Читать книгу A Perfect Life? - Dawn Atkins - Страница 11

AT EXACTLY FIVE-THIRTY, Claire stepped off the bus and entered the cool dimness and expectant air of Talkers for Game Night. She surveyed the happy-hour crowd of downtown singles, looking for who of the Chickateers was already here. Claire loved this place and this weekly event. Waning sunlight slanted onto the bar and washed over the toned, well-groomed professionals around the room who were flirting, commiserating and dipping wontons in peanut sauce.

She spotted Kitty Knight at the far end of the bar. Kitty being Kitty, she was with a man. She leaned toward him, swinging her wineglass lazily between two fingers, just this side of slutty. If only Claire had Kitty’s flair. Of course, Kitty also had a model’s face, a flamboyant personality and saline implants. Claire had neither of the first two and no interest in the third. But Kitty stirred up a room like no one else and Claire loved trailing in her wake.

Kitty would be philosophical about the Jared fiasco. Men troubles rolled off Kitty’s back like water over bath oil. She called it the Zen of men—Be the man and you’ll get the man.

As Claire got closer, she could see the guy was writing something in his Palm Pilot. Kitty’s number, no doubt. Just before he left, Kitty gave him that flattering once-over that Claire had actually practiced in the mirror once, feeling goofy.

Kitty spotted Claire and slid off her stool for a hug. She smelled of something new—probably a perfume sample from Vogue—she liked to test out the new stuff before she purchased it—and her hug was the usual well-meaning but painful grab.

“Who was that?” Claire asked, tilting her head toward Kitty’s exiting conquest.

“Investment banker with two first names,” Kitty said on a sigh. “Arnold Oliver. New in town. When Rex is over.” Rex was Kitty’s boyfriend du jour, a personal trainer at a health club. Kitty gave Claire an up-and-down. “Oh, my gawd, it’s Career Girl Barbie.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Not for a stripper pretending to be a librarian. Wanna see my Dewey Dec-i-mals?” Kitty said in Marilyn Monroe’s breathy voice.

Claire laughed. “Who died and made you fashion cop?” Guitar Guy, Georgia and now Kitty had taken potshots at her new look.

“What are friends for?” She grinned, which made Claire smile, too. Kitty’s zingers came laced with affection, so Claire never felt wounded. “Zoe’s here,” Kitty said, nodding past her.

Claire turned to watch Zoe Bellows head their way, her waterproof nylon pants hissing as she moved. Zoe zipped herself into the lives of her lovers like a second skin, taking on their hobbies and interests. Her current boyfriend was outdoorsy.

Zoe would be completely empathetic with Claire. She was into Tarot, numerology and breathing. Inhale health…exhale toxins. Unnaturally optimistic, too, but Claire craved her slow, full-body, patchouliscented hugs.

“Hey,” Zoe said to Kitty, hugging her as best she could, since Kitty didn’t have the patience for Zoe’s lengthy embraces. Then Zoe turned to Claire. Just as Claire had hoped, the hug was long and gentle with a deep inhale, slow exhale. Soothing as a hot bath. Tonight, Zoe smelled of mint and banana sunscreen, instead of the usual patchouli.

Of her three friends, Zoe was the most likely to pick up on Claire’s shocked-by-her-vibrator expression, so she ducked away before Zoe could get a good look at her face. Claire wanted the sympathy in one big wave, not three little ones.

“So, you’re still seeing Mountain Man?” Kitty asked Zoe.

“We’re training for a bike trip through Mexico.”

Kitty shuddered. “What a way to ruin a foreign country—crouched over a bicycle, pumping your ass off. Let’s get a booth and wait for Em.” She led them to their usual spot at the back near the small stage where musicians occasionally played. They preferred it because it was quieter here.

“Is it Emily’s game?” Claire asked, sliding onto the cool leather banquette. Zoe nodded. They took turns choosing, matching the game to the chooser’s mood. They’d started with the chess and backgammon in the café’s collection, and then moved to games they brought themselves.

Fifteen minutes later, the three watched Emily Decker push through the door in a chic pantsuit, trailed by her husband Barry, who held two shopping bags by their handles. Emily hustled to the booth, determinedly kissed each woman on the cheek, smelling of her personally blended perfume mixed with expensive car leather, then slid in beside Kitty.

