What's Your Number
Page 7
“Fifty dollars a person?” That’s way less than I expected. “Really?”
Colin nods. “Yeah. It’s pretty basic—some computer work and a couple of phone calls. In fact, I can probably do most of it from here.”
From here? “Wait, you’re gonna do it?” I ask uneasily. “I thought you were an actor.”
“I am, but when things are slow, like they are now, I help out my dad.”
I don’t want to offend him, but . . . “Colin, don’t take this the wrong way, but I was hoping to hire a real private investigator, someone like Magnum, P.I.”
“If you want me to grow a mustache, I will,” he teases.
I laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, I know. I’m just kidding. But listen, seriously, if you want someone at my dad’s office to do this for you, then fine, but it’ll cost you more. Me doing it instead helps us both out. For one, I get to keep whatever I make, and because of that, I can charge you whatever I want. I was doing you a favor with the fifty bucks because you said you just lost your job. Anybody else is gonna charge you more.”
Hmm, what to do, what to do. If I don’t let Colin do this, not only will I have to fork over at least a thousand more dollars than what he’s charging me, but he’ll also be out seven hundred fifty dollars. I begin to feel guilty.
“Have you done this before?” I ask. “I mean, you know how to find people? And find out if they’re married? And find out if they’re gay?”
“Of course I do,” he assures me.
I stare at Colin long and hard. I’m still not sure. I’m putting a lot of energy into this, and if he gives me the wrong information for anyone, it’s going to be a big waste of time.
“So what do you think,” he pushes. “Do we have a deal?”
Oh, what do I have to lose? I’m sure it’s not brain surgery. “Sure. I mean yes, we have a deal.”
Colin smiles. “Excellent.”
“So how long will it take?”
“Well, when’s your party?”
I draw a blank. “What party?”
Colin cocks his head. “The singles party? The reason you need to find all these guys?”
Suddenly I remember my excuse. “Oh, right! That party. It’s soon, really soon.”
Colin shakes his head and looks back down at the papers—he so knows I’m not having a party. After pilfering through the pile once more, he pulls out a few sheets and hands them to me. “I found these three guys already, and they’re all single and straight.”
My eyes light up. “Three? In a day? Already?”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have anything else to do today, so I thought I’d get started.”
When I look who he’s found, I can barely contain my excitement. He’s already found #14, #15, and #16, Wade Wojosomething, the R.O.D., and Abogado. Wade’s in Chattanooga, Rod’s in Philadelphia, and Abogado’s in New Orleans. I look up at Colin and smile. I feel bad for doubting him. “Wow, you’re good!”
He winks. “That’s what they tell me.” He then looks back down at the list. “I’ll probably have more questions along the way, but I have one now. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all,” I say. “Shoot.”
“One of the names on the list you gave me is a guy named Nukes. Is that his real name?”
Ah yes, Nukes, #10 on my list. Nukes wasn’t exactly one of my longer relationships. He was a spring break fling. I was a senior in college at the time and went to Cabo San Lucas with my friends for a week. After a long day of drinking Coco Locos in the sun, I hooked up with Nukes on a trampoline on a beach. I know it sounds like fun, but the trampoline was so bouncy and the Coco Locos were so strong that the sex wasn’t even memorable.
Neither was his name.
“Not exactly,” I tell Colin. “I think Nukes was a nickname based on his last name, but I can’t be certain because I never really got his last name.”
“How about his first?”
I shake my head. “Nope, sorry. But hey, I wrote down other stuff about him that might help you find him.”
Colin looks down at the piece of paper. “Right, you did . . .” Looking bewildered, he reads the information I gave him. “In 1997 he was anywhere from eighteen to twenty-one years old. You think he played football for Arizona State, but you might be wrong, it might’ve been Arkansas or Alabama.”
I nod. “Right. I just remember that the state began with an A.”
“What about Alaska?” Colin asks. “Alaska begins with an A.”
Alaska? Oh crap. I never thought about Alaska. No, no—if it was Alaska, I would’ve remembered asking about Eskimos and polar bears and things. I shake my head.
