Dream Guy

by Dream Guy (lit)

  Annie was tempted to tell him the wild monkey sex was fabulous. Instead, she told him another lie. “I had a wonderful time. Thanks for asking.”

  She was relieved when a rather attractive brunette entered the room, pre-empting one of his famous wise-ass answers.

  The young woman introduced herself as Jan and told them she was the makeup artist. Annie felt like giving her a great big hug. She knew Matt would postpone drilling her further about her date with someone else present. He proved her right when he remained silent as Jan started opening and closing drawers, taking out her magic potions that would make them presentable to Atlanta’s viewing audience.

  Annie glanced over at Matt again, noticing the paper in his hand for the first time. “Is that your foolproof game plan?” She decided she might as well go ahead and let him get it out of his system if he were going to lecture her about not going back to the office the day before.

  He shook his head. “Nope. Just a few rules of manhood to boost my confidence. I figured I might need them since I’m going to be outnumbered by you and Claire Winslow when the cameras start rolling.” He grinned. “Want to hear a few timeless rules we men live by?”

  “I’ll pass,” Annie told him.

  “Are you sure?” Matt urged. “Not even just a teeny-tiny bit curious?”

  Jan laughed. “Okay, I’ll bite. Since it’s obvious you’re dying to piss one of us off.”

  “That would be me,” Annie said, raising her hand.

  Matt ignored her. “Rule number one, and possibly the most important. It is acceptable for a man to cry only under the following circumstances: (a) when a heroic dog dies to save its master; (b) the moment Angelina Jolie starts unbuttoning her blouse; and (c) after wrecking his boss’s car.”

  Jan laughed.

  Annie said, “Thank you for not sharing further.”

  “Just one more,” Matt insisted. “You know. To help us get the old man versus woman juices flowing, so to speak.”

  He held up two fingers. “Rule number two. It is permissible for a man to sip a fruity tropical drink only when he’s sunning on a tropical beach—then only if the drink is delivered by a stunning topless supermodel—and only if the drink is free.”

  “You guys are going to do great on City Singles,” Jan said, chuckling as she dusted Annie’s face with light pink blush.

  “Yeah,” Annie said. “Matt’s a real riot.”

  She reluctantly closed her eyes for what she hoped wouldn’t be a ton of some horrible shade of eye shadow.

  But she’d already decided she wasn’t going to let Matt get her flustered. She’d remained relatively calm in the face of having her throat sleeted, hadn’t she? Matching Matt word for word would be a piece of cake.

  Unless, her foggy brain said as it stretched and yawned, the shark Greg warned you about takes an immediate liking to Matt.

  Ick. She hadn’t even thought of that very good possibility. She’d had her mother and her date with Rico on her mind yesterday. Then, after the unexpected Rico and Helena dog-and-pony show at the restaurant, she’d been so emotionally drained she’d practically gone to sleep the second her head hit her pillow.

  But Claire Winslow was bound to be attracted to Matt. Why wouldn’t she be? He even had on that damn Hugo Boss suit that made him look like a million bucks.

  “Good morning, Paragon,” the familiar-from-television voice called out.

  Annie opened her eyes to Claire Winslow’s reflection smiling at her in the salon mirror Annie was facing.

  Claire was tall and slender and had the standard television personality look. She was a definite aeroplane blonde—no visible black-box roots showing, but you knew they were there. She was obviously the beneficiary of thousands of dollars’ worth of dental work. Her color-enhanced contacts gave her Elizabeth Taylor’s violet-

  colored eyes. In other words, Claire was a real live Barbie doll, complete with silicone and even her own microphone.

  Matt immediately sent Claire what Annie had come to recognize as one of his well-hello-there smiles.

  He said, “I didn’t think it was possible you could be more beautiful in person than you are on television.”

  Matt, Annie thought, a hard-on does not qualify as personal growth.

  Claire instantly thrust her too-big-to-be-real breasts forward. “Why, Matt. That type of flattery will get you anywhere you want to go with me.”

  Just his type. Inflatable.

