by Sara H Ney
As his friend, the least I can do is keep him away from crazy woman.
At least that’s what I told myself as I climbed in to my Tahoe, fastened my seat belt, and drove the twenty-something miles out of Madison city limits to the quaint restaurant where Neve’s date is taking place.
I’m definitely not crashing this date because I’m jealous.
Pfft. That would be ridiculous.
In fact, I’m so not jealous that I even invited my friend Stacy along to act as a decoy. Wait. Did I just say decoy? I meant, as my date. After all, I can’t just waltz in to the same restaurant alone (one that’s way across town and completely out of my way) and pretend to bump in to Neve and Cecelia and have it look like a coincidence, now, can I? Nope. I need a decoy -slash- date.
Because otherwise it’s just weird.
I mean, who does that?
I’ll tell you who: losers and psychos.
Although... to be honest, I’m not sure my side-kick Stacy is clear on what being a decoy actually entails.
I glance over at her, concerned. “Stacy, a decoy wouldn’t put their hand on my thigh while I’m trying to drive.” Gingerly, I remove her manicured hand and return it to her side of the truck. I give her hand a pat as a goodwill gesture. “Safety first.”
Oh god, now I sound like a daycare teacher.
“But Matty,” she whines. “Can’t we still have fun anyways? Why are you sitting so far away?” Her red bottom lips sticks out and she casts me a coy smile.
I’m pretty sure she has lipstick on her front teeth.
Gross.
Okay. If I’m being completely honest: Stacy is one ‘duh’ short of a dozen. She’s all foam and no beer - although she does fill out her tops well with her artificially enhanced assets, I worry that her elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor.
You could write everything she knows on to one Sticky Note.
What Stacy is... is convenient. Amiable. Useful... and most importantly: she is available on short notice.
A willing pawn on the ‘Saving Neve Vanderhalt’ crusade.
Albeit a very blonde and clueless one.
“Matty, I’m hungry. Why are we going so late?”
It’s 6:00.
I sigh. “Stacy. I already told you. We are not going there to eat. We’re going to help a friend. You remember Neve Vanderhalt, right?”
She giggles shrilly and twirls a lock of platinum hair. “Ooh, yes,”she breathes. “The really really good looking one, right? Oops, sorry Matty.”
“Um, yeah, that’s him.” Good old, good looking Neve. Bastard. Out on a date with my new breast friend Cecelia.
I mean best friend. Best.
Not breast.
Shit.
Stacy reaches over and gives my leg another squeeze, her hot pink lacquered nails dig into my thighs through my jeans and feel like eagle talons. “I think you’re way better looking. Want me to prove it? I can eat a mint for you - I have some in my purse. The mint will make your you-know-what tingle when I put it in my mouth.”
It suddenly occurs to me that my plan... might not go according to plan.
I’m screwed.
Choking, I press myself into the corner of the driver’s side and press down on the accelerator, check my rear view for State Patrol, and gun it down the highway.
**Cecelia**
I stare at myself in the mirror for the millionth time as I wash my hands, relishing the warm tap water and soft melody of electric saxophone that’s being piped into the bathroom.
Which, normally I wouldn’t - because seriously, who enjoys electric saxophone?
Besides my parents.
And Kenny G (and to spare you from having to Google him, I’ll give you the Wikipedia definition: Kenny G was a famous electric sax player in the 90’s. Chicks totally dug him).
I finish rinsing my hands and grab few pieces of brown paper towel, blotting my hands dry. Leaning forward, I push a few strands of hair away from my face, purse my lips in the process before digging into my thin clutch for the lip gloss Molly shoved in it earlier (NARS gloss in Turkish Delight in case you’re wondering - it’s awesome).
I’m not wearing anything overtly sexy - in fact, I’m almost all covered up. But as I gaze at myself, I blush a little at my own reflection because I look like myself, only a thousand times better.
Molly did my make-up - I have a full on, smoky eye, and I’m highlighted and contoured within the inch of my life.
Nude, glossy lips.
