by Misti Murphy
The other gathering is a bunch of bored-looking middle-aged women wearing expensive yet understated clothing and each holding a glass of wine in one hand. No margarita in sight, and the taco station is pristine, like everyone is afraid to touch it. I’ve been out of touch with the social scene for far too long if this is what a Taco Tuesday after work party looks like.
A young woman with blue hair and black lipstick separates herself from the birthday party and heads my way. I deliberately make eye contact. “What’s that party over there?” I ask, nodding at the other crowd.
She shrugs. “Some party for old, working women.” After giving me a quick once over, she adds, “No offense.” And then she hurries through the heavy wooden door.
“None taken,” I mutter while narrowing my eyes and watching the group of women who are probably just like me: Career-driven, single-minded, determined to shatter every glass ceiling we encounter. My stomach grumbles at the sight of all those delicious taco toppings, yet I know I will be just like all these other women and snub my nose at a perceived uncouth display.
I need wine if I’m going to make it through this shindig. Since he’s at least ten years younger than me, I don’t feel as intimated by the hot bartender as I might if he were closer to thirty-five, so I belly up and let out a shrill whistle to get his attention.
“What the fuck was that?”
I whip my head to the side, prepared to provide a tongue lashing to whomever dared approach me in a bar. Ugh. It’s another sexy guy. And sloppy. That shirt looks like he swiped it off the floor and dragged it over his shoulders as he made his way out the door without stopping to look in a mirror. And it’s flannel. Why won’t that particular fashion statement die?
In ten seconds flat, I’ve determined he is everything wrong with the male species, and he hasn’t even smiled at me yet. Actually, he’s looking at me like I’m a loon.
“What’s your problem?” Might as well get defensive right off the bat. That’ll scare him off for sure.
“I think you blew my eardrum with that whistle. What, do you train dogs for a living?” For emphasis, he grabs his earlobe and shakes it, like that’s going to do anything except draw my attention to his slightly too long hair and the glasses that frame his face way better than they should. He probably doesn’t even have a prescription. I bet he wears them deliberately to pick up women.
Not this woman.
“Do you have a better idea? In case you haven’t noticed, the bartender’s rather preoccupied at the moment.”
“I noticed. But I’ve also been to a bar before, so I know if I do this—” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, giving me a glimpse of a far too tight ass under that wrinkled shirt, and then he waves a twenty in the air. Like a dog sniffing out a juicy steak, the bartender drops his entourage and hurries toward us. Tall, Dark, and Sloppy tosses a smirk my way while the younger version asks for his drink order.
“What are you drinking?” my worst nightmare asks. Why won’t he leave me alone? Can’t he see that I don’t remotely belong to that other party, so clearly I must be associated with the prim and proper ladies hovering in the other corner? And what guy in his right mind would want to hit on someone surrounded by other powerful women?
Except I’m not, because they are all clustered as far away from Wrinkled Hottie and the group of people clearly having a grand old time on the other end of the bar as they possibly can and still be in the same room.
“I can get my own drink.”
“You sure can. Although I’d do it while he’s standing here in front of you, because I don’t think your dog whistle is going to work once he heads back to his fan base.”
The bartender winks and grins, like we’re all in on some fabulous joke.
“The nicest red that comes by the glass. And it better not be house,” I mutter, even though I’d really rather have a Bombay and tonic. But everybody else is drinking wine, so I might as well make at least a small attempt to fit in.
“You must be with that group over there,” the guy standing next to me says, shoving his thumb over his shoulder.
“Because I drink wine?”
“Nope. Because you have a seriously large stick up your ass. I’ve never seen anyone stand so straight in my entire life.”
My jaw drops. Is this some kind of joke? I glance around the bar, to see if one of my brothers is here. It would not surprise me in the least if one of my family members set up this entire charade. It’s been years since we’ve attempted to one-up each other with pranks, but that doesn’t mean I should ever let my guard down.
“Must be why you’re coming to the meeting. Add a little...something different.” What I’m really saying is, he’s a complete loser and those women over there will eat him as an appetizer and then look around for dinner. He doesn’t stand a chance. Which makes me determined to convince him to head over there. Just to watch him bleed.
“You couldn’t handle what I’ve got to offer.”
“That is the worst pickup line ever.”
“It wasn’t a pickup line, lady. You seriously could not handle having me at your Women With Sticks Up Their Asses meeting.”
“Challenge accepted.” I dig a twenty out of my purse and drop it on the bar before snagging my wine and taking a slug. It’s surprisingly not bad. “Let’s go, handsome.”
He grins.
“I’m not flirting with you,” I clarify. I do not find his messy hair and sexy glasses and abrasive personality attractive. I have a vibrator waiting at home that’s without a doubt a far better partner than this guy could ever be.
“If you are, you aren’t very good at it.”
“All right, that’s it.” I grab his arm, wrap my fingers around chunks of solid muscle, and pull him away from the bar.
