The Bachelor Society Duet: The Bachelors Club

by Sara Ney

“They did not want to marry you.” Her disbelief wounds me.

  I pretend I didn’t hear her, hand shooting up as if I’m

  swearing an oath in front of Congress. “Scout’s honor.”

  “You can’t say Scout’s honor unless you were an actual Scout.” She studies me, head tilted. “Were you?”

  “No.” My parents couldn’t afford the small fee it cost to join.

  “Well then, it can’t be true. You were never a Scout, so…”

  God, I just want to wipe that smug look off her damn face.

  “For your information, smartass, I have the Nan stamp of approval.” I throw down, no longer fucking around. For whatever reason, talking about relationships with Abbott and the kinds of dudes she does and doesn’t date has me feeling some kind of way—and I’m not loving how my stomach is churning at the moment.

  That has her attention. “Say again?”

  “I have the Nan stamp of approval.”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  “It means, I met your nan, and your nan loves me.” I deliver this news as casually as possible, but deep down inside, I’m doing a celebratory dance, jumping and leaping on the couch and bouncing on the cushions, because the look on her face is priceless.

  Disbelief and annoyance and bewilderment.

  Translation: Abbott is not a happy camper.

  “When? How?” I can see clear up her pert little nose, her nostrils are that wide from flaring. “Is that where the flowers in my apartment came from? Was Nan there today?”

  “A magical elf sure as shit didn’t bring them.” And it sure as hell wasn’t me.

  Oh shit. She didn’t actually think I brought flowers when I went to check on the cat, did she? She had to know that ridiculous arrangement, which must have cost a bundle, did not come from me. Right?

  Oh shit. Maybe she did think they were from me.

  Abbott’s beautiful face blanches. “Oh.”

  Yeah, oh.

  Fuck. Now I feel doubly terrible, though I did nothing wrong—except break Nan’s confidence by telling Abbott her grandmother let herself into the apartment.

  “Did you know your nan has a key?”

  “Yes, of course. Everyone has a key.” She rolls those blue eyes. “Though Nan is the only one who lets herself in unannounced. She thinks I don’t know—as if I wouldn’t notice a stocked refrigerator, or new decorative pillows on my bed.” A delicate snort escapes her nose. “She tries so hard to be sneaky, and I pretend not to notice.”

  “Why is she always stopping by? You’re a grown-ass woman.”

  “True. I think she just wants to feel relevant. Needed? Her children are all grown and she has all these big, empty houses. I don’t think her friendships are… They’re the society type. Fake. Botoxed.” My neighbor leans forward to retrieve her cottage cheese and spoons a mouthful. Chews.

  Swallows.

  “It’s not just me. Nan’s best friend has a granddaughter, who’s also in the city, and Nan breaks into her pad, too.” Her back presses against the couch cushions and she props her feet up, barely sparing me a glance. “Basically she steals keys, gets copies made, and breaks into our places. My brother has a house in the burbs and she does the same shit to him, too. We all just look the other way. It’s cute. I’ve never had her bust in on anyone, though. What did she do?”

  “She was going to crack my skull open with your vase.”

  “Tiny Nan?”

  “Tiny Nan would have clocked me good—I could see it in her beady eyes.” I put my feet up too, the charade of being clean and tidy and proper long gone out the window. “But she was holding the cat under her arm, so if I had seriously been robbing your place, she wouldn’t have stood a chance with the one-armed vase toss.”

  “She was holding the cat?”

  “Yeah—protecting it or whatever.”

  Abbott covers her mouth with a hand. “Holy Hannah, that is so cute.”

  “That cat is not cute.”

  “I’m not talking about the cat—I’m talking about the fact that my grandma was protecting the cat from a robber. If that were me, I would be all, ‘Every man for himself! Deuces, Fluffy.’” Her hand rises and makes a peace sign.

  “Seriously? You’d abandon your beloved cat?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  Pampered Desi McTerrorPuss, left to fend for herself?

