Читать книгу The Perfect Score - Julie Kenner - Страница 7

“EIGHTEEN PERCENT!” I could hear my voice echoing through the cinderblock-walled laundry room. “Eighteen percent is for nuns and small children. Eighteen percent is not for twenty-seven-year-old single girls living in Los Angeles.”

Carla yanked open the dryer and started scooping her pinkish whites into her laundry basket. An hour ago, her whites had actually been white, but with Carla, these things tended to happen. “I still can’t believe you’re so upset just because you got a crappy score on some Internet Slut Test.” She flashed me a look designed to underscore just how much she didn’t believe I’d do something so foolish. Ridiculous, really, given that Carla had known me since kindergarten. I was Mattie Brown and she was Carla Browning, which meant that fate had pretty much destined that we’d sit beside each other in every class until graduation. Being relatively pragmatic, we figured we could either be best friends or vile enemies. We’d opted for the friend route. At the time, it had seemed the more prudent option.

Today, Carla was probably having second thoughts, a supposition that quickly proved true when she pulled out a pale pink bra and shook it at me. “You’re as bad as you were in high school, only now you don’t have Angie dogging your heels.”

Angie is my stepsister, although the “step” part has never really been part of the equation for either one of us. We were both three when our parents married, and she’s my sister, for good, bad or indifferent. And since we’re separated by a mere four months (she’s the eldest), we grew up sharing each other’s clothes, coveting each other’s boyfriends and busting tail to outdo each other academically, socially and every other way. I love her, but I’ve never stopped trying to beat her. And—damn the woman—the truth is that she usually beat me. In everything from boyfriends to grade point average. (In the latter, she edged by me with one grade point, taking the lead in our very last semester of high school, and wresting the valedictorian slot away from me. Not that I’m bitter or anything…)

I took a breath and tried to stop scowling. “I’m not trying to be the slut valedictorian. For that matter, it’s not even really about the test. I mean, another test said my perfect job would be analyzing actuarial tables, and how ewww is that?”

“Very,” she agreed, and we both paused for a moment, reveling in the mathematical horror. “But if it wasn’t the test, then what?”

I shrugged. “The realization that came with it, I guess.” I paused for emphasis, then spit out the horrible truth. “My sex life is boring.”

Carla’s perfectly plucked brows rose infinitesimally. “I thought you didn’t have a sex life?”

So much for slipping one past Carla. “Fine. You win. My sex life was boring. Back when I was with Dex, it was duller than dirt. And now that I’m single again, it’s not boring. It’s nonexistent.” Dex had dumped me about four months ago, a little fact that had pretty much blown me out of the water. We’d been together two years, and I expected we’d stay together, ending up with a marriage and two-point-five kids and a dog.

Yes, our sex life—and the rest of our relationship if you want to get right down to it—had been spiraling downward, but we were comfortable. Or, at least I’d thought we were.

But my dirty little secret? Even though I was blindsided by the breakup, I wasn’t all that disappointed. What I was, was angry. I should have been the dumper, not the dumpee. As it was, I’d completely lost face. With myself, even if with no one else.

With a dramatic sigh, I hefted an armful of white cotton undies out of my dryer, then frowned at the laundry basket, wishing it were filled with shocking bits of red satin and black lace. Underwear with a raison d’être more provocative than simply keeping my private parts hidden in the event of a catastrophic highway accident. Like every other normal mother on the planet, my high-powered attorney mom’s list of constant worries placed clean underwear higher than poverty, nuclear war or starving children in China.

Too bad for me, Mom had taught me well. There wasn’t a frivolous panty in the bunch. No satin, no lace, nothing even remotely Frederick’s of Hollywood about my unmentionables. Not even Victoria’s Secret. We’re talking K-Mart all the way.

No wonder I wasn’t a slut.

I sighed dramatically and leaned against the detergent dispenser. “My sex life is boring. My clothes are boring. My life is boring.”

Carla frowned at another light pink shirt, then waved the hideous thing in my direction. “Want a pink tee?”

What I wanted was to strangle her. Here I was having a relatively dramatic personal crisis and she was ruining her laundry. “Have you even heard a word I’ve said?”