“That wasn’t a challenge,” he says, like maybe he wants to run back to his own party now. But it’s too late. I’m going to show him. Marcus was pretty-boy handsome as well, and while he wouldn’t be caught dead in flannel, he was an asshole, and in my head, I am getting revenge on him vicariously through this guy.
“What’s your name, anyway?” I ask as I herd him toward the sharks in pencil skirts hovering in the corner.
“Painter.”
“Seriously? Like someone who paints houses?”
“No. It has a Y in it. P-A-Y-N-T-E-R. And what’s your problem with my name? I bet yours is Suzy or Marie. No, it’s probably Elaine. Or Joyce.”
I give him a little push when he doesn’t move and ignore the ripple of muscle I can feel through his shirt. So he’s one of those gym rats, too, huh? The guy keeps losing points and I’ve known him for all of seven minutes.
“I get your implication. Like I’m old or something. Well, my age is none of your damn business and my name is Chloe.” Why did I tell him my name? After my soon-to-be new friends and I humiliate the hell out of him, I’ll never see the guy again. Paynter. God, what were his parents thinking?
“Chloe, huh? Wouldn’t have guessed that. It’s an awfully pretty and soft name...”
I’m not an idiot. I know what he isn’t saying. And he’s right. I am hard. And I don’t care whether he thinks I’m pretty. When I was with Marcus, I dolled myself up to impress him, and all that got me was a front row seat while he accepted the promotion that should have been mine. Screw caring what other people think—especially what guys named Paynter think. If I’m remotely attractive, I have made the effort for me, myself, and I only. Well, and my clients. And my co-workers. And my boss. But not a guy I met in a bar who clearly doesn’t know how to use an iron.
“Now you’re really going to get it.” I’m not sure if he heard me because at about the same time the gathering of Armani and Gucci glide toward us, morbid curiosity carved into every perfectly designed feature on every carefully made up face.
“Hello, I’m Elizabeth.” The first one, a platinum blond wearing a gray and white striped suit and an excellent cleavage-enhancing bra, offers her hand and a toothy smile to my new friend
. No, not friend. My victim.
“Nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” Paynter tosses a smirk my way and then takes a pull from his bottle of beer while scoping out the rest of the crowd. Several more introduce themselves before I can get a handle on the situation.
“I’m Chloe Green.” I speak loudly to be heard over the hard thumping music now blaring from the other party. “And I work in corporate real estate. A partner-in-training. As this is the first time I’m meeting all of you, I thought I’d bring along a gift.” Ignoring the sparks of interest in the faces of my cohorts, I add, “A sample of what we don’t want in our lives.”
“I wouldn’t mind having him in my life. Preferably with my legs wrapped around his hips.”
I’m not sure who made this comment; Elizabeth, I bet, based on the way she’s undressing him with her eyes, but I’m too distracted by his eyes to focus on her at the moment. Behind those dark frame glasses, they’re surrounded by long, thick lashes and they’re blue, but it’s not just any blue. It’s this clear blue, like colored glass. Way too pretty for a guy like him. Yes, I recognize I’m making harsh snap judgments on a guy I’ve only known for a few minutes, but so far, he hasn’t proven me wrong.
And then I pull my head out of the clouds or my ass or wherever it is that I even remotely consider him in a positive light, and I say, “No, that’s not what we want. We are powerful women, and the number one enemy of powerful women is...” I let my sentence trail off, hoping one of my new tribe will run with the thought we’ve all undoubtedly had.
“Bosses who want us to sleep with them in order to get ahead?” someone offers.
“Add married to that title,” another says, sounding as if she’s had experience in that arena.
“Yeah,” another pipes up. “Sleazy married bosses who promise you the world if you’ll get down on your knees behind their desk for about seven minutes. Twice a week.” She nods for emphasis and I see several other heads bob in apparent agreement.
Okay, this conversation has veered into a direction I did not see coming. Paynter is not trying very hard to hide his laughter, which I know is directed at me. Maybe my boss—who, thankfully, has never asked me to get on my knees nor has he ever hit on me as part of a promise of a promotion—is right. Maybe I do need to get laid.
But Paynter and getting laid should never, ever go together. That’s what my vibrator is for. It’s clean, it doesn’t talk back, and I even keep it in the bathroom so I can immediately take a shower afterward. Sex with Paynter would be messy, dirty, filthy...
“As terrible as those men are,” I say, cutting off the true confessions conversation that has erupted, “there are other men who are far worse. I bring you exhibit number one.” I wave my arms at Paynter, a la Vanna White.
All the other women in the group give me blank stares for several long seconds, until a brunette whose name is Christine, I think, says, “Every guy I’ve ever dated has been just like him. Twice now I’ve missed out on golden opportunities at work because I called in sick so that we could have a naked Tuesday. Or Wednesday. No wait, it was three times. Two different guys. But yeah, I could be so much higher in my company if I hadn’t been dating them.”
Several others in the group commiserate with her. I glance at Paynter, who is listening with seemingly rapt attention. This wasn’t quite the angle I was going for.
“My last boyfriend called my boss a dyke at the company holiday party.”
A collective gasp goes up around me.