Barry set the shopping bags at his wife’s feet. “I’ll pick you up in three hours,” he said, then gave the rest of the Chickateers a weak smile. He probably saw them as evil witches stirring up trouble over a bubbling brew. After one Game Night discussion, Emily had declared him a flop at oral sex; after another she’d convinced him to propose marriage.

“We were shopping for a valance for the guest bathroom,” Emily explained. “Later, I’ll show you some swatches.” Emily had quit her job at a bank and now devoted herself to fixing up the home in Scottsdale they’d recently bought. To Claire, she seemed bored. The Chickateers already had been forced to admire her choice in kitchen knobs and light-switch plates.

Barry was kind of a schlub, and yet Claire couldn’t help thinking how great it would be to have a man willing to shop for something as mundane as a valance. What heterosexual man even knew what one was? Or cared? Jared, she’d thought. But she’d been wrong about Jared. Completely wrong.

“So what’s the game?” Kitty asked Emily. She filled Emily’s wineglass with the “cunning” pinot noir she’d selected for their first bottle. Kitty always chose the wine.

Emily took an eager sip and held up her glass. The other three joined her in their traditional toast: “All for one and one for all…No sniveling!” Except that’s exactly what Claire would be doing tonight.

Emily reached into one of the shopping bags and lifted out a board game, which she set on the table. “Voilà!”

“‘Life’?” Kitty asked in amazement. “You brought ‘The Game of Life’?”

“Yeah. Isn’t it perfect? It was in a toy-store display window and I couldn’t resist. I loved playing this as a kid. Choosing my career, earning my paycheck, getting married, putting the little pink and blue kids in my car…” She opened the lid as she talked, laid out the board and began to separate the money denominations.

“The Game of Life.” How ironic, since Claire seemed to be losing her own private version. All messed up with love and uncertain at work, with an apartment she could no longer afford. So much for her perfect life. The bright, cheery game board blurred as her eyes filled. Enough with the self-pity, already. She ducked her nose into her wineglass to hide.

“Pick a car color. I’ll be yellow,” Emily said, shuffling the career and income cards.

Kitty grabbed the red car and Zoe said, “Green or blue, Claire?”

Claire couldn’t speak, and a single fat tear plopped onto the table.

“What’s wrong?” Zoe turned to look Claire full in the face.

Claire would be strong about this. She brushed the water from her cheeks and lifted her chin. “A demonstration,” she said. She picked up the green car and inserted a little pink person into it. “Here’s me, right?” Then she took a little blue person. “Jared goes here, right?” She started to put it beside the pink person, then stopped. “No, because he’s already here.” She stuck the blue token into Emily’s yellow car. “Jared’s married.”

“He’s what?” Zoe exclaimed, sucking in a breath.

“No!” Kitty and Emily said, jaws sagging like in a bad comedy sketch. The three friends looked from Claire to each other and back…twice. Their shock made her feel loads better.

“But, I thought Pinkie was moving in with you,” Kitty said. Over one too many Fuzzy Navels, Claire had once mentioned that Jared’s penis was a pinkish color and Kitty had seized on it as a nickname.

“How did you find out?” Emily asked.

“A radio call-in show.”

“No!” all three said at once.

“Oh, yes.” She told them the whole K-BUZ debacle, gratified by their horror and anger on her behalf. “So, Happy V Day to me.” She took a drink of wine.

“Screw Valentine’s Day,” Kitty said. “It’s just a plot by the jewelry industry to soak men for big bucks and make single women feel like roadkill.”

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Emily said. Emily’s advice would be practical and down-to-earth, which Claire valued, even if it came via bulldozer, aka, Emily’s way or the highway.

“I really thought he loved me,” Claire said.

“I’m sure he does love you.” Zoe pulled her into her banana-paba-smelling arms for a quick hug. “He’s just a little…well…mixed-up.”

“Well, duh,” Kitty said.

“Did he explain himself?” Zoe asked.

“His wife and he have grown apart. He didn’t realize it until he met me.”

“And started getting regular blow jobs,” Kitty added.

“Kitty!” Zoe said.