Abby, bless her soul, loaned me the top she just wore to her sister’s wedding in the Bahamas; a stupidly expensive nude colored Diane Von Furstenberg halter-neck tank top. The shirt is sheer and softly drapes in small pleats down the middle, wraps to tie around my neck in back with a small, elegant, beige satin bow.
Understated.
Sexy.
I’m wearing dark Joe’s jeans, and high nude patent leather wedges. Large gold hoop earrings.
My arms are bare - expertly spray tanned to a light golden brown by Jenna, who ironically, is a Biology major and not in school for Cosmetology as one would expect.
I should also mention that in addition to being spray tanned, I’ve also been brushed with a light dusting of edible body glitter. It’s kind of a Jenna’s thing - she and Molly kept going on and on about how fabulous it is, and how guys go wild for it.
At first, I tried to sneak out of the bathroom to get away from them both. I mean - body glitter? On me? I thought they were out of their freaking minds, for several reasons:
1. Have you seen me lately? Hello! Yoga pants and tee shirts - kind of my thing...
2. Um, where are girls going these days that a manufacturing company would think we require body glitter? Isn’t that kind of strictly a, er... strip club thing?
3. Sorry. Just can’t imagine myself walking through the mall, seeing body glitter on a shelf and thinking to myself “Holy crap! Body powder you can eat?! I must own that!” Yeah. No.
4. Pretty sure if I was the one licking it off, I would choke on it... kind of like how I choke on the powdered sugar at the county fair every time I eat a cream puff. Yeah. Choking: so not a good look for me.
Nonetheless, I seriously couldn’t escape the pair of them. They were way too powerful for me. That Jenna has a crazy strong grip for such a small person... Granted, I did try making a run for it once, and was quickly grabbed by the collar of my button down shirt (the one I wore while they did my hair and makeup) and yanked back down into my seat.
In the end... I look pretty damn incredible.
Satisfied, I grab my clutch and push through the bathroom door, holding it open politely for an older woman who’s on her way in.
**Matthew**
I will be the first person to admit: bringing Stacy, in hindsight, was a terrible idea. Not only is she clinging to my arm, she hasn’t stopped talking since we walked into the restaurant.
My eyes scan the perimeter, the dimly lit reception area obscuring the view into the main dining room. The hostess, standing behind a small wooden podium, smiles politely as we approach, and asks us how many are in our party.
“Just two,” Stacy promptly replies, running her finger up and down my arm. I curse the fact that I’m wearing short sleeves, and that my biceps are so irresistible to women.
It’s like I’m cursed.
The hostess looks down at the open book on the podium, adjusts the small lamp attached to it, and chews on the end of a yellow number two pencil. She looks up apologetically. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Did I need one?”
“No, but I’m afraid we’re full tonight until...” She looks down again at the book. “7:15. I’m afraid it’s going to be about a forty five to sixty minute wait. Would you like to have a seat at the bar?” She holds up a black buzzer.
Stacy grabs it.
“Um, actually, we have a few friends here. Can we go see if they’re already here and say hi?”
“Do you have the name?”
“Uh... I’m guessing it’s probably under Lemon Jello. Or you can check the name Underhill.”
The hostess furrows her brow at the stupid nicknames Neve thinks are hilarious (and uses on a regular basis at hotels and restaurants), but checks the book anyways.
Recognition makes her eyes light up like Christmas trees. “Oh yes, he and his guest are here.” She turns to the other hostess, who just walked up with menus. “Can you show these guests to table 24?”
***
The girl staring back at me wide-eyed, fork frozen above her plate in mid-air, is not the same girl I remember from the bar... or from my sisters apartment.
That girl was plain.
Mousy.
Frazzled.
A hot mess.
This girl is just... hot.
As in - fucking hot.
It takes a minute for the recognition to sink in, and we stare at each other... although oddly enough, Cecelia doesn’t look all that surprised to see me. I mean, maybe I’m just imagining it, but instead of shock across her pretty eyebrows, she just looks amused.
