by Regina Cole
If you liked To Have and to Harley, then be sure to read on for a look at Bad Reputation by Stefanie London!
To: Wes Evans
From: Sadie Marshall
Subject: You’re famous…well, part of you is
Wes,
I’m sure you’re not enough of a douchebag to have a Google Alert set up for your own name (or if you are, no judgment. Okay…a little judgment), so you may not have seen this. But your junk is famous! No, that’s not a typo.
I’m not the kind of woman to have a one-night stand, but after I saw a picture of him on holiday in Bora Bora with that Victoria’s Secret model, Nadja Vasiliev, I HAD to know if it was real. And I can tell you, ladies, that bulge is not a product of Photoshop.
Let’s just say that most guys are garden snakes. If you’re lucky, you might get a king snake. But Wes is an anaconda…and he knows how to use it.
Oh. My. God.
I don’t even know what to say. There’s this app that allows New York women to rate men they’ve dated or something crazy like that. I was checking it out for a friend *cough-it-was-totally-me-cough* and I found you on there. Your reviews were enlightening, my friend. Maybe I should rescind my previous request that we never get in each other’s pants. Because apparently, you’ve been hiding a predator in there.
Here’s the link: badbachelors.com/reviews/Wes-Evans/
Happy reading.
Sadie out.
Chapter 1
“Does size really matter? I think you know the answer to that.”
—NoPicklesPlease
Something wasn’t right. Either it was too long or too…thick. Remi Drysdale tilted her head and stared. “I don’t think it’s going to fit.”
“They all say that.” The man in front of her flashed a brilliant smile, which was enhanced by yesterday’s five o’clock shadow. Remi rolled her eyes. She was used to cocky guys talking a big game. But if online dating had taught her anything, it was that men grossly overestimated themselves.
Noting her unimpressed expression, he added, “It’ll fit. Trust me.”
“I don’t know about that.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “I’m assuming you’ve done this before.”
His smile slipped. “Of course I’ve done this before.”
Suddenly he didn’t look so confident. Remi stepped forward and touched his arm, using her sweetest smile to keep him from leaving the job unfinished. “We don’t want to damage anything. Just…go easy. Slow and steady, all right?”
“You wait and see. It’ll slide right in and fit like a glove.”
“If you say so.”
She stepped back as the man and his partner carried the long piece of wood across the barre studio and set it in the glossy, black brackets they’d installed moments before. The barre fit…barely. The rounded edge was a hairbreadth from the wall, and her boss had insisted that the studio’s fresh paint job remain scratch-free.
“See.” He winked. “Told you.”
“You were cutting it close.” She inspected the barre, running her hand along the smoothly polished surface. “But I stand corrected.”
“We’ll bring the other one in along with the portable units,” he said. “Then I’ll need someone to sign. If your boss isn’t here, it’ll have to be you. I’ve got another delivery to make right after this.”
Remi nodded. “I’ll call her again.”
She waited for the men to leave before her lips split into a wide grin. She punctuated her excitement with a pirouette, the rubber soles of her Converse sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
The studio was perfect. Formerly an accounting office, it had been so run-down it could have been used for the set of a zombie apocalypse movie. But Remi’s boss, Mish, had replaced the windows and flooring, painted the walls, and installed floor-to-ceiling mirrors on two sides—behind the barre and along the front of the room, where the instructors would stand. The mirrors made the room look enormous and gave the space a bright, airy feel.
Best of all, this new studio was a scant ten-minute walk from Remi’s Park Slope apartment, which would mean no more getting up at the butt crack of dawn to haul ass to the Upper East Side.
Remi pulled her phone out of her bag and swiped her thumb across the screen. She was about to hit the Call button when Mish burst into the studio.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!”
Remi laughed. “I know you’re Canadian, but three sorrys seems a bit much. Even for you.”
“Shut it, Aussie.” Mish pulled a hair tie off her wrist and attempted to tame her mane of wild, blond frizz into a ponytail. “This looks amazing.”
“It really does. The guys are bringing in the second barre now, and then they’ve got the portable ones too. Where were you thinking of putting those?”
“Probably in the storage room. I don’t know how full the classes are going to be until we open, so we may not need them until business picks up.”
Mish had opened Allongé Barre Fitness with a single tiny studio on the Upper East Side. When Remi started working there four years ago, she’d only taught two classes per week. But over the years she and Mish had grown close and Remi’s schedule had expanded. Now Mish was about to open her third studio—the first in Brooklyn—and Remi was going to be the main instructor.
A quiet voice niggled in the back of her mind like a tiny pinprick in her skull. Not big enough to cause any real pain, but she felt it nonetheless.
This isn’t what you’re supposed to be doing…
Shoving the feeling aside, Remi wrapped her arms around Mish and squeezed. “I can’t believe you’re opening studio number three. I’m so proud of you.”
“I couldn’t do it without you,” she said. “Seriously. Owning a small business is tough, and I feel so much more confident knowing you have my back.”
“Always. This is going to be a huge success, I know it.”