“It’s true. I bet Lindi-with-an-i hasn’t delivered since she got him to say ‘I do.’”

“It’s more than that,” Claire said, though Jared did seem stunned and grateful when she performed that particular act. “Anyway, he says we can work things out.”

“And of course you told him to go piss up a rope,” Emily said.

Claire didn’t answer.

Kitty shook her head and tsked. “I wish you’d help yourself the way you help us.”

Claire felt another tear escape and roll down her cheek.

Zoe hugged her again and they all remained supportively silent while Zoe frantically patted Claire’s back. And patted.

When she felt welts forming, Claire gently extracted herself. She blew her nose on the tissue Emily proffered, forced a watery smile and lifted her wineglass in a toast. “Come on. No sniveling!”

“You just snivel away,” Zoe said. “This is a special occasion. Right, girls?”

The four clinked glasses, then took a solemn drink in Claire’s honor.

“What do you want us to do to Pinkie?” Kitty demanded, her eyes gleaming in the golden light. “Blow his cover with Lindi-with-an-i? Slash his tires? Trash his apartment?”

“Kitty!” Zoe said. Zoe kept trying to tone Kitty down, but they all knew it was no use and loved her for trying anyway. And Kitty for refusing to change.

“It’s the company’s apartment,” Claire said gloomily. “He was going to move in with me on Saturday, remember?”

“So, we graffiti the walls. He’ll be responsible for the damages,” ever-practical Emily said.

“Yeah, baby. That’s the ticket!” Kitty said. “Nobody messes with our crew.” Kitty jutted her chin and thrust out her chest in a seated strut.

Claire felt a stab of satisfaction at the idea—and a rush of gratitude for her friends.

“That would be bad karma,” Zoe said. “Negative energy boomerangs. And besides, maybe he’ll leave his wife.”

“You think so?” Claire asked more hopefully than she felt.

“Forget it,” Kitty said. “Men who cheat want to have their cake and eat it, too.”

“But maybe Jared’s different,” Zoe said.

“They’re all different until they get what they want,” Kitty said to Zoe, then patted Claire’s hand. “Speaking of which, wasn’t Jared splitting the rent on your apartment?”

Claire nodded. “I can’t really afford it without him.”

“Not to worry,” Kitty said. “I’ll move in with you.”

Claire gulped. “But you just moved into that great duplex….”

“I’ve barely opened a few boxes. The landlord’s driving me nuts already—whining about my music and the water bill. Life’s not worth living without a daily parboil and loud tunes. Besides, that place isn’t really me.”

“What about your lease?”

“She’ll let me out of it. Trust me. Deposit and all.”

“But, you’re kind of a night owl, aren’t you?” Claire protested weakly.

“A night owl?” Kitty gave her a steady look, her mouth tight. “Don’t worry. If Thor and I are going to get out the whips and leather we’ll go to his place.”

“You’re seeing a guy named Thor?”

“She doesn’t mean literally, Zoe,” Claire said. “I’m sorry, Kitty.” She knew that under her friend’s hard-candy coating lay a marshmallow center. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Eh, forget it. My moving in will be good for you. I’ll introduce you to some new men and you’ll forget all about Pinkie.”

“But I thought Pinkie—I mean, Jared—was the one.”

“There are lots of ones,” Kitty said. “It’s like a deli where the men take a number and every day we start over with number one. Rex knows some single guys. Don’t worry.”

Soon the four Chickateers were toasting the new roommates, and Claire began to woozily welcome the idea. Kitty would help her be strong. A tiger didn’t change his spots or a rat his whiskers. With Kitty as a reality check, she’d be less vulnerable to Jared’s soap-opera pleas.

When it was time to leave, Barry and Emily dropped Claire at CityScapes. The building that had seemed exciting and full of possibilities the day before now seemed hollow and lonely—and expensive. She trudged up the stairs, rode the elevator in sadness, plodded down her hall to her door…

And found an impossible surprise. Resting in front of her door were a dozen red roses, bright as blood. The typed card said, “To my dearest love. Jared.”

