The Modern Gentleman Page 3

  Cockdaddy69: Hi

  “Hi? That’s all you’re going to say? That’s entirely too lame. Someone with the username Cockdaddy69 would not just say hi.”

  “You’re the idiot who picked out the name, not me. What do you want me to say?”

  “Maybe something like, ‘I like your pictures.’”

  “That’s pervert level. Everything about this makes me feel like a pervert.” Roman’s phone dings in my hand.

  BrowniesYum: Hi, CockDaddy69. I’m glad you messaged me. You wouldn’t happen to be at the Bowery Bar right now? I just saw this really cute guy and tried to find him on Love Swipe. I think you might be him.

  “She’s in the bar.”

  “She is?” Roman sticks his head up over the crowd and starts looking around. “I don’t see her.”

  “Sit the fuck down.” I yank on his shirt and force him back onto his stool. “Can you try to make this less humiliating?”

  “Stop putzing around and make a move. Come on, dude, it’s either this lady or Frank’s daughter.”

  I run my hand over my face, already exhausted, and message her back.

  Cockdaddy69: Come say hi in person. I want to get to know you.

  “Oh, smooth, I like it.” Roman takes his phone back and pockets it. He throws his drink back and tosses some cash on the bar. “I’m going to head out, I’m meeting up with Crazy Town again tonight.”

  I shake my head. “The toe sucker? Didn’t you learn your lesson the other night?”

  He cringes from the whiskey he just downed and sets the empty tumbler on the bar. “What can I say? She intrigues me. See you in the morning. I expect a full report.”

  Roman takes off, leaving me alone. I lean against the bar casually, swirling my drink. Crap. What if BrowniesYum is talking about another guy? Maybe she meant Roman . . . and he’s already left. Shit. Just as I’m about to ditch this experiment altogether, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find BrowniesYum, holding a tall, fruity drink. She’s even more gorgeous in person. Long tanned legs, slim hips, a decent-sized chest, and a very beautiful face. Her hair falls past her shoulders in waves and her lips are painted bright red. Thank you, Love Swipe.

  Standing from my stool, I greet her with a smile. “BrowniesYum?”

  “Yup, that’s me.”

  She smiles, cups my neck, and pulls me in for a brief hug. Damn, she smells good too. Maybe Roman has the right idea, after all. As she pulls away, her hair brushes against me and I catch a whiff of lavender. Nice touch.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  I offer her a seat, and when she’s situated, she takes a sip of her drink, eyeing me over the rim. “It’s nice to meet you too.” She looks around. “Where did your friend go?”

  “He had plans to meet up with someone.”

  “So that means it’s just us?”

  And a bar full of hungry singles, but I won’t mention that.

  “Just us. I’m Wes, by the way.” I stick out my hand, which she shakes. Her hand is so small and petite . . . and soft. BrowniesYum is not a bad catch at all.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Wes. I’m Lois.”

  And all the hype behind this woman immediately deflates.

  Lois . . .

  Nope.

  Nope, nope, nope. I quickly pull my hand away from her grasp. This isn’t going to work.

  This is why you should never meet people on apps where they have usernames, because you end up in a situation like this. A situation where the girl you’re interested in has the same exact name as your own damn mother.

  In no possible way will this work. I can’t speak for the entire male population, but come on. No man in his right mind would want to date a girl with the same name as his mom. It doesn’t matter how hot she is, because when it comes down to it, the last thing you want to be saying while your dick is hard is your mom’s name.

  Give it to me, Lois.

  Squeeze me, Lois.

  Ride me . . . Lois.

  Oh fuck, nope.

  Not going to happen.

  Lois . . . I would rather call her BrowniesYum.

  “Are you okay?” She presses her hand on my arm, a concerned look on her face, but instead of seeing BrowniesYum and her gorgeous face, all I can see is my mother. My mother in her large purple glasses and her Winnie the Pooh shirt.

  Talk about a mood killer.

  Not wanting to act like a dickhead, I clear my throat. “Yeah. Sorry about that.” I straighten up and act like the gentleman I try to portray. “What do you do . . . Lois?”

