The Modern Gentleman Page 7

  “Are you going to say yes?” I ask, playfully.

  She gives me a once-over, caution flashing in her eyes, even as she nods. “Yeah, I’d for sure say yes.”

  Another small, small victory.

  Nodding, I ask, “Will you go out with me Friday night, June? I’d enjoy taking you on a real date.”

  She smiles. “I’d love to. I’m interested to see what you consider a real date.”

  And once again, the pressure is on.

  “You won’t be let down. Now hand over that coveted number of yours so I can call you with details.” I hold my hand out and wiggle my fingers.

  With a shake of her head, my rising hopes are smashed. “Let’s meet at our spot at eight on Friday, and we can go from there.” She presses her hand against my arm and squeezes. “See you then, Wes.”

  Taking off, basket in one hand and General Fitzbum’s leash in the other, she walks away from me, once again leaving me with no way to contact her, just the hope that she’ll show up.

  I stare at her in confusion, a mixture of emotions racing through me. I like her . . . a lot, but this is getting frustrating. All I want is to be able to contact her, to be able to call her this week and ask her what kind of food she likes, where she might want to go, but I’m shooting blind with this girl.

  I’m interested to see what you consider a real date.

  Hell, I’m interested too. And I know my normal first date idea of a nice dinner is not going to impress this woman. I need to think of something creative, something out of the box, something good for the column that’s also going to blow her mind.

  The column.

  Ah hell, I almost forgot about it. Anxiety rips through me, causing my stomach to churn. I have to make this good for the article, but I want to make it even better for June.

  At least I have a few days to think about it, while I memorize the way June felt with her arm wrapped around me.

  I’ve never thought a simple hug could consume my thoughts, but it’s only been minutes since she left me, I’m still trying to soak her all in.

  Fuck, I’m in trouble.

  Chapter Eight

  Dear Modern Gentleman,

  I met this girl at the gym the other day. I’ve spent time getting to know her, helping her with her workout, stuff like that. I finally built up the courage to ask her out and she said yes. I high-fived myself right in front of her, it was humiliating. Thankfully, she didn’t hold it against me and we’re still going out Saturday. My question to you is . . . where do I take her? I want to impress her and show her I’m suave and sophisticated, not some gym rat who high-fives himself. Any suggestions?

  High-Fives Himself

  Dear High-Fives Himself,

  Cut yourself a break, as we all do something doofy at some point. The good news is she said yes. This is where it gets fun. Finding the perfect date shouldn’t be scary or cause you stress, it should be an exciting challenge. Think about what she likes, any commonalities you might have shared, and then google that shit, man. The Internet and blogs are your best friend. Use them. And don’t forget to dress well, smell like a king, trim all the hair, and serve first, eat last.

  Good luck, Gent,

  The Modern Gentleman

  WES

  THE FIRST DATE

  “Your shirt is rumpled,” Roman says, taking a seat across from me at my desk.

  “What?” I push away from my desk and glance down at a pristinely ironed shirt. “You asshole.”

  His laughter carries through my office and most likely can be heard down the hall.

  I straighten my shirt and scoot in, bringing my hand to my mouse where I continue to scour the Internet. “Glad you find that funny.”

  “Dude, I can feel your tension all the way from my office. It’s suffocating.” He pulls one foot up and drapes it over the opposite knee. “What’s with all the stress?”

  Glancing up with just my eyes, I say, “My first date with June is tonight.”

  “Okay, so what’s the big deal? Take her to dinner, buy dessert, take her back to her bedroom. Let her suck your toes . . .” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Keep your sick fetishes to yourself.”

  “Might not be for everyone, but you never know until you try it. I thought it was a no-go for me, but I’m going to tell you right now, the second go-around was arousing.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You have serious issues.” Exhaling harshly, I turn back to my computer. “I can’t do a simple dinner date with June. That won’t impress her, nor will it impress the readers or Frank. I have to think big.”

