The Bachelor Society Duet: The Bachelors Club

by Sara Ney

  Me: I am not, you sasshole. Stop making up words.

  Miranda: But that’s how words are created—we make them up.

  Me: Can we not stray from the point?

  Miranda: Knowing what your point is would be incredibly helpful in that endeavor…

  Me: Why are you like this?

  Miranda: I was born this way. **flips hair**

  Me: Bye.

  Miranda: You’ll come back—you always do.

  Me: BYE.

  16

  Phillip

  “Who has you scowling?”

  Spencer has had a frown on her face for the past few minutes.

  “Who were you texting?” I blurt out, unable to stop seeking information about her, curious. “Who pissed you off?”

  Please don’t say your boyfriend.

  Not that I would care. If I thought for one second she had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t have kissed her. I wouldn’t be obsessing—this daydreaming about her is not going to win me a bet.

  Don’t be a fucking dumbass, Phillip. If she had a boyfriend, she would not have let you kiss her last night. She would have told you to fuck off.

  Or. Not?

  My head gives a shake; she isn’t the cheating type—I definitely would have known if she was spoken for. I would never have kissed her or touched her if I suspected for one second she was in a relationship.

  Besides, she’s been fishing for details on my love life for days.

  “Miranda. You remember her, from The Basement? She’s the worst.”

  My body relaxes, tension I didn’t know I was holding causing my shoulders to sag as it dissipates. I sink back down into my chair.

  “Ahh.” I give a nod of sympathy because I understand what it’s like having friends who are a royal pain in the ass.

  There must be something in the water because Blaine and Brooks have been blowing up my phone this morning, too. Nagging. Continuous questions about Spencer and our association—neither of them believe there is nothing going on between us, but Blaine has an ulterior motive: winning the Bastard Bachelor bet.

  I glance at my laptop to see the iMessage group chat popping up on the screen, ignoring most of them. The pair of them are doing just fine holding a conversation without me.

  Blaine: What’s going on with that chick from work?

  Brooks: He said nothing but he’s full of shit.

  Blaine: Agree. We saw the way she was looking at you, dude. She looked thirsty.

  Thirsty? What the fuck?

  Messages continue popping up, but I ignore them, shifting my focus to Spencer. “Are we sharing this cake with anyone or pigging out on it ourselves?”

  “Up to you—it’s your cake.”

  “So I can just take it home without sharing?”

  Spencer narrows her eyes. “Technically, you could.”

  “But?”

  “Then I’d have to kill you.” An imaginary angel halo floats above her pretty head. “I brought a serving knife.”

  “You would.”

  “Sue me for liking cake.”

  Her hair is down today and curlier than I’ve seen it. She’s wearing blue—my favorite color. She looks pretty, and I wasn’t fucking around when I told her she’s beautiful.

  Or alluded to it when she jested about it.

  Weak not to come out and say it to her face, but I can’t risk her getting overly attached.

  Then why did you kiss her, fucker?

  Because I’m selfish.

  And I like her.

  Ugh. A lot.

  How did I not know she was here, under my nose, the entire time I’ve been working here? If I had known, there’s a good chance we would already be in a relationship and I would never have agreed to that dumb bet in the first place.

  Brooks forfeited—you can, too.

  Brooks makes more money than I do. He can afford to give up the valuable tickets and timeshare and four-wheeler; I can’t. My plan is to sell that shit and make a profit, maybe buy another piece of real estate and use it as income property.

  Brooks will kill me when I sell the baseball season tickets— seasonal seats for the Jags are impossible to come by; families wait years for a chance to buy them, which doesn’t come often because they can be passed down from generation to generation.

  Still, if I can make six figures selling them…

  It’s less of a risk than the start of a new relationship. What if it fizzles and fades, and we break up and I’m left with nothing? No girlfriend, no income property. I will have given it up for nothing.

  There are no guarantees.

  My laptop pings again with more messages, coming in one after the other consecutively. It’s obnoxious and annoying.

  Brooks: For real though, bro, if you LIKE her forget about the fucking bet.

  Blaine: Agree. Definitely forget about the fucking bet. I’m going to win it anyway—you have failure written all over you. Date her.

  Brooks: You can sleep with her and still win. There is no rule about fucking a girl, you just can’t date her exclusively.

  Blaine: Shut up, asshole, don’t encourage him.

  Brooks: This from the guy who broke up with his girlfriend to win a bet.

  Blaine: My level of commitment is legendary. Neither of you can say the same.

  Brooks: We don’t know if Philly Cheesesteak is going to dump this chick or not—it ain’t over until the chick is crying from having her heart shit on.

  Blaine: He won’t dump her—he doesn’t want this bad enough.

  Brooks: Why are we even talking about this? We were trying to decide if we were going out this weekend—Abbott has plans with her grandparents so I’m a free man.

  Blaine: You want to have a club meeting THIS WEEKEND? Lame.

  The messages go on and on and on, the two of them arguing.

  “Wow. You thought my face was serious?” Spencer’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “What is going through that mind of yours? Yikes.”

  “Nothing,” I lie. “This project is just stressing me out.”

  Liar, liar, liar.