Okay. And maybe her eyes are narrowed in a slightly suspicious way, but that’s neither here nor there...
Neve on the other hand, looks stunned, and sets down his knife. “Wakefield, man, what are you doing here?”
Standing to greet me, he pumps my hand as I continue to eye fuck his date, who stares back.
“Yeah Wakefield, what are you doing here?” Cecelia’s pretty mouth moves sarcastically, and I’m transfixed by the candle light dancing off her glossy lips.
She looks amazing.
Gorgeous.
Sophisticated. Classy. All the words you would use for beautiful.
I wonder if she smells as good as she looks. My lip tips up and I almost smile at the thought, but compose myself and clear my throat to speak instead. “I had a date tonight with Stacy here, and this is where she wanted to go.”
I give Stacy a little shove.
My trusty sidekick nods her head vigorously beside me, her large boobs shaking beneath her slightly trashy sheer top.
Cecelia rolls her eyes - the light brown eyes she has artfully lined in heavy black coal. Man, there’s nothing I love more than a chick wearing lots of makeup. I mean - don’t get me wrong. I love the natural look too, and Cecelia is really cute without it, but now... She. Is. Smokin’.
“What a coincidence,” Cecelia smiles crookedly, eyes shining wickedly, and sets down her fork to dab her mouth with the corner of her linen napkin. When she’s done, she lies it back down in her lap, cocks her head in my direction, and lifts one of her eyebrows.
Her dark eyes continue boring into me, and she licks her lips. Immediately my eyes shift back to her mouth, and I swear she’s doing it on purpose.
My dick perks up. You know... like a horny teenager.
Except I’m not a teenager.
I’m a man... ish.
And sure - perhaps it’s time for me to act like one, but it’s probably not going to happen today. Or tomorrow.
Or this year if I’m being honest.
Whatever.
My point is, I’m practically drooling.
Beside me, I get nudged in the ribs by Stacy. “We came to say hi,” my decoy charitably puts in. “It’s a long wait for our table ‘cause Matty didn’t make a reservation on account of him only just calling me this afternoon for a date.”
Neve lets out a loud, gut busting laugh, causing my face to get beet red. I’m not sure if he’s laughing because he knows my presence here is crock of shit, or because I’m here with a ditz like Stacy.
Let’s face it: he knows I have no tolerance for stupidity, even from good looking chicks, and Stacy could win top prize for village idiot.
“Dude. You can’t just show up at this place. I made a rez over a week ago.” He winks at Cecelia, who giggles prettily and bats her long, sooty lashes.
Christ, how annoying can two people be?
“How long did you say the wait for a table was?” Neve asks as he dips his head and takes a bite of his dinner, which I can’t help noticing is blue cheese crusted filet and asparagus, on a bed of mashed potatoes.
Probably infused with buttery herbs and garlic.
My mouth begins watering.
“Look, I have to use the bathroom. Take a seat but don’t eat anything while I’m gone.” Neve sets his napkin aside and stands. Ever chivalrous, he smiles cajoling at my date and crooks his elbow. “Stacy, care to join?”
**Cecelia**
“So. What are you really doing here?”
“What do you mean?” Matthew looks at me innocently, now from across the table, widening his eyes and giving me another once over.
He’s been doing it since he walked in.
Which, quite honestly, I can’t believe he actually did. Showed up, I mean. Seriously - what kind of an asshole does that?
I cross my arms. “Oh please. Spare me. You did not drive Miss Mensa thirty miles out of town to come here. Even I’m not that stupid.” When I call his date Miss Mensa, I use air quotes around the nickname. “You’ve probably never even heard of this place before tonight.”
Matthew doesn’t say anything, so I accept this as fact.
“Are you just going to sit there staring at me,” I finally blurt out.
He mirrors my body language by crossing his own arms, and I’m rewarded by the sight of his bulging tan biceps. Shamelessly, I allow my eyes to freely roam his upper body, from the near bursting top button of his straining polo shirt, to the veins in his strong arms.
Come on, don’t you think I deserve a little peek?