This time, she really did give me her attention, and frankly, considering her scowl, I wasn’t certain I wanted it. “Look, Mattie—”

“I mean it. I’m going to do it. By this time next year, I’m blowing the roof off that stupid test.”

This time, she raised only a single eyebrow, a trick I envied mightily.

“I’m serious. That’s my New Year’s resolution.”

“There’s an entire universe of possibilities out there, and you’re wasting a perfectly good resolution on acing a sex test?”

“You want to say that a little louder? I’m not sure they heard you by the pool.” I poked my head out the open laundry-room door, scanning for eavesdroppers. Katy Simmons, the retired actress who lived below me, was sunning on a lounge chair. The new tenant—Mike Something-or-other—was a bit closer. A genuinely nice guy, he was also the apartment complex’s resident nerd, complete with wire-framed glasses and a job that had something to do with computers.

As I watched, I could see him settle himself in one of the incredibly uncomfortable metal chairs, kick his feet up onto a tabletop, and take a swig of beer. I took a breath, surprised that my nerdish neighbor had a mighty fine body, lean and firm like a swimmer.

“Mike!” Carla half yelled. “Oh, Mikey! Mattie needs a boyfriend!”

“Carla!” I grabbed the knob and slammed the door shut. “Are you insane? What if he heard?”

“So what if he did? He’s cute.”

I scowled, because he was cute. He was nice, too. I’d helped him carry boxes up from his U-Haul, and he’d happily shared his pizza with me a week ago. But Dex had been cute and nice, too. Cute and nice didn’t cut it anymore. Cute and nice conjured the dreaded R word, and I wasn’t anywhere near ready to get back on that relationship hamster wheel. “I’m not looking for cute. Cute is for bunny rabbits. Not boy toys.”

Another lift of that eyebrow of hers.

I sighed and tried to look put-upon. “You just don’t understand. You’re getting laid on a regular basis.”

“So were you until you dumped Dex.”

I shook my head vehemently, my ponytail whipping around to slap me in the face. “Oh, no, no, no my friend. I was only having sorta-sex.”

She flashed me a skeptical look as she shook the wrinkles out of a pair of greyish-pink sweatpants. “I’m going to regret asking, but what is sorta-sex?”

“You know. Fridays only. Me on my back. After Law & Order, but before Biography. Routine all the way. Nothing spontaneous. Nothing romantic. I could put Tollhouse cookies in before we went at it and not have to worry that they’d burn.”

“Oh. Well.” She busied herself with neatly folding her now-ruined laundry, while I silently cheered myself for having a sex life so truly pathetic that I’d rendered Carla speechless. Scary, I know, but I take my victories where I find them.

“Well,” she said again, and I felt my victory slipping away. True, I wanted her help. I just couldn’t handle her pity. “That’s not so bad,” she finally said, in a you’re-bankrupt-and-your-dog-died-but-it’ll-be-okay kind of voice. “I mean, it was still sex, right?”

This from the woman whose boyfriend just might be a superhero named Erection-Man. Mitch would come over after work, see her puttering in her kitchen wearing a ratty T-shirt and gym socks, and get so turned-on he’d bend her over the table and have his way with her. “We live in different universes, Carla,” I said.

To her credit, she looked a little sheepish. It wasn’t as though she didn’t realize how fabulous her sex life was. But then, Carla’s one of those beautiful people. Perfect face, perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect job. No lumps, no bumps, not even a tiny acne scar. Smart, too. The kind of woman you’d want to kill if she weren’t so darn nice.

“Have you put any thought into when you’re going to do the legwork necessary to reach this nirvana of sexual prowess?”

I made a face. Mostly because Carla was being typically Carla and reverting to what I call her adult-speak voice—which is what she does whenever she thinks anyone is acting like an idiot. But also because, frankly, I hadn’t put any thought into my newly announced resolution.

“That’s what I thought,” Carla said, making me scowl even more. “I mean, come on, Mattie. You’ve been working like a fiend for months. This is your first weekend off in forever.”