  Matt laughed. Claire laughed. Annie thought, If bullshit had wings, this place would be a freaking airport.

  But hey? What did she care if La Femme Shark devoured the flirty red herring who had just offered himself up as sacrificial bait? Matt was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

  Annie only wished Jan had an instant game face she could whip up so she could get out of there. If Matt and Claire kept grinning at each other like two idiots in heat, they were definitely going to make her hurl.

  Matt knew he’d shimmied out on a limb and taken a big risk trying to flatter Claire Winslow. But from the appraising look she was giving him, the flattery seemed to be working. He might still be a long way from the hand-kissing stage, but he had secretly read Annie and Collin’s sainted what-a-woman-wants Joe Video script.

  Talk about knock-you-on-your-ass shocked.

  To think women supposedly appreciated such fakey and flaky responses from men had totally boggled his brain.

  Still, he couldn’t imagine a better time to put their theory to the test than this one. Not that he had any personal interest in Claire, because he didn’t. What had Greg called her? A shark in the water?

  Yeah, Matt could tell from the way she was looking at him now that Greg probably wasn’t too far off track. Her eyes asked, “What can you do for me?” Matt was willing to bet that attitude was carried over into the bedroom as well.

  He could see Claire being one of those women who rated a man’s sexual performance with a give-me-an-

  immediate-orgasm meter. And if a poor guy happened to want to take things nice and slow and do a little exploring on his own, she would either shout out specific orders or grab his hand and put a quick end to his little discovery mission.

  “The first thing I tell all of my guests on City Singles,” Claire said with a big smile directed only at him, “is that we’re here to have fun. Our viewing audience is basically made up of singles in their twenties and thirties, all looking for new information about anything pertaining to single life in the new millennium.” She paused and looked from Matt over to Annie, then straight back to Matt. “Our female viewers are going to love Joe Video.”

  “That certainly won’t hurt our feelings,” Matt told her, and smiled again for good measure.

  Jan stepped between them. “What do your rules of manhood say about men wearing makeup?”

  “Rule number three,” Matt said, trying to pretend he wasn’t nervous about the dreaded makeup process. “Go easy on the eye shadow.”

  Jan laughed. “Eyes closed, please.”

  Matt closed his eyes, listening while Claire spent the next ten minutes going over what she had in mind for the format of the show. And praying he wasn’t going to look like a drag queen when Jan finished with him.

  Claire discussed the online poll she would announce during the telecast, encouraging the viewing audience to either make or break the game. In addition to a simple yea or nay vote, the online ballot had been designed to provide Paragon with a wealth of statistical information: age, sex, level of education, and occupation of the voter.

  Claire reminded them they only had the first fifteen minutes of the show, since she’d borrowed time from a previously scheduled guest. Which suited Matt just fine. Surely he and Annie could survive fifteen minutes in front of the camera without killing each other.

  She also cautioned that their man versus woman debate should be witty and light, not hostile and argumentative. “Viewers are turned off by open confrontation between the guests,” Claire insisted, making Matt wonder i
f she’d ever compared her City Singles ratings with The Jerry Springer Show.

  Claire rambled on about how the easiest way to get over stage fright was to ignore the camera completely. She assured them she would always keep the dialogue flowing so there wouldn’t be a ghastly lull in the conversation. And she promised she would never ask either of them a question they couldn’t answer.

  Finally, she summed up with, “Any questions?”

  Matt forced himself to open his eyes. His tan looked a little darker, but at least he wasn’t wearing blue eye shadow.

  “Yes. I do have one question,” he said, realizing it was a little late to ask. “This stuff Jan just put all over my face will wash off. Right?”

  The set for the City Singles morning show looked exactly like anyone would expect, Annie decided. Raised platform, carpeted in bright blue. Three comfortable-looking chairs, the upholstery the same shade as the carpet. A modern-design coffee table holding a water pitcher and several glasses. The backdrop, a floor-to-ceiling poster of the Atlanta skyline, aerial view.

  She felt her mouth go dry when the man standing beside the huge television camera aimed in their direction held up one, two, three fingers and pointed to Claire.