  “And you’re trying to figure this out right now? Doesn’t really go with your whole ‘be prepared’ motto.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Christ, man, I’ve been trying to figure out something ever since Wednesday.”

  “Really? That’s embarrassing, man.”

  My head shoots up to look at my annoying friend. “If you’re not going to be helpful, you can leave.”

  “I already gave you the bouquet idea, what else do you want from me? I offered up dinner and sucking her toes, that’s the best I’ve got.”

  “Pathetic,” I mutter.

  “At least it’s something. May I remind you, you have nothing.”

  Once again, Roman is right.

  I press my palm to my eye. What the hell is going on with me? Dates are my forte. I’ve listed off so many date ideas I could write my own dating guide for singles in New York City.

  So why am I drawing a blank when it comes to June?

  Is it because I actually care?

  Or is it the pressure from Frank?

  Knock, knock.

  Roman and I both look toward my office door.

  Speak of the devil . . .

  Frank points a finger gun at me, his nails painted black, his knuckles noticeably gnarly and bumpy. “Love the article so far. Wednesday night basket, clever, clever, Wesley. Keep up the good work.”

  Out of character, I give him a salute, and he takes off.

  Before Roman can say anything, I say, “Please, spare me. I know it was your idea.”

  “As long as that’s understood.” He stands from the chair. “Let me know what you come up with, and if you revert back to dinner and sucking toes, I’m taking twenty-five percent of your next paycheck.”

  “Trust me, I’m not doing dinner and sucking toes.”

  * * *

  I’m ashamed to say it, but dinner and sucking toes is falling in the lead with ideas as I walk up to the tree. I’m about five minutes early so when I lean against the tree, I pull out my phone and run through my date night ideas from previous column entries.

  Dinner and a show. No, too generic.

  Cook your own dinner. Needed reservations.

  Picnic in the park. Need to get away from this GD park.

  Shuffleboard—

  “Buried in your phone again, I see.”

  The sound of her voice startles the shit out of me, causing me to toss my phone up in the air, only to have it land in a muddy patch on the ground.

  Christ.

  “You scared me,” I say, trying to catch my breath.

  She takes a tissue out of her purse, picks up my phone for me and wipes it. Handing me the phone, she says, “Maybe next time you’ll observe what’s around you rather than bury your head in your electronics.” She tacks on a smile, and that’s when I get the chance to take her in.

  Jesus, she’s beautiful.

  Dressed in a cute red skirt that falls just above her knees, she paired it with a tight-fitting navy-blue top, and navy-blue flats. Her hair is wild with naturally defined ringlets around her face, and she’s wearing a touch of makeup that makes her turquoise eyes pop like crystals.

  “Wow,” I say, dragging my hand over my beard. “You look stunning.” I take my phone and stuff it into my pocket.

  “Thank you.” She smiles brightly and then taps my chest with her finger. “You look pretty good yourself. You wear a suit
well, Wesley Waldorf.”

  “You’re going to make me blush,” I say, holding out my arm. “Shall we?”

  Before taking my arm, she pats her purse and says, “As a solid warning, I have pepper spray in my purse, I am well-versed in the karate techniques of a white belt, and I know how to use my apartment keys as a shiv. Your chances of abducting me and going unscathed are low.”

  “Glad to see we’ve formed a line of trust.”

  She chuckles and takes my arm, her hand falling to my forearm. “Thought it was only fair to give you a warning. You know, keeping the lines of communication open.”

  “That’s appreciated.”

  “So”—she bounces next to me—“what’s on the agenda tonight?”

  “Uh . . .” I freeze, my mind drawing a blank. “Well, you know . . . I have something great planned.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asks, skepticism in her voice. “And what would that be exactly?”

  “Date things.”

  “What kind of date things?”

  “Fun date things,” I answer, begging my mind to come up with something, anything.

  “Be more specific.”

  Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Dinner and sucking each other’s toes.”

  She stops, her hand loosens from mine, and she puts her hand on her hip, a crease in her brow.

  Damn it, Roman.