That was true enough. I work at John Layman Productions, and if the company sounds familiar, then you’re probably one of those people who watches really bad reality programming about celebrities that no one cares about anymore. Not that I’m criticizing my boss’s chosen field or anything (ahem). I mean, it pays the bills. But, honestly, does anyone really care about kids who were celebrities when they were six, then fell off the map during the last two decades? And if somebody does care enough to tune in every night at eleven, then, you know, maybe that person just needs to get a life.

All JLP programs have excellent ratings, though. So either I’m wrong, or there are a whole lot of people out there with no life whatsoever.

In fact, there are so many people out there tuning in that JLP is adding five new shows to our already overstuffed production schedule. And that, as Carla pointed out, is keeping me tethered to the office and, late in the evening, to my home computer. In fact, the only reason I have this weekend off is because the company’s computer network crashed. Since John’s currently following some stick-thin, party girl celebrity around Rio, he actually shut work down for a long weekend while the computer gurus do their thing. Amazing, but true. (Although he did instruct our furniture supplier to deliver a bookshelf and lateral filing cabinet to my apartment so that I can, in the words of my boss, “work even more efficiently on evenings and weekends.” Yeah, love you too, John. At the moment, four very large, very heavy boxes are sitting in my living room, waiting for me to suck it up and begin assembling my home office suite.

Carla also works in television. Her boss, however, is Timothy Pierpont, the Emmy- and Oscar-winning producer who’s giving Bruckheimer and Bochco a run for their money with his original, provocative programming. What did I tell you? Carla, perfect. Me, perfectly wretched.

As I pondered my wretchedness, I noticed that Carla was tapping her chin with her index finger, a sure sign that she was deep in thought.

“What?” I demanded.

“I’m just thinking that maybe your schedule can work to your benefit,” she said.

“Explain, please.”

“If you have no free time, then no one will get the impression it’s about commitment. It must be a fling, because who has time for anything else?”

“Right,” I said, drawing out the word as I tried to anticipate where she was going.

Carla, however, sped up, her voice channeling my earlier enthusiasm. “You should go for it. Definitely. Get out there and have a wild time.” She leaned back, her arms crossed over her chest and a smug smile brightening her face. “And I know just how you should start.”

I narrowed my eyes, smelling a trick. “How?”

“Cullen Slater.” She spoke the name like an incantation, then waited for me to react. She didn’t have long to wait.

“Have you gone mental?” Dark and dangerous, Slater was a very gainfully employed male model who alternated between a Ferrari and a Harley, sported a perfect five o’clock shadow no matter the time of day, and tended to date women whose clothes consisted of colorful adhesive strips. Well, date may give the wrong impression since I never saw any of his women more than once. But our apartments shared a common wall, and I can say with absolute certainty that none of his women left Slater’s apartment unsatisfied. Or well rested.

Cullen Slater is the reason I started sleeping with earplugs. Considering my newly announced resolution, I should probably trash the earplugs and buy a vibrator.

Carla’s coral-pink lips curved in smug satisfaction. “You’ve seen the kind of girls he’s always dragging up the stairs at three in the morning.”

“Slater is a god among men,” I said. “And I have seen those women. There’s no way he’d be interested in me.”

Carla lifted one shoulder in a dainty gesture. “Don’t sell yourself short, Mat. He’s gorgeous, yes, but you’re not too shabby. And you’re brilliant and articulate and what guy wouldn’t want you?”

I let that one hang, because in my experience with guys like Cullen—as in, guys whose talents run more toward the camera than the cognitive—brilliant and articulate weren’t that much of an asset. Come to think of it, those two traits weren’t exactly a selling point to any man, IQ notwithstanding. Breasts, I think, were the common denominator among men. And on that score, I was definitely only average.

Carla, however, was on a roll. “And he always asks you to bring in his mail when he’s out of town,” she pointed out, “so we already know that he trusts you. He must like you, too. And if you can get Slater in your bed, you’ll know you’ve reached some sort of slut nirvana.”

My stomach did one of those dropping-off-a-cliff numbers.

Slater.

I took a deep breath, felt beads of sweat form on my forehead, and silently agreed that Cullen Slater was an idea worth pondering. Not to mention a goal worth reaching.