  She runs her hand invitingly up my chest. “I do men like you.”

  Yeahhhhh, I can’t do this. Normally I’d have absolutely no problem with a woman running her fingers up my chest, but I can’t stop thinking about that Winnie the Pooh shirt and if I don’t break this off right now, I’m pretty sure my penis will never unbury itself from my scrotum.

  The moment I slide off my barstool and step away, her face falls. I feel a twinge of guilt. This isn’t her fault. Given different circumstances I’d be happy to continue the conversation, but ending the night with Lois is not something I want to experience.

  Knowing I need to be honest, I square up, like the man I taught myself to be. “Lois, I have to be straight with you. You’re gorgeous, and normally I’d be asking for your number by now, but unfortunately, you have the same name as my mom and it’s just weird for me.”

  She scrunches her nose. “Your mom’s name is Lois?”

  I nod apologetically. “Yeah, it’s an inconvenient coincidence.”

  She quirks her mouth to the side, a pinch in her brow. “And you can’t get over that?”

  Is she insane? Of course I can’t get over that. Making out with a woman named Lois surprisingly isn’t on a list of things I’d like to partake in.

  I chuckle. “Would you be able to get over it if I had the same name as your dad?”

  She smirks at that and reaches out to play with one of the buttons on my shirt. “Wouldn’t faze me since I’d call you daddy anyway.”

  Did you see that? That right there, that was her freak flag waving high and proud. Should have known swiping right was a bad idea.

  I take a step back. “Lois, it was a pleasure meeting you, but I think I’m going to head out.”

  I leave money on the bar, give her a sorry smile, and head toward the bar exit. Sorry, BrowniesYum, it isn’t going to happen for us.

  Standing on the curb, I wave down a taxi and pull out my phone. After I give the cab driver my address, I call Roman. He picks up after two rings.

  “Please tell me all the swiping paid off and you’re about to land this girl.”

  “I left.”

  He sighs into the phone. “Dude, what the hell is—”

  “Her name was Lois.”

  There’s silence on the other line and then Roman says, “Lois, as in your mom’s name?”

  “Yeah.” Since traffic isn’t heavy, we cruise uptown through the streets of New York City, lights flashing by, dew glistening off the sidewalks, and the city’s night owls still prowling the streets.

  “Man, that’s bad luck, but I still would have done her.”

  I shake my head. “You would have had sex with someone who has the same name as your mom?”

  “No way in hell, but I’ve always wanted to bang Winnie the Pooh right off your mom’s shirt so I’d have gone for it.”

  “Fuck you, man.” I laugh.

  Laughing himself, he asks, “Want me to swipe for you again?”

  “No. Cockdaddy69 is retired. Looks like I’m going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

  The way I prefer—through coincidence, conversation, and confidence.

  Chapter Four

  Dear Modern Gentleman,

  The dating pool is a bitch. A few months ago, I broke up with my girlfriend of three years and now my friends are begging me to get back into the dating circuit. Being three years out has made me rusty and self-conscious—everything has changed. Th
ere are rules and apps and protocols, and I can’t keep up with any of it. So I decided to jump in headfirst and join Love Swipe. I met a girl I thought was super chill. We went out for drinks and dancing. Had an awesome time. I asked about a second date and she said yes, except, she wants to have a threesome with her gay best friend. I really like this girl, but I’m not sure about a threesome. What do you think?

  Sincerely,

  Rusty and Nervous

  Dear Rusty and Nervous,

  First of all, congratulations on putting yourself back out into the dating world. It’s a scary place to be, but once you find the right woman, it’s going to be worth it. Second of all, your first mistake was looking for someone on Love Swipe. That particular app doesn’t always encourage the most gentlemanly behavior. My advice to you: be a gentleman and politely say you’re not interested. When the time comes to get intimate, I’d let her know that you fuck her and her alone. Modern Gentlemen don’t share their women.

  Good luck, Gent,

  The Modern Gentleman

  WES

  THE MEET-CUTE

  “Wishing Lois was still in the picture?” Roman asks as he shoots a three-pointer and makes it with ease.

