Extra Credit

by Dunne, Poppy

  Thirty-five minutes later Margo’s holding my arm to keep herself steady and waving another empty shot glass around the studio as she continues to eviscerate her boyfriend. There’s a bigger crowd around us now, some offering Margo words of encouragement or just nodding sympathetically, and I still have no idea why the bar got set up down here in the first place. I decided the best course of action was to stay sober, not tell Margo she’d been sipping from a shot glass I filled with melted ice, and just let her tire herself out.

  “…And his films suck! I mean really suck! I figured I was just too close to him to be objective but—hic!—but it’s like… I… What was I saying?”

  “Ok everybody!” comes a call from the center of the studio. “Who’s intoxicated and camera ready? Send me the first victim.”

  Before I can stop anything from happening, several people are pointing out Margo, who finally realizes her glass is mostly empty, grabs a full one, and downs her fifth or sixth tequila shot just before a production assistant ushers her away into the next studio. I follow close behind and pull Tom—our resident lighting guy—aside, just as Margo’s compelled to take a seat in front of several cameras.

  “Hey, Tom? What’s going on? What are you filming?”

  “Oh hey Owen,” he says, turning toward me. “It’s called ’drunk women get surprised with kittens.’ It was Sara’s pitch so she’s directing.”

  I’m about to ask for a little more detail when the wail of a crying woman splits the air and I turn to find all the detail I need. Margo’s bursting into tears at the table as a tiny ginger tabby is brought to her and set in her lap.

  “Oh my god!” she squeals. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life…” she coos through already-brimming tears as I try not to laugh loud enough to be heard on the audio. “It’s so cute I’m going to have an aneurysm!”

  More kittens are brought to her one at a time and Margo finds a whole new octave of happy-crying.

  “No no no! It’s too cute! Is this real? Oh my god, look at the paws! The tiny little paws! Am I dreaming this? Is this really happening? This is too good to be true. Like, I’m too happy right now to be awake. Can this one’s name be Mister Whiskers?”

  I watch, laughing with the rest of the filming crew as Margo expresses through streaming tears how much she’s in love with these mewling kittens. Eventually Sara steps forward and, with a big smile, says, “Ok, I think we’ve got enough. Send in the next—”

  “No! Don’t take them from me!” Margo wails, her voice muffled by the fluffy face of a calico she’s nuzzling. She pulls back from the kitten, half-seriously staring into the camera with tequila-glazed eyes. “I wish I was a kitten. I’m not even joking. Can I be a kitten?”

  Ten minutes later the cats are gone and Margo’s standing outside the studio doors rubbing what can only be an oncoming headache.

  “She going to be alright?” the production assistant asks.

  “Yeah, I’ll drive her home,” I say. “It’s almost five anyway.”

  “No,” Margo slurs, waving a finger in the air like she’s stirring an upside-down bowl. “I’ve got…something? To do?”

  “Yeah. You drive her home,” the PA nods emphatically.

  After a lot of cajoling I get Margo to my car, and then, after buckling her in safely, get us going down the freeway toward her apartment in the Valley. I drive as smoothly as I can while she sits, head lolling, giggling at her own mumbled speech in the passenger seat. When I pull into the parking lot at her apartment I’m just glad that it’s a two-floor complex.

  “My hero,” she grins as I help her out of the car.

  “Nobody’s ever called me that before—how many tequilas did you have?”

  “Just one.”

  “Must have been a pretty big one then.” I scoop her up in my arms and carry her in as appropriate a manner as I can manage across the lot to the doors, though Margo seems intent on draping herself around me like a flag at a parade.

  “Thank god you live on the ground floor,” I say, as I rummage for her keys in her bag with one hand while keeping her from falling with the other. It’s not that I haven’t been to Margo’s place before, but when we hang out it’s usually at work functions or the occasional bar, and at the moment I can’t shake the feeling that I’m intruding a little.

  “You know, you’re really fucking hot,” she slurs, giggling. My cock stirs at the brush of her lips so close to my neck, her warm breath against my skin. I have to shake it off.

