Four Play: A Collection of Novellas (26 page)

That’s all I needed: I didn’t
always
have to be the nice guy. I could be the schmuck. I think.

Okay.

Sold.

The damsel in distress caught in a rainstorm.

The majority of the afternoon was spent following Duncan, Martin, and Jack around the hotel, cringing at the lack of creativity and unsettled nerves that Duncan displayed with his pitches, and how forced and unpracticed the words were as they flew from Martin’s mouth. Both these guys had finished manuscripts; both books had already seen content editors, professors, and proofreaders. But it was obvious by their weak presentations that these boys had never done this before.

Jack disappeared for an hour or two, leaving me to watch them on my own. Not that it surprised me, but I thought it was kind of shitty of Jack to abandon his friends when he claimed he’d done this before. I had absolutely no words of advice for them.

But by the end of the day, Dunc and Marty had slid into their grooves. With business cards shoved in their pockets, and satchels filled with publishing materials and brochures, the three of us headed to the lobby for a drink.

“Mr. Rourke?” The front desk clerk stopped me on my way through, and the guys signaled that they were headed to the bar.

I nodded and turned toward the counter. “Yes?”

“I have your dry cleaning ready. They dropped it off about an hour ago, but you didn’t answer your phone.”

“Right.” I rubbed my forehead, waving to the guys to go ahead without me as they walked into the bar. “Sorry, I was at the convention. How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, we’ve already charged it to your room. Would you like us to keep the item in back until you need it?”

“Um…”

I debated whether or not this was one of those fated signs. A nudge from destiny. If I was going to proceed with Jack’s bet, I’d have to move quickly. It was already Friday night, and my flight would leave on Sunday morning.

But I’d never done this sort of thing before—deliberately playing the cad, seducing women into bed with practiced ease. There was nothing about me that I’d ever considered smooth. In fact, most of my love life consisted of apologizing to women over fumbled words, awkward silences, missed opportunities, and now added to the list: spilled coffee.

“Sir?” the receptionist prompted.

I shook my head. “Sorry. No, I’ll take it now.” Time was my enemy. I needed to get the dress to her before our evening began. This was an opportunity I shouldn’t pass up. I couldn’t wait until I saw them later that night.

The clerk walked to the back while I summoned the courage I needed to hand-deliver the blue dress to Lauren and Monica’s room. My stomach tumbled and my heartbeat quickened.

I took the elevator up to the sixth floor and fled to my room. After combing back my hair, changing into a pair of comfortable jeans and tighter-than-I-was-used-to T-shirt and brushing my teeth, I grabbed my coat and walked to the other end of the hall.

My nerves were getting the better of me, and my hand shook when I brought it to their door. At the last second I stopped myself from knocking and decided to give myself an internal pep talk.

You’re smooth.

You’re sexy.

You’re Rico Suave. Rico Suave? Nice reference, dickhead. Wait, isn’t he gay? No. No, I think that’s Ricky Martin. No, Ricky Martin can’t be gay. Those were just rumors. Doesn’t he dance with chicks in his videos? And hasn’t it been a decade since he released an album?

Is he even cool anymore?

Wait a minute, why am I arguing with myself about the sexual orientation and latest releases of a one-hit wonder 90s pop culture icon?

I shook my head and stretched my arms from side to side, crossing them over my chest. Then I cracked my neck and felt two vertebrae pop. Letting out a deep breath, I knocked twice.

Monica swung open the door, and her eyes traveled from my hair to my groin and then down to my shoes. A hunger lingered between us as she licked her lips, and she brushed her hair behind her shoulder. “Hey,” she said.

“H…hey there.” My voice caught in my throat halfway through. My nerves resurfaced and my obvious stutter gave it away.

She leaned against the doorframe and tilted her head. “I hope you aren’t here for your banana, because I swallowed it this morning.”

Whole? That couldn’t have been comfortable. Should I ask her if she choked on it?

Think about that for one damn second, moron. “Hey, Monica. Did you choke on my banana?”

No, asshole. She’s trying to be sexy. Run with it.

I cleared my throat, at a loss for words.

Dammit, think! You’re not Michael Rourke right now. You’re some other famous not-so-Ricky-Martin kind of guy. You’re sexy and hip and women dig you.

You’re Superman.

Well, without the Clark Kent side.

Now go get this girl, asshat!

“I…uh—” I started.

“Who’s there, Monica?” a voice chirped from behind her.

“It’s magic-hands Michael. The guy from this morning,” Monica quipped.

Lauren’s innocent giggle rang in the background, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh! Did he bring my dress? I want to wear it to the bar tonight!”

“You two are going to the bar in the lobby, right?” I asked.

Monica nodded and took the plastic bag from my hand. “We are. Will you be there?”

“For a while.” I let my eyes rake over her body and I shoved my thumbs into my belt loops—not knowing whether shoving my thumbs in my belt loops made me look lame like
Wham!
or if it made me look cool.

“Hey, Michael. You didn’t need to bring my…” Lauren came into view, opening the door farther. She wore a sundress with orange flowers on it, and a wide smile. But the moment she saw me, she stopped speaking and a blush rose to her cheeks.

“I wanted to make sure you got it,” I said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d run into you at the bar.” I raised an eyebrow and glanced at Monica, who bit her lip.

Lauren’s body language shifted and her smile faded. “Oh,” she said, disappointedly. Clearing her throat, she fiddled with a hairbrush in her hand. “No problem. Thanks.” She took the dry cleaning and walked slowly back into the room. The sway in her hips was hard not to notice, and her long, wet hair swished over her slender back.