  It’s Sunday, and the courts are crowded once again on this warm, sunny morning in Central Park. Pickup games surround us as testosterone floats through the air. And even though Sundays on the court are my favorite part of the week, I can’t help but feel uneasy, slightly frustrated, and a lot like I’m about to throw up.

  Why, you ask? Probably because I've yet to meet someone, and I have to report to Frank tomorrow morning. Not going to lie, I wish Lois was still in the picture. That’s how desperate I am.

  Sighing, I answer Roman. “Would it be sick of me to say yes?”

  “It would,” Caden answers, dribbling the ball and shooting from where Roman sunk his shot. “It’s a common rule in every man’s rulebook: don’t date a woman who has the same name as your mother.”

  Caden sinks his shot as well. I’m an S and an E away from losing at Horse. I normally dominate, but my head is spinning with my dilemma, and I haven’t been able to concentrate or shoot worth shit.

  “I’m fucked,” I say as I shoot and miss terribly.

  “Frank is going to set you up with his daughter—you know that, right?” Roman asks.

  The thought has crossed my mind many times. Francine has already expressed interest in me, not being shy about it at all with her blatant flirting and wildly inappropriate touching. The only reason I haven’t reported her ass-grabbing to HR is my fear of getting fired by Frank. So, she squeezes my tush whenever she gets a chance. Nepotism at its finest right there.

  “I know,” I sigh and grab the back of my head as Roman makes another three-pointer, this time along the baseline of the court. “I need to avoid her at all costs.”

  Caden misses, which gives me control to shoot the ball from wherever I want. I choose my sweet spot in the top right corner of the three-point line and sink it. “What about your sister, Roman? Think Carmen would want to do me a favor?”

  “Not Carmen,” Caden says quickly, drawing our attention. He looks between us and stretches his arms behind his back, striking a casual pose that fools no one. “What? It’s a rule: don’t fuck with each other’s sisters. Bro code, man.”

  “It’s a favor,” I point out. “It’s not fucking around with her.”

  “Sure as hell isn’t fucking around with her,” Roman cuts in. “She just moved here. I don’t need you two idiots messing with her. The city is scary enough as it is.”

  “I’ll pay her,” I say out of pure desperation.

  “No. Christ, man. Have some self-respect.”

  He’s right, I have zero right now.

  “You know, I’m genuinely surprised,” Caden says as he dribbles the ball. “Out of all the guys in the office, I’d have assumed you’d be the one who could easily pick someone up, given your status and all.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

  “Picking someone up is completely different than pursuing and dating someone. The two don’t go hand in hand. Picking someone up is a one-time deal, and you don’t necessarily have to have a conversation. You’re cordial, you fuck, and then you bid your adieus. When you’re looking to date someone, there has to be a connection there—it can’t all be about tits and ass.”

  “It’s always about tits and ass,” Roman answers, sinking another ball.

  “Is that what you’re teaching Carmen?” I joke as Caden misses.

  “Hell no. Carmen knows one thing and one thing only: how secure her chastity belt is.”

  I chuckle as I catch the ball on a bounce from Caden. “So sexist, man.” I take a look at the hoop, firmly plant my feet, and shoot. I miss. Shit, my game is way off today. Not bothering to stick around to see who wins, I say, “I’m out. I have some searching to do.”

  “Good luck with that,” Roman calls out. “I’m hoping you don’t meet anyone, because I’m dying to see you with Francine.”

  A gentleman would hold back his response and wouldn’t let his friend egg him on. But right now, I’m not feeling very gentlemanly so I flip him my middle finger as I walk away. Their laughter rings through the fenced-in basketball court, irritating the hell out of me.

  Phone in hand, I walk across Central Park, dodging tourists and kids chasing each other through the vast green space in the heart of New York City. Couples hold hands as they pass by, laughing and enjoying each other’s company, sending a not-so-subtle reminder that I’m in the clusterfuck of my life.

  Shit.