She picked up the roses and pressed her face into their velvety softness and dusky perfume. She was Jared’s dearest love. Her heart warmed…then turned to ice. She might be his dearest love, but she wasn’t his only love. Lindi-with-an-i was going to get her own dozen blood-red roses next week, courtesy of K-BUZ radio. Claire stomped through the apartment, opened the window and tossed the roses out.

An hour later she was plucking the bright blooms from where they’d scattered in the newly planted hedges of her building. They were roses, for God’s sake. Even when your boyfriend turned out to be a rat, you deserved a little beauty, didn’t you? Especially a week before Valentine’s Day. Hugging the flowers to her chest, Claire knew exactly how to think of them: a lovely parting gift.

TRIP OSBORN packed up his guitar, sorry that he’d missed the lively brunette who’d crashed into him yesterday. Her name was Claire, he thought—someone had called to her the first day he’d played on this corner.

She’d caught his eye from the first moment with her forward-leaning stance and bouncy walk. She looked his age, but seemed younger somehow. She was certainly more driven.

He wondered how she was doing today and what she was wearing. Yesterday, she’d marched down the sidewalk in a business suit and punishing shoes, upset as hell. Her brown eyes had been watery, her nose pink and she’d slumped instead of bounced. He’d had the urge to protect her—as if from oncoming traffic.

You’re critiquing my outfit? He smiled to himself, remembering the jab. She had an edge to her. And maybe she was right about the haircut.

He’d get a tip on a good barber from Erik Terrifik, the blues giant he was taking class with. He’d come to Phoenix because of Erik and the visiting philosophy professor whose class he was taking at ASU.

He was sorry he’d missed a morning exchange with Claire, but he’d better head to the neighborhood dive Erik owned. The place didn’t open until later, but he liked the old-smoke-and-stale-beer smell of it. Atmosphere meant a lot in music. And life.

Trip had spent most of the years since high school in the West. He liked the open feeling, the sense of limitless possibilities. Long straight stretches of highway, winding mountain roads. And all the climates he could want, from baking Sonoran desert to high, cool Rockies.

In the smoky dimness of Chez Oui, while he waited for Erik to finish up with the beer delivery guy, Trip found himself thinking about the woman again. Claire. She had pretty eyes. Mink dark with flecks of milk chocolate. Smart eyes. And an expression both vulnerable and sturdy.

That was a lot to notice in a few passing glances and one quick collision, but he was good at reading people. You learned that in foster homes. You quickly figured out what counted, because things always changed, got lost or showed up out of the blue. You learned what to hang on to, what to fight for and what to shrug off, and always to be ready to move on. Lessons he maybe got too young, but good ones all the same.

He didn’t blame his mom too much. Hadn’t really at the time. She’d done her best. She was just…limited. He visited her whenever he blew through Colorado. She always baked him something awful. And he always ate it like it was gourmet.

He picked up the bar phone to sign up with a palm-trimming crew to make enough money for the next couple of months’ rent at the guest house where he was staying. The work was dangerous—climbing hundreds of feet in the air to work with sharp blades—but that was why it paid so well.

Plus, he liked variety. He never stayed long in any place or at any job, choosing both for the opportunity to learn…about people, ideas, music and himself. He liked college towns, so he could take classes from people he admired. Gigs were easy to come by near universities. Gig money paid his tuition. But he was happy to work in restaurants or bars, on yard crews or as a handyman to make his daily wage.

Just as he hung up the phone, Erik slid onto the stool beside him, his guitar in hand. “’Sup?” he breathed in his rumbling bass.

“Not much.” Trip said, smiling at his teacher.

“You’re wearin’ that look.” Erik winked at him.

“Yeah?” Trip opened his guitar case and removed his baby.

“Yeah. The look of a cat after a big slurp of cream.”

Trip chuckled. Erik was smart and wily, and the best guitarist he’d had the privilege to know.

“It’s a girl, am I right?” Erik said, fingering his strings.

And he was intuitive. “Could be.” Trip plucked through a tune-up.

“So tell me about her.”

“She’s pretty. Nice eyes. Brown.” He sighed.

“Uh-huh.” Erik began to play Van Morrison’s classic “Brown-Eyed Girl.” “I ain’t heard ya talk about a woman since you been in town.”

Trip shrugged, then started up a harmony line to the tune. “I like spending time on my own.”