  “Good Morning, city singles,” Claire said in a voice way too cheerful for seven o’clock in the morning. “Our first guests this morning are video game designers Annie Long and Matt Abbington of Paragon Technology. Paragon is based here in Atlanta and is responsible for the development of many of the most popular video games on the market today.”

  Breathe in, breathe out, Annie kept reminding herself.

  “But wait, ladies,” Claire said, holding up a polished finger. “Don’t tune us out because you heard the words ‘video game.’ We have some exciting news for our female viewing audience this morning. Paragon has designed a new video game for women only. And he isn’t your average Joe, ladies. He’s called Joe Video.”

  Get ready. Almost time.

  “According to Annie, Joe Video is every woman’s dream guy. And according to Matt, he’ll be every man’s best friend. But we want you to decide, city singles. Register your vote to make it or break it. You can do that by logging on to www-dot-city singles-dot-com for our make-it-or-break-it poll. Tell us what you think, Atlanta.”

  Ready or not, here—we—go.

  “Annie,” Claire said, turning toward her. “Another member of your design team who spoke with me on the telephone yesterday told me you got your idea for Joe Video after you were dumped on a videotape. How embarrassing for you. Is that really true?”

  A crowbar couldn’t have pried Annie’s tongue from the roof of her mouth at that moment.

  She leaned forward, took the water pitcher from the coffee table, and managed to fill a glass with a shaking hand. She drained the glass in one easy gulp.

  When she sat back in her chair, she forced herself to smile at La Shark. “Yes, Claire, as embarrassing as it is to admit, I did get dumped on a videotape.”

  But then Annie ignored Claire’s advice and looked directly at the camera, addressing the women who could hopefully identify with her pain instead of exploit it. “I felt a lot like Carrie on Sex and the City when she got dumped on a Post-it note. Except I had a huge advantage Carrie didn’t. I had the jerk on the videotape he’d sent me. I hit pause and froze him right where he stood while I told him exactly what I thought of him.”

  “I see,” Claire began, but Annie ignored her, never once taking her eyes off the camera.

  “That’s when it hit me that every woman deserved such an option,” Annie told the viewers. “And I don’t mean having a jerk on a videotape. Women run into enough jerks in real life. I’m talking about a video soul mate that a woman can control with a remote or the click of a mouse. Her very own hero, like in the romance novels we women love because we’re always guaranteed a happy ending. Except with Joe Video, you,”—she pointed directly at her viewers—“will play the role of the heroine yourself. And Joe Video will guarantee you a happy ending at the end of every day, until a man worthy of your love and devotion finally comes along.”

  “Well, thank you, Annie,” Claire said quickly. “We can certainly see that your horrible luck with men has left you bitter—but also extremely impassioned about this game.”

  Screw you, Jaws, Annie almost yelled.

  Claire immediately turned to Matt and gave him a glowing smile. “Matt. I understand that you also support this new female-focused video game, but from a male point of view. Annie insists Joe Video will be a woman’s own personal hero. Tell us why you see Joe Video becoming a man’s best friend.”

  Annie was relieved when Matt didn’t look at the camera but instead directed his comments to the pretty blonde sitting next to him. Had she been one of those women watching the show, that would have instantly pissed her off. What woman hadn’t been ignored at some time or another in favor of a snooty blonde like Claire Winslow?

  Annie sat passively by while Matt rambled on about his “let Joe Video do the dirty work” philosophy, which would supposedly liberate men from all of those validating responses that they never seemed to get right anyway. That is, Annie sat passively by until she noticed that every time Matt finished a sentence, the camera director pointed to camera number two.

  Gotcha! she thought when she realized they were switching back to her for her reaction to what Matt was saying.

  “I think every guy out there should purchase a copy of Joe Video for the lady in his life the second the game hits the market,” Matt said. “He should encourage her to enjoy her own video game romance where she can be the heroine. Maybe then she’ll understand the fascination her man has for his video games. And maybe she’ll stop giving him so much grief because he’d rather spend a little quality time with his PlayStation 2, instead of watching Lifetime on the tube with her.”

