Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

 

Beautiful, fashionable women scare the crap out of me. They're like a foreign breed I don't know what to do with. Well, aside from Bridget, but I think it must be because I've known her for so long. It’s hard to be intimidated by someone you've had burping contests with…

 

 

"I love it!" Victoria exclaims, swiveling in her chair, grinning while she reads the last few sentences of my column for next week. For a moment, I sit up higher, ears perked. And then, as per usual, she places the papers on her desk, reaches for her red pen, and goes to town.

Each swish of her hand is a dagger to my heart. The swirls of crimson ink are my blood. And Victoria, in her crisp clementine dress and floral scarf, is my executioner. Not the most obvious outfit choice for a killer, I'll admit, but the woman is heartless as she tears my work to shreds.

I sink so low in my chair that I can barely see over the rim of her desk. Once, just once, I would love to have a column I don’t need to write over and over—oh, I don't know, about a million times—before it's acceptable to print. But this week is not that week, and as she hands back her edits, I do my best not to crumple the sheets into a tiny ball with my furiously clenching fists.

I've gotten much better at doing that assistant smile the other girls do. You know, the one that says I love you and I want to kill you at the same time. You sort of grind your teeth and deaden your eyes, while also pinching your cheeks and lifting your eyebrows. Yeah, that one took me a while to master. I'm pretty sure for a week there Victoria thought I was deranged. But now all she does is return a pleasant smile of her own.

"Get me a new copy by tomorrow morning, all right?"

I take the papers. "Of course, Victoria. I'll start working on it right away."

And then she looks back down at her desk, shuffling through her folders to signal that I'm dismissed. As soon as I'm out of her office, the smile vanishes. I know it's not really her fault—she's just doing her job, and I'm a new reporter, and in the long run my writing will be better for it. But I can't help how my heart sinks when my eyes run across every red scribble decorating the page. Total overhaul.

"Oh, and Skye?"

Crap. I lift the corners of my lips—it's the best I can do at the moment—and turn. "Yes?"

"Are you going on a second date?"

"Ah, no," I murmur, not sure if I should tell her more.

"Good," she says and looks back down. But now I'm the one who's curious. Good? What the heck does that mean?

"Um…" I step back into her office. "Can I ask why?"

"Glenn, the pastry chef." Victoria shrugs and scrunches her face, not bothering to look up from her desk. "It's just not sexy enough, not daring enough to really hook readers. They want to live vicariously. You need to find someone more exciting, more alluring for the long-term."

Poor Glenn…sweet, kind, if slightly boring, Glenn. I wonder if his name has been what's holding him back all along. Something about it just doesn’t scream sexy, you know? But then the meaning behind Victoria's words really sinks in and I understand what she's really saying, what she really wants—a train wreck. Not a good guy, not a stable relationship, but drama—full-fledged, on-again-off-again, I-love-you-I-hate-you, one second we're fighting and the next we're passionately kissing, soap opera style romance. Well, I must say, it's so nice to know my boss is looking out for my well-being.

I sigh as I sink into my seat, staring at my computer screen while my mind processes all the things I need to do before I leave today. Rewrite my column. E-mail a few freelancers for status updates on their articles. Answer dating advice questions for the website—which, really, I barely feel qualified for. Oh, and shuffle through the hundred unopened event invitations on my desk—the ones carefully stacked into a very precarious column that may or may not collapse at any second.

Leaning back, I close my eyes for a moment, wishing it were Friday. I had one of those truly terrible days where I went the entire morning thinking it was Friday, only to remember after lunch that it was Thursday, and there was one more insufferable day to get through before the weekend. Ever since, my mood has been terrible. Well, truth be told, my mood has been terrible ever since the end of my date with Glenn—Ollie hasn’t texted me, hasn’t spoken to me, and try as I might to stay up really late and catch him off guard, I inevitably fall asleep before he comes home from work. I don't even know what I want to say, so really, it's probably better this way. I mean, it's definitely better this way. Maybe…

"What are you doing tonight?" I hear one of the other assistants ask behind my back, but I choose to ignore it. All four of us share a corner space, and they're always making plans and not inviting me. To go get drinks, to go to events together, to go shopping. It's nothing new. I don't really think they do it maliciously, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting.

So I don't answer as I sit up and log into my account, ready to check the e-mails I must have received while in Victoria's office.

"Skylar?"

Huh? Is she talking to me? I glance at the twenty new messages and decide, screw it, they can wait.

"Yeah?" I ask, swiveling around in my chair, curious.