As I continue ogling his masculine upper body (and please, forgive my continuous use of verbs to objectify him) my eyes eventually roam back up to his face. Unfortunately for me, the bastard is smirking arrogantly and spreads his arms wide, gripping the corners of the square table and staring intently at my boobs, then back up at my face.
If I didn’t know better, I would think he was mocking me.
Or that he liked it... a bit too much.
Damn him!
“See something you like,” he asks with a low snicker.
Yes!
“Oh please,” I sputter. “Gag me.” I give my long silky hair a toss before leaning back behind my seat to retrieve my purse, and proceed to dig through it while I wait for him to respond. He continues to stare as I slowly slick NARS nude gloss across my puckered mouth, then lick my lips for good measure before putting the cap back on - you know, since he’s my captive audience and all. “So are you gonna tell me what you’re doing here or not? Best spit it out quickly, because our dates will be back soon... friend.”
“Would you knock that shit off,” he mutters.
“Knock what off?” I tilt my head curiously, causing my hair to cascade and spill over one shoulder, just like Molly and I practiced before I left the apartment.
“That friend bullshit.” He uses his forefingers to make air quotes when he says the word ‘friend.’
“Why? I thought that’s what we were.”
Matthew’s eyes drift to my bare shoulder and he studies my exposed collar bone. “Why is your skin so... sparkly?”
I flick my wrist nonchalantly. “Hmmm? Oh. Edible body glitter.” Pleased that he’s noticed, I slowly tail my index finger up and down my arm. “Jenna insisted on it.”
“What the hell does that mean? Edible body glitter.”
I roll my eyes at him (which Molly claims he hates). “What do you think it means? Use your imagination.”
“I’m seriously beginning to question your morals.”
I can’t stop the snicker that escapes from my sticky lips. “Don’t question mine, question Molly’s. She’s always slathering this stuff on. It’s Weston’s absolute favvooritee.” I drag the word out and wiggle my newly manicured eyebrows suggestively, then prop my chin up in the palm of my hand. “Actually, you don’t slather it on. You brush it on gently with a feather.” I sigh lazily. “It feels divine.
”
“Why would you go and say shit like that? Are you purposely trying to get me hard?”
“Because it’s more fun than licking my own arm and watching you wet your pants a little.”
“Wait. How old are you again?” His eyes are slightly glassy and his pupils are dilated.
“Almost twenty-three.” I take a small sip of ice water, a few beads of perspiration from the glass drip and land on the table cloth. “So what are you going to do with the rest of your night now that you hauled that deranged Drag Queen all the way down here? You do know she’s never going to leave here without a free meal.”
He clearly doesn’t like me stating the obvious because he replies, “Would you shut up please?”
Shrugging, I smirk. “Hey. I’m just being honest.”
“Maybe she would take the hint if she walked out of the bathroom and we were sucking face across the table?”
I flip my hair again. “Gross. Like that would ever happen.”
Although, let’s face it: I’d totally be in to sucking face with him.
“Don’t look so offended. You might bruise my ego.” I give an unladylike snort while Matthew looks around. He cranes his neck and squints towards the front of the restaurant, the direction in which the restrooms are.
He leans back in his seat, pulling his iPhone out of the back pocket of his jeans.
“Hey. Wait a minute. Don’t you think they’ve been gone a really long time?”
Chapter Fourteen
Matthew
“It’s not you, it’s me. Actually no. It is you.” - Kevin Westerman, teammate, breaking up with his girlfriend of two weeks.
I pull out my phone and check the time. About nineteen minutes has passed since Neve and Stacy left for the restrooms: plenty of time to relieve yourself and come back. Even if Neve had to take a dump, he still should have been back by now.
A knot forms in my stomach, and apprehension sets in.
That son of a bitch.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude that he ditched me here with his date.
I just know it.
I glance towered the entrance once more for any sign of them, then back at Cecelia, who has begun eating her meal again, naively unaware of the fact that she’s been ditched. How am I going to break this to her?