  “My cat would have been fine. I’ve seen her fly into defense mode. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced Desi would hide in a closet. Either way, she would have been safe.”

  She talks about that cat like it’s a human being, but what I really want to nag her about is her grandmother. “Enough about the cat. Don’t you think someone in your family oughta have a talk with her about safety?”

  Abbott chuckles. “Don’t be so naïve. My grandmother knew exactly who she was going to find when she snuck into my apartment.”

  “Who did she think she was going to find?”

  Abbott levels me with a stare. “You.”

  10

  Brooks

  “Mr. Bennett! Mr. Bennett!” My name is being called as I march through the lobby of my building and pass by the security guard at the front desk.

  I hesitate, unsure. Mr. Bennett? Surely he isn’t speaking to me. My office is in a high-rise, located in the heart of the city, eighteen stories up—I’ve never met the doorman, the security officer, or anyone who works on the ground floor. The fact that one of them is calling my name gives me pause, and I spin on my heel, questioning.

  “Me?” I point to my chest like a goddamn imbecile.

  The man is dressed in a navy officer uniform, security patches emblazoned on his chest and biceps, his hat dipping low over his heavy brow.

  Portly, sweating, and gesturing me over with a few meaty fingers.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning?” I wish he’d get to the point before my heart rate accelerates to an even more rapid pace.

  “Are you Brooks Bennett, sir?”

  Every time he calls me sir, my posture straightens and my chest puffs up with a bit more importance. I shift the weight of the blueprint I’m squishing under my armpit and stick it under the opposite arm.

  “I am.”

  “Would you mind showing me some form of ID? We have a package here for you.”

  That’s weird—I don’t remember ordering anything…

  My arm goes to the back pocket of my pressed gray slacks, and I pull out the black leather billfold holding my driver’s license, slide it out. Flash it at the security guard and wait a millisecond while his eyes flit back and forth between my photo and my face.

  “Thanks. Give me one second.”

  He disappears for a brief moment, reappearing from the storage room behind the front desk with a package, setting it on the counter.

  Package indeed.

  Not in a postal envelope or standard-issue box, this delivery isn’t something that was mailed to me. Guarantee it was hand-delivered. It’s not wrapped in discreet brown paper and taped up, nor is it slapped together haphazardly. Nope. This box is black lacquer, a high gloss, with nothing but my name and place of employment handwritten in gold, metallic ink.

  What the…

  “Hell is this?”

  The man shifts on his feet, and now he’s staring at it too. “I wouldn’t know that, sir.”

  Yeah, no shit. I’m aware that you don’t know what it is—the question was rhetorical.

  He watches, anticipation evident on his face, but I’m about to disappoint him.

  “Thanks. I’ll take this to my office.”

  “Very good, sir.” Okay, now he sounds like a butler from the Plaza, or like he’s on one of those shows about a British household with all the servants…what’s it called? Bromton Dabbey?

  Whatever. It’s boring.

  I pluck up my box, surprised to discover how light it is. Give it a shake.

  Not much jiggles around on
the inside, so lacking in weight or sound there’s a possibility it’s completely empty. I won’t know until I make it to my desk, so I hustle, making haste to the elevator banks, down the hall past Taylor’s prying eyes, and shut my door like a rat about to devour a stolen sewer cake.

  I pry the top off slowly, prolonging the inevitable, relishing the fact that I have an unexpected present, something I almost never receive, not even during the holidays.

  We never had the money.

  We were that family who needed assistance from their electric company so the power wasn’t shut off for an unpaid bill. We were that family who was adopted by other families during the holidays, except I never received toys. It was always socks and shirts and pajamas. Shit we needed, never anything we wanted—which I understand now that I’m an adult, but I resented it as a child.

  So I take my time, loving every second of this moment, a grown man with a valuable prize, a beggar on the street hoarding his possessions.