"What are you doing tonight?" It’s Rebecca. She's definitely the kindest of the three, a little more down to earth. During my first week, she gave me some shopping pointers about what colors and clothes might look good on me. Looking to either side, I realize Blythe, the obvious ringleader, is nowhere to be found. And neither is Isabel. Something strange is happening.

I shrug. "Nothing really. I'll probably stay late and get some work done. Why? Do you need me to finish something for you?"

Rebecca looks at me funny and then laughs. "No, I'm meeting the other girls downstairs in a few minutes. We're going to meet some friends at a happy hour downtown."

I nod, moving just slightly back and forth in my chair, completely unsure of what she expects me to do or say. There's a slightly elongated pause, as though we're both waiting for the other to speak. I give in. "Um, have fun?"

Rebecca purses her lips, staring at me, and then asks, "Do you have a problem picking up social cues?" Then, acting as if she didn’t just ask me a totally degrading question, she reaches for her purse and pulls a scarf around her neck, tousling her hair in a way that looks styled rather than accidental. Now that's a skill I could use.

Then I remember her question—social cues. Me. Picking them up. Okay I admit, there may be a disconnect there…a small one, minute really, inconsequential…or you know, one the size of the Grand Canyon.

"Maybe?" I answer somewhat honestly.

"Well, when I just said the girls and I are going out for drinks, it was sort of an invitation. Do you want to come?" And she stands there in her high heels, looking down at me with perfectly ruffled brown tresses and an outfit that could be torn from the pages of a magazine, and I realize something. Have they been inviting me all along? Dropping hints that I just never picked up? Do they think I'm maybe the a-hole who keeps ignoring them rather than the other way around?

Crap!

My entire life has just been brought into question.

How many times have I misread people's intentions? How many parties was I invited to in high school without realizing, all the while using Bridget as my excuse to go? How many guys have potentially dropped hints and I've been too in my own head to take notice? How many times—

"Uh, Skylar?"

Double crap! I'm doing it right now…

"Sure!" I jump out of my chair, knocking it very ungracefully into my desk. A second later, the gentle ruffle of sliding paper trickles into my ear.

No.

I sigh, knowing what's about to happen right before it does.

And then envelopes rain down around my feet—the invitations. The ones I had so painstakingly stacked are tumbling like a waterfall over the edge of my desk, slipping across the floor—a flash flood drowning my newfound enthusiasm. I have so much work to finish. I have a column to rewrite by the morning. I have a mess to clean. I have a thousand things more important than drinking that I have to do right now.

Rebecca's still waiting for me, so I look up into her smiling eyes. She just shrugs, completely unconcerned. "You ready?"

I look back down at the mess of envelopes circling my feet, still shifting into place. As though the world is mocking me, one last one drops, sharp point landing squarely on the exposed flesh of my upper foot, stinging so bad it brings tears to my eyes—and I decide I've had enough. Of this day. Of this office. Of my lies. And of being the only assistant left out of the fun.

I grab my purse. "Let's go."

When we make it outside to where the other assistants are waiting, Blythe raises one eyebrow in my direction, but remains silent.

Isabel on the other hand, waves enthusiastically. "You're going out with us? You never go out with us."

I choose not to point out that if they did in fact want me to come, they could have been a little more blunt about it in the first place. You know, especially after realizing that I'm socially inept. But instead, I let my mood stay light and cheery, answering with an enthusiastic, "Yup! Where are we going anyway?"

Blythe shifts her upturned nose in my direction, looking down at me from the precarious height of her four-inch heels. "To see my brother and his friends."

"You have a brother?" I blurt and then bite my lip, hoping it didn’t sound as rude as it did in my head. But really, who expects the spawn of Satan to have a sibling?

Blythe rolls her eyes. "Yes. And he's waiting for us."

Before I have time to embarrass myself further by heading for the subway, Isabel raises her hand to hail a cab. As a former model and stunning beauty, it takes about, I don't know, less than a heartbeat for one to pull up. I take the loser seat in the front next to the driver, sort of feeling more like an explorer on an expedition into foreign lands than a girl going out with friends—well, acquaintances anyway.

For fifteen minutes, Blythe, Rebecca, and Isabel discuss weekend plans, their most recent dating adventures, their latest hook ups. I subtly take a few notes on my phone in the front seat—hey, this is good stuff for my column! But when the conversation becomes a venting session about work, and the editors, and our bosses, I join in wholeheartedly, putting my phone away. And it feels sort of nice to bond with the girls over some common ground—they may all be rich and beautiful and fashionable in ways I'm totally not, but at the newspaper we're all at the bottom of the pecking order.