  “Why don’t we eat cake? Would that make you feel better?”

  No. That would go against yet another rule of mine: eating anything non-breakfast-like before noon. “Yeah, sure.”

  She smiles prettily. “I know you have a rule about eating a real meal before dessert, but cake always makes everything better, especially before lunch. You run and get some plates and napkins and I’ll cut it, okay?”

  Sounds good to me.

  I stand, pushing my chair back, then push it back in so it’s out of her way when she comes around to cut the cake. I’m halfway to the breakroom before I realize I’ve been humming all the way down the aisle.

  There are a few people around when I get there, making coffee or eating baked goods, casually shooting the shit.

  Two of them are from the purchasing department, which I’ll resume more contact with once my shit is moved back into my office space.

  “…that hellhole. All she does is blow her nose and cough. One more day and I would have been wearing a mask.”

  “That’s not as bad as sharing a room with Pete. If he makes one phone call, he makes eighty, Jesus Christ.”

  I sidle up to Dan and Roger, interrupting their bitch-fest. “Hey guys. Just grabbing plates—my officemate brought in a cake.”

  Dan looks confused. “Cake? For what?”

  Duh. “For me.” I’m not proud to say I’m bragging. Sounds like they had bad luck in the officemate department this week while I hit the jackpot. “It’s a going away cake, and I’m in charge of plates.”

  “I want cake,” Roger says. “Who are you sharing with and why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

  “Her name is Spencer. She’s one of the leads in marketing.”

  “And she brought you cake?” Dan remains dubious. “Why?”

  “It’s a going away cake,” I repeat. “Because we move back to our own offices after today.”

  “What’s
her deal? Is she old?”

  “No, she’s my age.” After I’ve collected the items I need, I also grab two bottles of water.

  “I’m confused. Cake makes no sense.”

  I clap him on the shoulder. “That’s why you’re a numbers guy, Dan. We don’t pay you to be pretty.”

  Dan is an estimator; he draws up the bids we use when we’re trying to win jobs. He measures, records, and calculates without an ounce of creativity in his entire dad bod.

  Whatever.

  I have cake to eat.

  I give them and everyone else a head bob, retreating to Spencer’s office, whistling, with pep in my step. Give a glance down the hallway where my office is and spot numerous carpenters still hard at work, on the floor, on their knees, pressing the new carpet flat.

  Mmm, smells like melted plastic and fiber.

  Two plates, two napkins, two forks, and two water bottles are balanced in my arms when I round the corner to the north side. I can see Spencer’s ass in the wide window, and I can’t tell if she’s hunched over my desk or still cutting the cake, but her backside looks spectacular in the jeans she has on.

  I’m not typically one to objectify anyone, but I’m certainly appreciating this view.

  Now she has her hands on her hips.

  Okay—definitely not cutting the cake.

  I give the metal doorframe a rap with my knuckles. “Knock-knock, I come bearing sundries.”

  She doesn’t turn to face me or move from her spot. I’m not sure what to do with myself, so I stand stationary, rooted to the threshold.

  “Am I a part of some bet?” is the first thing she says, quietly.

  “What are you talking about?” I know damn well what she’s talking about and curse myself for leaving my laptop open.

  “Your messages. They popped up while you were gone. I wasn’t snooping, but it kept pinging,” she says defensively. “Be honest—am I part of some bet?”

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  “Why would you think you were part of some bet?”

  “I’m not blind—obviously your friends are talking about me. Unless there’s another office roomie you’ve been shacking up with.” She finally steps away and moves to the left, shimmying back to her side of the mega-desk. “You hardly even flirt with me, let alone date me. I don’t understand why they would think you were going to dump me. It makes no sense.”

  She’s terrible at putting two and two and two together, but I’m not going to fill in the blanks for her. Unfortunately for me, Spencer isn’t going to let this go, and I send up a silent prayer that this discussion doesn’t escalate into a full-blown argument.

  “So there is a club,” she says softly. It’s a statement, not a question.

  I gape like a deer in headlights, unsure how to react. I go with an intelligent, “Uh.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Spencer begins shuffling papers and reorganizing the pens, markers, and paper clips on her desk. Starts scribbling on the desktop calendar, which I’m assuming is utter nonsense. She’s avoiding me.

  “I mean…I don’t know what to say.”

  “No need. Your boys did plenty of talking for you.” She slashes the calendar with a bright neon pink marker. “Let’s see, what was it they were saying…” She taps her chin with the marker, the cap still off.

  I don’t tell her she has a pink chin; I don’t want her to bite my head off.

  “Oh, now I remember!” She clears her throat. Deepens her voice. “You can sleep with her and still win. There is no rule about fucking a girl, you just can’t date her exclusively.”

  Wow. Talk about a photographic memory.

  I’m impressed she rattled that off verbatim.

  “Classy. You guys are reeeal classy.”

  Crap.

  Fuck.

  I open my mouth but flounder like a guppy.

  “Close your mouth, Phillip—you’re letting the flies out.”

  Whoa. “That was harsh.”

  “Well.” She tilts her neon pink chin. “You deserve it, don’t you think?”

