CHAPTER1
ROSCOE
“That’s strike one.”
I know life isn’t easy and some have it better than others, but the truth is, there is no such thing as a perfect life, no matter how much money someone has. Take me for example. At thirty-six, I have more money than I can spend in a few lifetimes, I’m fit and healthy, and yet, for someone who seems to have it all, something’s missing. I just wish I knew what.
Ever since I was eleven or so, I live life by one rule: “Three strikes, you’re out.” It has served me well so far, both in business and in bed. In the twenty-five years since I formulated it, this personal directive in my life has made my personal wealth increase at the expense of my contentment.
But now, something is changing. It’s like some part of me is on the prowl, hungry for something to happen. Truth is, I always thought that, by now, I would be sharing my life with someone. Someone with whom I can share my successes and even the occasional failure. As the big 4-0 looms, something heavy about my stagnant heart rises to the forefront of my mind more often than I’d like. Which brings us to Sergio’s this evening. I glance down at my watch. It’s just gone past eight and already this is not looking good. The beautiful woman seated across the table from me is frowning.
“I...I don’t play baseball,” she says.
My date’s beauty alone is probably enough for most men. It would probably be enough for me too, not long ago. But at this point, I find myself needing more. The fact that such a simple analogy seems to throw her off her game, no pun intended, is a bit of a turn off, really. And though I could put her out of her misery and explain myself, I realize I want to give her a chance to prove me wrong.
So, I bide my time. The food here is good and I want to give Ms. Melissa Makings, currently New York’s top supermodel, a chance to work it out on her own.
I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight. I was meant to still be visiting with my father, discussing some paperwork I had handed to him before coming here. But after lunch, Ben stopped me in the power corridors to ask me if I was still on the market for a hot date. “Ben, I am always on the market for a hot date.” This was my go-to answer. I was on auto-pilot, not really paying attention – riffling through some paperwork that Karl, my personal assistant, had just handed me. The same paperwork I handed to my father just under two hours ago. I needed to check the figures before I left to see him at his house. He was in no condition to be sitting in front of a computer screen, or any screen, for that matter, so I’d offered to bring him the printouts.
“It’s Melissa Makings.” Even Ben’s suppressed air of excitement did not catch my interest. The boys down in Acquisitions were always in raptures about the latest single and attractive women roaming the streets of Manhattan – and there were thousands of those. “You know the one I’m talking about? The supermodel? She does that mascara campaign on all the billboards? Deb in Accounting is her cousin, if you can believe that, and she says if any man can catch Melissa’s eye, Roscoe, it’s you.”
Ben could be a real asset when it came to setting me up on blind dates. He has taste and discretion – two things that I value in the people who work under me. But I was starting to get tired of this life of new day, new girl. I guess, I could give it one more shot, though. I had nothing to lose, and who knew? Maybe she was the one who would make me break my rule. “Right. Give her my number and tell her I will only be texting my replies – no calls.” I had a lot to do today, so that would have to be enough. I made to walk away, and then stopped. “I’m free tonight.” I said to Ben over my shoulder.
I met with the CFO at the request of my father, and twenty minutes after leaving his office, my phone vibrated. A text.
Hey there. It’s Melissa. I got your number from my cousin, Debbie. She says we might hit it off. MM xxx
Not much I could read into it. Also, poor timing. I was due in a meeting in two minutes, so my time was counting down fast and I still had to go by my office. My thumb flew over the keyboard. I always text one handed. One of the benefits of having large hands.
Hi, Sergio’s. Tonight at seven. Table under the name of Roscoe Bridges.