  “And you’re really fucking drunk,” I reply with a forced laugh, as the key finally catches and I kick the door open.

  “No…I mean it,” she says as I step into her apartment, still holding her in my arms. “You’re like…the most beautiful man.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” I say, as I open a few wrong doors (closet, bathroom) until I find her bedroom. I walk in and lay her down on the bed, then pull away, setting her bag on the night table. “You should probably just rest a bit, let it pass.” I unlace her boots and ease them off gently, setting them on the floor before straightening up to go. This feels familiar, although I haven’t carried a too-drunk Margo home from a party and put her to bed since our undergrad years. “You need anything? Water, or—”

  “Yeah.” Margo smiles.

  “What?”

  Instead of answering, she mischievously beckons me closer. I look at her, dress rolling up around her thighs, twisting her body up in the sheets, my imagination starting to whirl a little.

  “Come here!” she yelps impatiently.

  This could mean trouble—the problem is, I like trouble. I groan and go nearer to the bed.

  “Closer,” she giggles, and I’m taken with the smile, the way she grinds into the bed…

  “What?”

  Her hand pulls on my shirt, her smile goes and instead her mouth is open now, weakened like she’s preparing to kiss me. I could so easily fall into her here, so easily bring my mouth onto hers, put my own hands under her clothes. I can almost taste her, appetite stirring…

  Except being a real man doesn’t just mean knowing when to make a move, it also means knowing when you shouldn’t.

  “Nice try,” I say, pulling back.

  Margo laughs and pounds her fists onto the bed with disappointment.

  “But I need to see what’s under your shirt. You still got those Grand Canyon abs, I bet.”

  “Ok. That’s my cue to go,” I say, half-out the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  “No! Come on! Please! I remember the view was fucking amazing. Just a little peek. A tiny little peek for old time’s sake. Come on, Owen! Don’t be an asshole. You know you want to show it off.”

  I look back at her, hand on the doorknob, and find myself laughing.

  “Happy now?” I say, pulling up my shirt a little way.

  Margo screams and falls back onto her pillows laughing.

  “I knew it! Just as perfect as that night you got locked out of the girl’s dorm,” she says, as I close the door and leave.

  When I get back to my car, I’m still smiling.

  * * *

  Check out Unprofessional!

  Hands Off by Kayti McGee

  Check out the first chapter of Hands Off by Kayti McGee!

  * * *

  Chapter One

  I’m just your average girl in most ways but one: I have a fatal flaw.

  Almost no one knows about it, so more often than not, I’m safe. But right now? Right now I am up a creek without a paddle. And I did it to my own damn self. Let me rewind a bit here. (Cue reverse effect complete with voiceover, movie-style.)

  My days always start at precisely 6 am, when I hop out of bed and head to the coffeemaker. Awaiting me will be the first yellow post-it of the day. “Buy more coffee, run dishwasher, pick up dry cleaning,” it might say, or some similar items. Stuff other people do without thinking twice.

  After enjoying a breakfast of toast (light butter) and orange juice (with pulp), going f
or a quick run, showering, a second cup of coffee, and applying my makeup (muted neutrals), I have usually collected and distributed several more post-its. They are simply the most efficient method of reminding myself of things. So over the course of the morning, for example, I might lose a button on a shirt, notice the toothpaste is almost gone, and discover a recipe for dinner.

  All note-worthy items.

  I started this system ages ago, and it works for my ADD brain, so I really don’t even care how often my roommate scoffs at me. Spoiler: it’s a lot.

  This morning I woke up as usual, starting the coffee and taking note of my sticky yellow reminder to go iron my shirt. Once I got to the bookstore I manage, I opened my planner and removed the first little square on today’s date. “Inventory,” it read. Also, “Fern works today. Consider stocking wine to cope.”

  Past me was wise, but not wise enough to pre-stock.

  The highlight of my day was my favorite customer coming in. Correction: my former favorite customer. She’s dead to me now. Deader than dead. What would that be? Non-existent, I suppose. Good luck at the library, Melissa, because you are no longer welcome in Bound. (Yes, I do get plenty of mistaken customers looking for a BDSM shop, why do you ask?)