  My hands go up defensively. “In all fairness, I didn’t lie to you. I made no promises, made no moves on you, did nothing but work alongside you for the past week. I wasn’t inappropriate—”

  “You kissed me. What was that all about? If that wasn’t you making a move, what are we calling it?”

  “I—”

  “Or do you go around kissing people you don’t care about? You play games?”

  “I—”

  “Stop talking, Phillip. Nothing you say is going to please me right now. Nothing. Just leave me alone and let me cool off.” Her blue eyes stray to my laptop and workstation. “Consider gathering your things.”

  My lips press together and I bow my head. Sit. Make eye contact with the cake, which she’s removed from the box and sliced into. I can see the fresh frosting—I can smell it. Buttery creamy goodness. My mouth actually waters.

  “Does this mean I don’t get cake?”

  Spencer glares. “No you do not get cake, you ass!”

  “But…” It’s my cake. She said so. “Why?”

  “Because it’s my cake.”

  “It was a gift.” To me.

  “But I bought it.”

  “That’s not how gifts work—ask any lawyer.”

  “I’m going to strangle you,” she threatens, her with the pink chin and angry eyes.

  Damn. Miss Angry Pants looks gorgeous when she’s murderous.

  “Don’t make empty threats,” I taunt, knowing it’s going to fuel her fire.

  “Don’t talk to me.”

  “Your chin is pink.” I smirk as I deliver the news.

  Her head whips in my direction, eyes blue pools of anger. “What?” It’s obvious she doesn’t believe me; she’s too busy hating my guts.

  “You wrote all over your chin when you were tapping it with the marker.” I grin, pleased to be ruining her moment.

  “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

  “I’m telling you now! And you told me to stop talking.”

  Spencer loudly scoffs as if I am her cross to bear. “Please, when do you ever listen to anything I have to say?”

  “Chin’s still pink,” I prod.

  “Shut. Up. Phillip.”

  “It is.”

  “I’ll handle it! Quit bringing it up.”

  “Just don’t want you to forget.”

  Abruptly, she stands, hands planted on her desk. “Thank goodness we didn’t take our harmless flirtation any further. I cannot stand the sight of you right now. You and your friends are despicable.” She rounds the desk and storms out of the office, rubbing her face with the fabric of her shirtsleeve.

  My heart is damn near beating out of my chest.

  I breathe in. I breathe out.

  Just relax. Let her cool off.

  My attention turns to my laptop screen. I give my mouse pad a tap to bring it to life and glare at the chat box in the center.

  Fucking Blaine and Brooks, this is—

  It’s not their fault and you know it.

  It’s yours for having your head up your ass. For being indecisive and stubborn. For lying to your friends.

  Blaine: Our boy has gotten quiet—what do you think he’s doing?

  Brooks: I know what he’s NOT doing—that girl at his office he’s afraid of.

  Blaine: I smell a loser…

  Oh my fucking God, did Spencer see this?

  No wonder she’s pissed.

  My face is on fire, flaming hot as I read line after line of inappropriate messages.

  With an angry click, I slam my laptop closed.

  17

  Spencer

  I stride back into the office, stalk to his side of the room, and lift the cake. Unceremoniously dump it in the trash.

  He gasps. “Hey! Why did you do that?!”

  “If you think I’m letting you eat MY CAKE, you are delusional!”

  “That’s wasteful!�
�

  “Really? Is it? Because I really do not give a shit!” I stare into the trash, where blue and red frosting are smeared on the garbage bag, lining the side on its way to perdition. I retrieve the bin from the floor and thrust it toward him. “You want some cake? Help yourself.”

  Seeing those messages on his laptop, while I was slicing a cake I brought in special, for him? Gut-wrenching. Embarrassing. Horrifying.

  I’ve never felt humiliated, not even the time I had my period in middle school while wearing white jeans. I had blood on my butt and walked around the halls that way until my math teacher told me to use the bathroom, clean myself up.

  I borrowed a giant maxi pad liner from my friend Vanessa, but the damage had already been done.

  “Spencer…”

  “Don’t.” I’m so angry. “Just. Don’t.”

  I know all the things he’s going to say. I know, because despite the texts and weird way he’s acted when I questioned him about the jacket, and the club—I trust that he’s not a complete prick.

  And he’s right—he never made any inappropriate advances at work, never overstepped, never said anything off-putting. I never felt uncomfortable.

  I only felt…

  The stirrings of.

  Of.

  No, not that.

  Not so soon.

  No.

  I’m not that naïve.

  And he is not that callous.

  None of this was intentional.

  Was it bad timing? Yes. Was it in bad taste?

  So much yes.

  He has his things collected, packing up after lunch. The manager of his department came around to notify him that his office was ready, said if he wanted to call it an early day, he could. His desk and furniture would all be back in place by Monday morning.

  Great.

  Fantastic.

  He can leave, so that’s what he does.

  Hovering in the door, it’s clear he hasn’t a clue what his last words are going to be. So he says nothing at all—just looks at me long and hard, the expression on his face wiped clean. I can’t read his mind and I can’t read his face, but I can avert my gaze and read my computer screen.

  I stare at it until the last rustle of his pants and shirt and breathing fade away.