I like Sergio’s. It provides a five-star ‘dining experience’ and it’s in one of Manhattan’s most famous hotels. If she runs an online search, Ms. Melissa will get all the information she needs about it. Seven o’ clock is considered early dining in Manhattan, but not even the hottest date in the world is going to get in the way of my early morning workout routine. Enjoying the excuse for a mini-breathing-break, I wait for a beat, leaning back against the wall, staring at my phone. It vibrates and showsThat’s so cool.See you there. MM xxx ; )
And now here we are. Melissa Makings, supermodel, and Roscoe Bridges, rapidly getting bored, but not enough to make me not want to see where tonight may lead. Apparently, according to Deb in accounting, Melissa’s on-again-off-again boyfriend is out of town and Miss Melissa wants to have some fun before he returns. They are in an “off again” status, but she wants to change that when he gets back. So, she is going for a ‘last hoorah’ sort of night. It’s a good thing I’m not looking for a relationship, or I might be disappointed to be deemed worthy of a hook-up and nothing more.
“I didn’t mention baseball, did I?” I finally break the silence, placing the silverware down. “I said, that’s your first strike.”
Melissa frowns as if I just asked her to perform calculus. “What’s my first strike?”
I can feel my eyes widen. “You asked me if my father had long to live – that’s a strike one question if I ever heard one. Everyone that comes into my life has three strikes, then they’re out.” To give the supermodel credit, she has the grace to blush. Melissa begins to push the lobster around her plate, and I watch her thinking about how to explain herself.
“I just thought, you know, you said you’re the eldest in your family...and that you can’t stay out too late because you have to be at the offices early tomorrow because your father is still recovering from lower back surgery, so...” her explanation trails off and I note to her, “Key word, for the record, is recovering.”
It just makes me mad when people hear that I’m next in line to the throne and then presume I want my father to pass away so I can step into his shoes. It might interest them to know I’m not stepping into anything any time soon because my father, Bryson Bridges, has his own ideas about what makes a world class boss, and we come from an extremely long-lived family. My Grandpa Bridges has made it all the way to his ninety-second birthday and is still alive and kicking, thank you very much. So much for stress being a killer. We, Bridges, thrive on it.
I lean forward, picking up my fork so she understands I’m ready to continue with our evening. “So, tell me a little bit more about yourself, Melissa. What did you think of Paris when you went there for fashion week?”
Open ended question? Tick. Getting her to talk about herself? Double tick. Melissa gives a small sigh of relief because it looks like I have forgotten about her first strike and launches into an explanation about why she loves Paris so much. She’s preaching to the converted here – I love Paris too. And I like to think my three strikes rule is not the heartless dictum it might come across as – if someone hurts or offends me, don’t I have the right to protect myself from it happening again? What is that saying? Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me? Yeah, Fool me a third time and you’re gone from my life. I think it’s only fair.
This being America, and even though I stay off social media and avoid giving interviews, I have to keep in mind that every stranger I meet knows a whole lot more about me than I do about them. And I learned really early on, at my own expense, that everyone expects me to give them something. For them I am an asset. A wallet, a status, an eye-candy.
Being the first of three sons, I was delegated at a very early age to being their minor caregiver and glorified babysitter. My mom always loved telling us the best things in life come in threes. I must have been around eleven, off to boarding school in Switzerland for the first time, when I told her: “One is acceptable. Two is pushing it. And three means you’re out the door. Some things should never come in threes.” This firm statement had a lot to do with the fact that my two younger brothers took up a large portion of my mother’s attention, and even though I love my brothers, I guess I begrudged it—a little bit.
As I got older, my rule about three strikes stuck. It made me ruthless, but I was bound by some obsession to hold by it. Maybe it seems like a childish rule to everyone else, but it’s been useful so far, so I haven’t felt the need to break myself out of it. Not sure if I even want to, to be honest.
I tune Melissa’s voice out a little bit. A soft young female voice promising to create her own solutions at the table behind me catches my attention. I can’t see who’s talking, but I find that voice incredibly alluring, for some reason. It’s husky, without being raspy. The tone she is using is compelling, without me even having to take her words into account. I imagine that voice whispering into my ear in bed, and become ever so slightly aroused. I have to fight the urge to turn around to look at the speaker.
“That’s my favorite part of Paris,” I hear Melissa saying. I catch the server’s eye, which is easy because he’s observing my table like a hawk, and point at our plates. I’m pleased to see my date has finished her appetizer, but I’m not surprised. The food here at Sergio’s is really good.