Four Play: A Collection of Novellas (25 page)

“I’m not going to pick up a woman at a bar,” I responded.

“Right,” Jack chided. “Because the library is swarming with hotties. Besides, this is the best of both worlds. You’re totally in your element. This weekend, this bar, right now, is just a library that serves alcohol. Every woman in here this weekend is that intellectual type you like so much.” Casually waving his hand, he leaned back in his chair. “Take your pick.”

Okay. Jack had made a good point, but I wouldn’t say I was in my element. “What am I supposed to say?” I closed my eyes knowing as soon as I asked the question, I didn’t want to hear their answers.

Duncan shrugged. “This isn’t really my department, but if it were me, I’d just walk up and introduce myself—”

“No, no, no,” Jack cut in. “You need to get her engine fired up. Make her panties wet. You have to be forceful, take control. They eat up that shit.”

Martin shook his head. “No. I’m telling you, there are only two ways to get a girl in your bed at a place like this. Shakespeare or poetry.”

“Shakespeare?” I asked. “Don’t you think that’s a little cheesy?”

“Not at all,” Martin replied. “Just walk up to her and say ‘but soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!’”

“And then add,” Jack insisted, “the sun isn’t the only thing around here that rises.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Why was I even considering listening to them? It seemed that the guy who was about to become a priest had the best advice.

“Shakespeare? Really?” I wasn’t comfortable with it, but with the alcohol and one glance at the blonde that had just walked in, I felt my inhibitions fade away. Maybe the guys knew more about this kind of thing than me. Although judging from their track record in school, I had my doubts. I didn’t remember the last time any of them had a girlfriend.

Fuck it.
             

Why not? You only live once. Why shouldn’t I have tried to take advantage of the situation? Jack was right, as painful as it was for me to admit. By my calculations, ninety-three percent of the women at the bar were there for the convention. My chances of scoring one who knew something about Shakes were pretty good.

I slammed back the rest of my drink and pulled a wad of courage from my left nut.

I can do this
.

None of the guys looked convinced. Duncan gave a lopsided smile, Martin shoved his earbud back in his ear, and Jack sat cross-legged, calmly folding his hands in his lap. I really hoped they wouldn’t watch me; it was going to be hard enough as it was, let alone while I had an audience.

I drew two deep breaths and stood. The blonde at the bar sat alone, sipping her drink, and I took several confident strides toward her as I tried to piece together what I was going to say.

“Hi,” I whispered.

But the music was too loud, and she couldn’t hear me.

So I tried again.

“Hi,” I shouted, causing her to flinch and dribble some of her drink down her chin.

Smooth, asshole.

“It’s loud in here!” I said, without as much force that time.

She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to remember the line I was supposed to use.

But it wasn’t coming. We remained smiling at each other until the moment became strange.

Then uncomfortable.

And then it verged on painful.

What was I going to say? Did we decide I was going to introduce myself? Or was it poetry?

Shakespeare!

“But soft, what…light through yonder window breaks,” I began, trying not to stutter.

Her eyes widened, and I knew I had her attention, but as my palms grew clammy and my chest hollowed, I realized that the Juliet line wouldn’t work.

Unless her name was Juliet. Which was unlikely.

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. That’s not going to work! Dammit! I need something else! It’s too late! I have to finish the damn quote!

I swallowed, and spat out the first thing my mind could make sense of.

“My dick rises in the east.”

Oh. My. God.

She frowned and looked around the bar. “That’s unfortunate,” she mumbled.

I closed my eyes, wishing I could rewind to two minutes earlier when I was summoning the courage to speak to her. The situation I found myself in was exactly why I should never – ever – go into a game without a plan.

Well, so much for
that
experience. I was sure that would buy me an extra year’s worth of therapy when I hit my midlife crisis.

She turned her back to me and I walked away, shamefully slouching and keeping my chin down as I walked back to the table.

“How’d it…?” Duncan began to ask.

I raised my hand to stop him and shook my head. “I need another drink.”

***

The four of us continued to drink all night, none of us concerned with the impending doom of being hungover the next day. We spent most of the evening listening to Jack spew poetic wisdom about his favorite subject—himself—which led to more drinking just to find him in any way interesting. I’d almost nodded off when Martin passed out on top of the table and Duncan started reciting Bible verses.

The bar had emptied an hour earlier, and Jack and I were the only two men awake and coherent besides the bartender.

“I’m telling you, Mike,” Jack slurred, “this is just the beginning for me. My world is a blank canvas, and people are going to remember the name Jackson Moorhouse.”

I chuckled, my eyes fighting to stay open. “So you say, Jack. So you say.”

“You gotta admit, I’m better than all you guys. Duncan is, and always will be, nothing. He’ll be trying to figure out how to brainwash society with his theories about Jesus, like any other Bible-banger. And if Martin gets a publishing deal, I’m going to throw in the towel and resign. God knows what’s become of the industry if anyone signs him.”

