “Never bring him to your place. How will you get rid of him?”

  “Hang on,” I interrupt. “You mean you’ve never slept with a girl here in your room?”

  “Nope.”

  “Seriously? Not ever?”

  “No. This is what I’m trying to tell you. Also, bring your own protection. Did you have anything tonight?”

  “No,” I admit. I’d figured either the guy would have something or the deed wouldn’t get done.

  Sam shakes his head sadly. “See all the reasons why you weren’t ready to be a lioness?”

  Yes, but they weren’t the ones you were thinking, buddy.

  “Obviously I’m not going to have unprotected sex, but explain to me why he can’t have protection?” I ask.

  “It helps you own it and not be dependent. Even the tiniest hint of neediness is unappealing.”

  I cross my arms, ready to be done with this. Sam may be the master but I think he needs therapy. I never realized the depth of his issues. “That it?”

  “Almost,” he replies. “In one night stands, the general rule is blow jobs yes, going down on a chick, not so much. You should live by the motto, ‘It’s better to give than to receive.’”