  She was checking to see if the new book club book had come in. It had. We chatted. Little did I know it was the last chat we would ever have. Persona non grata that she is.

  I survived my least favorite co-worker Fern’s incessant droning monologue, and at precisely six pm, I locked the door behind her. Now she was my just my roommate again. With great relief, I counted down the register and opened my planner again. My evening post-it was awaiting me, as always. “Dinner @ Port Fonda, 7”. I wondered why I hadn’t written down who I was supposed to be meeting, but let’s face it.

  The whole reason I write these stupid notes is because I forget goddamn everything.

  Anyways, I assumed I’d be able to figure it out pretty fast. If I left immediately, I could get there early, grab a drink, and wait for someone I knew to walk in. Then I pretend I knew all along.

  I do this like, three times a week, legit.

  Everything went according to plan, until seven o’clock. There I was, minding my beeswax, gazing at the door and sipping on sangria, when suddenly a cop plopped himself down at my table.

  In full uniform. I was so horrified. What on earth had I done to warrant being tracked down at a Mexican restaurant?

  Actually, I did know that, it’s my other fatal flaw. But that’s not the point.

  “Charity? Hi. Melissa told me you hate blind dates, so she tricked you. I’m Leo. It’s nice to meet you.”

  So here I am, sitting across from an effing police officer on what apparently is a blind date my ex-customer set me up with by faking a post-it. Because she was one of the few people who knew The Flaw. Which is that I do everything, literally everything, the notes tell me to. Just like that Ron Burgundy movie and the teleprompter. It’s much funnier in fiction, I assure you. Fatal flaws always are.

  As if it weren’t complicated enough, there’s that second flaw. The one that makes dating a cop the worst idea ever.

  Well.

  I’m sort of a kleptomaniac.

  I know, the irony is out of control. My name means giving, and I am the very worst kind of taker. Maybe if my parents had named me something normal, like Jennifer or Sara… but I’m getting off track.

  That brings my narrative back to the present moment, where I am finding my drink far too interesting to look at the face attached to the uniform. My server, my server, who will now have to decide how she feels about cops and decide to give me better service or crap service depending, well, her uniform has entered my side-vision.

  “May I have a margarita, gorgeous?” My eyes would roll, but I am utterly determined not to make eye contact with him, even in passing. I wait to discover how she’ll respond to his combo of uni and charm.

  “You can have anything you’d like,” she coos, and suddenly my eyes can no longer be controlled. They snap to my disloyal server and then narrow.

  “And two shots of tequila, please,” I add.

  “That’s nice of you,” Cop says.

  “And it’s cute that you think one was for…” My traitorous eyes have accidentally found his and goddamnit. They are the shade of caramel that would make even the most hardened server say, “anything you’d like”. In fact, I’m highly considering sharing my tequila.

  And I never share my tequila.

  To make matters far, far worse, the rest of his face is as delicious as the caramel. There’s olive skin, there’s full lips, there’s a five o’clock shadow that won’t quit, and was anyone aware that necks could be sexy? Because it turns out they can.

  I fucking hate Melissa.

  I am so turned on by this officer’s dulce de leche gaze right now.

  “Did you just put your silverware in your purse?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I say. It’s not exactly a lie, because I didn’t really mean to. Look, a girl needs a big purse, whether she has priors or not. Sheesh. And when a girl gets nervous, she really doesn’t want to hear accusations.

  Also, a girl isn’t convinced the flatware is actually silverware, so that’s a technicality.

  Back to the matter at hand, where the girl and the cop are staring each other down and they are both so turned on they are about to burst. Well, at least I am. Perhaps I am projecting his feelings. He may be about to arrest me. Is it so wrong that I am also turned on by that?

  Answer: not wrong.

  That is super sexy. Hey, Bound may be a regular bookstore, but I’m not immune to peeking in the romance section every now and again.