“My ass. You’re jus’ too lazy to call any of ’em.”

Trip shrugged again. There had been women who let him know they were interested, but none had caught his eye. Except this Claire. Maybe because she was different than the women he usually spent time with. Which made her off-limits completely, of course. He moved into the chords he’d been learning from Erik, who’d stopped playing to muse a while.

“Women love musicians,” he said. “I was always gettin’ busy in the old days. But once I moved out here, Sara got her hooks in me….You want to make that a minor seventh.”

“Right,” Trip said, adjusting his fingering.

“You probably think you’ll never want to stick to a place, but there’s a good side to it. A steadiness.”

“I like variety.”

“Watch that chord. Keep the arch and it’ll flow easier.”

“Yeah. Got it….”

“There’s a joy in learning all one woman’s tricks.”

Trip didn’t reply.

“I’ve got a gig on Tuesday if you want,” Erik said.

“Sounds good.” He reached for the new chord. And got it. He loved that feeling. Music was the best companion.

Erik gave him the details about where and when they’d be playing. “I could keep you busy if you’d stay around. You going after this brown-eyed girl?”

“Too much trouble.”

“But that’s the best kind of woman,” Erik said, cackling. “The ones that are trouble.”

“I don’t think so.” Trip didn’t like disappointing people. He’d stayed some months in Denver for a woman, but she started getting on him about the future and his plans, and he’d itched to be on the road. It was always easier to think, to learn, to be himself when he kept moving.

She’d reminded him of Nancy, the girl he’d been with during that mess with his final foster home. He’d fallen hard and when she broke it off, he’d been wrecked. But she’d pointed out what he needed to know about himself and he’d never forgotten.

“So you say,” Erik said, nodding and smiling his wise Buddha smile. He strummed something so complex that Trip had to work to follow it. Good. He’d rather focus on music than women any day.

“SO, I GUESS YOU GET the master bedroom,” Kitty said to Claire Friday afternoon as they stood in the narrow hall of Claire’s apartment. When she’d said Kitty could move in, it had never occurred to Claire that her own bedroom might be up for grabs.

They’d agreed today was a good day for the move, since Rex had the day off and could muscle her stuff upstairs.

Barely moved into the duplex, Kitty hadn’t had much to pack. She’d boxed up her kitchen and bedroom stuff, emptied her closets and rented a truck yesterday. Kitty moved fast when she wanted something. She and Rex had loaded the truck last night and now, Rex was dutifully trotting Kitty’s bed frame through the front door.

“I guess you could pay less rent for the smaller bedroom,” Claire offered.

“No, no,” Kitty said, tapping a French-cut fingernail on her lip, wearing her real-estate-deal look. “Having the bigger bedroom will be like a finder’s fee. You found the place, after all, and paid the deposits.”

She gave her an abrupt, bruising hug. “I’m sooo glad we’re doing this. We’ll have so much fun. We can do each other’s makeup, drink wine and dissect men all night.”

“Sure,” Claire said, trying to look on the bright side of the situation. Kitty wouldn’t let her mope about Jared, that was certain. Plus, a pint of ChocoCherry Rumba Swirl shared seemed way less sinful than one shoveled in alone.

“It’ll be just like college,” Kitty added.

“Uh, yeah.” God, she hoped not. Claire had spent many an evening studying in the library so she didn’t have to listen to Kitty’s headboard thump against the other side of the living room wall. At least the apartment walls here were thick.

“That room,” Kitty said to Rex the Robust, directing him to what they’d agreed would be her bedroom. The two women followed him inside to watch as he bolted the bed frame together. Just watching his muscles ripple from butt to ankle gave Claire thoughts.

“Gonna be tight,” Kitty said.

“Huh?” Claire startled from her fantasy.

“The bed,” Kitty added.

“Oh. Yeah. The bed.” The frame did nearly cover the floor.

“Big bed,” Rex said, rising to stand between them, his face red from exertion.

“All the better to amuse you with,” Kitty said to him, scraping a finger through the stubble on his jaw.

“Really?” Rex said, catching Kitty’s hint. “Great! I’ll get the mattress.” He barreled down the hall, like a kid who’d abruptly gotten permission to buy a video game.

