by Messe, Ellie
The Art of dating
___________________________
Ellie Messe
First Edition
© 2017 L. E. Messenger
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. This book or parts thereof may not be stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, at “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are used fictitiously to give the sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons living or deceased, events, or locales is coincidental.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact the author at, [email protected]
Cover art: © 2017 Messenger Art Gallery
Literary Editor: EMB Team
ISBN-13: 978-1987442144
ISBN-10: 1987442148
Dedicated to that awful thing known as writer’s block.
If it weren’t for you this book wouldn’t exist.
Meaningful quote here.
Six months ago, I was naïve, stupid, and whiney.
I believed in second chances.
Even when I was boyfriend-less, apartment less, and my best friend was on me about moving on.
Five months ago, one insignificant moment changed everything.
I met Logan.
I agreed to undergo his ridiculous boot camp to get Cole back.
Last month, a blip in time knocked my world on its axis.
It threw me into free fall without the courtesy of a warning or a safety net.
Yesterday, I ruined everything.
One action that broke two hearts.
I used to believe in second chances.
I had him; I had everything, and I didn’t even know it.
My name is Devina Marshal; this is the story of how everything went to shit.
CHAPTER ONE
Five MONTHS AGO…
"For the love of everything holy, Devina, stop fidgeting. You look great."
"I look ridiculous," I mumble, not taking my eyes off my reflection. My usual clean face is a sticky, painted mess; dark smokey powder wraps around my brown eyes, my thin lips are coated with thick red paste, and my nonexistent cheekbones sit above false shadows.
"Ridiculously great."
I roll my eyes at her as I attempt, and fail, to pull the red spandex dress lower.
"Stop messing with it and come on. We're going to be late."
"I still fail to see why I'm going," I whine, shrugging into my leather jacket.
"Ew, you're seriously going to wear that thing?"
"It's February in New York. Yes, I'm wearing this."
She pins me with her best mom-face, "It doesn't match."
"Are we speed dating outside?"
Amy lets out an exasperated sigh before retreating into her closet; reappearing in an attractive grey petticoat that hugs her flawless figure.
"Ready?"
I offer a weak smile and wave towards the door, "After you."
"Ugh, don't be dull. It’s going to be fun."
Taking a deep breath, I follow her out of her apartment and out onto the cold New York streets.
"We should have called for a cab rather than trying to hail one down." She complains after a few failed attempts.
"It's only a couple of blocks, why don't we walk?"
"If I weren't wearing Louboutin's, I would."
My eyes fall to her black pumps; they look like ordinary heels to me. I never understood her obsession with expensive brands. Lifting my eyes in time to see a taxi approach the curb.
"Wahoo!" She cheers, opening the back door.
Slipping in beside her, I try to swallow the groan when my hand falls into something greasy on the threadbare seat.
"Where to?" The middle-aged driver asks in a thick accent.
"88 Keys on 2nd, please." She tells him before turning her attention to me. "Aren’t you just a little bit excited?"
"This isn't my thing, that's all," I confess, watching the traffic crawl through the busy intersection.
"Why not? You're hot and single."
"Barely," I mumble, not wanting to get yet another pep talk.
"You need two things, Devina. A stiff drink and a rebound. Both can be found tonight."
"I need to find an apartment."
"No, what you need to do is kick that sorry son of a bitch out and take back your apartment."
"Amy, I've already told you, I don't want the apartment."
"Why? Cause he had little Miss Boob-job there?"
The memory sends a new wave of pain through my chest, six weeks ago I came home to find my longtime boyfriend in bed with my client, they're now living together...in my apartment, while I’m sleeping on my best friend’s pull out sofa. "Pretty much."
"You just need a little bleach, that's all." She scoffs and waves nonchalantly watching as the entrance to the bar comes into view.
"Yeah, and a match." I spit back playfully.
"Hopefully he's inside when you do it." She says gathering her purse off the sticky seat. "We’re here!" She squeaks enthusiastically. "Let's get you over Cole and under someone new."
CHAPTER TWO
The piano bar is relatively crowded as we enter, tables are arranged in neat little rows, housing two chairs each. Amy pulls me over to a fold-out table near the entrance where we each receive a numbered sticker and a clipboard. The woman issuing us our items explains that we will start at one end and work our way down. We will have two minutes to mingle with each man before moving to the next participant. If we want to further the conversation we mark the table on our clipboard, this is the point I stop paying attention; I'm only here to humor Ames, she lives for this kind of thing, me on the other hand? I’d prefer to be in comfortable clothing, lounging in front of my T.V while eating myself into a coma. After the woman finishes talking, Amy goes to order us drinks, instructing me to get in line.