“No, I’m positive it was Arizona.”
“Or Alabama. Or Arkansas.”
“Right.”
Colin smirks. “Sounds like this is gonna be some party.”
After exchanging phone numbers and e-mail addresses, Colin walks me to the door. As he says good-bye, he puts both arms over his head and stretches big, causing his shirt to lift up a few inches, exposing the sexiest abs and treasure trail I’ve ever seen. Without thinking, I stop and stare—I’m entranced by it—then quickly snap out of it. When I look back up, Colin is frozen, arms still in the air, with a smirk on his face.
Oops. I think I’ve been busted. Again.
“You were checkin’ out my abs, weren’t ya?” he asks, laughing.
Yep, I’ve been busted. Again. Deny, deny, deny.
“Abs? No, I wasn’t doing anything of the sort.”
“Yes, you were. You were totally checkin’ ’em out and I caught ya. First it was my legs, now it’s my abs—you’re beginning to make me feel like a piece of meat, Delilah.”
Oh jeeze, I’m so embarrassed. But I stick to my guns. “I’m sorry but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He nods. “Right . . .” He then extends his hand to me. “Well, good-bye then.”
“Good-bye.” After giving my hand a quick, firm shake, Colin hangs on to it for an extra second and gives it a little squeeze. I blush. After he lets it go, I turn around and walk to my apartment. As I open the door, I hear him call out my name again, like he did Saturday. I don’t turn around this time because I know what’s coming—he’s going to ask me what I think of his abs. “I’m not falling for it again,” I say confidently.
Colin laughs. “Thought I’d try.”
Once I’m safely in my apartment, I close the door behind me and lean against the wall. Damn . . . what a flirt. But damn . . . what a good private investigator! When I pull out the pieces of paper he gave me and read them again, adrenaline rushes through my body—I can’t believe I’m really going to do this. I sit down and clearly lay out how much time and money I have.
$ 7,264 Amount of my severance check.
+ $ 2,000 Estimated amount of Michelle’s unemployment.
$ 9,264
÷ 2 We’re splitting . . .
$ 4,632
+ $ 538 My checking account balance.
$ 5,160
- $ 1,032 Monthly car rental.
$ 4,128
- $ 150 Money paid to Colin (3 guys @ $50 each)
$ 3,988
I have $3,988 and 42 days to find 16 guys. I can do it . . . I can do it! Standing up, I run to my room and begin packing. I’m going on a road-trip. Philadelphia, here I come!
* * *
1 Code name in case anyone finds this list.
Chapter four
#15 The R.O.D.
Real name: Rod Verdicchio.
Booty-call Boyfriend.
Obsessed with his D.O.G.
*Beep*
Del, this is Mom. Elisabeth herself sent you on a special, top-secret assignment? How exciting!
Have fun traveling, dear, and don’t forget—drink lots of water and moisturize liberally. Airplanes really dehydrate your skin, which is something you can’t afford. I noticed you’ve been getting some fine lines around your eyes. Have fun!
*Beep*
the R.O.D.
wednesday, april 6
After slipping a check for one hundred fifty dollars under Colin’s door, I leave early the next morning. Philadelphia is a good city to start my search in for one main reason: it’s close to New York and I’m a really bad driver. I’m okay when it comes to driving around town (I find comfort in all the stopping and going that goes along with it), but what I don’t like is driving on the highway. Not only am I afraid to go fast, but when things get too still, like when I’m cruising along with all the other drivers, I become paranoid. I hear funny noises—clicks, hums, and rattles—that aren’t really there, and I assume that a tire’s about to fall off or the engine’s about to blow. Because of this fear, I’m cautious when driving, perhaps too cautious. I’m the driver everyone hates on the highway, the one who drives forty miles per hour in a fifty-five mile zone, with my hands at “ten and two.” I’m a total mess.