“You’re such an asshole,” I laughed. “You really need to reel in your ego, man. It’s getting out of control.”

“Nothing wrong with having a healthy self-esteem.” He shrugged, downing the last of his beer.

“You’re way beyond a healthy self-esteem. You are the perfect definition of self-admiration.
Amour-propre
, my friend. Your wakeup call is going to be brutal.”

“And what? You think Michael Rourke is going to give anything to the literary world? Give me a break. From what I can tell, you have nothing to offer but the size of your dick. Your talent is hallucinatory at best. Defunct. Illusory. Void.”

“Okay. You can put away your thesaurus now, jackass. Not to mention how disturbing it is that you know the size of my dick.” I cringed and continued. “You and I both know that you don’t have what it takes. Professor Robinson rewrote most of that manuscript for you. Coupled with your self-love and misplaced vanity, your big talk is nothing but your own subconscious trying to reassure you that you’re not going to fail.” I took a breath and lowered my voice. “And if I ever hear you talk that way about me or these fine gentlemen ever again, you’re going down, Jack. Understood?”

He rolled his eyes. “You think you have what it takes to make it in this industry?”

“I’m hopeful, yeah.” I nodded.

“You think you can write any character imaginable? You think you can get inside the mind of anyone and write their point of view?”

“Sure.” I leaned back in my chair, running my hand through my hair. “If you can do it, I can do it.”

He shook his head. “All right. Here are your terms: you have the weekend to convince me—and everyone at this convention—that you’re someone else. It’s all about writing the role confidently. I’ll choose your character. And if you succeed, not only will I give your name to my agent, but I’ll also put in a good word with Bolten and Knox, here in Seattle. I hear they’re still interviewing for the copywriting position.”

Bolten and Knox was the one position I hadn’t heard back from when I graduated. I’d had no idea they were still looking for candidates.

I cocked my head to the side. “You’d do that? You’d put your rep on the line for a nobody like me? What would be in it for you?” I asked skeptically.

“Nothing, really. But I don’t expect you to win.”

I laughed. “Let’s say I go through with this. What exactly are we talking about?”

“I’ll pick a personality and you have to play the part. I’m going to pick someone who is a complete one-eighty from who you really are. If you’re proven successful, I’ll keep my word. Promise,” Jack said.

I shrugged. “Okay. Deal. Who am I supposed to be?”

Jack gazed around the room, rubbing his jaw with his thumb. His eyes rested on the empty table next to us, and he snickered. I didn’t like the look on his arrogant face. At all.

“The player. You get Monica into your bed by the end of the weekend, and I’ll be forced to admit that you can get inside the head of a mid-twenties gigolo, thus proving your ability to inhabit a character.”

I started to get pissed. Jack was seriously overstepping this time. “Really? Do you think I’m going to play with some poor girl’s emotions just to prove something to you? Don’t you think we should be doing something a little more constructive with our time here?” I snapped.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to do it.” He smirked. “I win.” He rose from his chair and tucked it under the table. “That was easy enough.”

Walking toward the door, Jack turned back with a smug smile on his stupid, smarmy face. “Have a nice evening, Mike.”

The clumsy plot-convenience encounter.

I woke the next morning with an optimistic outlook. And a hangover.

But still optimistic, even if my brain felt like it was going to burst from my eyes and my tongue felt like sandpaper.

Regardless of my headache and epic case of dry mouth, I threw back the covers and jumped out of bed without a single negative thought about Jackass Jack and his bet.

The room was silent other than the tinny bass vibrating from the earbuds in my roommate’s ears.

I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand and slid them on, and Martin came into focus. Not surprisingly, he was vigorously scribbling in his spiral notebook, looking like he had already been up for a while.

“Hey, Marty.”

He made brief eye contact and went back to scribbling.

“I do so love our deep conversations,” I muttered good-naturedly.

I chuckled and walked to the bathroom for a shower.

We weren’t going to be on any kind of schedule for the weekend, but I had prepared myself for the endless pitches, grabby hands, and literary minds all wanting a piece of the next big pie.

I barely had a first draft, let alone a good hook and pitch, so I was mostly there for the experience. That and one last extended weekend with the guys.

The whole thing was a pretty big deal. Every author—or aspiring author—at the convention would be jittery, anxious, and burning with anticipation. I was fortunate that I wouldn’t have to play the game of relentless ass-kisser. I only wanted to observe the melee and hope to pick up some tips for future conventions.

After my shower, I got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Marty was already dressed and sporting his bright yellow tennis shoes. I couldn’t remember the last time he had worn a normal pair.

“You know, Marty, this is the age of electronics,” I said, slapping aftershave on my jaw. “Why don’t you upgrade to a laptop? It might help you write faster.”