  My hand riffles through gilded tissue paper, feeling around for the treasure buried at the bottom of the sea. With every unfruitful swipe, my hopeful little heart loses some steam.

  Until.

  The tips of my fingers hit a hard square—an envelope? I grasp at it, pulling it through the paper, shaking it loose as tissue falls.

  It’s a gift card for one of the most expensive restaurants in town, a place impossible to procure a reservation at. Along with that, there’s a gift card for SmithStone’s.

  The sums are embarrassingly high, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair, unsure about how I should react. I can’t call anyone to thank them. I can’t call anyone and tell them the gift is too much—not just the amounts but the whole gesture.

  There is no enclosure card. No note. No sender.

  Nan.

  Has to be. No one else would send a gift card in this amount; it’s beyond ridiculous, and I only know one person this extra. Well, besides Lisbeth, Blaine’s sister who hates me and was able to get us the smoking jackets.

  Why?

  Why would Nan do this?

  I barely know the woman—I barely know Abbott.

  It takes me no time at all to google her now that I have the proper spelling of her name, the yellow sticky note Taylor scribbled it down on still stuck to my computer monitor.

  No time at all and I’m looking her up in the company directory at Margolis & Co. No time at all and her secretary—yeah, she has her own fucking secretary—is putting me through.

  “Abbott Margolis speaking.” Her voice is crisp and professional, though there is no doubt she knows it’s me. I wouldn’t have gotten through to her otherwise. All her calls are screened.

  I don’t waste time with idle pleasantries.

  “I think your nan sent me something.”

  “How did you get this number?” I can hear her eyes narrowing at me, imagining she’s toying with the phone cord, seated behind her desk. Maybe chomping on a bagel since it’s early and she seems like the type to grab and go.

  “You’re so hard to find? Please.” I scoff at the notion.

  She hmphs, ignoring me, then I hear her swallow. “I’m sorry, you were saying something about Nan sending you something?”

  “Yeah—I got a package at my office, and I’m pretty sure it’s not from you.”

  “Don’t insult me.” Abbott snorts. “I’m not above sending people random gifts—but you’re right, this one definitely is not from me.”

  This piques my interest, and I latch on to the idea of her sending me something. “So what you’re saying is you’d send me a present.”

  “That’s not at all what I said. Would you please focus and tell me what was in the box?”

  “Can’t.” I throw a paper airplane into my wastebasket. “You already said you’re not above sending me nice gifts.” I pause as it hits the wall and lands on the floor. “What kind of nice gifts?”

  “Your ego couldn’t handle me sending you something thoughtful. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “That’s not true—no one ever gives me anything, so I doubt I’d be a dick about it.”

  “Well, someone did—probably my nan. So…what is it?”

  “I think she’s my nan, too.” I crack the lid on the box and peer inside.

  “Did you just call her your nan?”

  “Yup.” I pop the P for effect, knowing it’s going to irritate the piss out of her.

  I hear her lips purse. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “I’ve been called way worse.”

  “Oh my God, Brooks, would you tell me what she sent you? I have actual work to do!”

  Jesus, why’s she getting all pissy? “Patience! Patience…”

  “I’m literally going to choke you.”

  “I’ll choke you if you want me to. All you have to do is ask.” I smirk and palm the gift card in my right hand, thumb pressing into the outer corner.

  “Shut up.”

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

  A soft chuckle reverberates on the other end of the line. “I might have.”

  She totally did.

  Adorable.

  I haven’t known Abbott long, but I’m already well aware of her many tells:

  When she’s frustrated, she tells me to shut up.

  When she thinks I’m amusing but doesn’t want to admit it, she rolls her eyes.

  When she’s trying not to laugh at me, she snorts.

  When she’s trying not to touch me, she puts something in her mouth…

  Speaking of putting something in her mouth…

  I squirm at my desk, lifting my ass so I can readjust the crotch of my slacks, then settle back into the conversation. I already know Nan likes me—as evidenced by the polished black box sitting in the center of my desk.