  Laughing it off, I say, “Just kidding, we’re . . . uh . . . we’re going to play shuffleboard.”

  “Shuffleboard?”

  Christ.

  I swallow hard. “Yup, shuffleboard. Ever play?”

  She looks me up and down and tilts her head. “I do,” she says very slowly. “But you don’t look like a shuffleboard guy.”

  She plays shuffleboard?

  Of course she does. She lives in the fifties.

  “Never one to shy away from new things.” She takes my arm again and I wrack my brain for any shuffleboard locations. The only thing that’s coming to mind—surprisingly—is The Royal Palms in Brooklyn, which is pretty far from the Bronx. As we walk to the end of the park to hail a cab, I say, “Are you cool with going to Brooklyn?”

  “Are you telling me you’re going to take me to The Royal Palms?”

  Smiling, I say, “Yup.”

  “I can’t believe you got reservations. How exciting.”

  Fuck.

  “Yeah.” I gulp. “Let me check on those.” I hail us a cab and as June gets in, I send a quick text to Roman.

  Wes: 911, please fucking help me. Shuffleboard reservations at Royal Palms, half hour.

  Roman texts back right away.

  Roman: 25% paycheck

  Wes: I’ll give you my left nut, just make them and beg. Please.

  Roman: I prefer the right nut.

  Wes: I swear to God, man . . .

  Roman: Chill your dill, got it handled.

  “Everything all set?” June asks.

  I stick my phone in my jacket pocket and smile. “Yup. Everything’s great.”

  * * *

  Roman: Reservation is under CockDaddy69, set for 8:30, you owe me.

  Wes: Are you fucking kidding me? Dude.

  Roman: Call it your payment. Good luck tonight, CockDaddy.

  Fucking Roman.

  CockDaddy69? Come on, man.

  How the hell am I supposed to say the reservation is under that name in front of June without looking like a complete tool?

  “I just love it here,” June says in a chipper voice as we walk up to the hostess stand. “I love how they made the playing area look like an old cruise line. And then the black and white elements mixed in . . . it speaks to my old-school heart.” She squeezes my arm. “You did good, Wesley.”

  Thank Christ for that.

  Now to get over this minor hurdle.

  “Hello, welcome to The Royal Palms. What’s the name of your reservation?” the hostess asks as we step up to her podium.

  So this is what descending into hell feels like?

  My cheeks light up into a fury of heat as I try to come up with a subtle way of claiming our reservation. Faintly, I can hear the sadistic sound of Roman’s laugh in the distance, envisioning me in this moment, savoring the embarrassment I’m about to suffer.

  Pulling on the collar of my button-up shirt, I lean in close and whisper, “Yes, uh . . .” I clear my throat. “It’s under . . .” Whispering, I finish, “CockDaddy69.”

  “What’s that? I’m sorry, sir, it’s loud in here. What’s the reservation?”

  I roll my lips together, trying to hold back my frustration and lean in even closer. Pressing my finger on the hostess stand, I repeat, “CockDaddy69.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have a reservation for Cod Dandy.”

  Jesus. Christ.

  “Is there a problem?” June asks, as a drip of sweat trickles down my back. She looks between the hostess and me and I shake my head.

  “Nope, just some miscommunication.” Voice coming out squeaky, I say, “CockDaddy69.”

  “Cold Bladdy?” the hostess asks with a confused look.

  “CockDaddy,” I say a little louder, as June moves closer, inserting herself in the conversation.

  “Cotton Hammy?” the hostess asks.

  Please, Satan, swallow me whole right now. Fingers pressed to my brow, I repeat myself slowly, “Cock . . . Daddy.”

  “Colton Faddy?

  I’m about to grab her iPad myself when June yells, “COCKDADDY, woman. C-O-C-K daddy. Like mommy and DADDY. Cock . . . daddy. He’s my cock daddy. What a big COCK, Daddy. Cock! DADDY!” Calming herself, she turns to me and says, “Excuse me.” She flattens her hands over her skirt. “Shuffleboard gets my gears going. What was the number that accompanied CockDaddy?”

