* * *
Sincerely,
A Fellow Devotee
Dear Such a Gentleman,
* * *
I will be there at two. And I suppose we’ll see if you can discover my favorite flavor. Or if I have one at all.
And here’s my number too.
* * *
Sincerely,
* * *
The One You’ll Keep Chasing Even Though You Can’t Catch Me
11
Bellamy Hart’s Planning Notes for A Million Frogs . . .
Is there an undo-that-email-I-sent-fifteen-minutes-ago button? If not, there should be some recourse for delayed email regret.
If this were a rom-com, there would now be a scene where I sneak into the hero’s house, find his answering machine, and savagely destroy it with a hammer.
Alas, one of the hardships of the digital age is that you cannot destroy a digital message with a digital hammer.
Tomorrow I will do better.
I will not flirt with that cocky fucker who has a way with words.
12
Panties in a Twist
My reconnaissance continues on Sunday night as I head to a small club in Tribeca to see a band with my friends.
I’m the first to arrive. I always am.
Everything in life is a negotiation, so I strategize for every advantage. May the odds be ever in my favor.
But how to tip the scales my way with Bellamy Hart? Yes, I listened to a couple episodes of her podcast today at the gym, her too pretty, too sensual purr in my head as I ran faster, lifted harder. I researched her online too—she studied music and English lit at a prestigious school in New England, she loves Manhattan in autumn, and she started her show five years ago, then licensed it earlier this year to The Dating Pool, a popular site for dating advice.
No idea if she’s a friend or a foe, but I’ll take my chances. The Dating Pool gets me that much closer to my media goals.
The kind of close I want from Bellamy is close to my cock. But cock goals must take a backseat for now because I also want to reach her fans—a huge group of romance enthusiasts are my precise target. All those ladies talking up my parties? Yes, yes, and more yes.
Inside the club, I pass a table selling merch for the band and greet the tattooed pair of goth gals hawking T-shirts. I make my way to the bar in the corner and order a LaCroix. Not every night calls for liquor.
The bartender hands me the glass, and I thank him then scan the cramped quarters of this venue, my mind returning to the woman.
What does Bellamy Hart do on a Sunday night in September? See her friends? Curl up in a claw-foot tub, pink-polished toenails poking out of the bubbles as she soaks in the self-care with wine and bath bombs that explode between her thighs?
And that’s not helping my focus on business.
The naughty images linger, draping themselves all over the gray matter until my friends filter in. TJ and Nolan are joining me tonight. Nolan lives in San Francisco, but he’s been spending time in New York, working on some opportunities for his food show before he returns to the West Coast. TJ is the music-obsessed one, so he picked this joint.
I start directly in with my long-time friend. “I need to know something, T—”
TJ’s hand pops up like a traffic cop, his voice like a knife. “Do not.”
Nolan smiles wickedly, shaking his head. “Dude. You know better than to say his real name.”
“When a man gets skunk-faced drunk and spills his real name along with all his sad stories about his ex, you keep that ammunition handy,” I point out.
TJ jumps in. “Hey, Easton, did you want me to keep sending all my single lady friends to your parties or not? Because they flock to me. I’ve got loads of them looking for love. Not sure I need to share any more with you, though.”
“Fine, fine. TJ,” I say, dragging out his initials. I know he hates his full name; I was just fucking with him. That’s my job as his friend—to keep him on his toes. “But along those lines, riddle me something. Was this all some elaborate ruse from you?”
TJ scans the venue, dragging a hand along his bearded jaw. “Suggesting we all go to see a hip new band on Sunday night? Yes. I am guilty as charged, Easton.”
“No. I meant your friend Hazel’s companion last night. Did you set me up?”
Nolan’s hazel eyes twinkle. “Oh, sweet. Say yes, TJ. Say yes. I’ll grab my popcorn.”
“Do you even know what he’s saying yes to?” I counter.
“Nope,” Nolan says, rubbing his palms. “But if you’re wound up, it’s got to be good. And very little amuses me more than Mister Calm, Cool, and Collected getting knocked out of whack.”
“Thanks, Nolan. Appreciate that.” I turn my focus back to TJ. “So, Hazel’s friend. The one she brought with her last night to my fête. Was that your doing? Some little chess game machination of a creative mind? A new way to crack your writer’s block? By moving the chess pieces around my board?”