  When I started The Modern Gentleman, I never believed it would dive into my personal life, but then again, Frank is a wild card. I should have known that from the day I first met him.

  I was a year out of a three-year relationship and still recovering. She broke up with me. How could that be, right? Well, surprise, I wasn’t always the pristine, well-mannered, fuck-sation you see today. I was one of them: a beer-guzzling, video-game-playing, disinterested asshole who took my relationship for granted. I spent more time charming my buds in bars than paying attention to my girl’s needs. And one day, she’d had enough.

  She dumped me and dumped me fucking hard, broke my heart, and found a man who treated her with all the respect she deserved. It took me a few months to get my ass in gear, but once I did, I focused on becoming the epitome of what every man in this damn city should aspire to be. I cultivated my gentlemanly behavior in public and my alpha tendencies in the bedroom. I lived the life, created a persona, and sold it within minutes of interviewing with Frank at HYPE.

  Do I hate being The Modern Gentleman day in and day out? Sometimes. And the pressure to live up to my own rules can be palpable, especially right fucking now.

  There has to be someone I can contact, someone who has a friend of a friend who is available, right? I mentally scroll through my phone’s contacts list.

  Of course Roman and Caden were no help. Carmen could have been a really good option but Roman was definitely not on board with that idea. If I was a lesser man, I’d call her out of spite, but I do have standards and respecting friends’ boundaries is one of them.

  Annoyed, I pull on my hair and look down at my phone, considering going on another dating app, despite—

  “STOP,” a woman screams, halting me in my place.

  Frozen and slightly terrified, I look around for whoever yelled at me, just as a flash of red swoops by at my feet. Startled, I step back to find a petite woman with deep red, wavy hair on all fours. A plastic baggie covers her hand as she scoops something up from the walkway.

  What the hell?

  Before I can ask what she’s doing, she pops up from the ground and turns the bag inside out. Facing me, she holds it out and says, “Take this.”

  Caught off guard, I take the bag, which smells like a dead carcass, and hold it out in front of me, trying to waft the smell in the other direction.

  Glancing down, I realize that in fact, yes, I’m holding a sack of dog cr
ap.

  Right there, all gross and warm, dangling from my hand, is poop.

  This is a first.

  The redhead squats next to a dog, offering up a bowl of water. “Drink up, little one, you don’t want to get dehydrated,” she coos at a tiny beagle, who’s sporting one ear and gray hair on his snout.

  Unsure what to do and feeling like I’m barging in on an intimate moment, I clear my throat and ask, “Uh, would you like me to tie this up and throw it away for you?”

  She gives me a once-over and sneers. Literally, sneers. Her nose curls up and a look of abhorrence hits me square in the chest. You disgust me, her eyes speak scornfully.

  Not the most pleasant of greetings. “Serves you right, you know,” she snaps.

  “Serves me right? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She pats the beagle on the head and stands, dusting off her gray workout capris. It’s the first time I get a good look at her and damn, is it weird to say I’d hold her dog poop any time?

  She’s gorgeous. Her vibrant, dark red hair frames a heart-shaped face that’s free of makeup. The freckles kissing her nose give her an air of innocence, but the upturn in her turquoise eyes makes her look sexy as hell.

  When she crosses her arms over her chest, taking a defensive pose, I can’t help but notice her ample cleavage in a teal tank top and black sports bra.

  “I should have let you step in the dog poop,” she declares with hostility.

  Well, that’s fucking rude.

  Interested to find out what her aversion to me is, I ask, “And why is that?”

  She points to the phone in my hand, the hand that’s not holding the sack of dog poop out in front of me. “Operating a mobile device while walking should be illegal. Today it could have been dog poop, tomorrow it could be a baby that fell out of his stroller.”

  Okay . . .

  “If a baby falls out of his stroller, that’s on the parent, not me.”

  “Not if you were aware of your surroundings. A gentleman wouldn’t have his head buried in his phone, but rather he would be prepared to react to any situation around him. If you were aware, with your head up, the baby wouldn’t have never fallen out of his stroller because you would have caught him.”