  When the director pointed to camera two, Annie made a big production of rolling her eyes, the way she was sure every woman watching was also doing at that very moment.

  “A valid point, Matt,” Claire said, “but shouldn’t you also warn men out there that Joe Video has”—she looked down at her notes—“a ‘Pleasure Me’ option for the ladies?”

  Annie winked at camera two.

  “I mean seriously, Matt,” Claire continued. “What guy wouldn’t be a little intimidated by his lady spending intimate time with some fantasy video game man?”

  Poor Matt suddenly cleared his throat, possibly at the feel of sharp teeth quickly closing around his windpipe.

  He finally said, “I don’t think I need to warn men about any aspect of this game, Claire. The ‘Pleasure Me’ option is a self-discovery exercise that is intended to help a woman get in touch with her sensuous side.” Matt finally caught on and looked directly at the camera. “How about you guys out there? Would any of you complain if you benefited because your lady spent a little time getting in touch with her sensuous side?”

  “Well, there you have it, city singles,” Claire said. “We want to give you ladies a sneak peek at the video hunk who will be more than happy to help you get in touch with your sensuous side.”

  Annie watched as a photo of Rico appeared on one of the studio monitors. It was the shot of him leaning against the doorjamb, thumb hooked in the waistband of his faded jeans, hair across one eye, and that sexy please-come-and-play-with-me smile on his lips.

  Annie smiled.

  Sales are sales are sales.

  Miraculously, she and Matt had both survived the fifteen-minute shark attack.

  The second they cut to commercial, Annie stood up, unhooked her microphone, and tossed it onto her chair. Despite her personal feelings toward the woman who had just embarrassed her in front of thousands of television viewers, she did the professional thing and thanked Claire politely for having her on the program.

  It didn’t surprise Annie that her thank-you was barely acknowledged, or that Claire quickly turned back to Matt. “I hope you don’t have to leave so quickly, Matt,” she said. “If
you’ll stick around for the remainder of the show, we’ll check the poll results together when I’m finished.”

  Annie didn’t wait to hear Matt’s answer.

  Of course he would stick around. And not, Annie suspected, only because he was interested in the poll results. It would be a big surprise if Claire didn’t already have her own booty-call Web site up and running. The witch would probably even be turned on by Matt’s stupid rules of manhood.

  Rule number four, Annie thought. The only acceptable excuse for a man not sticking around for possible future sex with a bleached-blonde television talk-show host is if said man is six feet under and doesn’t have a shovel in his cold, dead hands.

  To hell with both of them.

  Annie headed to her car.

  She’d no sooner pulled out of the parking lot than Collin rang her cell phone, literally bubbling with excitement. “You looked amazing on television,” he said. “Although I would have gone for more color than your basic black and white.”

  He just had to throw that in, Annie knew, miffed that she didn’t consult him before she dared risk what Collin called a “wardrobe malfunction.”

  Too bad.

  She was miffed herself.

  “If this is the member of the creative team who spoke with Claire Winslow on the telephone yesterday,” Annie said, “please inform Mr. Chatting Up the Enemy I’m not talking to him at the moment.”

  That got his attention.

  “And,” Annie said, “ask him how he would feel if I told the entire city of Atlanta he had a gay police buddy do a complete background check on every man he met. Thanks to a brief encounter he’d once had with a to-die-for credit card thief from Miami.”

  She heard Collin gasp.

  Annie grinned, snapped her cell phone shut, and tossed it on the passenger seat. It rang a second later, but Annie ignored it. Let Collin have a few minutes of angst. He deserved worse. If she’d been the type to pout and hold a grudge, telling Claire about her being dumped on a videotape would have been good for a week’s worth of silent treatment.

  Of course, Collin knew as well as she did that she’d never be able to make it through an entire day without talking to him. As much as his gossiping annoyed her, Annie also knew Collin’s motormouth affliction had no malicious motivation whatsoever. He simply couldn’t help his gotta-tell-it-all bad self. Collin was a hopeless blabaholic. Just as she, according to her mother, was a hopeless maleaholic.