Monica caught me staring, and not so subtly cleared her throat. I snapped out of it and gave her my full attention again.

Because Lauren wasn’t going to get me the Seattle job. Monica was.

I cleared my throat and nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you at the bar?”

Monica smirked, biting her lip.

Turning, I gave her one last look and strutted down the hallway like I owned it.

Then I tripped. I fell forward and had to brace myself against the wall so I wouldn’t fall face first on the floor.

Awesome, Mike. Way to work that swagger.

With my face flaming red in embarrassment I turned back, hoping and praying Monica didn’t just witness my monumental humiliation.

And the universe officially hates me.

Of course she was still standing there in the doorway watching me. She lifted her fingers and wiggled them in a wave and I awkwardly waved back, discreetly rubbing my elbow, which had slammed against the wall in my failed attempt at coolness.

The façade was going to be a lot harder to keep up than I’d thought.

***

I needed a game plan. If I was going to get a woman like Monica into my bed, I would need to figure out what kind of man she wanted.

From the way she’d gawked at me upstairs, I’d say she’d already considered my sexual potential. I just hoped my personality wouldn’t be a letdown. Then again, I didn’t know how much of my
personality
she was hoping to get to know. That was exactly why I needed to be someone else for the weekend.

There was no way I’d be charming enough just by being me.

I had to think. If I was building a character in a story, who would Monica choose to fall for? The Knight: chivalrous, undaunted, and rough around the edges? What about the Detective: brainy, inconspicuous, observant? Maybe she wanted the Scorned Billionaire: a man who cared about his business and his money, but used women like two-cent whores on Bourbon Street.

Who was I kidding? I’d never been to New Orleans.

I’d never been anywhere.

Whatever Monica wanted, I had to think of something quickly, because she and Lauren would be on their way to the bar any minute.

“What are you thinking about, Mike?” Duncan asked, ordering another round from the bartender.

“Nothing.” I sighed. “That’s a lie. Let’s say I decided to go through with Jack’s bet,” I said quietly, with my knee bouncing under the table. “What am I supposed to say to her?”

Duncan laughed. “You’re asking us?” He raised an eyebrow. “We couldn’t get laid in a brothel.” He laughed at his own words. “Not that I’m looking to get laid,” he backtracked, gesturing the sign of the cross over his chest.

Martin removed one earbud and stopped his scribbling momentarily to listen in on our conversation.

“If I knew what hot chicks wanted, I would’ve become
that guy
a long time ago. I don’t know what I was thinking taking this bet,” I said, irritated.

“You can always back out. Why bother giving Jack the satisfaction of seeing you make an ass of yourself? I’d say screw it before it goes any further,” Duncan suggested.

The blond server walked over with a tray carrying two drinks for the three of us. Trying to go unnoticed, Martin slyly leaned to the side to check out her ass.

“So I won’t do it, then. I’ll wave goodbye to any chances I have with one of the most prestigious copywriting firms on the West Coast because I don’t have the nutsack to pull off a one-night stand with a beautiful woman.”

Duncan nodded at the server, and Marty slipped her a twenty dollar bill. With a wink, he said, “Keep the change.”

Dunc took a double-take at Marty’s broken silence, and then focused on our conversation again. “Why do you suppose Jack made the bet to begin with?”

“It was stupid,” I said. “He was being arrogant, and I decided to call him out on it. He told me that if I was a good writer, I’d be able to become any character I needed to. Getting Monica in the sack would decide whether I succeeded or not. It’s stupid. And messed up. I can’t believe I’m even contemplating this,” I groaned.

“So he made this offer to you because he thinks he’s a better writer than you?” Dunc raised his eyebrows in question.

I huffed. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he
thinks
.”

He leaned in close, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the music. “
Is
he better than you?”

“I don’t see how me acting like a gigolo is going to prove that I’m a better writer,” I replied.

“Oh, come on, Mike. You know better than that. Since when did you become so freaking gullible? Jack isn’t doing this to prove that he’s better. He’s doing it to prove that you
can’t
do it. And to make you look like a dickhead in the process.”

“Fuck that. He’s a sleaze. All of us see it. He can believe anything he wants, but the bottom line is that if I get this job, we’ll both be on the bottom of the Bolten and Knox totem pole, and he knows it. We’ll be the bottom-feeders of the corporate food chain.”

Dunc leaned back in his chair. “But it sure would be nice walking in every morning knowing that you undeniably beat him at
something
, wouldn’t it?”

“Hello, boys,” Monica said, pulling out a chair at the table parallel to ours. Her red skirt was short—so short that I was pretty sure I got a glimpse of ass cheek as she sat down. She slowly uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs.

And nope, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Duncan gave a pathetic wave, and Martin stuck his earphones back into both of his ears.

“Monica.” I nodded. “Lauren.” I took a double-take at Lauren and found myself more intrigued by the barest glimpse of cleavage I got as she sat down than I was by Monica going commando.

Monica peered sideways, and Lauren gave us a half-smile. “Where’s what’s-his-face, your friend from last night?” Monica asked, opening a menu.

“Haven’t seen him for a few hours. He’s M.I.A.,” Dunc said, trying to sound smooth but failing miserably. “Have you met my friend Mike? He’s an awesome guy. Talented, outspoken, gets chicks
all
the time.”

I slouched, covering my eyes and shaking my head. “Jesus,” I mumbled.

Marty’s body shook as he tried to conceal his laughter. It confirmed what I’d suspected for quite some time: he only wore his earbuds so that people wouldn’t speak to him, when in reality he was listening to every word around him. Sly little shit.

“Does he now?” Monica giggled. She swept her curly dark red hair behind her shoulder and looked down at the menu.