“He’s completely tireless in bed,” Kitty said to Claire. “Like a machine. All muscle, all the time.”

“Sounds nice.” Simple and satisfying.

“Oh, it is. And don’t worry. He has a friend—Dave, from the gym—who will be perfect for you.”

“It’s too soon to date, Kitty. I’m not over Jared.”

“This isn’t a date, Claire. This is getting laid. Bodily function…healthy release.” Her words slowed at the end because Rex had come in with the mattress across his back, looking like Atlas holding the world. All muscle…all the time. Hmm.

“I’ve got to get ready for work,” Claire said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I think I’ve got everything I need right here,” Kitty said, not taking her eyes off Rex.

In the shower, Claire wondered why she couldn’t think of sex as easy breezy as Kitty did. Why did she have to pick at it like a scab? What does it mean? Where is it going? Will we get serious? Is he the one? Why did she have to want it to be perfect?

Because when it went bad, it went very, very bad. Her mother hadn’t been the same after Claire’s dad left her for his secretary when Claire was sixteen.

Maybe that was why it was so hard for her to decide about men—she didn’t want to make a mistake. She’d thought her parents were perfect and look what had happened. Plus, she could always see both sides of a situation. Each parent blamed the other for the break up—and the bad match they’d made in the first place—and wanted Claire to side with them. She’d somehow managed to keep them both happy.

Kitty was right about sex, though. Claire should think of it as a healthy release, like jogging or doing aerobics or taking a yoga class. Exercise was good for all your muscles, right? She would at least try Kitty’s idea. Maybe with this Dave guy.

The idea sounded empty now, but after a few days of celibacy, she was sure it would appeal. She should put in some time with the Thigh Buster, just in case. A weightlifter would be fussy about the legs he tangled with.

So, she was moving forward, making decisions, being clear. Good girl, she told herself, drying off. She’d forget about Jared, get casual about sex and serious about work.

In the closet, she faced another dressing quandary. That made her think of Guitar Guy calling her outfit a getup and she smiled. What should she wear? Forget the trying-too-hard suit. How about professional separates? A plaid skirt with a navy blazer. Conservative, but not so coffee-tea-or-me.

For shoes, she needed those damned navy heels again. She slapped a couple of adhesive patches over Wednesday’s still-angry blisters—she wouldn’t let a minor injury slow her down—and headed for the kitchen.

One good thing about having Kitty as a roommate was that she added cool stuff to the kitchen—a combo coffee-espresso maker, an industrial-grade blender and gourmet food. Claire scooped a spoonful of paté out of a plastic tub Kitty had plopped into the refrigerator and ate it. Mmm. Expensive protein. She’d read somewhere that protein eased depression. Or maybe that was only turkey, not duck liver. Duck liver probably depressed you because you realized you could never afford it on your salary…sigh.

On her way out the door, Claire paused to survey the living room. Even as her heart had emptied out, her apartment was filling up. Rex had placed Kitty’s zebra-striped sofa where Jared’s commitment futon had been slated to go. And beside it was a leopard-spotted chaise with pillows shaped like lips and a glass coffee table on a black lacquer base. Propped against the wall were a couple of paintings of abstract nudes from a former lover of Kitty’s. The place was beginning to look like a singles pad. Not exactly Claire’s style, but fun. Definitely fun.

She called a farewell to Kitty, who probably had her mouth too busy to reply, and hurried outside, pleased to see the bus hadn’t arrived. Standing beside the bus bench, she shifted her weight from foot to foot, blisters throbbing slightly through the bandages, looking down Central.

“You were right.”

The liquid voice came from behind her. She turned to see Guitar Guy, wearing jeans, a snug black T-shirt and his guitar. He looked better than the other day, and when he brushed back a strand of hair, she realized it was shorter.

“You got a haircut,” she said.

“Yeah. I took your advice.” He gave her a crooked smile, then tilted his head, indicating her body. “But you didn’t take mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“The nuns make you dress like that?”

She looked down at her skirt. God. He was right. The blazer and plaid skirt did seem like a Catholic school uniform. She shrugged. “All my idea, sorry to say. Maybe I should go change….”She bit her lip.