“Although, she had been a closet lesbian her entire life, and for some reason, his calling her out made her decide to come out. I actually ended up getting a raise out of the experience, and she’s now living with Carmen from the IT department. I think they’re planning on getting married, and I know for a fact Carmen wants kids.”
“Uh...” I cannot fathom how to respond to a story like that. I was not looking for positive experiences here.
“At our last company golf outing, the guy I dated for six years deliberately beat my boss, even though I told him my boss was a sore loser. And then he got drunk at the luncheon and told everybody that I told him my boss wore a toupee.”
“Oh my God, I had a similar experience with my ex-husband. I lost my job over it. Such a jackass.”
“Yeah, what is it with guys and golf outings? They always do the stupidest things, even if we prep them first. Who doesn’t know you’re supposed to let the boss win? That’s business etiquette 101.”
“Business etiquette 102 is don’t get so sloppy drunk you end up puking on the boss’s $400 dollar Italian leather loafers.”
“And 103 is...” Finally, this conversation is exactly where I want it to be. Like any gathering of women, they begin to feed off one another and soon are commiserating over lost business opportunities as a result of poor choices in partner material. And they’ve all turned up their collective noses at Paynter, whereas twenty minutes prior, I swore I heard Christine suggest he meet her in the coatroom.
My mission here is complete.
Before I can gloat, Paynter leans toward me and I get a whiff of something that makes me think of the woods and lumberjacks and...sex. What the hell is it with this guy?
“Chloe, one, Paynter, zero,” he says, low and close to my ear. I can feel his breath. It’s hot and it makes my hair flutter. I said hair, not heart. There is no heart fluttering here. My heart is cold and dead and locked away and I threw the key into a deep ravine the day I figured out Marcus was using me so he could steal my promotion.
“And now I’m out of here, before these piranhas decide to lynch me for all the past crimes you’ve reminded them other men have done to them. Watch your back, Chloe. I don’t lose well.” He touches his bottle to his forehead and struts away, not looking at all like he lost anything. In fact, he looks as though he owns the entire damn world, and it infuriates me that I can’t stop imagining what he’d be like lying on his back in my four-poster canopy bed, with me astride him, encouraging him to hold out just a few minutes longer because I’m so close, oh, so close...
Shaking my head, I turn away from the sight and the fantasy. I will never see that guy again. He is some random loser I ran into in a bar. And I put him in his place.
A song I recognize from the seven million times I’ve secretly watched Magic Mike starts up and gradually becomes louder and louder. This is strange because aren’t most sound systems stationary? Not to mention, the music should be coming from that party on the other side of the bar. It should not be moving toward the Taco Tuesday gathering where the attendees have finally attacked the taco bar. Strippers are not on tonight’s agenda, I’m sure of it.
And then the music is so close, it’s practically in my ear, vibrating through my body and making me remember what it was like to have sex with another person in the room. It’s been a long time. Since that one guy I forced myself to pick up after Marcus screwed me over. It had been sloppy and quick, in a hotel room. To be honest, I’m not even sure if it was good or bad. I don’t remember the details. And while my partner lay on his back and snored, I quickly dressed and rushed from the room, crying before I reached my car, and when I got home, I stood in the shower until the water ran cold, and I vowed to never, ever do that again.
While I’m reliving this particular bad decision, I feel a hardness rubbing against my ass. All the women in the meeting are staring at something directly behind me, mouths hanging open, eyes glazed, salsa and guacamole dripping from taco shells held inches from their faces. A few are panting.
I am afraid to do it, but I whip around anyway, and come face to face with...a stripper?
“Hey, birthday girl,” he croons while gyrating against my leg.
I push at his shoulder and my hand slides down his arm. He’s covered in some sort of sickly sweet smelling oil. And that’s pretty much it, save a pair of chaps slung low around his hips.
“Wrong party,” I say, trying to step out of his grip. But he’s got an arm around my waist and waves the other in the air as he s
houts, “Yee-haw” and grinds against me. The music, I now see, is coming from a phone that is strapped to his bicep.
“That’s what the guy at the door told me you’d say,” the stripper says as he flips me around so he can rub himself against my ass. “He said you’d insist you’re the wrong girl, but that’s because you like to play hard to get. He gave me an extra fifty and told me to finish out the song, no matter how much you protest.”
“This skirt is silk.” I am envisioning my dry cleaning bill. “Wait, what guy?”
Realization dawns. Paynter. That bastard. I twist my head back and forth, trying to see if he’s still here. Cowboy stripper decides to accommodate me and turns so that the party where he was undoubtedly supposed to be the main attraction can watch us.
And there’s Paynter, laughing so hard I can actually see the tears in his eyes from across the room. All I can do is stand here and be humiliated by this oiled up, fake tanned body that is gyrating behind me, encouraged by the whistles and catcalls from the powerful women who a short time ago I might have considered as friends.
If I ever see Tall, Dark, and Blue Eyes again, I am so getting revenge.
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ALSO BY MISTI MURPHY
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ALSO BY TAMI LUND
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