  Mouth dry, temples sweating, this moment beyond anything I could ever dream up, I say without blinking, “Sixty-nine.”

  “Ah, okay.” She turns back to the hostess and taps her iPad. “That would be CockDaddy69. Thank you.”

  Scared for her life from the onslaught of cock, the hostess nods hesitantly and says, “Y-yes. I have you down on court five on the far end of the building. They should be wrapping up soon. Drinks are at the bar, food is offered at the food truck. Enjoy yourselves.” She hands us a ticket, which June takes, because I’m basically immobile at this point. She leads the way, taking my hand in hers.

  We make our way to the bar and take a seat across from our court while the other teams finish up. Not saying a word to me, June leans on the bar with one elbow and asks the bartender for two old-fashioneds before turning back to me with a smile.

  “Hope you like an old-fashioned.”

  “Oh yeah, sure, love them.” I swallow, a lump of embarrassment in my throat, my composure completely shot thanks to Roman.

  She pokes my leg and with a smile, says, “That was a colorful reservation name. Anything I need to prepare myself for?”

  “Heh,” I awkwardly laugh and scratch the side of my beard. “About that. My, uh, friend made the reservations for me and he thought it would be funny. Sorry about that.”

  “No need to apologize,” she says. “It livened things up. You know . . . since you were stiff the entire drive over here.”

  Because I had no clue if Roman was going to score me reservations or not.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Just . . . nervous I guess.”

  “Aww, you nervous about taking me out on a real date? Afraid I’ll float away and you’ll have no way of contacting me because you don’t have my number?”

  Uh . . . yup.

  “Something like that.” The bartender sets our drinks down and I give him my card to start a tab for us. I hand June her drink and say, “How about we start over?”

  “Please don’t make me introduce myself. That’s always weird and awkward.”

  I chuckle and shake my head after taking a sip of my drink. “Nah, nothing like that. How about I start with this: you look beautiful tonight.”

  She smiles over the lip of her glass
. “Thank you.” She sips and then studies me. “You truly do wear a suit well, Wes. Very handsome.”

  “Is that so?” I flash her my best grin.

  She nods, still studying me. “You’re not my type at all, as I usually go for a more artsy guy. You know, the guy who thinks it’s cooler to not shower than to shower?”

  “I’ve smelled the type you’re talking about.”

  She chuckles. “Not you, you’re very . . . put together. Sophisticated, minus the whole cockdaddy thing.”

  “Tackiness courtesy of my friend Roman.”

  “Oh Roman, I like that name. Is he single?” She wiggles her eyebrows and when my mouth goes dry, she laughs and pushes at my leg. “I’m just kidding. Loosen up, Waldorf.”

  Yeah, loosen up, man.

  I need to get my head on straight. I’m smoother than this, but the debacle of no reservations and then reservations under an absurd name has me frazzled, and I can’t seem to snap out of it.

  Deep breaths.

  After another sip of my drink—or more like a gulp—I ask, “Shuffleboard, huh? What’s your experience?”

  “Well”—she crosses one leg over the other—“I’ve been an avid admirer of the game for years. Mrs. Fitzbum has raved about the tournaments she’s played in, showed me pictures of her cruises, winning game after game—her glory days. I decided to try it out with my friend Phoebe. She knows all about you, by the way. You two could go at it about me not having a cell phone. Anyhow, we’ve played here a few times and I’ll tell you, it’s addicting. You’re going to go home, dreaming about the tang and biscuit.”

  “The what?” I ask.

  She scoots closer, one hand on my thigh. “The tang is what you use to push the puck, or biscuit, down the court.” She turns so we’re side by side, and then she points to our court. “See the triangle?” I nod, loving how close she is to me, her hand on my thigh. “You want to shoot the biscuit in there and score as many points as you can. You go back and forth, shooting against the opponent. It’s rather thrilling.”