Since I didn’t want the simple fact that I can’t drive to prevent me from going on this road trip, I convinced myself that all I need is a little practice. Until I get more comfortable, to help deter my mind from obsessing, as well as to drown out the clicks, hums, and rattles, I tune my iPod to the playlist that contains songs from the year 2000, for that’s when I met the reason I’m going to Philly. As sounds of *NSYNC fill my ears, I say “Baby, bye, bye, bye” to New York, and begin to remember #15 on my list, Rod Verdicchio.
I don’t know if dated is the right word to use when describing my relationship with Rod. He wasn’t a one-night stand, but he wasn’t a boyfriend either. In fact, he never even took me to dinner. What can I say, guys like this happen.
I was twenty-five years old at the time and had a very active social life. Every weekend my friends and I went out to whatever the hottest Manhattan club was of the moment and danced our sweaty booties off ’till dawn. Everywhere we went, no matter where it was in the city, we always ran into Rod and his friends. The reason we initially noticed them was because they were big guys, guys who didn’t fit in with the rest of the scene. You see, when a place in Manhattan is considered hot, the average Joe just can’t walk in off the street and have a drink. In order to get inside, either you have to know someone and get your name on a list, or you have to look amazing and impress the doorman, which is easier said than done because he’s usually an asshole, especially to guys. Rod and his friends weren’t pretty boys, nor did they dress particularly well, so I’m not sure how they got into half the places they did. But whatever the reason, they were at every club, every opening, every party.
Rod was over six feet tall and about two hundred pounds. He was Italian, really Italian, born and bred in South Philly. He was a little bit of a meathead, however, not in the “I like to work out” kind of way but more in the “I like to pig out” kind of way. He liked pizza and power tools, football and fixing things, which is actually the reason I was attracted to him. In New York, a city of metrosexuals, Rod was one of the few “guys” left.
Rod and I always said hello to each other and therefore quickly became friends. He was a born salesman and was very charming. One night he invited me back to his place after the bar closed for a nightcap, and I eagerly accepted. We kissed and hooked up that evening, but didn’t end up sleeping together. Before I left, we exchanged phone numbers, but neither of us called the other. I’m not sure of Rod’s reason for not doing so, but as for me, although I liked him, I didn’t get butterflies in my stomach when I saw him. He was just a funny, nice guy, someone to hook up with.
The next time we ran into each other, the same thing happened. We went back to his place after the bar closed, hooked up, and then neither of us called the other. This proceeded to happen again and then again—both times with no post-hookup phone call. The phone calls didn’t start until we slept together. As much as I’d like to say they were daytime “What are you doing this weekend?” phone calls, I can’t because they were nighttime “Do you wanna have sex?” phone calls. Yes, Rod was my booty-call boyfriend.
For as much fun as I had with Rod, I knew I’d never develop feelings for him because I found him slightly irritating, which is why he was perfect for this. For some reason, he’d always refer to himself in the third person, and would spell out his name while doing so. For example, if we were out and he wanted to go home, he’d say, “The R.O.D. wants to leave.” Or if he was telling me about a particularly grueling day, he’d say, “The R.O.D. is wiped.” This kind of talk bothered the D.E.L.I.L.A.H. (It doesn’t work as well with longer names.)
Another thing that bugged me about the R.O.D. was that he was completely obsessed with his D.O.G., a black L.A.B. named M.A.X. Apparently, Max had a medical problem and almost died when he was a puppy, and ever since, Rod had admittedly become infatuated with him. “I almost lost him,” he’d say, when recalling the gruesome details of Max’s lifesaving surgery. Rod worshiped Max. He talked about him all the time and took him everywhere he went. They were inseparable, the two of them. Case in point: Rod allowed Max to sit on his bed while we were having sex. It was so awkward. He’d hang out down by our feet and watch, I swear.
Because Max totally ruined the mood for me, I asked Rod if he could make him wait outside the bedroom until we were finished. When I did, he, of course, said no and pointed out, “You’re in his bed, you know.” Yeah, it was covered in dog hair, I knew.
After weeks of begging, I was finally able to convince Rod to at least make Max get off the bed during sex; however doing so backfired on me. Realizing he was being slighted, Max would sit at the edge of the bed and stare at me. Holding his head one foot away from mine, he’d breathe his smelly dog breath on me and occasionally drool on the sheets. It was horrible.