“Don’t ever change,” he said in mock seriousness.

She laughed. “You’re just full of advice, huh?”

“That’s why I get the big bucks.”

“You’d probably make more money in Scottsdale. Lots of tourists.”

“Too snooty. I like downtown people.”

“Really?” Did he mean her?

As if in answer, he launched into the Billy Joel classic, “Just the Way You Are,” a song about not changing to please him.

He was flirting with her. She grinned. Except maybe he just wanted her to tip him. But if he was flirting, a tip might insult him. Her instincts said he liked her, but where had her instincts gotten her so far? In love with a married schmuck.

The bus arrived, saving her a decision, and she climbed the steps. While the driver looked at her pass, she glanced out the door. Guitar Guy saluted her as the bus doors shut. He liked her. And his voice stayed in her head all the way to the office.

Inside B&V, Georgia and Mimi stood at the receptionist desk. “So let him think you’re a lesbian,” Georgia was saying. “Men love lesbians. They want to convert you. Plus, they think they have to be re-e-ally good at oral sex.”

Mimi looked unconvinced. They both looked up at Claire.

“Well, lookie here,” Georgia said, leaning over the reception counter. “Muffy’s stopped in on the way to her tennis match.”

“Oh, for cripe’s sake,” Claire said. “I give up.” Catholic school or prep school—either way it was a bust. Despite what Guitar Guy had said, she should have changed clothes.

“Mr. Tires called again. He thinks the radial in the ad looks like a glazed doughnut.”

“Great.” The man spent no money on his tiny newspaper ads, but he wanted new creative every week. Small flippin’ potatoes. She saw that Mimi held a folder with Ryan Ames’s name on it.

“I’ll take that to him,” she said, tugging it from Mimi’s fingers. She needed to schedule their first mentor meeting anyway—her first step up the career ladder.

At Ryan’s office, she saw through his glass door he was reading the paper. She tapped. He frowned at the interruption, but when he saw it was her, smiled.

“Hi,” she said, entering. She handed him the folder.

“Thanks.” He smiled again. A big smile. A too-big smile. A definite man-woman smile. “So, how’s my mentee doing so far?”

“Just great.” Well, except for that broken heart, ruined life thing. “I was hoping we could get started on some strategy for me,” she said. “Maybe over lunch. I’ll buy.” Paying for lunch was a power move, she’d read.

“You’ll buy, huh?” Isn’t that cute? his smile said. “For now, why don’t you have a seat and we can get to know each other better.” He patted the chair kitty-corner to his desk, tugging it closer to him.

Oh, ish. Claire sat delicately on the edge of the chair, then pushed it back a couple feet.

“You settled?” he said, resting his hand on her arm as if to steady her. Gross. The man was hitting on her.

“I’m fine.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” Ryan said, leaning forward.

She pushed back a bit farther. “There’s not much to tell except I want to get ahead here.” She would make sure he knew she wasn’t interested in putting in any couch time to get there. “I want to prove myself through my work, of course. On my own merit. But I hope you can advise me where to concentrate my efforts. My work efforts.” That couldn’t be more clear.

“Sure, sure,” he said, smiling. “We can talk all about that over lunch. How do you stay in such good shape?”

“How do I…?” Blech, puke, retch. She had to nip this in the bud. “Tae Kwan Do,” she blurted. “Black belt, with a specialty in self-defense.”

“Oh, really?” Ryan’s brow lifted in surprise.

“Absolutely. I can make a guy walk lopsided for the rest of his life.”

“Well. That’s impressive. I guess I know who to take with me when I cross a dark parking lot at night.” He seemed to find her amusing, not life-threatening.

“So, how about we start with your top ten tips at lunch?” she said.

“Sure. Sounds good,” he said, smiling. “But I’ve got the first tip for you right now?”

“Really? What is it?” This was a good sign.

“Quit dressing weird. You look like a hooker dressed as a schoolgirl.”

“Check,” she said, pretending to make a mark on a pad. Yet another fashion expert had weighed in on her style statement. “So, I’ll meet you out front at noon for lunch and more tips?”

“Sounds good,” he said, his words tinged with man-woman energy, despite her hint that she could cripple him. Why did everything have to be more complicated than it seemed?