As a solid pack of four, we casually step into happy hour, maneuvering through the crowd in search of Blythe's brother. I can't help but notice as I look around that we don't quite fit in here. Practically everyone else in the bar is a man, and practically all of those men are staring at us, studying us, checking us out. They're young. They're in suits. They all feel shrouded in a cloud of over-confidence, at least that's what their blatant stares seem to imply. Well, either that or just total arrogance, but I'll give them all the benefit of the doubt. And as I meet a few of the roving eyes, I realize I'm one of the girls they're checking out. Me! I must be hot by association! I should hang out with models more often.

A blush warms my cheeks and I look away, focusing on following Rebecca's back as we weave in and out of people. All the way in the corner by a booth, we stop.

"Blythe!" a boy shouts, waving us over.

He's cute.

Like really cute.

Angular jaw. Straight nose. Clean-shaven. Honey brown eyes with a hint of green. Soft brown hair. Sort of the all-American boy look. And, oh man, that smile…open enough to be kind, thin enough to be mysterious, and—shoot! He caught me staring. Way to be subtle.

I quickly flick my eyes to the side, nonchalantly scanning the room. When I glance back, he's still looking, but this time that melt-your-heart smile is even wider and definitely pointed in my direction, with some blatant interest I might add.

The need to flee jets up my spine.

Run. Run.

Fast!

But I don't. And I don't look away either.

What is going on? This is so not me… But for one night, maybe it can be. You know, for the research.

"Everyone, this is Skylar," Blythe announces somewhat begrudgingly, pointing a finger in my direction. At the mention of my name, I snap out of my somewhat stalkerish trance and look around at the rest of the group. There are two other guys, both dressed in nice suits with loosened ties. But my eyes are drawn back to the boy who is now standing, opening his arms to bring Blythe in for a hug.

Are they dating? Just what I need, to land a tweenage crush on Blythe's boyfriend. But as they pull away, I realize it's much worse. They have the same profile, the same nose, the same chin…

It's not her boyfriend.

It's her brother.

"I'm Patrick Keaton," he says, extending a hand in my direction. I numbly accept, shaking, all the while trying to figure out how someone so evil could be related to someone so…not. At least, I hope not. "These are my friends Dan and Josh."

Dan reminds me of a politician, you know, with one of those smiles that's just too perfect to be real and looks more like a fancy façade hiding a well of inner disdain? One of those, complete with sparkling white teeth. And Josh looks like a player, too good-looking to be a nice person sort of thing. He also has sunglasses on top of his head even though it's after sunset, and is currently guzzling his own pitcher of beer, so there are other signs.

"Nice to meet you guys," I murmur, letting the other girls squeeze into the booth first. But they all follow Blythe and I'm left taking the seat next to Patrick, which isn’t really a bad place to be, except I'm suddenly hyperaware of really ridiculous things. Does my breath smell? Am I taking up too much room? Is my hair too flat? Am I too close to him? Should I fold my hands on my lap, or maybe put them on top of the table, or cross my arms? And then I do all three of those things…twice. Before I start to look like I'm having a seizure, I finally put one hand in my lap and one on the table as a compromise.

"So, Skylar," Patrick asks conversationally, "are you an assistant too?"

Before I can respond, Blythe chips in, "She's the sex columnist."

Josh perks up, lifting his head out of his pitcher and looking at me with newfound admiration. Well, thanks for that, Blythe.

"It’s more of a dating column," I rush to say, biting back the rest of my nervous chatter before I accidentally confess how far from a sex columnist I really am. Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time. I need to change the subject. "What do you guys do?"

"Investment banking," Dan responds.

"Ah," I sigh, looking around at the sea of pinstripes with understanding. Bankers. The unattainable group of Manhattan men single women seem to chase with total abandon—they're wealthy, good-looking, known to have a wandering eye, which in an odd way makes them all the more attractive. It seems like I've inadvertently found the jackpot—too bad those are all traits I've never really been interested in. Well, haven’t been interested in until now, I correct myself, meeting Patrick's flirtatious gaze.

"Ah, what?" he asks, the hint of a friendly challenge in his voice.

"Oh, nothing." I shake my head. "I didn’t mean anything by it. It's just, you know, now I get why you're all in suits."

He narrows his eyes, letting me know he sensed the sidestep, but then a waitress comes over to ask if we want anything to drink. Blythe gets a cosmopolitan. Rebecca orders a glass of white wine. Isabel decides on a dark and stormy, whatever that is. And then it's my turn and there's really no doubt what I need—a cold beer. It may not be the most fashionable drink, but as I take a long sip, relishing the citrus tinted taste swirling down my throat, all I can think is oh, yeah—this is what I've been waiting for all week. Instantly, I'm a little less on edge. It's really amazing what a little bit of cold beer can do.