“Just ignore him,” Rod would say. Pump, pump, pump.
Ignore him? I couldn’t ignore him. Every so often I felt his cold wet nose rub against my elbow, and one time he even leaned over and gave me a kiss.1 Eventually I started to hate Max, and I like dogs too, so that’s saying a lot. My hatred ran deep, so deep in fact that it freaked me out because I didn’t know where it came from. As time went on, however, as Rod and I continued to have sex, I slowly figured it out. I didn’t hate Max because he was always hanging around; I hated him because he got more of Rod’s attention than I did. I was jealous.
When I got involved with Rod, I knew what I was getting into. It was just sex—he didn’t want anything from me, and I didn’t want anything from him. But when I saw the way he acted with his dog, when I saw how much he cared for him, I couldn’t help but feel something more. It was attractive the way he took care of Max. In the morning he’d take him for a walk and make him a steak breakfast, and then afterward, he’d rub his belly and brush his coat until it was shiny. Rod never did any of those things for me. He never rubbed my belly, never fed me steak, never brushed my hair. I wanted the attention Rod gave Max.
It’s a funny thing. When it comes to having sex, I try to convince myself that every once in a while I can have it like a man, with no strings attached. Sex is fun; it can be purely physical. I’m a single working woman in New York City, for God’s sake; I need to work off stress. But more often than not, doing this backfires on me, much like making Max get off the bed during sex did. I’m not a man, I’m a woman, and we aren’t wired the same way, it’s a fact. We have a hormone (oxytocin) that makes it difficult to have unemotional sex.2 I’m not saying all women are helpless romantics who fall in love with every guy they sleep with, but it’s not as easy to shut off your emotions as it seems. This is what happened with Rod. I went in thinking it was just sex but ended up developing feelings; I ended up wanting more.
I didn’t want to put Rod on the spot and tell him how I felt because I didn’t think it was fair. I signed up for a booty-call relationship, after all; it was wrong for me to expect anything but. Because of this, I hinted to him a couple of times about us doing something when
it was light outside, but he didn’t really respond to the idea, so I let it go.
Since I kept thinking and hoping that Rod would fall in love with me, I didn’t put an end to the booty calls. I still went to his apartment at all hours of the night and still had sex with him while his dog watched and waited for us to finish. And afterward, sometimes, I’d lie in his bed and feel sorry for myself.
Then a funny thing happened. One morning, while I was doing just this, Rod got up to take a shower. When he did, I looked down at Max, who was lying at my feet, and gave him a sad little smile. When I did, Max wagged his tail, and then came over and licked my arm. It was like he was giving me a kiss, telling me it was going to be okay. It was so sweet. I never realized how cute he was until that moment.
When Rod got out of the shower, for some reason, Max stopped what he was doing and hurried back down to the foot of the bed. Once I smoothed out the covers, we both closed our eyes like we had been sleeping the whole time Rod was gone. When he came back to his room and got dressed, Max and I peeked at each other at a couple of times, like we knew we had shared a moment, but neither of us wanted Rod to know. I’m not sure what Max’s reasons were, but I didn’t want Rod to think I was using his dog to get closer to him, like “Your dog likes me, so you should, too.”
The next time I was at Rod’s, it happened again. When Rod went to the kitchen to get something to eat, Max laid down next to me and the two of us hugged. It was great—not only was Max warm and cuddly but he had a lovely scent to him too. He smelled a little bit like butterscotch. Once again, when we heard Rod walking toward the bedroom, Max hauled ass back down to the foot of the bed again, just like he did the previous time.
From this point, things spiraled out of control. I started booty-calling Rod more and more, just so I could see his dog. And every night after sex, rather than feel sorry for myself, I’d look forward to morning, look forward to Rod’s shower, look forward to having another quickie with Max, my little Maxi-pad. During the time we spent together, I told Max all about my life, all about my problems. I talked and talked and talked, and he blinked. Max knew about my friends, about my family—Rod didn’t know about any of those things. For once it was so nice to have someone who listened.