The men returned with the second barre and installed it a foot below the first one. Remi could already see her little students in here—the parents and kids’ classes were her favorite. She loved the wide-eyed wonder of children learning something new, the way they tackled things without the fear of embarrassment or failure that inhibited her older students.
Sure, this wasn’t real ballet. Perhaps that was why it suited her.
“We’re going to set up the rack for the hand weights here.” Mish pointed to the back corner of the studio. “And the yoga mats can be rolled up and put into containers. They get too messy when they’re stacked in a pile.”
“Agreed.”
Mish walked over to the deliverymen and apologized for being late. She directed them out to the studio’s reception area, leaving Remi alone.
This place was exactly what she’d yearned for as a young girl—a bright space with a long barre. A room rife with possibility. The floor waiting for the strike of her frappé, the graceful whoosh of her toes as they left the floor in a grand battement. The soundless landing of a perfect pas de chat. And the mirror was there to watch it all. To soak in her excitement and creativity and the little thrill she got whenever the wind rushed through her ponytail, fluttering the ribbon holding it in place, as she turned and turned and turned.
“Remi?”
She jumped at the sound of Mish’s voice, startled by the sudden intrusion on her thoughts. “All done?”
“Yes.” Mish shot her a rueful smile. “Thanks so much for coming here last minute to meet the delivery guys. You totally saved me.”
“No worries.” Remi hitched her bag higher up on her shoulder. “Hopefully the kitten doesn’t have any more stomach troubles.”
“Who knows? That’s what I get for taking in strays, eh?” She shook her head. “We’ve got an appointment with the vet later today to get him checked out.”
“You’ve got a good heart.”
“And a deep disrespe
ct for my carpet.”
Remi laughed and checked her watch. “I’ve got to run. I promised Darcy I’d meet her for coffee this afternoon, and I want to walk, seeing as it’s so lovely out.”
“Go.” Mish made a shooing motion. “I’ll call you tomorrow so we can review the timetable.”
Remi waved as she headed out of the studio. It was a perfect early fall day—sunny and pleasant but with a hint of crispness to the air—cool enough for a jacket if you felt so inclined. After a long, sticky summer, Remi craved this kind of weather. Not to mention fall was beautiful in New York—all those golden-amber and rich-red tones. They hardly got any of that back in Australia. Too many native evergreens.
“Speaking of home,” she muttered to herself as she turned onto Flatbush Avenue. She was due to Skype with her parents soon.
They would be arriving back from their “retreat” any day now. For most couples their age a relaxing getaway probably included a cruise or a resort. Even touristy holidays seeing the sights of another country At the very least, there’d be a caravan trip of some kind—or, what the heck did they call them here? Winnebagos? Motor homes?
Anyhow, her parents weren’t like most couples their age. No siree.
For Opal and Dan Drysdale, a vacation was not complete without some kind of enlightenment. In this case, it was a tantric couple’s retreat in Nimben, a.k.a. the hippie capital of Australia.
Her parents were taking sex workshops.
Remi cringed. Undoubtedly, her mother would want to tell her all about it too. And, as usual, she’d have to listen to Opal complaining that Remi had turned into one of those “conservative, middle-class prudes” who got all squeamish about sex. Remi wasn’t squeamish about sex. Not even a little bit. She happened to quite enjoy the occasional roll in the hay with a hot guy. In fact, she’d very much enjoyed her sexy weekend with the hottie from Texas who had asked her to strut around his hotel room wearing only a pair of pink-rhinestone-studded cowgirl boots. No, she was definitely not a prude.
But she didn’t want to hear about her parents doing it. Ever.
Remi pulled out her phone and set a reminder to check in with her folks that weekend. They might be New Age–this and grass fed–that, but Opal and Dan still expected to talk to her once a month. That was where they clung to tradition.
Half an hour later, Remi turned onto Schermerhorn Street. For some reason, every time she headed to Darcy’s new place in DUMBO, she’d take this detour. The street itself wasn’t particularly interesting. At this time of year, it was clogged with the “prewinter” construction rush, which meant walking under scaffolding and dodging traffic cones.
But there was one thing that always drew her down this street.
“Excuse me.” A small woman with inky hair pulled into a tight bun gracefully stepped around Remi. She wore a pair of black leggings that ended at the bottom of her calf, exposing a few inches of pink tights above the top of her high-top sneakers.
She was one of a dozen people streaming in and out of the Brooklyn Ballet building. Mostly women, but a few young men as well. All with that strong yet willowy figure ballet dancers were known for.
Their movements were fluid, making everything seem perfectly choreographed, from the gentle wrist flick of a wave to how they darted across the street between traffic. Even something as simple as bending down to tie a shoelace embodied an otherworldly grace.
After she’d soaked it in, Remi hurried down the street, sliding her headphones over her ears to drown out the city.
* * *
Wes Evans was used to women checking him out. He exercised often and presented well, always living by his father’s advice that he should dress like he was about to meet someone important. In New York City, a meeting like that could take place anywhere—riding in an elevator, sitting in the back of a cab, or lining up to order a coffee.