Every couple of minutes a small buzzer goes off near the bar, and the rotation moves. There's a broader variety of people than I had expected; some women are dressed up like Amy and myself where others are dressed casually like I wanted to. One girl is even walking around in red plaid pajama pants and a white tank top that's tied behind her back. The men are equally as diverse, though it’s hard to get a decent look at their faces seeing as most of them are hidden behind the heads of the female attendees.
My nerves have reached DEFCON 1 by the time Amy returns with two mojitos and a shot glass.
"Here, down this." She hands me the small glass filled with what I assume is tequila.
"Liquid courage, right?" I shrug, tipping the glass back. Warmth spreads through my body immediately.
"I'll take that; you take this." She takes the empty glass from my hands, replacing it with a mojito before turning back to the bar.
I squeeze the lime and mix the mint leaves around while I anxiously await her return.
"Do you want to go first?" She teases, stepping in front of me, knowing my answer already.
"Absolutely, not."
"Deal. I can talk you up before you get there." Her serious expression breaks at the sight of my face, struggling to keep herself from laughing, she continues. "You know, warm them up." She takes a sip of her drink to hide her smile.
"Make sure to tell them I love hookers and cocaine, that's always a good conversation starter."
"Oh, of course." She nod
s.
"But not just any cocaine, the super expensive kind."
"And expensive hookers, right?"
"No, no. Just regular hookers. I gotta save up my money for the good cocaine."
"Ah, yes. How silly of me."
We both smile and my mood begins to lift. That feeling soon fades as the buzzer sounds, sending Amy to sit down at the first table. She moves so gracefully, so calculated. She's like a Venus flytrap, knowing exactly how to lure them in. I watch her perfectly timed laughs and seemingly innocent touches lock this poor guy in. She's an amazing friend and a genuinely good person, but she gets bored easily and blames romance movies for having such high expectations. She knows as well as I do that any guy she takes home with her tonight probably won't make it to a second date. Pulling the sleeve of my coat into my palm, I nervously ball the fabric while the time dwindles down. All too quickly the bell rings.
I sit awkwardly in front of Mr. 0271 after Amy pretends to shoot herself over his shoulder.
"Guess how old I am." He demands with no introductions.
"I don't know."
"Come on, guess!" He jumps in excitement.
I aim low, "27?"
"Nope. Try again."
“Seriously?” He nods, "Um, 29?"
"Nope, lower."
"28?"
He let out an obnoxious laugh and shakes his head, clearly happy about his game.
"Has anyone guessed correctly yet?"
He shakes his head still wearing his weird smile; it looks painful.
"But I'm really good at guessing women's ages. You're..." he rubs his chin as he stares at me. "36."
“Wow.” He’s about nine years off there. "Incredible."
"I know."
The bell rings, releasing me. This is horrendous. Amy quickly moves up without a second look behind her, so maybe this guy is some semblance of normal. Removing my jacket, I sit down with Mr. 0346.
"Hello. I'm Devina."
"Alex." He mumbles, still looking at his folded hands in his lap.
Folding my lips in, I take a look around the room waiting for him to speak. When he doesn't, I take a deep breath and try to break the awkward silence, "How are you?"
"Good."
"Are you enjoying your night?"
"Sure."
"Oh, kay."
I'm all out of small talk at this point, so I end up watching the ice float in my drink until the bell rings. "It was nice meeting you, Alex."
I stand up and find Amy still talking with the next suitor; maybe she found herself a man. As I stand over her shoulder, he glances up, and our eyes meet. He's attractive; dark hair is styled neatly, showing off his light eyes under a thick fan of lashes. No wonder Amy's still pawing over him, especially after the first two tables.
Pulling his blue eyes off me, he looks back at her and nods in my direction causing Amy to twist to see what he's nodding at. She lets out a girlish giggle and shakes his hand.
Once vacating the seat, she passes his shoulder and spins around fanning herself. I give her a small smile before moving to take my seat.
"Logan Devitt." He holds out his hand.
I shake his outstretched hand and sit. "Devina Anderson."
"What do you do, Devina?" Oh good, normal conversation.
"I do freelance publishing."
"What is that?"
"I’m an independent contractor; I edit novels for self-publishers."
"Do you enjoy it?"
"Most of the time. What about you? What do you do?"
"I'm an entrepreneur focusing primarily on telecommunication networking and mobile marketing. I make roughly six million a year."
Yeah right and I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"Impressive. Do you often win the affection of ladies by stating the bottom line of your bank account?"
I just wanted a normal conversation. Is that so hard to ask? I've had weird guess-my-age guy, awkward silent guy, and now pathological liar guy.
He lets out a small chuckle, leaning forward to rest his stubbled chin on his closed fist.
"I wouldn't use the term 'win,' but yes, stating my wealth usually gets me the date."
I nod my head unimpressed.
"But not you?"
"No, not me," I state plainly.
He smiles and runs his finger across his bottom lip; if he wasn't so arrogant, I might find him attractive.