  It’s her granddaughter I’m not sure about.

  Women don’t usually treat me like this, even women I have no interest in. Typically they’re more…shit, what’s the word I’m looking for? Needy? Clingy. Fake. Coy. They play hard to get, but I’d bet money that’s not what Abbott Margolis is doing. No—this girl is all class, and for whatever reason, she’s not romantically into me.

  I can’t recall a time I haven’t been able to make a girl wet for me, and I wonder how long it would take with my neighbor.

  Stop, Brooks—fucking around with the girl who lives directly across the hall is the dumbest thing to enter your mind.

  Fine, so maybe it’s not the dumbest idea I’ve ever had—there have been plenty of others. Like the time when I was sixteen and found a wad of cash in my mother’s rusted coffee can. A few boys and I took ourselves down to the seedy strip club in town, an old, converted warehouse where they’d let anyone through as long as they had money in their pockets. It smelled like stale beer, cigarettes, and disappointment.

  I took that wad of cash and got a flash of my first pair of tits that day—then got grounded and received a beating for my efforts, too.

  My parents had needed that money, and I’d spent it on strippers.

  But come on, I was sixteen—where else was I going to get the opportunity to see boobs? I was a late bloomer, not coming into my own until college. Skinny, lanky, and awkward with plenty of acne, the unhealthy cafeteria food at university bulked me up in no time. The freshman fifteen done my body good.

  “Brooks? Are you there?” There’s a pause. “Hello?”

  “Huh?”

  “Honestly, Brooks, you called me—not the other way around.”

  “Shit. Sorry, I just remembered something.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She hums into the receiver, the sound amplified by the old-school telephone system.

  “Right. The package—sorry.” I spin in my swivel chair, replacing the gold tissue paper and putting it back inside with an “Ooh” and an “Aah.” There. All pretty again.

  Abbott sighs. “Don’t just moan into the phone like a creep, dammit—tell me what it is!”

  I’m taken aback. “I sounded like a creep? Dang, I t
hought I was being sexy.” For real though.

  “Not even a little.” There’s a tapping noise, as if Abbott is smacking a pencil against the surface of her desk. “If that’s your idea of sexy, it’s no wonder you’re single.”

  Now is not a good time to mention the Bastard Bachelor Society, and if she’s hoping to sink her female talons into a guy, she has a better chance with someone else. This gentleman is unavailable for courtship.

  “I must be losing my touch.”

  “You had a touch? Huh. Weird.”

  “Is it necessary to be such a smartass?”

  “I don’t know, is it?”

  “Stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Answering a question with a question.”

  “I only did that once.”

  Once was enough. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” There, I changed the subject, knowing she loves to eat and loves to talk about food.

  “Leftovers, probably.”

  “What kind of leftovers?”

  “I don’t know, maybe the chicken I had at dinner the other night. I might fry that up with some eggs and whatever vegetables I can find.”

  “That sounds disgusting.”

  “No it doesn’t! It’s literally all chicken by-product and vegetables, you moron.”

  “It’s not fresh. Nan got me gift cards for SmithStone’s and another one for Flocke and Brow, so I’d rather eat that.”

  Abbott emits a low, impressed whistle. “Oh, so you’re a snob now?”

  Do I sound like a snob because I don’t want her leftovers? Probably, but blame it on a lifetime of being hungry and not having enough to eat. In a way, I feel entitled to be a picky eater now that I can afford groceries.

  “No, I’m not a snob—just not in the mood for leftovers, that’s all.”

  “Oh, now that you have those gift cards burning a hole in your polyester pockets, you’re hot shit, eh?”

  I glance down at my lap, at the gray slacks I had professionally altered and that cost more than I used to make in a week working at the coffee shop near campus when I was still a student. “These are a wool blend.”

  “Brooks, I’m only teasing. If you want to have dinner with me, just say so.” I can practically hear her twirling her hair.