He shook his head and temporarily plucked out his earbud. “I think too fast. Writing by hand helps my mind slow down.”

“Hmm. I’ll have to remember that.”

Martin didn’t speak much, and I had grown used to his silence. I’d roomed with him for three years, through graduate school, and was able to squeak a few sentences out of him from time to time.

But when he decided to speak, it always took me aback. His low-pitched voice always struck me as odd; it never matched the way I thought he should sound.

“I’m going to get some breakfast downstairs, want to join me?”

He shook his head and dove back into his writing.

I took the elevator down to the lobby, grabbed a coffee and banana, and headed toward the banquet hall where the first of the day’s panels were setting up. Several tables lined the front of the massive room, all adorned with white tapered tablecloths and microphones. Hundreds of padded folding chairs sat in the main area, and people were coming and going from the room. I quickly moved to get out of their way.

I strolled by the next room; this one was smaller and much less busy. Only a few people lingered around, looking a little lost. I instantly recognized Monica from the night before. She smiled, and I regretted making eye contact. All I could think about was Jack’s dumb-as-shit bet, and I shuddered. Monica was sort of cute but definitely not my type.

I gave her a thanks-but-no-thanks head nod and looked for the quickest exit.

Turning abruptly, I slammed into a young woman, spilling coffee all over her blue dress—though to be fair, it wasn’t really a dress; it was more of an awkwardly-wrapped toga.

Her eyes widened and she pulled the dress away from her breasts. “Hot. Hot. HOT!”

“Holy shit! I’m so sorry!” I frantically searched the hallway for something to help clean her off—a napkin, or a sponge. An industrial strength pressure washer, perhaps.

The closest thing I could find was a janitor’s cart a few doors down. She stood helplessly as I recovered a rag and brought it to her.

“Here!” I dabbed at her dress.
Crap. I’m groping her boobs. They’re nice boobs but I shouldn’t be manhandling them. 
I all but threw the towel at her. “Sorry, uh, miss,” I stuttered. If there was an award for dumbassery, I would have won it by now. 

“Lauren,” she snapped, wiping herself. “I’m Lauren.”

I looked up, and then down, and then fixed my eyes on the janitor’s cart again, because I had no idea where to look. Coffee dripped down her cleavage. She dabbed and blotted her long neck down to the divot between her breasts.

I swallowed thickly, staring at her tits. I couldn’t help it. The whole situation was embarrassing and getting more uncomfortable by the second. And I. Was. Still. Staring!

“Great,” she spoke again. “This towel smells like Pine-Sol. And my manuscript is ruined.” She frowned pitifully, holding up the stack of papers in her hand and slapping it against her hip.

“You’re a writer?” I asked, surprised.

She dipped her chin and stared at me like the idiot I was. “Yes, Einstein. Ninety percent of the people in the hotel this weekend are writers. Another five percent are editors, agents, and publishers.” She paused, raising her eyebrows. “The last five percent are perverts.”

“Please,” I offered. “Let me help you get out of that dress.”

Her eyes bugged out again. “Well I know which group you fall into.”

I scrubbed my hands over my face. “No! I didn’t mean—”

“I think she can do that on her own, Romeo,” Monica chimed in, walking up behind me, twisting her curly hair into a bun on the top of her head.

“I didn’t mean. I mean, I… I wasn’t trying to… She, well I… I got her wet.”

“I’m sure you did,” Monica purred, trying not to grin.

Lauren chuckled, covering her mouth with her hand. “You’re great with words,” she laughed. “What’s your name?”

“Michael Rourke.”

“Let me guess, Michael Rourke: you don’t write romance?”

I should’ve just left at that point. I’d made a complete ass of myself and had nothing left to offer the conversation. Lauren was soaked in coffee, and I had pressed my luck lingering in conversation with Monica. But I’d already dug a hole; might as well make myself comfortable.

So I opted for humor.

I lifted my banana to Monica. “Here. Hold my banana.” I waggled my eyebrows and gave the women a suggestively comical leer. “I’m taking Lauren upstairs.”

Both the girls howled with laughter. I grinned like a fool, glad I was able to salvage the situation. Monica shook her head and walked away, leaving Lauren and me alone.

“I really need to change,” she said, staring down at her ruined clothes.

“Come on then,” I said, putting my hand at the small of her back and leading her toward the elevator.

“Which floor?” I asked.

“Six.”

“I’m on six too,” I said, pressing the button.

“I really don’t need your help to get changed. I’ve been dressing myself for a while,” Lauren chuckled, clearly not annoyed by my klutziness any longer, thank God.

“I feel like a total tool. Just let me walk you to your room so that you can change. Then I’m going to find a dry cleaner and pay to have your dressed cleaned. It’s the least I can do.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, considering my offer. I tried not to stare at the way she was pulling the material of her dress away from her chest so it wouldn’t stick to her skin. I licked my lips as I totally
didn’t
stare at the mounds of her breasts peeking out above the collar.