Cullen Slater. The consummate bad boy.

Slater. And me. Me and Slater.

In bed.

In me.

Oh my.

MIKE PETERSON COULDN’T concentrate on his book, even though he usually glommed on to anything and everything by Stephen King. Today, even a reread of the horrors that plagued poor Derry, Maine, couldn’t compare to what he’d just heard as he’d been walking past the laundry room toward the pool.

Mattie Brown was looking to ratchet up her sex life.

He gripped the book a little bit tighter as an image of Mattie slipped into his mind. Her quick smile. The friendly waves as they passed on the stairs. The way she tossed her hair when she scanned her mail.

Get a grip, man.

The truth was, he’d fallen hard for her the first day he’d met her. Fifteen days ago, actually, when she’d blown off grocery shopping to help him schlep boxes from the U-Haul up to his brand-new apartment. She’d been wearing ratty gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that boldly exclaimed that A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle. When he’d commented on it, she’d blushed and explained that she’d bought the T-shirt a few months before, after a breakup with her longtime boyfriend.

He could still remember the little surge of relief—both that she was unattached and that the shirt didn’t necessarily reflect her overall opinion of the male of the species.

Ever since that first encounter, he’d been intending to ask her out. Coffee at one of the little shops down on Ventura Boulevard. Maybe a movie. Even pizza by the pool. But damned if work hadn’t kept him booked solid for the past two weeks. Not that he could complain. Getting the Menagerie gig had been a huge coup, and he was more than willing to work his tail off for as long as MonkeyShines, Inc. was willing to pay him.

He’d worked in the computer gaming industry for years, but this was the first time he’d headed up a project since he’d gone freelance eighteen months ago. The fact that he’d scored the job at the same time he’d moved from Austin to Los Angeles had made life a little more hectic, but it had also satisfied that niggling fear that he wouldn’t be able to pay the bills.

Bottom line: the job came first. Women—even women as tempting as Mattie, whose scent alone had driven him nuts—were off-limits until the project was well under control.

He smiled a little to himself, wondering if Grandma Jo had been right—he really did have a guardian angel. Because how else could he explain the fortuitous convergence of events? Him finishing up Phase One of the Menagerie project right as Mattie was looking to add a little more spice to her life? And—more importantly—him being in the right place at the right time to hear about Mattie’s New Year’s resolution.

He took another swig of beer, casually wishing that he could have heard the rest of their conversation. He’d heard the first part only by happenstance, since he’d come the back way to the pool, circling around the laundry room because he’d gone to the parking garage first to get the Stephen King novel from his car. Their voices hadn’t been high so much as urgent. At least, Mattie’s had.

As soon as he’d recognized her voice, he’d slowed his pace, hoping to find an opening where he could pop into the laundry room. Maybe say hi. Casually suggest a coffee sometime.

But as soon as he’d realized the topic of their discussion, he’d known that any interruption would not only embarrass the heck out of Mattie, it would also kill any chance he’d ever have of taking her out on a proper date.

What he should have done was leave. Right then. That instant. But his guardian angel had sprouted horns and a tail, and he’d hung around, then overheard the delicious, decadent New Year’s resolution that Mattie had proposed.

Mike had been tempted to loiter and learn exactly what Mattie had in mind, but the devil on his shoulder had turned angelic again, and urged him to get out of there. Perfect timing, too, because not thirty seconds later, he heard Carla’s high-pitched voice followed by Mattie’s squeal and the appearance of her head around the door frame, as she scoped out the area, clearly looking for eavesdroppers.

He’d kept his eyes down, aimed at his book, and hoped that Mattie couldn’t tell that he’d not only heard her state her goal, but that he was looking forward to helping her reach it.

Which, of course, raised the question of exactly how he was going to convince Mattie that he could provide invaluable assistance with her quest.

That, however, was the kind of academic problem he thrived on. He might have to flowchart it, script it, program it and then debug it…but somehow, someway, he was going to come up with the perfect plan. After all, he didn’t have degrees from Stanford and MIT for nothing.

It was time to put his education to work. And he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d rather score an A+ in than the seduction of Mattie Brown.