After a stint as a guest judge on Dance Idol, his face had garnered even more attention. Fans of the show wanted to gush over their front-runner picks, and wannabe performers tried to make an impression in the hopes he might remember them the next time he held an audition.
But this…this was different.
“What can I get you?” The barista devoured him with her eyes, the smooth dart of her tongue leaving behind a glossy sheen on her pink lips.
“Cold brew.” He pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Black.”
She tilted her head slightly. Behind a set of thick-framed glasses, her gaze roamed down his body, lingering south of his belt. “Size?”
“Grande.”
She reached for a clear plastic cup, sticking the cap of her Sharpie into her mouth and pulling the pen out with a pop. Another barista passed behind her, also checking him out. “I heard he was more of a Venti,” she said in a not-so-quiet whisper.
The first barista mushed her full lips together as though trying not to laugh while she marked the cup. “It’s Wes, right?”
“Yeah.”
He wanted to ask how she knew his name, but frankly, he wasn’t about to subject himself to more assessment. He felt like a piece of steak being wheeled around on a cart at one of those fancy restaurants, just waiting for people to comment on his shape and size.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“No thanks.” He handed over a ten-dollar bill and walked away before she had time to count his change.
He was ready to be done with today. And the quicker he got his caffeine fix, the better. Perhaps he should have chosen a place a little less public for this meeting. But when Sadie, his best friend and now business associate, had forwarded him the email about the Bad Bachelors website earlier that morning, he hadn’t taken it too seriously. The second he’d stepped out of his Upper East Side apartment though, he’d realized that Sadie wasn’t the only one using this tabloid cesspool of a website.
The barista placed his cold brew on the counter and winked at him. She’d written her phone number on his cup.
“Wes!” Sadie waved at him from a table in the back corner of the café. Her hair was cropped close on one side and left longer on the other, the blue and purple strands curving down around her jaw. “Or should I say, Mr. Anaconda?”
“Don’t start,” he said, dropping into the seat across from her. “I’m beginning to wonder if the human race suddenly developed X-ray vision with the way everyone is looking at me.”
“I doubt they need it. Someone did a digital recreation over that picture of you and…what was her name? The Russian chick. Natasha? Natalia?”
“Nadja.”
“That’s it.” Sadie snapped her fingers. “Anyway, it’s floating around online. They Photoshopped it to show what was going on underneath your board shorts, and I have to say—”
“You really don’t.”
Sadie grinned and waded her straw through a mound of whipped cream sitting on top of some caramel-mocha monstrosity. “You’ve been keeping things from me.”
“I thought we had an agreement.”
Wes and Sadie had been friends as long as anyone could remember. They’d grown up as neighbors in one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in Manhattan, traded lunches on the playground, and, after a disaster of a kiss around the time they were eighteen, had promptly agreed that they would always and forever be friends. Nothing more.
“We do. But that was before I knew you were packing more than the average salami.” She couldn’t keep a straight face and burst out laughing. “Ew. No, I can’t even joke about it without feeling dirty.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Nothing personal. Besides, you’re going to have every other woman in this goddamn city chasing after you now. You don’t need my attention too.”
“Excellent.” He clapped his hands. “Can we cut the locker room bullshit and get back to work, then?”
“No need to get snipp
y.” Sadie looked too damn smug for her own good.
Wes opened the spreadsheet that had their production budget outlined to the very last detail, with a total that would make most people’s eyes pop. Broadway productions were expensive. Even those classified as “Off-Off-Broadway,” which were held in small theaters that seated fewer than a hundred people, cost a pretty penny. In this case, many of those involved were taking part for next to nothing, hoping the show would break out. But the theater still needed to be paid for, costumes needed to be created, and sets needed to be designed.
All of which required deep pockets.
“I got a final figure from the Attic,” Wes said. “It’s more than we budgeted for, but we can manage it. I’ll push the investors harder, and I have wiggle room with my own funds.”
“You’re already pouring so much of your own money into this.” Sadie frowned.
She didn’t often show her stress, but Wes knew her too well not to detect the hint of concern in her voice. It wasn’t exactly unwarranted. He was putting everything into this crazy idea.
Out of Bounds was his brainchild, a dance production with no separation between stage and seating. The cast was part of the audience and the audience part of the show. It was the antithesis of the world he’d grown up in, one fortified with rules and posture and tradition. With his big-picture view and Sadie’s talent for turning his vague descriptions into something living and breathing, he knew they had something special. All they had to do was back themselves long enough to give the rest of New York a chance to agree.
“I can manage a bit more,” he said. “I want this to work.”
Sadie bit her lip and nodded. “I do too, but I’m worried you’ll get cleaned out if this fails.”
“It won’t fail.”
Even as he said the words, the stats danced in his head. Successful Broadway productions were in the minority, with less than 25 percent turning a profit. And those were the ones with big advertising budgets. Breakouts like Hamilton were rare, and most productions ended up in a financial graveyard littered with the bones of failed dreams.