While I'm still sipping, Patrick leans over and whispers, "You don't really seem like someone Blythe would normally hang out with."

"Why?" I ask after putting my cup down. "Because I'm not a size zero, and I think spending thousands of dollars on a handbag is insane?"

Whoa, where'd that attitude come from? I'm not really sure, but I sort of like it. Apparently Patrick does too because he laughs, not pulling away. The gentle caress of his breath tickles the spot of skin just below my ear, and I know if I turned to look at him, we'd be close enough to kiss. I mean, I won't. But just knowing that sends a little thrill down my spine and raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I take another sip, feeling flushed.

"No," he finally says. "You look like the kind of girl who could go sailing without worrying that the wind would ruin your hair."

Huh. A little random, but I'll go with it. "Do you sail?"

"Don't you?" he responds, as though the very idea of not sailing is utterly insane. But isn’t it really the sort of thing only fifty-year-old men with too much time on their hands do? I try to picture it—the ocean, the sun, the idea of being all alone with no one and nothing in sight. Patrick's smiling face pushes its way into my imagination, but now he's wearing a bathing suit, six-pack abs, and nothing else. And I'm in a bikini—stomach maybe a little flatter than it is in real life, but hey, this is my fantasy! And we're floating, sipping on champagne. We're surrounded by sparkling sapphire blue, stuck in a gemstone.

I shrug. Suddenly sailing doesn’t seem so bad. Actually, it sort of seems like the most romantic thing in the world.

"I could get into sailing," I say almost subconsciously, not realizing I spoke aloud until Patrick's grin deepens and I feel mine doing the same. I'm about to turn and look at him, finally meeting his gaze, when—

"Ow!" I howl, jumping about five-feet in the air as I reach for my shin. What the heck? I rub the sore spot. Someone kicked me. Someone wearing pointy-toed shoes. I look up.

Blythe is staring me down from across the table. She blinks and the look is gone, replaced by concern. "Oh my goodness, Skylar, I'm so sorry. I was just crossing my legs."

Little brat. Of course, I can't say that. So instead I do that secret loathing smile Blythe taught me—she is the master after all—and say, "Oh, don’t worry about it. I'm totally fine."

But Blythe has already forgotten me, turning her attention on her brother. "So, did you hear that Dad wants us to spend Christmas with Grandma and Grandpa in Connecticut? I mean, how lame."

And just like that, I've lost him. Patrick turns to his sister, pulled into family drama, and I'm completely forgotten by his side.

Oh, she's good.

She's very, very good.

For the next forty-five minutes or so, I nod politely while Dan and Josh switch between arguing about some multi-million dollar deal they're working on and arguing about football. Then I try to edge my way into Isabel and Rebecca's conversation but fail miserably when I realize they're discussing designers I know nothing about. Blythe is still whining about spending Christmas outside of New York City, which really doesn’t seem like more than a five-minute conversation to me or all that terrible, truth be told. And I realize my job here is done. I bonded with my fellow assistants a little bit, maybe have enough to pull some sort of column together for next week, and would rather go home to binge watch reality television with Bridget then remain here and feel obsolete.

"I'm going to go," I mutter and stand up. No one really seems to mind. They're all too deep in their own worlds and I wonder if this is one of those social cues Rebecca said I have a hard time picking up on.

Just as I'm halfway down the street, someone calls my name.

"Skylar!"

I turn, unable to stop the little flip my heart makes inside my chest. "Patrick?"

He runs over, completely confident as he lays a hand on my arm. "Why are you leaving?"

I shrug, sort of wondering the same thing as I start to get a little lost in the evergreen edges of his eyes. "I, um, I just have some work I need to do for tomorrow."

He nods, not hesitating for a second before replying, "What are you doing on Saturday?"

I gulp, unused to a guy with such unbreakable confidence. Is he even the slightest bit worried that I might turn him down? I mean, I won't—at least if my racing pulse is anything to go by. But I could. And against my normally neurotic nature, I decide to make him guess a little bit. "Why? What’s happening on Saturday?"

He bites his lower lip, ensuring that my attention is brought to that exact part of his very kissable body. "Well, I sort of hope that answer will be going out with me."

Straight to the point, and I kind of like it.

Patrick is the sort of boy Victoria wants me to date. I can tell just by looking at him. Definitely sexy. Confident if not cocky. With deep enough pockets to take me on lavish dates that our readers will love to sit in on. And just far enough out of reach to make me insecure in where I stand—which, I'll admit, scares me. I mean, he's the opposite of my ex. John was steady. He was safe. But then I blink, heart-pinching—John broke my heart anyway.

"Sure," I find myself whispering, caution blown away in the wind. What have I got to lose?