Most Valuable Playboy
“Just since I’ve known you for so long,” she says, as if she’s trying to explain a faux pas.
“Right, right.” I rub my palms on my pants. “Not because you think I’m a weird kisser?”
Her eyes widen into moons. “No. You’re not a weird kisser. Do you think you’re a weird kisser?”
I furrow my brow. She’s talking in circles. She has me all twisted up. “I never thought so before, but I’m beginning to now. Did I kiss you weirdly?”
“Did I kiss you weirdly?” she counters, tapping her chest.
And round and round we go. I shake my head. “No. Not in the least.”
“Good,” she says with a nervous laugh as she slides the key into the ignition, getting it right this time. She backs up, shifts into drive, and pulls forward. “I’m not into weird kisses,” she adds.
Nor am I. But I am into fixing things with Violet and restoring the order of our friendship. “Tell the truth. You’re into sloppy wet kisses. Like a dog kiss.” I’m not honestly sure what she does want, so humor is the easiest way through this awkward patch. “Admit it.”
This time, the sound of her laughter isn’t nervous as she rounds the corner of the parking stalls, heading toward the exit ramp. “Oh yes, that’s precisely what I want. Your slobbery kiss.”
I lean over the console and lick her cheek. A long, wet, slurpy kiss engineered to cut the tension.
She shoots a what gives look as she turns the wheel. “Okay, that was definitely bizarre, Cooper.”
We both laugh, then I straighten my tie. “Fine, you think I’m a bizarre kisser. I can live with that,” I say, teasing, since that’s the safest route. I can connect the dots. Violet hasn’t said she liked the kiss. In fact, she’s danced around the topic, sidestepping it in a way that tells me clearly she wasn’t into it.
There’s a part of me, I admit, that wishes she wanted to hump my leg right now, even though I’d have to turn down humping of any part of my anatomy for the sake of maintaining my season-long streak. But I’m man enough to accept when a woman doesn’t dig me. Hell, if I expect Maxine to get a clue that I’m not ripe for her plucking, I’d better get the hint from Violet that the kiss extravaganza didn’t float her boat. It’s a bummer, but that’s life.
She slows at the ticket booth, grabbing my arm. “I never said you’re a bizarre kisser. I didn’t mean it like that.”
But I don’t get a chance to ask what she did mean, because the bored woman at the gate grunts, “Ticket, please.” Violet hands her our validated ticket, and we roll out of the garage.
Once we leave, my phone lights up like the fourth of July as cell reception returns. My screen bleats with missed calls from reporters, a text from my married friends Chris and McKenna, a slew of messages from Jillian, and even an all-caps text from my mom.
Mom: WHY AM I THE LAST TO KNOW THESE THINGS? I ALWAYS LIKED HER. YOU TWO WERE SO CUTE AT HER PROM TOGETHER. I’M LOOKING AT THE PHOTO NOW.
I fire back a reply.
Cooper: I’ll call you tomorrow to explain.
* * *
Mom: I explained the birds and bees to you when you were younger. No need to explain. ?
* * *
Cooper: Seriously, Mom.
As I scroll through the rest of the notifications, I spot a few texts from my agent. Normally, I love talking to Ford, but with the contract overhang, and the anxiety over whether we’re extending the deal with the Renegades, I’m not in the mood this second. Plus, Trent is calling me, and even his name looks pissed off as it flashes on the screen.
“Hey, man,” I say, keeping it casual when I answer.
“Why, yes, I would love to meet you for a beer right the fuck now and find out what’s going on.”
“I can explain. It’s kind of a funny story.”
“I’m chuckling up a storm,” he says. But there’s no laughter in his voice. Nor in my head.
6
Life in San Francisco is comprised of two tasks: finding a parking spot, and everything else.
Tonight, the pursuit of a space by a curb occupies fifteen awkward minutes. Or maybe they’re not so awkward, since it gives Violet and me something to focus on besides a hot-as-sin, weird-as-hell, I-liked-it-she-didn’t kiss.
“Try Jackson Street,” I tell her, pointing to the right-hand side of the street. She turns, but our hunt is fruitless since the block is stuffed full of vehicles. She tries Webster, but we’re SOL there, too.
“Crap,” I mutter.
“I hate parking in this city.”
“It’s the worst thing in the world. Literally. Studies have revealed that searching for a parking spot in San Francisco can result in depression, anxiety, and a really bad day.”
She laughs faintly as she turns onto Clay. “By that same token, finding a spot quickly has been known to cause euphoria.”
“Better than an orgasm?” I ask, because evidently the word euphoria makes me think of only one thing.
Even in the dark, a hint of red splashes across her cheek. “I suppose that depends on the giver.”
“And on the parking spot?”
She laughs. “Yes. But if you combine the two, it’s like multiples.”
I clear my throat, reminding myself to cease the flirting. “Listen, I can just go by myself. You have your meeting tomorrow morning.”
She shakes her head. “I’m sure Trent wants to give me a hard time, too. Better for me to get it out of the way now. That is, if he can focus his attention long enough.”
Trent is notoriously distracted by his own desire to tell amusing tales, often ones that poke fun at himself. As we turn onto another block, an idea pops into my head. “Do you want to park at my place? I’m not far from here, and I have a two-car garage.” I’m not sure why I tell her that, when she’s parked in it before. The garage was a must-have when I bought my condo a couple years ago. No way was I living in this city without a garage for my Tesla. Even so, I still avoid driving if I can, on account of the utter pain-in-the-ass that is searching for a patch of open asphalt.
“No,” Violet answers, swiftly. So swiftly she might have set a new record for the seconds required for the word no to fire from her mouth.
The message is loud and clear. She doesn’t want to be near my place. “It was just an idea,” I say, looking away.
“It’s just . . .” she begins, then she points to a red BMW whipping out of a spot a hundred feet away. She floors the gas, as if she’s a goddamn snow leopard snagging her prey and guarding it from other predators. She grabs the spot, executing a parallel-parking slam dunk that honestly kind of turns me on. There’s just something about women who are completely independent, confident, and capable that gets my blood going.
But I refuse to be any more turned on by her, no matter how well she can park or smooch.
We head into the bar. A huge TV screen blasts a Warriors game, while another carries ESPN’s SportsCenter. Waiters in jerseys boasting their favorite teams circulate with drinks and appetizers. A curly haired guy with a pointy chin stops in his tracks, the beers on his tray nearly sloshing. “Hey, man,” he says with a big smile.
I don’t know him. I give a quick wave. “Hey there.”
“Kick ass on Sunday.”
“That’s the plan.”
As we walk past the booths, a few heads turn, but I stay focused, and we find Trent and Holly at a quiet four-top in the corner. A few years ago, they started a sports bar in Petaluma where we grew up, and it was so successful they opened several more in the Bay Area, including this one off Fillmore Street. Trent raises a glass of beer and takes a long swallow as I walk over. His eyes never leave me. Why do I feel as if I’m in trouble? Oh wait. I kissed his sister in a ballroom on cable TV.