  However, a criminal record is not sexy at all, only the handcuff part. So I decide to make a break for it and get as far away as I can before he notices I’m not in the bathroom. A girl, well, I, cannot just sit here and be accused like this. I stand up. My purse rattles. My purse is also a traitor. I sit down gently, and luckily my purse doesn’t clank again.

  “Are you nervous?” he asks. Officer Watson asks, according to his name badge.

  “Nope,” I say. That’s a lie. I am extremely effing nervous.

  “I’m off the clock,” he says, as though that reassures me. It marginally reassures me. Not enough, though. I drum my fingers on the table and wonder if there’s any cilantro in my teeth from the salsa. Then I wonder if I could scare him off by using bad table manners. Then I wonder if he’d cuff me if I ask nice.

  Basically, I sit here silently alternately trying to get rid of him and get him naked in my head, all the while he just looks at me. I think he likes what he sees, too, based on the covert glances that keep heading towards the ladies peeking out of my top. The biggest problem with having a body like mine is that your boobs are constantly trying to make a break for it. Today’s victim was the top button of my shirt.

  Unless, of course, there’s just some cilantro there too.

  It occurs to me that he must be great at interrogations, because I am ready to confess all my deepest sins already.

  “Here are your shots,” our server says, showing up just in time to prevent a regrettable outburst.

  “Two more, please,” says Officer Watson. “And some salt.”

  “Salt? But I could swear I just gave… huh. Okay, be right back,” she says to us.

  My eyes are everywhere but on the server, who definitely had given us some salt.

  I knock back one of my tequilas and then I stare at him, the preposterously sexy officer who is ruining my night by hijacking my post-it. I’m supposed to be enjoying myself? Melissa doesn’t get me at all. Cop Watson’s shots arrive and he takes one too.

  “Booyah!” he says, as he slams the empty shot glass down on the table. “That’ll put hair on your chest.” Then he winks at me. Did he really just say—? Surely I misheard that. No one says booyah.

  “I certainly hope not,” I tell him. “Or tonight’s going to get very weird.”

  “Melissa le
d me to believe you aren’t the most normal of girls,” Officer Leo Watson says casually. I can’t figure out what name suits him best. I suppose Sergeant Sex-on-a-Stick isn’t appropriate, but—wait, what?

  “You are really not selling me on this blind date, and anyway, I’ve decided I no longer know anyone named Melissa.” I take my other shot for emphasis. Damn, but it really does need salt. I covertly lick a finger and then dip it into my purse. My date raises an eyebrow, but blessedly keeps his mouth shut. Maybe he’s not so bad. At least when he isn’t talking.

  I reluctantly pull the saltshaker out of my purse and slide it towards him. Just as the waitress shows up with another one.

  “Oh, sorry, I thought you’d asked…” she trails off, looking confused.

  “Might as well leave it,” I tell her, and make the hand gesture for more shots while I’m at it. Perhaps I’m not running out the door and sticking him with the bill quite yet, but that doesn’t mean I will make it through this dinner sober. After all, even though he looks like a model, he is still definitely a policeman.

  “How do you know Melissa?” I ask. I fantasize briefly about reasons that she could have been arrested. I’ve often suspected her of being a bit of a pothead.

  “I work with her husband, Spencer.”

  “Oh! Her husband’s a cop? I thought he was a baseball player.” The couple times I’ve seen him lurking outside the store, I could have sworn he was the ace first baseman for the Royals, Eric Hosmer.

  “Common misconception,” Officer Leo said. “One that he does his best to encourage. Less so now that he’s married, mind you,” he hurried to add, smiling at the waitress as she drops off a couple more tiny glasses.

  “A cop. Huh. I always thought she was a stoner.” I’m still confused at how I could have been so far off base. After all, until just a few minutes ago, Melissa had been my favorite customer.

  “Now, does being around a police officer always mean you’re on the straight and narrow?” He casts a meaningful look at my purse. I give him an extremely indignant look back. It is far too soon for him to be playing that card in casual conversation. But two can play the game of making it uncomfortable.