Lauren was right: I was a pervert.

“Sure, okay. If it’ll make you feel better.” Her expression softened slightly before hardening again. “I guess I should call to see if I can use the hotel’s printer again anyway. I doubt anyone is going to take me seriously if I show up with a coffee-stained novel.”

I grimaced but didn’t say anything. My endless apologies were starting to sound like a broken record.

The elevator dinged and she led me to her room, stomping her feet against the floor. It was cute, in a bratty child sort of way. But she had every right to be upset with me; I’d messed up big time.

She swiped her card and entered alone as I stood outside. When she opened the door again, she stuck out her bare arm and the blue dress dangled from her fingers. “Here you go, er…umm… what’s your name again?”

I chuckled. “Mike. Michael Rourke. Where will I find you tonight?” I asked. “I need to get this back to you.”

“I’ll be down in the bar when the last speaker is done, around eight o’clock. I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay. And thanks for being cool about this. Again, I’m so sorry.”

Lauren laughed and shut the door, still speaking from behind it. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, seeming resolved that I meant no harm and that what happened was merely an accident.

I balled the blue dress up into my hand and caught up with Martin just as he was stepping into the elevator.  I chuckled to myself as we stood in silence on our way down.

***

I didn’t see Monica again for the rest of the morning, and wondered if she still had a firm grip on my banana. The thought made me laugh, and the situation distracted me for the majority of the panel.

Lunch break came. The boys and I met up in the lobby and walked across the street. After ordering our sandwiches, we sat down at a small booth with our trays.

“Have any of you seen the professor yet?” Duncan asked.

“I didn’t see him at the panel,” I answered.

“He probably ran into a female fan. You remember those rumors about Jessica Klein during our second year? All true,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow.

“The man is pushing seventy-five, Jack,” Dunc said, and I almost spit out my drink. “You don’t think she’d actually…” He trailed off and we all started thinking the same thing: our wrinkled,
naked
professor doing unmentionable things to a very young, very pretty co-ed.

“That’s what happens when you write a classic, my friends.” Jack gleamed. “All the chicks want to get in your pants.” He tapped his temple. “They’re in love with the mind, not the body.”

“Good thing for you, then,” I retorted. “Your chances of getting laid on your looks alone are pretty slim,” I mocked, and the guys snickered.

Jack cocked his head. “Speaking of…” he oozed, “get a chance to see Monica at all today?”

The guys weren’t awake for the conversation last night, so they stared at us in confusion. “Nah.” I waved my hand. “Not interested.”

Duncan prodded. “Not interested in wha—”

“Nothing.” I cut him off. “It’s stupid.”

“A job with Bolten and Knox is stupid?” Jack asked, picking up a leaf of lettuce and popping it in his mouth.

“What?” Duncan gaped. “What are you talking about?”

I rolled my eyes as Jack relayed his idea to the guys, and I hoped they’d find the idea asinine as well.

No such luck.

“Mike!” Duncan shouted. “Isn’t Bolten and Knox the copywriting position that you applied for? Isn’t it the company in Seattle you were waiting to hear back from?”

“Shhh. Keep your voice down. Yes, they were. But I don’t want to get the job just because Chuckles McGee over here puts in a good word. I do have
some
pride left, you know.”

“Man,” Duncan shook his head, “I’m not sure I’d want to pass up an opportunity like this one. In this industry it’s all about who you know. If you want to get a jumpstart, I’d highly consider taking Jack’s offer,” Dunc responded, while Martin nodded his head in agreement.

“Great. He’s sucked you two in as well.” I glared at Jack. “You’re the devil.”

He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his greasy hair. “Nah, Mike. It’s okay. If you can’t do it, you can’t do it. No shame in admitting when something is too difficult for you.”

I tried to laugh it off, and took another bite of my sandwich, but as Duncan changed the subject and they started chatting, I found myself chewing slowly and contemplating what I should do.

One weekend.

One stupid weekend could mean a lifetime of doing what I love. A job with Bolten and Knox wasn’t exactly where I wanted to end up permanently, but it was a damn fine starting point. All the connections I could make, not to mention the writing experience, could be invaluable. That position was an open door calling me to walk through it. All I had to do was convince this joker that I, Michael Rourke, could live the life of a player.

My conscience would take some convincing that taking Monica to bed for a night was worth feeling like a total asshole for the foreseeable future. That my career was worth it. But what would it mean for my happiness?

I’d slept with random women before, so it wouldn’t be unheard of for me to do it. I’d just never gone into it with such sleazy intentions. But if I tried to remember that this meant opportunities resting in the palm of my hand, I might be able to wash the guilt away with the morning-after shower.