"What about dinner in Italy?"A scoff escapes my lips before I have time to put my emotions in check. "Not a fan? Alright, Paris then?"
I shake my head, unable to think of a proper response. His smile grows while his eyes narrow as if he's trying to figure me out. I suppose other girls throw themselves at him, believing he's some millionaire. Yeah right, a millionaire in a four-star bar in East Village, New York, at a speed-dating event nonetheless? Ridiculous.
Thankfully, the buzzer frees me from his gaze. I grab my coat and stand before he stops me. "You never answered my question."
"What question?"
"Dinner in Paris."
"As generous as your offer is, my affections are not for sale."
With that, I turn on my heels and walk away. Caught up in my thoughts I walk right past the next suitor. Refusing to embarrass myself and turn around, I head to the bar and order another drink. The audacity of some people, I swear.
CHAPTER THREE
I make it through half my drink before Amy sits down beside me. "What happened?"
"This is ridiculous."
"There's that word again, ridiculous."
"Well, it is. The first guy was all 'Guess my age, Guess my age,' the second was too shy to speak to me, and the third guy was telling this elaborate story about being a millionaire, it's just too much." I shake my head while chipping the polish off my nails.
"The first two were ridiculous as you put it, but that third guy was hot."
I roll my eyes and go back to picking at the teal remains around my cuticles. I'd rather be curled up on the couch watching some mindless television with Cole right now. Too bad his dick was buried in little miss Monica Claire.
"He was! And what if he is a millionaire?" She looks smitten.
"Oh, my best friend, the gold digger."
"I am not!" She playfully slaps my arm, glancing in his direction. "You think he was lying?"
Yes, though I know if I say that she'll argue. "You have your phone, don't you?"
"Yeah, you don't have yours?"
"No, I left it at your apartment. Google him."
A huge smile spreads across her face before she opens her clutch purse, fishing out her iPhone.
"Siri, Google 'Logan Devitt, New York."
Amy curses under her breath when her phone looks up Logan debit rather than Logan Devitt.
"What's the point of having a smartphone if it isn't smart?" She complains, fixing the error in the search bar. "Okay, here we go."
She stares at the little screen before smiling a brilliant in-your-face-Anderson smile, showing me the screen before reading out loud, "New York Times reported two months ago about the 1.6 million dollar donation from Mr. Logan Devitt to the American Children's Cancer Association. It looks like his family is also wealthy; his parents, Jonathan and Caroline Devitt, donated as well." Her fingers move like bullets across the screen as she researches him further. “Oh, wow. His parents have multiple foundations too.”
"He could share the same name."
"Devitt isn't exactly a popular name, Dee."
"He could be pretending to be this guy."
"Why are you so argumentative?" She laughs, still typing away on her phone.
"Why would a millionaire be in a piano bar speed dating?"
"I don't know; maybe he's a human being like the rest of us?" She gasps in horror.
"He's not the real guy, I'm telling you."
She smirks, shaking her head. We fall into silence, her on her phone while I’m stuck in my head thinking about Cole and the five years we were together.
"Ha!" Amy yells,
making me jump. "Look!"
She twists her phone, showing a google image search, the same guy as before stands at multiple organizations and events.
"He's a millionaire!"
"Millionaire or not, he's still arrogant."
"How was he arrogant?"
"His tone, him offering to whisk a girl to Italy, or Paris for dinner."
I glance her way when she fails to respond; her mouth is open and twisted, she looks almost jealous.
"He offered to take you to Paris?"
"No, not exactly. I think he was just trying to sound impressive."
"What did you say?" She scoots her bar stool closer to me as if it’s top secret information.
"I said no."
"What? Why the hell would you do that?"
Her horror is enough to make me laugh."Because I didn't believe him. Besides, why would I want to be trapped in another country with someone I spent literally two minutes with?"
"Because he's a millionaire!"
"He's arrogant."
"Do you know what that word means?"
"No, I'm just using it to sound cool." I deadpan, "Yes, I know what it means."
"Okay, well, I don't think he has an inflated ego."
"Thinking he can have whoever he wants just because of his bank account makes him arrogant."
"Ugh," She groans, "Find another word to use."
"Vain, smug, pretentious, take your pick."
"You should have said yes. I'm sure the paparazzi would have taken your picture and made Cole eat his heart out."
"The paparazzi? He said he does something with phones, not star in movies."
"The paparazzi followed Christian and Ana." She's so adorable staring at me like that proves her point.
"That's a book, Ames. Not real life."
"So? I bet he has a red room like Christian Grey."
"Why don't you go find out?"
"Honey, if he circled my number you bet your sweet little ass I will."
Laughing, I stare at my drink. I hope this night ends quickly; I have a ton of work to do to make up losing Monica Claire as a client.